makes Attack consistently fresh. MOSI REEVES
Having gradually tamed their schmaltziness over the course of three albums, Montreal’s breathy pop lovers take a slight step backward. Torquil Campbell and Amy Millan’s breakup taunts once cut through their songs’ deceptive dreaminess, but the edge is smoothed down here, the bitterness outweighs the resignation, and strangely, the two sound stronger on their own. Millan soars on the big chorus of the otherwise understated “Bitches in Tokyo,” while over the soft-rock groove of “The Ghost of Genova Heights,” Campbell breaks from his Morrissey man-crush to deliver a falsetto that recalls Elton John’s. LINDSEY THOMAS
lot of people still have a hard time getting over Beck’s Mellow Gold. The latest mix of marble-mouthed rapping, bedroom Casio beats, and postmodern rail-riding folk comes care of Englishman Jamie T. The Mercury Prize–nominated Panic Prevention focuses squarely on Jamie’s voice, which has a gently snarling cadence that recalls a less-stoned Mike Skinner. When he sticks to cheeky storytelling (as on “Sheila” and “Calm Down Dearest”), the album gains grimy traction, but empty dirges like “Pacemaker” send it drifting into novelty territory. KYLE ANDERSON
With a bit of Chrissie Hynde’s swagger and some of Dido’s pristine vocal appeal, this strummy Scot created the estro-pop album of ’06 with Eye to the Telescope—heard in countless Hollywood rom-coms and TV dramedies. The follow-up proves Tunstall is no fluke: Her effortless melodies drive jaunty power pop (“I Don’t Want You Now”) and fingerpicked coffeehouse
folk (“White Bird”). But it also makes clear that Tunstall’s glaring faults—dull lyrics filled with pedestrian phrases— aren’t fleeting, either. MICHAEL ENDELMAN
The Tuss Rushup Edge ½ AMAZON MYSPACE
“Tuss” is Cornish slang for, um, “throbbing gristle,” or, cough, “morning wood,” though it’s allegedly yet another alias for techno wunderkind Richard D. James, a.k.a. Aphex Twin. Rephlex—a label co-run by Mr. James—swears the artist is one “Brian Tregaskin,” though it also credits “Karen Tregaskin.” Regardless, this six-song EP is a barrage of thrilling sonic riffs, drawing on early acid trax and analog synthesizers. The hyperkinetic breaks of “Death Fuck Mental Beats” ape Aphex to a tee, proving that playing (with) yourself is quite a natural thing to do. ANDY BETA
Two Gallants Two Gallants ITUNES MYSPACE
“Electrifying” twosome actually more goofus than gallant
These San Franciscans became a You Tube sensation last fall when a Houston police officer responded mid-set to a noise complaint with his Taser buzzing. Dude, they’re not that loud. On the duo’s third album, Adam Stephens strums and picks folkie electric-guitar chords; for embellishment, there’s harmonica. Stephens also possesses an abrasive whine that may not justify electroshock but does flatten the subtleties of his sea-shanty-like tunes. Recalling the stridency of Soul Asylum without the rock ferocity, Two Gallants are a minor annoyance. BARRY WALTERS
Every Weakerthans album has moments that provoke cries of “Why aren’t these guys huge?” But those are inevitably followed by moments that make it abundantly clear why they’re not. And that’s not a dig: The Winnipeg-based folk punks’ willingness to juxtapose propulsive riffs and hooky choruses with self-consciously skewed tales of disaffected
house cats and dead NHL goaltenders is what makes them endearing. On Reunion Tour, John K. Samson’s imagistic descriptions of loneliness, desperation, and yearning— which avoid the goofiness that plagues, say, Fountains of Wayne—are fleshed out with chiming guitars and warm synths. DAVID PEISNER
Grime’s relative nonimpact on America isn’t puzzling: With its disorienting beats, unfamiliar slang, and melody-averse choruses, the U.K.-born genre has always felt forbiddingly local. Wiley only occasionally departs from that script on an album he’s threatened will be his last. Amid dark, woozy synths and shout-outs to lots of East London locales, he growls an affecting ode to his newborn daughter (“Baby Girl”); a gauzy, nostalgic note to a rival (“Letter 2 Dizzee”); and a bluesy piano ballad (“Nothing About Me”), hinting at a viable way forward just as he waves good-bye. DAVID PEISNER
KENTARO KAMBE/COURTES Y S TUN T COMPAN Y
Being Motion City Soundtrack in 2007 must feel a bit like being Gabrielle Carteris in 1990—you know, Andrea from Beverly Hills 90210. You’re pushing 30, but you make your dough appealing to 17-year-olds and sometimes acting like them, too, no matter your hairline or marital status. But instead of skipping the 20s dilemma, as Carteris did by leaving Beverly Hills for her own grown-up talk show (it bombed), Motion City have deftly filled that space between emotional adolescence and responsible adulthood with this set of near-perfect pop.
five tracks. On lead single “This Is for Real,” the band dials down the spunky tempos that populated the last two albums, and Ocasek reins in Jesse Mack Johnson’s keyboard squeals for a mechanically hypnotic chorus that’s reminiscent of, well, the Cars (minus the poorly animated video). Elsewhere, “Last Night” finds Motion City gingerly approaching the slinkiness of the Cure’s “Close to Me” with some dewy-eyed piano twinkles and skinny-tie beats.
But fret not, Facebookers: Motion City aren’t ready to abandon their emo faithful. They’re just writing songs like “Calling All Cops,” whose power-chord swells and Transformers references should find receptive ears among lovers of both Shia LaBeouf and Luke Perry.
PETER GASTON
References:
http://www.myspace.com/jamietwimbledon
http://www.myspace.com/kttunstall
http://www.myspace.com/thetussmusic
http://www.myspace.com/twogallants
http://www.myspace.com/theweakerthans
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