Vulnerable, life-affirming and acutely self-aware

Ha Ha Tonka’s music has always been richly steeped in Americana, folk and bluegrass. But on Lessons, the Southern Missouri quartet’s fourth and most diverse full-length, these genres are starting points. The familiar stylistic signifiers — four-part harmonies, prickly mandolin, stomping acoustic guitar — merely add texture to songs that, at various points, conjure Shearwater’s strummy introspection (“Staring At The End Of Our Lives”), Spoon’s compact pop (the bass-heavy, wrinkled title track) and Wilco’s rugged alt-country (“Pied Pipers”). Whimsical piano, plush organ and jagged electric guitar contribute additional color.

Alongside this sonic progression, Ha Ha Tonka continue to broaden their songwriting voice. Lessons is a vulnerable, life-affirming, acutely self-aware record that addresses both personal foibles and strengths. (The band members come by this wisdom — and the album title — honestly: Frontman Brian Roberts says the record was jumpstarted by an inspiring 2011 NPR interview with the late author Maurice Sendak.) “I can’t keep learning the same lessons over again,” Roberts pleads wearily on the title track, before contradicting himself in the very next line: “I keep learning the same lessons over again.” Yet despite this frustration spiral, he’s committed to self-improvement and figuring out his lot in life, as well as staying positive. “No, I don’t want to be dead to the world around me,” the frontman cries over and over again on “Dead to the World,” as majestic strings pirouette around his words, buoying his pained optimism.

An impeccable encapsulation of their strengths

The songwriting gifts of twangy Canadian rockers the Sadies are often overshadowed by their musical collaborators — a list that includes Neil Young, the Band’s Garth Hudson, Neko Case and Jon Langford, to name a few. But Internal Sounds, the quartet’s 16th studio album, is an impeccable encapsulation of their strengths. Produced by vocalist/guitarist Dallas Good, the full-length touches on familiar sounds: barnstorming garage jangle (“The First 5 Minutes”), elegiac folk (the mandolin-aided “So Much Blood”), cowpunk (“Another Tomorrow Again”) and the kind of nostalgic alt-country that flourishes in the U.S. Midwest (the fiddle-augmented, Bottle Rockets-like “Another Yesterday Again”; the Uncle Tupelo-esque harmonies and ragged heart of “The Very Beginning”).

Still, Internal Sounds isn’t afraid to take chances: The 90-second “The Very Ending” is an ever-so-brief foray into prog rock, while the album-closing “We Are Circling” is a heavy psych drone that boasts mesmerizing interlocking vocals from Buffy Sainte-Marie, who unearthed lyrics she wrote in 1971 for the occasion. Lyrically, the Sadies are just as brave; songs touch on past indiscretions and heartaches, but feature protagonists who are self-aware enough to overcome these struggles and push past regret (“I can’t change what’s done is done/ I won’t fight for anyone but me”). This indefatigable mindset gives Internal Sounds an optimistic edge that’s inspiring and age-defying.

Shouting her newfound confidence from the rooftops

Since striking out on her own in 2009, former Vivian Girls/Crystal Stilts drummer Frankie Rose has sounded more self-assured and willing to take risks with each album. Herein Wild, which follows last year’s excellent Interstellar LP, is no exception. The album features more polished production, emphasizing the emergence of ornate instrumental details like cinematic orchestra shivers (“Cliffs As High”) and muted trumpets and strings (on the otherwise acoustic “Requiem”). As a singer, Rose is more confident in her ability to express varying depths of emotion; in particular, her slightly mysterious vocal delivery turns an electropop remake of the Damned’s “Street of Dreams” into something closer to a spy movie theme.

Despite these additions, Herein Wild feels like a logical progression from Rose’s past work. Like Interstellar, the record contains plenty of lush, keyboard-gilded indie-pop — highlighted by the lilting Sarah Records homages “Sorrow” and “Into Blue” and the burbling, Stereolab-like “Question Reason” — and textures influenced by the Cure’s bleakest early days (the frantic drums and deep-cutting bass line of “The Depths,” cyclone-like synth spirals on “Minor Times”). The difference is that Herein Wild‘s more deliberate approach adds gravitas to Rose’s longing and melancholy, and lightness to her more optimistic moments. Both ends of the spectrum are evident on the fuzzy opening salvo “You for Me.” The song alternates between quiet verses and stomping choruses, creating intensity that mirrors the self-awakening described in the lyrics. By the end of the song, Rose sounds positively giddy as she repeats the phrase “Can you see?” as if she can’t wait to shout her newfound confidence from the rooftops.

File under: Co-ed indie pop with roots in noise, hardcore and punk

For fans of: Tiger Trap, The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart, Huggy Bear, Veronica Falls

From: Cardiff, Wales

Personae: Alanna McArdle (vocals), Owen Williams (vocals, guitar), George Nicholls (guitar), Max Warren (bass), Dave Sandford (drums)

Some bands meet in record shops and some meet through Craigslist ads, but Owen Williams bonded with his future Joanna Gruesome band mates at a rather unusual place: an anger management group. “If you just piss off a lot of teachers you get into those kinds of groups,” he explains. “A lot of the time they kind of draft you in through school.”

After initially forming late 2010, Joanna Gruesome cycled through a series of different sounds — including a twee phase that Williams says was a reaction to all of the ’80s hardcore they were listening to — before settling on both a permanent lineup and a style defined by its contrasts: Moments of winsome indie (mostly courtesy of ex-Evans The Death member Alanna McArdle’s lilting vocals) and exuberant noise-pop hove up against discordant, aggressive sounds equally indebted to riot grrrl, hardcore and fuzzy ’90s lo-fi.

As befitting their diverse influences, Joanna Gruesome cut their teeth touring with local indie outfits as well as what Williams calls “chaotic emo bands,” releasing 7-inches on underground labels Art Is Hard and Happy Happy Birthday To Me. Such activity — as well as riotous live shows that often involved band members jumping into the crowd as they played — pushed Joanna Gruesome to the forefront of the UK DIY scene and caught the eye of another label they admired, Fortuna POP! That label plans to release Joanna Gruesome’s first full-length, Weird Sister, in Europe (Slumberland is handling the US duties).

Annie Zaleski talked with Williams about their so-called anger issues, Weird Sister‘s dark crevices and whether their band name is really about you-know-who.

On how Nation Of Ulysses figured into their formation:

[Bassist] Max [Warren] turned up [to anger management one day] wearing, like, a Nation Of Ulysses bootleg T-shirt. That surprised me. That gave me a reason to go talk to him. I was like, “I love that band,” so we started talking. And he told me he played bass, so that’s that.

On their sloppier (and twee) early years:

It was a completely different lineup then as well, and we kind of existed in living rooms — and [played] really bad Field Mice covers and stuff like that. [Laughs.] It was pretty twee, to be honest. It wasn’t the kind of exciting music [we do now].

On how ex-Evans The Death bassist Alanna McArdle landed in the band:

Our original singer went off to live in Africa, so we needed a new singer. And we knew Alanna through this band called Playlounge that she was really good friends with. We knew she was in Evans the Death and we knew she could sing. She’s been great.

