The Dead Texan, a seemingly one-off collaboration between Stars of the Lid’s Adam Wiltzie and visual artist Christina Vantzou, has gained a second life in 2011 with a full slate of connected titles. I’ve previously written about Sleepingdog’s With Our Heads in the Clouds and Our Hearts in the Fields, which sees Wiltzie working with Dead Texan guest vocalist Chantal Acda. More recently Kranky issued A Winged Victory for the Sullen’s self-titled debut, an inspired meeting of pianist Dustin O’Halloran and Wiltzie that features album art from Vantzou. O’Halloran’s 2011 solo album Lumiere includes Wiltzie on guitar, while Vantzou contributed visuals to his live shows and put together a mesmerizing video for “We Move Lightly.” Completing the circle, Vantzou has emerged from behind the projector with her solo debut on Kranky, No. 1, which explores semi-symphonic arrangements with the San Francisco-based Magik*Magik Orchestra.

That No. 1 explores somewhat similar terrain as The Dead Texan is both understandable and a bit of a surprise. Vantzou’s musical involvement in that album was limited to a few vocal spots and mellotron performances, with much greater emphasis placed on the accompanying DVD. But a 2007 collaborative tour between Sparklehorse and The Dead Texan encouraged her musical side (covered nicely in this interview with The Muse in Music), which resulted in the long-gestating No. 1. It would have been entirely plausible for Vantzou’s solo work to lean closer to the slow-drip pop of Chantal Acda’s more straightforward Sleepingdog tracks (or something entirely different), but if anything, No. 1 leans further away from the occasional dream-pop leanings explored on The Dead Texan into glistening, amorphous drone symphonies.

The process behind the album is enlightening. Vantzou spent three years writing and recording a demo version of No. 1 as 45-minute-long piece, which involved layering keyboard tracks, exploring her options in available synth samples, and pulling textures from voice, instruments, and records. She then brought the demo version to Minna Choi of the Magik*Magik Orchestra, who added live instrumentation and altered some arrangements. Finally, Adam Wiltzie helped mix the finished product, which merges Vantzou’s original textures with strings and horns.

This process isn’t hidden in No. 1. The layers are apparent, especially when one side of the equation overtakes the other. The synth textures of “Prelude for Juan” billow to the surface, while the affecting cello vibrato on “Super Interlude Pt. 2” cuts through the mix. More often there’s an uncertain balance between the two, with the smudged synth palettes sounding like distant echoes of the live instruments. It’s a telling difference from Stars of the Lid’s exquisitely mannered performances on And Their Refinement of the Decline and Kyle Bobby Dunn’s precisely refracted drones on Ways of Meaning; No. 1 matches their overall minimalism but not the starkness of its creation.

This difference means that No. 1 relies more on textural dynamics than most records in the Stars of the Lid universe. There are moments, especially in “Super Interlude Pt. 2” and “Your Changes Have Been Submitted,” that use dramatic chord changes to spine-tingling effect (a tried-and-true tactic in Wiltzie and McBride’s oeuvre), but more often emotion comes from hearing something emerge that you didn’t think was there, like the ghostly vocals in “Joggers.” No. 1 is an album of discovery for both composer and listener, a duality that’s often expressed but rarely rings as true or essential as it does here.

If Christina Vantzou’s solo debut and the three other Dead Texan-related records from 2011 aren’t enough to check out, Vantzou will follow up No. 1 with a remix album/DVD. I’m particularly interested to see how Vantzou the visual artist comments on Vantzou the burgeoning musician; videos for “Homemade Mountains” and “Prelude for Juan” gives an early taste of patterns overtaking colors. It will also be interesting to see if Vantzou’s future recordings maintain the same sense of discovery now that she’s more familiar with the processes, but that’s a debate for another year.

Fool, Redeemer (full stream here) is a semi-collaborative effort from two Toronto-based groups, blurring together the disorienting folk of Picastro and the ambient drone metal of Nadja. The LP is split evenly between four shorter Picastro compositions and one typically mammoth Nadja track, but the smudging of their respective aesthetics forces each group outside of its usual comfort zone. Considering that neither Picastro nor Nadja is a group I listen to for comfort, I’ll chalk that up as a positive.

Picastro’s half of Fool, Redeemer picks up the looser structure of Nadja songs. Picastro’s four LPs offer their share of drifting, but here the vocals are pushed to the periphery. Opening instrumental “Skullduggery” doesn’t feature any direct involvement from Nadja, but it’s easy to hear that group’s threatening rumble encroaching on Picastro’s usual terrain. “Fire Perfect” is built on the woozy sawing of Liz Hysen’s violin and Nick Storring’s cello, but Nadja’s Aidan Baker adds texturally appropriate bowed guitar. Hysen’s muffled vocals appear briefly near the end of the song, but they’re ushered out by the song’s concluding pizzicato. The wandering “Darnia” dwells mostly on Brandon Miguel Valdivia’s mbira melody during its seven-minute trek. Picastro’s final track, “A New Soul’s Benediction,” visits more traditional territory for the group with Hysen’s weary vocals and acoustic arpeggios leading the way, but it’s a cover of a Static Films song. The absence of a Hysen dreamscape like “Winter Notes,” “Sharks,” or “Hortur” makes the emphasis on texture here even more apparent.

Nadja’s “Venom” reminds me of a historical reimagining of existing source material, like Alien set in the Industrial Revolution. The set-up’s different, with acoustic guitars (including Hysen’s), audible vocals, and Valdivia’s wavering mbira supplanting the pedal-driven drones that curled into Thaumogenesis and Radiance of Shadows. But these unfamiliar accents are delivered by familiar archetypes; it doesn’t take too long for “Venom” to lurch forward into heavier, louder terrain. And whatever era Alien is set in, you know it won’t end well for the majority of the cast, especially after 23 minutes of Nadja’s drone violence.

Thanks to the smearing of styles and cross-pollination of personnel, Fool, Redeemer holds together well as a single piece. I hesitate recommending it as a starting point for Picastro, however, since the textural, loosely structured compositions here aren’t as gripping as the eerie Metal Cares. Nadja’s catalog offers few typically inviting entry points aside from the 2009 covers record The Sun Always Shines on TV (which features massive, impossibly slow renditions of My Bloody Valentine’s “Only Shallow,” Codeine’s “Pea,” Elliott Smith’s “Needle and the Hay,” and others), so the 23-minute “Venom” is a good sign (warning?) of what you’ll get, initial acoustic guitars excepted. Even if you start with Metal Cares and Thaumogenesis, Fool, Redeemer is worth circling back to hear.

