To not know of A dream Asleep means that you are either not completely tapped into Houston's music scene or you've been living in a sulphur glacier on one of Jupiter's farthest moons eating vegan Taco Bell. They've been tearing up the underground circuit and crushing venue after venue with their insane live shows and their brand of progressive hardcore.

Their new EP, We Are The Juggernauts, is a crushing seven-song assault of sex, violence, and introspection. For a hardcore band, their versatily and scope is daring, but this is a band that once brought down the house at Röcbar with a Pat Benatar cover. What's most impressive about We Are The Juggernauts, though, is that it reveals the band's progressive nature, exploring musical territorities with a daring and fuck-all attitude as to how anyone may judge what they're creating. Yet while the EP branches into various musical waters, it still maintains the band's raw, unabashed energy and aggression, coupled with Mike Seal's searing vocals and the band's chest-caving percussive chops.

What also strikes me about We Are The Juggernauts is that even though the vocals are often tortured, aggressive, and confrontational, Mike often sings about redemption, sex, love, and even introspection. The two standout tracks are "Horus -vs- The Juggernauts," which was written after the death of their beloved bong Horus when it fell to the ground due to the vibrations from a band in the next practice room, and "March Of The Bears," which deals with releasing baggage and personal demons and not leaving things up to fate.

Without a doubt -- and brace yourself for what I'm about to say next -- A dream Asleep is one band not to "sleep" on. Yes, I did. I did go there.

[A dream Asleep is playing their EP release party 11/28/09 at Fitzgerald's, along with American Fangs, Peekaboo Theory, the last place you look, & Cavernous.] (Dremaceo Giles // 11/28/09)

Baby Gut's Kissing Disease is a fresh new outlook on the standard garage-punk band of today, seriously. While most people might disagree with their approach -- meaning that yeah, some of the songs are kiddish and yes, lacking substanial deep meaning, etc. What a lot of people don't realize, however, is that this is so ridiculous and so outstanding that there's a lot of fun in listening to it, a lot of variety, pops, and melodies in this record. Very danceable and exciting, these folks should come to Houston ready to rock. Without exception one of the coolest bands around today, for fans of any genre; a good buy. (Justin Bradley // 11/11/09)

The big problem with all adaptations into film is "why do them at all?" Oh, it makes perfect sense from a business standpoint -- it's a known quantity that can ameliorate some of the gigantic risk that is studio feature filmmaking. But just in and of itself, it's a finished piece that's already been authored. What can film do but simply visualize it, taking it out of the realm of the imagination and cementing it into place?

That's actually not entirely fair, though. It's not as if plenty of the some of the best plays or novels didn't begin using some other story for inspiration. Ultimately, it comes down to the story-teller; will he or she merely repeat the original verbatim with no creativity or bring their own sensibilities to create something new?

On its face, Richard Matheson's old short story "Button, Button" sounds like it would make a decent Twilight Zone episode (and it did). A strange man (Frank Langella) shows up on a couple's (Cameron Diaz and James Marsden) doorstep and offers them a box with literally nothing in it but a button. If they push the button they receive a suitcase full of money and someone, somewhere will die. Or they can not push it and go on with their lives.

And left to its own devices, the story could just rest right there, a big-screen, decently-acted Twilight Zone episode. But writer-director Richard Kelly (Donnie Darko) has decided not to take that path, and that really does make all the difference.

Expanding greatly on the source material, both in character and theme, Kelly has indelibly stamped his adaptation with his own personality, bringing all of the skill and mood and tone that has made his previous work cult favorites, while also showing a great increase in experience, particularly in how to focus his narrative.

Set in 1976, in the immediate aftermath of the Viking landing on Mars, the box has been delivered to one of the NASA scientists (Marsden) who was part of it by a man who, the opening narration tells us, is himself somehow connected to the project.

Except that it's not delivered to him, it's delivered to his wife, Norma, who is forced into the role of Eve, given the choice between temptation or not (it's always Eve, isn't it?), and it's everyone around her who must pay the price.

There is a great deal of religious mythology mixed into Kelly's iteration: Norma is introduced lecturing to her students about Sartre's existentialist vision of hell -- a place where everyone truly knows you -- and that ultimately is the world they fall down to because of the test of the button.

It's mixed in quite skillfully with mind-controlled civilians and secret NSA projects, and even some other age-old sci-fi mainstays like testing by intelligences from beyond and technology so advanced it seems as magic. It's a testament to Kelly's skill as director, particularly his ability to subvert the ordinary into something menacing, that even the familiar elements are intriguing and engrossing.

