For a brief period of time in middle school, I was a riot grrrl. My friend Ben and I used to request Bikini Kill on K-ROCK (denied!), ‘surf’ the nascent internet for information about Olympia, WA, and at one point my parents even took away my Bratmobile record (denied again!). Needless to say, I still have an affinity for girl groups that slay. And Dum Dum Girls slay.

I have to admit I’ve been extraordinarily skeptical about “summer-sounding” bands of late. Perhaps after the nth time of having my low expectations met, I was over it. Or maybe it was the weather/music disjuncture (I don’t want to trudge through the snow to hear a band that sounds like the Beach Boys in a fishbowl). In any case, at first, the name Dum Dum Girls set a nearly insurmountable mental barrier. To my surprise, after dismounting my high horse and giving DDG a listen, I’m totally sold.

“It Only Takes One Night” starts off with driving, slightly overdriven drums and droning guitar, before the song is overtaken by haunting harmonies. The straight-ahead surf-rock beats, coupled with simple, fuzzed-out guitars work well throughout the record, especially on tracks like “O Mein M.” For my money, “Yours Alone” is the standout here, caking a simple love song in a hazy feedback and straight-ahead, single-note guitars.

In my view, the only missteps on this record come where DDG tone things down (see e.g. “Rest of Our Lives” and the incurably Vaselines-aping “Blank Girl”), losing the punch that otherwise sets them apart from the pack. On the whole, however, I Will Be stands out because, underneath all of the fuzz and reverb, it actually sounds like Dum Dum Girls are having fun. And isn’t that what summer is all about?

And yet. We still wish it could be something, the small, very small part of us that lingers on a Baldwin making a joke about the Baldwins, as the channels go by. Okay, maybe we just love a guaranteed trainwreck, if famous people are going to be in it, even if it happens at approximately three miles an hour.

So, it was in this milieu that I decided, as penance for my recent blogging absence, I would seek out the true spirit of Award Season, wherever it may hide. The results show the darker side of life through Oscar’s eyes.

It might have been a good idea to plan this more than an hour in advance. Needless to say, the two sure-fire TV owners were not home. The Wilson Ave laundromat, my usual TV source, was stuck on Spanish soaps. No matter, the Internet led me to Williamsburg, which you might think would be the place least likely to care about the Oscars. True, it was a lederhosen-only affair, but that only increased my foolish yearning to find entertainment value in this somehow.

Skipping down Lorimer Street to a band that was really cool three years ago in a clearance Gap coat, I brought shame upon the hallowed night I sought, even ten contiguous states of irony away. I ignored the glances from all around that seemed to say, “We have far more important places to skulk to than a Oscar party, but if we were going to one, we would not even slow down going by if we saw you through the window.”

More determined than ever, I tried to remember if I had seen any of these movies besides Up and the 45 minutes of Avatar I saw before, delirious with Sigorney Weaver and 3-D aggravated flu, I sat somewhere quiet and had an acute episode of not vomiting.

Sighing a little in contentment at not needing to even make an effort not to vomit at the moment, I reached Pete’s Candy Store. Yes, that’s a bar.

A man, dressed suitably all in black, paced outside. Could he, too, be a wise man following the stars? I asked him.

“I’m just waiting for my girlfriend.”

“Are you going to watch the Oscars?” I gestured, helplessly.

“That’s tonight. Isn’t it.” He turned to look toward the flicker inside.

“Yes.” I did that thing where you pull up your bottom lip and nod, then scurried inside.

There was exactly one man in lederhosen, and he made up for all the rest. Noting this, and the full bar tilted toward a TV, unnecessarily captioned given the reverent hush, I realized my grave error. Even in Williamsburg, people who go to Oscar parties do actually want to see the Oscars. I did not belong. Also, it was full.

I left, passing the pacing man, thinking we both may have set our hopes too high.

Walking back down the other sidewalk, I came across the only thing real that’s left in this broken world, the refuse of the rich. I had my pick of a CD tower, a ’90s-chic red pillow, a mostly intact wicker basket, and a bathroom…thing. I could only think of the consolation prizes for the big Oscar losers some PR firm is giving out, but somehow I felt, with pride swelling, that I was the real loser. Maybe in the entertainment marketplace my dollar matters not, but my vote alone could save something from the junkyard. The real Oscar.

