Underappreciated Beatles label-mates. Harmonious 60s Mancunians. However the world chooses to remember them, I�m going to try my best to make sure they�re at least remembered.

Now I know what you must be thinking��Right, The Hollies, now there�s a band in need of introduction. Hell, even �Long Dark Road�s� been heard blaring inappropriately through a Starbucks speaker now and then,� but it�s unnerving to imagine a generation unfamiliar with such a pivotal band.

Then again, perhaps I�m overestimating the gravity of this situation. After all, �Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress� was featured in 2000�s hip-foreign-flick-of-choice Amores Perros, and while the song is clearly more CCR than Hollies, at least it�s a start. Then, of course, there are a multitude of bands inspired by The Hollies. The Billy Nayer Show�s �Love Smiles� from The American Astronaut (2001) soundtrack clearly takes from The Hollies�s �If I Needed Someone,� and yes, I�m choosing to ignore the rivalry between The Beatles and The Hollies at this point.

Yet, despite all that, I still get uneasy thinking about the band. Maybe it�s the lack of Hollies vinyl at the record stores I frequent, or the lack of Hollies namedropping by the myopia-struck bin hounds at the trendy coffee shops; maybe it�s the fact that they seem doomed to obscurity beneath the seemingly never-ending supply of Beatles/Beach Boys/Buddy Holly fans. Then again, maybe the obscurity is deserved, and maybe I don�t know how to deal with it. Allan Clarke�s no Brian Wilson. �Dear Eloise� intro versus �A Day in the Life� intro? Come on. But there�s more about The Hollies that calls to me than the urge to root for the underdog.

I mean, what was it? Isn�t �Just Like Me� as catchy and inane as any early-day Beatles or The Who song? Weren�t they great in concert? Didn�t they embrace psychedelia like everyone else? If not, then how does one account for �King Midas in Reverse,� an arguably incredible song? What happened? Were The Byrds too much? Honestly, I can�t tell whether they were simply overshadowed or if I�m over-appreciating their toe-tap-inspiring tunes. Whatever it is, I�m sorry for it, and I hope their revival doesn�t occur through an episode of The O.C..

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Brendan Benson has been marginalized in the music world this year. The Raconteurs have been written about by every major music publication and most all of them imply that Benson is in a totally unequal partnership with Jack White in a band that is, according to White, supposed to echo The Three Musketeers� motto of all for one and one for all. As if, right? Try as he may, White simply caused journalists to scoff at even thinking to call The Raconteurs a “super-group.” Doesn’t “supergroup” imply that more than one of the members is “super”? seemed to be the general consensus. Not to mention the fact that a band where the famous lead singer whom everybody knows is called �Big Jack� and the unknown bassist with glasses who�s never dated an Oscar winning actress is called �Little Jack� doesn�t exactly meet the �all for one� philosophy. Benson, the public laughs, probably is a great musician…in White’s alternate world where divorced couples are brother and sister, the world is candy cane colors and chin beards are all the rage! But for once, Jack White is actually right: Brendan Benson is something of a pop music genius.

Now if you listen to Benson expecting The Raconteurs, you won’t find it. This is straight up Beatles-esque, layered, power-chord heavy, completely unpopular power-pop. But Broken Boy Soldiers isn’t really that far from Benson’s solo work�in fact, it’s probably closer to Lapalco than it is to Elephant. I’d go so far as to say The Raconteurs are pretty much just Benson’s pop songs filtered through Jack White’s personal brand of dirty, amped up garage rock. Benson’s solo work isn’t as garage-y sounding or even living room-y sounding (like Paul McCartney’s early solo albums). It’s much more akin to the other one man band power-pop master turned producer turned New Cars front man Todd Rundgren. Take a listen to “Jetlag,” the final song on Lapalco. The first three and a half minutes have an under produced, repetitive quality, featuring a repeating piano riff with a Casio fooling around somewhere in the background. It sounds like almost a throwaway track�a demo maybe, yet to be completed. But at the 3:33 mark, a mechanically altered and slowed down voice tells us to “come on now” and an array of acoustic guitars and backing vocals that would make Jeff Lynne blush jump in to finish out the song, taking it to another level. Like Rundgren, Benson knows his way around his home studio and he has fun with it. He’s not afraid to be the only one overdubbing vocals for a choir of voices on his own song, nor does he shy away at showing off his collection of vintage keyboards and analog synthesizers on pretty much every song.

