Is anyone else seriously annoyed by those new Miller Lite Man Law? The same company that once waded into pseudo-metrosexual territory by trying to market to figure-watching beer-guzzlers is now playing the other end of the spectrum with its 30 second declarations of all that is man. Men can�t toast by touching the mouths of their beer bottles because the saliva exchange is tantamount to kissing? Maybe we should all just stay indoors lest we walk outside, make eye contact with another male, and get labeled gay.

It�s days like these that make me appreciate the thoughtfulness of Colossal.

Although a near neighbor of mine in Chicago, I didn�t discover Colossal until I was across the Atlantic, studying abroad in England. I have absolutely no idea how I found them, I may very well have been drunk, but somehow �Table Settings� made its way onto my computer.

�Table Settings� is the story of a man cooking dinner for his romantic interest, �both literally and figuratively putting his money on the table� and producing a spark with his culinary efforts. The song is beautiful in its simplistic approach and intricate musicianship. The group locks into a strong groove and rides it through most of the track, relying on a near-classical lead guitar and crisp trumpet playing to create a satisfying-full landscape. It�s sedate without being sedative, but more impressive to me is that it sounds so musically appropriate for its subject matter: a desirably common story with a commonly desired outcome.

So� new Man Law: It�s OK for a man to cook a romantic dinner as long as each dish is pre-approved by 2/3s of the Man Law roundtable, with special veto powers given to Burt Reynolds.

After several months of marinating myself in �Table Settings� I decided to further explore the vast wilderness of Colossal and eventually graduated to �Serious Kind.� As if in training to record his own instructional snare drum video, drummer Rob Kellenberger makes every conceivable use of the frequently underappreciated drum roll. His percussive accents, sprinkled throughout the album, give the group�s artistic dedication to intelligent indie a hint of legitimacy; an appreciable sidestep around the preponderance of misbegotten dance-beats that have so recently dressed up pop in thrift store clothes and dropped it off a couple blocks from the line outside the show.

New Man Law: Pending approval of former Steelers running back and Man Law legislator Jerome Bettis, it�s OK for a man to occasionally enjoy a song lamenting a soured serious relationship, as long as he doesn�t, you know, relate.

Besides permitting me to make an obligatory mention of the group�s former second vocalist Jason Flaks, �The 1/5 Compromise� makes fabulous use of the all-too-tired verse/chorus song structure. The song rightfully places its hook at the end, behind a cleverly concocted buildup that never overtly commits to the ensuing lively outro. The harmony-laden �You�ll knock those years right out of me� sounds enthused and perhaps consequently sincere, as if someone had actually begun the process, although the specifics of such an act are a bit mystifying.

Colossal seems to be somewhat of a part time project and I�d like to think that has hindered the growth of their fan base over the past few years. They are immensely underappreciated given their talent and pedigree. Readers may be familiar with some of their previous and current projects, which reads like a who�s who of great Chicago bands: The Smoking Popes, The Lawrence Arms, Duvall, Slapstick, Tuesday, Seedy Sea Controversy, The Heavens, and Judas Priest. If only there was some sort of central governing body that could insist that the general population give them a listen�

New Man Law: if you don�t like Colossal you should be forced into solitary confinement and fed nothing but Miller Lite and VHS tapes of the Man Law commercials.

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�Draw a map and get lost.� — Yoko Ono

A couple weeks back, a close friend of mine left on a four-month journey through the Philippines and Indonesia. This trip, which can only be accurately described as an odyssey, has so far taken him from Manila to Singapore, and has given him the opportunity to experience the local people and cultures of exotic locales like Tawi Tawi and Jolo. The e-mail correspondence that I�ve had with him has stirred my appetite for travel, but, being a poor recent college grad, I have unfortunately been stuck in Newark, Delaware. Sweet.

Fortunately, the wealth of great records that have come out so far this year has kept my imagination occupied, particularly the most recent Mapstation release on ~Scape Records, Distance Told Me Things to Be Said. The solo endeavor of To Rococo Rot member Stefan Schneider, the D�sseldorf based Mapstation can be described as a sort of musical travelogue, taking in influences ranging from German techno to traditional African music to dub reggae, all the while filtering the whole mess through a decidedly minimalist lens. The resulting record contains some of the most engaging sounds that I have heard in quite some time, and, since I can�t afford to be globetrotting, I�ve been using Distance Told Me Things to Be Said as the starting point for the musical explorations of my summer, picking apart its obvious influences and revisiting some of the more neglected areas of my record collection.