The more it goes on, the more Kelly's personality comes out from it, and the further it moves from its origins, but never fully leaving them behind. And without ever feeling the need to sit down and explain the plot with a whiteboard and PowerPoint presentation the way so many films feel the need to.

Skillful, in fact, is the best way to describe The Box. From cinematographer Steve Poster and production designer Alec Hammond's exacting recreation of the 1970s to the performances, it's brought together quite well. Despite some puzzling Southern accents that make residents of Richmond sound like they're from West Virginia, the performances are excellent throughout. Langella has been doing reserved menace for some time and continues to do so quite well, while Diaz keeps a performance that could be unfortunately weepy centered.

But for the most part the film really belongs to Marsden, as Arthur gradually passes from puzzled amusement at their situation to curiosity, wonderment, and ultimately, despair. It's a real journey and grounds the film in even its most fantastic moments. You're completely with him every step of the way, even when those steps lead to him being suspended in a floating cube of water above an unconscious Norma.

The Box is, however, quite slow, and those looking for the visceral thrills of an out-and-out horror film will be sadly disappointed. It's much more intellectualized than it is emotional, and that can be tough sell to a lot of audiences. If Kelly can ever really get a handle on how to balance those two aspects, he'll be poised for a breakthrough to major director status. He's still not there yet, but he keeps improving.

If The Box doesn't have the originality of his Donnie Darko or Southland Tales, it certainly has as much imagination thrown at it, along with Kelly's usual wonderings about the end of the world and what comes next.

Richard Matheson reportedly didn't care for the last version of this story because it changed his original intent so much. He probably wouldn't care for Richard Kelly's adaptation too much, either, because it certainly goes its own way. But that's a good thing. It's not perfect; it's a little slow and plodding and has a few characters that don't add much to the overall affect. It's still quite good and well worth your time.

Starring Cameron Diaz as Norma Lewis, James Marsden as Arthur Lewis, Frank Langella as Arlington Steward, Gillian Jacobs as Dana Steward, Sam Oz Stone as Walter Lewis, Ryan Woodle as Lucas Carnes, James Rebhorn as Norm Cahil, Holmes Osborne as Dick Burns, Andrew Levitas as Carson, Bill Thorpe as NASA Administrator, and Allyssa Maurice as Suzanne Weller. Directed by Richard Kelly. (Joshua Starnes // 11/11/09)

It's kinda odd describing the San Franciscan band Death Sentence: PANDA! I remember when I was living in L.A. we used to drive past Panda Express and scream, "Stop eating Pandas!" I guess it's sort of like that, or maybe post-punk, free-jazz, noise-folk.

Their latest album, Insects Awaken, is also odd to describe. Most of their songs are some combination in part of flute, xylophone, pitch-shifted clarinet (hell, that just sounds cool in a Gothic, band-geekazoid sort of way), and Kim West's chaotic vocal barking. They credit the direction of their latest tome to Chinese and Korean folk music, ragtime, and New Orleans second line, with a healthy dose of hardcore punk sprinkled in. Kim West's "singing? with a question mark" reminded me mildly of Austin's own Kimberly Freeman from One-Eyed Doll, and then on "No Enemies," she completely throws me for a loop by actually "singing with no question mark." There was melody. It was pretty.

Probably the best way to describe this band is fun. They are fun, infectious, and don't seem to take themselves too seriously. I would definitely check them out live, although I will warn that the noise experimentation straddles that fine line of human tolerance. There is a point where shrill, high-pitched, warbly reed instruments will drive you insane and actually make your ears bleed. So my advise? Take Death Sentence: PANDA! in small doses. (Dremaceo Giles // 11/11/09)

All those who labeled L.A.'s fresh, ambient pop group Foreign Born a toss-off anthem band (think: U2, Arcade Fire) are surely biting their presumptive tongues right now. Released as a 7" add-on to the band's latest LP, Person to Person, this Black Iris release shows how much emotional and musical depth can be pressed into two songs.

The band's songs are still full of the isolated, reticent mantra that bubbles to the surface of said anthem bands, but they've reduced their breadth. Not really trying to tackle the problems of a vast and misunderstood existence, lead singer Matt Popieluch delves into the laconic headspace of a quiet observer and addresses the intimate world of the psyche. But while the vocals remain a tool of personal revelation, the band creates vast emotional space for Popieluch to croon in sedated melody.