On their enduring love of DIY:

We played with a lot of cool DIY bands in Wales and England, like Facel Vega and Harbour. There were a lot of hardcore bands, really. Then we got into stuff like Huggy Bear, Tiger Trap [and] the Frumpies, and poppier stuff like Young Marble Giants.

On writing Weird Sister at a creepy Brighton, UK, hotel called Hell House:

We didn’t record there, but I kind of wrote the music there with some of the other band members. It was really weird; it was this sort of like kind of strange little hippie-ish hotel with these really odd guys who kept doing Ouija Boards and stuff like that. We didn’t really know what they were doing — hopefully they conjured something. We just hung out there for like a month and wrote all the songs.

On why their lyrics are so dark:

I really like the Alan Moore Batman comic. I was reading [the dark and highly influential Batman graphic novel] The Killing Joke a lot when I was thinking about lyrics. It’s got a zombie vibe, it’s sort of set in a circus and there’s loads of horrible things coming alive, and the joke is they’re screaming about shit.

I’ve never really thought about the lyrics too much. A lot of it’s just quite abstract. A lot of it’s just about crap horror movies and things. It kind of is from just being emotionally detached and just sort of purely this kind of horror-y [thing]. Some of it is about mental illness and stuff — I guess being in that hotel was quite an emotional atmosphere.

On their weirdest gig ever:

This is our second tour, but it’s still pretty early days. It was this show in a middle aged couple’s suburban home, because their kid had recovered from meningitis. They wanted some bands to play in the house. And we were on tour and were like, “Oh, we need a date.” And then he messaged us saying, “Come and play a house show here.” The guy [who booked us] was into [the] ’90s rock kind of thing, and somehow had heard of us. I remember he was wearing a Lemonheads T-shirt. We didn’t really know much about him.

We ended up with children running everywhere. It was really, really bizarre. It was probably the worst and the best show.

On the origins of their name:

It’s a play on Joanna Newsom. We couldn’t think of a name at first when we first started, and we didn’t really think anything would happen. Our friend Al, who’s now our manager, was suggesting loads of stupid pun names, and I think Joanna Gruesome stuck somehow. Then we just never decided to change it. It’s kind of a lot of bother, really. I always kind of forget it’s an awful pun. I think she’s aware of it. I have a feeling she is.

On Cardiff:

It’s weird, because I guess compared to somewhere — like, I don’t know, Manchester or London — there’s a very tiny amount of bands. In Cardiff, everyone knows each other, so everyone’s kind of helping each other step up.

The electro enthusiasts amplify their pop tendencies and diversify their sound

NYC electro enthusiasts Holy Ghost! picked up Chromeo’s slack on their urbane, synthfunk-driven 2011 self-titled debut. On their second full-length, Dynamics, the duo — comprised of two life-long friends and musical collaborators, Alex Frankel and Nick Millhiser — amplify their pop tendencies and diversify their sound. Although tunes such as “Bridge and Tunnel” and “It Must Be the Weather” conjure the first album’s smoldering nightlife vibe, Dynamics expands to encompass sugary new wave (the Yaz-like “Okay”), chugging synthpop (the sparkling “Changing Of The Guard”), New Order-style electropop (the uplifting “Don’t Look Down”) and ’80s R&B slow jams (“In The Red”). The dancefloor igniter “Dumb Disco Ideas,” which features backing vocals from LCD Soundsystem’s Nancy Whang, is their most ambitious yet: Over eight minutes, the tune boogies through corrugated funk grooves, cosmic keyboard programming, cowbell-aided rhythms and heavenly falsetto. Holy Ghost! has always created dance music with aspirations to be taken seriously outside of clubs or parties. Thanks to finely sculpted hooks, straightforward melodies and Frankel’s increasingly confident vocals, Dynamics reaches — and exceeds—this goal.

Invigorating and slightly dangerous

On their 2012 self-titled debut, Holograms drew comparisons to the gloomiest corners of the original post-punk scene. On their second album, Forever, the Swedish quartet build on those influences while focusing and refining their songwriting, emerging as credible descendants of a very specific strain of ’80s dark-wave — the Gun Club, Comsat Angels or the Chameleons.

Yet Forever is no nostalgia trip, and that’s thanks mostly to the vitality of Holograms’ music. Keyboards are more prevalent in the mix, from the corrugated synths humming through “Luminous” to the frantic chords dominating “Rush,” while frontman Andreas Lagerström’s reverb-coated vocals are fraught with desperation. And although Lagerström isn’t always easy to understand as he howls his way through the straightforward punk throttle “Meditations” and early Cure-influenced strum “Flesh and Bone,” the urgency in his voice is unmistakable. Forever feels invigorating and slightly dangerous at the same time, which produces a refreshing atmosphere of reckless abandon.

A digital shift suits them well

BRAIDS’ debut full-length, Native Speaker, was shortlisted for the 2011 Polaris Music Prize on the strength of Animal Collective-caliber chirpy rhythms, sharp vocals and choppy synth work. Flourish // Perish, the Montreal band’s second album, has an even more ambitious influence: Björk’s electro-glitch masterpiece Vespertine. At its core, Flourish // Perish is built around icy keyboard drones, clipped digital splotches, cut-and-paste vocal manipulation and Raphaelle Standell-Preston’s acrobatic enunciation. Guitars are practically nonexistent; only the album-closing “In Kind” features the instrument, and even then, these corrugated sweeps blend into the electronic textures and Standell-Preston’s Elizabeth Fraser-like trilling.

While slightly jarring at first, the digital shift suits BRAIDS well. If anything, it allows the band more freedom to experiment with arrangements and sound sculpting. “Amends” gradually adds layers of shimmering rhythms atop minimalist techno; the playful “Victoria” has a lush of rippling, backdrop of nature-like sound effects; and “Girl” merges watercolor-faint piano with an ambient underbelly. Flourish // Perish‘s centerpiece is the eight-minute “Together,” a delicate balance of organic and electric: It’s a dramatic and intense song, entirely indicative of both BRAIDS’ maturation as a band.

Effortless and irresistible, even without a couple founding members

After the release of 2010′s Sleep Mountain, the Kissaway Trail lost two of its founding members. For the noise-spackled (but pop-minded) Denmark band, this move ended up being a case of addition by subtraction: Breach, the group’s third record and first recorded as a trio, is a far more focused effort. The album’s hazy indie rock draws from diverse influences, including Britpop (the shimmering “Nørrebro”), psych-pop (the Flaming Lips dead ringer “Cuts Of Youth (Razor Love)”) and ’80s alt-pop (“Sarah Jevo”).

