Wilderness – S/T

Post-rock has evolved since the days of Slint. Early post-rock bands shifted the emphasis from vocals to instrumentation, relying more on the communicative powers of guitars and drums than the more literal language of a lead singer. The next step in the evolution, however, saw the role of the lead singer disintegrate. Bands like Godspeed You! Black Emperor replaced singing with spoken-word recordings, often highlighting strange characters’ dissertations on things like war and Coney Island. Subsequent bands, Explosions in the Sky being the best among them, eliminated the use of words altogether. The instruments were finally thrust to center stage, their more universal language supplanting the local dialect of simple speech.

Well, with Wilderness, post-rock has finally come full-circle. The band’s songs have been compacted in length, most existing within the realm of three to five minutes. Guitars and drums are still played up and still have a notable expressive repertoire, but vocals have returned to hog the spotlight. Singer James Johnson finds himself in a similar position to that of Slint’s frontman in that he struggles to find a place among the eloquent instrumentation, his inadequate voice often getting lost in the mix. Whereas Slint’s singer stuck to singing, Johnson has abandoned the practice altogether; he mostly trades in an atonal sing-speak, not often drawing out his notes or veering off course from his flat tonal range.

Unfortunately, this often detracts from the wildly animated, expansive sound of the rest of the band. The guitars are eerily alive, climbing over and around slimey riffs like vines on a wall. The drums rely heavily on toms to convey a more instrumental, rather than percussive, sound. The two instruments intertwine seamlessly, expressing more often than not a sense of desperate crescendo. Given free range, the band can reach epiphanic heights effortlessly. Given the lead weight of Johnson’s vocals, however, Wilderness does not often succeed in getting its sound so impressively far off the ground.

The combination of excellent instrumentation and leaden vocals is, unsurprisingly, simply a good album that falls disappointingly short of full praise. Johnson’s vocals will undoubtedly turn off many first-time listeners, but to those who persevere, Wilderness offers an impressive, if not fully realized, return to the earlier days of post-rock. Those who find themselves unable to accept Johnson’s dissonance would be better served seeking out anything by Explosions in the Sky.

Man in Gray – No Day / No Night EP

The promotion for Man in Gray’s debut EP No Day/No Night is pretty much exactly what I’ve come to expect of labels idly hyping passable indie-rock acts: the band’s genesis came from a desire for a musical outlet other than “playing along to their Velvet Underground and Sonic Youth albums;” its sound is marketed as a meeting point between Mission of Burma and Sonic Youth; and of course, the female vocalist is situated in a locus somewhere between that of Sleater-Kinney and, at the other end of the spectrum, Nico. Later on, references are made specifically to indie cornerstones the Pixies and The Clash. It’s no mistake that Man in Gray is placed directly in the “for fans of…” bin rather than being advocated for its universality; there’s little in the band’s approach that would exert even a slight gravitational pull on anyone whose shelf for trendy post-punk bands with a quasi-charismatic female vocalist is one CD short of capacity.

So how are the songs? “Multiply” is a decent song relying on jittering dynamics punctuated by a peculiarly disorienting drumbeat. “Brakelights” is a poor attempt at writing a classic indie-rock urban hipster anthem; the song fares well on first listen, but lacks any of the miraculously simple hooks of, say, The Strokes. “Neighbors” does a decent job of building tension until the band reaches a palpable climax led by Tina DaCosta’s furious lines: “I watch my neighbors go to sleep!” “Neighbors” is almost uncomfortably intense, and represents the sort of disorientingly cacophonic territory in which Man in Gray fares best.

“Everyone’s Wearing Red” continues the frenzied pace, but falls a little flat even at just two minutes’ runtime. In “Incommunicado,” the band’s big-deal track, a descending bass line drips over frenetic drums as DaCosta plays the rock vixen; sharp yelps punctuate smoother crooning, leading into a feverish chorus capped by a desperate shout-a-long of the song’s title. DaCosta does her best to carry the track, but her effort is saturated with her overextension; she simply tries too hard to deliver a mind-blowing performance. Her frantic breathing could be interpreted alternately as her dedication to songcraft and inexhaustible energy or simply as her inability to keep up with the track’s pace. The nigh-seven-minute closing track “Mig” contains a few moments of transcendent energy, but manages to trample the momentum with a drawn-out guitar solo that slowly suffocates the song. In the end, just as “Mig” is about to die of its own indulgent melodic obesity, DaCosta revitalizes it with yet another frantic Cap’n Jazz-lite moment.