It’s fitting that his first two solo albums were a heavy collaboration with Jason Falkner�a man who has had his hand in almost as many power-pop pots as his one time bandmate in The Grays Jon Brion (and both have shown similar lack of success when going solo). But before you go crying that Benson can’t write a decent song without a co-writer, watch out, cause Falkner had nothing to do with 2005’s Alternative to Love, and it may be his best effort yet. No it’s not as consistent as Lapalco, but with assistance from Tchad Blake, Benson’s songs come into the 21st century. Although the album was also made in his home studio, he had a new partner in Tchad Blake. And it’s clear with a song like “The Pledge” with its clanging bells and echoing percussion, that a slick-as-snails 2005 production style fits him just as well as the 70’s aesthetic he’d employed on his earlier albums.

Another criticism thrown at Benson is that he doesn’t “rock”. This is a fair assumption if you’ve never heard the man’s music. But listening to “You’re Quiet” (from the Metarie EP, not the Lapalco version) with its Townsend-baiting guitar moves, thrashing drums and synths out of a 50s William Castle movie, it easily rocks harder than anything on Get Behind Me Satan. It’s true that rocking out isn’t really Benson’s thing, but he sure as hell can when he wants to. He may not show the same guitar heroics as his new band mate, but they don’t all have to be Clapton, can’t some just be George Harrison?

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The summer months can pose a problem for the bookish indie kid. Pale interesting skin can tan, the days are long, the sun is often out, if your not careful you could find yourself actually…happy. This clearly will not do, if you’re happy how are you supposed to keep your veneer of indie cool? At this rate you’ll be throwing away your vintage-retro-irony clothes and cutting off that stupid haircut. Maybe you won’t even cry yourself to sleep every night, how are you going to be interesting then?

With this in mind I present, for your self-pity and entertainment, distressing and depressing summer songs.

Never trust a hippie, John Lennon was clearly wrong when he proclaimed that “love is all you need” and 25 years later scottish dour-mongers The Delgados asserted exactly the opposite in their paean to pessimism �All You Need Is Hate.� It sure as hell sounds like a summer song; strings soar and melodies jangle but then you realise that with dead-eyed, smiley-faced sincerity The Del’s are imploring you to hate hate hate. It’s all around, it’s in the air and it’s in your mother’s heart. Don’t forget this.

Scots understand miserablism like few other nations, even when the sun is shining outside it’s still drizzling in their hearts. While The Delgados got their kicks from hiding the darkness within behind musical prettiness, their some-time label mates Arab Strap prefer to look you straight in the eye and tell you exactly how bad life is. Singer Aiden Moffat doesn’t really sing, he’s too glum for that, he simply narrates wretched (autobiographical?) tales of drunkenness and heartbreak in a bored and broken monotone. �The First Big Weekend� is actually one of the band’s lighter moments, on the first “big weekend” of the summer Aiden and his friends go out and get wasted in various bars and clubs. Such meaningless hedonism would almost sound like fun if it wasn’t for the monotonous, metronomic backbeat and the fact that Moffat delivers his lines in the style of a funeral eulogy.

A couple of hundred miles south in Sheffield, lives Richard Hawley an old-fashioned crooner who deals in old-school, Scott Walker style despair. Despite the summery title �Sunlight� has the same theme as pretty much every song Richard Hawley has ever written, agonising relationship meltdown. He also has one of the most miserable voices in pop music, comparable to Morrissey or Lenard Cohen. When he sings “Oh, the end, the end�” you know just everything is hopeless, his life, your life, everything.

Enjoy the rest of your summer.

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I�m not the most attentive law student that ever skipped a class, but I�ve learned a few interesting things in my Australian copyright law course in the first four weeks. I�ve learnt that you can�t copy music onto a mixtape or your iPod, nor can you claim copyright over music you�ve improvised and someone else has bootlegged. In short, the Australian legal system does not lose sleep over cramping the style of most music lovers.

An essential element to obtaining copyright protection over artistic work in Australia is originality. I won�t go into the specifics of this requirement�partly to keep you legal laymen interested and partly because I haven�t done the readings for that part of the course�but suffice to say that courts require some level of originality before they�ll grant copyright in a work of art, music, or literature. For a system based on precedent�essentially cribbing from someone else�s hard work�it seems a bit rich that Australian judges have ruled that the creator of a work rearranging others� work into a different form fails to meet the necessary level of originality.

On that basis, Faux Pas is nigh-on screwed. Being an artist who arranges samples into his music, the Australian legal system would hang him out to dry. It could be open season on his work. Whilst I wouldn�t encourage you to go steal his ideas, it�d nonetheless be worth your while to check this guy out.