The drawback of being a great live band is that it puts enormous, potentially unrealistic expectations on the accompanying recorded material. It’s easy to romanticize a live performance after the fact: my memories of Shiner’s gut-punching heft causing venue-wide indigestion, Mogwai’s set-ending sonic assault sending my scrambled brain cells off course for the drive home, Stars of the Lid’s evocative swells transforming me into a blubbering mess, and Juno’s fire turning the antiseptic University of Illinois Courtyard Café into a living, breathing entity are equal parts truth and legend. In contrast, studio material very well be iron-clad fact; it's hard to develop a legendary aura when you can study every detail. Some bands soldier through this situation (Shiner’s The Egg miraculously living up to a summer of performances of its title track and “The Simple Truth”), while others fall into the cliché of “not capturing the live energy” (i.e., Mogwai’s “My Father My King”). The specifics of why an album does or doesn’t measure up to its live takes vary by the artist, but the disconnect between rose-colored memories and the unblinking truth of the tape is the usual culprit.

A case study: I lavished Wye Oak’s live performance last September with effusive praise, marveling at how Jenn Wasner turns into a solo-shredding icon on stage, previously reserved songs like “I Hope You Die” burst apart at the seams with deserved catharsis, and new material like “Holy Holy” demonstrated another quantum leap for a young band. Prior to that performance, I enjoyed their records and appreciated the upward arc of their career, but didn’t expect outrageous things from their next record. Yet as the time passed from that live performance to Civilian’s March release, my expectations became unwieldy. I wanted the recorded material to match its live character with broad, openly emotional strokes, not act as its reserved, subtly crafted counterpart. No, I wanted it to surpass that live character. If “Holy Holy” didn’t offer a religious experience of gloriously melodic indie rock, I’d chalk it up as failure. This is why I labeled those expectations as “potentially unrealistic.”

There was a simple recourse to this dilemma: wait it out. That’s the benefit of writing on my own time without an editor breathing down my neck about deadlines. I can let great albums sort themselves out, like I did with Bottomless Pit’s Blood Under the Bridge last year, for however long it takes. I knew I enjoyed Civilian too much to make a rush judgment on it. So I kept listening to it—in the car, in the kitchen, in the living room, in my office—separating the reality of the document from the romance of that performance. The weeks flew by, but rarely without a few spins of Civilian.

Recognizing the symbiotic relationship between Wye Oak’s studio recordings and live performances was essential. The records allow Wasner to work out her issues; the live performances embrace the power of those issues approaching a resolution. “I Hope You Die” from My Neighbor / My Creator exemplifies this relationship: on record, it’s a restrained, introspective plea for a physical resolve; live that resolve has presumably occurred and the dam can break.

The key to that scenario is that I heard the studio version first. It’s much easier to go from point A to point B, from uncertainty to certainty, rather than vice versa. Yet the commendable aspects of Wye Oak—they tour constantly, they keep writing and debuting new material—mean that you may encounter that opposite scenario, like I did with Civilian.

The second biggest realization is that Civilian offers the most certainty of those supposedly uncertain studio recordings. With the triumphant alto chorus of “Holy Holy,” the western trot of “Civilian” exploding into its double-tracked solo, the precision of “Dog Eyes” giving way to its chord-slashing stomp, or the ascendant outro of “Hot as Day,” Wasner and Andy Stack display newfound confidence in their abilities and execution. There’s still room for live amplification—“Plains” evokes the measured pace of Shannon Wright’s Let in the Light, closing track “Doubt” strips the arrangements down to just Wasner and her guitar—but the more I went between Civilian and its live counterparts (courtesy of two excellent bootlegs from NYCTaper and a painfully short opening set for The National / Yo La Tengo show at the Bank of America Pavilion in September), the smaller that gap became.

The performances thrive on such certainty and confidence, but Civilian’s lyrical insecurities give the album legs. Whether it’s religion (“Holy Holy,” “Dog’s Eyes”), love (“Civilian”), or trust (“Doubt”), Wasner finds a compelling perspective between knowing what traditions don’t work for her and what glimmers of truth actually do. When cynicism threatens to take a firm hold, the warmth and comfort of Wasner’s voice helps center its lyrical content.

When I think back to what I initially hoped to hear—broad strokes like Wasner belting out every song’s chorus, fretboard-torching solos in every other song—I shake my head and hold tight to what I have on Civilian. Not having concrete answers in every song gives me a reason to keep coming back. If Wasner’s songs ultimately serve to sort things out, mirroring that process is a worthy, ever-ongoing endeavor.

Over the years I’ve made my fondness for ’90s Midwestern indie rock overwhelmingly apparent. My record collection is populated with bands like Hum, Castor, Shiner, C-Clamp, Honcho Overload, Braid, Love Cup, Zoom, Boys Life, Giants Chair, Dis-, and Ring, Cicada—groups that shared members, tours, labels, producers, hometowns, and sonic touchstones. This latticework of connections is bound together by a consistent quality: I’m more likely to spin one of these records a second time than turn it off early.

Given that my interest in these bands started a thousand miles away from the Midwest when I was growing up in marginally upstate New York, it shouldn’t be a surprise that kindred spirits could pop up on the far side of the globe, too. Perth, Australia’s Rob Schifferli and Martin Allcock first appeared in the slowcore outfit Braving the Seabed at the turn of the millennium, releasing their lone self-titled album on Sun Sea Sky in 2000. Their next group, the Melbourne-based Minor Ache, amplified the math-rock tension brewing beneath the careful passages on their only release, 2005’s Black Hours Surround You. After returning to Perth, they joined up with bassist Paul Haimes and drummer Chris Reimer in The Leap Year, issuing With a Little Push a Pattern Appears back in 2007.

Unlike their previous groups, The Leap Year is poised to release that elusive second album sometime in the near future, but Australian label Hobbledehoy’s recent reissue of With a Little Push… underscores what the album shares with releases from Castor, C-Clamp, and Giants Chair. It straightens out the rhythms from Minor Ache’s Black Hours Surround You and brings in more anthemic, openly cathartic choruses, but the basic ingredients remain the same. It’s a welcome mix of the languid, minor-key melodies of Castor’s self-titled debut, the carefully crafted distortion of C-Clamp’s Meander + Return, and the underlying tension of Giants Chair’s Purity and Control. What sets it apart from those Midwestern reference points is The Leap Year’s penchant for blowing up that introspection with the energetic gang vocals of “The Rational Anthem” (video) and “This Is a Setup” and the painting-outside-the-lines emotional peaks of “The Idea,” “Let It Go Let It Go” (mp3), and “Big Rock.”