Although Man in Gray show obvious musical talent and potential, the band’s problem lies in its inability to do anything more than blend its influences into a mixture that lacks the unique, personal touch and charisma that separate imitators from innovators. Until DaCosta and her mates develop a more individual personality and tap their obvious potential, the band’s name is eerily appropriate; there is nothing to distinguish Man in Gray from the other Men in Gray treading indie rock’s crowded streets. In the end, contrary to what the press release claims, much of Man in Gray’s material really isn’t that far removed from simply replaying songs written by members of indie’s Valhalla. Oops, back to the drawing board.

Slow Dazzle – The View From the Floor

Inspired by “The Prosecution Rests,” the dreamy fourth track on Slow Dazzle’s debut album, The View From the Floor, consider my opening statement, as one of this publication’s new music prosecutors: I rarely enjoy alt-country, but I like The View From the Floor so much that I’ve listened to the album on repeat three times now. That’s over 90 minutes of listening to this new LP by an offshoot of The Mendoza Line. It started when I was chopping cucumbers, green peppers, hot peppers, and Israeli olives in my kitchen for a salad. I thought, “Wow, this is great. I’m surprised I’m enjoying this.”

Then I listened to The View From the Floor a second time while driving late at night, and I concentrated on the clever lyrics. There is a tender, personal aspect to each of the album’s eight songs. I played the album a third time while lying in bed, and the music brought up sweet and sour memories as I tried to fall asleep at 3:30 in the morning. Now, I listen to the album a fourth time while writing this, and Shannon McArdle continues to fascinate me with her dynamic, seductive voice. Even Timothy Bracy’s tired singing is growing on me.

The View From the Floor opens with the pulsating, tubular “Fleur de Lie.” The band fuses distorted electronic instrumentation and loads of reverb with McArdle’s authoritative voice on this tense track. The dramatic decrease in tempo that comes with Bracy’s turn as lead singer on “A Welfare State” and “The Prosecution Rests” is offset by an aching harmonica on the former and a swirling combination of patient drumming and keyboards on the latter. Bracy’s partial duets with McArdle on these two songs highlight a warm, natural mix of male and female vocals. On the album’s title track, McArdle brings to mind Hope Sandoval, but the twang and higher tone here distinguish the two women.

Considering his influence on the band, it’s appropriate that Slow Dazzle covers one of Leonard Cohen’s songs. Somewhat surprisingly, the choice is a more recent Cohen track, “Anthem,” from 1992’s The Future. Slow Dazzle’s version replaces Cohen’s orchestral strings with a drum machine and electronic echoes. McArdle sings in Cohen’s style, pausing and dropping the emphasis on selected syllables, but she has a smooth delivery, as opposed to Cohen’s famous gravelly croon.

The most gripping song on The View From the Floor is “Wedding Dance.” The painstaking arrangement and production by engineer and contributing instrumentalist Peter Langland-Hassan firmly plant “Wedding Dance” in the listener’s mind. The lackadaisical guitars and percussion wrap around McArdle’s desperately determined words: “They claim two years ago they changed the name / But that green and rusted street sign reads the same / I thought you’d come around and sign the sheet / My last name just don’t make yours complete / Oh no / My mother set me up, I had no chance / She turned her back and cursed our wedding dance / I tripped and fell into a burning rage / Made by men who slipped right through her cage.”

With its subtle, tasteful electronic touches, “Wedding Dance” penetrates the soul and compels the listener to empathize with the subject of the song. Such is the entire debut album by Slow Dazzle, an affecting combination of baroque pop and classic country motifs delivered with great concern for each lyrical character. Like the best stories, The View From the Floor transcends stylistic preferences, reveals a universal relevance, and leaves an indelible impression on the listener.

Blitzen Trapper – Field Rexx

I don’t know about you, but it doesn’t take a lot to make me smile. Certain things just always do it. Snow, cats in baby clothes, goofy inside jokes involving sprinkles – we all have a litany of things that persistently make us happy. And now I can add Blitzen Trapper’s “Asleep for Days” to that list. It’s sunny and dreamlike and instantly gratifies your need for pure pop perfection. It’s like the best song The Shins never wrote.

