'Prefuse'ly entertaining hip-hop

Tne Word Extinguisher is the album to listen to after experiencing the draining existence of far too many modern rock sluts. It will restore your faith in creative musicianship. Listening to this sort of thing really makes me want to rip out my eyebrows at the waste that makes that Top 40. Scott Herren, the man who is Prefuse 73, takes looping and beatmixing to some strange high on his second LP. Feeding from the Warp label (home of oddball, electronica-brother band Aphex Twin), Herren masters computer-age sounds and artificial beats to melodic and precise perfection. Extinguisher's mixture of beats, from piecemeal beat-boxing sounds to upright bass melodies to horns to pulsing electronic variations, is so intriguing it bears many repeat listens. Herren doesn't even bother to pander to your short attention span with MC lines -- the album features only three tracks with real vocals. Besides Mr. Lif's feature, the rest of the voices are chopped and manipulated to become part of the beat instead of the forefront. These vocal spins have substance -- in the mindset of quality MC's who know the values of honesty, love and respect. It's not quaint if you believe it.

'Prefuse'ly entertaining hip-hop

Tne Word Extinguisher is the album to listen to after experiencing the draining existence of far too many modern rock sluts. It will restore your faith in creative musicianship. Listening to this sort of thing really makes me want to rip out my eyebrows at the waste that makes that Top 40. Scott Herren, the man who is Prefuse 73, takes looping and beatmixing to some strange high on his second LP. Feeding from the Warp label (home of oddball, electronica-brother band Aphex Twin), Herren masters computer-age sounds and artificial beats to melodic and precise perfection. Extinguisher's mixture of beats, from piecemeal beat-boxing sounds to upright bass melodies to horns to pulsing electronic variations, is so intriguing it bears many repeat listens. Herren doesn't even bother to pander to your short attention span with MC lines -- the album features only three tracks with real vocals. Besides Mr. Lif's feature, the rest of the voices are chopped and manipulated to become part of the beat instead of the forefront. These vocal spins have substance -- in the mindset of quality MC's who know the values of honesty, love and respect. It's not quaint if you believe it.

Essex Green's unpowerful pop

Man, this band is annoying. From cutesy-everything to boring, kitsch lyrics to the damn flute that sneaks in every once in awhile, The Essex Green knows how to make a rut for itself. The sad thing is, the album seems to have a good premise. \nAt first listen, the clear prettiness of the sound strikes, lasting right about until you realize that while the songs are all structured differently, they add up to about the same thing. What's really disappointing is the little bits of promise the band shows that never quite come together. Vocalist/keyboardist Sasha Bell can hit the sweet note -- but only bothers to twice on the disc. Other times she's heard nearing delicate beauty but then just falls flat and plain, and some of the tracks are near monotone. Other times, the interesting quirks of drummer Tim Barnes pick up, just to be glossed over by some mediocre melody or cutesy bouncing guitar or keyboard part. A tip-off to the unbearable tweeness of the Green is the band's former association with Kindercore, a label with such prestige that it boasts the lameness that is The Four Corners. That's the problem with The Essex Green, the band shows a glimmer of hope, but then just turns lame. Maybe they'll figure out the magic of sustenance next time.