Some crap that won’t ever fit in the room.

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After 12 years of playing together, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club is a California band that has tried it all and still hasn’t found what it wants. After releasing the maligned “The Effects of 333,” BRMC returns to its roots with Beat the Devil’s Tattoo. However, like a cultural mutt, it can’t quite figure out what style to call home. And unfortunately, on this record, BMRC refuses to do the hard work of creating a coherent, consistent identity.

The record starts out promisingly, with the title track, “Beat the Devil’s Tattoo”, a chant-filled hillbilly stomper, where the vocals follow the minor-tinged guitars and the percussion is provided primarily by the boots of the band. The song iterates between verse lyrics and and “AH-ah-AH-ah” choruses, with more guitars added as the song reaches its climax, a hypnotizing recitation of the song title. A promising start.

The next tune, “Conscience Killer”, is a faux-Stooges rocker that tips its hat to the band’s Wild One motorcycle roots. Unfortunately, for all its “rock”, it gives me a greasy garage-rock-revival feeling that I thought was left back at the beginning of last decade. A brief detour for the brit-pop “Bad Blood” (and more guitar pedals), and the band returns with more stomp. The molasses-paced “War Machine” would be punishing, but for the deep-on-drugs vocals, which seem to have forgotten that the band was supposed to be gritty again on this jam.

After quickly breaking it down for the ladies on the acoustic “Sweet Feeling” (which according to the lyrics, “is gone”), BRMC drops “Evol,” a Jesus & Mary Chain-bitefest that does violence to the legacy of all earlier iterations of the name “Evol.” And as the album progresses, BRMC doesn’t “do” all too much. Mid-tempo rocker. Acoustic breakdown. Brit-Pop jam. Repeat. The album’s closer, “Half-State”, isn’t the impressive hail mary that it was likely designed to be. Instead, it’s like a conversation with too many goodbyes.

If this record was released in the late 90s, with a full run on the British festival circuit, “Beat the Devil’s Tattoo” may have hit my ears differently. But it’s been well over a decade, with a full cycle of progressions and revivals on both sides of the pond. As a result, this record comes off as late to the party, downing the swill from half-empties and searching the fridge for leftovers.

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Cedar Avenue’s Someday Soon is a pop rock confection with fresh programming and keys – turning what should sound monotonous into engaging experimentation. But the album could certainly use more of it.

Above all else, the Minnesota-based four piece offers smooth radio-friendly vocals and harmonies that the younger lady set will love. And its no wonder, Cedar Avenue is an immensely talented ensemble that seems to have ironed out any wrinkles in days long past.

But in music, you can oftentimes be too perfect — the primary weakness of Someday Soon is that the singing and melodies don’t sound much different across tracks, and the album needed far more experimentation with tempo and digital programming to distract from that.

The lyrics are passable – good enough to keep the younger fans’ attention, but not hold them rapt.

“The rain keeps falling after me,” singer and guitarist Jesse Mathews sings on the title track, “but all I need is a possibility.”

Midway through the 10-track album, you get that dreaded feeling that they’re trying to sound like something someone told them to sound like. As technically proficient as this album is, I’m not sure I believe them.

But songs like Icarus will make you reconsider. The seventh track features a programmed progression of beeping computer harmonics and a bouncy guitar riff that makes the chorus toe-tappingly catchy.

The following song, “Running Home” achieves much the same. It’s the dancy, digitized style of pop that makes Cedar Avenue stand out. Someday Soon leaves you wishing they would have leaned on that harder than the conventional-style pop rock.

It’s tracks that find the perfect middle of these two identities like “6am Tomorrow Morning”  that make for truly a solid pop offering.

Watch out for these guys and gal.

Give Up The Ghost by Good Kids Sprouting Horns was recorded in a bedroom, and it sounds like it was recorded in a bedroom. Not to mention a thin bed of static. But that’s the thing – It’s real.

But sometimes real just means that you’ve heard this stuff before. The instrumentation is hardly ground-breaking — it is layered well enough, but sloppily. And much of the production doesn’t credibly offer the live feeling it seeks to create or stumble into much else.