"I lie down in the evening / where I can hear our lungs breathing," sings Popieluch over modest-yet-shimmering instrumentation on side A track, "Things We'll Never Be." The scope is tuned down to nothing more than a momentary observation; taken alone, it could seem banal, but placed within the music's fragile, ambient shell, it becomes insightful.

But for all the emoting going on in "Things We'll Never Be" Ñ- all the hoping and praying -Ñ there remains a constant, visceral groove wrung from the song's coattails. Even more so on the rhythmic and more notorious B-side, "Vacationing People," Foreign Born opts for a more punctual sound that sticks to the front of the aural stage, using a fuzzed-out, drone ruckus to punctuate a surprisingly excited Popieluch. Here, they sound more rock than pop, more joyous than somber, and still distinct.

While both tunes retain the aural vibe of Foreign Born, they exist in completely different sound-scapes -- a testament to producer Lewis Pesacov (who also plays guitar) and to the band's ability to distinguish themselves from the thick, reverb-laden instrumentation.

What Foreign Born shows, above all else, is their panache for writing and producing astounding music. They don't shy away from emotion or employ useless rock wanking to compensate for a collective lack in writing abilities. They write well-thought-out, intuitive, and introspective songs. This 7" is a promising taste of music from a very promising band. (Chris Galis // 11/28/09)

When you hear that a band is from Japan, you usually think of an indie-pop girl act getting way too much press. What you don't expect is Grief of War and their full-on metal assault. While they may be another in a growing list of neo-thrash acts, don't dismiss these guys, as they're legit; one listen to their new album Worship, and you'll agree.

Leading off is "Crack of Doom," with its incredibly catchy, heavy riffs and vocals from Manabu Hirose that harken back to Kurt Brecht of D.R.I. Grief of War also emanate that band's groundbreaking crossover sound on "New Kind of Wicked." Guitarists Ken Sato and Hiroyuki Inoue's playing on "Revolt" echoes classic Slayer, going from incredibly fast riffs to each guy trading solos. They really shine on "Midnight Sun," a song that changes moods and tempos several times over its six minutes.

Several years ago, a music magazine coined the term "'87 Hetfield." Its reference to the Metallica frontman's coolness at that particular point in time applies perfectly to Worship. All ten tracks are winners, and if Grief of War keeps producing material like this, maybe one day someone will be referred as "'09 Sato." (Scott Whitt // 11/28/09)

The Life and Times continues in a similar direction as Shiner, frontman Allen Epley's previous band, combining the tautness of Slint with strangely Beatlesesque anthems. For Tragic Boogie, though, The Life and Times' second album, the band decided to expand its palette. Epley said, "We wanted to make the kind of record that a big-name band with a lot of money might make, except we don't have any money. But we said what the hell and decided to do it anyway..." So they built a studio and were able to use it to really shape the songs over a longer period of time. Instead of paying the engineers money to tweak the recordings after the fact, they thought about how the songs would sound post-production, and then just recorded them that way.

The work they put into the songs shows. The results have a massive, epic, grandiose quality, more like the Flaming Lips or Interpol than the more stripped-down sound of their previous records. There are Epley's usual multitide of anthemic songs, from "Confetti," a powerful, slower rock song with seesawing guitar riffs and massive chorus, to "The Lucid Dream," a beautiful swaying ballad reminiscent of a woozy Pink Floyd, with snare drums and guitars that swirl in and out like a thick haze, to "Tragic Boogie," a slow rock song with driving punishing drums and a nice doubletracked vocal part in the bridge. There are also a multitude of cool sonic details in the songs, including delaying everything from the guitars to the vocals in "Que Sera Sera," the verse guitar riff that almost sounds piano-like and the epic, Floyd/My Bloody Valentine-ish stacked harmonies on "Fall Of The Angry Clowns," and lots of almost vocoderized-sounding vocals on "Let It Eat."

Allen Epley still has the same head for epic melodies that he's ever had, so if you like his melodies, you'll really enjoy this album, too. It's an interesting idea for a independent band that isn't on a major label to put out an album that sounds that way anyway. And the production does add interesting layers to the sound that you don't hear often with this kind of band. (Henry Mayer // 11/28/09)

As soon as the first rough-edged, blues-rock guitar lick of "That Mountain Yonder" comes in, after a sneakily low-key verse, it's pretty clear that for their second album, Ocean, Meet The Valley, The Literary Greats weren't content to keep meandering along the same path they were on back on their self-titled debut. Not that the band's changed things up that much from the last outing -- no crazy time signatures or growly vocals, don't worry -- but they've amped up their previously fairly laid-back, somehow unmistakably Texan-sounding country-pop, turning up the guitars, making things heavier and meatier-sounding, and pulling in a lot more of both the rock and country side of things.