Today I painted something blue

When you're an outcast, you feel it. \nYou know the stares from the other kids at work. Smoker. Tomboy. You're into Xiu Xiu, can't recommend DMB or 50 Cent. Grandaddy, not Pete Yorn. Maybe you can't pay attention so well. Dripped paint on the blueprints. Drifted off with the last instructions, completed your menial task the wrong way. You're almost 21; thought this feeling and the breakouts would have faded away with high school. \nNot a Republican or Demohipocrat. Not a hippie, not gangster. More mod, only very slightly punk. Black leather jacket, worn, not trendy. And even with "High Fidelity," everyone knows that the skinny (or fat) guy with the headphones on isn't really cool. \nYou are the girl who isn't the type to take to bars. You are the guy who drinks alone. Slopass. Ambitious. Workaholic. Scenester. Vegetarian (though it's amazing, I think the novelty and tweeness of it is making it more widely accepted, and hey, people say it's healthy). You'd rather listen to albums; down with house parties. You have a corner in the office, almost. You are too loud or too quiet. They can't make up their minds. Your boyfriend is somewhat off to the rest of the crew, but that's preferable. Your girlfriend is beautiful, but in a strange dirty t-shirt sort of way. Or you're alone. You cut yourselves together. It's too much oxycotin and snorting darvocet. Or maybe you just photographed the whole debacle.\nBut the blind leading the bled only leads to self-separation. It's inevitable, if you start feeling the outkastia now, it'll train you to withdraw in the future. It's hard enough to learn to love when you'd rather stay at home -- worse, when it's reinforced. \nThink of the type you know, the kind that could be saved by some measly part in a rock band. Charlie Manson was that way, you know. Just check out the Beach Boys' cover of his tune. Neil Young said it could have sanified the guy, somewhat. So you try to play the drums, sit in the back, keeping time, missing a high hat, squeaking bass pedal, when all the while your critics remind you it only started in March and you can't be good enough.\nYou knew you were different from the age of 10. Don't try to hide it, people will only think you're a stoner. But it's not what they think. It's the red lamp you painted that's waiting to be taken home, because you finally have one. It's the banjo in the corner that's easy enough to figure out a tune on. It's tossing baseballs at a rooster during work with the other losers. It's being the turntable to your comrade's beat-boxing, and underground hip hop all at once. Fidelity to life, not hookerstyle business ambitions. I found myself questioning if I would fit in when I move to Olympia, with all the real players and weird kids and photographers. I needed to ask. That's depressing. \nHandsome boy, don't pay your $60, you'll make it on your own. Just find a 6/4 time signature to learn the rhythm to, and you've got it. Snap. It's on, between bleak history and the impending heartbreak. \nGrab you're guitar, avoid the helter-skelter that's waiting for you. Manson should have pulled a Marianne Faithful. \nIt's why Neil Young, the Replacements and the Velvet Underground are so spectacular. The cool kids all have pretty voices, they don't know what's up. Forget about precision melodies and sad bastard harmonies and all that sissy music. No more Frank Sinatra records, come on.\nDon't worry, you were born a musician.

Fearfulness of listening in the dark

Wire's latest is not so recent, a put-together of two EPs and a few other songs -- real fans be prepared to be ripped-off. Even so, the pulsating of this distortion is captivating. \nWith the fearfulness of listening (like the kind you get from Joy Division), you'll feel like you dug up some record you weren't supposed to hear. These dark, gray, fuzzed guitars will give you a scene of forceful tenderness when paired with sweetly gritty vocals. Other times the British punks come off as an odd time-lapse with some new wave shit, but better. The electronically-hinged 11 tracks are thick enough to take a chunk out of and leave some balance remaining. Then there's the especially punkified snare-driven rant thrown into the middle, with hopefully sparse drum work. Over that vocals croaking "And the chorus goes, and chorus goes, bu bu bu bu bu bang," followed by some zippy distortion. It's nice what these guys can do with an on-again, off-again career since the '70s supporting them. The album gets a bit annoying with the Rush-type slightly orchestral vocals backing one of the middle tracks, but it's not that noticeable. This barrage of distortion starts off good and remains throughout.

Ocanada, give us your electronica

Maybe it's because he's from Canada, but Dan Snaith's mix of electronica-rock seems surprisingly uncorporate. While other dance/electronic vibes leave me feeling souless with a stomach full of Fast Food nationality or otherwise like a modern American, Snaith's blend of loose, textured percussion and sunglow melodies leaves something for the uncool to grasp onto. From Canada with love, lets say, come the cooing melodies of Manitoba for his second full-length, Up In Flames. \nWith full, lumpy beats the rhythm of Manitoba's 10 tracks tugs with eagerness on your senses to get to the end of each song. Shoegaze guitar and feedback maintains a haze over top of the drums/drum machine, enveloping you with constant sound. Blender that, kitty, with a bit of warm horns, lush keys and taste Snaith's thick protein drink. \nSo with all the smoothy fruit, there must be some aftertaste. The pleasantries of frog ribbits, little-girl backtrack giggling, tight cymbals and salty guitar only last so long, leaving you occasionally wandering in the densities of Manitoba's sound. But for a retrieval by squealing horns and just-fit percussion loops, a bit of selfless wandering is pretty alright.

