There's a sticker on the front of Follow Your Saint that says "think: radiohead, portishead, danny elfman." And how correct they are, sir! Opener "Toll for the Brave" starts with an oblong electro-beat that seems strangely familiar but that I can't quite place. With the vocals being lined up and mumbled (gently), it's kind of exciting because you have no idea where this could lead. Are these guys complete weirdos, locked in a studio in Denmark somewhere, where lack of daylight/moonlight stirs up strange muses only known to distant, Northern folk? Not so fast, because here comes the "Radiohead" dynamic: quiet & dour -- loud and anguished -- back to the quiet and dour.

The next cut (a recommended one, via the front sticker) starts off weird and promising. Another "off" beat with a wobbly synth walking alongside. The chorus carries much the same formula as the first, except with analog blasts of fuzzy static. I've begun to focus on the production techniques rather than the songs themselves -- a good thing, if that's your bag.

"If Ever Any Beauty" has my full attention with its great pop hook and gentle, melancholy use of the harpsichord. The well-crafted song is displayed with the interesting production used as a complement rather than a centerpiece. Now I'm hearing touches of Zita Swoon and the Beach Boys.

"Pilgrimsage" starts with the distant, scratchy-record sound made popular by Portishead. The vocals are sort of barked out like one of the cookie-cutter L.A. bands but then descend into another wind-tunnel, breathing machine, organ-pulsing chorus. Drop in the odd analog sounds, and the Ave sound is established. "Endless Light" starts with a typewriter clicking. Fantastic! There're some nice-sounding guitars, plus another aching chorus that soars.

Everything is in place here -- the sounds, the songs, the production, the salesmanship. Follow Your Saint is brooding, incorporates modern touches with strange noises, yet doesn't abandon guitars nor their influences. If your poison is melancholia set off with analog bleeps and artsy melody lines, these Scandinavians will be a safe, familiar addition to your collection. (Damon Murrah // 12/7/06)

I'm running out of space on the iPod. Therefore, I rarely put new music on it these days; for your band to get a coveted piece of my remaining 200 MB, you'd better impress me enough to click that "Import CD" button. I was ripping Transporter, however, by the third song, mainly due to The Downfall's no-nonsense approach to loud, bombastic rock. Hints of the Foo Fighters ("Yourself and No One Else"), Shades Apart ("Domeshi Guri," "The Obvious Absence"), The Revolution Smile ("Sorry Situation"), and even Silverchair ("Undone") are all evoked at various times throughout the album -- not a bad group of touchstones to draw from, in my opinion. The Downfall delivers melodic vocals that venture into screaming territory once in a while, propulsive drumming, nice low end, and lots of thick guitar riffs. I was also very impressed at the album's production -- these days, more often than not, power-trios that play loud rock come off pretty flat. The chunks and bombast of the guitar tend to get buried in the mix, or you lose the power of the drums. Not the case with Transporter. This is an album that you won't have to crank up too loud to fully enjoy -- although you may want to anyway. (Mel House // 12/14/06)

What's not to like here? Crazy liner notes composed of hand-scrawled lists of the hierarchies of scents and angels (uh, kinda; I'm guessing the Church doesn't recognize "The Grand Universe Eventuals" as members of the heavenly host), song titles like "Teapot Dome, Bitch" and "You'd Look Cute in the Trunk of My Car," lengthy, abrasive math-rock song structures, bottom-heavy bass that lurches and thunders as it pulls the whole mess steadily along like a locomotive, scraping, menacing guitars with a layer of grime so thick you can only cut it with a steak knife, and half-strangled/half-yodeled vocals that come off like The Jesus Lizard's David Yow if he were a NASCAR-watching redneck. Hot damn, Form Of Rocket's Men is fun -- albeit a brutal, rough-edged, dead-end-life kind of fun. The whole thing, all the way from the loud, violent, Fatal Flying Guilloteens-ness of "This Is Occupation" through the slow-stomping rock of "Go Get Your Buck" and the slightly more melodic "Gearth" to album closer "Peter Makowski Had an Aneurysm," comes off like June of '44 playing a backyard barbecue somewhere in the far-flung hillbilly sticks after doing a whole lot of desert-biker meth. It's loud, it's dissonant, it's hypnotic, it's sarcastic-smarty-pants intelligent, and it makes me wish Amphetamine Reptile was still putting out records. (Jeremy Hart // 12/7/06)

