Here, Bratton walks us through some of his favorite Cascine releases.

“I feel like an alien most of the time,” Wolfe jokes, attempting to skirt an obnoxiously oversized mound of whip cream topping her iced latte at Los Angeles’s Urth Caffe. “But I guess I’m human.”

Laura Studarus joined Wolfe for a conversation in the blistering summer sun about nature vs. nurture, life after death, music as therapy, and how it all fits together on Pain is Beauty.

Do you feel your new album, Pain is Beauty, is dark?

I don’t always think of it as dark. I talk about it as reality music. There’s always two sides to every story. There’s a dark side and a light side, usually. I guess I do tend to focus on the side that’s harsher.

Have people tried to slap the term “Goth” on it?

Not anymore. I actually thought of it as a joke at first. It started to get so widely used. In my mind, Goth is like Siouxsie and the Banshees or Joy Division, the whole ’80s music thing. I don’t consider myself in that category, so I don’t really think of myself as Goth.

It’s like the word “hipster.” The term has been diluted from overuse.

Yeah, it’s in the same family.

Were you always so aware of this idea of the dark and the light?

I definitely knew that I understood sadness and darkness in reality in a certain way, ever since I was really little. I started by writing poems and things like that about it. I knew I needed to channel it into something. It was frustrating and confusing to figure out the world as a young kid. So I started writing poems.

How old were you when you started writing poems?

Six or seven. I started recording music when I was nine. It was because my dad was in a band when I was growing up. So I had access to musical equipment in the studio.

So music was never some kind of foreign language to you.

No. It was just something I started doing organically. As cheesy as that sounds. I hate that word.

Did you show your dad your stuff early? Or was there an intimidation factor there since he was an established musician?

He would help me record and stuff like that. I have a sister and a stepsister, so we formed a little family band. I was having fun. I remember being in fourth grade and wanting to take the songs to show and tell. Just bringing a tape in.

Did you do it?

I don’t remember exactly. I might have. I was always comfortable with the idea of recorded music.

Where do you stand on the idea of nature versus nurture? It seems to be one of the narrative threads of the new album.

For me it’s a little bit of both. A lot of people are born to do something. A lot of times they don’t figure that out. Sometimes they do. From a young age I knew that I understood things in a certain way, and I could put it into words in my own way. I knew I would always do that, whether it was presenting it to the public or not.

Do you find that your physical environment plays into that?

Yeah. Pain is Beauty is a lot about nature and the inspiration that comes from it, like the intensity of a volcano. I was really drawn to stories of the earthquake and tsunami in Japan, stories of natural disaster and the way it affects humanity. That’s where a lot of the lyrics came from. Translations from people and what they were saying.

Part of the title Pain is Beauty was inspired by fire ecology. In certain forest environments, fire is necessary to generate growth and cleanse it, so that new ecosystems can survive and thrive. The idea that something terrible can make something beautiful and things like that. At the same time, though it is something that’s semi-natural, when it comes to people’s homes, it’s very scary. The earthquake thing is pretty intense, too. There’s part of that in the album too, this idea that we go about our lives, we do what we do, but the earth is so much more powerful than us and it could shake us up and kill us off if it wanted to. It’s so crazy to have that dynamic constantly in your head.

Do you have a belief or an idea of a higher power? Or is the earth your higher power?

For this album, it definitely is. It’s the idea that nature has control over everything, that it could wipe us out in a second if it wanted to. It does sometimes; it takes out so many people at once. It’s so intense.

How do you feel about the way humans affect nature?

Thinking about clear-cutting forests makes my skin crawl. If you think about the earth as a living being, that’s how we toxify everything. I get overwhelmed, honestly. I do think about the world in the micro and macro sense, the bigness of everything and the smallness of everything. It’s really overwhelming. So both ways, the way we affect nature, the way nature affects us, and when they collide.

The idea of death also appears several times on the album.

In my music, it’s something I approach a lot and explore in different ways. It’s not something I’ve had to deal with, the death of someone that’s close to me, which is pretty rare. I feel lucky for that, but it’s also why it’s so intriguing. What is it like to lose someone? What is it like to die? What’s it like to be dead?

When I was younger, the first film to really impact me was The Seventh Seal by Ingmar Bergman. The visual character of death stuck in my mind. I used to dream about it in a lot of forms. Eventually I started writing about it in different ways. Sometimes it is very much a character. Other times it’s just a theme.

So if something does happen to a friend or loved one, do you feel like you’d be prepared to deal with it?

I don’t think it would make it any easier. I think I would be just as upset as everyone else, even though I’ve focused on it for so long.

What is your concept of life after death? Do you have one?

That’s such a big thing. I’m one of those people that feels like there’s a lot of different possibilities. I feel at peace with that. Not that I’m not scared of death. But I’m not particularly scared of it, either. It doesn’t fill me with a sense of dread. I feel like whoever or whatever put us here is going to put us in a good place. Whether that’s back in the earth or in the spiritual realm, it’s something that I feel okay with. Maybe one day I’ll have a specific vision of what I think it is.

Do you find it more interesting to write about the idea of finding peace, or the conflict leading up to it?

I’m interested in contrasting the two, I guess. There’s often a sense of yearning or questioning or frustration. But it’s contrasted by a sense of hope. For me, at least. Whether it’s in the melody or the lyrics. Sometimes the music can feel really dark, but the lyrics are actually really hopeful. Or vice versa. The song “The Warden,” the music sounds more light and airy than I’m used to. But lyrically it’s a pretty dark song about tormented love. I usually try to put a little bit of contrast in there so it’s not completely dreadful or too bright and happy. There’s got to be a balance.

“The Warden” does seem like it has some tormented love overtones, but that doesn’t seem like a huge part of your songwriting.

I approach it every now and then. That was one of my personal favorites on the album. I put it on the album as a theme.

