07 DEERHUNTER MICROCASTLE Listening to singer-guitarist Bradford Cox open up a vein on Microcastle’s woozy laments of unrequited love and unmitigated angst, it’s hard not to feel protective. Someone so unabashedly openhearted is setting himself up for a lot of pain. But this unintentional masochist’s gift for setting nostalgic, almost torchy melodies to amniotic jangle (“Agoraphobia”) and smeared garage rock (“Saved by Old Times”) suggests salvation—for us, anyway. When Cox sings about crucifixion on the gorgeously haunting “Calvary Scars,” he’s the one getting hammered. D.M.

06 SANTOGOLD SANTOGOLD The M. I. A. comparisons fly as far as surging opener “L. E. S. Artistes.” From there, Santi White concocts her own dance-floor ultramodernity, incorporating ’80s new wave (the Missing Persons– meets-Devo “You’ll Find a Way”), reggae (“Shove It”), and coconut-flavored electro (the buzzing “Unstoppable”). It’s a sonic mash as gloriously schizoid as her outfits. Who else could make opening for Coldplay, writing songs for Ashlee Simpson, and collaborating with Spank Rock seem so audaciously natural? J.M.

05 FLEET FOXES FLEET FOXES Indie rock is awash in bearded young guys channeling the hippie-dippy spirit of their parents’ old record collections. But on this haunting debut, Seattle’s Fleet Foxes distinguish themselves from the vintage-vinyl crowd by infusing their rootsy retro-pop moves with a sense of mystery that no one’s really summoned since Oh, Inverted World changed Natalie Portman’s life. Like the Shins’ James Mercer, frontman Robin Pecknold is more mood man than storyteller. But his eye for detail can devastate. M.W.

52 JANUAR Y 2009 SPIN.COM: THE MUSIC WEBSI TE

04 FUCKED UP THE CHEMISTRY OF COMMON LIFE Hardcore punk, of the early-’80s genus, was a short, sharp shock, a crazed punch line to the groin. Its poppier and more metallic variants never had the same desperate jolt. But this Toronto cre w defibrillate hardcore’s heart by going epic—tidal guitar overdubs, stampeding drums, flute and keyboard ambience. Frontman Pink Eyes’ probing bark joins various female voices to rage about faith and hypocrisy, or to just get fucked-up on life. As he growls at the end of “Magic Word”: “Alllriiigggghhhht!” C.A.

03 PORTISHEAD THIRD Portishead lured millions of us into their film-noir boudoir during the ’90s, but on the trio’s first album in a decade, the codependent cocktail heartache has degenerated. Beth Gibbons’ torch-folk wail is under siege from Adrian Utley’s aggressively haunting guitar and Geoff Barrow’s mechanical, even militaristic, beats. On “The Rip” and “Deep Water,” she pleads over a gently plucked ukulele, but there’s little relief. Both taut and unhinged, Third turns soul music into a bare-bulb interrogation of the soul. C.A.

BRADFORD COX PHOTO BY PETER SUTHERLAND LIL WAYNE PHOTO BY TINA T YRELL