Ocanada, give us your electronica

Maybe it's because he's from Canada, but Dan Snaith's mix of electronica-rock seems surprisingly uncorporate. While other dance/electronic vibes leave me feeling souless with a stomach full of Fast Food nationality or otherwise like a modern American, Snaith's blend of loose, textured percussion and sunglow melodies leaves something for the uncool to grasp onto. From Canada with love, lets say, come the cooing melodies of Manitoba for his second full-length, Up In Flames. \nWith full, lumpy beats the rhythm of Manitoba's 10 tracks tugs with eagerness on your senses to get to the end of each song. Shoegaze guitar and feedback maintains a haze over top of the drums/drum machine, enveloping you with constant sound. Blender that, kitty, with a bit of warm horns, lush keys and taste Snaith's thick protein drink. \nSo with all the smoothy fruit, there must be some aftertaste. The pleasantries of frog ribbits, little-girl backtrack giggling, tight cymbals and salty guitar only last so long, leaving you occasionally wandering in the densities of Manitoba's sound. But for a retrieval by squealing horns and just-fit percussion loops, a bit of selfless wandering is pretty alright.

Fearfulness of listening in the dark

Wire's latest is not so recent, a put-together of two EPs and a few other songs -- real fans be prepared to be ripped-off. Even so, the pulsating of this distortion is captivating. \nWith the fearfulness of listening (like the kind you get from Joy Division), you'll feel like you dug up some record you weren't supposed to hear. These dark, gray, fuzzed guitars will give you a scene of forceful tenderness when paired with sweetly gritty vocals. Other times the British punks come off as an odd time-lapse with some new wave shit, but better. The electronically-hinged 11 tracks are thick enough to take a chunk out of and leave some balance remaining. Then there's the especially punkified snare-driven rant thrown into the middle, with hopefully sparse drum work. Over that vocals croaking "And the chorus goes, and chorus goes, bu bu bu bu bu bang," followed by some zippy distortion. It's nice what these guys can do with an on-again, off-again career since the '70s supporting them. The album gets a bit annoying with the Rush-type slightly orchestral vocals backing one of the middle tracks, but it's not that noticeable. This barrage of distortion starts off good and remains throughout.

Lingering for years without much to say

Daniel Lanois' solo efforts may be overshadowed by his production work with Bob Dylan, Peter Gabriel, U2, Emmylou Harris and other famous rockstars, but his sound can hold its own. Shine is the Canadian's fourth solo trial on a fourth label in 14 years. His sound is watery, wavy and skyshown, his lyrics simple -- capturing his feelings without trying to dress them up. While it's easy to grasp the concreteness of his metaphors and descriptions, if I hear one more artist sing about his "angel" woman, deserts and waterfalls in a love song I might just vomit with boredom. Lanois centers on tenderness and love, and his songs sound like the musical personification of such. The tempos are as mild as his airy vocals, pairing to give you a pasteled, impressionistic painting of his convictions, but without enough drive or force to make him believable. I kind of get the feeling he's a rich bastard, singing of meeting his subjects in San Juan or whatever exotic locale fits the mood. He brings in Harris, Bono and samples a little Charley Patton, and their additions help to flesh out the sound. A plus is his adoption of some more unorthodox sounds, looping ambient noises and spacey synths and occasional drum machine backbeats, matched with more typical guitar and piano melodies.