The ’80s pop vibe is especially magnified by a gentle New Order synth buzz, which hums prominently underneath multiple songs: the mournful, drum-heavy instrumental “Sara (R.I.Punk),” clanking electropop plea “Beauty Still Rebels” and the Low Life-esque album-closer “A Rainy Night In Soho.” Thomas Fagerlund and Søren Corneliussen are forceful vocalists, and a few grungier detours — including the Cloud Nothings-reminiscent “So Sorry, I’m Not” and the lush, hooky highlight “The Springsteen Implosion” — add bite and aggression. Stylistically, the Kissaway Trail aren’t reinventing the wheel, but their songwriting is taut and dynamic; as a result, Breach sounds effortless and irresistible.

A record with an old soul that still gracefully navigates the modern world

Mean Lady is a versatile duo made up of vocalist Katie Dill — who also contributes guitar, ukulele and omnichord — and bassist/keyboardist/sampler-wrangler/producer Sean Nobles. On Love Now, their breezy debut full-length, they mix up murky electronics with hardy, time-tested folk elements. Hard rhythmic tracks — clipped grooves, strident beats, rollicking piano, the occasional funky freakout — serve as a backbone for gauzier tones (misty production, found sound effects, hazy keyboards, Smiths-echoing guitar tones). Dill’s dusty alto and carnival-esque omnichord burbles lend a longing but playful vibe to the record.

Love Now‘s lyrics match this gentle whimsy with a charmingly old-fashioned take of courtship. On the scratchy soul of “Daisies,” Dill implores her beloved, “Let’s walk each other home,” while on the beat-heavy tropical playground chant “Why’d'ya Haftabee Sucha,” she sings about sitting by the phone waiting for a call. Marriage is a recurring theme: On “Bop Bop,” she mourns a union that never happened, and on “Far Away,” she fervently wishes it would happen someday in the future. The latter track shows up at the end of Love Now in a stripped-down form as “I Will Marry You,” which has a slightly tweaked premise: Thanks to Dill’s gentle vocals, the summer-night sound effects and whispery strumming, the touching song is an intimate promise shared between a couple, not an idle daydream. It’s a satisfying resolution to a record with an old soul that still gracefully navigates the modern world.

A confident amalgam of stately folk, '60s pop, alt-country, orchestral indie and classical

North Carolina folk quartet Bombadil has had a tough go since the release of 2009′s Tarpits and Canyonlands, mainly due to a mysterious (and debilitating) nerve injury suffered by bassist/pianist Daniel Michalak that prevented the band from touring. With Metrics of Affection, Michalak is fully on the mend, which perhaps explains why the album sounds so much more confident than the band’s last full-length, 2011′s All That The Rain Promises. Rich, warm production enhances the record’s amalgam of stately folk, ’60s pop, alt-country, orchestral indie and even classical (the lovely piano instrumental “Patience Is Expensive”). While there’s a decidedly Southern bent throughout — mainly due to the easygoing vocal style of Michalak, guitarist Bryan Rahija and pianist/ukulele player Stuart Robinson, who take turns singing lead — British artists are Metrics of Affection‘s biggest underlying influence, from XTC (“When We Are Both Cats”) and Elvis Costello (“Have Me,” the piano-driven “What Does It Mean”) to the Beatles (the White Album-like “Whaling Vessel”).

Unsurprisingly, the record does seem to reference Michalak’s injury; in particular, the spoken-word verses on “Isn’t It Funny” contain imagery such as “a wheelchair is your new bridle and horse bit.” But mostly, Metrics of Affection contains sharp vignettes about life’s small victories (feeling deep gratitude for friends and family, an implausible love story becoming reality) and tiny pangs of heartbreak (a significant other suddenly moving out, a relic from an ex accidentally resurfacing). Yet even these darker lyrical moments never feel hopeless — in fact, there’s a palpable current of optimism that buoys Bombadil’s music, making it easy to empathize with Metrics of Affection‘s joys and sorrows.

File under: A noisy, '90s-indie-rock throwback with ferocious smarts

For fans of: Dinosaur Jr., Helium, Polvo, Sonic Youth, Pavement, Liz Phair

From: Northampton, Massachusetts

Personae: Sadie Dupuis (vocals, guitar), Matt Robidoux (guitar), Darl Ferm (bass) and Mike Falcone (drums)

Speedy Ortiz began as the solo project of New York native (and ex-Quilty vocalist/guitarist) Sadie Dupuis. But by early 2012, the songwriter — who’s also working toward an MFA in poetry at UMass-Amherst and teaching expository writing — had enlisted several of her New England musician pals, including drummer Mike Falcone (whose band Ovlov frequently played with Quilty), bassist Darl Ferm (who had gotten to know both Dupuis and Falcone from booking their bands at Wesleyan, where he was a film studies major) and guitarist Matt Robidoux.

The quartet found kindred spirits in the Allston, Massachusetts basement scene, and they applied that DIY ethos to early national tours, focusing largely on house shows, DIY spaces and other unorthodox venues. (An entertaining look at these days is documented at the band’s photo-heavy LiveJournal tour diaries.)
The band recorded their debut, Major Arcana, with Justin Pizzoferrato (Chelsea Light Moving, Dinosaur Jr.) at his studio, Sonelab. The noisy record builds on the ragged sound of the group’s previous releases — specifically, off-kilter guitar lines and Dupuis’s hypnotizing alto — but piles on volume, aggression and sonic clarity. Dupuis smart lyrics (which are full of vibrant and, at times, violent imagery) are especially arresting, the perfect complement to Major Arcana‘s post-rock jolts and post-punk swerves.

eMusic’s Annie Zaleski talked separately with three-fourths of Speedy Ortiz — first, via a conference call between Dupuis (who was hanging at her mom’s house in Connecticut) and Falcone (who was gearing up to play a show with Gargamel, his ’80s metal covers band) and, several days later, a phone call with Ferm. The sprawling conversations touched on the advantages of the DIY scene, weird tour stories and how the band lives up to their “snack rock” moniker.

On the importance of cool college radio stations:

Dupuis: Before I was friends with Mike, I thought he was a great drummer. He used to DJ — and still DJs — at a radio station that I listened to when I was in high school [WXCI 91.7 FM in Danbury, Connecticut]. I probably found a lot of bands I liked via Mike.

Falcone: She called my radio show a few times. I didn’t know who she was yet, but I remember she requested songs.

Dupuis: I didn’t grow up near here, but I did go to high school not too far from the station where Mike works. And there’s nothing going on around here. You have to drive more than an hour to find any kind of cool record store. You have to drive more than an hour to find any kind of show spaces, even DIY stuff. It was very exciting to be able to get Mike’s show when I was in high school. It was the only good shit that was being played. [Before that] I was really into pretty commercial alternative rock, I think. Like, Letters to Cleo was one of my favorite bands when I was a kid. I’m stoked that they were a Boston band, even though I’m still kind of embarrassed to like them.

On cool dads:

Dupuis: My dad played keyboards in Television for like a week, before they apparently decided they were not a keyboard band [laughs]. Depending on who he’s talking to, he’ll either up-play or downplay the importance of this week-long duration. But I always thought that was a cool story.