There’s a beautiful simile on Pain is Beauty, “I carry heaviness like a mountain.” You’ve worked through so much; do you feel like music is a form of therapy for you?

I think it helps me to clarify things. For me it’s like an exultation. Once I understand something, it’s so much more fun to be alive. That’s why music is fun, even though a lot of my music is dark. It’s me coming to understand something or having a revelation about something. Even if it’s small, I really think epiphanies in life are really important. It’s an essential part of growing as a person.

File under: Ethereal pop delivered with a breezy simplicity

From: Portland

Personae: Daniel Hindman and Sarah Versprille

Pure Bathing Culture’s partnership sprung from Daniel Hindman and Sarah Versprille’s stint as part of Vetiver. But since meeting in 2009 the pair has distanced themselves from their beach folk roots, relocating from New York City to Portland, Oregon, and burrowing deeper into their stripped-down dream pop. Their debut full-length Moon Tides follows in the footsteps of last year’s self-titled EP, teasing out the duo’s bucolic sound with 1980s-influenced flourishes, subtle dance beats, and unexpected drones.

eMusic’s Laura Studarus caught up with both Hindman and Versprille. They told her about the strangest part of their cross-country transition, making the most of brief studio time, and why they’re keeping their fingers crossed for the existence of little green men.

On driving and surviving — New York versus Portland:

Daniel Hindman: There’s total culture shock here in Portland. Driving is just so different. People drive so slowly and carefully.

Sarah Versprille: It’s almost that they’re considerate to the point of being a little bit dangerous.

Hindman: You’ll be going 40 miles per hour on a road and somebody will just stop because they see a pedestrian on a sidewalk. It’s crazy. It’s super kind. It’s very compassionate. But it’s also dangerous.

On making their minimal studio budget count:

Versprille: I think there’s a certain amount of freedom to know that’s how you’re working. You’re not going to do 25 takes. You’re not going to do 25 vocal passes. You’re only going to do a few, and one of them is going to be great, and that’s the one that you’re going to keep. I think it’s an interesting way to be able to trust yourself and trust your ability, and document where you were at, at the time that you made the recording. In that sense, it’s a really neat thing to be able to go back to and think things like, “I did it that way, because I didn’t know that you could do it another way, and I was just at that point when we made the recording.” I think that’s a special part of making records in that way.

Hindman: It helps it to be really real. That record was recorded in 10 days. Nothing before that, nothing after that. That what we were doing for 10 days, and then we were done. It’s funny, if we were allowed to go back and work more on it, maybe we would have.

On believing in aliens (maybe):

Hindman: I hope there are. I actually like that aspect of the title too. The title for us became a concept that we were riffing on creatively. I like the idea that Moon Tides is a fantastical thing. It doesn’t need to be translated in some literal way to have some exact, deep meaning. I think for us it came to represent the overall ambience of the experience that we had making the record. I like that there’s such a strong relationship symbolically and scientifically between the moon and the tides, which is actually a working title we had originally for the record. But we wanted to strip it away from being so literal and maybe allow it to be something more fantastical that was a combination of the two things. To just be a little bit more open.

On their fascination with the moon:

Hindman: We have been for a while, really interested in the moon and all of its meanings. Scientifically and astrologically. We were really inspired by the relationship of the moon to the earth, and also the way the moon affects the tides and water. Water, as a representation of human emotion, and how the moon’s energy really effects, or could really affect us. Our bodies are made up of mostly water. The moon affects the ocean. It’s reasonable to think that perhaps it affects us in that same profound way. We’re really interested in that, and really inspired by that relationship.

Versprille: I think our interest in the moon, for me, initially was interest in the symbolism. Through different cultures and history there’s so much symbolism and meaning behind the moon. Eventually that does translate and resonate with the spirituality of the moon. At some point, it had a meaning. At some point from all the reading and thinking about it, it started to mean something a little bit more to me. It takes on a different meaning when you think about it a lot.

On water imagery in their music:

Hindman: It’s similar to the concept to the moon. The was one of the reasons that we were attracted to the name Moon Tides as well, because we did want to deal with the theme of water. For us, we think of water as emotion. We think a lot about rebirth and transformation. Those are sort of the themes. It sounds really strange. But it’s a means to an end. We’re musicians we’re not gurus. It’s stuff that turns us on and informs the songs. We’re just songwriters — we’re not new age freaks. The thing is that we’re really turned on by all that stuff. But we’re not out there, telling people that crystals will change their lives. That stuff functions as a muse for us. Maybe the next muse will be something completely different.

On soulmates and the song “Twins”:

Versprille: It’s about deep human connections. More so than predestine soulmates, it’s about when you do have that person, whether it’s a romantically involved relationship, or a relationship between mother and daughter or father and son. Those connections in life are the most tangible, real things that we have. That song is about the beauty of that connection.

Hindman: It’s also about how far someone would go for that. Being willing to transcend all things or transform to maintain that connection.

On looking on the bright side of life:

Hindman: I consider myself to be an optimist. I believe in positively. Again, not in some kind of preaching way. We don’t want to be gurus. But I believe in positively. I believe in optimism. I believe in trying to do the right thing for the right reasons.

Lo-fi pop duo masters the art of understatement

Pure Bathing Culture’s debut full-length is comprised predominately of first takes. There’s hardly a fresh-faced young upstart that hasn’t been forced to economize in the studio, but what’s notable here is that despite their logistical limitations, nothing about Moon Tides feels rushed. The Portland, Oregon-based duo has managed to deliver nine lo-fi pop gems, all which float with the ease of a sun-drunk summer day.