But perhaps you’re not as easily amused as I am. Suppose you don’t bat an eyelash at the first snowfall or couldn’t care less about domestic animals in doll clothes. It doesn’t matter, because there is something about Blitzen Trapper that will make even the most jaded cynic smile. Maybe it’s the band’s enthusiastic, kindergarten can-do attitude or the “everything and the kitchen sink” approach to pop music or the way these folks so successfully fuse the two to create a dreamy pastiche of psych-rock and alt-country. But at least one of the tracks on Field Rexx is they’ll be sure to win you over.

The first five songs on this genre defier of an album are abundant with playful freak-pop tendencies. “Lux & Royal Shopper” chugs along with chiming guitar and spacey lo-fi blips, while the hypnotic “Summer Twin” is bursting with rhythmic guitars and impromptu blasts of referee whistles. It could almost work as a mellower Of Montreal B-side.

Then, after such dizzying pop songs, as if out of nowhere, “Concrete Heaven” moseys its way out of your stereo and into your lonesome heart. It’s a gorgeous, drunken alt-country epic. From its opening command, “Concrete Heaven, resurrect me / If you believe in love throw away the key,” it’s twangy and languid and desperate and sexy and even a bit silly. But even the non-sequitur line “I’m still walkin’ around in rainbow-colored thongs” cann’t mar its yearning grandeur. And by the time the distant, wailing harmonicas come in at the three-minute mark, you can practically hear the bartender sweeping up broken bottles and cigarette butts off the where your lover left you the night before.

The second half of the record is more country-tinged and favors more traditional compositional structures, but the songs are just as tuneful despite their less freewheeling approach. There are echoes of CSNY on “40 Stripes,” and there is even a decent foray into bluegrass on “Dirty Pearls.” And while some might say the album lacks consistency, it never lacks focus. Every song is fully formed and played agilely. This is a band of artists at ease with their ability to traverse genre and form, and in the process they continue to remember that melody is a quintessential to making memorable music. And maybe that’s why it will always make me smile.

The Mae Shi – Heartbeeps EP

God bless the good folks at 5 Rue Christine and their stalwart appreciation for the seemingly inappreciable. I’m willing to place good money that no other label can come close to replicating the polarizing effect of 5RC’s fine stable; mention a band like Deerhoof, Need New Body, or Xiu Xiu (especially Xiu Xiu) to the right people and you’ll always get one of two reactions: that of absolute devotion or utter hatred. And rightly so – the acts on 5RC’s roster take concepts like “inaccessibility” and “difficulty” to ridiculously extreme levels, often taking a directly confrontational approach to their music that recalls the trashy nihilism of acts like Pussy Galore and Brainiac. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, and 5RC doesn’t really give a damn; chances are they already pissed in your cup anyway.

That being said, I can think of no better home for the Mae Shi, a manic quartet hailing from Los Angeles, California. The band’s promising debut LP Terrorbird was a fascinating study in musical ADD; delivering 33 tracks in 42 minutes, the album was at once delightful and bizarre, a strange carnival of noise and melody that perpetually teetered between stochastic glee and entropic collapse. And while the follow-up EP Heartbeeps could ostensibly be described as being more of the same, it also shows the Mae Shi maturing just a little bit, injecting some much-needed cohesion into the band’s fractured take on art-pop.

This (admittedly subtle) shift is noticeable in the first two proper tracks, as “Born for a Short Time” and “Crimes of Infancy” follow instantly recognizable song structures without sacrificing the frenzied energy of their earlier work; a listener might even be able to pick out a hook or two if they listen close enough. And the lo-fi synth-pop of “Spoils of Injury” and “Spoils of Victory” are, while not impressive feats of programming, catchy little tunes in and of themselves, providing welcome spots of unassuming melody in between the blasts of raucous noise.

But the definite highlight of the album is “Eat the Prize,” a lovely burst of low-key pop bookended by searing bursts of dissonant guitar. Clocking in at a little over three minutes, it is also the longest track on the album, and it’s a good example of the Mae Shi’s songwriting chops. While it isn’t exactly brilliant, it is nonetheless quite engaging, and it serves as a fine rebuttal to the folks who might accuse the band (and their like-minded peers) of using noise to mask a supposed lack of talent.