On Justin Pizzoferrato’s studio:

Falcone: The main thing I remember about being in Justin’s studio, is he would have crazy stories about sitting in a room somewhere in England watching J Mascis and Kevin Shields have a conversation. And he said that after about a half an hour, the novelty wore away and he got really bored. He said they talked about guitars — but it was mostly Kevin Shields doing the talking and J Mascis would just nod and be like, “Yeah.”

On how academic interests inform Speedy Ortiz:

Dupuis: We have an academic schedule, which means a lot of vacation time, which we fill up with touring. I don’t know that teaching writing or taking classes about writing is necessarily an influence in how I write songs, because I think I come at them somewhat differently. But in terms of being exposed to different authors, maybe they’ll touch on a concept that will [seep into my] writing. I don’t know that any extra weight is added on that facet of my life. I wish it did, because it would probably be a cooler answer. The only thing is I scrutinize myself a little more lyrically than I would if I didn’t have to think so constantly about, “What’s the right word?” Other than that, I think it’s a pretty different process.

On touring and the DIY community:

Ferm: People are really, really supportive in the DIY community. I haven’t really met a lot of people that are conceited or show-offy. Everyone’s very humble, it seems, and everyone is very generous about spending money and supporting touring bands.

Touring’s just awesome. It’s an eye-opening experience, in a good way. Going to New Mexico was really insane [for me], because I don’t think I had ever seen desert before. It’s kind of freaky to see if you’ve just lived in hilly, city-ish areas your whole life. The south has a certain feel to it; Atlanta has a feel that’s different than New Orleans. Experiencing that is great, because most of my life has been stuck between New York City and Boston.

Going into the Midwest and seeing crazy punk kids that just live in Iowa City or something is [also] pretty amazing. They’ve developed their own community that you wouldn’t find out unless you walked right into it like we would, at these house shows or something like that.

On the decision to keep a band LiveJournal:

Dupuis: I just made it because I have a LiveJournal that I still use. Every band has a Tumblr now — a couple years ago every band had a WordPress, and before that every band had a Blogger. It seemed funny to pick the thing where it was most outdated in terms of blog presentation. And LiveJournal’s had an overhaul in the last year and a half since we started this account. You can now embed video. I kind of liked that you couldn’t do any of that [laughs].

Falcone: I thought it was kind of an absurd choice, which is why I thought it was funny.

On weird tour food:

Dupuis: When we were in Spokane, we stayed at this cool house called Marvin’s Garden. I was feeling kind of sick because I had been on tour for two months, and they made me a garlic scape tea with stuff they picked from their garden. It was like garlic flowers and some kind of citrus in hot water that they cooked in the sun [laughs]. It was helpful, I think; I drank a ton of it. They brewed the flowers of the garlic, and then they were having me eat garlic scapes, which was helpful. I think everybody hated my breath for a week.

On living up to their self-proclaimed “snack rock” label:

Ferm: Definitely my favorite tour snack we’ve had is poutine. When we were on the Canadian tour, Matt and I tried to eat poutine every single night, which was kind of a fun challenge, and then got to be a really gross challenge by the end — or a really not-great-for-touring challenge.

Dupuis: I eat a lot of kale chips. That’s probably my favorite snack.

Falcone: That’s a good one. I like nachos. Nachos and hummus are pretty good.

Dupuis: Mike’s our nachos expert.

Falcone: I don’t think I’m a nachos expert, I think that’s been overestimated.

Dupuis: The last time we did a two-month tour, Darl was working on this video series called, “Is It Nachos?” starring Mike. Mike would look at something and tell us if it was nachos or not [laughs].

Falcone: That kind of proved that I’m not a nachos expert. I think that chips and salsa constitute nachos. I think that’s good enough.

Dupuis: I think it has to have cheese. It has to have stuff on top of it; it can’t just be a chip and dip. Because then hummus would be nachos.

Falcone: No one bothered correcting me about it until Speedy Ortiz, so I just always called it nachos.

A fresh take on noisy, off-balance guitar rock

On their full-length debut, Speedy Ortiz — a Massachusetts four-piece that counts both the indie-friendly Northampton music community and Allston’s fertile basement scene as home — nod toward plenty of beloved ’90s acts: Pavement, Helium, Polvo and Archers Of Loaf, to name a few. But dismissing the band as merely nostalgia-obsessed is an insult to Major Arcana‘s fresh take on noisy, off-balance guitar rock. The band has an ear for texture: Plumes of distortion shroud the grungy “Tiger Tank”; unsettled strums shimmer and murmur beneath the surface of “Pioneer Spine” and “Casper (1995)”; needling melodies slice through “Plough”; and the taut “Fun” has sinewy post-punk velocity. On the raucous, Liz Phair-reminiscent “Cash Cab,” Sadie Dupuis’s vocals are cracked and disfigured, drowned out by slow-churning riffs, while Darl Ferm’s hulking bass emerges occasionally to add heft.

As Speedy Ortiz’s lyricist, Dupuis doesn’t sugarcoat her words; like White Lung’s Mish Way, she employs vivid, macabre imagery (“My mouth is a factory for every toxic part of speech I spew,” “Windows sweating blood, choking in on cue”) and elegant, dense wordplay to great effect. In these tiny bursts of fury, Dupuis addresses the failures and shortcomings of past relationships; then, just as forcefully, she confronts her own vulnerability and describes how such formative experiences have only made her stronger. Powerful (and empowering) by themselves, these sentiments are only magnified when paired with Major Arcana‘s gritty textures and ferocious guitar. Apathy might have been a byword for the ’90s slacker-rock bands that inspire them, but to Speedy Ortiz, apathy is a fate worse than death.

On R.E.M.'s major-label gambit and vanishing notions of "selling out"

In November 1988, R.E.M. released their sixth studio album, Green. The record was an exclamation point at the end of a hectic but successful five years for the Athens, Georgia, quartet. Starting with 1983′s Murmur, R.E.M. released an album a year and was constantly on tour, which led to a steady increase in mainstream popularity and record sales. Their previous album, 1987′s Document, went platinum and spawned a Top 10 single, “The One I Love.”

Despite this positive momentum, Green felt like a career re-launch. Although the record maintained Document‘s vocal forthrightness and bright production, it also showed marked musical growth. You can hear R.E.M. stretching and redefining their sound: Peter Buck traded guitar for mandolin on several tunes, including the gentle “You Are The Everything” and the gnarled folk of “Hairshirt,” while the elegiac “World Leader Pretend” added cello and pedal steel and somber piano. But Green‘s rock-leaning songs also felt like departures, whether aggressive and harsh (the metallic “Orange Crush” and slow-burning “Turn You Inside Out”) or danceable and trifling (the ’60s-inspired bubblegum-punk of “Pop Song 89,” the goofy, gooey hit “Stand”).

With this newfound sonic crispness also came greater lyrical clarity. (The band even printed the lyrics to “World Leader Pretend” in Green‘s liner notes, marking the first time they had ever made such a concession.) Michael Stipe was starting to move away from abstraction and toward more concise wordplay that didn’t hide behind cryptic or obtuse phrases. The record wore its emotions on its sleeve, veering from serious to silly, somber to joyful; its songs encouraged living in the present (“Get Up”) and thinking globally while acting locally (“Stand”), but also addressed the effects of the Vietnam War (“Orange Crush”) and explored the social isolation of a young burn victim (“The Wrong Child”).

