Wavves
Wavvves

(Fat Possum)

Fans of canonical indie-rock: If you haven’t already hupped to it with Cymbals Eat Guitars in the wake of their recent Pitchfork nod, well, it’s not too late for you. This scattered-around-NYC quintet is one of many new indie groups that add little to what’s come before elementally speaking, but frontman Joseph D’Agostino & Co. excel in outright confidence. Which is to say that on Why There Are Mountains, Cymbals Eat Guitars knit together often unusually long pieces that rarely hew to classic song form, cruising instead through passages—some might say movements—of varying intensity and color. If that sounds too arty for your ears, worry not: The band’s palette draws from the tried-and-true: quiet-to-loud dynamics; energy readings ranging from sleepy to earnest and nervy; D’Agostino’s clear-bell vocals, which take on a classic rasp when he pushes things. Guitars, bass, keybs, drums, hooks hooks hooks. If you are unashamedly an indie-rocker, then this is the indie-rock you like—just stretched and pulled and relaxed in unfamiliar ways. (M.L. Thrope)

Is it too late for us to sound smart by predicting indie-stardom for Bishop Allen? Sigh, I suppose so. All right then, we’ll take the bold risk of predicting even more of it for them with the release of Grrr..., the Brooklyn band’s third full-length. There’s hardly a move on this neatly tailored little pop record that’ll surprise any Bishop Allen fans—which is to say that roughly half of the songs could’ve been on the soundtracks of Juno or its kind of sequel, Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist (which um, Bishop Allen was on and even appeared in). But so what? The core duo of Justin Rice and Christian Rudder surround themselves with exactly the right elements song after song. We’re partial to the ones with Darbie Nowatka’s vocals, like “Oklahoma” and “True or False.” But that’s just us being us. (M.L. Thrope)

Face Control, the sophomore album from Wolf Parade guitarist Dan Boeckner and his wife, keyboardist Alexei Perry, finds them coming into their own as a duo and really expanding what they’re capable of. On their debut, Plague Park, the couple favored minimalist compositions with harsh electronic beats that conveyed a sense of listlessness and modern urban alienation. This time, they made the wise choice to experiment with different sounds and moods, speed things up, and write some music you can actually dance to. Some of the songs take on a manic sense of urgency and some are just plain fun. Tracks like the shimmering, glorious “All We Want, Baby, Is Everything” and the completely irresistible “I’m Confused,” which is driven by a squealing rock and roll riff and a cowbell, prove that Handsome Furs are far more than Wolf Parade with a drum machine—they’re an unstoppable force of their own now. (Kiri)

An offbeat and likable album, the debut from Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band, like nearly everything else coming out from the delightfully enigmatic Dead Oceans label, never follows a predictable path. It’s got the hooks and energy of your standard indie rock fare, but the presence of spooky harmonies, rapid tempo shifts, killer bass lines and an unusual instrument or two (glockenspiel, accordion) keeps things fresh and exciting. This Seattle quintet is led by a husband and a wife team and features their 14-year-old son on drums, but don’t expect goofy family histrionics; the band is thoroughly professional, with bluesy guitar riffs, pumping rhythms and frenzied choruses giving way to soothing vocals, all held together by frontman Benjamin Verdoes impeccable pop instincts. Recorded with Scott Colburn (Arcade Fire, Animal Collective) and causing some serious stir in the blogosphere, Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band have given us one of the finest debuts of the year. The perfect new band to fall in love with. (James)

When Tim Kasher sings towards the beginning of Mama, I’m Swollen that “I’m at my best when I’m at my worst,” he’s telling the truth: He’s always the most fun when he’s unhinged and battling his demons. The album’s handwritten liner notes present the lyrics (plus some additional notes) as a manic stream-of-consciousness trip through Kasher’s sick, brilliant mind as he tackles nothing less than the inevitable failures of mankind and the meaning (or meaninglessness) of his own life. The grand string flourishes, ugly organ, and constant horn blasts of Cursive’s recent years are mostly absent; this is a rock album that gives Kasher’s confessions and revelations more room speak for themselves. Mama, I’m Swollen is ultimately the manifesto of a man at war with himself and the modern world, and it further cements Kasher’s status as one of the best and most daring songwriters around. (Kiri)