While the layered synth meditations of fellow Krauts like Kraftwerk and Tangerine Dream may come to mind when first listening to Mapstation, it is the pulsing phase patterns of Steve Reich�s compositions that provide the most appropriate reference point for Schneider�s music. Just as repetitive keyboard arpeggios and drum machine loops begin from a common point and proceed to overlap and evolve into complex tapestries on tracks like Mapstation�s �Sonorities,� so do the percussion patterns and rhythms create swelling, constantly developing beatscapes in Reich�s work, such as �Part IV� from his classic Drumming cycle. What�s more, both Reich and Schneider share a fascination with traditional African percussion. The unique sounds of these instruments lend the work of both artists with an unusual tone and feel that isn�t available with traditional Western percussion.

Add to this highbrow minimalist crossbreeding of African folk music and synthesized Krautrock the studio trickery and pop sensibilities of Jamaican dub reggae, and you start to come close to understanding what Mapstation is all about. Taken from one of the all time classic dub recordings, Augustus Pablo�s King Tubby Meets the Rockers Uptown, �Brace�s Tower Dub No. 2� is a fine example of the sort of dub Schneider so obviously admires. With its skittering snare hits, reverb soaked melodica melodies, and deep aquatic bass lines, this track is one of my all time favorite summertime jams, and it is perfectly suited to high volumes and large quantities of Corona poolside.

As I embark on another day here in Newark, I wonder what music my friend has chosen to soundtrack his island hopping Indonesian adventures. Regardless, when I get my next chance to travel, this record isn�t going to be leaving my ears. Until then, I�m just going to have to lay back, get lost in the musical map that Stefan Schneider has drawn for me, and simply imagine the African plains, Caribbean shores, and German Beer Halls. Now, if only Reich and Pablo had gotten together with King Tubby back in the day, then we�d have a stone cold classic on our hands.

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When listening to music, it is easy to close your eyes and mentally transport yourself to far-off places. Specifically, when I listen to indie pop, I get taken far, far away to countries I’ve never visited. Architecture in Helsinki really does remind me of Helsinki. Between boy-girl whispers and clarinet touches, I see blonde girls skipping and towering mountains of ice (or whatever they have there; like I said, I�ve never been). Camera Obscura plays, and I visit sunny Australian steppes spotted with cute kangaroos.

In essence, little of this genre of music reminds me of home, and that’s the way I like it. Nothing speaks of long winters or lake effects. I am not in love with my local scene�on the contrary I have, for most of my music-critiquing life, ignored it or written seething diatribes against it. I had previously come to terms with the fact that southeastern Michigan, specifically Ann Arbor, is loaded with way too many mandolins and aged hippies running the venues. Hence the escapism into foreign sounds.

Enter Saturday Looks Good To Me. Granted, these guys aren’t terribly new. Centerpiece of the band, Fred Thomas, has been bumming around Michigan for years in various bands and at various success rates. I just recently discovered their penchant for the ’60s lounge pop sound while remaining relative hometown heroes, as Detroit natives who spend a good part of the year touring the surrounding towns. “Underwater Heartbeat” gives off an inexplicable energy that, if not original, makes me rethink what sounds southeastern Michigan might have to offer. Maybe it’s the saxophones, or the charming “bah-bah” in the background. As much as there might be nothing to do here, and as much time as I have spent complaining about my surroundings, I cannot deny that SLGTM are as addictive as a sugar rush.

“Lift Me Up” has similar effects on my system. It�s poppy, it�s loaded with tambourine, and it has slightly twisted lyrics that are nearly unnoticeable because the girl sounds so damn cute. A familiar beat opens the track, and you know that these are all lines you’ve heard before, but it’s still charming enough to stay the night. Instead of taking me halfway around the world, the song jet-sets around the corner. The relaxed vibe takes me right into The Blind Pig, a club downtown, where the audience is filled with people I know. Regardless of what a Michigan “sound” might be, Saturday Looks Good to Me bring back my faith in local bands. And they do it without a mandolin in sight.