Perhaps not coincidentally, Green was also the first R.E.M. album released on a major label. Prior to its release, the group signed with Warner Bros., leaving indie label I.R.S. Records. In a 1989 Rolling Stone cover story, R.E.M. cited subpar international distribution as a major reason for the switch; in David Buckley’s book Fiction: An Alternative Biography, I.R.S. Records’ switch to a U.S. distributor that didn’t view R.E.M. as a priority act, was also cited.

Although they weren’t the first college-rock darling to sign with a major — The Replacements and Hüsker Dü had done so years before — R.E.M. was by far the highest-profile group to make the leap. Even though Warner Bros. was known for being artist-friendly (the band retained creative control, and Buck frequently cited the artistic freedom Van Dyke Parks and Randy Newman had while on the label), it was still a corporate behemoth to most indie fans. Drummer Bill Berry noted in Rolling Stone that some young fans “think of Warner Bros. as literally like a monster, just something that consumes and spits out. I think a lot of kids wonder how we fit.” Indeed, R.E.M. was a down-to-earth band that was often considered a reaction to ’80s music’s excess; they resonated with those who didn’t identify with the mainstream. Moving to a major label — away from the underground — felt like a small betrayal.

The thing is: Green didn’t feel like a major-label album. Despite the accessible pop sheen of “Stand,” the band was clearly aware that the song was a joke — Stipe once told MTV that he “wrote the most inane lyrics that I could possibly write” for it — while “Pop Song ’89″ poked fun at the kind of vapid music often released by, well, major labels. Plus, Green‘s lyrical directness didn’t necessarily make it transparent; Stipe constructed songs that had many layers of meaning and interpretation. “World Leader Pretend” was often associated with the Cold War, though it can also be read as someone struggling to overcome self-sabotage.

Reviews of Green in Trouser Press and Rolling Stone acknowledged the album’s quality, even as both pre-emptively (and pointedly) stressed that the album didn’t show any signs of selling out. Berry felt compelled to bluntly address the accusations. “My response is, like, Guns N’ Roses,” he told Rolling Stone. “Great band, by the way. I love ‘em. But it’s like they’ve got this ‘fuck you,’ ‘rock ‘n’ roll kid’ attitude, and they sell 7 million records. Their first record. And here we are on our sixth record — Document was our fifth full LP, it sells a million records, and ‘R.E.M. has sold out.’ But Guns N’ Roses gets all these accolades. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do. I really don’t.”

In the 25 years since Green‘s release, this same discussion — band signs with major, has to answer for it — happens any time a prominent indie act makes the jump; just ask The Shins, Gaslight Anthem or Death Cab for Cutie. Being on a major is often viewed as a tangible sign of success, an accomplishment that’s easy to grasp because it shows measurable progress. Rarely is it met with the kind of rabid discussion that followed — and still follows — R.E.M.’s decision.

Maybe that’s because these days it’s more difficult to figure out who’s on a major and who isn’t. The ease with which the internet facilitates discovery and sharing eliminates many of the distribution obstacles bands such as R.E.M. once faced, and the egalitarian nature of the digital music platform has lessened the exclusivity once associated with certain record labels; on a glowing screen, an MP3 is an MP3, no matter who released it. Perhaps Justin Vernon of Bon Iver, himself an indie artist, described the shading of the two worlds best: “Indie music likes to think that it’s all grassroots, but it’s really the same as the marketing and everything of major music, just a little bit lighter.”

The idea that indie-sounding music must be on an indie label is also losing currency: Take Oklahoma space cadets Flaming Lips and Grammy-winning indie darlings Arcade Fire. The former has been on Warner Bros. for more than two decades and has grown into a popular live draw. Counter-intuitively, however, the Lips have made some of the least accessible music of its career in recent years — from albums full of ambient electronic and abstract noise to heavy psychedelic and proto-metal signifiers. The Flaming Lips’ recent records are far less “radio-friendly” than Arcade Fire’s music, which has echoes of ’80s alt-goth staples (The Smiths, Echo & The Bunnymen) and superstars such as U2 or Bruce Springsteen. Both bands have found their own way to a similar place: Both are arena-level headliners with a strong sense of artistic independence.

When Death Cab for Cutie signed with major label Atlantic, after 2003′s Transatlanticism, their approach was decidedly philosophical. “We made that very un-indie-rock move of actually succumbing to our ambition as a band, and saying, ‘You know what? I want as many people to hear this band as possible,’” frontman Ben Gibbard told The AV Club in 2005 As a result, Death Cab for Cutie expanded its sound — and fan base — while still retaining full creative control. In the end, the stigma of signing to a major label has all but vanished; career ambition and creative sincerity are rarely thought of as mutually exclusive goals today. For that shift in perspective, we have R.E.M. and its leap of faith with Green to thank.

A sleek, mesmerizing debut

When MS MR surfaced in 2012, they were shrouded in mystery. At least initially, the New York duo of Lizzy Plapinger and Max Hershenow hid their identities, and instead let their music — a percussive-heavy amalgamation of ’90s R&B, British soul, gothy synthpop and neon-hued ’80s pop — speak for itself. The gimmick paid off, and yielded plenty of attention for MS MR’s debut EP, Candy Bar Creep Show, a versatile collection of dank trip-hop, sultry neo-soul and dramatic electropop.

Secondhand Rapture, MS MR’s full-length debut, combines this EP and another early single, the Florence and the Machine-esque gallop “Fantasy,” with several new songs in the same vein. The theatrical “Salty Sweet” — with its tribal drums and overlapping harmonies — and the seductive, string-plucked murmur “BTSK” stand out, and the glassy piano-pop of “Twenty Seven” isn’t far behind. Hershenow’s warm, nuanced production is wistful without becoming consumed by nostalgia, familiar without feeling tired; his inventive appropriation of soul, electro, orchestral and hip-hop feels timeless.

But throughout Secondhand Rapture, it’s Plapinger who dominates the emotional narrative with her powerful vocals. Most often, she channels the melisma and confidence of Florence Welch (“Head Is Not My Home”) and the sultry growl of Zola Jesus (“Bones”), although there’s often a welcome pop-radio lilt in her voice — especially on the standout “Think Of You,” which resembles the ’80s roller-rink bubblegum production of Stock Aitken Waterman (think Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up”). Plapinger sings about disillusionment and disappointment as much as she does smoldering mental and physical connection (“Secrets lie in our way/ Your kiss tastes better outside the light of day,” she sighs on “Head Is Not My Home”); as a result, MS MR’s music bubbles with surface emotion and raw nerves and her debut is a sleek, mesmerizing listen.