The album begins with Popcorn Ceiling, the track posted below. It’s an ode to the thought of ever having to leave that place — that bedroom and the mental state it governs. The lyrics and arrangement recall countless conversations had in small rooms littered with out-of-date recording equipment and wires shaped like the red lines on your feet. Conversations that always seem to conclude, “what do we know?”

“Popcorn Ceiling” has the kind of sonic repetition that seems like the perfect kind of cynical in that bedroom, but hurts an album’s replay value in the real world.

For every time the purposefully off-kilter keyboarding produces a lively result, such as the second track, Double Digits, A Life Achievement there is a track like the appropriately named Effigy, that just seems out of place.

Still, it takes a certain amount of bravery to leave tracks like, “Headache” so sparce, with faint rolling percussion that lives outside a simple keyed melody on the choruses and vocals during verses.

“The sidewalks are cracking/ there’s no place left to step/ my god isn’t listening and he will not save our mothers” vocalist and lead guitarist Anthony Bitetti sings on the fourth track, “but if I had just a little more time/ I would tell you all the reasons I love to hide — tonight is the night we die.”

A bit over the top, yes. But if that’s the kind of thing that scares you away, you won’t like this album anyway. (The track concludes with about a minute of static-y chatter.)

Good Kids Sprouting Horns aren’t the only band of their sort with these kind of resources to make an album with this mood. But they pull the rare feat of to keeping it somehow fun and light — it’s not forced. Truly, the saving grace of this effort is that Good Kids Sprouting Horns are making real music in a genre dominated by fakery.

But it’s hard to escape the conclusion that the keys are mixed incorrectly in promising misfires like “Route One South.”

It’s almost frustrating that so many of the little things — atmospherics, short instrumental breaks, vocal inflection – are done so perfectly,yet the songs as a whole don’t produce enough rhythm to make you tap your feet, or evoke enough emotion to make you sad.

What “Give up the Ghost” most often needs is more creativity from the drumming. But the structure of the songs themselves also seems lacking.

Still, Good Kids Sprouting Horns can and does get it right at points in this album — the second half of “Tight White Lines” features an infections drum and key centered musical break — one of the rare times the instruments find a voice of their own in this effort.

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Abyss in B Minor, the latest album from Oslo natives Serena Maneesh, is a stellar and challenging follow-up to their self-titled debut. Incorporating electronic and industrial elements, Abyss creates a haunting, shape-shifting atmosphere.

In order to fully understand what you’re getting into, two points of note are in order. First, Abyss was recorded in a cave. Second, it was mixed by Rene Tinner, longtime dedicated engineer for krautrock masters, Can. The result is that the album frequently sounds like Can, recorded in a cave.

That’s not to say Serena Maneesh ditches the familiar (some would say too familiar) elements of their first album. In fact, the album seems to alternate between its new, heavier influences and their older, more Shields-laden style. But the ubiquity of that sound (especially after the MBV reunion), makes those tracks sound particularly staid.

The standout tracks here are, conveniently, the odd numbered ones. The album opener, “Ayisha Abyss,” is a sonic expedition. It features dark, haunting chords, chopped vocals, undulating bass, and layers of percussion that build and collapse over nearly eight-minutes, never quite releasing, never quite resolving. Serena Maneesh has always been best in its opening moments, and this album is no different.

“Reprobate!” incorporates airy vocals (read: MBV) over syncopated open hi-hat hits, which give the song a solid groove in the vein of similar experimenters, Laddio Bolocko. “Blow Yr Brains In The Morning Run,” which sounds like four songs at once, is an excellent example of Serena Maneesh’s continued mission to make its listeners work for the melodies, which are perpetually hidden within the chaos.

For me, the real success of the album is the way that it highlights the band’s progression over the last few years. Where the Serena Maneesh of the mid-aughts tended to mimic the sonic results of its forefathers, Abyss pushes the envelope, internalizing the innovative process that made its influences so great while creating a unique atmosphere they can call their own.

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Fan Death, why did you leave us? Originally from Brooklyn, the now Vancouver-based disco-pop duo just released their first EP, A Coin for the Well, on Pharmacy Records. In 2008 they released their first single Veronica’s Veil, and while it was the string-driven disco I’ve now come to except from them, it still felt right playing it alongside the likes of CSS and Yelle. With the release of this EP, however, I’m not sure I still feel comfortable saying that. A Coin for the Well is straight, unadulterated disco.

