What happens when Christian-inspired music doesn’t suck? Well, nothing really, but it’s nice to be able to listen to an album with your seven-year-old cousin in the room and not have to worry about any potentially corrupting lyrics. Bodies Of Water returns with its third album, Twist Again, in a subdued storm of 1970s rock. Based around married couple David and Meredith Metcalf, Bodies Of Water has undergone some changes since it released its sophomore album A Certain Feeling on Secretly Canadian in 2008. Along with the departure of founding members Kyle Gladden and Jessie Conklin, who were tidily replaced with a fluctuating lineup of friends, the band — easier referred to as the Metcalfs — separated from their prior label.

Bodies Of Water returns with new baby Twist Again, an album that far surpasses its predecessor. Surely, part of the inspiration for this third album is the bun speedily baking in Meredith Metcalf’s oven. For listeners’ sake, the wonder of birth doesn’t translate into lyrical explorations on the growth of a fetus. As always, Bodies Of Water winds spiritual themes and questions into poetically crafted imagery. Two kinds of love dominate Twist Again’s sung context — earthly and heavenly. The back and forth between and within songs hints at this conflict and separation, more accurately depicting the coexistence or nonexclusivity of the two. “You did not need me very much/ But you did all you could just to keep me,” Mrs. Metcalf sings on “Rise Up, Careful,” the most somber song on the album.

Instrumentally, Twist Again hearkens back to an era of classic rock in which country, folk, and rockabilly melded with drug-hazed experimentation. “Triplets,” a clear reference to what must be Mrs. Metcalf’s greatest fear, bounces along with early rock’s playful fervor. Meanwhile, ”Mary, Don’t You Weep” reminisces on the white-boy dance soul genre of disco. Horns ring over snappy, enthusiastic drums to create a disco groove completed by Mr. Metcalf’s harmless scowl. Bodies Of Water are at their best with subdued jams like “Open Rhythms,” a fair take on Neil Young in his heyday. A fuzzed-out electric guitar continuously rings blues-based fills while the rhythm guitar works a “Cowgirl In The Sand”-styled riff. Twist Again strikes a chord by mixing genres and themes that inevitably had to collide with the prod of a pair of artist lovers. By Alex Lemonde-Gray

The Chain Gang Of 1974 is late to the party. Electro? I mean, come on, who still listens to electro? And being based in L.A.? That makes things even worse. An electro group from L.A.… hmm, I think I’ll pass. Apparently, these guys missed the last Tweeted hipster memo; it’s all about lo-fi, stripped-down garage rock now.

All right, so The Chain Gang Of 1974 is not so terrible — they’re pretty good, in fact, just a bit dated. Blatantly slathered in ‘80s New Wave pop and modern synthesized repetition treatments, Wayward Fire for the most part is actually easy on the ears. And where it differs from other similar artists would be in lead singer Kamtin Mohager’s focus on vocal work, which ranges from falsetto to low tenor, creating a hybrid album of sorts with his neo-romantic subject matter. The bass work primarily drives the record, creating a pretty entrancing groove on most of the tracks. And just about every one of them is catchy as all get out. Yet the album tends to stumble as a whole with neither cohesion nor brevity. Sounding like Death From Above 1979 got high with Holy Ghost! on “Devil Is A Lady” while sounding like a mash up of Cut Copy and Passion Pit on “Hold On,” The Chain Gang Of 1974 prominently collects and regurgitates well-known sounds, which in itself is a signifier of the quality of work found on this first release.

One could deduce all of the ‘80s influences found here, from Human League to New Order to The Cure to Tears For Fears to ad nauseum. Yes, Wayward Fire is heavily laden with them. There is a sense of musicianship, albeit bereft of originality, that The Chain Gang Of 1974 possesses — and they do know how to put out a pretty solid danceable and engaging track laden with nostalgia. Pick this up if you’re a fan of music from 1984… or 2004, depending on your perspective. By Peter Viele

I grew up hearing one important lesson about the water. My first 6’1” or 6’2” was purchased and my dad bestowed upon me his casual wisdom in one phrase repeated over and over again, on countless OBX trips and Florida windswells: “Don’t hotdog.” I think the lesson applies here. I like Playdough’s Hotdoggin, the beats, the samples, and the depth of the lyrics. Playdough appeals to the everyman and I can offer him only one piece of advice as my father offered me: “Slow down, be casual." 

If Hotdoggin was extended as a whole and the words were released like slow-flung grenades instead of low-caliber bullets, the already positive design of Playdough’s third album would jump above and beyond the fact that it is somewhat forgettable in its current state. It reminds me of the first time I read in front of a crowd in the 5th grade. I won a DARE essay competition and it was brilliant, because I had explained in 500 words just how easy it was to avoid illegal substances. I was about to drop this knowledge on a ready and willing crowd, and I stepped onstage and read my piece in such a high, unconfident, rapidly nervous voice that the crowd heard not a word of my work, and my potentially world-changing message fell by the wayside.

Now, I don’t expect every artist to have the raspy tortoise tempo of ODB or Notorious B.I.G. The MCs who collaborated with these artists were fast — even rapid. But they controlled their tempo with deeper emphasis and unrushed inflection. The reason Playdough doesn’t sound like he is working for the slow rasp that pleases so many is his renowned reputation as a live performer. He is a true Dallas, TX, MC who regularly battles and seems to always conquer, whether it’s Monday Night Fights or Skribble Jam Battles. He’s been surrounded by critical acclaim, has released two major-label albums, and has toured with Method Man & Redman, Brother Ali, KRS-One, and Mos Def. I will not pretend to know better than most hip-hop experts; I only know what I like. I like Playdough’s desire to stay true to himself and I like his style — I just don’t love it. I think slowing things down a bit could do him wonders. By Will Tunstall

Dude — I’m so confused. Seven Idiots by World’s End Girlfriend is borderline anarchy. Not in the Sex Pistols sense, because, let’s face it, power chords make way too much sense. Seven Idiots is anarchy like an animated preschool child with a chainsaw in a field full of sheep. World’s End Girlfriend, moniker for Katsuhiko Maeda, can’t seem to choose a genre on Seven Idiots. The man bounces between classical, electronic, and post-rock. In case you have no idea what that sounds like, go play a video game and you’ll know.

Maeda is from Nagasaki, Kyushu, Japan, and currently lives in Tokyo. As far as I can tell, Maeda resided in Tokyo before the earthquake, tsunami, and subsequent nuclear reactor meltdown, meaning we can’t blame nuclear exposure for the loud, jumbled insanity that is Seven Idiots. According to Maeda, he was inspired by his father’s classical music collection at age 10 and started to compose his own keyboard and guitar tunes on a tape recorder. Since those early explorations in creating music, Maeda has composed more than 600 songs. His work has been featured in award-winning Japanese films that you’ve never heard of them.

Working under a name that must refer to a very unpleasant woman, World’s End Girlfriend makes music that only a Trekkie would enjoy. Electric guitars rage as though wielded by the leg-shaving men of Dragon Force. The virtuoso shredding sadly gets old, but when paired with classical composing, it has a little more lasting power. “The Offering Inferno” takes the prize for craziest song, although so much happens in the eight-and-a-half-minute rager that I wouldn’t know where to start. But to sum up what World’s End Girlfriend is all about, song titles like “Bohemian Purgatory Parts 1, 2, and 3” are all on Seven Idiots. Indulge if you dare. By Alex Lemonde-Gray