The result is a smart, beautifully well-written bunch of songs with the same intricate lyricism as songwriter Brandon Elam's earlier stuff that are much more in-your-face and raw and energetic than they probably would've been a year or so ago. Where the last album was a lazy afternoon/quiet night spent spinning out songs in somebody's comfy living room, Ocean, Meet The Valley is a boozy, loose-limbed, cares-to-the-wind roll through the bars. It's the sound of a band that's gotten comfortable enough with itself to cut loose and show their teeth, and that's definitely a good thing.

"Happens Every Time" is probably the furthest from the band's folk-y leanings, a slow, deliberate stomp that reminds me of a mellowed-down Black Crowes, murky and bitter and raging all at once, with bassist Darin Lee providing a low-slung, rubbery groove seemingly ripped straight from the Fat Albert theme song. When that guitar comes slashing in, you'd be forgiven for thinking somebody else must've slipped a different band's disc in the CD player.

My personal favorite on here, though, has to be "Show Me the Coast," which sails along cheerfully with a drifting, sweet-hearted vibe until it hits the break and crashes upon the rocks with an overdriven, chiming drone of a guitar riff. It's the best track on Ocean, for my money, not least of all because it showcases how the Literary Greats are able to effortlessly incorporate indie-rock-sounding bits into what are, at their core, countrified pop songs. "Oh Abilene," for its part, wins points not only for its burly, thick-sounding country-blues crunch, but also for Kris Becker's downright funky, Stevie Wonder-esque keys (listen close; I swear they're lurking in the background, and they freaking rule) and that nice minor-key shift that derails things just a teeny, tiny bit from where you think the song's headed.

There are echoes of the first album on a few songs, particularly "Dreadnought," which I can't help but compare to "Thundercloud to Peru" -- possibly for the airplane imagery, I'll admit. The track meanders gently 'til the chorus, where the band bumps along with a jaunty sort of joy, the song itself seemingly lodged in their (and mine, to boot) collective heart. A high point on the quieter side of things is "The Black Bee," with its delicate, soft, Cat Stevens-like unfolding; it sounds like a classic song you've heard a million times but can't necessarily place, even though it cuts you deep. Elam's created a new benchmark for himself with this one, I swear.

Unfortunately, Ocean crumbles a bit past the halfway mark. Bury-the-hatchet missive "Emily's Enemies" and the slinky, dance-y "Ruby Sapphire" are good but not mind-blowing (for the latter, I never thought somebody'd talk about their "Kenny Rogers" and make it sound like a euphemism for something dirty, but there it is), although the band salvages things with the beautiful, tropicalia-inflected breeze of "Ocean Waves" and the harmonica-heavy country-folk jubilation of "Hill Country Queen." Still, it's hard to top the preceding six tracks -- I have a feeling they're going to be on infinite repeat in my CD player for a good long while. At least, until the band comes back with their next release and blows me away yet again.

[The Literary Greats are playing their CD release party 11/14/09 at The Continental Club, along with Elkhart.] (Jeremy Hart // 11/11/09)

Natural Forces is Lyle Lovett's great western road record, the theme of which might be "The Grand Ole Opry on Texas Swing Night." The song progression suggests a concept album about the life of a traveling musician. Lovett's songs are sung by strong, if sad, cowboy characters who love their families and their homes but make their living on the road -- the only way they know how.

The album is sequenced like a brilliantly structured live show. After the striking drama of the slow-burning title track comes eight minutes of up-tempo swing ("Farmer Brown/Chicken Reel," "Pantry") that's fluent and wholesome enough to bring fans to the dance floor no matter their age. In pursuit of the concept, the rest of the album will have people saying that Lyle Lovett has covered much of this space before. Like a painter perfecting his particular corner of innovation, Lyle Lovett is competing against history now, and history is often best pursued in increments. It's that approach that has taken Lyle Lovett from mere perennial Grammy winner to being the Mount Rushmore of Texas Music.

The peak achievement of Natural Forces is that it could be played from start to finish on the stage of The Opry or the dance halls of Austin in any era. He examines the rural roots of his Houston home from the worldly viewpoint of 30 years on the highways of America with equal humility and profound insight. The result is as populist as it is personal. It's as hopeful as it is melancholy. Lyle Lovett inhabits these spaces with the gravity of the greats of country music's golden age. The cultural inheritor of Bob Wills has us dancing through the Great Recession. (Creg Lovett // 11/11/09)