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Debut release from unknown band = blank slate. Sophomore release from exulted indie all-stars Wolf Parade = don’t fuck it up. And they don’t. But they don’t deliver the same foot-stomping blast of new-wave-ish intensity they did last time either. The frenetic energy and the blaring synths have been toned down, and the hooks aren’t as relentless this time. That said, there’s still plenty that satisfies: “Grey Estates” is pulsing, synth pop bliss (and the closest we get to “Shine a Light” or “This Heart’s On Fire”), “Call it a Ritual” conjures some of those “I am a Runner” carnival jitters, and “Soldier’s Grin” is good, anthemic fun. It just goes to show that even when they’re not in their tightest formation, the Parade marches on. Brian Merchant

WOLF PARADE ON MYSPACE

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There are times when all clichés are relevant, and Tim Fite brings to mind the common refrain about the fine line between genius and madness. Fair Ain't Fair’s disregard for classification is undeniably compelling. Part hip hop, part country blues, and part chaos, Fair Ain't Fair defies a proper description. The songs weave in and out of genre yet seamlessly come together in a way that lends itself more to Captain Beefheart than, say, Everlast. “Big Mistake” is a beautiful acoustic ballad, and only on Fair Ain't Fair would it sit perfectly alongside the near no wave chaotic hip hop of the opening track “Roots Of A Tree.” Not since Mellow Gold has an artist risen to such heights in spite of their desire for something new. Shane Gill

TIM FITE ON MYSPACE

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The Silver Jews have always been quite cerebral and in today’s inattentive culture, that doesn’t bode well.  But damned if it should.  Lookout Mountain is rewarding the way that principle David Berman always rewards his fans; laced with more idiosyncratic tales of jukeboxes that are ill prepared, candy jails, and confused bluegrass drummers–Berman makes you consistently clamor for hidden meaning.  This of course is all anchored in upbeat, classic guitar rock riffs that have a faint surfer tinge throughout, making Lookout Mountain another fine addition to the Jews already impressive, yet criminally underrated catalog.  Michael Ayers

SILVER JEWS ON MYSPACE

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In “Gloomy,” the third track off of this German quartet’s sixth record, singer/guitarist Markus Acher intones, “Why is everything so locked up?” This sentiment seems the polar opposite of the band’s music, which is anything but static. The songs are wonderful, inexorable galaxies of sound: fragile ambient textures are shattered by gritty digi-noise, lo-fi breakbeats, and sequenced keyboards, digressions that almost send the whole thing spiraling into the ether. Acher’s intimate delivery and heartrending melodies keep the band earthbound, and complement the programming wizardry to dark and beautiful effect. Alex Moore

THE NOTWIST ON MYSPACE

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So I put this record on and noticed immediately how everything’s drenched in seven frequencies of droning, dizzying reverb–kind of like how the Walkmen tend to get. And how their choruses were all carbon copy Beatles harmonies, with lines sappily swooned like “the night drags on and the love’s all gone.” And sure, I knew it should have sounded recycled—campy, even—but it didn’t. It was oh-so-mellow and oddly danceable, with everything so deeply submerged in all that reverb, just swimming in it … and we all love a good swim. Danny Fasold

FRENCH KICKS ON MYSPACE

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The one-word question that popped into your head when you first heard that Scarlett Johansson was making her proper debut as a ‘musician’ with an album of Tom Waits covers is the same question you’ll have after you’ve heard the thing, and it’s the appropriate one: Why? It’s not that it’s grating or unlistenable, or that she’s a poor singer. It’s just pointless. Why take the time out of your acting career to record mildly serviceable though unimpassioned vocal tracks on an album of all (but one) covers? Why? Why enlist TV on the Radio’s David Sitek to Enya-fy classic Tom Waits tracks into a syrupy New Age stew? There’s really not much more to be said about this wholly perplexing album, but I can’t help myself. What the hell? Brian Merchant

SCO-JO ON MYSPACE

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It's hard to imagine that the band that recorded The Lucky Ones would've been any older than toddlers when Mudhoney made Rock & Roll history with Superfuzz Bigmuff. Now some twenty years into their career, Mudhoney has defied all expectations and returned sounding better and younger than ever. The Lucky Ones is garage rock heaven, with its simple-as-that swagger, sexy rhythms and fist pumping choruses. If you've ever wondered what the fate of The Yardbirds would've been had they been more Louisiana than London, The Lucky Ones is your answer! Shane Gill

MUDHONEY ON MYSPACE

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There is something terribly endearing about Miniature Tigers. The name alone asserts a sense of naiveté, but don't let that fool you. On their first official release to date, the LA-based pop-rock trio cleverly devises a pretense of playful innocence. As unsophisticated as the construction of the songs may seem, there is a certain art in seeming artless.  Moreover, the true musical mastery lies with front man Charlie Brand. His excessively sweet demeanor—resonant with Nilsson and McCartney—is unfeigned and downright contagious. But in both EPs the magical premise is, apparently, designed to conceal real life. And as most followers of the occult are aware, the human mind is simply a portal that can be used to summon the supernatural. Thus, Brand transforms potentially profound episodes of adolescence with the most outlandish ideas. If these songs constitute the invocation of spirits, both good and evil alike, then I'm definitely turning to sorcery.  Jed Cohen