More than mere musical daydreamers, Pure Bathing Culture are masters in the art of understatement. Vocalist Sarah Versprille sings as though cloud watching. She glides through “Pendulum,” transforming occult-referencing lyrics into a pleasant haze intermixed with a wash of drum machines and acoustic guitars. “Scotty” interjects a subtle last-call groove to the band’s minimal palette, while Versprille is given room to play a convincing coquette, her voice looped into a 1980s-style backing-choir. “Temples of the Moon” is by far the album’s darkest track, the band trading their synth-driven bounce for a haunting meditation backed only by a guitar and drone. An impressive introduction, Moon Tides proves that even when stripped to the bare bones, Pure Bathing Culture still manage to glow.

Tart, wry pop, delivered with a wicked grin

Seattle-based singer/songwriter Shelby Earl begins her genre-blurring sophomore album Swift Arrows in girl-group land: Against the charming doo-wop piano stroll of the title track, she sings with a theatrical sweetness that channels Regina Spektor by way of Ronnie Spector, with a hint of St. Vincent’s poised regret. “You’ll find one poison-tipped swift arrow in your mind/ And they’ll find one poison-tipped swift arrow in their eye,” she sighs, over chiming bells and strings. It’s a moment that tips her hand: The sound is sweet, but this is a singer/songwriter unafraid of dirty riffs and dark lyrics—all delivered with a wicked grin.

With Damien Jurado in the producer’s chair, Earl strays from the winsomeness of her debut, Burn the Boats. She still dabbles in folk, as on the echo-filled backcountry lament “Grown Up Things” or the hypnotic “The Seer,” which hinges on nothing but Earl’s mournful vocals and a single acoustic guitar before spiky electric guitars rough things up. Swift Arrows is the work of an artist who has discovered her tart, wry voice, which infuses her songs no matter what shape they take: “I love you/ You love you too,” goes the mocking singsong of the Phil Spector-leaning “The Artist.” “I’ll make the bed while you are off to shoot the moon,” she sings, tongue firmly planted in cheek. Yeah, right. Earl may be an adroit shapeshifter, but she’s no one’s woman but her own.

To participate, musicians must submit an original, unpublished song. Since residents of their home country can’t vote for them, the goal is to woo an international audience. As a result, language, content and staging is all up for interpretation. Read: This is a contest of big, bigger biggest.

eMusic’s Laura Studarus complied a fantasy Eurovision Song Contest lineup. How would artists and songs stack up against each other if the laws of time, space, and competition were suspended in favor of good taste and outstanding musicality?

Graduating from the hazy hallmarks of chillwave

Once a star pupil of the chillwave class of ’09-10, (which also featured Washed Out, Toro Y Moi and Neon Indian), Small Black, on their second full-length, has graduated from the hazy hallmarks of the sub-genre. Limits of Desire is a meditation on technology and the elements of modern society that foster emotional separation: Reveling in a newfound crispness in both production and vocals, frontman Josh Kolenik wears his heart on his sleeve across ten tracks of Instagrammed lyrics about love, escaping the big city, and being “reckless as rain.” As a result, the album shimmers with the kind of anthemic wonder usually found in the end credits of coming-of-age films. Lead single “Free at Dawn” opens with a New Order-lite pulse, building to the early U2-level climax. Coming down from the mountaintop is almost as pleasant; “Canoe,” “No Stranger,” “Shook Loves” and others offer a starry-eyed take on introspective balladry, capable of carrying their twilight-tinted dance party well into the dawn.

Anthem-ready sing-alongs, full of pumped-up hooks for pumped-up kids

Guards are positioning themselves to take up residence in the house that Foster the People built; unacquainted with understatement, the trio pepper their caffeinated debut album with anthem-ready sing-alongs, full of pumped-up hooks for pumped-up kids. In Guards We Trust packs a spectrum of touch points into its 12 tracks, plucking influences from across the dial. Although leaning heavily on a slacker charm, “Silver Lining” is more jingle pop than garage, the raw guitar mostly used to frame the sugary chorus. “Can’t Repair” repackages their energy into a Motown swagger. The unifying factor here is energy, every song eagerly poised to become summer barbeque and film credit fodder alike.

Heading toward hip-hop pop provocateur territory

Charli XCX (née Charlotte Aitchison) may have staked her initial musical claim on electro-Goth turf, but on her debut full-length, the 20-year-old singer/songwriter heads toward hip-hop pop provocateur territory. True Romance is Aitchison’s tribute to primordial longing for love and the enviable comedown when it’s over. Like genre-gobbling kindred spirit Grimes, Aitchison cherry-picks styles highlighting her journey from angst to elation and back again with Siouxsie Sioux synths, Material Girl hooks, and sing-speech akin to M.I.A. basking in the afterglow. Although aiming for an alternate-dimension mainstream takeover (“Nuclear Seasons” is a kohl-lined cousin to Britney Spears’s “Toxic,”), Aitchison has her art-school dropout priorities in place — never resting on one idea long enough for us to get comfortable. Moving between a seductive rap-whisper to a throaty growl with preternatural ease, she never once gives the idea that she’s ever less than in full control.

eMusic’s Laura Studarus caught up with Shapiro and Agebjörn, and the two joined her in a conversation about their new album Somewhere Else, the power of nostalgia, and the cinematic possibilities of their back catalog.

Being film fans, do you ever picture how your music might be used in movies?

Agebjörn: On “Sundown” on Somewhere Else, we tried to recreate the sound of a certain type of ’80s ballads, or maybe not exactly ballads, but some kind of slower 80s pop. With the saxophone solo at the end it sounds (especially on the vinyl version of the album) very much like something played in a cheap bar in the ’80s — for example, in the bars on the Viking Line ferries between Sweden and Finland. The lyrics are about having lost your love, so we imagine a scene in a movie taking place in the ’80s, where someone has just lost her/his love and is sitting in a bar, drinking in order to forget, while the live band is playing this song.