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While many have made careers out of covers, one artist stands above the rest as one of the great musical interpreters of the 20th century. That man is, of course, Rod Stewart. Yes, the same man that the E! Channel just aired a True Hollywood Story about, wherein they lumped him and his waste of a life daughter together�an idea that is as insulting as if A&E did a Biography on not just Bob Dylan, but also his son, Jesse Dylan, director of the films How High and American Pie 3 and gave them equal airtime. Most people born after 1980 know him for the mostly embarrassing songs �If You Think I�m Sexy� or �Young Turks.� It�s a sick world, but it wasn�t always that way. Rod Stewart used to be one of the best.

In the late 60s and early 70s, Rod Stewart fronted the Faces; a band whose alcohol infused performances would make The Replacements look positively disciplined. The Faces were also one of the best bands around, a band that stayed in that weird place where they weren�t exactly obscure, but they weren�t hitting up the charts either. But the Faces also did double-time as Stewart�s backing band on his first four solo albums, which are, incidentally, not only arguably superior to the Faces output, but four of the best albums of the 70s. And what helped make these albums so great? That�s right! The covers! Now, don�t get me wrong, the covers weren�t always better-quality than Stewart�s original compositions, which were usually first-rate across the board. But the covers were at least of equal quality, and what�s more, the songs often succeeded in the mostly impossible task of bettering the original versions.

Take his cover of The Stones� �Street Fighting Man� from his first solo album, fittingly titled The Rod Stewart Album. With its brutal drums, driving acoustic guitars anchored by a massive bass line, the song easily out rocks the Stones version and it does it with nearly all acoustic instruments. This isn�t Rod Stewart Unplugged; this guy and his back-up players could probably out rock Sabbath with only spoons and an autoharp. But what�s special about Stewart�s covers isn�t even the quality�it�s how easily they fit alongside every other song on the album. He does what only the best covers do�he makes the listener have to check the liner notes more than once to make sure the name �Stewart� doesn�t appear in the songwriting credits. Even when he does a Dylan song, he doesn�t go and do �Blowin� in the Wind� or �Like a Rolling Stone.� He goes slightly more obscure, with the best example being �Only a Hobo,� from his 1970 sophomore effort Gasoline Alley, which fleshes out the spare melody of Dylan�s original acoustic and harmonica take on the song by adding bottleneck slide guitar, stand up bass, violin, and some perfectly placed percussion at the song�s climax. The take borrows elements of Irish folk music, making Dylan�s song sound more like a beautiful folk standard than even Dylan�s managed to. Did I mention he produced all four of these albums himself? Listen to how Ron Wood�s slide guitars and violins sear through the jangling acoustic guitars, anchored by thudding bass and perfectly placed percussion.

On these first four albums Stewart never went beyond his means with the songs he chose to interpret. That is to say, he never tried some crazy number just to see if he could pull it off�he waited till his fifth album to do that (the cringe-inducing �You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Man�). And yes, I will mention his mostly awful soft-rock cover of Tom Waits� �Downtown Train� (which Stewart managed to take to number one on the Billboard charts) if only to prove how much the man can make these songs his own. The man took a Tom Waits song to #1 on the Billboard Charts! Just say that out loud for me, please. If that doesn�t prove my point, I don�t know what does.

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For my friend Ryan, the 70�s started (at least musically) when Led Zeppelin II took over Abbey Road in 1969; for my sister they started, I think, with Bill Withers�s �Aint No Sunshine.�

The 70�s never started for me, not really, not musically, and before all you Pink Floyd, The Who, Janis Joplin (for those who think something starts when something else dies), etc. fans pity my sheltered existence, let me assure you my lack of origin doesn�t stem from a lack of exposure.

The first tropical storm of the season, Alberto, traveled by my neck of the woods this past week, and for me that�s when the 70�s started, in the middle of wind and rain and no moonlight or crickets or bats in the trees outside my doorstep.

That�s when I heard Sibylle Baier�s �Tonight.� I turned the volume up and basked in the crackle of a crude recording captured with the gain set too high. The purist in me cringed, the lo-fi junkie orgasmed.

I sat in my room, listening, feeling slightly like a rapist. I thought to myself, �This song wasn�t meant to be heard� even if the Elf Powered folks at the Orange Twin record label assured me otherwise. I knew this because if it had, back when it was recorded in the flourishing heyday of female minimalist folk singers, Sibylle Baier�s album, Colour Green, would have a Wikipedia entry somewhere between Vashti Bunyan�s Just Another Diamond Day (1970) and Joni Mitchell�s Blue (1971).

