One thing's for certain. Nashville's Cannery Row venues were made for bands like Spoon and The Ponys. The latter and lesser-known of the two rocked off of a buzzed crowd's energetic chatter before Spoon took the stage and lessened elbow room from front to bar.One thing's for certain. Nashville's Cannery Row venues were made for bands like Spoon and The Ponys. The latter and lesser-known of the two rocked off of a buzzed crowd's energetic chatter before Spoon took the stage and lessened elbow room from front to bar. A few enthusiasts loitered in the back; most others head-jammed cramped and off-kilter to the Austin, Texas natives' indie/punk/funk rhythms. Not to suggest Spoon can't cut it at a commercial arena-(they can)-but there's something about tighter corners and small-scale "sold-outs" that grabs their obscure reputation and eccentric rock by the essence...at least from a listener's perspective. They clamored on stage with "My Little Japanese Cigarette Case," a track off latest album, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga. Clearly, repetition is for lovers-"Cigarette Case" only has three lines-and it works. Especially amidst various shades of slideshow-style lighting. "You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb" garnered an appreciative audience cheer, as did "I Turn My Camera On" and "Me and the Bean." The Ponys returned for a lengthy dual-encore, bringing the night full-circle and giving the guy behind me plenty of time to finish the joint he lit somewhere between "The Underdog" and "Everything Hits at Once." Well done.

As cliché as it sounds, if I could drink with any band, I would definitely drink with the Hold Steady. Yeah, yeah, everyone talks about how this is the best live band, how they party their asses off, and how all of their music is about partying their asses off.As cliché as it sounds, if I could drink with any band, I would definitely drink with the Hold Steady. Yeah, yeah, everyone talks about how this is the best live band, how they party their asses off, and how all of their music is about partying their asses off. And it's redundant for me to say it. But you know what, I'm going to say it anyway. Hell, I'd scream it with a strung-out Craig Finn rasp if I could-because it's f**king true.

On the 24th of October we ventured to Raleigh to the Lincoln Theatre to catch Art Brut and the Hold Steady, playing together on the NME Rock and Roll Tour. I had seen both bands before; Art Brut at the Empty Bottle the night before Pitchfork '06 and the Hold Steady at the Astoria in London and also briefly this summer at Bonnaroo. My experience with the former was a bit awkward the first time around. I had actually never heard of the British outfit before (gasp!) and the raucous punk atmosphere they inspired was a little overwhelming. (I had been traveling since 8 a.m. that morning.) This time it was exactly what I was ready for, but despite the fact that Eddie Argos and crew brought the noise, the crowd was pretty tepid during their set. Clearly the contingency gathered in the newly renovated Theatre yearned for the Hold Steady.

By the time the Brooklyn via Minneapolis band cracked into opener "Hot Soft Light" the audience had pushed its way towards the stage, eager to get their Hold Steady Fix. Fueled by their swing for the fences rock-and God knows what else-Finn and company motored through numbers from Almost Killed Me, Separation Sunday and Boys and Girls in America like stories told around a coffee table. Just like the spastic front man sings in the aforementioned opener, the night "started recreational, ended kinda medical." By the time the set was coming to a close and the Hold Steady had chugged through feverish performances of songs like "Massive Nights," "Multitude of Casualties," and "Hornets, Hornets," the crowd was hooked on Finn's every word. Fists were pumping. Sweat was pouring. Smiles were stretching. Catharsis was breathing. And when Finn exclaimed, "This brings us so much joy," before act closer "Most People Are DJs," one definitely got the feeling that it was f**king true.

As everyone from Bruce Springsteen to Conor Oberst will tell you, writing a political song is not for the faint of heart, as there is no quicker route to looking like an amateur than believing you can change the world with a sub-par pop song.