Shapiro: Our track “Casablanca Nights” [from Agebjörn's album with the same name] was originally inspired by the film Love Actually, and all the complicated love stories in there. The writing of the song started with the phrase “Since when did love get uncomplicated?” However, if we got to set one of our tracks to that movie, we would choose the last minutes of our first track, “I’ll Be By Your Side,” to the happy ending scene with people hugging each other.

Agebjörn: When we made “Swimming Through The Blue Lagoon” [from the album My Guilty Pleasure], we didn’t have the film The Blue Lagoon from 1980 in mind, but we had watched the film many years ago, so probably it was a subconscious influence. Our track would suit pretty well, we think, to the scenes where they are swimming in the lagoon, obviously.

With love as a running them throughout your music, do you consider yourselves to be romantics?

Shapiro: [Laughs.] Yes, I would really say so!

Agebjörn: Music is a good way to express that. Because I don’t think we are more romantic than everyday people in our ordinary, day-to-day actions. But inside, yeah.

What’s more fun for you, to create a tragic love song? Or one that’s a bit happier?

Shapiro: I think a tragic one is better. Or funnier, in a way. It feels more real, even though there are happy love stories also. But it feels more strong.

Agebjörn: Maybe you have a need to express it more.

Shapiro: Happy love, it feels like it should happen more with a different sound than [ours]. Happy love songs have to be good — at least if you’re going to bother to make a whole album of them.

Agebjörn: I think it can be some kind of therapy for yourself, to express melancholic feelings in the music.

Who brings most of these themes to the table?

Shapiro: I don’t really know who does the most. It feels like we both do. But I can’t really say. I think it’s quite equal.

Agebjörn: In the beginning it felt a bit more like my project than it does now. At least the first few songs.

Shapiro: Yes. I feel more a part of it now. Not that I didn’t have a chance to be more a part of it before, but it feels like I’m taking a bigger part in it.

Agebjörn: I don’t have to convince Sally as much as I did in the beginning. So that’s good.

Shapiro: No [laughs]. In the beginning it was more like my saying “yes” or “no” to the things that Johan wrote for me. But now I’m more in the process.

How important is it to you that your personality comes through in these songs?

Shapiro: It is important that it’s not a total other personality. There is more to both me and Johan’s personality than we express in the songs, but it’s important that it feels like us. Or at least one of us.

Agebjörn: I remember you weren’t too fond of “Space Woman From Mars.”

Shapiro: No. Exactly. Because that’s not something I can really identify with. But I can identify with most of the other songs. Therefore the lyrics are very important for me.

Do you see music as an escape from your day-to-day life? Or is it an expression of it?

Shapiro: A tough question!

Agebjörn: Maybe it’s an escape if you look at what you do. We both have other occupations.

Shapiro: But not in a feelings way. It makes feelings get stronger.

Agebjörn: You feel like you’re more of yourself. I didn’t realize when we first made Disco Romance, but when I thought about the songs, I was just thinking that, “OK, let’s do this the Italo disco way.” I didn’t realize until afterwards that there was a lot of my personality in it as well.

I think that that could be hard to escape, not putting your personality into a project, even when you’re working in a frame like Italo disco.

Shapiro: [Laughs.] Yeah. It would probably not be very good either. Maybe it depends on the artist.

Agebjörn: when I look back at the different types of music that I tried to create back in 2005 or 2006, the songs that were most successful were probably the songs where I expressed my personality. I also made French Filter House music, which was popular about 10 years ago. I tried to do some of that. When I listen to it today, it sounds pathetic, since I was just copying things. Where as Sally Shapiro and my own music, there’s more of myself in it.

Do you find that now you’re taking even more ownership of your music, Somewhere Else expresses who you are maybe more than Disco Romance did?

Shapiro: Maybe in some way, with some of the songs.

Agebjörn: On the other hand, “Find My Soul” from Disco Romance, it’s a song about having a boyfriend who doesn’t understand you, which was a theme in your life.

Shapiro: Yeah, yeah! That’s true. [Laughs.]

Is it easier for you to be vulnerable about things like a boyfriend that doesn’t understand you in song than, say, discussing them with a friend?

Shapiro: Absolutely. Yeah.

Agebjörn: That’s something we’ve talked about. Sally sometimes says if everyone knew her name and who she was, she wouldn’t be able to do this in the same intimate way.

Shapiro: Yeah. I don’t think so. I think that’s also important. You are more free in this way. Some of it can sound very intimate. And that’s a frightening feeling if you’re called out. But I think many people feel that but can’t express that, because it’s been expressed so many ways before. But doing it this way, it feels like you can do it, and not think about that all the time. In that way it’s better.

Was music a major part of both of your childhoods?

Agebjörn: Yes. I recorded stuff to tape when I was five or six years old. I still have some of those tapes. It’s fun to listen to them. I recorded myself singing and making sounds and things.

Shapiro: We both — like most people in Sweden, really — went to this music school in our spare time where we learned to play piano.

Agebjörn: My strongest musical memories are all from the time I was a teenager. It seems like that’s pretty common.

Shapiro: It’s also a period when you start to build up an identity. What kind of music you listen to becomes part of your identity.

Agebjörn: What’s funny with Sally Shapiro is that I didn’t listen to disco so much when I was in my late teenage years. I listened to disco when I was 12. Electronica was part of my later teenage period. Then I returned to my love from childhood.

It’s amazing how we do return to things we loved as children.

Shapiro: Yeah. It’s hard to say if we really do still like them.

Agebjörn: We are very nostalgic people, both me and Sally.

Is there a song or a band that reminds you of the first time you fell in love?

Agebjörn: I remember I was listening to an album by Erasure when I was in a period of unhappy love when I was 17 years old. It was the album I Say I Say I Say that contains the song “Always” [sings], “Always, always, do do do.”

