The indie-pop scene has always bred an atmosphere of creativity and experimentation, where the most quirky and eccentric artists are the ones that get noticed. And over the course of his last few albums, Jeremy Jay has definitely caught the attention of his listeners. He won rave reviews from critics, particularly for his 2009 album Slow Dance, which combined punchy electric guitar jams with a healthy serving of disco-like synthesizer sounds, wailing vocals, and cheery, innocent lyrics. So when his newest album Splash hit the streets on May 25th, there was a great deal of excitement among fans and music critics alike. But for many, listening to the new album proved to be an anti-climactic experience.

Although at times there are flashes of the brilliance heard on his previous albums — like the lively, sunny-day ballad “Dial My Number,” or the catchy guitar riffs and rhythmic vocals of the title track, “Splash” — Jay has clearly tried to take a more experimental approach to his new album, and things have run awry. The entire album has a much slower tempo, which seems to somewhat restrain the musical talents of the band members, and Jay has elected to try out a more crooning vocal style that falls awkwardly in the middle ground between song and speech on tracks like “Why Is This Feeling So Strong.” And then, when you mix in the high-pitched howls that are sprinkled throughout his songs, you end up with vocals that, in my mind, draw uncomfortably close comparisons to musical theatre.

But that’s the risk that you take when you’re an artist brave enough to experiment. Some of your creations will be mind-blowingly unique and irresistible, while others may not quite hit the mark. Overall, my verdict on Splash is this: if you listen to it in a search for more of the unique sounds that captivated on Jeremy Jay’s previous albums, you may be a bit disappointed. But if you’re interested in studying the learning process of a talented young artist or hearing what other styles of music he’s capable of, you might really enjoy it. By Allison Arteaga

I first listened to ZOL!! driving really fast with a bunch of valuable stuff in my car, beneath a dark cloud of pretension, thinking about how many books the members of BLK JKS are currently reading, or how they’re contemplating their hatred for things we all love, like Tomagotchis and Eggo Waffles. I was pretty sure the impending rain was about to ruin every material possession I owned with an electrical plug or battery pack, and my soundtrack wasn’t helping. This dilemma, coupled with the flashing lights of Georgia’s construction lanes and pornographically mustached highway patrolmen, seemed almost certain to throw me into an epileptic fit. 

I’d heard good things about BLK JKS, but “BOGOBE” sounded like robots knocking their rusted alloy teeth together during a downtrodden French-style kiss, mirroring my lost hope for anything slightly humorous — except the romance glamorously splashed across a landscape of Floridian anti-meth billboards. It’s not that every great lyric must have an element of humor or encouraging fable, but with certain groups, that crap helps. In BLK JKS’ case, it kicks in on the title track, where Zulu-style beats replace the awkward sounds of adolescent droids dominating the back row of a dark theater. 

The aforementioned ribbon-wrapped crap unfurls during “ZOL!,” carries through to “BOGOBE,” and concludes with “MZABLAZO (Demo).” In between these tracks, ZOL! is just pain. Pain that would’ve been better off filtered through cheesecloth and packaged into something to be appreciated at a more appropriate time… maybe a time of electronic angst when I can enjoy the company of smog and voltage. The other half of ZOL! is incredibly different and sporadically tight, representing a unique sound with roots running the entire landscape of the group’s Johannesburg, South Africa, home. By William Port Whales

Have you ever walked into a room, heard a song, and asked, “Oh, is this (fill in the blank)?” Your friend tells you who the band is, and you ask, “Who the hell is that?” Listening to the first seven songs of Debut by Too Late For Roses will send you through this confusing scene. “Take Me Out” launches Debut, displaying a couple of the band’s most obvious influences: Stone Temple Pilots and Jeff Buckley. The song features a funky intro, minimalist guitar throughout, and a strong, propelling drumbeat to back vocalist Karl von Kries, who defines Too Late For Roses and solidifies the aforementioned comparisons. His voice appears like a tame lion in a cage waiting to pounce, until a fierce, calculated roar erupts in the chorus. Kries growls like Buckley and STP’s Scott Weiland, but lacks Buckley’s range.

The instrumentation on “1985” further supports the comparison. The simple, partially clean guitar intro throws the listener back to Buckley’s song “So Real,” off of his 1994 release Grace. Too Late For Roses wears its influences on its sleeve, but the band still has far to go if it hopes to achieve the critical success of Buckley or the commercial success of STP. The band needs to think about innovation, because on most of Debut they play someone else’s game.

Too Late For Roses gives listeners a glimpse of how amazing they could be on the album’s last three songs. With a mix of drums, chanting, and flutes, “The Satisfaction” creates a trippy Moroccan feel, while the instrumental “Masks” keeps the ball rolling with an ass-kicking guitar riff accompanied by some psycho scratching reminiscent of Nine Inch Nails in its glory days. Too Late For Roses should continue to develop these kinds of talents with electronic and world music if it wants to emerge one day as its own unique and successful band. By Alex Lemonde-Gray

Pete Francis sings like a member of Modest Mouse who’s not too much of a princess to eat at a Western Sizzler or pop a fork in a light socket. The Movie We Are In is like a warm bottle of Mountain Dew, or boogieboarding: they’re both awesome… just not the awesomest. The album is riddled with reoccurring one-line lyrics that explore the trials of distance, youth, and self-awareness. Part of every song is good, maybe even great, until Pete starts choking on bland-tasting items from his buffet of repetitive themes. Perhaps the most surprising part of the entire album is when he whistles during “Red Cloud Road.” 

Here is a comparison: Pete, one of the co-founders of legendary independent college-rock band Dispatch, has a similarity to Mason Jennings, minus the gothic gorilla mist or effective electro samples. Remember those straw cowboy hats everyone donned at the beach during the late ‘90s? Cool, you’ve got the gist. As best stated by Pete Francis himself on the album’s title track, “The story’s always the same… always the same.” If you’re an artist capable of getting really drunk and shedding a single, emotionless tear of existential contemplation, then you could pull off producing an album such as The Movie We Are In. But if you’re a mouthy drunk and dance around giggle-squawking, “Yea, I know — can you believe it?!  This album only took me an hour to write!!” your fan base will quickly scatter.

Francis’ main talent lies in his video and artwork production, which is top-notch and nods to the likes of acclaimed surf cinematographer Thomas Campbell and his simple outlines and coloration schemes of wood-panel collage works. All in all, The Movie We Are In would make a great belated Mother’s Day present. By William Port Whales