Label: Curb Appeal
Rating: 2 out of 5 stars

As everyone from Bruce Springsteen to Conor Oberst will tell you, writing a political song is not for the faint of heart, as there is no quicker route to looking like an amateur than believing you can change the world with a sub-par pop song. And while Los Angeles-by-way-of-Colorado singer/songwriter Patrick Park is certainly no amateur, having earned accolades for the affectingly plaintive melodies and self-searching writing of his 2003 debut, he seems to have spent the last four years trying to come up with a profound way to express his frustration with world events. To that end, he turns outward on his second full-length release, and the result is a series of songs full of seize-the-day sentiments and indictments of war and unenlightened thinking. With nearly every track founded on his crisp acoustic guitar playing and clear, ringing tenor, Park certainly hasn't forgotten how to craft a sweeping chorus or a clever turn of phrase. But his heavy-handed approach largely falls short, as Park is neither strident nor articulate enough to do much beyond weighing down his considerable craftsmanship with self-seriousness.

Disillusioned but not downhearted, Park's reliance on vague platitudes and "free your mind" slogans come off as naïve, as such arguments are far more effective when rendered through narrative, wit, and first-hand experience. You'll find little of that here, though the religious symbolism and clever storytelling of "One Body Breaks" and the searing harmonica solo of "Saint with a Fever" provide moments that shake off the album's singularly muddled tone. By the album-closing title track, Park seems to have arrived at the worn out conclusion that all mankind is ultimately interconnected and bound together with love, but his optimistic final note feels forced. Park may have something to say yet, but Everyone's In Everyone is an unclear and unconvincing statement.

Embedded in a striking piano chord lurch, Mary Gauthier's creaky cottonmouth cries out "Oh Lord, what have I done" on the opening track of her latest Lost Highway effort, Between Daylight and Dark. 
Ms. Gauthier sets the mood of palatable dread with visions of "demon shadows" dancing around in the protagonist's head when she "wrap(s) (her hands) around the handle of a gun."

Label: Lost Highway
Rating: 4 out of 5 stars 

Embedded in a striking piano chord lurch, Mary Gauthier's creaky cottonmouth cries out "Oh Lord, what have I done" on the opening track of her latest Lost Highway effort, Between Daylight and Dark. 
Ms. Gauthier sets the mood of palatable dread with visions of "demon shadows" dancing around in the protagonist's head when she "wrap(s) (her hands) around the handle of a gun."

It sounds like one of Robert Johnson's long-lost murder ballads. And Ms. Gauthier, with her bourbon-soaked voice, kicks you Dead Square in the gut. Welcome to the Hellhouse, kid.

Yes, Between Daylight and Dark is a downer album. It's a slog to get through, sometimes, but an enjoyable journey, nonetheless. And this pitch-black novella from a self-proclaimed lesbian who's made a bush league career out of crafting well-detailed slices of unflinchingly brutal, Faulkner-ian Americana from the painfully indignant ("Goddamn HIV") to the scorned lover fire-and-fury ("Falling Out of Love").

Unlike her 2005 breakthrough of Southern gothic beddy-bye tales, Mercy Now, Gauthier isn't channeling a Lucinda-Williams-off-Prozac bid for No Depression tastemaker-dom. (Gurf Morlix, who worked with Williams in the past and was under the Universal subsidiary's thumb, churned out cowboy angst that would feel right at home on an etown broadcast.)

On Between Daylight and Dark, famed producer Joe Henry, himself no stranger to down-and-out junkyard pop, lets Ms. Gauthier do her thing. He captures the raw grit of Ms. Gauthier's rough-and-tumble lyrics and lets her fully inhabit that world of boozers and losers.

This isn't to say that Between Daylight and Dark reads completely like a Deep South soundtrack to an Alan Ball melodrama. Occasionally, the chorus swells and a glimmer of hope peeks through the post-Katrina desolation of "Can't Find the Way" and pedal steel wail of "Soft Place to Land."

It's a nice respite from all darkness, but frankly, we like Ms. Gauthier best when she stays out of the daylight.

Aside from Hamilton's occasional insertion of bland declarative sentences-i.e. "The Chelsea is a mix of permanent residents and transients," he deftly unsews the lining of Chelsea's cheaply stitched secrets with the quickness of a nimble-handed seamstress. The room where Sid stabbed Nancy, the place Edie Sedgwick caught on fire, and the song about Leonard Cohen's blowjob from Janis Joplin are among the most notorious included in his rapid unravel.