In the past, your music has been called a “guilty pleasure.” What do you think would be the greatest compliment that someone could say about your music?

Agebjörn: Sometimes we get emails from people who tell us stories, personal stories about our music and how it has affected them. That’s the best thing that can happen in terms of feedback. Someone told us our music helped them start a relationship — that’s really fantastic.

Shapiro: It is fun when people feel that they can identify, that it expresses their feelings. I like that.

Brimming with youthful vigor and energy

On their debut Between Places, the Norwegian collective Young Dreams rounds out a subgenre in your music collection you didn’t even know existed: well-adjusted coming-of-age anthems. As evidenced by the driving album opener “Footprints,” where the band’s multiple singers toss out vocal harmonies as though auditioning for the musical adaptation of Fight Club, Young Dreams isn’t lacking for scrappy enthusiasm, and Between Places brims with youthful vigor and energy. They’ve obviously worked their way through the Beach Boy’s catalogue, as the bucolic multi-part harmonies on “When Kisses Are Salty” attest, but they don’t merely parrot their influences. Like Vampire Weekend of Fleet Foxes, they work in a light, retro-pop style that came to prominence that came to prominence years before they were born, updating it with lyrical signifiers of modern life: cell phone chargers, drinking games, and the otherworldly quality of summer vacation. Weaving in orchestral flourishes into the mix, Young Dreams haven’t just managed to make what’s old sound fresh, they’ve created something entirely new. Who says youth is wasted on the young?

File under: Ethereal folk/pop interwoven with haunting vocal harmonies

For fans of: Sigur Ros, Sin Fang, Fleet Foxes, Psapp

From: Reykjavik, Iceland

Personae: Twin sisters Jófríður and Ásthildur

When they were 14, Jófríður and Ásthildur started a band for no other reason than it seemed like fun. However, the twin sisters never anticipated Pascal Pinon would be anything more than an enjoyable after-school activity.

“We’re so super shy,” says, Jófríður laughing while recounting the horror of their first concert. “We couldn’t stand, we had to sit down. My feet were shaking tremendously! I could barely speak between songs.”

Now 18 and on the cusp of graduation, the girls’ hobby has taken them further than they could have anticipated. On the strength of their childlike self-titled debut they signed to Morr Music (home to likeminded acts such as Sin Fang, Mum, and Amiina), and caught the attention of Sigur Rós producer, Alex Somers. Pascal Pinon’s second album Twosomeness (produced by Somers) is full-spectrum expansion on their delicate blend of porcelain Icelandic/English vocal harmonies, ghostly found sounds and familial intimacy. There’s still a hint of childlike wonderment, but maturation — as it turns out — can be pretty magical as well.

Before Jófríður left to watch a symphony performance, she told eMusic’s Laura Studarus about Pascal Pinon’s fragile beginnings, surviving the teenage years, and how working with producer made them more themselves.

On their humble beginnings:

When we started, we were 14 years old. We both felt that we didn’t fit with our classmates. We were kind of outsiders. They were just kids who lived in our neighborhood who we had nothing in common with. For that reason, when we started, I thought that they would hate it, that they wouldn’t like it at all. I was very shy. I didn’t want them to see it or hear it at all. But then, we got such positive response from people I had never talked to at all! I felt like people actually respected that we were doing something. Nobody laughed at us, which I thought initially they would do. It was very encouraging. We were so young and everything was so fragile at the time.

On common talking points:

People try to create an image for you because they want to market you. It’s a thing that comes with doing pop music. It’s not necessarily a good thing, but it holds hands. You create something that you are, and is easy for people to recognize. I feel like sometimes it’s necessary for me as well. When I’m listening to a new artist, I see a name and I want to know the backstory. The easiest thing and the most eye-catching thing for us is that we’re twins and we started young. Both of those things are actually true. So I’m not going to be fighting against it. I don’t feel like it’s negative, it’s just facts. It’s okay for me. As long as it’s not fake or pretentious. I feel like you shouldn’t fight against something so normal and natural.

On growing up with your best friend:

We fought all the time! We were like cats and dogs. We disagreed on things; we used to fight physically and with words. At the same time, we were really close. When we were not fighting, we were really happy. Now we’re really tight, actually. It’s really good. I’m really, really happy that I have her. It’s like having your best friend all the time. You don’t have to worry about ever losing them. They’re just going to be there. Sometimes that makes you feel like you can mess around with them too much. But if you don’t do that and have respect for your twin, it can be amazing.

On experiencing their teen dream:

I remember I vowed to myself that I would never have “teenage sickness” where you become very moody and make drama out of everything. I said, “I’m never going to have that thing!” But of course I do, like everyone.

I often would think, “In the future I want to do this and I want to do that.” Now when I think back, I think I’m exactly where I wanted to be. I’m doing all these things I find are incredibly interesting, especially when you’re meeting people that you always thought were so far away. But suddenly they’re close and so normal. Like meeting your idols and realizing that they’re just normal people. It’s something that’s weird to think. Because we’re working with Alex [Somers], we met Jónsi. It was strange. I had listened to Sigur Rós for a long time. I got their CD when I was 12. That’s something that I never would have thought of when I was a kid. But when I look back, it’s something that I always wanted. I’m glad now.

On finding inspiration in the absurd:

If there’s something on my mind, it’s very easy to deal with it by writing about it. I don’t know why I do that, but I feel like a lot of people do. It’s a way to clear it up. If there’s something that’s very complicated to you, just some emotions and stuff, it can be easy to get rid of it or make sense of it by creating. It definitely has helped me, and it has given depth in some of the lyrics. I try to be as honest as possible. Even if I don’t tell all the story — that would be boring — I take the feeling of them and make something around it. Or I exaggerate what is good and interesting. Life is an inspiration — normal things, things that are on your mind, and things that aren’t normal at all. All kinds of stuff.