It is perhaps telling that Heartbeeps often sounds like one fiercely dynamic 15-minute song rather than 10 separate tracks. Admittedly, the EP never reaches the same giddy heights of Terrorbirds; however, it is certainly more concise, eschewing the hit-and-miss experiments of the latter release in favor of focusing on what could be considered actual songs. And it is perhaps for the best, as the band’s new-found appreciation for structure goes a long way in giving Heartbeeps a tangible identity. Even though there are certain aspects of the sound that could be considered somewhat gimmicky, Heartbeeps remains a captivating document of a promising band with the potential to create some incredibly intriguing music.

Wilderness – self-titled

The word wilderness can conjure images of dark territory and violence in nature. Imagine if you will a vast black space with no light, eyes appearing out of the void, hot breath on the back of your neck, and the smell of blood. The cover art to Wilderness’ self-titled debut record is the polar opposite of every thought that came to me when I first heard the band’s name. It looks like a patchwork quilt with repeating patterns in the brightest of primary colors, but the music inside is every bit as foreboding as the name implies.

Wilderness’ record begins with symbiotic guitar lines spiraling around each other in a fashion not unlike U2′s early works such as War or The Unforgettable Fire. The drums pound out a tribal rhythm similar in feel to Joy Division. Then the vocals come in. Wilderness’ approach to vocals are very interesting because the only frame of reference I can think of would be John Lydon’s vocals during the early works of Public Image Ltd., specifically Second Edition/Metal Box. The result is an atonal juxtaposition against the sonic landscape presented as backdrop by the guitars and rhythm section. The most surprising thing about this take is just how melodic the vocals can seem to be after repeated listens.

Wilderness’ record winds its way through ten tracks in around forty five minutes. The first nine tracks are similar to one another enough that one can tell the same band is playing all of them, but the final track definitely adds an element of intrigue that is quite unexpected. Just like the artwork to the record, the lyrical content and the music both seem very symmetrical. Lyrics unfold by being shouted and then repeated in the opposite order, guitar figures replicate themselves with delay effects, and the drums play circular patterns. By the time the track “Mirrored Palm” appears in the remaining moments of the record, the title just makes sense. The last thing you’d expect would be a complete genre change. This song begins with one piano playing a minor chord progression and continues to add layers of piano, one by one, that have more to do with one another than they initially appear. The effect is disorienting and yet calming like some of Brian Eno’s ambient records.

Something about Wilderness seems completely fresh despite the immediately obvious reference points. Maybe the fact that the political climate in the United States is currently very similar to that of the early 1980′s Reagan-era has something to do with it. There must be something about the claustrophobic and catastrophic atmosphere that is very conducive to producing relevant and innovative music. Maybe there is something new and interesting bubbling beneath the crust of the American indie scene, something that has little to nothing to do with raping the dead corpse of Gang of Four, something that doesn’t include dance punk. Wilderness is a shining light in the darkness and I can only hope there is much more to come.

The Lucksmiths – Warmer Corners

My personal philosophy provides infinite room for well-written, clever indie pop. From AC Newman to The Shins, a cheerful guitar-pop song with a good turn of phrase never gets old. Enter native Australians The Lucksmiths, a band that takes all the right turns and strums all the right chords. Eight albums into their career, The Lucksmiths haven’t yet felt the need to venture into as-yet uncharted experimental territory; nay, the cheery Aussies are forever content to simply transcribe loving witticisms into song over a medley of strumming guitars, tambourine-heavy percussion, and subtle bass tones.

“A Hiccup in Your Happiness” starts the album off in fine form. Soft and unassuming as the band itself, the beginning of the song slips seamlessly from the silence that precedes it as if hesitant to disturb the listener. Horns drop in on the heels of the strumming, all led by hi-hats that fall in all the right places. The lyrics are vintage Lucksmiths, positive and uplifting in a straight-forward, down-to-earth way: “And it hurts even more than you thought / and it feels like forever just now / but one day you’ll look back on this / as a hiccup in your happiness.”

“The Music Next Door” follows; a sunny guitar lick does its trapeze act over the secure netting of the omnipresent strumming while Marty Donald intones, “I saw the spring become the summer / as the spring is wont to do / and I began to find the boredom almost beautiful.” “Great Lengths” is perfect in its simplicity; there is not an innovative component to be found in the song, yet somehow it’s more stunning for its complacency. “Now I’m Even Further Away” ups the pace a beat with a pounding drumbeat, softened by Donald’s warm vocals.