MINIATURE TIGERS ON MYSPACE

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Ladies and gentlemen, from Melbourne, Australia—more indie rock than Justice, and certainly less obnoxious than Chromeo—the Midnight Juggernauts have landed. Now dance, hipsters, D.A.N.C.E.! Unfortunately, while live drums and guitars help separate the Juggs from the rest of the electro-synth pack, their first US release is far from revolutionary. Ethan Fixell

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If Tim Kinsella's projects from the mid-90s onward (Joan of Arc, Owls, and a handful of solo recordings) seemed designed to alternately induce bliss and aurally baffle the listener, Make Believe has served as a kind of reinvention. Joined by longtime collaborators Sam Zurick, Nate Kinsella, and Bobby Burg, Kinsella’s vocals shift from a passive croon to an aggrieved shout, and yet Make Believe is arguably his most accessible project in years. Their three albums to date put Kinsella in the role of obsessive front man of a cacophonous rock band, and in this context he can summon forth cutting metaphors and cryptic minutiae while still tapping into something inherently visceral and driving. Going to the Bone Church might be the quietest of Make Believe's albums. At the very least, it's their least jarring, and most transcendent. Toby Carroll

MAKE BELIEVE ON MYSPACE

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Anthony Gonzalez, a.k.a. M83, hones in on two endearing and complementary subjects on his excellent new release: Eighties music and the teenage years. It’s an effective move. Certain teen movies from the eighties still endure today thanks in part to their ultra distinctive soundtracks. On Saturdays=Youth, M83 goes meta and not only sagely uses the eighties music template to celebrate youth, he uses it as a template for celebrating eighties music itself. Gauzy pop epics like “Kim and Jessie” and “Graveyard Girl” subvert their source with razor sharp instrumentation just enough to prevent from retreading familiar ground, but not enough to detract from their pulpy, hook-filled splendor. A few tracks near the end seem propped up on too few ideas, but ambient closer “After Midnight” concludes the record in a wash of beautiful but plain minor chords, suggesting a sustained, sort of cinematic nostalgia. It’s a fitting end to a record that’s a charming and poignant homage to times of mysterious simplicity. Brian Merchant

M83 ON MYSPACE

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This is the kind of lyric-less, swooshing, click-clacking music/noise you’d expect to hear during an opium dream in some meadow under some tree–kudos to Lucky Dragons for daring to cook up this avant-pseudo-hypnotic soup. At times, though, Dream Island also feels underdeveloped, and with no real song structure to it, the whole experience can get a tad nauseating. But then, some of us like feeling woozy. Now pass the peace pipe, please… Danny Fasold

LUCKY DRAGONS ON MYSPACE

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The Conor Oberst of old–who not too long ago seemed to come out of nowhere and could possibly wind up, well, anywhere–is back. As with all steps forward in his career, this new release resembles the genres to which he stakes a claim yet sidesteps their usual trappings. Standout tracks include "Lenders In The Temple", a disarmingly pretty, yet, haunting, folk song and "Eagle On A Pole", whose swaying drunken rhythm could be the missing link between those two folk staples: the bar room brawler and the broken hearted balladeer. With this self-titled album, Conor Oberst continues onward on the shoulders of the giants who have come before him, always looking past us, never quite at us, and we're much better for it.  Shane Gill

MORE INFO @ MERGE RECORDS

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Sometimes, you have to lend credence to the cries of ‘Derivative!’ from those over-attentive indie scene scholars. And sometimes you have to respond with, Ok. Fine. You’ve just got to remember that there are two kinds of derivative: there’s Interpol derivative (by way of Joy Division), and there’s, say, Jet derivative (by way of every famous rock band ever). One’s A-ok, and uses a previously wrought sonic palette as a template to innovate and expand upon. The other makes you want to promptly leave whatever frat party or karaoke bar “Are You Gonna Be My Girl” just came on in, swearing to spit in the face of those good for nothing Beatles-aping Aussie bastards if you ever see their ‘Lust for Life’ plundering asses in person. There is a difference. Bowerbirds, is fortunately the former, and yes they sound a lot like Devendra Banhart, but they do write some pretty inspired songs in the familiar freak-folk framework. With spare, intriguing arrangements, and a far sharper ear for melody than most of their peers, the Bowerbirds have crafted an ideal springtime album. Brian Merchant

BOWERBIRDS ON MYSPACE

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Here’s to Anti-Flag for taking the next step in their evolution. On this, their eighth record, a grander dynamic has been implemented with the help of producer Tony Visconti (David Bowie). Children’s choirs, more grandiose, ethereal sing-along segments and stadium ready choruses all add to the band’s power. If now only front man Justin Sane would get a little more specific with his political tirades.  Frank Corva

ANTI-FLAG ON MYSPACE

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Animal Collective may very well be unstoppable. After three stellar LPs in a row, all eyes are on the band to see when their seemingly limitless sonic palette will dry up. Not with the Water Curses EP, that’s for certain. These four tracks encapsulate everything that’s exhilarating about the Animal Collective: the songs are at once jarring and sing-along friendly, warped and haunting, frenetic yet melodic. A couple, like the spastic but catchy title track, and the four-minute epic “Cobwebs” are among their best yet. And the also-inspired closing track, despite being as close to a ballad as anything the Collective’s done, finely illustrates the band’s enduring ability to beautifully and effortlessly subvert the pop song. Brian Merchant

ANIMAL COLLECTIVE ON MYSPACE