Label: THUNDER'S MOUTH
Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

Aside from Hamilton's occasional insertion of bland declarative sentences-i.e. "The Chelsea is a mix of permanent residents and transients," he deftly unsews the lining of Chelsea's cheaply stitched secrets with the quickness of a nimble-handed seamstress. The room where Sid stabbed Nancy, the place Edie Sedgwick caught on fire, and the song about Leonard Cohen's blowjob from Janis Joplin are among the most notorious included in his rapid unravel.

Ed Hamilton spent a decade in residency at the Chelsea Hotel, and has undoubtedly collected enough material, from celebrity gods and obscure gypsies, to span 4 volumes of "Legends."  But what keeps the book interesting is Hamilton's decision to focus on select characters-be it an eccentric Japanese painter with the nasty habit of destroying his work to prevent unpleasant customers from buying it, or the (largely) unknown classical composer Gerald Busby, whose genius better served the launch of other artistic careers, (like his soundtrack for a Robert Altman film). There's also Hamilton's description of Chelsea residents' drugs of choice. His and theirs. And it's in these little quips about impatient junkies in line for the bathroom and beggars too coked up to ask for change, that Hamilton's quiet brilliance speaks the loudest.  When he recounts how he tossed out a deceased designer's drafting table because he knew it was meant for "someone who could tap into the energy of the old designer in a way I wasn't quite able to," one can't help but feel the sting of irony in a wise writer's failure to write about anything besides his failures. Then again, what better way for Hamilton to articulate Chelsea's fusion of art and pain-the very stuff of which legends are made.

When the sweaty bump-and-grind of "The Moneymaker," Rilo Kiley's first single in two years, hit cyberspace this spring, some fans of the indie rockers feared the worst-particularly those whose interests lay primarily on the "indie" side of the equation. The song's slicked-up, carnal melodrama, coupled with the news that Rilo's upcoming Warner Brothers album had been made with mainstream-minded producers Jason Lader and Mike Elizondo, earned a mixed reception from the band's diehard supporters. Was Jenny Lewis, who fronts this L.A. four-piece, pulling a Liz Phair?

Label: WARNER BROS
Rating: 3 out of 5 stars

When the sweaty bump-and-grind of "The Moneymaker," Rilo Kiley's first single in two years, hit cyberspace this spring, some fans of the indie rockers feared the worst-particularly those whose interests lay primarily on the "indie" side of the equation. The song's slicked-up, carnal melodrama, coupled with the news that Rilo's upcoming Warner Brothers album had been made with mainstream-minded producers Jason Lader and Mike Elizondo, earned a mixed reception from the band's diehard supporters. Was Jenny Lewis, who fronts this L.A. four-piece, pulling a Liz Phair?

One thing's for sure: Under the Blacklight will put an end to the Neko Case comparisons Lewis has drawn since last year's Rabbit Fur Coat, her side project heavy on pedal steel whine and acoustic twang. The new album throws all that-as well as most of the chiming, singer/songwriterly rock of Rilo's last album proper, More Adventurous-out the window, focusing instead on a willfully goofy mix of ‘80s-influenced styles that favor simplicity over nuance, repetition over storytelling, and piercing, radio-processed drums over, well, everything. Lewis sounds downright gleeful to be writing straightforward (if lyrically quirky) pop tunes; the songs all carry big, undemanding hooks and bombastic choruses that arrive just when you expect them to.

The shift in sound is in service to what seems to be the disc's loose thematic concern: sex, and not pretty sex, but the kind proffered up by porn stars, strippers, and one-night stands. "Close Call," a guitar-based rocker that's as close to the band's old sound as Blacklight gets, is a brief sketch of a prostitute "born on a Brighton pier/to a gypsy mother in a bucket of tears," while "15" chronicles the meeting of a Web-surfing stoner and his underage date. Elsewhere, the subject matter turns to good love gone bad ("Give A Little Love") and bad love just plain gone ("Breakin' Up"), and it so happens that those two tracks are the ones most likely to push away listeners who want their old band back.  On the latter, a disco beat, synthesized strings, and Lewis' light, airy vocals combine to channel The Cardigans' "Lovefool," while the former is a trebly throwaway pushed along by the slightest of keyboard melodies over a faux-handclap contemporary r&b pulse.