But there is no such entry, and somehow I find this a testament to those who�ve heard Sibylle�s music thus far. I don�t know how much longer this will be the case, but for the time being I�m grateful.

I can�t count the number of occasions I�ve closed my eyes and said to myself, �There�s something about this song�.� Perhaps most impressive and confounding is its aforementioned simultaneity, its alive/dead nature certainly on par with anything Schr�dinger could dream up. In short, its ability to be timeless and so thoroughly grounded in a specific decade.

This is when the 70�s started for me, with a voice, a guitar, and the ambience of the storms and hurricanes that have come to mean home.

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Collaborations, eh? Where they should be a meeting of talents, they tend to result from a meeting of record company executives. Thank god that�s not always the case�

Do: Steal

Lo-Fidelity All Stars featuring Pigeonhed � Battleflag

The Lo-Fidelity Allstars were initially commissioned to remix Pigeonhed�s Battleflag, for its UK release. The result, featuring completely new music and added vocals by the Lo-Fi�s, ends up sounding more like a battle: �I’m blown to the maxim / Two hemispheres battling.� It�s a tune with a surplus of funk, with the band�s respective singers taking turns on vocals until it descends into a Hammond organ wig-out. Its credentials as a collaboration, rather than just a remix, were proven when the Lo-Fidelity All Stars released it themselves a year later under their own name featuring Pigeonhed and it became a dancefloor hit in the States. Sometimes an artist�s finest moment comes from an unexpected place and this ended up being the best song either band ever put their name to. None of which may be much consolation to the Lo-Fi�s who didn�t see a penny from it.

Do: Choose Wisely

PJ Harvey featuring Thom Yorke- This Mess We�re In

This song from, Peej�s Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea, is brilliant for three reasons�it�s a duet where the woman has a lower voice than the man, it features one of Yorke�s best performances, and because Polly has managed to get Yorke to sing a preposterously uncharacteristic lyric �Night and day I dream of making love to you now baby.� There�s something about the way Yorke sounds like he�s not going to hit the high notes but hits them every single time. It�s a duet where the voices are perfectly matched. It is a thing of beauty.

Don�t: Keep It in the Family

Ozzy and Kelly Osbourne- Changes

Now I�m not saying Ozzy hasn�t had his moments, but let�s fact the man can�t really sing and when he�s not hiding behind a rock band no amount of production can hide that. As for Kelly I don�t think even her mother would argue that she has one of the greatest voices. When you have two terrible vocal performances suddenly lyrics like �I feel unhappy, I am so sad� are exposed for the tripe they are. It�s got all the artistic merit of a drunken father and daughter doing karaoke.

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This is about an album called Time to Echolocate by a band called the Ebb and Flow, whose promotional literature characterizes them ad nauseum as disciples of 1970s prog-rock, a genre based upon the kind of obsessive unfolding practiced most famously by Rube Goldberg and most recently by the Fiery Furnaces. Both Goldberg and the Furnaces can meander; they can repeat themselves too often, or too stridently; they can even, at times, become ridiculous.

Time to Echolocate is eight tracks and fifty-seven minutes long. It is loose but never meandering; long but never repetitive; inventive but never ridiculous. At its best it sounds like a three-piece band applying the simplistic instrumentation of 4/4 rock-and-roll�guitar, bass, drums, the always indispensable Farfisa organ�to the giddy enormities of the new Rock Collective. The songs are big, messy, and ambitious, but expansionist flourishes are rare; even the ghostly preamble of album-opening suite “Sonorous” quickly gives way to staccato guitars and vocalist Roshy Kheshti’s straightforward curtain-raising: “Every day somebody goes away.” Much less colossal, “See You in the Fjords” is skeletal guitar pop, a brief, affecting burglary-as-love vignette; and Sam Tsitrin’s immensely appealing voice isn’t that of someone who has marbles in his mouth, but rather that of someone worried that he might.

