ATTENTION: Electronic-Implosion Historic Rebuilding Project

Concerning your request for a chronicle on the Local Natives, we have taken a firm stance on the band’s place in the preceding era’s artistic volumes. Our decision is to push this Los Angeles collaboration to the forefront of a new file and in turn do away with every other file you have forced us to create. In the privacy of our department, we have been copying without your knowledge a select few artists from the stacks of medium- to low-talent individuals and combinations thereof who managed to create an unimaginable mass of unnecessary audio and visual work.  Our new file, which Local Natives now resides within and sits atop, contains a sort of warning that should have been heard loud and clear by those no longer with us.

Hopefully our actions will help to create a new textbook for the surviving youth and help them avoid wasting precious time learning the history of others who exemplified poor choices in subject matter and life. Local Natives produced their debut album Gorilla Manor just in time to partner with others who saw the need to simplify rather then consume and expand. Their work is, by simple explanation, natural. Given the reversion of our species to a primitive physical state that simultaneously has an armor made up of keen mental awareness of the doomed past, we are lucky to have some treasured audio which can possibly be recreated. This is our file — Recreation file #1. You may not agree with our department’s methods, but we plead that you trust our judgment. If you need only the smallest portion of this letter, please use our statement below:   

Local Natives snap and flare like kindling that quickly becomes a long, churning fire to warm every emotional and physical necessity one may find cold within one’s self. Kelcey Ayer, Ryan Hahn, Taylor Rice, and Matt Frazier will help cure any regrets of past screw-ups, botched dances with fleeting fads, or youthful acts of vandalism you may still remember. By Will Tunstall

The American Recovery And Reinvestment Act — does a more controversial piece of Obama administration legislation exist? Probably not. The stimulus package — or bailout, depending on your political affiliation — handed over trillions of dollars to banks, insurance companies, and top-tier CEOs, but Philadelphia MC Freeway and Seattle producer Jake One have crossed the continental divide to join forces for a much more palatable deal — The Stimulus Package, an hour-long collection of bangin’ beats and rapid-fire rhymes that’ll cost taxpayers far less than the bailout did. And in addition to the fiery lyrics and crisp funk-influenced production, you get limited edition Freeway & Jake One bills wrapped together like a stack of cash with a treasury-style bellyband holding the whole thing together. I can’t think of a better reason to actually go out and buy the physical album.

“Throw Your Hands Up” and “One Foot In” are in-your-face mission statements that hearken back to Freeway’s early days on Roc-A-Fella Records, when he was mentored by Jay-Z and Kanye West. Those two gems are followed up by the warm and crackly “She Makes Me Feel Alright” and the eerie “Never Gonna Change,” both of which feature two of the dopest snare drum samples in recent memory, furthering Jake One’s G-Unit-tested A+ chops. What’s the best way to follow up that stellar opening quartet? Bring in Wu-Tang superstar Raekwon for the hottest banger on The Stimulus Package, “One Thing,” a hot mess of doo-wop croons, low-end bass hits, and brutal street storytelling.

From there, the highlights keep coming: “Know What I Mean” dredges up a ‘20s-era sample for its title riff, “The Product” spins a devilish third-person yarn about the evils of drug addiction, and “Free People” is a heartfelt poetry reading over twinkling pianos. There are drawbacks to The Stimulus Package, appropriately enough since nothing in politics is ever perfect. “Microphone Killa’s” fast-moving jazz riff is wasted, while the ill-fated Dirty South blunder “Follow My Moves” simply falls flat. But give Freeway credit: he hasn’t let his gold-certified 2003 debut album hinder his quest for further hip-hop excellence. And, like Obama recently realized on his visit to the GOP’s winter meeting, reaching out across the aisle — in this case, the metaphorical divide between East Coast and west coast hip-hop — is necessary. Here’s to more productive and taxpayer-friendly Freeway & Jake One collaborations in the future. By Nick McGregor

Tindersticks is the broad design of some very intellectual and musically talented individuals. I have an image of them sipping espresso and eating beluga caviar in a small Parisian café, speaking in three different languages and smoking cork-tipped rockets. I want to be there. My desire to hang with the band necessitated a call to their Canada-based label to speak with them about how smart we all are.  So I dialed and reached their voicemail: “Hello Canada, my name is Will, please have the band Tindersticks call me, my number is ###-###-####, dial this and whatever you put before it to reach America!” This sounds dumb in retrospect, but regardless, I was almost certain to receive a call back, which would result in a slow, casual conversation with Staples the vocalist, whom possesses a nonchalance in his style that makes me melt into my mountain of teddy bears.

Staples, David Boulter, Neil Fraser, Terry Edwards, and new members Dan McKinna, Andy Nice, Earl Harvin, and David Kitt spent three months recording Falling Down A Mountain in the personal Euro studios of Staples. This album warrants hefty praise and is absolutely all over the place in its casual strength. It hits master points during guest spots from Mary Margaret O’Hara, the Canadian singer and actress of cult leadership stature, on “Peanuts”. I hope Tindersticks calls me back because I have one question — what do you chaps enjoy?

In the meantime, I have made up my own answer on their behalf. Croutons, books, dreams, pet elephants, white gold, mature women, Camaro I-Rocs, thrones, Campari, magic, peanuts, 4X4 trucks, linguistics, wearing big headphones, ranch-style dressings, biscuits, spray tans, Miami, vessels exceeding 45 feet, boots, dark meat, girls with perfect curls, the word doodlebug, champions, Labradors, five o’clock shadows, hygiene, plateaus, on-ramps, tunnels, friendly pranks, getting drunk on airplanes, and moderation. I hope I’m spot on, you guys. And Staples, you have a wonderful vocal gift and a killer name. By Will Tunstall

ALO is a confusing band. Their name stands for Animal Liberation Orchestra, yet their entire aesthetic is as far away as possible from the similarly named animal terrorist organization Animal Liberation Front. The Santa Barbara, CA, quartet are also closely affiliated with Jack Johnson’s groovy Brushfire label, yet their music also has little to do with surfie acoustic folk. Instead, ALO favors sweeping pop epics, rich orchestration, and playful experimentalism that fits safely within their piano-led framework.

See the first two tracks of Man Of The World, the seven-minute jam band opener “Suspended” and the Elton John-meets-Ween motivational ode “States Of Friction.” Both are sparkly, feel-good, and bathed in warm layers of production, probably because the entire band decamped to Johnson’s North Shore studio for live-take recording sessions mere steps from the beach. But the album’s title track introduces crunchy guitar and boisterous barroom piano to the ALO formula, before they subtly mix blues and reggae on the AM radio-ready “Put Away The Past.”

Island vibes appear again on “Time And Heat,” and Jack Johnson’s obvious influences turn up on “Gardener’s Grave” and “I Wanna Feel It,” but ALO’s diverse musical background returns to the fore on the vaguely Santana-like “The Country Electro.” And then “The Champ” throws a curveball, locking into a vicious bar-band lick that hoots and hollers with the best of ‘em. I wasn’t much of an ALO fan before listening to Man Of The World, but I’m now convinced that this friendly bunch of middle-class California guys has far more going for them than first appearances allow. By Nick McGregor