I hesitate to put too much emphasis on The Leap Year as the Midwestern Australian band, since the most notable tie to that era and region is the ongoing durability of With a Little Push a Pattern Appears. Each of the album’s seven songs is made for the long-haul. The aforementioned songs haven’t strayed far from my listening pile since I first heard them. With a Little Push definitely earned its reissue.

One drawback of The Leap Year’s geographical origins has been the difficulty of importing their physical wares, but fortunately Hobbledehoy passed along copies of the vinyl pressing of With a Little Push a Pattern Appears to Interpunk. I received mine this weekend and true to form, it’s earned repeated spins on my turntable, each echoed by the final line of “Big Rock”: “Discover again.” Hopefully they’ll do the same for The Leap Year’s next album.

Champaign, Illinois’s Hum has reigned as one of my favorite bands for more than half my lifetime, but when I listen to their records, it’s easy to understand such devotion. Heavy but not plodding, spacey but always grounded, intelligent but still approachable, Hum’s trio of Electra 2000, You’d Prefer an Astronaut, and Downward Is Heavenward made the world of ’90s alternative rock a considerably more interesting place. While they’ve been essentially inactive since 1999, you can count on a reunion show every few years to satiate their legion of die-hard fans.

The only surprise about the release of Songs of Farewell and Departure: A Tribute to Hum is that it took this long to happen, given the number of Orange amplifiers the group helped sell. Pop Up Records issued The Nurse Who Loved Me: A Tribute to Failure back in 2008, and the cross-over in fan bases and influence is significant. Perhaps the lack of a big name like Paramore, who covered “Stuck on You” for the Failure tribute, delayed the release of its Hum-honoring counterpart, but Songs of Farewell and Departure did net a few groups (Junius, Constants, Actors & Actresses) that I’ve long suspected of pulling influence from Hum and a completely unexpected guest appearance from Jawbox / Burning Airlines frontman J. Robbins.

The big name that presumably escaped Pop Up’s grasp is the Deftones. Vocalist Chino Moreno has expressed his fondness for You’d Prefer an Astronaut and it’s easy to hear echoes of Hum’s heavy-yet-spacious guitar tones in countless Deftones songs. (I remember wondering if White Pony bonus track “The Boy’s Republic” was an overt nod to Hum b-side “Boy with Stick.”) The Deftones may be absent from Songs of Farewell and Departure, but their presence is still felt in the metallic approach taken by some of the groups. In a recent run-through of eighteen covers of the Smiths’ “Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want,” which included one from the Deftones, New Artillery collaborator/BFF Jon Mount said, “The Deftones are a litmus test for people who liked Hum for all of the wrong reasons.” While I disagreed with the sentiment to a certain extent, there’s a nugget of truth there. Hum’s endearingly nerdy tendencies—Matt Talbott’s scientifically inspired lyrics and thin singing voice (that cracked awkwardly throughout Electra 2000)—are not the source of their prevailing influence. Instead, those heavy-yet-spacious guitar tones are often picked up by groups already heavier and/or more aggressive than Hum in the first place, like the Deftones.

To help me sift through the sixteen covers on Songs of Farewell and Departure, I’ve recruited a peer from the Hum Mailing List days, Dusty Altena, who you may know from his blog, Tumblr, or Twitter.

SS: How many of these bands had you heard prior to this compilation?

DA: The only band I’ve heard of is Junius and J. Robbins (full disclosure: I am apparently not familiar enough with Jawbox to know Robbins by name). I love Failure too, but I had no idea who Kellii Scott was [the drummer on Fantastic Planet]. Sorry Kellii!

Is there a band you wish had made an appearance?

SS: It honestly would have been nice to hear the Deftones take on one of these songs. I suspect that Jesu's Justin Broadrick doesn't pull much influence from Hum records, but the thought of hearing a slow-motion rendition of "Isle of the Cheetah" from him is exciting. In a general sense, I wouldn't have minded hearing a post-rock band like Caspian take on one of these songs. The Life and Times could have done a good version of a song as well—they’d appeared on the Jawbox tribute record, so they’re a reasonable possibility. Bob Nanna of Braid / Hey Mercedes did a string of covers for his blog, so unless he hates Hum, I’m betting you could convince him to essay “Dreamboat.”

DA: I am an unapologetic Deftones fan, so I love your Deftones suggestion. I’d also love to hear some contemporaries like Jeremy Enigk, or maybe even Man…or Astroman. A Jesu post-rock cover is a great idea as well. I can’t think of any folk or semi-folk singers who’ve professed a fondness for Hum, but can you imagine a Jose Gonzalez-like cover? I would love to hear that.

SS: Let's get down to the bands that did appear on Songs of Farewell and Departure.

1. Arctic Sleep's “The Scientists”

SS: This is an entirely competent, if not hugely inspired beginning to the compilation. It's a very, very faithful take on the original, barring a few minor embellishments: heavier bridge, bigger drum sound, acoustic outro. It would have been great if they did something different with the song, though.

DA: I think competent is a perfect description for this track, ‘The Scientists’ is my favorite song on Downward Is Heavenward; but do I really want to listen to that same song with slightly different vocals? Not really. I’ll give you competent, maybe even good; but not inspired. I will admit that I dug the heavy drums and even the acoustic outro. But I was hoping for a much more original take.

2. (Damn) This Desert Air's "The Pod"

DA: I was really into the beginning of this one; it reminded me of Short Bus-era Filter. But by the time the chorus starts, it’s back to the same trap that most tribute albums fall into: faithful, faithful covers. At this point I just want to listen to the original, because it’s the same, and also better. The outro brings back that Short Bus palm-muting, and I have to admit I would love to hear the whole song reimagined on those terms.

SS: This one reminded me of a Failure / Quicksand hybrid. There’s potential here for a much more aggressive and ominous rendition if they’d ran with that palm-muting, but it follows the plot too closely.