Their second single and the first off this album, Cannibal, displays this best. Actually the first five seconds may be the most disco part of the album, and if for some unfathomable reason that is a turn off for you I insist that you listen on. Just before lead vocalist Dandilion Wind Opaine chimes in, a somehow fitting, Middle-Eastern influenced violin line drops to conclude the opening. Opaine’s blasé voice carries the rest of the most pop track on the record.

The rest of the album leans more disco on the disco-pop spectrum. Power Surge is the unheralded anthem, which I hope turns into the next single. Sans the retro synth, Soon plays like a R&B ballad that ends with a sax that can’t settle on being too cool or too sultry, a problem this album has in droves. Instrumentally, The Son Will Rise is the closest Fan Death gets to Hi-NRG, but Opaine remains unmoved even as the synths beg her to kick it up a notch during the chorus. Finally, the first track, Reunited, may be my favorite thanks to the epically eccentric video below. What can I say? I’m a sucker for any Purple Rain shoutout.

The duo, now with backing band, is currently on tour overseas opening up for Vampire Weekend. If you’re heading to Austin next month you can catch them during SXSW though. Their debut album Womb Of Dreams is scheduled for a May release.

Standing toward the back, I watched Paramore-haired teenage girls and their bro-meets-lumberjack-cowboy male counterparts stream into the main hall of the Gramercy Theater in New York City. For a second I had that feeling you get when you visit your old high school. To think that many of the kids in the crowd were born in the same year that I picked up the first Punk-O-Rama, I felt distinctly “cooldadish.”

The first band on the lineup was Title Fight, who I regrettably missed. If you haven’t spent some time listening to “The Last Thing You Forget,” please do. It features gritty vocals over melodic but unrelenting technical hardcore. It internalizes the best of Hot Water Music, Small Brown Bike, and Latterman. For an up-and-coming band, Title Fight is one of the brightest spots in the scene today.

This Time Next Year, on the other hand, was wholly unimpressive. On appearance alone, they came off as the kind of ready-made band you’d see in a teen movie–you know, when the guy goes to find the girl at the punk show or whatever. The music isn’t too far off from this impression. Too clean cut, too predictable, too vacuous. Another Found Glory. “I’m sorry I’m not sorry.” Ucht.

Thankfully, the set was short, and when the lights went down on This Time Next Year, there was a palpable change in mood. The next band up was Strike Anywhere, whose new album, Iron Front, I’ve also reviewed for A&SB. Strike Anywhere is neither clean nor cut, but holy hell they were tight.

The band ripped through eleven songs at lightning speed, pulling from deep in the catalogue they’ve built up since 1999. The songs lost much of their melodic sheen in the live context, but overall, this was for the better. Even “I’m Your Opposite Number,” a bit of a clunker on the album itself, had a fist-to-gut quality that put the crowd in a frenzy. In fact, as the show went on, the songs only got more intense.

The one unfortunate moment came in “Chalkline,” a song about women’s rights–and against, oh I dunno, “corporatized misogyny”–in the vein of songs like Fugazi’s classic “Suggestion.” Before the song, singer Thomas Barnett called for all of his “hardcore sisters to prove that this hardcore thing is not just boys fun.” But when the song burst in, the boys only became more aggressive, and the girls remained on the sidelines. It was a shame, and only further highlighted the line between the scene’s ideals and its reality. The set concluded with Barnett screaming “pledge allegiance to the world,” and with that, Strike Anywhere exited, leaving the crowd in a sweat-drenched and breathless state.

The final band of the night was Four Year Strong, one of the leading acts in pop punk today. They are a perplexing amalgamation of pop punk, melodic hardcore, Vagrant-style emo, and Killswitch metalcore. If you’re the kind of person who likes bands compartmentalized into neat genres, Four Year Strong is not the band for you. But for the crowd at Gramercy that night, Four Year Strong was exactly what they wanted.

Similarly to Strike Anywhere, the live setting took some of the polish off of the vocals, which to my mind, benefits the band. The live setting also put the usually forward-mixed synths back into the maelstrom, which was a big bowl of relief for me, because if there’s one piece of advice I could give to every one of the pop punk and nu-emo bands out there, it’s “fire your synth player.” Not to say the keyboardist here didn’t have a valuable role–some of the best moments of the show came when he stepped from behind his setup and took the role of front man. But in my mind, that guy needs his own hardcore band: they would slay.