But perhaps the best song on the album is “Fiction.” Acoustic strumming (of course) slithers over brushed drums and a rolling, seemingly subconscious bass as an accordion drones somewhere in the distance. “Fiction” is effective for its excellent songwriting and remarkable for its slight differences from the other songs: it’s a bit more ambitious without disrupting the accessibility of the rest of the album. When the violins cut in later and the pace is quickened, every little guitar lick, every drum fill, every clever vocal quip reaches its full realization. The album culminates with the ideal capstone: an ascending guitar slide that makes perfect sense of everything the listener has heard.

Because the songs on Warmer Corners lend themselves to cute little blurbs, I could continue ad infinitum – or at least until I ran out of songs to describe. The consistency of Warmer Corners is, in the end, its most gratifying asset. The album lends itself to being played in full, preferably listened to on a hammock with a cold ice tea on a warm summer’s day. The easy, carefree atmosphere is extremely effective; the songs’ warmth of proximity makes each better than it would be if heard alone, resulting in an album that somehow transcends its simplicity and becomes something of remarkable beauty.

The Wingdale Community Singers – S/T

Though one may snicker at the suggestion that the central cultural reference point for the Wingdale Community Singers — the mostly acoustic trio of Rick Moody, David Grubbs, and Hannah Marcus — are saccharine folkies Peter, Paul, and Mary, it may be more appropriate to instead look 80 miles north of New York City. It’s there, nestled near Wingdale, N.Y., that you’d find the sprawling grounds of the abandoned Harlem Valley Psychiatric Center, from which the Wingdales appear to take more than just the spirit of their name. On the group’s 15-song Plain Recordings debut, it’s often the suggestion of looming emotional turmoil, the depth of uncertainty, or the whispers of tender melancholy that keep the proceedings several steps above carefully choreographed coffeehouse chatter.

That’s not to say the record is a downer. Grubbs aficionados expecting him to return to the avant-acoustics of Gastr del Sol (or even just reprise the Grubbs/Moody collaborations on 2002’s Rickets & Scurvy) will be surprised by the downright levity and straight-forward approach of some of the disc — the playful bounce of “Bike Shop Boy,” the jangly hoedown atmosphere of “Fishnet Stockings,” or the country-and-western ditty “Rat on the Tracks,” which features not only upright bass and violin but also banjo. (The poppy “Sugar and Salt” can be downright giddy and who can help but not smile at a couplet like “Salt for your burns and your sores / And when the meal’s an incredible bore” or the verse “Salt in your chips and salt in your fries / Salt in the water that comes out your eyes / Salt is a fact of this life / Salt was the end of Lot’s wife?”)

The songs that resonate most loudly, though, and give The Wingdale Community Singers a stronger and more expressive voice than many of their acoustic singer/songwriter or alt-country peers are the ones that mine darker depths. The Marcus-penned “Holy Virgin Star” features not only fragile verses of prayerful harmony but a solemn sermon, delivered by Grubbs. Marcus and Moody’s voices intermingle with an almost smoky sadness on “Bitter Angels,” a piano-led reflection where the voices are reduced nearly to whispers in the repeating chorus of “O bitter angels, bitter angels / In my duct-taped city of dreams.” “Pawn Shop Fire” soars during an elegant and understated two-part harmony where Marcus and Moody simply sing “They set the pawn shop on fire.”

“Bigger Ocean” is beautiful and devastating, plain and simple. As Grubbs plucks out spare, glassy guitar and bass patterns reminiscent of Bill Frisell, Marcus either battles temptation or feels guilty about the damage done by it, singing — one can only guess — to a former or potential lover. “I wish I had a bigger ocean / To put between me and you,” she sings, with a strange, nagging kind of longing and lust. “I wish I had a bigger ocean / For then I’d know what to do.” When she hammers out the song’s last lines — “I wish for hell and all its fury / Where I will be going soon / I wish my husband would come / And bury me / Under your living room” — her voice peaks as it reaches an almost raspy height, cracks, and then fades to uneasy silence. It’s nearly perfect.

Grubbs and Moody steal the spotlight elsewhere. On the closing “Indira’s Lost and Found,” Moody takes center-stage with a tender, piano-laced lullaby whose sense of late-night loss calls to mind Tom Waits circa Closing Time and The Heart of Saturday Night. Just like in “Bigger Ocean,” the narrative may seem resoundingly clear, but closer listens make it strangely but invitingly vague. “I lost my wedding veil of white / When dawn first lighted Flatbush,” Moody sings. Then later — “And my daughter left / Without a trace / She was wearing bangle bracelets.” Then, later still — “There’s a blue violin / And a pillbox hat / At Indira’s lost and found / And a thousand desperate memories / From every block in Flatbush.” Is the listener at a child’s funeral or listening to a father who’s watched his child grow up, get married, and move away? Is it a reflection on loss or nostalgia? Either way, Moody’s somber delivery nails it.