3. Solar Powered Sun Destroyer's "Stars"

SS: If you had told me in 1997 that I'd one day hear J. Robbins sing on a cover version of "Stars," my head would have exploded. It's not that Jawbox and Hum were mutually exclusive elements in my record collection—Shiner is the explicit midway point between the two groups—but it's not a crossover I ever expected. Beyond Robbins' vocal take (which I like), Solar Powered Sun Destroyer's version adds depth but no major wrinkles.

DA: This is obviously intended to be the highlight of the album for most listeners. “Stars” remains that one Hum song that everyone remembers (even Beavis & Butthead). I still remember the night I was laying in bed and first heard this on the radio. It honestly changed music for me. I really like the post-rock intro on this version, but I don’t love the sharp enunciation, and I am not sure how I feel about the reimagined harmonies (seriously, I can barely recognize J. Robbins). This version is pretty damn close to the original, but you can hardly blame them—this song is crazy fun to play.

4. Bearhead's "Ms. Lazarus"

DA: We finally get to the first radical departure from the original. “Ms. Lazarus” was never one of my favorite Hum songs, but it had its place. This, I don’t even know what this is. I applaud the effort to make it different, but I cannot stand this alternative emo bullshit—these are basically 2006 Panic! at the Disco vocals—and I don’t want them anywhere near my Hum memories.

SS: It took me a second to figure out which song they were covering. The vocals are a non-starter for me (especially the “Shines I only wish that it was mine!” emo-thusiasm), but there are a few good rearrangements of the original guitar parts.

5. Anakin's "I'd Like Your Hair Long"

SS: Here are the nerdy vocals! Between the band's name and the vocalist not sounding like a dude chugging Muscle Milk, Anakin is in my good graces. It's not a drastically different version, but slowing down the song's main riff and adding cooed background vocals in the chorus are good calls.

DA: I like the slowdown, but the Ben Gibbard vocals annoy me. The further I trudge through this tribute, the more I am realizing how perfect Matt Talbott was as Hum’s frontman. Still, despite the Gibbardish singing, this is one of the more listenable songs so far. I will agree with you that the background cooing was a nice touch.

6. Junius's "Firehead" [YouTube]

DA: Since Junius is the only band featured on this tribute who I am really familiar with and "Firehead" is one of my all-time favorite Hum songs; I was more excited to hear this track than anything else on the album. It passes the originality litmus test (one of maybe four other songs on this record)…but is it actually good? I would argue yes. It sounds almost nothing like the original—Hum’s intense subtlety is harder to grab than you would think—but it captures enough of the original while adding just enough unfamiliarity to make it interesting. It is definitely my favorite on the album so far.

SS: Co-sign on the success of Junius’s version. The big guitar/synth sound on the bridges is vastly different from the tone of the original, but fits the material perfectly. Even the vocal delivery, something that bothered me on The Martyrdom of a Catastrophist, fits well.

7. Constants' "If You Are to Bloom"

SS: This is a largely predictable applicable of Constants' space-metal aesthetic to "If You Are to Bloom." I wish they'd done an extended jam on it or something.

DA: Way too faithful for me. Once again, I immediately want to open iTunes to listen to the original. This is the exact same song with slightly different (and worse) vocals—the very same reason I generally avoid outtakes and demos. I feel like this song adds nothing unless you are a die-hard Constants fan whose dying wish is to hear them play a Hum song. My only praise is that the production reminds me of Keith Cleversley (YPAA’s producer), and I always wanted to hear what Downward Is Heavenward would sound like if it was produced by him.

SS: Wasn’t there a rumored first take on Downward helmed by Cleversley? I remember hearing that rumor at some point.

DA: I don’t remember ever hearing that, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Hearing a Cleversley-produced take on Downward will always be one of my Cancer Wishes.

SS: Have you seen Cleversley's site? Apparently he gave up producing a few years ago to get into shamanism.

DA: Ha! I hadn’t heard that, but that is amazing. I guess there isn’t much less to prove after perfectly producing one of the greatest records ever.

8. City of Ships' "I Hate It Too"

DA: Another faithful cover. At this point I would kill to hear Cat Power’s take on one of these tracks. Is the problem that it’s impossible to get at the essence of Hum without sounding like…Hum? The vocals are good, and so are the guitars; but, this honestly just sounds like an unreleased demo. It’s one of the better tracks so far, but that’s just because it sounds the closest to the original. So, what’s the point?

SS: This is absolute par. How many bands do you think took Hum’s gear list as a starting point for their musical careers and saved up for Orange amps? Do you think sounding exactly like Hum on a tonal level is the end goal for these bands?

DA: Judging by all of the @replies I get whenever I mention I own both pressings of You’d Prefer An Astronaut on vinyl, I would imagine that number is huge—I can’t think of any other band that has such a ridiculous cult following. I certainly remember buying MXR Phasers and salivating over Orange amps back in the day. I think a big part of playing Hum songs is trying to get that heavy-as-hell space sound that the band perfected.

9. Actors & Actresses' "Aphids"

SS: I can't tell of Actors & Actresses' version of "Aphids" is that much better than the covers which preceded it, or if picking a song I haven't heard eight million times is an enormous help. It's an interesting instrumental mix with softly delivered vocals that amplify, rather than disregard, the original vocal melody. Worth going back to a few times.

DA: "Aphids" has always been one of my least favorite Hum songs, but oddly, this is one of my favorite covers on the album. It feels like Actors & Actresses are taking a Hum song and making it their own rather than the other way around, and I truly appreciate that. I feel like these guys have come the closest to reaching that thin (and coveted) coverer/coveree relationship thus far.

10. Digicide's "Comin' Home"

DA: And we’re back to pseudo-Hum songs. In fairness, I don’t know how you’d cover this song and maintain the Hum elements while making it your own; but come on—this is basically the exact same backing track with slightly different (more emo) vocals. I honestly think (nu-metal band) Dope could record a better cover of this song. 10 times out of 10 I would rather listen to the original than this.

SS: Pseudo-Hum is right. Aside from some double-kick drum and the nu-metal scream of “And we wouldn’t know!” it’s a too-faithful take on “Comin’ Home.” Yawn. Speaking of takes on “Comin’ Home,” do you remember the original live version that was floating around before Downward came out? I always thought the chorus was “I’ll treat you like a son,” which killed me, but the It's Gonna Be a Midget X-Mas version is “I’ll treat you like a sound,” which I also like.