Hushed and delicate portrayals of loveless lives, dissonant relationships and bleak futures

The London trio Daughter usually gets filed under folk or indie-folk, but their music bears no traces of strum-and-stomp barnstorming or campfire confessional. The band interprets folk the same way Jason Molina records do: dusky guitars, spare arrangements, sparse beats and anguished vocals thrust into the spotlight. Daughter’s full-length debut, If You Leave, softens this stark foundation with chilly atmospheric effects, lyrics haunted by romantic angst and rebirth, and Elena Tonra’s low-lit voice, which is as hazy and tortured as Chan Marshall sounded on early Cat Power records. The results are often hushed and delicate; “Smother” is lovely slow-core, both “Amsterdam” and “Winter” resemble Bat for Lashes, and the relatively upbeat “Human” echoes the whimsy of Sigur Ros’s folkier moments.

Yet Daughter isn’t easily pigeonholed; If You Leave‘s biting moments sting like an icy wind. “Youth” transforms from a somber lullaby into a galloping, battle-scarred treatise on failed relationships (“If you’re in love, then you are the lucky one/’Cause most of us are bitter over someone”), while electric guitar simmers underneath the surface of “Lifeforms” before crescendoing into distressed post-rock howls. The record is desolate and desperate in equal measures. Little by little, If You Leave‘s portrayals of loveless lives, dissonant relationships and bleak futures burrow under the skin, lingering long after the album ends.

Framing a breakup through the lens of optimism instead of bitterness

In the artist notes for The Beast In Its Tracks, Josh Ritter wastes no time establishing the premise of his sixth album: “My marriage ended on November 1, 2010. It was a cold, blustery morning in Calgary, Alberta, and I was on tour. I hung up the phone and looked around me.” But while the impact of his divorce certainly hovers over The Beast In Its Tracks — the longing and regret coursing through the whispery acoustic opener “Third Arm” is breathtaking — the record smartly frames the breakup through the lens of optimism, not bitterness.

Of course, it helps that Ritter’s creative catharsis also involved a new lady. “These days, I’m feeling better about the man that I am,” he sings on “Hopeful,” a ’50s-era soul-blues number burnished by torchy organ. “There’s some things I can change, and others I can’t/ I met someone new now I know I deserve.” The keyboard-swirled “A Certain Light” explores falling in love and erasing past unhappiness, while Ritter forgives both his former flame and himself on “Joy To You Baby.” Even the upbeat folk stomp “New Lover,” on which Ritter admits to still feeling “haunted” by his ex, wishes her well: “I’ve got a new lover now; I hope you’ve got a lover too.”

The Beast In Its Tracks sounds as intimate as its soul-searching lyrics, courtesy of spare, folk-inspired arrangements dominated by honeyed acoustic guitar. (On several songs, especially “Heart’s Ease,” Ritter even sounds quite a bit like James Taylor.) The stark tones and textures leave plenty of space for small sonic gestures from producer Sam Kassirer and the rest of Ritter’s Royal City Band: brief swipes of pedal steel or organ, blurry electric guitar, fading harmonies, muted drums. Still, Ritter’s unfussy wordplay and conspiratorial voice remain at the forefront, and deservedly so: The elegance with which he dissects his emotional transition elevates The Beast In Its Tracks beyond its tumultuous origins.

A messy, personal-meets-political chronicle of post-breakup grief

When British singer-songwriter Kate Nash said that Girl Talk consists of her “blood, sweat, emotional puke and tears,” she wasn’t just being dramatic. Her third full-length is a messy chronicle of post-breakup grief that veers between relief (“Fri-end?”), soul-searching (“Conventional Girl”), wistfulness (“Are You There Sweetheart?”), sadness (“Lullaby For An Insomniac,” “O My God”) and anger (“All Talk”). Appropriately, Girl Talk‘s music is also all over the place; styles covered include wobbly, girl group-inspired indie-pop, brash punk, stormy post-punk, grimy new wave, sparkling Britpop and vulnerable acoustic pop.

But as always, Nash’s emotional tumult has a depth — and directness — that makes her music arresting. On Girl Talk, that’s largely due to lingering influence from her various bouts of women-first activism. (She was recently named Global Ambassador for the Because I am a Girl initiative, whose goal is to educate and empower girls residing in developing countries, and she was also outspoken about supporting Pussy Riot.) The brash “Rap For Rejection” calls out the presence of casual sexism and demands that people start speaking out against it. The thrashing neo-riot grrrl anthem “All Talk,” meanwhile, is a fiery personal declaration: “You got a problem with me cause I’m a girl?/ I’m a feminist/ And if that offends you/ Then fuck you.” Nash has always nailed the complex hell that’s dating and relationships, but Girl Talk is superb during these moments when the personal is political.

File under: Dizzy psych-pop stiffened by a sturdy post-punk backbone

From: Auckland, New Zealand

Personae: Joel Flyger (vocals, guitar), Adam Page (bass) and David Larson (drums)

Formed in 2009, Popstrangers started off as a low-profile local Auckland band fueled by a dislike for their day jobs and a passion for playing music. Very quickly, however, the noisy psych-pop trio found its footing: A nationwide band competition landed them a coveted slot at Auckland’s 2010 Big Day Out fest, and they released two EPs by the end of 2010.

Still, this forward momentum wasn’t without its setbacks. A record deal with legendary label Flying Nun only yielded one single, and Popstrangers cycled through a long line of drummers before settling on David Larson in 2011. The band’s debut full-length, Antipodes, reflects this restlessness. The New Zealand band rarely settles on one style; stormy jangle, gloomy post-punk and grungy riffs contrast with vocalist Joel Flyger’s sleepy-eyed croon and moments of brittle guitar-pop are balanced by languid shoegaze.

A few weeks before Antipodes was officially released, Flyger answered some questions via email about his ultimate goal as a band — “To play lots of shows, release lots of records and never have to work a proper job again” — and about Popstrangers’ place in music.

On recording Antipodes in the basement of a 1930s-era dancehall:

It was dark. There was a lot of concrete. But the studio itself was great. [There were] lots of rugs on the ground, and equipment everywhere. We were able to feel at home there and come and go at any time of the day or night. It’s very large, as well, with other people coming and going. There was always something happening. Mostly, people hanging around trying to find acid.

On how restlessness and dissatisfaction inspired his lyrics:

A lot of my lyrics for Antipodes came from just wanting something different and more than what was on offer at the time. I wasn’t very happy with what I was doing, the room I was living in, or what I was doing for a job. And at the time, I couldn’t really see anything changing. Most of the themes on the album are about unrest, or lust or certain people in my life during that period.

On how Antipodes emerged so cohesive:

It’s a document of what we were doing about midway through last year. The songs came out fairly quickly in the recording studio, and we knew what we wanted. We had recorded more, but the 10 songs on the album were the cohesive ones and fit together best. It’s taken longer to release the album, but we are very happy with that, too. We recorded it over two or three weeks, with a little more time spent on guitars.

On being influenced by the Cure:

I’m a big fan of the Cure, especially the melodies. Three Imaginary Boys is one of my favorites.

