I didn’t hear Out Hud’s S.T.R.E.E.T. D.A.D until almost a year after it came out, but that didn’t stop me from including it on my “Favorite Albums Of 2003” list.  It was simply too fun, too exciting, and too good not to.  It’s easily one of the most interesting things Kranky Records has released to date, due in large part to the fact that it’s probably the most accessible and—dare I say?—funnest release in the label’s catalog.  Obviously, I couldn’t wait to hear what the group would do next.

Let Us Never Speak Of It Again doesn’t quite pick up right where S.T.R.E.E.T. D.A.D left off.  The same high-energy, ass-shaking sense of rhythm and groove is still present, only in a much more refined and less spastic form.  The Gang Of Four influence, often felt in the debut album’s jagged, strafing guitar lines, is largely absent.  The new disc is far less skronky and cacophonous, its melodies having been burnished to a chrome-like, Euro-chic sheen.

Much of that probably has to do with the inclusion of female vocals courtesy of Phyllis Forbes and Molly Schnick, who coo, preen, and strut their stuff from one end of the album to the other.  For the closest parallel, you may need to move outside the normal bevy of Kranky comparisons and reach all the way back to the disco era.  As if out of necessity, they tame some of the more extreme and jagged elements that were prevalent on S.T.R.E.E.T. D.A.D, but which would only get in the way here and trip things up needlessly.

After the digital drainage of “This Just In”, the band quickly gets into a groove that they rarely leave on the disc.  The female vocals are right there from the get-go, while Ibiza-influenced rhythms (it’s all programmed, no more live drums, thank you very much) just seem to pile up behind, waiting for the guitar on the bridge to come through and sweep away the wreckage.

“One Life To Leave”, the album’s first single, bounces along on an ever-growing wave of metallic synth lines that seem rather Röyksopp-ish, echoing piano notes, shards of guitar shrapnel, and even bouncier keyboards.  “Old Nude” is one of the disc’s slower tracks, the pace of its shimmery guitar strums and cooing vocals almost qualifying as slinky and seductive.  And then, out of nowhere, a graceful and slightly mournful string arrangement emerges from the sequencer banks, breathing in a slight amount of human warmth.

However, this newer, more polished sound also results in a certain uniformity that blends all of the tracks together.  Whereas the tracks on S.T.R.E.E.T D.A.D all had identifiable personalities, Let Us Never Speak Of It Again‘s tracks lack that same uniqueness.  On the one hand, this lends the album an incredible sense of consistency, the aforementioned “groove” that I was talking about.  On the other hand, you might get this feeling that by the time you head into the album’s final third you’ve already heard every single trick in the group’s arsenal at least 3 or 4 times (especially on the disc’s epic, the 11-minute Juno-driven “Dear Mr. Bush, There Are Over 100 Words For Shit And Only 1 For Music. Fuck You, Out Hud”).

At first, I admittedly leaned towards the latter impression.  I liked the album but found that the disc slowly sank into the background sometime after the halfway point.  Even so, there was something about the album that kept compelling me to pop it into the player and listen to it 2 or 3 times straight through, that kept me from skipping through what seemed like the disc’s more drawn out moments, such as “Dear Mr. Bush…”.  As a result, I now find myself leaning more toward the former opinion, the groove having fully captured me.

Is Let Us Never Speak Of It Again as exciting and mindblowing as S.T.R.E.E.T.D.A.D?  Well no, not quite.  But I don’t really think that’s what the band was going after.  Looking back, the debut felt less like an album and more like a collection of great ideas all crammed together into a 4-track and left to duel it out, natural selection style.  Let Us Never Speak Of It Again feels more like an album proper, one with a consistent tone and comfortable depth that never fails to bring about toe-tapping and booty-shaking (even when it’s giving the bird to the current administration).

I enjoy getting pleasant surprises from the CDs that I listen to.  Mind you, I enjoy it when a CD absolutely comes out from nowhere to blow my mind and hand me my jaw after picking it up off the ground, but the pleasant surprises are almost better in a way—coming out of nowhere as well, and with a sly little wink and a nod, sliding in just under the radar and causing my ears to perk up at just the right moments.

The Cricket Rumor Mill’s If Only Then is full of such moments.  This Chicago-based trio of Mark Engstrom, Jon Hensley (Melochrome, Morning Recordings), and Joe Popa specializes in making breezy, dream music containing trace amounts of The Sea And Cake, Sterolab, and Tristeza.  And not surprisingly, they’re on Chicago’s Loose Thread, a burgeoning post-rock/dreampop label.

Now admittedly, the group’s music seems fairly conventional at first, if not perhaps a bit too influenced by the aforementioned artists (among others).  However, the group often proves quite adept at suddenly but subtly shifting their songs into more unexpected but nevertheless delightful territories, revealing their music to be much more layered and intricate than previously thought.  The disc’s opening track, “When Eyedrops Were Animals”, is a perfect example of this.  A slightly funky guitar melody sashays along beside various horn arrangements while a solid, if unremarkable, drumbeat keeps the pace.

But with a mere flick of the wrist, the song suddenly seems to fall back into itself as layers of additional guitars, horns, and wordless vocals begin to flood in from all sides.  It’s not a major change in the song’s mood, but it is a noticeable one, and the ease and grace with which the band performs their little bit of sleight of hand lends it more depth and effect.