DA: Yes! I loved that version of “Comin’ Home”, and I think I might even still have an .mp3 of it somewhere. I listened to it enough to be bummed when such a different version appeared on Downward. That original was so powerful! There was an early bootleg of “Dreamboat” that was just awesome, too. Speaking of misheard lyrics; I always thought the end of the chorus on “The Pod” was “Wait, wait on me, yeah”, but on [Damn] This Desert Air’s version, it’s “Way, way on the end” (and what sounds like “Way, way on the edge” the second time). That puts the mood of the song in a totally different context for me.

11. The Esoteric's "Iron Clad Lou"

SS: I knew this was coming. The monotone post-hardcore/nu-metal bellow points its finger right in my face. The rigid arrangement opens up a bit on the bridge with dueling solos, but it all sounds like an exercise. No, you do not win.

DA: I actually appreciated this one. I loved the attempt to make it their own. Do I think it worked? No. But I will take this a thousand times over the “Comin’ Homes” and “If You are to Blooms” on this tribute. I appreciate the effort. Maybe it would work better with a band like Glassjaw, or something else along those lines. The Esoterics have me interested in the possibilities, which is more than most of these covers.

SS: I like the idea of a Hum tribute band named The Comin’ Homes.

12. Tent's "Little Dipper"

DA: I don’t even know what to say about this one. "Little Dipper" is arguably my favorite Hum song ever, but is this even a cover? The only recognizable element is the lyrics (which are barely audible in the original). I give them props for the crazy originality, but I feel like this is more in the realm of appropriation than cover. It’s not awful musically, but I feel like it’s a fork in the road pointing to A) Hum or B) Clouddead. Not exactly a cohesive take one of Hum’s more transcendent songs. Even after more than one listen, the music has absolutely no similarity to the original for me. I love Failure, but I’m not giving Kellii Scott a pass on this one.

SS: It’s a cover of “Little Dipper,” a song that thrives on its waves of guitar riffs, done with no prominent guitar parts. Instead, they’re replaced by up-front drums, piano, strings, and spoken word vocals that turn the sci-fi romance of the original version into weird threats. There’s heavy breathing, for fuck’s sake. You’re right that there’s no similarity to the original on a musical level, but I’ve heard covers that take that route and still succeed (Joel R. L. Phelps & the Downer Trio’s “The Guns of Brixton” comes to mind). What bothers me most here is the abandonment of the original sentiment.

13. Stomacher's "Why I Like the Robins"

SS: If you'd told me that one of these covers would be undone by an irritating vocal affect, I would have presumed it was Junius, but Stomacher sabotages an otherwise acceptable version of "Why I Like the Robins" with its overly manicured delivery. Most of it is par for the course, but they add some nice guitar textures to the outro.

DA: I never loved this song in the first place (except the song title, which weirdly has always been one of my favorites), but once again I am annoyed by the proximity (close, but worse) to the original. I can’t say I am actually irritated by the vocal effects as much as you are, but this song is more boring than the original and adds nothing new, save for a nice effects-laden outro.

14. The Felix Culpa's "Puppets"

DA: “Puppets” is one of my favorite Hum songs, but mostly because it’s recorded with an excitement by the band that isn’t found on any other release (perhaps due to the members switching instruments on the recording). This cover basically takes all of that excitement away, which is unfortunate. It isn’t horrible to listen to, but I feel like it’s lost its essence.

SS: This was when my “I really just want to listen to the original version” impulse kicked in. It’s a faded carbon copy. “Puppets” is a great song, but I don’t know how much any group could have done with it. Once you lose the forward momentum of the original, it falls flat.

15. Funeral for a Friend's "Green to Me"

SS: These Welsh post-hardcore/emo guys try their damnedest to turn "Green to Me" into a power ballad, but pulling out the heavy guitars, adding IDM-for-beginners beats, and going super MOR on the vocals just makes the song boring, if not elevator-ready.

DA: The intro was nice for all of about 25 seconds. Once again, someone emphasizes just how bad Hum would suck without Matt Talbott as the frontman. Even Guns’N’Roses could have made a better power ballad out of this song. (Although I wouldn’t be surprised to hear this on next week’s episode of Teen Mom.) This is probably the worst song on the album, despite the band’s effort to make it original (which I am usually on board with). My god, I just want to turn it off.

16. Alpha Stasis's "Scraper"

DA: I always hated "Scraper" back in the day because it was so hardcore, but I have recently come to appreciate it a lot more. This song does an okay job of capturing that energy, but as with the rest of the album, it is too similar to the original. The Electra 2000 version is better, and it’s actually Hum, so what’s the point of listening to this? There is absolutely nothing new brought to the song. Isn’t this why you start a band in high school—to cover your favorite songs and get them to sound exactly the same? I feel like this would have been an amazing song for J. Robbins to appear on. Can you imagine Scraper sounding like "Savory"? We can wish.

SS: Now you’re making me imagine how great an Electra 2000 covers record fronted by Jawbox-era J. Robbins would be. Thanks a lot.

I’m tempted to just criticize the original, which is one of the weaker links on Electra 2000. Its two-chord trade-off plods, Talbott’s delivery is trying, and the lyrics are painfully confessional without the filter of some science-fiction narrative. The best part is the spoken word bridge: “Say hi to your folks / be nice to your lunchmeat,” etc. Aside from tossing out that bridge, Alpha Stasis mostly gives “Scraper” a modern production update, at least until the nu-metal “Yours make me cry!” scream. I got a laugh out of that one.

SS: Wrapping up, are there any songs you’d wished a band had tackled?

DA: I would have loved to hear the namesake of the album, “Songs of Farewell and Departure” (always one of my favorite Hum songs). “Winder” would have been great. I also would have loved to hear a new take on “Shovel.”

SS: “Songs of Farewell and Departure” would have been a good pick. I would have liked to hear versions of "Afternoon with the Axolotls," "Winder," and "Isle of the Cheetah." Those all seem like songs that could be taken in vastly different directions and still hold up. Do you think a band could have done something different with “Diffuse”? Would you want to hear an aggro rendition of “The Very Old Man”?

DA: That’s a good question. I originally put “Diffuse” in my list of songs I would have wished for, but I took it off when I realized it probably would have just ended up another pseudo-Hum song. I think it would have ended up being treated the same as “I Hate It Too” or “The Pod”. “The Very Old Man” would be awesome, though. It’s always been my absolute least favorite Hum song, but I would love to see what someone (think Chad VanGaalen) could do with it.

