The Jim O’Rourke/Wilco supergroup’s sophomore shrug gets by on chummy, countrified twang decked with boughs of idle, Andy-‘n’-Opie-style whistling. What really sells “The Ruling Class” is Jeff Tweedy’s laconic, matter-of-fact account of the second resurrection of Jesus Christ: “Yeah, He’s back, Jack/Shootin’ smack/Find Him if you wanna get found.”…

In countless interviews, Yoni Wolf insists that despite his hip-hop roots, Why? isn’t mired in that tradition. “Dumb Hummer” — its Willy Wonkian, seraphim-heralding layers of ivory, keyboards, guitar jangle, and bicycle bells positively Fiery Furnaces in construction — draws a line in the sand between his band and its…

Acoustic indie-rock plaints of this nature are a dime a dozen, yearning, spare, and incidentally pedestrian. Like Downey’s other lovesick inanities, “Flame Out Flyboy” almost begs for grit and gravitas — amniotic no-fi, sullen vocals, bleeding amps — the stranded-in-a-cave style Robert Pollard adopted for those late-Nineties solo masterpieces that…

Turns out that when coupled with British accents, a bobbing bass line, and pulsing beats, getting the brush-off can actually be a totally sweet experience. New Wave and Brit postpunk intersect neatly in this pointed, nearly taut call for privacy, as singers Ros Allen, Bethan Peters, and Julz Sale sound…

Elisa Ambrogio, you so crazy! A tribute to gray-haired Californian-turned-New Yorker Joan Didion — an author of considerable deliberation and grace — antithetically rendered as an abrasive, No Wave wig-out? No doubt the subject of this atonal salute would recoil from the tug-of-war feedback drone erupting into a Bunnybrains-style, madly…

Self-described tramp Ariel “Pink” Rosenberg transforms impounded auto lemons into neutered pop lemonade, sharing a stern, scratchy voicemail from his unwilling-to-cough-up-much-needed-ducats dad before sliding into a rambling, anti-fi netherworld of nut-squeezing, multitrack falsetto pukes and warped, rickety disco axe licks. As usual, the fruit of his labor is a glorious…

Troubleman Unlimited Wooden Wand’s track doesn’t chronicle the flood per se as much as it does the messy, boggy aftermath. A moldy, nightmare glut of tuneless gypsy guitar plucks, one-drum pum-pums, and weak, strangulated woodwind wisps accompanies Satya Sai and Rev. Wand as they wade through the monotonous wreckage: “The…

The Strokes First Impressions of Earth (RCA) The Strokes were labeled the saviors of NYC’s rock and roll scene in 2001. But in the ensuing years, all the tricks that made the fab five so exciting — snappy hooks, drunken confessions of love/lust, and off-balance, VU-meets-AOR riffs — began to…

A Nate Dogg hook is like an extra-large pinch of Essence of Emeril. His cool-as-the-other-side-of-the-pillow, soulful-stoic menace can kick any well-appointed banger up a notch or three (see Dr. Dre, Snoop, or Obie Trice). But what happens when the assisted superstar relegates himself to the role of assistant? Here we…

All rolling, smoldering foam considered, savory see-ya “Broken Drum” stood out as one of Guero’s more thoughtful moments. None of this understated rumble is lost in translation when reclusive electronica idlers Boards of Canada get their sun-blanched mittens on it. Beck’s original dark path of reverberating, deep-sea guitars is switched…

Bi-continental septet Nous Non Plus scares up sumptuous, blasé cool on its self-titled debut, whipping elements borrowed from the Strokes, Stereolab, and the B-52s into delectable French pastries. And so we get delights like “Lawnmower Boy,” where the band makes like Guitar Wolf on a New Wave kick; the disco…

Though Mendez might have figured out what he wants to do with his life — the Long Beach native ditched a major in physics to pursue a career in music — he doesn’t appear to have settled on a particular genre just yet. He whiles away Girlfriend weighing his stylistic…

Once upon a time, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club made the best anti-establishment, unrinsed rock sleaze available — the perfect complement to a dawn wasted sloppily driving city streets in search of more drugs to prop up a fading high. With Howl, however, the scruffy trio ceases its jocking of Jesus…

On Push the Button, The Chemical Brothers’ stylistic pendulum swings away from “psychedelic” towards a “party” vibe, with mixed results. Q-Tip’s lethargic cadence sinks the dynamics-challenged “Galvanize,” and the token Eastern chug of “Marvo Ging” reeks of so much rote experimentalism that it begs for a vicious remixing. Yet group…

On this debut, the chameleonic Vancouver fivesome is lovin’ the Seventies. “Oh, we can’t stand/Your modern music/We feel afflicted,” singer Stephen McBean moans on the saxophone-and-drums swells of “Modern Music.” Things get retro on the bounding-down-the-boulevard “Druganaut,” which sounds like Jimi Hendrix by way of Band of Gypsys. But when…