On the current New Zealand music scene:

There are a lot of great bands coming out of Christchurch at the moment, which suffered due to an earthquake a few years ago. It’s good to see the music scene there going well again. I think the NZ music scene is diverse, genre-wise, and there are not prevailing trends as such — but [there are] lots of shows that need more attention by the general public here outside of the music community.

On other New Zealand bands they admire:

I admire the Clean and Bailterspace, as they started something different and developed a “sound.” Also, Bic Runga is a talented vocalist who still makes great music.

Deer Park, Rackets, The Transistors, Salad Boys and Males are the bands we are playing with during our New Zealand album release tour. They are all great people and play a good mix of music.

On how New Zealand has had an impact on its music:

I guess, of course, the surroundings of where you make music has a direct impact on things, but it’s not something I think about or take into account. Perhaps the isolation plays a part in the themes and energy in the music.

On his unexpected musical influences:

I think perhaps ’80s and ’90s mainstream pop music has an influence, as I lived with my mother and sister growing up and they listened to a lot of pop music. A lot of that has stuck with me. Also, opera music and its different movements and journeys are personal influences.

A sparse folk record with thorough, unflinching self-analysis

Singer-songwriter Samantha Crain has always sounded like an old soul, her dusty alto worn down by restless thoughts and free-floating anxiety. On the autobiographical Kid Face, the Oklahoma native sounds even more wizened as she explores loneliness, wanderlust and emotional disruption. Produced by John Vanderslice, Kid Face is a sparse record, laced with stark folk and Americana signifiers: acoustic guitar, wobbly piano, curled pedal steel and keening violin. Shambling banjo, stabs of synthesizer or electric guitar add occasional jolts of urgency to the mix.

But significantly, Crain comes into her own as a lyricist on Kid Face. Besides being a meticulous wordsmith (“I’m going to shows, counting my toes and crying over you” is how she describes one particularly trying breakup), she offers thorough, unflinching self-analysis. Crain uses Kid Face‘s songs to examine her place in the world — and figure out how her actions affect others, for better and for worse. “Churchill” addresses the realization that “my whole life I thought I was an opportunist/ But I’m not”; “Sand Paintings” struggles with overcoming self-sabotaging tendencies; and “Ax” is a call to be kind in the face of negativity. Perhaps most impressive is “Never Going Back,” which describes (hopefully) breaking free from a disastrous affair: “The ending of 10,000 dreams/ My soul has finally been set free from his cool eyes.” The song is devastatingly effective because of its economy, the same trait that also makes Kid Face a wonderful record.

A confident and clear-eyed throwback to strummy '80s college rock

Veronica Falls set the bar high with their 2011 self-titled debut, an exemplary collection of foggy indie-pop with rambunctious guitars, cartoonishly gothic sentiments and a restless heart. On their charming second album, Waiting For Something To Happen, the U.K. quartet stands up even straighter and smooth out any lingering wrinkles. Produced by Rory Attwell (The Vaccines, Male Bonding), the record is a confident and clear-eyed throwback to a time when strummy ’80s college rock ruled the underground. “Tell Me” has the crispness and buoyancy of an early R.E.M. song, while the deliberate “Shooting Star” channels the unsettled beauty of Throwing Muses. Vocalist Roxanne Clifford also sounds far more self-assured; her lilting soprano soars and dips around the band’s hypnotic male background harmonies, especially on the Lush/New Order hybrid “If You Still Want Me.”

Veronica Falls’ knack for smartly addressing familiar themes — ennui, romantic confusion and loneliness, to name a few — remains strong on Waiting. The title track chides someone for their inertia (“Everybody’s crazy/ What’s your excuse, baby?”), “Everybody’s Changing” struggles with accepting change and “Last Conversation” is a proper album-ender, a bittersweet declaration of a broken relationship. Still, Waiting possesses a stubborn optimistic streak despite its angst, which neutralizes any melancholy and adds jolts of extra energy. It all adds up to a lovely, enduring album which cements Veronica Falls as one of the best indie-pop bands going.

File under: Noisy '90s daydreams

For fans of: Lush, Dinosaur Jr., Yuck, Drop Nineteens

From: London

Personae: Stephanie Min (vocals and guitar), Jerome Watson (guitar), Aslam Ghauri (guitar), Kelly Owens (bass and vocals) and James Thomas (drums)

Two years ago, Stephanie Min and Jerome Watson formed The History of Apple Pie as a modest bedroom project. Little did they know how fast things would move: A warm reception to a few songs they posted online caused them to cobble together a live band; in the months that followed, the pair used the classified ads to connect with James Thomas, met Aslam Ghauri through Thomas and found Kelly Owens through their pals the Pains of Being Pure at Heart and the Depreciation Guild.

Their first full-length, Out Of View is sure to please fans of much-missed Britpop/shoegaze act Lush — Owens and Min’s burnt-sugar vocal harmonies echo the late group — but its saw-toothed guitar drone, cheerful feedback buzz and lilting melodies transcend any one influence. The record’s melancholic sheen gives it lovely sentimental weight.

Just after Christmas, Min answered some email questions from eMusic’s Annie Zaleski about the band’s origins, inspirations and unique alchemy.

On what brought the band together:

I think it was boredom, mainly. We didn’t really have anything else to do apart from our jobs and were just sitting around.

On their songwriting process:

Jerome and I write all of the music, but in the live environment the band all like to experiment and contribute. In terms of the actual songwriting process, a lot of the early demos began with Jerome writing the instrumental and me writing the lyrics and vocal melody. As time has gone on, we have both involved ourselves in each other’s duties. The one thing that held me back the most from contributing instrumentally was the fact I couldn’t really play any instruments and hadn’t got any grasp of programming. In the last year, I got more to grips with it all, and even started to learn guitar, so it’s become a lot easier for me to lay down song ideas that I have. It beats having to hum guitar and weird noise parts into my phone!

On how fiction inspires Min’s lyrics:

I’ve been inspired by past friendships, situations I’ve been in, but the majority of experiences that I write about aren’t experiences that I’ve had at all. Some of my favorite songs have come from imagining myself in hypothetical, sugar-coated situations, the kind you only see in the movies. The lyrics have always come naturally, after I get a feeling for the instrumental. If it makes me feel like running away with a loved one, I write about that. If the song makes me feel like I’ve just been fucked over and seek revenge, I write about that. I like making the listener feel something, but am especially interested in hearing people’s own scenarios having listened to our songs.

On getting it right…the second time:

We actually recorded [Out Of View] twice in total. The first time around was a disaster, but a good learning curve. The band was pretty much thrown in the deep end and expected to record, produce and mix the record entirely on our own. We had some experience of producing and mixing, but not to the scale of how we wanted our full-length LP to sound. We were never happy with the first output, so we turned to some of our friends for help. [The Horrors'] Joshua [Hayward] became a huge help to us from an engineering perspective, and our old friend Charles “Chicky” Reeves stepped in to handle mixing duties. Without them, we wouldn’t have a record so we’re extremely grateful.