SS: The moral of Songs of Farewell and Departure (and the vast majority of tribute records, to be fair) is that more of the bands needed to try different things with the material and actually pull off the concepts, not just aim for and easily achieve pseudo-Hum status. The hypothetical covers we've come up with interest me a lot more than the majority of songs here, although Actors & Actresses, Junius, Solar Powered Sun Destroyer, and Anakin deserve credit for their contributions.

Earth Division is a test. What do I want from Mogwai? Do I want them to evolve? Do I want them to follow up “Music for a Forgotten Future (The Singing Mountain),” the 23-minute bonus track from Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will that chose ambient textures over aggressive guitar? Do I want them to embrace the “post-” aspects of post-rock, the genre they disavow being part of? Or do I want them to continue plying their trade with well crafted, post-rock comfort food like “How to Be a Werewolf” and “Hasenheide”?

It’s a test I suspect I’m failing. At the end of my review of Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will, I commended Mogwai for stepping out of their comfort zone on “Music for a Forgotten Future,” stating that it’s “time to take chances and expand [their core] identity.” Earth Division does just that. Relying on strings, not bruising riffs, the EP elevates the group’s prior orchestral leanings to center stage. There are no recapitulations of their trademark crescendo-core. In theory, these should all be emphatic plusses, signs that Mogwai can and will set aside their tried-and-true templates. In execution, it’s not so exciting.

The four songs are measured steps into foreign terrain. Opener “Get to France” favors careful piano, swelling strings, and reserved keys, eschewing Mogwai’s typical instrumental palette entirely. It’s more warning than lullaby, the future soundtrack to a scene in an indie drama where characters stare at each other with growing malice. “Hound of Winter” presents a chamber-pop version of Stuart Braithwaite’s prior successes with slow-core balladry (“Cody,” “Take Me Somewhere Nice”). “Drunk and Crazy” parries the digital world of distorted synths and the analog world of plaintive strings, eventually finding common ground. Finally, “Does This Always Happen?” brings back the carefully arranged guitar figures I’ve come to expect from Mogwai’s slow songs, but they’re used as a foundation for the more active work of the strings and piano.

What each of these songs adds to Mogwai’s sonic repertoire is more memorable than the song itself. I enjoy the approach of “Get to France,” but can’t help but thinking it would be more impressive as a segue into a massive rocker. I appreciate the arrangement of “Hound of Winter,” but its sentiment slips through my fingertips. “Drunk and Crazy” is a successful aesthetic experiment, but there must be a non-disclosure agreement for its melodies. The circular guitar melody of “Does This Always Happen?” has staying power, yet it’s the most familiar element on Earth Division.

I suspect I’m failing the Earth Division test because this is what I wanted from Mogwai. You can pull out multiple quotes to that effect. But now that I have it, I long for a meaty “Hasenheide,” “I Love You, I’m Going to Blow Up Your School,” or “How to Be a Werewolf” to sink my teeth into. The question I didn’t ask at the top was “Why can’t I get both?” I look back to the Mogwai EP and Rock Action as releases that took noticeable steps into foreign territory while retaining the melodic character that initially appealed to me in Mogwai’s music. Earth Division is best viewed as a tentative first step back into that mode, signaling greater rewards in the future.

I’ve never been comfortable with the term “selling out.” During the ’90s when using it was particularly in vogue, cynics would scoff at bands for jumping ship from trusted independent labels to majors, for becoming more melodic and approachable, for countless other things (tour buses over rusted-out vans, hotel rooms over living room floors, opening for bigger alt-rock bands instead of headlining small club tours) that came with the territory. These changes from the DIY lifestyle mostly benefited the bands themselves, but who was I to judge the exhaustion of playing a poorly promoted show in Omaha to twelve paying customers, sleeping on a porch in the middle of winter, and spending all of the proceeds from the show on gas to reach Dallas. All I could do was focus on the recorded results. For every ill-fated major label debut (Girls Against Boys’ Freak*on*ica), there was a wonderful album like Jawbox’s For Your Own Special Sweetheart, Hum’s You’d Prefer an Astronaut, or Shudder to Think’s Pony Express Record that wouldn’t have been as great without the resources of a major label. I couldn’t view merely being a part of that system as an indictment of a band’s worth. It came down to the end product and whether bands could succeed in either system.

In the last decade, “selling out” has evolved. The major/independent divide has faded into the background as the former struggle to maintain importance and the latter gain access to more of those resources. Now the most frequent point of contention is licensing music for commercials. Of Montreal caught heat for changing the lyrics of “Wraith Pinned to the Mist (And Other Games)” to better fit an Outback Steakhouse commercial. But for the most part, the cries against these acts are muted in comparison to the rage directed at bands daring to jump ship from Dischord or Touch and Go. Given the downturn in the recording industry, it’s easier to understand bands taking advantage of any opportunities that come up. Is it also that the corporate shadow looming over these scenarios is less apparent than a group signing with a major? After all, they’re less involved in the production of the end product.

Enter Hype Music. A collaboration between Extreme Music, an agency that licenses music for films, television, and commercials, and MTV Networks, the past and present home of 120 Minutes, Hype Music hand-selects bands, grooms them for synch-ability, and clears up any potential licensing headaches before music supervisors get nasty e-mails from their legal departments. Their artists benefit from exponentially increased exposure in the backgrounds of MTV reality programming, network dramas, and feature films. Win-win, right?

Not quite. If major labels were criticized for pushing bands to fit a specific context—three-minute slots on modern rock radio, call-out hooks for DJs, compressed audio to fit alongside polished peers—making music for licensing narrows those contexts considerably. Consider the grandfather of reality programming, MTV’s The Real World. On any given season you’ll encounter roommates aching for home, drinking with their cast mates, fighting with their cast mates, flirting with their cast mates, making the tearful decision to break up with the significant other back home, making the tearful decision to get back together with the significant other back home, etc. It’s a familiar template. Instead of having to hunt down songs that fit each of those contexts, why not have them ready? Why not have bands churn out these songs? From a logical perspective, it makes complete sense.

