The Dig carries on without a problem on Electric Toys. At times, the feedbacks and the overblown amps confuse the hell out of the lyrical podium of certain songs, when they should be helping you float into a mystical world of middle-class daydreams. Tracks like “Penitentiary,” a full on hearkening to jingle-jangle bands like the Cold War Kids, comes across as less maniacal, and so therefore less. Then there are other songs, better songs, like “Shadow,” where the group injects a rock ballad element of poignant guitar that is similar to but better than The Strokes. Now that I’ve crammed two comparisons into your melon we will move on.

Electric Toys is very nice. It will not piss you off, and at times you will exclaim utterances like “crap yeah” when listening. Since it is very much a ‘90s type of nice, I will make a list of nice things you should be wearing and doing while listening to this album. Wearing: Doc Martens and Lisa Frank stickers. Doing: VHS tape viewing while flicking devil sticks.

The song “Two Sisters in Love” is the best on Electric Toys, because the intro instrumentals are a stringed onomatopoeia mimicking the calm before the deadly storm of sister brawl — one where both are sort of joking but seriously mad at each other and only keeping their composure because there are a few people watching. Then, all of a sudden, they grab hold of each other and no one, especially the men, knows what to do because they’re afraid of being punched by or being accused of assaulting a woman. 

The Dig’s Electric Toys receives the album of the week award for the following reasons: 1) instrumental confusion/clarity; 2) 1992 flashbacks; 3) albums I want to listen to while eating lunch alone and playing the video game version of The Dig, a graphic adventure about asteroids and mist released by Lucas Entertainment in 1995. 

David Baldwin on guitars and vocals, Emile Mosseri on bass and vocals, Erick Eiser on keyboards and guitar, and Jamie Alegre on drums makes for a pretty good midday mix. And I imagine The Dig’s live show would translate into something incredibly energetic. By William Port Whales

In our hypercreative musical age, releasing two subsequent albums packed with icy electro-pop and chilled-out left-field hip-hop is pretty much par for the course. Luckily, New York duo Ratatat take their much-loved genre about 18 steps further than most contemporaries — the only problem I have with their last two albums are the absurdly lackluster titles, LP3 and LP4. When you’re mixing live-recorded string sections, snappy disco-funk breakdowns, and jungly bass ‘n’ drum concoctions in the space of one or two songs, overblown track and album titles should come as second nature.

Then again, maybe that’s Ratatat’s modus operandi — dabble in outlandish auditory explorations, like on “Neckbrace” and “Mandy,” but do it in a streamlined and efficient manner. Hence LP4, which actually came out of the same upstate New York recording sessions as LP3. For all the upbeat dancehall-ready anthems, I prefer disquieting songs like “We Can’t Be Stopped” and “Bob Gandhi,” which shudder and pulse with subterranean intensity. And “Mahalo” is a flitty little tune that combines crystalline guitar with weepy symphonics, a huge if understated improvement from the song that B-sided LP3 single “Shiller.”

Of course, the infectious power of “Party With Children” is undeniable, as kitchen-sink percussion, psychedelic harpsichords, and translucent keys mesh into one of this summer’s surefire hits. “Sunblocks” and “Bare Feast” further that sweltering theme, the former’s blown-out speaker drones and the latter’s street-sweeping waltz evoking far different images of the upcoming months. But it’s the vaguely Afro-funk feeling of “Grape Juice City” that really sends LP4 to stratospheric heights. Coin a snappier title next time around — when electro-pop will most likely be even more popular — and Ratatat just might have a bona fide hit on their hands. By Nick McGregor

If ever there were an artist who could perfectly fit the definition of a well-rounded, truly talented alternative musician, it would be Jesse Rifkin. Rifkin, the multi-instrumentalist known to his fans as The Wailing Wall, can literally play anything that generates sound waves, from sitar to pipe organ to banjo. And on his second album, The Low Hanging Fruit, he creates rich musical experiences by blending styles as diverse as folk, traditional Middle Eastern and Hindu sounds, and Baroque and Renaissance-period church music.

Although The Low Hanging Fruit is a case study in variety, one thing remains the same across every track: Rifkin’s raspy but captivating voice rings out powerfully as he chants some of the most mind-blowing lyrics you’ve ever heard. Raised in Jewish Orthodoxy but with a strong interest in the spirituality of many different cultures, Rifkin presents his ponderings of life and higher powers on tracks like “Speak Not Its Name” and “For C.M.R.”

Rifkin has a very unique perspective and some truly remarkable ideas about the world around him, but even more importantly, he has the ability to craft language into works of art that can do his thoughts justice. His lyrics are more poetry than anything else, and even when he sings about love, a topic that presents a nearly impassable minefield of clichés, he approaches it armed with a bottomless collection of totally original metaphors and similes on songs like “Dandelion,” “Pineapple,” and  “Song.”

The Low Hanging Fruit is a rare demonstration of both musical and literary genius, and anyone who listens to it will immediately appreciate Jesse Rifkin, or The Wailing Wall, for the talented artist that he is. By Allison Arteaga

Spot on. Sean Moore and Alberto Hernandez are from Winter Park, FL, and we like that. So sit down and envision yourself resting before a platter of expensive sushi, casually cupping a saketini in the beam of your hand. You are wearing a classy mix of leather and linens. The foundation of your night is stolen credit cards, tiptoeing geisha babes, and Viernes’ debut album Sinister Devices. 

I’m no panda, but this is classic bamboo-munching music. Viernes has given us a borderline sleepy cocktail mixed with a dose of insomnia and some ice made from bathtub drugs. It is all very designer smooth, without the pretension of afterparties or the bother of sweaty masses drawing to sip from the tainted trough of contemporary electro-utopia. Sinister Devices sounds like rabbit high-fives and elephant hugs layered over the quiet humming of a first edition Macintosh.

Viernes approaches some really funny topics pertaining to this twenty-something generation. Politics and love are always go-to hits, but working some magic into the realm of “Faulty Investments” is the greatest feat this group tackles. The moral of the story? Emotional roller coasters in youth will teach us all lessons in wisdom and make for great tap-dancing Florida trance. By William Port Whales