The biggest challenge Jerome and I had the first time around was getting the right balance between lo-fi (which we were firmly against) and highly-produced (which didn’t necessarily suit our style of music). We just didn’t know how or what we wanted the record to sound like. Nothing seemed to be working. Then, like magic, the second time around it all just came together. Charles had experience of mixing lots of pop acts, and he somehow managed to keep the energy and rawness flowing throughout the record, whilst still giving it a polished sound.

On how contrasts inform the band:

Singles are great, but an album gives us the opportunity to tell our listeners a story. It’ll demonstrate stuff like Jerome’s love for strange sounds and guitars, my love for harmonies and appreciation of female pop groups, and the band’s love for feel-good, noisy music as a whole.

The songwriting is all very natural. Jerome tends to come in from more of a noisy guitar angle, whereas I come in from a sweet, melodic angle. That’s pretty much how our songs are made.

On their worst gig ever:

Every band has that “one show” that they “dare not speak about ever again.” For us, it was our second show at the Bull & Gate in Kentish Town, London. Our previous managers had taken us to a curry house an hour before the show. Just before we were due on stage, I was pretty much throwing up just behind the stage, and I think the rest of the band felt pretty rough, too. Fortunately, the next time we played Kentish Town was a year later supporting one of our guitar heroes Graham Coxon [Blur], and we had an absolute blast.

On Lush and other Britpop bands:

Lush are great. I’m obsessed with their song “Nothing Natural” at the moment. There’s a bit in the video that just reminds me of Kelly and I — you know, where Miki [Berenyi] and Emma [Anderson] are sitting close to each other and the strobe lights are all going off?

Jerome grew up listening to bands like Blur, Pulp, Oasis. His dad used to work at a record shop in Soho, so he introduced Jerome to a lot of cool stuff. He was also in this amazing stoner rock band called Terminal Cheesecake!

On Min’s formative influences:

I fell into music very suddenly and only thought about pursuing it when I started writing songs with Jerome for this band. Before then, though, while growing up, I was excited by girl groups like TLC and Salt-n-Pepa. I wanted to be in a hip-hop group! I was later introduced to bands like Placebo, Smashing Pumpkins and Pulp by my sister indirectly — mainly by sneaking into her room and rummaging through her tape and CD collections. I soon fell in love with the song “Nancy Boy” by Placebo and that’s when I realized guitars were fucking cool.

On being misunderstood:

Any tags that we’ve had have always been misleading and based on hearing one single or song. That’s why the album will be a nice way to confirm our sound once and for all. Whilst we do like a lot of ’90s bands, I think people fail to understand that the songwriting process for us personally is a lot more complex than just replicating what those bands do.

On not being slacker-rock:

There’s nothing really slackerish about the album at all. It’s pretty polished and well-thought about. We’d know, considering we went through hell and back to record it!

On unexpected influences:

We are quite into a lot of electronic music, actually — stuff like Add N to X, Squarepusher, Aphex Twin and Portishead. We love the strange noises and arrangements created by these artists and bands; it inspires us to go and create our own bunch of Frankenstein sounds. Listening to the album, there is a definite nod to this genre of music.

On the biggest misconception about them:

Weirdly enough, one of the biggest has been that we’re signed to Rough Trade! We aren’t really signed as such. We are just doing our part for the indie community by releasing our album through one of our good friend’s labels, Marshall Teller. We’re glad that we’ve been able to help increase the status of this particular independent label and encourage people to give it the recognition it deserves. They’ve been so good to us. It’s nice to not be treated like a product, but treated like musicians.

Focused and strikingly sincere California pop

During the ’80s, Camper Van Beethoven were violin-toting college-rock oddballs who dabbled in everything from ska and world music to fractured country and psych-pop. The David Lowery-led group took most of the ’90s off after a bitter breakup, but when the band reunited in 1999, its music was as gloriously askew as ever. In 2002, they released an elaborate, song-for-song re-do of Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk; two years later came the prog-driven New Roman Times, a concept album with a politically-charged storyline referencing aliens, terrorism and a Texas vs. California civil war.

Thematically, La Costa Perdida — Camper Van Beethoven’s first album since New Roman Times — is more cohesive: It’s steeped in the cultural history, weirdo aesthetic and laid-back vibe of Northern California. This local flavor especially permeates La Costa Perdida: “You Got To Roll” is a smoldering psych-freak guitar jam on which Lowery shrieks, “Let’s make love — before we die!” right before he exclaims, “Too high, too high!” The title track, meanwhile, is a Norteño-influenced, oompah waltz, and “Northern California Girls” is a loping alt-country sprawl with Jonathan Segel’s evocative violin and plush vocal harmonies courtesy of guests such as the Futurebirds. On the twang-darkened moodpiece “Come Down the Coast,” you can also hear shadows of the Beach Boys’ heavy-lidded 1973 psych-pop opus Holland, which Lowery has cited as an influence.

But what stands out most on La Costa Perdida is Camper Van Beethoven’s songwriting. The band’s approach is no less diverse — the giddy, two-minute ska high-step “Peaches In The Summertime” comes several songs after the Flaming Lips-esque “Too High For The Love-In” — but it’s also focused, with little of the self-indulgence which often made New Roman Times sluggish. And for a band known for its wicked humor, La Costa Perdida is often strikingly sincere; for example, the album-closing “A Love For All Time” is a syrupy homage to picture-perfect beach noir music that sounds like Pulp on a tropical island. It’s an unexpectedly vulnerable way to end an album full of warped California pop, but it’s also indicative of how Camper Van Beethoven has cobbled together a fine career by doing nothing but tossing curveballs.

Indulging a serious classic-rock jones without a trace of irony

The Philadelphia quintet Free Energy has a fondness for brash ’70s classic rock, ’80s pop and peppy’90s buzz bin fodder. But on Love Sign, the band’s second album, these touchstones amount to more than just a hazy nostalgia trip. That’s mainly because Free Energy executes its brand of retro-shtick without a trace of distance. “Girls Want Rock” is skinny-tie power-pop full of enthusiastic handclaps, falsetto oohs. squirrelly keyboards and zero air quotes; the Fleetwood Mac-esque “Hold U Close” is a heartfelt plea for romantic vulnerability driven by water falling harmonies; and the keyboard-slathered croon “True Love” is a straight-ahead ’80s R&B slow jam. Even the songs where Free Energy channels Bachman-Turner Overdrive (the cowbell-augmented “Electric Fever” and “Backscratcher”) sound gleeful and sincere.

Credit for Love Sign‘s expansive sound goes to producer John Agnello (Sonic Youth, The Thermals), who’s adept at coaxing bright, vivid sonics from the bands he produces. Agnello refines Free Energy’s sound into something crisper and more focused than their 2010 debut, Stuck On Nothing, allowing for little embellishments like horns (“Time Rolls On”) or arena-ballad guitar solos (the moody “Dance All Night”). At the end of the day, Free Energy arent getting any check marks for originality with Love Sign; the album’s strong songwriting ensures the band doesn’t have to.