I wouldn’t care whose songs appear on the background of Jersey Shore or Teen Mom or how they got there if not for one personal wrinkle. National Skyline, the long-running project of Jeff Garber of Castor / Days in December / Big Bright Lights / Year of the Rabbit, is now one of Hype Music’s chosen acts. In 2011, National Skyline has released two EPs (Broadcasting, Vol. 1 and 2) and two LPs (Bursts and Broadcasting) of music tailor-made to these contexts. For the most part, these releases come with surprisingly little fanfare, appearing on iTunes and Amazon with almost no promotional push beyond the placement of songs on the aforementioned programs. The EPs were issued on Adventure Broadcasting, ostensibly the label of former Lassie Foundation member Jason-71, but as digital-only releases, they’re essentially self-released. The two LPs have the Hype Music stamp of approval. In my review of Broadcasting, Vol. 1, I theorized that the songs were custom-fitted for the rhythms of reality television, given National Skyline’s prior appearances in that realm, but the confirmation that Bursts and Broadcasting are rubber-stamped for that purpose gives me no comfort.

Before going any further, let me make one critical observation: If Jeff Garber chose an entirely new band name or pseudonym for these releases, I would have fewer qualms with their existence. (I would also likely not know of their existence.) But if something comes out with National Skyline on the cover, I am bound to be curious. This is a project that had mysterious, unreleased beginnings as a Champaign super-group of Jeff Dimpsey (Hum), Nick Macri (C-Clamp), Jeff Garber (Castor), and Derek Niedringhaus (Castor). When the first recordings appeared in 2000, the line-up had been pared down to Garber and Dimpsey and the sound had evolved into a combination of Antarctica’s icy electronic and Unforgettable Fire-era U2. Two EPs and an LP later, Garber moved to LA and the project went into deep freeze. After a fake-out ending with the maudlin The Last Day EP in 2007, Garber made a valiant return with 2009’s Bliss & Death, even bringing back Derek Niedringhaus for a few tracks. Suddenly my excitement for the project—and Garber’s output as a whole—had returned. After picking up two mixed-bag, closet-cleaning EPs, I waited patiently for the next LP.

But does either Bursts or Broadcasting count as that next LP? Are they in the same continuity as Bliss & Death? Or are they in the commercial branch of National Skyline? Am I grasping at straws to entertain the possibility of multiple branches of the same band? Is it ever that simple? Consider Sonic Youth’s split between the avant-garde tendencies of their SYR EPs and the more grounded noise-rock of their official LPs. NYC Ghosts & Flowers confirms crossover between those lines. It’s naïve to think that Garber’s sequestering the “real” follow-up to Bliss & Death in a hermetically sealed chamber away from the Broadcasting material.

No, Bursts and Broadcasting were released as National Skyline records, so they are National Skyline records. If you squint, you can hear echoes of Bliss & Death in the guitar tones, in the production values, in the vocal melodies. Less effort is needed to hear the sonic references to the ’80s output of The Cure or the contemporary fuzzed-out pop of Deerhunter and Phoenix (all references appropriated from Hype Music’s page, but obvious enough without it). But there’s no meat to these syrupy confections. Between the track lengths that rarely stretch past two-and-a half minutes, the trite, surface-level insights of the lyrics, and the lack of major variation, fatigue sets in instantaneously. Choose any song and you’ll find lyrics like “I’m going to throw my arms around you / I’m going to wrap my love around you / You can have my heart now / You can have almost anything / You can pull my heart out / You can do almost anything you want” (“Almost Anything,” Broadcasting). Such lyrics appeared on The Last Day EP and the Bliss & Death companion EPs, but not exclusively. These songs indulge Garber’s worst habits. If I cared to sit through these 25 tracks a few times, I’d cite which stock television scenes they’d best fit. But I don’t want to listen to these songs. They’re not for me, the longtime Castor and National Skyline fan. They’re for specific contexts in television programming and fans of those programming.

Unlike the jaded scenesters crying “Sell-out!” at major-label bands in the ’90s, I find no joy in pointing out the extent of Jeff Garber’s commercial embrace. I understand it too well. MTV’s licensing of Bliss & Death songs likely made more money than the digital album sales. Scraping together gigs as a guitar tech, session musician, and recording engineer isn’t a consistent living. His shot at a major-label meal ticket (Year of the Rabbit) ended abruptly, and their Ken Andrews-less follow-up band (The Joy Circuit) couldn’t get traction. Hype Music offers Garber exposure to a new audience and a steady paycheck. It’s a familiar carrot. I can’t blame Garber for chasing it.

I keep thinking of best-case scenarios for this situation. Jeff Garber finds a way to write substantial National Skyline songs within Hype Music’s confines, proving once again that he’s a talented musical chameleon. Garber saves his worthiest tracks up for Bliss & Death, Vol. 2, and his contract with Hype Music allows for its release. Jeff Dimpsey moves out to LA and provides the editorial oversight the project needs. Castor’s discography gets a vinyl reissue. But the facts don’t support those pipe dreams. Consider this one: Garber’s released 34 National Skyline songs in 2011. Castor officially released 22 songs in their lifespan. The 1999–2001 iteration of National Skyline issued 22 songs. He’s more productive in this era than any other and, on a financial level, more successful. This era of National Skyline is here to stay.

That makes one of us.

I’ve mentioned my fondness for the skewed indie rock coming out of Lawrence, Kansas in the early ’90s on a few occasions, but this is the first time you’ve heard it, two good starting points are Zoom’s 1994 Helium Octipede (stream of full album!) and Panel Donor’s 1996 Surprise Bath. Those records move past the post-grunge heft that’s more typical to the region/era (e.g., Hum’s Electra 2000, Shiner’s Lula Divinia, Zoom’s eponymous debut, Love Cup’s Greefus Groinks and Sheet) to a warbling, jagged-line approach to guitar, perhaps akin to Greg Sage of the Wipers dueling with Ash Bowie from Polvo. Beyond drinking from the same water supply, the common thread between those two groups was Jeremy Sidener, the Zoom bassist who joined Panel Donor as a second guitarist prior to their sophomore release, Lobedom & Global.

Fast-forward fifteen years (some of which was spent in the Danny Pound Band with the singer of Vitreous Humor) and Jeremy Sidener is in a new band out of Lawrence, Kansas, playing bass and singing in Major Games. He’s joined by guitarist/vocalist Doug McKinney and drummer Steve Squire, formerly the guitarist/vocalist of Everest (the Kansas version, not the current Americana outfit from California), giving Lawrence historians more than enough cross-references to highlight. The sonic connections to their predecessors come via the tell-tale tremolo-bar twang of the guitar and the urgent vocal delivery of Sidener on the up-tempo tracks.

