Dan Snaith’s style shifts considerably from album to album, but somehow he manages to have a consistent, identifiable core aesthetic. However, it’s not easy to explain what that aesthetic is — it’s something intuitive about his tones and song structures, and the way he balances an icy exterior with a subtle warmth. Andorra, his previous album as Caribou, was mostly spaced-out harmonic psychedelia, but this time around he has gone deep into an apparent Arthur Russell fixation. It’s in his voice, which has taken on a similar soft, sensitive affectation (you may also hear a bit of Erlend Øye in there), but more importantly, it’s in the music, which has absorbed the atmosphere and grooves of Russell’s disco work. It’s not a total clone of Russell’s music. Snaith’s compositions include a lot of modern and classic house influences along with elements of freestyle, ambient music, and psychedelia, but there’s a similar sense that the songs are musical microclimates cut off from their surroundings. “Odessa” layers its rhythms and textures into a careful lattice of sound, rich in detail but abundant with negative space. It feels like a very specific space — either a particular time and place, or state of mind. I get a bit of déjà vu just listening to it.

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There are a lot of guitar parts on Liars’ Sisterworld that are genuinely frightening and startling. The band have not reinvented the wheel — their parts lift from horror soundtracks, hardcore punk, art rock — but they’ve mastered the textures and dynamics, resulting in amazingly vivid and visceral music. “Scarecrows On A Killer Slant,” the album’s centerpiece, is bleak and extremely violent. It sounds like you’re being chased down by maniacs, adrenaline pumping in fight-or-flight survivalist mode. Or it could be that you’re the predator stalking the prey. In the middle of the track, the violent fantasy kicks in: We should punish the creeps! Drag them out in the street and kill them! Retribution! When the chorus kicks in again, it’s even more deranged, and it’s hard to tell the difference between random violence and street justice. It’s just this bloodthirsty cycle of power and aggression. The song seems to burn itself out, collapsing into a wreck of smoking rubble at the end. The rage dies down, but doesn’t go away.

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I’m not going to front, okay? When I first heard about Gonjasufi, I was being told the name out loud and my immediate thought was “Oh, that is ridiculous and definitely not for me, as I am not some ridiculous stoner.” But you know what? I really like a lot of stoned music, and in actually listening to the album, I was a sucker for its slo-mo grooves and dubby atmosphere. Gonjasufi’s voice has a cool, bitter soulfulness. Rather than disappear into head-nodding oblivion, he always comes across as sharp and lucid, and just a bit aggrieved. “Duet” floats over its percussion, but as much as it feels comfy and relaxed, there’s no getting around the tension and frustration at the core of it, and in his voice. It’s like trying to patiently out-wait aggravation.

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The karaoke portion of the night included most of the songs listed here, plus a number of TL/RX tunes like “Ballad of the Sin Eater,” “Me and Mia,” “Where Have All The Rude Boys Gone?,” “A Bottle Of Buckie”, “Shake The Sheets”, “Timorous Me”, and “Counting Down The Hours”. I got to do Fugazi’s “Merchandise” with Brendan Canty from Fugazi sitting in on drums, which was, as you can probably imagine, both totally crazy and extremely awesome. I hope I did okay! This entire show was a thrill. Ted and his band are as talented as they are friendly, charming, and entertaining. Which is saying a lot.

Ted Leo and the Pharmacists “Bottled In Cork”

It’s rare that a song so inviting comes in such a strange shape. “Bottled In Cork” is like a Ted Leo greatest hits album boiled down to one perfect three minute tune, switching up between a series of immediately ingratiating hooks before settling on a perfect chorus in rounds at the end. It’s basically a travelogue in the tradition of “Ballad of the Sin Eater,” with its hero zipping around the globe and accruing experience and wisdom, all to end up with that delirious, out-of-nowhere digression: “I tell the bartender, ‘I think I’m falling in love.’” I really like how that conclusion is not at all foreshadowed by the rest of the lyrics — it opens with the line “there was a resolution pending on the United Nations,” for crying out loud! — but it is hinted in the brightness and swing of the music. The final rounds are gorgeous, floating up and out over chimes as the song fades out, and maybe the character blacks out. It’s so appropriate that this song ends so elliptically. It’s not as if the story is actually over, you know?

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Plastic Beach is an album about junk, but it somehow avoids being shrill, judgmental, or dogmatic. It’s mostly colorful and groovy, with an undercurrent of melancholy and dissatisfaction cutting through the bounce of the beats. “Some Kind of Nature” contrasts the old crank voice of Lou Reed with an especially perky track, but here’s the great part: Reed comes across like a slightly weird guy making sense of a world overflowing with garbage and spiritual bullshit, drawing connections between things and finding the joy in absurdity, while Damon Albarn is the one sounding sad-eyed and world-weary. Reed isn’t exactly playing against type, but it’s a brilliant aspect of his style and persona for this context. It’s halfway between a “fuck it” shrug and a kook imparting incoherent wisdom.

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Pavement “Unseen Power of the Picket Fence”

Before I ever owned a copy of Reckoning, I was obsessed with a song called “The Unseen Power of the Picket Fence” from the No Alternative compilation. It was the very first song that I ever heard by Pavement, who would eventually become my all-time favorite band, and it just happened to be a tribute to R.E.M. in general and Reckoning in specific. On a very basic level, it’s a song about the magic of discovering music without knowing all that much about it, and the way enthusiastic, imaginative fans can rush to fill in their own history and meaning to art when they are not weighed down by the baggage of a shared culture.