It’s Tsitrin’s precipitous enunciation that makes “Country Verses,� the arguable highlight. It’s not the subtle and believable country twang given the guitar, and it’s not the ironic bite of the lyrics (”I have a message from God and it says you should love me / Because I am the best atheist in the West”)�it’s the way Tsitrin, contrary to all established speech patterns, and completely unnecessarily, mispronounces “atheist,” and it’s the way he and Kheshti da-da-da in messy harmony, as if they happened to have the same idea at the same time. It’s the best example of the Ebb and Flow’s compromise between pop’s Swiss watch and prog’s Goldberg machine�and though the resulting piece of mutant craftsmanship doesn’t shake its debt to either template, it inherits the better qualities of both.

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The other weekend, I was walking past a row of restaurants in my town�s approximation of Chinatown. At each table there were families enjoying a quiet Saturday lunch�talking, laughing, gossiping. The scene made me feel slightly depressed in the knowledge that the scene was an impossibility for me. My parents live eight hours west of me, my sister lives eight hours south and my brother lives eight hours southwest. Weekend get-togethers aren�t easy to organise.

These families, half-glimpsed through glass, weren�t perfect. In my reflective moments, I have to recognise that they no doubt argue, bitch, and misunderstand each other as much as the next pack of individuals connected by genetics and shared holidays in cramped vans. But I curse them for being together�for having the opportunity to squabble and bicker in the same mediocre Chinese restaurant as each other.

This situation is one of my own making, the result of my own choices and my need to be independent and �going places.� Overall, I don�t think those choices have been bad, but there are consequences. After you�ve been away for a while, you realise what you�re missing�that sense of belonging to something bigger than just yourself.

Which brings me to Casiotone for the Painfully Alone. I couldn�t tell you about electro-pop songwriter Owen Ashworth�s relationship with his parents, but going on his latest album as Casiotone, I can get a sense of where he�s coming from.

Parents feature frequently throughout Etiquette�Ashworth�s vignettes of twenty-something life paint pictures of a class of directionless youngsters, living in single-bedroom apartments thousands of miles from their families. Families are photos on bookshelves and voices on the end of static-ridden phone-lines. Sound familiar?

The narrator of �Young Shields� intersperses his musings on youthful disaffection with requests for money from his parents. The money isn�t forthcoming and he swears �to God they don�t get me at all.� Ashworth�s gruff talk-singing is full of pathos and angst.

In �Cold White Christmas,� a recent graduate seeks independence in St. Paul only to collapse into loneliness and pessimism. While there�s no one to scold or correct, she�s facing up to a solitary Christmas. The glamorous single lifestyle she was promised has failed.

�Bobby Malone Moves Home� is almost a sequel to �White Christmas,� with a prodigal son returning to his father. Dad is so philosophical and reasonable, that it�s as if he never expected any other outcome. Bobby arrives, looking shabby and downcast, needing �a couple of months on the couch while [he] figure[s] things out.�

A review of Etiquette stressed that the importance of these stories depends entirely on your perspective�whether you share Ashworth�s sense that the lives of these people matter. Maybe that�s why I respond to these songs so much. They might not be universal, but their specificity hits home.

I turn 25 years old this week in a freezing-cold town miles from anywhere, in a house where I live with strangers. I�ll wake up, go to work and come home as if it�s any other day. Somehow I think Owen Ashworth might have written a song about that somewhere.

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I had considered myself to be a fairly guarded person, protected from love�s piercing arrow and exempt from the lessons so bountifully offered through mountains of film, literature, and FM Country radio. I was na�ve, and my naivety, like so many other luxuries, bore a substantial cost that I would one day have to pay. With my tears.

She was my first celebrity crush, our worlds joined by happenstance. I had accidentally turned on Fox News when I first saw her. Her eyes were fixated on her opponent, mouth rapidly shouting out fact after fact. She was the most gorgeous reactionary, hate-mongering, conspiracy-theorist, anti-intellectual, attention-starved pundit I had ever seen. It was then that I knew Michelle Malkin and I were meant to be.

It took me forever to make the first call. What should I say? What if she doesn�t pick up? I knew I�d fuck up the message, per usual. The Bouncing Souls� �Say Anything� played on repeat that day as I paced my room in a nervous sweat.

But I of course called; I mean how could I not? We talked for over an hour. �Sure, I know a Greek restaurant.� �No Michelle, I don�t think Iraq is a beaming success story.� �Of course I�ll ask them not to have any illegal immigrants prepare our meal.� We made plans for Saturday night.