The best song, far and away, was the band’s new single, “Wasting Time.” The drums were jet-propulsive, and laid a rock solid foundation for the band to pile on one of the catchiest pieces of rock music I’ve heard in a long, long time. I’m especially thankful that the band eschewed its usually tongue-twisted lyrics for this track, heightening its memorability and ultimate staying power. The melodies are classic, but buttressed by a new and refreshing forcefulness. Without question, this is the best song they’ve ever written, and I’d be surprised if it didn’t explode.

Among all the positive aspects of the show, however, one thing that I found a bit odd was how frequently the band prefaced its choruses and breakdowns with “if you know the words…!” The first time was justified, the second time was curious, but by the 10th or 11th time, it got a bit tired. Further, during “Maniac (R.O.D.),” the call for a circle pit felt out of pace, especially in contrast to the similar call during Strike Anywhere’s more roots-oriented set. But such is the combination of pop and punk.

I could talk about the differences between when I was a kid and now, but I think it’s important to refrain from imposing values from my youth experience on today’s bands and young fans. To some kid in the crowd, it was the best moment of his or her life, and that person is going to go home and check out bands like Lifetime and Gorilla Biscuits and start a band. Even to jaded twenty-somethings like me, that’s still really awesome.

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The summer of 2009 will forever be remembered as the summer of fuzz. Blissed-out lo-fi was – and I suppose still is – all the rage. I’ve never been a fan of the most blatant offenders (see: Wavves), but I’ve also always known that beneath all that hazy distortion are usually some pretty great pop songs. Case in point: Dum Dum Girls.

At the height of the summer craze in July, Dee Dee aka Kristen Gundred played her first show as Dum Dum Girls with a makeshift lineup. By the middle of the next week, she was signed to Sub Pop Records. Now with a solidified lineup, the band put out their first single this week Jail La La, which you can find in the A&SB Jukebox to your right. The 7-inch comes with a cover of “Play With Fire” by the Rolling Stones on the B-side. This is all in anticipation of their full-length I Will Be, due out on March 30th.

In the meantime, you can catch the band tonight at the Mercury Lounge before they head overseas. Drummer Frankie Rose’s own band, Frankie and the Outs, will be one of the openers, along with Happy Birthday and Coasting.

Shout Out Louds are an indie-pop band from Stockholm, Sweden. They have some boys and a girl in the band, and are affiliated with Peter, Bjorn & John (famous for the single most important moment in whistling history since Axl on “That’s Good“. The song builds with a piano line that is equal parts “All My Friends” and Peanuts theme, cutting out sporadically for vocals, which are unfortunately a bit too heavy on the reverb (think Arcade Fire covering Phoenix). The chorus would be fantastic but for the odd choice of guitar line, which is a bit too present in the mix and distracts from the rest of an otherwise driving chorus.

The next track, “Fall Hard,” is the real standout on the record. The guitars, while still a bit overwhelming, do not ultimately disappoint. The song features really interesting chord progressions and technical but still memorable leads. The horns are smooth and pleasant throughout. And while the vocals here are slightly too Robert Smith for comfort, the chorus differentiates Shout Out Louds from their contemporaries and gives the song a welcome uniqueness that is mostly absent on the remainder of the album.

After “Fall Hard” the subsequent songs are somewhat fly-over. These include “Play the Game” and “Walls,” which despite picking up the pace features a pinking piano line that reminds me of a similar, screeching Tegan and Sara song. “Moon” adds a nice violin in the mix that toes the Arcade Fire line (yet again) but is still nice enough.

The album doesn’t really regain its momentum until “Show Me Something New,” which brings the Grammis-award-winning bassist to the forefront with a simple but commanding line. The guitar-play on this track is stellar, I just wish the album had more of it. The chorus lyrics, while a bit simple in the thought department, plant a flag in your brain and won’t let go. It’s a great jam, and Shout Out Louds should have ended the album there. Unfortunately, they add an aptly-named plodder, “Too Late, Too Slow.” Yes, it was too late in the album for a song this slow. The melodies are salvageable, but without any drive, the song is a muted ending to an otherwise respectable album.

Work will be released on February 23rd, 2010.