This Australian quintet's debut full-length is reputed (by them) to have been recorded in only four days, but to have taken eight months to be released, an auspiciously skewed relationship of creative fire to business sense that matches the comical unsavvy of the record itself. Packed with weird inside jokes ("Bikey Zombie Surfin' Club"), drug-addled anti-songs ("My Song"), and incompetence-on-purpose (take your pick), The Story of Dead Barbie and Ghost doesn't yield comedic hooks so much as endearing annoyances, like a Dead Milkmen record without the brains. It's obvious that Dead Barbie won't earn the Goons a place in the punk pantheon, but they seem to have the right attitude, and when their songwriting develops they may achieve greater importance. Not to ruin the magic, but it might help if they took themselves just a little more seriously, which surely they are capable of doing. Singer Bang Bang Bunny Fang (ugh), for example, speaks at least two languages. Then again, perhaps the low road will serve them better; it would be a shame if the world never saw another song like "The Ass Kisses the Face." (Daniel Joseph Mee // 12/7/06)

Helmet's sound was distinctive when they released their first record, which was both good and bad. Good because their sound was original, but bad because they sowed the seeds for nü-metal, progressive metal, and the metal revival in general. Thanks, guys! The band's sixth album, Monochrome, is a return to its roots -- the overall sound is similar to their first couple of records. They also enlisted the producer that worked on those records, as well. Of course, if you've heard Helmet, you know what to expect. If you haven't, they mix metal with dissonant chords, instrumental lines, and different time signatures.

There's a lot of interesting guitar playing on the record. Band leader Page Hamilton has a dissonant, chromatic quality to his riffs and solos that's distinctive, and he plays a bunch of them here. "Brand New" has some cool thrashy, odd-metered guitar riffs and a solo that sounds like Stevie Ray Vaughan getting beat up by Steve Vai. "Howl" is a one-minute Derek Bailey-esque guitar instrumental. His solo on "Almost Out of Sight" is almost psychedelic, although the solo itself is Hamilton's usual cutting style.

A lot of the magic is gone from their first records, however. The original rhythm section was almost dance-y despite its precision and ferocity, and while the new rhythm section is good, it still doesn't compare. Hamilton's voice has also deteriorated -- it used to be much more flexible and precise. In other types of music, his voice wouldn't be a problem (if he sang blues, folk or country, it would even be an improvement). But Page Hamilton is playing a young man's game, and it's starting to show. And the songs are more straightforward than they were on the old records, which is another disappointment.

If you've never heard Helmet before, Monochrome isn't a bad place to start -- there are some decent songs and interesting guitar playing. But if you're familiar with the band, it just doesn't match up to their best stuff. Diehard fans (if there are still any out there) will undoubtedly enjoy it. The disc is much better than their previous record, and it may be a sign that Helmet is on an upswing. But that doesn't make Monochrome any more worthwhile on its own. (Henry Mayer // 12/14/06)

Only listen to this record on a rainy, or at least overcast, day. Seriously: it doesn't make sense when the sun is out. I've tried it, and the lyrical roundaboutness, the pretty but unremarkable musical backing, and the clipped baritone vocal stylings just come off as a stilted joke.

But I've listened to it twice on overcast days now, and I'm tempted to think when I hear it on those days that it's something closer to a masterpiece. The bookends to this album are what hold it together, and probably suffice as a litmus test for the uncertain. "Paperback Bible" is a song that seems to be about shopping for random bits and bobs, and it's one that is so arbitrary and specific in its details that a casual listen could mistake it for a complete pisstake. But if you're feeling it, the title truly resonates -- it's the story of a lonely and, well, damaged person who's holding together their days with whatever they can.

"The Decline of Country and Western Civilization," meanwhile, might only work if you've had the previous 40-some minutes of sublimated tension to explode with disgust, as the narrator surveys pop culture only to dismiss everything repeatedly with "Damn, they're looking ugly to me." But the tone is one of self-disgust -- a person who can no longer see beauty anywhere. I can't blame somebody for not wanting to spend this much time with someone this damaged, but Lambchop deserve their kudos for being this self-lacerating, and making music that befits a cloudy day. (Doug Dillaman // 12/14/06)