Miniature Tigers are a pop-indie quartet based in Phoenix, AZ, who are sure to impress with their second full-length album Fortress. The band lives up to its name, creating music that is both small and simple while being majestic and otherworldly. Drawing on popular music from the ‘60s and dressing it in modern indie garb, Miniature Tigers utters a hypnotically melodic roar.

Album opener “Mansion Of Misery” was inspired by watching The Shining at the band’s recording location isolated deep in the woods of upstate New York. Rattling chimes ease the listener in, before vocalist Charlie Brand sings, “Thinking about throwing away the keys.” The eerily pronounced snare drum comes rat-a-tat-tatting away and Brand quizzically croons, “What would that mean for you and me?” Despite the song’s inspirational origin, most of “Mansion Of Misery” has a deceptively carefree sound with melodic lines reminiscent of John Lennon and Brian Wilson. Like these supernovas of a bygone era, Miniature Tigers makes bank with simple vocals that even the most tone-deaf, Rock Band-obsessed gamer can sing along with. What separates Miniature Tigers from the legion of The Beatles-worshipping indie bands is these tiny felines’ ability to throw curveballs. During the three-and-a-half minute tour of “Mansion Of Misery,” the band jumps between brash, axe-wielding intensity and butterfly-catching grace.

“Rock ‘N’ Roll Mountain Troll” is the most enjoyable song on Fortress. Brand narrates as that greasy thirty-something down the road that still lives with his mom and has the “sickest band ever.” “Stoned at three a.m. and talking to myself in public/ I think I really hit a low don’t you think so/ You never leave the house, you never leave the house, come out/ Does that make me crazy, oh no,” Brand sings while a punchy guitar propels a nursery rhyme-like melody. Well-timed piano fills make the song seem voluminous and add to the kid-song comparisons. Think of this crowd pleaser as Miniature Tigers’ equivalent to “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer,” minus the gore.

Fortress is a solid sophomore album. With a set band lineup, the boys of Miniature Tigers refined their act, creating a fuller, more sophisticated sound than their debut, Tell It To The Volcano. The primary failing of Fortress is its lack of diversity. Miniature Tigers do a good job of creating individual, unique songs — however, the band’s sound isn’t exactly in vogue right now. In the indie-pop niche, Fortress will be loved. In the mainstream world, Fortress may never be known. By Alex Lemonde-Gray

During the British Open, I learned that residents of Glasgow, Scotland, are called Glaswegians. Can you believe that? Europe is a great place from what I’ve seen on television golf events, where thrusting windswells are breaking in the frigid rocky waters just behind the elegant manicured greens and the dark sky setting its haze on the far-off sheep pastures. K-X-P from Finland captures this image in their sound. Their self-titled debut album isn’t in a rush; instead, K-X-P takes their time getting to a point of satisfaction, utilizing the power of the slow build and the rolling down slope. This group’s sound has boatloads in common with Kraftwerk, which is special, because Kraftwerk deserves to have people running around who sound like them.

K-X-P are experimenting with electronic art. By experimenting, I mean to say that they are creating sounds that make them happy, and they convey this conviction into artistic integrity through a simple build-and-fall structure that really isn’t simple at all. I mentioned Glaswegians, because the efforts of Joakim Haugland, who urged the formation of K-X-P, led to a devoted following and eventual booking in the Scottish artist Optimo’s Sunday club, called Subclub. A Sunday club — how amazing is this concept? An actual club reserved specifically for the Sabbath, and chilling out to good music.

We have to look into this. This could make or break the new frontier of American musical progression. If someone doesn’t open up a Sunday club within walking distance of my home, where I can finally find solace in red velvet cushions and mustachioed patrons’ stories of triumph, by this weekend I’m giving up. But please walk away with this: I will have no part of a Sunday club that doesn’t support the relaxing techno bellows emitting from the deep Finnish fjord that is K-X-P. By Will Tunstall

The snarl of Fat Mike from NOFX, the harmonic crunch of Hot Water Music, and the melodic speed of Face To Face comprise the stylings of Florida’s Gatorface, a straight-ahead punk quartet focused on breathing life into a genre that was forgotten back in 1998 with the release of Refused’s The Shape Of Punk To Come.

It was that defining album that merged the hardcore and punk scenes, drawing scenesters into a more socially conscious responsibility. But as the genre melded together and diverted towards the craze of the screamo/emo debacle, it left the party punks wondering what just happened. The music became irrelevant in light of the new sound, and while the first wave of punk was a battle cry for social injustice and combating straight-up boredom, the ‘90s were simply a rehash, with more speed and technical prowess and less originality. Think, Lagwagon, Strung Out, ad nauseam. So, twelve years on, where does that leave a band like Gatorface? Hurtling towards oblivion? Maybe not.

Maybe listeners have been waiting for Gainesville’s No Idea Records to rise from the ashes like a phoenix and reassert themselves as a leader in the punk world, putting out great albums on a regular basis. On Wasted Monuments, there’s nothing really new, but Gatorface aptly refines the type of melodic and thrashing punk that is easy to use to get pumped for a skate or a surf. Or, if you prefer, a keg party circa ‘96. By Peter Viele

What Lasts is as satisfying as what has come before from the mind and soul of These United States. The album is the product of a perfected form of seine netting used for capturing the raspy growls of Kentucky roads and the plentiful, gritty truths of time on the bus, along with filtering out the bullshit that could easily harm a group of this collective talent. The important thing is that you see them live during one of the many stops they will be making as they push the west-to-east archipelago of a major tour, accompanying acts like Dr. Dog at Pickathon and Lady Gaga at Lollapalooza. 

The best thing about These United States is their range from absolute calamity to colossal harmony.  This kicks in midway through What Lasts, particularly on “Nobody Can Tell,” and carries through to the concluding title track. The band’s work begins soft and melodic, then spouts the brimstone of the devil’s voice, with every moment of this meticulous movement timed with the accuracy of a Cherokee longbow.  

There are certain things expected of nerds when they’re young: changing the bulb in an overhead projector, acing multiplication tables. Jesse Elliott, J. Tom Hnatow, Colin Kellogg, Justin Craig, and Robby Cosenza completely missed out on these experiences, because they were far too busy doing something cooler somewhere secret, possibly off-campus with a babe. Relentless devotion to the fan — back in April, they played a free two-hour acoustic set at a college party house in Winter Park, FL — and a clear passion for composition will carry this group into the moon dust of our dreams. By Will Tunstall