I had never been so excited for a first date. A neoconservative celebrity was going to spend the evening with me! But what if we have nothing to talk about? I guess we could talk politics. I didn�t want to argue over a romantic dinner, though. I decided to keep the conversation superficial, to only mention benign current events. I listened to Teenage Fanclub�s �What You Do To Me� as I scrolled through the news looking for a story Michelle wouldn�t get worked up over, but eventually gave up after familiarizing myself with her blog. I guess I�d have to rely on small talk.

We met outside the restaurant in Chicago�s Greek Town around 8. I was wearing a polo and chinos while she sported a skirt and a smart sweater with no less than three American Flag pins. We ate and talked and laughed, our worldviews never once sparking any tension. We were human beings enjoying each other�s company, relating on the most basic level. After dinner, I suggested a lounge, but she preferred a walk, and so it was decided. As we strolled down Halsted, she began to open up a bit, telling me how hard it was for her to get her start in the world of political journalism. Here she was, a young Filipino-American woman trying to get the attention of the old, white, male money that controlled virtually all major-media outlets. There are far more applicants than jobs in the broadcasting industry and sometimes the pressure to succeed drives one to do and say some pretty crazy stuff. Knowing my political leanings, she asked me to understand that she just wanted to be happy, successful, and able to afford time with her family, much like anybody else. She looked at me for acceptance, approval, and then we kissed under the full moon beside a homeless man selling copies of Streetwise (I later gave him a dollar, but Michelle informed me she gave him a more valuable donation: tough love).

That evening found us back at my humble apartment and eventually asleep in each other�s arms, but I woke up alone. I quickly looked around the room for her; I called out her name; I frantically threw aside my second pillow to check for the gun she had placed beneath it the night before. Nothing. Not even a note. And so our great love ended, without even an acknowledgement of its existence.

Do I still think of her? Of course. I still think of how we sat on my couch and listened to music, how I heard Tilly and the Wall�s �Fell Down the Stairs,� and hoped she�d notice and mention it. We were too beautiful to last in this impossibly cruel world. But to this day, whenever I hear someone decry gay marriage or rant about abortion, it takes all I have to force the tears from my eyes and thoughts of Michelle from my mind.

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When I walked into the recent Low gig in Melbourne, I was pleasantly surprised to see that they would be supported by locals Machine Translations. J. Walker and his revolving line-up of bandmates were a live favourite of mine only a few years ago, but I�d managed to forget all about them in the rush of new discoveries.

When trying to explain their sound to my brother, I was lost for words�something of an embarrassment for a music writer�and ended up falling back on crude statements like �they�re a little bit pop and a little bit country and they get noisy sometimes.� Hardly eloquent or even particularly helpful.

Luckily for Matt, the music spoke for itself and at the end of the set we gave each other that appreciative nod that hipsters give each other when they know they�re sharing something that few people will ever know.

Mr. Walker has released six albums in the last decade, most of them home-recorded with friends. The last two in particular have been well-received by critics and music fans. Still, he�d be able to walk down the street without being mobbed by obsessive fans. It�s not really surprising�Machine Translations� gift has always been a knack for taking simple, catchy songs and warping them with idiosyncrasies that result in music hardly recognizable as pop.

Take for example the glitched-up title track from 2002�s Happy LP. Sounding strangely similar to something by Dntel, Walker�s concoction from the sampled voices of three women is hypnotic, unsettling, and altogether extraordinary. It doesn�t even conform to the now-familiar clich�s of lap-pop, as Walker and band lay a foundation of delicate indie rock for the broken melody to rest on.

In a similar vein, �No Hip� takes a computerized female voice uttering apparently nonsensical phrases and manipulates it into a memorable pop song. The lighter-than-air electronic groove manages to sound almost mournful�imbuing the vocals with a sadness than belies the line �And I�m glad where I am.�

Their live sound is better summarised by �She Wears a Mask,� a near-hit for the band at the time. The song jangles along its merry way and coupled with Walker�s dry, wry vocal observations the overall effect is similar to fellow Melburnians The Lucksmiths. There are few songs I find as insidiously memorable.

It�s been a few years since the last Machine Translations album (2004�s Venus Traps Fly) and I can only hope that their recent live shows are warming the public up for another release. Indie pop this consistently engaging and edgy is a blessing.

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