Tweelicious with a bit of punch

With a heading of neo-psychedelia on All Music Guide and honey dripping from their organ and auxiliary percussion-fused sound, Paul Butler and Aaron Fletcher of A Band of Bees are here with a depth of pleasantries. With substance disguised by jazz-fusion influenced sounds, Sunshine Hit Me is an LP of sonically-removed intimacy. \nThe band's first full-length, with tracks from its 2001 EP Punchbag, will take you to a flowered field with little animal dens littering the undergrowth. The lyrics, "You smell like a punchbag, I'm too much for a cage of monkeys" bear images instead of explicit storylines. The sound, with tinges of reggae and happy-rock, give you a feeling instead of a plot. Spewn with major chords and bouncy punches, it's a formula that makes for quite a bit of sunshine with a few clouds following along to let you know the world isn't intrinsically happy, but what you make of it and beautiful all the same. \nPutting the apex at track six is a spectacular cover of obscure '60s Brazilian band Os Mutantes' "Minha Menina." I can't translate, but it's a song about fantastic love and infatuation and that girl that holds your heart so dearly she can only be described by roses, silver moons and crescendoed choruses, and two unrestrained "dop-ba-doo-wops"

Tweelicious with a bit of punch

With a heading of neo-psychedelia on All Music Guide and honey dripping from their organ and auxiliary percussion-fused sound, Paul Butler and Aaron Fletcher of A Band of Bees are here with a depth of pleasantries. With substance disguised by jazz-fusion influenced sounds, Sunshine Hit Me is an LP of sonically-removed intimacy. \nThe band's first full-length, with tracks from its 2001 EP Punchbag, will take you to a flowered field with little animal dens littering the undergrowth. The lyrics, "You smell like a punchbag, I'm too much for a cage of monkeys" bear images instead of explicit storylines. The sound, with tinges of reggae and happy-rock, give you a feeling instead of a plot. Spewn with major chords and bouncy punches, it's a formula that makes for quite a bit of sunshine with a few clouds following along to let you know the world isn't intrinsically happy, but what you make of it and beautiful all the same. \nPutting the apex at track six is a spectacular cover of obscure '60s Brazilian band Os Mutantes' "Minha Menina." I can't translate, but it's a song about fantastic love and infatuation and that girl that holds your heart so dearly she can only be described by roses, silver moons and crescendoed choruses, and two unrestrained "dop-ba-doo-wops"

Lingering for years without much to say

Daniel Lanois' solo efforts may be overshadowed by his production work with Bob Dylan, Peter Gabriel, U2, Emmylou Harris and other famous rockstars, but his sound can hold its own. Shine is the Canadian's fourth solo trial on a fourth label in 14 years. His sound is watery, wavy and skyshown, his lyrics simple -- capturing his feelings without trying to dress them up. While it's easy to grasp the concreteness of his metaphors and descriptions, if I hear one more artist sing about his "angel" woman, deserts and waterfalls in a love song I might just vomit with boredom. Lanois centers on tenderness and love, and his songs sound like the musical personification of such. The tempos are as mild as his airy vocals, pairing to give you a pasteled, impressionistic painting of his convictions, but without enough drive or force to make him believable. I kind of get the feeling he's a rich bastard, singing of meeting his subjects in San Juan or whatever exotic locale fits the mood. He brings in Harris, Bono and samples a little Charley Patton, and their additions help to flesh out the sound. A plus is his adoption of some more unorthodox sounds, looping ambient noises and spacey synths and occasional drum machine backbeats, matched with more typical guitar and piano melodies.