When it works, Under the Blacklight makes for addictive ear candy. "The Angels Hung Around" fetishizes that moment when glossy country-pop first hit the airwaves, Lewis doing her best Juice Newton impression as the band, all pleasantly predictable I-IV-V and foursquare percussion, parties like it's 1981. And "Smoke Detector," with Blake Sennett's garage-rock guitars and multi-tracked vocals, is perfect power pop that could have come straight off that Matthew Sweet/Susanna Hoffs covers record. Listen to the Madonna-circa-1986 sound of "Dejalo," though, and you can't help wondering whether Rilo Kiley really thinks there's an audience for a sleaze-obsessed record that veers so close to teen-pop musical idioms. But perhaps that's the joke: maybe Lewis and her merry band of indie rockers aim to show the Spears/Aguilera crowd the highs and lows of real debauchery. Under the Blacklight is too sugary to fully explore that subject, but in its own gauzy, offhand way, it has charms that go beyond standard-issue indie earnestness. There is craft here, even if it's more popcraft than songcraft.

Jose Gonzalez made it hard on himself. The classical guitar virtuoso hit it out of the park with Veneer, the 2006 breakthrough that highlighted his sharp, concise lyricism and trademark hypnotic guitar work. Irresistible tracks like "Crosses," "Lovestain" and "Deadweight on Velveteen" displayed a radiant young talent establishing his singular voice, while others like "Stay in the Shade" hinted at the influences he holds dear-Nick Drake, for one. 

Label: MUTE
Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

Jose Gonzalez made it hard on himself. The classical guitar virtuoso hit it out of the park with Veneer, the 2006 breakthrough that highlighted his sharp, concise lyricism and trademark hypnotic guitar work. Irresistible tracks like "Crosses," "Lovestain" and "Deadweight on Velveteen" displayed a radiant young talent establishing his singular voice, while others like "Stay in the Shade" hinted at the influences he holds dear-Nick Drake, for one. Fact is, there wasn't a miscue among the album's 11 songs, which only grow more passionate and overwhelming over time. Gonzalez's memorable cover of The Knife's "Heartbeats" alone is worth twice the sticker price.

By comparison, In Our Nature feels somewhat hollow. It's at times haunting, and often overflows with profound searching and yearning-but overall Gonzalez seems much less assured on this new effort. Consider his seething stance on Veneer: "It's not what it seems/Vulgar when brought to light." Now he returns with far less venom and more acceptance: "I see problems down the line/I know they're mine," and "You've got a heart filled with passion/Will you let it burn for hate or compassion?" Such introspection, of course, is a mark of personal maturity, but it makes for less compelling material.

This isn't to say that Gonzalez's guts aren't lit with fire. The opening "How Low," "Killing for Love" and the title track pulse with his fierce, spellbinding brand, and more patient turns such as "Teardrops" and "Fold" offer a welcome vulnerability. "Please don't let me down this time," Gonzalez pleads on the latter, "I've come a long way to just fall back into line." Apply the uncertainty of that sentiment to the whole of In Our Nature. While it doesn't step backward into the status quo, the album also isn't as adventurous and carefree as Gonzalez can be.

