Among my punk friends your credibility diminishes in direct correlation to each subsequent Dag Nasty album you profess to enjoy. Those punk friends then, according to their criteria, are much more punk than I. “Can I Say” (the beginning and end of Dag Nasty for my punk-er friends) and “Wig Out at Denko’s” stand out as my favorites by far, but “Field Day” played hand in hand with those first two albums on my desert road trips to and from college over the years (Although to this day, I still haven’t ripped it to my computer—that’s changing today though. I mean, come on, the opening lines to the title track are, “Here on the beach I’ve got the sun / I’ve got the surf, I’ve got Mexican food. Life don’t get better than that!).
The shift in sound between “Can I Say” and “Wig Out at Denko’s” occurs mostly in the albums’ tempos and vocal styles. On the second record, the band slows things down a notch and singer Peter Cortner sings more often than he yells on “Wig Out at Denko’s.” The transformation continues on “Field Day.” Basically, the band continued to add more melodic elements to its hardcore sound, thus they’re often cited as one of the bands that influenced later emo bands (I threw up in my mouth a little bit just using that term. Ugh.).
. . . I just axed most of this review. Rehashing the band’s history was boring me, and hell, anyone could find that info online, or listen to the music and make up their own mind on whether or not Dag Nasty is a band they’ll enjoy. It’s sad because this post doesn’t do justice to the band, nor to their influence on my life. It’s close to impossible to talk about bands that mean a lot to me in a space so small (see my Lloyd Cole post as another example). I could organize an entire memoir around these Dag Nasty records. Dag Nasty dominated my stereo when I met Alisa. “Four on the Floor” came out the year of my first radio show. The people and bands I worked with during the first half of this decade were likewise influenced by the band, and I expect the connections I made with Dag Nasty as their soundtrack will last a lifetime.
Somewhere in Pennsylvania, some guy makes trippy records with some of his friends. I do have a few more details about this guy. They won’t do you much good though. His name is Tobacco and he lives in or around Pittsburgh. Maybe. He sings through a vocoder, a lot. Guys like this would get my vote for American Idol: write sunshiney melodies, set them to gentle grooves, and then 
I don’t think I’ve been this excited about demos before. The Raveonettes last album Lust Lust Lust engendered exactly that in my aural cavity. Their fuzzy washes of surf guitars and garage rock immediately balmed the ever-present ringing in my ears and Sharin and Sune still lull me to sleep at night with their addictively sweet melodies. They’re so good that I don’t mind when I awake in the morning wrapped in headphone chord. Dangerous? Yep. Worth it? You bet. The tentatively titled “Last Dance” perfectly captures my fascination with these Danes: from the opening line (which I wish I’d written), “Your lipstick smeared sad,” to the Beach Boys-ish woo-woos in the background, to the theme of the song itself (Sune succinctly explains it: “how drug addiction interferes with love”). My addiction to The Raveonettes hasn’t interfered with my love life, rather with Alisa’s sleep patterns, specifically when the wall of guitars rush in between verses of their track “Hallucinations” and bleed from my ears. It hurts oh so good.
We last left this dynamic duo after releasing their debut album on Mush Records. Since then, the Bell brothers, Jared and Michael, from Tempe, Arizona, have put out a remix album (featuring remixes by The Album Leaf, Daedelus, The One AM Radio and Bibio) and recently re-issued their first EP on their new label, Magic Bullet out of Virginia. The new tracks the band has added for the sharing encompass the wide range of instrumental rock you can expect from these fellows. “Narita” from their new split EP with This Will Destroy You starts out small and subtle with a three-key riff and then gradually grows into a sweeping epic as layers pile onto layers. “Fall Bicycle” from their first album exemplifies the duo’s playful personality and showcases well Jared’s keyboard playing and Michael’s drumming. 
Sonically, my Memorial Day weekend has been marked by the sizzle of meat, screams and splashes from kids in the pool, and the hearty blaring of these two tracks from the nearest sound system and my own vocal chords. New York’s The Boy Koan has me geeked to start summer, or maybe I’m just geeked for summer to start. One thing’s for sure, I’m geeked on The Boy Koan—they’re the first band that I’ve ever asked to send me their lyrics. On second thought, that may simply say more about my thorough lack of thoroughness. I get the same tingly sensations from “Beasts from More Rustic Days” as I did when I first heard Grandaddy’s Under The Western Freeway. And “My Russian Doll” fires up pogo reflexes with its ’90s new wave gang vocals giving way to Mark E. Smith-like lackadaisical lilting on the bridge. It’s hard to believe this is the band’s first recorded efforts and that the usual purveyors of all things indie between here and there haven’t been giving this sleeper of a debut more blog space. I’d be surprised if the lack of coverage lasted long.
My last few posts have featured up-jump-and-boogie tracks and it’s high time I settle down a bit before I hurt myself. The Chicago trio, The Layaways, a perennial favorite ’round these parts, return after dropping their festive Christmas EP more than two years ago. Their laid-back, ’60s era sounds are absolutely delightening. Yes, they’re so good that they induce spontaneous neology. On “Keep it to Yourself” they flavor their guitars with just a pinch of fuzz, a dash of reverb, and a sprinkle of backwardness. They turn up the jangle on “All Around the World” and their tag-team vocalists provide a subtle depth to this new full-length, available, by the way, in its entirety on their site in full share mode. Good peeps them Layaways boys. I hope they don’t mind me adding my favorite track, “Come Back Home.” It evokes a hot, languid California Summer circa 1967. Dig it.
French wunderkind label Kitsuné is feeling lucky! The seventh incarnation of their stellar compilation series hits early next month, and they’ve sifted out this nugget o’ hard disco to share as an invitation to grab your sieve and join them in their search for more gold. autoKratz represents the electro side of Kitsuné’s electro-pop spectrum, but neither autoKratz, nor the label allow themselves to be held hostage to pithy genres. They’re explorers! Adventurers! Pop ‘n’ Lockers! Vocoders! They’re all good and Kitsuné Maison #7 will trip you out! (safely and naturally, naturally).
My lady’s gonna love this track. Know why? Because Ms. Velarde’s music has taken me home, specifically the kitchen, and I’m groovin’ and scrubbin’ and scrubbin’ the grooves and scratchin’ the grout. I’m washin’ and dryin’: the dishes, the oven, the counters. I’m whistlin’ while I work, “Let the music CLEAN YOUR HOME!” She’s awakened my inner domestic dude. She’s softened my hands and loosened my caboose while I do the dishes.