Sometimes I feel so empty if there’s no drama going on in my life. It’s definitely sadness that makes the best songs, for some reason. It’s interesting, because you don’t want to be sad, but it can help you when you’re trying to be creative. A lot of the songs have some kind of sadness in them. But I also try to blend it with some kind of hope. I try to tweak it and make it a good song.

On working with producer Alex Somers (Sigur Rós, Sin Fang):

Alex has a way of exaggerating all the things about us that are weird. It was so good to work with a producer who doesn’t do all the creative work for you. He has his knowledge on how to do things. He talks to us and makes us create something, and then we get ideas, and he’s good at making them happen. That’s how we worked together. It was brilliant. At first I was so scared of doing it with a producer because we thought we’d lose all our characteristics. But it was totally opposite. He made it much more like us, and put all our characteristics in there.

On maintaining perspective:

I’m not sure if being a pop musician is something that I want to do for the rest of my life. It’s something that is interesting while it’s going on. I know this isn’t going to last forever. I want to get an education and go to University and stuff like that. I have to figure out what’s the best thing. You see these things happen and people are very successful, but after being on tour for 10 years, you come back and there’s no special position you can work at. You’re not building up something if you just want to quit. You have to decide if you want to study something and then go back and create a home and work somewhere, or if you want to build a band and make a lot of money from it. It’s like some kind of business. I don’t know if I’m too interested in that. I have to figure it out. Right now it’s something that’s fun, and we’re really enjoying it. It’s not much pressure at all. As soon as it’s very hectic and something that’s not enjoyable, we’re going to find something different. I don’t know if that’s a weird approach to it or if I should be more dedicated, but we’re really enjoying it. That’s a good thing.

An unabashedly romantic head rush

An unabashedly romantic head rush, the third effort by the Swedish duo (consisting of Shapiro and producer Johan Agebjörn) contains a world of candy heart-worthy sweet nothings, rendered irresistible by Shapiro’s coquettish whisper. No longer simply contented to fall lockstep with Italo Disco, Somewhere Else lets elements of acid house, dance and good ol’ fashioned electro pop bleed around the edges of each track.

As with previous albums, retro turns are delivered with a knowing wink (See: dance-floor filler “This City’s Local Italo Disco DJ Has A Crush On Me”). “Sundown” contains a “Careless Whisper”-era saxophone solo, paired with a saccharine synth that blurs the line between slinky and sleazy. Upbeat ode to impossible love “Starman” features both a four-on-the-floor beat and the time-tested metaphor for romantic satisfaction — a trip to outer space. The album implies a promise: that the listener will be transported by the sheer strength of Shapiro’s longing. And indeed, many songs play like a daydreamer’s manifesto. But Sally Shapiro’s music has always been a testament to the transportive power of longing, lust and love, and going Somewhere Else, by now, is just what we expect.

Realists need not apply

The Deer Tracks (David Lehnberg and Elin Lindfors) hail from Gävle, Sweden, where arsonists regularly celebrate Christmas by burning down the city’s oversized Yule goat. Every year, the goat is rebuilt with the knowledge that, like its forefathers, it too will end up in ashes. It’s that same casual acceptance of the surreal that permeates the experimental pop of The Archer Trilogy Pt. 3.

The album opens with “III,” a heavenly choral interlude featuring looped a cappella vocals. Its perfection is a rare moment in an album aimed at sinners rather than saints. Like Sigur Rós coated with the debris of an extended pub-crawl, The Archer Trilogy Pt. 3 is anchored by a layer of grit — be it electronics that echo the sinister undertones of Fever Ray or Karin Park, lyrics that revel in sweat and frequently break into glossolalia, or Lindfors’s quirky vocal phrasing. “Lazarus” is the closest thing that The Archer Trilogy Pt. 3 has to a traditional pop song. But even it comes complete with a kaleidoscopic smear comprised of every instrument in the studio, topped chanted chorus delivered with ecclesial fervor. The Deer Tracks’ brand of otherworldly beauty is accessible, but a wiliness to be swept up in their vision is required. Realists need not apply.

Painting their desert doom tunes black

Arbouretum’s fifth full-length sees the Baltimore-based quartet painting their desert doom tunes black. Drawing from a wellspring of nature-based imagery, and sludgy walls of rock guitar, the band has created another wide-sweeping meditation on damnation and redemption.

Frontman Dave Heumann doesn’t just sing — he emotes, his guttural baritone rasping over every syllable of Coming Out of the Fog‘s eight tracks. His sincere and direct vocal approach matches the album’s everyman appeal. Variations on this theme are offered. “The Promise” showcases quick-fingered Hendrix-style guitar lines and heavy syncopation. At heart, “The White Bird” is a folk tune, complete with slide guitar and whispered refrains. Likewise, “Oceans Don’t Sing” has a classic Americana vibe, stomping through the same dusty landscape where Calexico has staked their claim. But all the tonal shifts, murky refrains, and blunt-force poetics can’t hide the meat-and-potatoes rock band that Arboretum has become.

A dreamy escapist fantasy made of layered vocals and Afro-rhythm beats

Dave Hartley’s second album under the Nightlands moniker opens with a reverb-drenched invitation for the listener to join him in “a place I used to go when I was only 17.” Like a Where the Wild Things Are-styled manifest destiny, the thesis weaves itself through Oak Island‘s 10 tracks. Hartley, also of Philadelphia’s War On Drugs, constructs his escapist fantasy out of multi-layered vocals, Afro-rhythm beats, analog synths and a ghostly brass section.