Label: MATSON FILMS
[Rating 3.5]

Documenting the DIY, underground music scene that emerged in Little Rock , Ark., in the late-80s and still dominates the small town two decades later, Towncraft has the makings of being labeled insider-ish. But, give it a chance, and you'll find yourself getting sucked in, something writer-director-narrator Richard Matson accomplishes through intimate, off-the-cuff interviews with dozens of locals you'll know by name by the film's end. Towncraft tells the story of smart, self-aware kids, who when left to their own drug-free devices, found each other and created something that rivaled and arguably surpassed what was going on in the surrounding cities of Memphis, St. Louis, Dallas and Chicago. In the late-80s and early-90s, punk rock pierced the conservative town. Econochrist, Trusty and Chino Horde developed, evolved and influenced countless other bands over the next half-decade. The film follows the bands taking to the road and trying to "make it." As Towncraft's characters age, bands break up as many kids go to college to pursue other passions. But by the mid-to-late-90s, other bands emerged and remain on the scene today. Slowly, the drive to get out of Little Rock is replaced with the pride of staying put. Towncraft successfully shows that while scenesters moved away, came back, got married and had kids, many of them continued to make music-and still do-on their own terms.

Since 1988, few albums have matched the splendor of Daydream Nation.  The 70 minutes spanning Sonic Youth's seventh release are an expert blend of dissonance and melody, syncopation and sprawl. Cascading chromatics bleed into soft, dreamlike digressions; elsewhere, pooling tones snap into full-throttled power chords. Label: GEFFEN
Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

Since 1988, few albums have matched the splendor of Daydream Nation.  The 70 minutes spanning Sonic Youth's seventh release are an expert blend of dissonance and melody, syncopation and sprawl. Cascading chromatics bleed into soft, dreamlike digressions; elsewhere, pooling tones snap into full-throttled power chords.  There is something undeniably joyful in those moments of straightforward rocking-when the kick drum punches through the wash, and both guitars clamp on the same riff.

Daydream Nation, put simply, is one of the best albums of our time. With a booklet of incisive essays and rare pictures, as well as a full CD of supplemental material, the Deluxe Edition is requisite for any SY fan.  The second disc's live selections (culled from the album's supporting tour) showcase their excitement over the new material; they veer through the songs at amphetamined pace, and scrabble and squelch with abandon.  As a bonus, four amazing covers have been generously squeezed into the remaining minutes:  The Beatles' "Within You Without You," Mudhoney's "Touch Me I'm Sick," Neil Young's "Computer Age," and Captain Beefheart's "Electricity."

From the DIY simplicity of Paper Wings & Halo through the starkly muscular Bittertown, Lori McKenna sketches people nobody sees, emotions most don't acknowledge and small moments missed with hollow-point stopping power. Go in like any bullet, the songs widen out on contact-ripping a hole many times their actual size upon reflection.

Label: STYLSONIC/WARNER BROS.
Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

From the DIY simplicity of Paper Wings & Halo through the starkly muscular Bittertown, Lori McKenna sketches people nobody sees, emotions most don't acknowledge and small moments missed with hollow-point stopping power. Go in like any bullet, the songs widen out on contact-ripping a hole many times their actual size upon reflection.

How the songs are recorded isn't nearly as important as the emotional octane in her voice and the way she drips details like candle wax, searing what she sees into your flesh. That voice-a silvery wisp, then a deeply guttural thrust-carries power and nuance with equal ease, and it's one of her best weapons. Consequently, Unglamorous, McKenna's "major label" debut, starts at the voice and works from there. Whether it's the thrilling taunt of a love that can't be abandoned no matter the circumstances on the driving "I Know You," replete the details and inner knowledge of a love shared over years, the wavering resolve of "How To Survive," that chronicles the white knuckle survival strategies that are anything but the joy of thriving or the aching looking back at the tiny 6-year old's moments with a mother in the throes of critical illness "Leaving This Life," McKenna hits the emotional bulls-eye song after song.

If the title track's a bit too convenient, playing to the we're-not-the-jet-set commonality of working class suburbs, the harrowing "Falter" embraces a kid who doesn't fit in, who no one ever reaches out to, from the insight and grace of a "Maybe I should have..." grown-up perspective. It's the same tentative, but knowing realization that makes the co-dependent's "Drinkin' Problem" strike such a chord: the one who isn't drinking pays just as steep a tariff and swallows several times the pain.

Clear-eyed compassion is Lori McKenna's trade. Lushness aside, Unglamorous offers it in a more mass-market setting for-potentially-a larger audience in desperate need.