Though Grubbs’ clever and distinctive guitar work adds a texture and dimension to much of the record, his individual voice is most clear on two songs near the record’s end: “Family Plot, Mayfield Kentucky” and “Wingdale Asylum Seekers.” On the former, Grubbs sings about 18 cemetery statues over a haunting piano measure that may remind careful listeners of his piano work on the Codeine track “W.” On the emotive instrumental “Wingdale Asylum Seekers,” his nimble electric guitar loops and scales (paired with upright bass from Tony Maimone) call to mind Camoufleur, his recent solo work, and even his early contributions to The Red Krayola. It can be somber and enlightening, an interest journey piece that segues well into Moody’s closing offering. It’s also just another example of the depth of the recording, a collection of songs that somehow feel like urban coffeehouse folk, singer/songwriter fare, and communal Americana all rolled into one and made more emotionally urgent through the implications of the ghosts that haunt Wingdale, N.Y.

The Brunettes – Mars Loves Venus

Mars Loves Venus is definitely a summer record. There are the sunny, power-pop melodies, doo-wopy harmonies, and of course the prerequisite sticky-sweet boy/girl vocals. And for the most part it works pretty well. Heather Mansfield and Jonathan Bree coyly sing about a season’s worth of flirtatious altercations, with insouciant glee and tongue-in-cheek charm. The album’s got them talking about all loves of independent record store groupies, the penthouse apartments of enviable friends, and even their own musical influences.

Just because there may not be much sonic innovation here doesn’t mean you can’t genuinely enjoy the album, even if it is a bit derivative. Take “Loopy Loopy Love” for instance. It’s got enough 60s girl-group pep to help you get over your latest ex, with sweetly sung couplets like “But this emptiness is real, yes ill heartedness is true / When days of splendor in the grass, turn into days so blue,” you’ll be bobbing your head to heartbreak in no time. Elsewhere, “Polyester Meets Acetate” describes the girl every hipster guy wants. She’s a “conquest in heels” who reads Alternative Press and Chomsky, and her every movement is followed by luring boys, lots of ooh, ooh oohs, and a guitar solo vaguely reminiscent of the Velvet’s “Femme Fatale.” And even when you think things are getting to cheeky like the bubbly “Whale in the Sand,” menacingly sarcastic lines like “That time bomb stoped tick tick tickin’ / At a quarter to detonation / Now I’m picking up a good vibration.”

And the playfulness never stops, even on the slowest number. On the waltz-like “Beautiful Militant,” where Mansfield advises you to “pick up your gun and shoot everyone,” you can see her gleeful smirk shining through the tongue-in-check lyrics. Ultimately though, this is a lighthearted listen and one that will leave you smiling, even if it just for the summer.

Hats – 5th

HATS tends to put its name in all caps which, despite the lack of periods after every letter, leads me to believe there’s an acronym situation going on here. Maybe HATS stands for Hip-hop Aware Two-man Syndicate? Or Harmonic Assortment (of) Trippy Sounds? Or maybe it’s Heady Amazing Thrilling Sexy…? Yeah, maybe not.

“5th” is an eight-minute trip through the world of HATS, a head-clearing midnight stroll experienced in black and white. Your stroll will take you through everything from forsaken alleyways with day-old newspapers as tumbleweeds to forest paths devoid of any fellow strollers to frosty peaks above the line where the trees no longer grow. Your guides and sole companions are the hopeful, delicate sounds of “5th”, whether they manifest themselves as crystal-clear guitars, resonating keyboard chords, or somber pianos. It’s a pretty sad walk, but it’s a necessary one that you’ll be glad you took because you’ll have had a chance to think things out, to make some space up there in that tangled knot-thing you call a mind.

Disregarding my shallow stab at making a humorous intro, I think that the last acronym comes the closest to describing the kind of wonderfully minimalist rock the members of HATS create. Heady? Yeah, it’s heady and intoxicating and all that good stuff. Amazing? Absolutely. Thrilling? Sure. Sexy? Like an old noir flick scored by a Constellation post-rock collective. Make tonight a meditative one and put on some HATS.

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