You won’t mistake EP 1 for a lost Panel Donor or Zoom album, however. The sound has been fleshed out and modernized, taking cues from shoegaze revival bands and pairing those signature leads with textural accompaniments. The vocal trade-offs between Sidener and McKinney pace EP 1 nicely; the former applies a slight dose of Devo fidgeting to his three songs, while the latter handles the slow-burning “Spools” and “Wet Talk.”

All five tracks have accrued heavy play counts at my desk and in my car over the past month, but “Wet Talk” stands out as the highlight of EP 1. Stretching past eight minutes on Sidener’s expressive, up-front bass line, “Wet Talk” grapples with a still-stinging regret. McKinney sings “They come for your time / They come for your money / They come as family / As all of your love / As all of what you love,” and it’s hard not to linger on “family” as the breaking point of this narrative/warning. It may not have the anxious energy of the Sidener-fronted tracks, but it remains compelling throughout.

Major Games’ EP 1 is both a reward for those who’ve kept Zoom and Panel Donor in their listening pile and a healthy reminder that Lawrence is not done producing memorable indie rock groups. I mentioned that you won’t mistake EP 1 for a lost Panel Donor or Zoom album, and in full disclosure, I’d still recommend it if that had been the case. But I’m much happier with the actual result, which brings a decidedly different energy to the current surplus of shoegaze-informed acts.

Here’s a tip for all press agents sending digital one-sheets to my inbox: If you cite Fugazi, Jawbox, and Smart Went Crazy in the first line of the e-mail, I will check out the album and/or see the band live. Fugazi and Jawbox are a good start, but anybody citing Smart Went Crazy in 2011 earns my trust. It obviously helps if the band sounds like Fugazi, Jawbox, or Smart Went Crazy, but there’s only one way for me to find out, right? Even if you’re lying, I’ll appreciate the effort. Anything to keep “Animal Collective, Paul Simon’s Graceland, and Pet Sounds-era Beach Boys” from being applied to the newest, hottest post-chillwave record.

In the case of Grass Is Green, my excitement was doubled because those references were coming from a Boston-based group. As it turns out, three-quarters of the group are transplants from Rockville, MD, a more natural locale to be weaned on Dischord’s finest, but that fact doesn’t kill the buzz. I am drawn to math-rock guitar figures and time-signature changes like a moth to the flame, and Grass Is Green offers enough of both to make me into a burnt husk on the floor.

Don’t expect a straight hybrid of the aforementioned bands. There’s a lot of Polvo/Rectangle weirdness floating around, specifically the juxtapositions between frenetic guitar interchanges and unexpected bouts of melodic pacification. Smart Went Crazy and Fugazi register for the DC reference points, but the clearest touchstone would be a twitchier take on Faraquet’s ever-shifting math-rock, and not just because Devin Ocampo mastered their first album, Yeddo. With a few welcome exceptions, Grass Is Green aren’t prone to standing still.

It’s easy to extend that tendency to the group’s output. The ten-track Yeddo was released on Bandcamp last September, followed up in March by the seven-track Chibimoon. That’s a remarkably quick turnaround for a band bartering in jagged guitar shapes. Credit the ease of digital distribution and/or an overflow of material. Fortunately, you can grab both of these albums for a whopping $10.

The distinction between Yeddo and Chibimoon is noticeable, if by no means absolute. The former has cleaner hooks and more straight-ahead momentum, the latter has sharper left turns and greater changes in pace. Yeddo is still off-kilter, but the melodies of “No Legs,” “Feeling Different,” and “Tricky Tim’s ‘Night on the Town’” ring through the knotty thicket of guitars and percussion. The aggressively antsy “Uhm Tsk” hits the raucous energy of early Les Savy Fav, and was the highlight of their set when I caught them earlier this year.

Chibimoon is better at showing its range. Opener “Slow Machine” cycles through several whiteboards worth of passages, but never tops its hooky “Drift into the magic hour” part. “Boat Show” and “Chibimoon” start off with uncharacteristic calm, but the cathartic climax of the title track is the highlight of the record. The rollicking “Tongue in Cheek” hits its stride with a drum-crazed mid-section. “Twinkle Toes” is likely as close to a slow jam as Grass Is Green will write. This split between fifth-gear discord and lilting lullabies can make your head spin.

Even within the realm of high-energy, DC-inspired math-rock, there’s an awful lot going on in both Yeddo and Chibimoon. Grass Is Green’s compositional restlessness is both a blessing and a curse, bringing in a surplus of ideas but occasionally ushering the best ones out too soon. The easiest solution would be to cherry-pick each record, grabbing some satisfyingly skewed rockers from Yeddo and the calmer and/or weirder moments from Chibimoon, but you’d inevitably miss out on memorable passages. It’s better to get both albums and work through the knots.

Special Boston-area note: Grass Is Green is on a bill with the excellent Me You Us Them, Grandfather, and Pile at Great Scott on September 1. If you miss that superb bill, you can catch them again at the Middle East Upstairs on September 29 with fuzzed-out indie rockers Young Adults.

Imagine seeing a band play exactly the right length set. No technical problems gumming up the works. No ill-advised set-closing jam stretching past ten minutes. No padding the set lists with weaker tracks. No forced-hand encore. You leave wanting to hear the album when you get home. At a tidy 32 minutes, Austin-based We’ll Go Machete’s debut LP, Strong Drunk Hands, is the recorded equivalent of that ideal set: a half-hour of honed post-hardcore that keeps my eyes away from the clock.

We’ll Go Machete took notes from the right bands. There’s the lockstep precision and fearsome holler of Quicksand, the math-rock guitar interplay of Drive Like Jehu, the big riffs of Fireside, and the urgency of At the Drive-In. Strong Drunk Hands doesn’t reinvent the post-hardcore wheel, but if you have even a passing interest in any of those bands, you’ll marvel at the craftsmanship of “DM Barringer,” “Hayward,” and “Good Morning Munro.” I’d cite the other seven tracks too, but you get the point.

Naturally, next time I’ll want more from We’ll Go Machete. I’ll want a longer set. I’ll want an evocation of the melodies and warmth of J. Robbins’ voice. I’ll want more of that math-rock guitar interplay, which proves thoroughly effective in limited doses here. Hell, I may even want a ten-minute album-closing jam. But for now, I’m fully satiated by the precision, economy, and force of Strong Drunk Hands.