“Shakespeare Machinery” is much the same way, progressing in a breezy manner that almost yearns for the presence of Archer Prewitt’s breathy vocals.  However, distorted guitars come slashing in underneath while the ghostly synths take a slightly more ominous bent.  “Climbing In The Big Tree” derives much of its beauty from gentle piano cascades that drift down throughout the song’s 5 minutes or so.  And yet, they’re not even the song’s primary element.  Rather, they quickly fade into the song’s background, providing a backdrop that adds color and vibrancy to the other pretty sounds, be it drum programming, drowsy horns, or watery synths.

It’s this sort of subtlety and attention to detail that makes If Only Then more than just yet another instrumental post-rock album—and Lord knows there are plenty of those flooding the market these days (in this regard, they remind me of the sadly unknown My Education).  The real test, however, will be how well these songs hold up after a month or two, if the subtle tricks and surprises the band throws the listener’s way lose their charm or not (such as the, um “interesting” hip-hop vocals on “Siamese William”).  Still, the fact that the band caught me off-guard, and in the most unassuming of manners, bodes well in my book.

It may have taken me awhile, but I finally got around to reviewing Angle’s deprecatingly titled Silence Is Better Than Nothing late last year.  And I’m sorry it took me so long, as it was quite a nice little gem, taking the same sort of hushed, damaged lo-fi pop approach that has served Hood so well and adding in some lovely electronic elements of its own.  For their followup to Silence…, the trans-Channel duo of Andrew Richards and Sylvain Closier have chosen to look even further inward and release an even more hushed and muted collection of songs.

We’ll Pick Up The Pieces Next Time features a very similar mixture of elements as Silence…, but everything is starker and sparser.  The beats and rhythms that often propelled much of Silence… have grown rather shy and withdrawn, if they’re even there to begin with.  However, their absence doesn’t really damage the duo’s music at all.  If anything, it serves only to draw the listener even further in.

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A few days ago, I was working on my computer around two in the morning.  Suddenly, I realized that I could hear a faint yet noticeable hum in the background.  I never figured out where it came from, whether it was the power lines outside our house, some electronic equipment in my roommate’s bedroom that hadn’t been turned off, my computer, or something else.  At first, it seemed fairly innocuous and I just ignored it.  However, it continued to undulate and pulse in the background, and rather than become annoying, it slowly became ominous and harrowing.

Next thing I knew, I was half-convinced that some alien craft was hovering just above the trees on our boulevard, lurking and watching me.  Admittedly, I was fairly sleep-deprived by then, but when the sound eventually faded away, I felt a noticeable sense of relief.

Such is the power of drones.

This is something that Jon DeRosa has realized, and has been harnessing and manipulating for years now.  Bleeding Light, his fourth full-length under the Aarktica moniker, continues his exploration.  Ostensibly, the album is about the feelings of alienation and loneliness conjured up by large urban spaces (specifically New York).  And as my aforementioned experience reminded me, drones are perfectly suited for this sort of thing.  They can easily conjure up intense feelings of anxiety and nervousness, their subtly wavering sonics easily playing with your subconscious mind, awakening thoughts and impressions that you’re unsure as to whether they’re real or not.

Now, I suppose a slight disclaimer is in place.  Those expecting a full-on return to the massive, glacial soundscapes of Aarktica’s first album, No Solace In Sleep, might be somewhat disappointed.  And I’ll admit that I sometimes fall into that category.  Since his debut, DeRosa has worked hard to integrate his guitar drones and atmospherics into a more song-oriented structure, with varying degrees of success.  When it succeeds, the results are superb, and when it doesn’t, it really doesn’t.

Bleeding Light is strongest when DeRosa sits back and lets his sounds do what they do best—drawing the listener in, surrounding them, and affecting them.  “Depression Modern” opens the album with the sounds of bells tolling in slow motion, immediately casting the disc in a funereal glow, as low-level static, gasping horns, and DeRosa’s dry vocals drift between the tones.

“Night Fell, Broke Itself” and “A Shadow Knife (Draws The Bleeding Light)” are two of the more successful instrumental tracks on the album, the latter bordering a little too closely on Hood’s territory (think The Cycle Of Days And Seasons rather than Cold House) but easily standing up to the best that Leeds’ finest has had to offer.

However, Aarktica’s Achilles’ Heel continues to be DeRosa’s voice.  Its dry, laconic timbre is much better suited for Pale Horse And Rider, DeRosa’s darkly tongue-in-cheek country-western project.  But it often juts out a bit too much from Aarktic’s music on tracks such as “OJ Gude” and “A Wash A Sea Goodbye It’s Me” (which eschews the drone aesthetic altogether).  When his voice is slightly affected, such as with the ghostly moans and whispers that drift through “Twilight Insects”’ ocean-like depths, the result is much more effective, emphasizing the music’s harrowing aspects.

Although the album is built around the structures of Indian raga music, those distinctive sounds only really become noticeable on the album’s closer, the “epic” title track.  Over the lulling, hypnotic strains of the tambura, tempered only slightly by sparse piano notes and distant percussion, DeRosa intones “Everyone of us is lost in our own way”.  And the fact that his voice sounds as if it’s constantly on the verge of being swallowed up by the tambura’s drones while singing those lyrics serves only to underscore the album’s themes of isolation and lostness.