“Pyro Hippies" (Don Giovanni)
Best song title of the week, hands down, and the blitz of surprisingly tuneful post- punk noise-pop it belongs to will make you want to burn a bra or a draft card, or whatever it is pyro hippies do.
Pink Dust (ATP Recordings)
You wouldn’t be reading about Sqürl right now if Jim Jarmusch wasn’t in the band, but who cares? Monolithic guitar drones and cavernous feedback makePink Dust simultaneously heavy as fuck and weirdly soothing.
Alien Days (Columbia)
If a bit of Syd Barrett’s sanity had sur- vived the ’60s, he might have blessed us with something like this before he died: a synth-saturated acid trip of cartoon- coloured psych-folk.
The Sound of Law (Sub Pop)
When Daughn Gibson wraps his from-beyond baritone aroundMy daddy was a beast, he’s letting you know you’re in for something tailored to those who don’t find Nick Cave’s recent work dark enough for their liking.
Fight Like Gods (Sargent House)
You know how you sometimes can’t sleep because the ghosts in the house won’t stop sending their weird, spectral songs out to reverberate through the hallways? Just us? Well, it sounds just like this.
Shut Up (Matador)
If you have firsthand memories of the heyday of Joy Division and Siouxsie and the Banshees, you’re old enough to be a parent of the young women in Savages. But the band’s crackling urgency might make you feel like it’s 1979 again.
Realm of the Wasted (Nuclear Blast)
Fuck shooting for mainstream radio airplay—the downtuned Swedish madmen of Soilwork are more interested in making the kind of metal that leads to spontane- ous bowel evacuation. Even if you aren’t totally wasted.
The White Trash Song (Black Country Rock)
Even if he’s not going to give Southern Culture on the Skids any reason to worry, Shooter Jennings still comes across as a man with three rusted Chevrolets in the front yard and a bourbon still in the back.
Get Up and Dance (E One)
No matter how much you hate being told what to do, you’ll do exactly as instructed the second the Enemy’s ’80s postpunk guitars roar out of the speakers and kick you in the ass.
Sweater Weather (Columbia)
Some singers—even the androgynous ones—just drip raw sex. Retro-sounding California neo-soul man Jesse Rutherford is one of them. Move over, Adele.
Fruit Juice (RCA)
In which, dabbling in a bizarre hybrid of Jamaican dancehall, cheeba-dazed reggae, and bass-bombed EDM, Calvin Broadus actually leaves the world wondering what the hell he’s been smoking.