His legal birth certificate would say Tim Shiel is originally from Melbourne, but Joe Law might characterise his EP Faux Feels as belonging to any one of the 56 artists he sampled. Music such as �Barry� was pieced together from thousands of samples, creating dynamic textures and strong beats. With its regal opening of flute and piano, �Barry� starts off as a warm hug, before shifting into pulsing African rhythms. Horns and strings play majestic lines in what could be called Faux Pas�s �Good Vibrations.� Australian courts might say that it is his �My Sweet Lord.�

It would seem that Australian electronic artists are condemned to a life of second-class legal status. I hope not. When you hear music such as �Crud Convenience� (a club track that would actually make me dance) and �Angles� (whose dynamics put all soft-loud rock bands to shame), you know that artists such as Faux Pas are engaged in the creative process, even though they may not have strummed every chord nor sung each note. It is most definitely worth protecting.

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Welcome to Tally Hall!

Taking you on a tour of this mini mall/toy store/amusement park cum-freak show are five strapping young men of various temperaments, sizes, and colorings. In no less than fifteen tracks, you may experience rapping, bells, whistles, bananas, and an ode to Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen. They have remarkable capabilities to entertain a crowd at length, all the while remaining affably sincere. This quintet of university students will be sure to please men and women of all ages.

To cater to a variety of tastes, Tally Hall come with members in every flavor and tie color. Take part in The Bidding, throw down a few dollars and pick which color coordinates best with your home furnishings. Will you like Yellow Tie, the bespectacled long-hair puppy eyed guitar player? Or Red Tie, the bad boy with a glint in his eye and a heart of gold? Blue Tie for the worldly, Grey for the cool and collected, and Green for those who like a little glockenspiel with their rock n� roll. In any case, this song achieves prime white-boy funk without become Arctic Monkeys-irritating, and is twice as clever (and fun) as anything else I�ve heard lately.
Blue�s mine. FYI.
Want Tally Hall to play at your own basement bash? They can accommodate a wide variety of venues and environments with ease. The local town art fair? They charm the old ladies chomping on corndogs, while the good ol� boys pump a fist in the air. Opening for a Japanese pop duo? Besides the creepy men clutching anime posters and the tiny children in the audience, the 18 to 35�s greatly appreciate the clever lyrics and tinkering piano goodness. Buy the album and find a corker like �The Whole World and You.� It will no doubt revamp your enthusiasm of tubas and goofy silliness. Wherever they are, Tally Hall will make you grin, bounce, and �jiggle your boodiggle.�

Such is the way of the �Hall. These gentlemen will show you a good time, make you pancakes the next morning, and parlay any embarrassing moments into a pleasant tune or two. Pop music without a trace of pretentiousness, melancholy, or gloomy weather: they�re Tally Hall, and they hope you have enjoyed the show. They�re sorry, but it�s time to go.

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I don�t want to debate the pros and cons of the Red House Painters, or the absurdity of attempting AC/DC and Modest Mouse covers, or anything dealing with Mark Kozelek at all. This entry is about one song.

I�ve listened to Sun Kil Moon�s �Carry Me Ohio� on and off for the past few years, but always in bursts. It�s my favorite off their Ghosts of the Great Highway, and I love it not (only) because of some sad-sap, broken hearts club reason, but because it was popular. Or at least relatively popular. Enough to have someone out in middle-of-nowhere Midwest, USA write online that, in his neck of the woods, the radio airwaves were saturated with it.

How often is a song you love popular amongst the right crowd? I know that sounds pretentious��There is no right crowd��but it doesn�t take much to realize the gal with the Miles Davis T-shirt at the Fall Out Boy concert is a smidge out of place. While I�ve known people who love musicians for their idiosyncrasies and bands for their unity, I�ve never known a community that loves a song on its own, at least not in my lifetime. There exist no future expectations. A person can invest in it without any vulnerability; s/he doesn�t have to worry how the next album will sound, or if the death metal guitarist will cut his hand on the knives attached to the ceiling fan while doing Windmills in a small room. There�s no �What if the singer goes solo?� looming in the air. No, this group�s commonality is their complete disinterest in anything but that six-and-a-half-minutes.

It�s a curious thing, loving a song for being there at the right time. It cuts me to the core to think that maybe, just maybe, there were a few others out there in love with this song for the same reasons I was.