As with fellow sound-quilt constructionists Here We Go Magic and Grizzly Bear circa Yellow House, Hartley’s pop-leaning inclinations are often shrouded in bedroom recording softness. Songs never linger on a single musical touchpoint: On the Beach Boys-through-the-looking-glass number “So Far So Long,” stacked vocal harmonies are paired with heavy guitar drones and sparse, thumping bass lines. More straightforward is single “I Fell in Love With a Feeling,” but even its yacht-rock choruses don’t escape Hartley’s history-revising vocoders. The cultural abstraction is pushed to the most extreme in “Rolling Down the Hill,” a miasmic cloud of Gregorian chants-run-amok interwoven with frenetic tribal percussion. Still, even when pursuing his most feral tendencies, Hartley refuses to clutter his compositions, maintaining their dream-like sparseness. As a result, Oak Island is both an untamed beast and an inviting fantasy world worth inhabiting.

A candy-coated, left-of-center R&B playground

Sure, Solange is the sister of R&B/pop princess Beyoncé — a fact that will probably never be omitted from her CV. But while her musical means (a soaring soprano; wisely chosen collaborators) are similar to the elder Knowles, the ends are significantly different. Sloughing off her two previous commercial-leaning efforts (including 2008′s Cee-Lo Green/Mark Ronson written Sol-Angel and the Hadley St. Dreams), Solange enlisted production help from Blood Orange’s Dev Hynes for her new EP, True. The result is a candy-coated, left-of-center R&B playground.

Over seven songs, Solange coolly wields both a material-girl sheen and a recumbent royal swagger. Even when engaging in the vocal gymnastics of “Bad Girls,” she holds her power with a loose fist, avoiding a lapse into American Idol-style histrionics. “Look Good With Trouble” plays with Solange’s impressive restraint, its sense of late-night seduction created via layers of hypnotic looped vocals and minimal beats. The gloves come off for good-girl-gone-bad “Some Things Never Seem to Fucking Work,” but even here Solange purrs the titular expletive with a dignified Supremes-style grace. However, her star power glows brightest on the crunchy, of Montreal-style freak-fest “Losing You.” Over a slow groove dotted with squealed vocal samples and light funk-guitar flourishes, Solange proves that she doesn’t have to shout to subvert the mold, or break it completely.

Making the demise of mankind sound not just palatable, but downright danceable

The conceit for Brooklyn art-duo Prince Rama’s sixth album goes like this: Life as we know it finally ends in the long-promised apocalypse. But lucky for us, Prince Rama has provided a glimpse into the future: Top Ten Hits of the End of the World, which is billed as a compilation of the 10 most popular songs on the day everything came screeching to a halt, are written and performed not by band members Taraka and Nimai Larson – but by the various musical alter egos they’ve channeled.

What the complex mission statement ultimately translates to is a headlong dive into the sisters’ hedonistic brand of dance music. There are subtle tonal variations (this is, after all, the work of 10 different “bands”), but spacey synth-and-guitar jams, accented with frenetic tribal drums, provide the album’s through-line. Rama hit hard with opening salvo “Blade of Austerity,” which fuses a punk chant to a sinuous, Middle East-inspired melody. “No Way Back, ” continues the kinetic pace where – as Nu Fighters – the band employees a wall of squealing guitars, pitched-down vocals, and guttural groans. But Top Ten Hits isn’t all sonic assaults. Slowed to a sexed-up crawl on “Welcome to the Now Age,” Prince Rama (or rather their robot persona Hyparxia), coo a series of sweet nothings against an 8-bit backing track. “Exercise Ecstasy” takes cues from 1980s Jazzercise backing tracks, complete with mid-song Kenny G-style sax solo. A sprawling beast that never once wants for enthusiasm, Top Ten Hits of the End of the World makes the demise of mankind sound not just palatable, but downright danceable.

A notable widescreen meditation on the darker side of life, love, and the great beyond

Tamaryn’s Tender New Signs is a middle-of-the-night meditation on love and its constant companion, heartbreak. Titular frontwoman Tamaryn curates her band’s after-hours malaise with a breathy murmur, guitarist Rex John Shelverton supporting her efforts through a fuzzed-out wall of guitars. Playing like the nebulous thought patterns that occur between the time the head hits the pillow and the brain finally calls it a day, their desolate shoegaze is a place where fantasies and nightmares lay side-by-side.

The San Francisco duo’s nine-song cycle hinges on a Creation Records-worthy palette. It would be deceptively easy to use The Jesus and Mary Chain to describe their sound: Like the Scottish quintet, Tamaryn have a penchant for detached vocals and heart-on-sleeve songs that often come within hair’s breadth of mope. But Tender New Signs is a far lusher affair than any Reid brothers’ record – its “Just Like Honey” emotional leanings tempered with a large helping of quiet contemplation.

The pair lingers in a stage of lackadaisical bliss on “Afterlight,” Tamaryn repeating the Goth poetry refrain, “Wilted is the flower” as though caught somewhere between comfort and curse. “I’m Gone” breathes air into their delicate underwater grooves, its lush reverb streaked with a Mazzy Star-by-moonlight doomed romanticism. But for all their philosophical meandering (with the help of pathetic fallacy, the earth, sky – and everything in between – is given emotional weight), Tamaryn are obstinately rockers. Luxuriating in the ghostly refrains and hypnotic riffs of “Prizma” that seemingly from here until daybreak, the band doesn’t simply catch listeners’ ears – it commands them. A notable widescreen meditation on the darker side of life, love, and the great beyond.

A seductive picture of life lived in a state of constant searching

Lonesome Dreams, the debut album by Lord Huron (aka Ben Schneider), is a dreamy, bucolic affair with wanderlust in its veins. With its acoustic guitars, choral vocal arrangements, and delicate layers of looped piano, slide guitar, and orchestral strings, it sounds like the Los Angeles-by-way-of-Michigan musician has visited Grizzly Bear’s Yellow House, but he isn’t prone to stay in one place for long. His rich harmonies are shot through with an undercurrent of restlessness and a lust for adventure that repeatedly breaks the surface.