Debut record to topple the critics

Dan, Karen O, Brian Chase and Nick Zinner are so spunky. They're good enough to become the new rumored darlings on the critics list, chasing the strings and stocks of the White Stripes and such, while bad enough to earn the glamour of Tipper's Parental Advisory. This is the band you've been hearing about. And as one famed local record store owner says, "the album's almost good enough to live up to all the hype." \nIt's in the guitars. With a three-piece ditching all bass-lined dreams (yeah, they're in that trend too) Zinner fills out the sound almost completely solo. Sure, Karen O's screaming sexy in the foreground, and Chase can pound his snare beat securely into your head, but Zinner pulls so many noises out of his electric you'd think there's a bass player AND a keyboardist in the band (he also helped out with production). \nHailing from New York's underground/punk scene, the trio brings the pumped-up blues of the Stripes into some outer territory, which I bet makes Jack and Meg jealous. But not that much. For no matter how cool the sound is, there's something (perhaps the more annoying of O's yelps) that hits the back of your ears saying, "It's good but not lasting."\nKaren O's probably making most of the guys drool, but she's not got much to say. "Boy you're just a stupid bitch and girl you're just a no good dick" ("Black Tongue") is humorous, but who cares. You wouldn't put on a Yeah Yeah Yeahs' album for enlightenment anyway, but a bit more substance would be all the band would need to push it above the crowded gaggle of bands they can be grouped with nowadays. But everyone needs to let go sometimes and it's still great when O sings along with the guitar. \nZinner is the starsucker of the band. He clunks, plunks, zings, twinkles, meedly-mees and punches with the best of his kind. Apparently, he loops live to cover all the layers he has on the record. He knows the loudness of simplicity though too, with some unlayered intros and endings reminding you that hey, Zinner is cool with volume 10 and multi-tracking, but he knows control. Being able to demonstrate both makes the man into a player instead of an ego-strummer. Karen O struts her softer side as well in a few tracks, giving way to the illusion that she must only be a screamer. She can sing too. Even Chase tones it down with bells for the ending.\nThe Yeah Yeah Yeahs have enough destruction to be pleasantly distracting and enough different guitar tones to make even the most cynical woman-in-rock critics flush with a bit of happiness.

Power duo gets it right the first time

Vocalist and guitarist VV can spin you from raspy Chrissie Hynde-sexy to the sweetness of self-endearment in six steps. Alison Mosshart (VV's real name) knows how to spill over with just a bit of self-destruction to make punk rock interesting, while avoiding the chick-rock stereotypes and your dreams of black leather and silk stockings. \n Hotel's (Jamie Hince, a dude) additional vocals and percussive precision pairs quite nicely with VV's stylings. Together they propel The Kills pretty close to whatever references you could make to other two-person bands out there. Keep on Your Mean Side, the duo's first full-length release, reeks of the same sort of unburdening depth and agony today's rock stars should steal from bands like them and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. There's enough crunch in the guitar and punch in the kick drum to make you forget there's only two people playing. Who the hell needs a bass player anyway? VV and Hotel aren't just one-trick rockponies, though. On some tracks, VV's and Hotel's vocals race each other toward desperation. Then on another, they pair up in a quiet, strong, resignation. It's not a point to prove but a means of getting there that the album conveys. On "Monkey 23," VV and Hotel wrap-up the punkness of it all with a sweet little wood block-backed acoustic ditty about a lady knowing her man and knowing that he's not what she wants followed by a bashful giggle at the end. Perfect.

Power duo gets it right the first time

Vocalist and guitarist VV can spin you from raspy Chrissie Hynde-sexy to the sweetness of self-endearment in six steps. Alison Mosshart (VV's real name) knows how to spill over with just a bit of self-destruction to make punk rock interesting, while avoiding the chick-rock stereotypes and your dreams of black leather and silk stockings. \n Hotel's (Jamie Hince, a dude) additional vocals and percussive precision pairs quite nicely with VV's stylings. Together they propel The Kills pretty close to whatever references you could make to other two-person bands out there. Keep on Your Mean Side, the duo's first full-length release, reeks of the same sort of unburdening depth and agony today's rock stars should steal from bands like them and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. There's enough crunch in the guitar and punch in the kick drum to make you forget there's only two people playing. Who the hell needs a bass player anyway? VV and Hotel aren't just one-trick rockponies, though. On some tracks, VV's and Hotel's vocals race each other toward desperation. Then on another, they pair up in a quiet, strong, resignation. It's not a point to prove but a means of getting there that the album conveys. On "Monkey 23," VV and Hotel wrap-up the punkness of it all with a sweet little wood block-backed acoustic ditty about a lady knowing her man and knowing that he's not what she wants followed by a bashful giggle at the end. Perfect.