In 1984, R.E.M. was a mystery for Stephen Malkmus to solve, just as his band would become a puzzle for me in 1994, and I’m certain that both bands benefited enormously from withholding information the public, and forcing the listener to develop their own context based on what they could glean from the records and whatever made it into the mainstream press. As usual, imagination allows for greater drama and insight: “Unseen Power” starts off with Malkmus identifying with the band’s southern roots despite having spent his own formative years in California, and ends with him imagining R.E.M. as stoic defenders of Georgia who confront General William Tecumseh Sherman at the end of his devastating March to the Sea. It’s all rather colorful and strange, but in an intuitive way, it summarizes the band’s appeal in the early ’80s than most anything else I’ve ever encountered.

In the second verse, Malkmus provides a quick recap of R.E.M.’s discography as of 1984, with a decided focus on Reckoning and its tracklisting. Though I knew “So. Central Rain” and “(Don’t Go Back To) Rockville” at the time because I had a dubbed copy of Eponymous, some of the titles were warped by my adolescent ears, i.e., for some reason Reckoning came across as “Black Honey.” Through the verse, Malkmus seems awed by the songs, and so when I finally heard “Camera,” “Harborcoat” and “Pretty Persuasion” for myself, I was acutely aware of their legendary status, at least in the mind of the guy from Pavement. However, he made one thing very clear in that verse: “Time After Time” was his least favorite song. “TIME AFTER TIME” WAS HIS LEAST FAVORITE SONG!!!

R.E.M. “Time After Time (Annelise)”

“Time After Time” is not my least favorite song on Reckoning. Not even close, actually. Bill Berry and Peter Buck shine on the album version, with the former filling out the space between the latter’s loose, trebly notes with a variety of light percussive textures. The song gradually builds up to a rather majestic peak, but even still, the tone remains decidely mellow and understated. This is in part due to Michael Stipe’s cool, reserved vocal performance, and an airy arrangement that seems to evaporate into the atmosphere just when it rises into the sky. In a way, it’s the song on Reckoning that comes closest to what Malkmus achieved on his records with Pavement — it presents an extraordinary and specific sensation in a disconcertingly casual sort of way. In other words: “Time After Time” is slanted and enchanted.

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The Society of Rockets build their futuristic psychedelic pop songs out of the scraps of previous artistic visions of tomorrow. The sound is comforting and familiar, but there’s also a vague sense of disappointment in the subtext: Our utopian concepts never work out. Nevertheless, the dream of progress does come true, at least in ways compromised by reality, so optimism is justified. “We” charges headlong towards some endless horizon, buzzing with excitement and courage. The band lifts its sound from Stereolab and Neu!, the vocal harmonies owe more to the Beach Boys. The song is simultaneously ominous and sweet, a tribute to every future we can imagine but could never exist.

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Is there anyone else who can self-flagellate with as much elegance, wit, and grandiosity as Jason Pierce? “Come Together” is a masterpiece of over-the-top self-loathing, a thunderous mass of shrieking guitars, blaring fanfare, and gospel bombast all at the service of a scathing lyric sung by Pierce in the first person, tearing himself apart for being a junkie. As always, Pierce’s vocals are a shell-shocked deadpan, but he can barely hold back his self-directed venom when he spits out lines like “Little J’s a fucking mess, but when he’s offered, he just says yes.” On other tracks from Ladies and Gentlemen, We Are Floating In Space, the waves of sound are comforting and numbing, but in this, it pounds down on you, like he’s trying to beat some sense into himself. It’s futile, though — as the song tapers off and bleeds into the woozy opening section of “I Think I’m In Love,” it’s like slipping back into a stupor.

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What is a mystery zone?

1. It’s a liminal state. Neither here nor there, but on the threshold of something new. Everything is uncertain, opportunities abound. It’s exciting and terrifying.

2. It’s the period of time before you really get to know someone, but you’re aware of each other’s existence. You had no idea you’d be significant to one another. It’s back when all there was to it was attraction, curiosity, and possibility.

3. It’s everything that goes on in everyone else’s life when you’re not around, or when you’re lost in your own head.

4. It’s an alternate universe version of your life in which you made totally different choices.

5. It is the realm of the “information troll”.

6. It’s the moment before physical impact. What will it feel like?

7. It’s before you kiss someone, before you have sex with them. It’s all of the things you can’t know about a person just by talking to them, and everything you can glean by touching them.

8. It’s anywhere except for where you are or where you have been.

9. It’s the love you’ve never received, and the love you’ve never given.

10. It is whatever happens next.

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Everything I wrote about Wild Beasts in concert a few months ago still stands. If anything, they’ve only gotten better and more confident with American audiences. Let’s talk about a song, shall we?

Wild Beasts “This Is Our Lot”

There’s a lot of violence and romance in the music of Wild Beasts. Sometimes the violence is very literal, as in the brutal gang rape described in “Two Dancers I” or the loutish behavior of the thugs in “Hooting & Howling,” and sometimes it’s more subtle or metaphorical, hidden in the peculiarities of social ritual or a character’s callous entitlement. Even when the band sing from the perspective of aggressive men, there’s an odd passivity in their language, as if their bold, selfish actions are something thrust upon them due to their relative status or physical power. Two Dancers in some ways seems like an album-length argument that humanity is doomed to both perpetrate and suffer violent action because we’re always living out some narrative based on our status relative to other people. We’re always stronger than someone else, and weaker than someone else. We push on other people as much as they pull on us. It’s all a vicious cycle, and sometimes it gets very grotesque.

“This Is Our Lot” is one of their more romantic songs, but it’s got a very potent sense of dread. The setting seems to be formal ball, the mood is celebratory but anxious. Sexual tension is everywhere in the room, but it’s all hemmed in by custom and ritual, making the character frustrated and agitated. The song builds to a climax in which he exclaims “I couldn’t be more ready!”, as if he’s about to burst. It stands out on the album as a moment in which aggressive desire is trampled by culture, and a character suffers for not being transgressive in his behavior.

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