�Carry Me Ohio� has reminded me of one thing since I first heard it�driving at night (everyone gets one). Well, driving somewhere and then parking, but still driving. I sat thinking of teenage boys with their �pink carnations and a pick-up truck� driving around Nebraska (which I realize is quite a ways from Ohio), parking in cornfields, listening to this song and smiling at a clear night sky. And though I sat alone, they were the ones keeping me company at a time and place I needed it most. It was comforting thinking a group of people were smiling right back at me across the thousands of lonely miles that separated us, paved or otherwise.

As far as I�m concerned, this song was meant for that moment, that time and place, with the moon hanging above the palm trees like a Christmas ornament. I wanted to drive into the night and have that feeling of companionship unlike any other. Nearly two years later I feel the same way.

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I have no evidence to prove it, but I�m pretty sure the only artist who has been covered more than Bob Dylan is Bruce Springsteen�and as disparate as some of the artists who have covered Dylan are, it�s not quite as impressive as all Dylan songs pre-1980 are basically standards by now. Let�s take a look at a couple of Springsteen covers that you might not hate (and one you might).

Manfred Mann�s Earth Band � For You

Manfred Mann apparently wanted lightning to strike twice (or thrice) by covering this song off Springsteen�s debut Greetings from Asbury Park in 1980. The band originally reached fame turning Asbury Park�s �Blinded by the Light� and �Spirit in the Night� into fun, mainstream 70s pop songs�suggesting that Asbury Park is probably the only Springsteen album Mann owned. But whereas Mann�s �Blinded by the Light� succeeded by eschewing most of the �Tangled up in Blue� styled lyrics of Springsteen�s original and giving it an almost entirely different arrangement, �For You� sticks pretty close to the original. The song juxtaposes a verse backed by synthesized strings and a looping piano riff that wouldn�t sound out of place in a Journey song with a grand chorus featuring not only Chris Thompson�s mighty vocals but five (count �em FIVE) massive guitars that sound more Kansas than Jersey Shore (and that�s �Wayward Son� Kansas). And, of course, the song features about 1,000 synthesizers, courtesy of Manfred Mann himself.

I�m here to tell Brandon Flowers of The Killers not to get too cocky with their �new� Springsteen meets wall of synths sound�Manfred Mann had that market cornered 26 years ago.

The Band � Atlantic City

I should preface this by saying that this is not �The Band� as most people would think of �The Band��which pretty much just means that this is post-Robbie Robertson and post-Richard Manuel�s death (so much for that Last Waltz thing). But who cares? Helm sang about 80% of the songs during their initial run, anyways and he sounds in top form here. Their writing may not have been what it once was, but their ability to cover a song and make it their own was at its peak when they recorded this song for 1993�s Jericho. One of Springsteen�s darkest and most striking songs from the ultra-depressing, lo-fi pioneering album Nebraska, this version, backed by a joyous accordion and down-home mandolin, would have you believing that this song is not about a man so who �has debts no honest man can pay� and is so desperate, he�s willing to do some sort of unnamed �favor for a guy� he met only last night. That�s not to say they jettison all the melancholy�in fact, with its upbeat New Orleans sound, it adds another layer to the song. It�s as if the narrator is putting a happy face on a situation that can only end badly; that for this man, another chance, no matter how dire the consequences, is still another chance to make things right.

Son Volt � Open All Night

�Open All Night� is one of the more �demo-like� numbers on Nebraska, consisting of Springsteen and a reverbed electric guitar. It�s a song that was just waiting to be rocked out by Stevie Van Zandt and Max Weinberg; so the easy thing for Jay Farrar and Son Volt to do would be simply to make a straight, full band version. But Jay Farrar would never make things that easy on himself. Instead he slows it down, and makes it a full-on country number�lap steel solo and everything. It�s actually the least reverent of the three covers named here�Farrar even goes so far as to delete a whole verse. This angered many Boss fans and many suggested with that Farrar didn�t even understand the lyrics, as this is a song dedicated to �rock n� roll delivering me from nowhere.� Basically, if you�re a bigger Boss fan than Son Volt fan, chances are, you hate this song. Still, I think Farrar knew exactly what he was doing; the narrator may want to hear some old time rock n� roll, but when he�s driving home in the morning after working for the man all night, he�s feeling a country song, and that�s the song Son Volt�s playing.

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There is a general sentiment amongst music journalists that punk died in the late 70?s and that bands like The Clash and The Damned, because of their forward thinking music, were not actually punk bands. This sentiment was once again expressed in a recent Stylus feature that included phrases such as ?punk rock had proven an ideological dead-end? and ?punk [was] dry-humping its own corpse for want of inspiration.?

