No one can make a kooky lyric feel utterly affecting like Charles Thompson. With "Svn Fngrs," as brisk an "LP" as you'll likely find, the erstwhile Pixies sage returns with more scarcely sensical, highly conceptual, and dangerously inviting alt-rock. Every ugly riff does seem so pretty.
Eigsti gained renown as a pianist while still in his teens, which may explain how, at just 23, he's cut a remarkably adult record. "Let It Come To You" is modern piano jazz at its most lush and urbane--a must for anyone who has worn out her collection of Brad Mehldau.
There seem to be two hipster Nebraskas: the Conor Oberst scene (heartfelt, slightly precious), and the seminal lo-fi Springsteen disc, which has inspired a generation of bleak moods and raw tone. Jennings rightly aligns himself with the latter: This is a Brooklyn alt-folk suffused with old Midwest.
This generation of hipsters doesn't dig on jazz like its beret-wearing ancestors did; it takes Chin Chin to bring new Brooklyn into talks with the old Village. The group's beat-riddled mixes of funk, soul, and rock are both lushly colored and rhythmic to the point of addiction.
Bruce Springsteen's rusted-out, Mid-Atlantic version of Americana has been a favorite reference point for many indie acts of late--but this Philly crew comes by its Boss love earnestly (and locally). War's huffing drums and world-size guitars feel at once powerful and desperate.
There's something about the word "pants" that's just a little bit funny. The same is true with James Pants' music. Sarcastic, kitschy lyrics over crawly bass and fuzzed out beats make what Stones Throw asserts is one of their most eclectic releases to date.
With their raw Britpop guitars and trippy vocals, the Portland mainstays have always felt a bit like Londoners. Their new disc "Earth to the Dandy Warhols" ramps up the winning post-Floyd motif with a consciously intergalactic vibe, played out as excellent psychedelia.
It's a clever little irony that Analogic and Rashid's abbreviated name, A+R, recalls that most loathed figure of the record biz. The New Jersey project is the farthest thing from image-conscious or bottom-line driven. "Serenade for the Moment" pairs dry-ice flows with golden beats.
It's hard to say whether the Radar Bros. would be glad to hear that their vocals sound a bit like Chris Martin of Coldplay. They'd probably prefer Leonard Cohen--and lucky for them, somehow both are true. Either way, the bandmembers make pretty country-folk ditties that show their attachment to lo-fi folk without bogging them down by the genre's self-seriousness.
Representing the dirty hipsters of BK, Santogold is like a slightly more pop version of political club-rap queen, M.I.A. Big, warbly basslines stumble drunkenly behind the lead singer's brassy, robot sass--and the end result is music you can rage out and endless drink Pabst to all night long.
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