It’s been a long time since someone has been able to pull off true psychedelic rock. Many have tried since the end of the 1960s, and even more have failed. But in this year of our Lord 2010, the rebirth is complete with Starring’s full-length debut Wife Of God. This NYC quintet reprocesses psychedelia in a modern, uptown, art-rock package, which is both digestible and mind-blowing. The first track, for which the album is named, sets the basic musical formula: inaudible, multi-person, fuzzed-out vocals; psycho speed drums; throwbacks to classic prog rockers; and layers upon layers of sound.

“She’s Extended” sounds like a song for the follow-up to Pink Floyd’s The Wall, while also presenting the recurring problem of never being able to understand fuzzed-out vocals. But sonically, it’s the best bet, riffing about a little lady who tripped and fell. “Sonnenbrille” has more layers than a Pillsbury croissant, creating a full, busy sound; the song suddenly breaks down, throwing you into a burning building with the guitar clearing a path through the smoke and screaming back to your personal tie-dye wonderland. Don’t take the 1960s references wrong, though, as Starring kicks ass. The band’s music is intense, like an acid trip dangling over the precipice, unsure whether to sit or plummet. The closing track on Wife Of God, “Body Double,” is an extended ditty that shows all Starring has to offer. A simple, heavy guitar riff propels the song, while drummer Matt Marlin of Pterodactyl fame gets hyperactive. Starring then shifts from Mars Volta-esque jamming to sounding like a normal band; at one point, you can even decipher vocalist Clara Latham sing, “Won’t you be my body double.” To sum up, this song has A.D.H.D.

Starring’s appeal stems from the band’s ability to draw from its hometown influences. They project Velvet Underground’s twisted freakiness, flaunt Blondie’s sensuality, and shred like The Ramones. The worst aspect of this band, one that cannot be ignored, is its name: Starring. Really folks? This quintet of mind-bending creativity can write truly unique auditory chocolate, but “Starring” is the best band name they could pull out? A piece of advice ladies and gentlemen: find a name as brilliant as your sound. By Alex Lemonde-Gray

As far as I’m concerned, there are only really three types of songs. Some are instantly charming and likeable, some have to grow on you a bit, and some just straight-up suck no matter how many times you listen to them. And most albums, especially freshman albums from squeaky new bands, are kind of like boxes of jellybeans: they’re filled with a random assortment of all kinds of songs, and you have to pick through them to find the good ones.

But every once in a while, a talented new band comes along that has the ability to go all out for every single song on their album, and B-Liminal is exactly that sort of band. A young reggae-rock group from Jupiter, FL, B-Liminal has been exploding in popularity thanks to the strength of their live performances with artists like G. Love, Pepper, Pennywise, and The Expendables. And now that they’ve knocked it out of the park with their first album Shore Culture, it’s probably safe to say that the best is yet to come for these guys.

From the moment you hit play, Shore Culture makes a strong first impression with its electrifying energy and silky smooth sound. Michael Lyons and Bryce Rutkowski weave together guitar melodies that are sure to help you drift away to a better place, and Mike Berchtold and Max Fraser keep the good vibes flowing with their lively beats and steady bass lines. Rutkowski’s vocal style captivates and seems to be perfectly fitted to the band’s sound, while his lyrics range anywhere from lighthearted humor to enlightened reflection. Shore Culture delivers from start to finish, and there’s a pretty good chance that you’ll end up putting the entire thing on repeat. Not bad for a first album. Not bad at all. There are definitely great things up ahead for B-Liminal. By Allison Arteaga

Lace up your silk corset and alligator boots, throw on a golden tiara, and make yourself a tea cup of absinthe to sip as you float around London circa 1911 with a woolen cape gently knotted around the nape of your chin. Child Bite takes you on a time bender with The Living Breathing Organ Summer, visiting the estate of Ezra Pound and the avant-garde movement, complete with peacocks and ostriches for pets. The heavily spread wompage sound of 19th-century designer drugs ringing hard in your ears and lacing these tracks will be your lifeline between sanity and a descent into mad science. On the third fantastic full-length voyage from the group, Child Bite grants us permission to take a break from our 9 to 5s and proclaim our disgust for conformity. Are you mustached?

Pound would throw his frame into fragile chairs to establish dominance. He forced his way into the literary saloons and artist hangouts to spew his Philadelphia accent all over the patron’s crumpets. I find a connecting thread in the power vocals and electronic composition of Michigan’s Shawn Knight, who jumps octaves and blends crescendos with the casual nature of a valium-drugged baboon.  He speaks sweetly over the bass and brass of his equally talented bandmates on tracks like “Barks To Addle,” then wings a turnaround and banana seizures a spastic triumph on the follower “Black Pyramid Mausoleum.”

The difference between Child Bite and the avant-garde? Child Bite has already proven their influence. They don’t need to contrive or fret, because they’re good to go. You should buy this album and quietly put it on in the presence of your most pretentious friends, then leave the room before they stifle themselves from asking “who this band?” Most likely, they’ll just pretend like they know. By William Port Whales

Pigeons, the sophomore album from New York psych-pop collective Here We Go Magic, kicks off in a direction that’s hard to pin down. “Hibernation” is equal parts hallucinatory, focused, tight-lipped, and elastic, a skittering way to define the whole project, which began in 2009 via bedroom recordings from frontman Luke Temple. But second song “Collector” is a better summary of the band. Energetic, drum-tight, and with just a touch of Animal Collective’s high-pitched vocal madness, it’s the perfect distillation of Here We Go Magic’s frenetic talents. Most importantly, it proves these guys and girls aren’t just out to imitate more popular indie rock bands — or produce an album that everyone will like.

Of course, with three of the first four entries on Pigeons clocking in at over five minutes, it’s easy to alienate some listeners. Here We Go Magic almost requires that you dive into their atmospheric pop, as swirling auditory tricks muddle the mind on “Casual” and giddy-up drums root “Moon” in angular New Wave territory. The ‘80s are further dredged up on the beeping, oddly Nintendo-ish “Old World United,” yet stumbles do occur on Pigeons. The partially tone-deaf Velvet Underground rip-off “Surprise” falls flat on its droning, keyboard-soaked face, while languid ballads like “Bottom Feeder” and “F.F.A.P.” both belie Here We Go Magic’s excellent ability to corral blistering tempos for their own maniacal purposes.

But “Land Of Feelings” evolves from a cast-off The Flaming Lips demo into dreamy synth-pop beauty, while the clanking “Vegetable Or Native” and the prog instrumental “Herbie I Love You, Now I Know” close Pigeons out on a defiantly experimental note. The album begins in left field and ends even further out in space — not the safest bet for a fresh young outfit like Here We Go Magic, but also a respectable risk worth taking, both for the band and the listener. By Nick McGregor