Weaving together themes of death, love and movement, Schneider offers up a seductive picture of life lived in a state of constant searching, coming off like Springsteen in reverse – a time of returning to the fields (and mountains, and rivers and deserts) rather than the factory to seek success. Opening volley “Ends of the Earth,” doubles as a mission statement, Schneider musing against the polyrhythmic tide, “What good is living the life you’ve been given, if all you do is stand in one place?”

Heeding his own advance, Schneider carries the listener through the tropical-leaning, steel drum embellished “The Man Who Lives Forever,” to the modern-day cowboy anthem “Setting Sun,” which is heavily indebted to the spaghetti Western composer Ennio Morricone. But it’s the winsome, multi-movement album centerpiece “In the Wild” that truly captures Schneider’s yearnings: Swelling from a minimal voice and guitar refrain into a joyous effusion of full band and strings, it’s nothing short of an escapist’s siren call, pulling the listening out to sea.

A subtle portrait of a Hawaii paradise

Victoria Bergsman has an incredibly malleable voice, one that shape-shifts ably through changing musical contexts. Since stepping away from The Concretes in 2006, the singer/songwriter has used her solo project to explore varied musical landscapes from the bucolic folk of her native Sweden (Open Field), to the sun-baked folk traditions of Pakistan (East of Eden). For her third outing, Bergsman headed to Hawaii—eschewing heavy-handed use of traditional island elements (read: avoided producing an album of Kamakawiwo’ole covers), in favor of a subtler portrait of the paradise.

Birds, rain and thunder all make cameos, but the emphasis here is on waves of hazy synth, embellished with the occasional hint of steel drum. The result is like finding a faded, lens-flare riddled vacation Polaroid in the back of an old drawer. “I’m dreaming/ as good as it gets/ don’t wake me yet,” Bergsman sings on “Highest High,” her breathy vocals propelled by a contented sigh. The entirety of Other Worlds floats along, abiding by the same unhurried logic. Submerged in her creation, Bergsman plays the role, not so much of a frontwoman, but rather a tropical siren – calling for the listener to join her. “No one will believe us when we tell them what we’ve seen,” she promises in “Dreams,” against a bed of handclaps and slide guitar. It’s an alluring invitation, and an irresistible one.

Dark, twisted pop compositions led by Radiohead's unofficial sixth member

Ultraísta is spearheaded by producer Nigel Godrich, and the building blocks of the project’s self-titled debut are what we’ve come to expect from Radiohead’s unofficial sixth member. Alongside vocalist Laura Bettinson (FEMME/Dimbleby & Capper) and drummer/multi-instrumentalist Joey Waronker (Beck, Atoms for Peace, Smashing Pumpkins), Godrich whips synths, jittery tribal percussion, and Bettinson’s Stereolab-lite voice into a Thom Yorke-worthy cloud art-rock abstraction.

Named for a 20th-century Spanish literary movement that declared surreal variations on minimalism are superior to more ornate styles, Ultraísta hews close to these ideals – using sonically commanding elements in sparse arrangements. As a result, their 10 dark, twisted pop compositions are given room to slowly unfold. The Spartan “Party Line” ebbs and flows around a jazzy, late night emotional current, not unlike Yo La Tengo’s “Autumn Sweater.” Meanwhile, “Wash it Over” induces alpha waves though the use of electronic drones and Bettinson’s hypnotically chanted invitation, “Come on and wash it over me.”

But the most startling (and ultimately satisfying) tracks all stem from moments when the band sets aside their self-enforced guidelines. “Static Light” starts out with a single percussion line, Bettinson’s voice carrying the melody until the song’s midway point, when keys and a ghostly backing join in, creating the backdrop to an oppressive dance floor anthem. Bettinson also takes center stage on album highlight “Small Talk,” shuffling between vocal lines and a percussion series of “ohs” and “hums.” Her efforts are looped and multiplied into an unsettling choir that – like so much of the album – isn’t merely dynamic, but downright explosive.

A soft sonic security blanket of hazy synths, distorted guitars and cooed vocals

A kissing cousin to Sweden’s Radio Dept or label mates Craft Spells, Jack Tatum (aka Wild Nothing) spins a soft sonic security blanket of hazy synths, distorted guitars and cooed vocals that pay loving homage to the star-kissed dream-pop of the 1980s. But despite his distinctly Moz-like melancholy and his Robert Smith-style preoccupation with love, longing and loneliness, here’s never a sense that Tatum’s aping his influences — merely using them as a touchstone for his personal explorations.

A more cohesive statement than his bedroom-recorded 2010 debut Gemini, Nocturne features 11 subtle variations on Wild Nothing’s after-hours pop — all awash in a timeless sense of romanticism. The perkiest of the lot, the sun-streaked “Only Heather,” turns on a giddy refrain that any lovesick lothario could identify with, “Couldn’t even explain it, I won’t even try/ She is so lovely she makes me feel high.” Meanwhile, “Though the Grass” submerges the album’s key elements — synth and sadness — into a Cocteau Twins-style web of ambient atmospherics. However, it’s the guileless title track that holds the key to Nocturne, where amidst languorous guitar lines and echo-filled chants of “You can have me,” Tatum doesn’t just present his ideal dream pop — he fully embodies it.

Deacon’s new album continues his tradition of stretching the perceived limitations of the term. Over the course of nine caffeine-jacked compositions, Deacon stitches together a crazy quilt of styles, moving from dense electronic passages to lush string interludes and back again. Featuring fuzzed-out dissonance, frenetic chants and moments of stunning serenity, America is a colorful grab bag — much like its namesake.

eMusic’s Laura Studarus went on a musical journey through the 20th century with Deacon, visiting some of the unexpected inspirations for his new album, including a boxcar-riding hobo, a Beatles sidekick, and the one icon that no list would be complete without.