The story, for most music fans, ends there. The 70?s marked the end of punk, period.

I have an old VHS tape of a packed Minor Threat show, complete with shots of the electrified crowd and several onstage dives by singer Ian McKaye. A now-closed record store in Chicago used to sell them every so often and if you checked in regularly enough, you could find a lot of amazing stuff. That?s where I got my Operation Ivy tape and my tape of the last Slapstick show. That?s where my friend found a tape of 88 Fingers Louie, Good Riddance, and AFI at the Fireside Bowl in Chicago, a show I still regret missing.

Minor Threat must have been terrifying. Hardcore kids with shaved heads and ?X?s on their hands were a far cry from the postcard Punks of the late 70s. There wasn?t a lot of marketable music coming out of the DC underground and to some that meant the movement had died. After all, punk was about catchy three chord progressions and nihilism. Music critics preferred punks like Sid Vicious, slurring their words and preaching some form of apolitical rebellion. That was marketable. Kids could go buy their leather pants and sing along to ?Anarchy in the UK? and feel tough. When Ian McKaye started screaming about being ?Straight Edge? and talking about progressive politics, well, that wasn?t so good. That wasn?t marketable. Punk was a lot safer when you could go to a show without any threat of physical or intellectual confrontation; when you could pogo to power-pop bands and dye your hair silly colors for shock value.

But 80s hardcore brought about the meat of the movement. Real political discourse was taking place in basements and backyards, small venues in the middle of nowhere and anywhere that?d agree to host a show. The Dead Kennedys, Reagan Youth, and the Circle Jerks began challenging the status quo. Sexism, racism, homophobia and famously, the War on Drugs, were all challenged as social ills. By the time Operation Ivy began questioning capitalism and urban slums with songs like ?Big City,? social critiques had become part of the subculture?s dialect.

But it didn?t end there. Bad Religion would inspire generations of leftist rockers. Operation Ivy would eventually give way to Rancid. Members of Minor Threat would create Fugazi, which in turn would revolutionize post-punk. NoFX would start one of the most important independent Punk labels in the country. The political discourse would be continued with bands like Propagandhi, Bikini Kill and Refused.

I never knew punk was dead when I started listening to it a decade ago. Shows were always decorated with zines, demos, and flyers. There was a ?Punk Hotline? listing all the upcoming concerts in the Chicagoland area. Alternative Press and other publishers toured alongside major acts and sold progressive literature for next to nothing. Bands would interact with the audience in the smallest of venues, populated by participants in a scene, not just a collection of fans. People regularly held shows in their basements and frequently put bands up for the night. No one I knew ever thought they had reached an ideological dead-end.

My experience growing up as part of the Chicago punk scene was a continuation of a tradition established some 15 years prior. Punk came into its own in the 80s; it became distinctive and alive with purpose. If we choose the classical definition of punk, as the musical and cultural antithesis of the social norm, then certainly the early hardcore scene met that standard. It rejected the flashy materialism of the 80s and the rise of the conservative movement. It started DIY, saw the founding of some of the first truly independent labels, and inspired generations of bands. If punk is dead, then I?ve been wasting my time. I just wish someone told those kids at the Minor Threat show.

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Let me tell you a tale of Australia, beyond the image of bronzed beach bums, pronounced accents, and boomerang throwing. Sure, we play cricket and drink beer, but our penchant is for bloodsport. And our targets? Our own. Americans would rather starve than carve a bald eagle, but kangaroo meat is a constant in Australian supermarkets.

Unique to our fine brown lands is tall poppy syndrome. It�s the mentality that allows us to eat our national animal. As well-loved as we are around the world, Australians have an insufferable inferiority complex. We simply do not believe in ourselves, or the merits of what we produce. Our artists are apparently not worthy of comparison with their overseas peers. Should any Australian attempt to break free of our alleged mediocrity, we sharpen the knives and target their backs.

This is the process: enthusiastic Australian rookie develops their craft, experiences local acclaim, launches into overseas ventures. Cue tall poppy syndrome. Sharp implements�mainly verbal, natch�are quickly wielded as Australians try to cut these precocious achievers down to size.

A prime example is Sydney quartet Youth Group. Even from their inception, Youth Group were not lacking in ambition. They released a series of four collectible singles as their debut, whilst their first record Urban & Eastern started with the seven minute opus �Blue Leaves, Red Dust.�

Urban & Eastern was a solid collection, if in need of a good edit, but prominent already were Toby Martin�s piercing vocals and evocative lyrics. With their bass player leaving to manage The Vines, the recording of second album Skeleton Jar was bogged for months. After a long gestation, it was released to critical acclaim. Skeleton Jar showcased immeasurably improved songwriting�witness the sublime �Shadowland��and drummer Danny Allen emerged as a fine timekeeper, inventive with his patterns and bruising with his power.