Debut record to topple the critics

Dan, Karen O, Brian Chase and Nick Zinner are so spunky. They're good enough to become the new rumored darlings on the critics list, chasing the strings and stocks of the White Stripes and such, while bad enough to earn the glamour of Tipper's Parental Advisory. This is the band you've been hearing about. And as one famed local record store owner says, "the album's almost good enough to live up to all the hype." \nIt's in the guitars. With a three-piece ditching all bass-lined dreams (yeah, they're in that trend too) Zinner fills out the sound almost completely solo. Sure, Karen O's screaming sexy in the foreground, and Chase can pound his snare beat securely into your head, but Zinner pulls so many noises out of his electric you'd think there's a bass player AND a keyboardist in the band (he also helped out with production). \nHailing from New York's underground/punk scene, the trio brings the pumped-up blues of the Stripes into some outer territory, which I bet makes Jack and Meg jealous. But not that much. For no matter how cool the sound is, there's something (perhaps the more annoying of O's yelps) that hits the back of your ears saying, "It's good but not lasting."\nKaren O's probably making most of the guys drool, but she's not got much to say. "Boy you're just a stupid bitch and girl you're just a no good dick" ("Black Tongue") is humorous, but who cares. You wouldn't put on a Yeah Yeah Yeahs' album for enlightenment anyway, but a bit more substance would be all the band would need to push it above the crowded gaggle of bands they can be grouped with nowadays. But everyone needs to let go sometimes and it's still great when O sings along with the guitar. \nZinner is the starsucker of the band. He clunks, plunks, zings, twinkles, meedly-mees and punches with the best of his kind. Apparently, he loops live to cover all the layers he has on the record. He knows the loudness of simplicity though too, with some unlayered intros and endings reminding you that hey, Zinner is cool with volume 10 and multi-tracking, but he knows control. Being able to demonstrate both makes the man into a player instead of an ego-strummer. Karen O struts her softer side as well in a few tracks, giving way to the illusion that she must only be a screamer. She can sing too. Even Chase tones it down with bells for the ending.\nThe Yeah Yeah Yeahs have enough destruction to be pleasantly distracting and enough different guitar tones to make even the most cynical woman-in-rock critics flush with a bit of happiness.

Calmfest -- Debbie Ciasto and her son Chris dance to Zion Crossroads at Calmfest in Dunn Meadow on Sunday. Calmfest is held during Little 500 weekend every year to promote the legalization of marijuana.

Senior Gafombi rider John Grant raises his arms in celebration after winning the Little 500.

Cryin in the chapel of deep blue sin

The Black Keys are your ticket to revisit the dark blues of the smokiest empty backroom bar. Come in off the lonely streets to dust your black boots from the barstool and hear what it sounds like to reap the squalor of history and drive it through distortion and plunked percussion. With 11 tracks of simple blues-rock riffs, The Black Keys are giving the 20-somethings of the world a taste of yearning, sex and soul with their roots hanging out. At the end of it, songs about love and loss are always better than politics and causes. Dan Auerbach and Patrick Carney work this formula to their advantage, creating a fresh sound without breaking boundaries. Auerbach's gritty vocals and grittier guitar blends perfectly with Carney's fittingly average drumming, creating songs that just say their piece without the complications of too much texture. The sound is real, with enough heart that you'll forget you've already heard the blues before. It'll leave you wanting your baby back too. When the songs are about loss, they clunk with pain, when they're about good love they soar. thickfreakness's no frills production leaves emptiness to echo even after the last measure.

Cryin in the chapel of deep blue sin

The Black Keys are your ticket to revisit the dark blues of the smokiest empty backroom bar. Come in off the lonely streets to dust your black boots from the barstool and hear what it sounds like to reap the squalor of history and drive it through distortion and plunked percussion. With 11 tracks of simple blues-rock riffs, The Black Keys are giving the 20-somethings of the world a taste of yearning, sex and soul with their roots hanging out. At the end of it, songs about love and loss are always better than politics and causes. Dan Auerbach and Patrick Carney work this formula to their advantage, creating a fresh sound without breaking boundaries. Auerbach's gritty vocals and grittier guitar blends perfectly with Carney's fittingly average drumming, creating songs that just say their piece without the complications of too much texture. The sound is real, with enough heart that you'll forget you've already heard the blues before. It'll leave you wanting your baby back too. When the songs are about loss, they clunk with pain, when they're about good love they soar. thickfreakness's no frills production leaves emptiness to echo even after the last measure.