Then came The OC.

�Shadowland� was featured on the show�absurdly soundtracking two characters making out�and then they were asked to cover Alphaville�s �Forever Young.� The buzz grew as their cover spread across the Internet and radio. Eventually, they made the best business decision of their lives and released the song as a single. It, predictably, went straight to #1 on the Australian charts.

Thus the status quo is that Youth Group are a relative household name in Australia. �Forever Young� infects airwaves. Press coverage has moved from street press to publications that you actually have to pay for. In an ironic circularity, former Vine Patrick Matthews is now manning the Youth Group basslines, bringing still more notoriety.

And, yes, there has been the requisite backlash. People have been as quick to disown Youth Group as radio has been to embrace them. Cheap shots have been fired: a support slot on Coldplay�s Australian tour drew inevitable comparisons. Previous indie hipsters championing their cause now pen their epitaph.

The rational part of me admires Youth Group for their tremendous success. Moreover, I feel that my musical taste is vindicated. I knew of this band years ago. However, a significant part of me feels sad. The exclusivity of Youth Group fandom is no more. The religious allusions of the name Youth Group�previously so obscure�has now given way to a cult of an entirely different nature. Most tragically, my Youth Group badge has lost all its indie cred. Listening to Youth Group�s latest record Casino Twilight Dogs makes it difficult to justify the criticisms now hurled their way. Shithouse title aside, the album is a steady evolution of their music. The epic �Daisychains� marry Martin�s sensitivity with Allen�s peerless drumming.

In the end it�s about the music, right? Why must Australians cut down our tall poppies? In part, it�s jealousy. Australians have faced obstacles from our beginnings as abandoned British convicts. We remain subjects of the British monarchy. We are not a dominant peoples, but at the same time we don�t want our peers to rise above our plight. It makes little sense, but that is Australia, I assure you. I may chomp on kangaroo steaks with aplomb, but I am unable to stick the knife into this fine Aussie band.

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About five years ago, my younger brother and I constructed a makeshift home recording studio. The intention was that we�d take full advantage of the leisure afforded by university holidays and record the art-rock magnum opus we knew was inside us.

The equipment was basic�guitar, bass, piano, computer, cheap Casio keyboard�and our musicianship almost non-existent. Nevertheless, we were armed with complete self-belief and fuelled by our favourite albums�Mogwai, Red Snapper, My Bloody Valentine, Hal Hartley movie soundtracks. Great albums have been made from fusing post-rock jam-band aesthetics, live instruments, hip-hop sampling, and electronic beats. Ours was not one of them.

Last year I uncovered what our album should have sounded like: Pivot�s Make Me Love You.

This Sydney-based quintet makes a sound that�s not too dissimilar to Chicago-based jazzy post-rock bands like Tortoise and The Sea and Cake. The elements are all there, from Richard Pike�s Jeff Parker-like guitar playing, through to the use of unconventional time signatures and odd instrumentation. Still, the sunny ambience is much more Harbour City than Windy City. I imagine this band jamming in a sunlit garage in shorts and sandals.

What first grabbed me about Pivot was their unconventional use of turntables. In a radio interview last year, I heard dub-plate maestro Dave Bowman explain that unlike most rock band DJs, he doesn�t exist solely for street-cred seeking scratches, but to add unusual melodies. Take the violin line in �Artificial Horizon,� as it cuts in and out�a spectral melody from the upper rooms of a haunted house.

Even when the instruments are made of strings and skin, rather than grooves in vinyl, the band�s virtuosity and knack for arrangements is apparent. The grinding drum and bass groove of �I May Be Gone for Some Time� would be menacing if not for the offsetting delicacy of synth washes and a xylophone (!) line. The fusion of dark trip-hop and cool jazz isn�t new, but it�s rarely executed so infectiously.

A similar combination of lock-tight rhythms and subtle atmospherics is used to even greater effect in penultimate track �Kirsten Dunst.� What it has to do with the blonde starlet, I have no idea. The only similarity between the two in my mind is that I have a deep affection for both. Kirsten and the song remind me of riding a bike in the spring sunshine. That�s probably just because I listened to the song doing exactly that.

My band won�t change your life. Hell, it didn�t even change mine. But Pivot�they just might.

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