When Jay Reatard was fifteen he had the brass to cast a demo tape out into the world. This caught the ear of a record exec that knew something special had found its way into his pocket. When you have balls and skill, a long, fulfilling career is probably ahead of you — this will also force the music industry to provide a space for you to spread guitar-powered wings over any number of bands and side projects. And when you possess musical genius and giant nuts, you probably come from a place with few other outlets to show how disgusting you are at all things you set your mind to. So you simply become diverse and unhindered in your musical abilities, start blowing people away without hesitation, and, in turn, score a ton of chicks because of vulgar guitar skills.

So it goes with Memphis turn-about/shindig-inducing/retro choral bobble-header Jay Reatard, who has worked flawless cuts which sound like theme songs to ‘80s sitcom “The Facts of Life” into an album that blends gritty flower meal, modern-day spaceman music similar to Black Lips’ organized work, and brilliant pop antics. All of that equals Watch Me Fall, which is valuable, amazing and lasting. This is the go-to collection for making your day sixteen times better, helping you smile after getting sucker-punched by your older brother. Just play off the anger by shredding your guitar in your parent’s basement while listening to Jay Reatard’s latest album — and don’t forget to send what you record in to a major label.

Watch Me Fall embodies the irony we expect from a contemporary legend. Jay Reatard records, performs, and repeats, yet only one in a hundred possess this kind of cornered ADD, allowing them to give you everything they have without looking back or finding a qualm with your opinion. Seriously, if Jay Reatard didn’t mask his abilities behind a comical pseudonym, he could become something unattainable — and he’d probably affect way too many of the wrong types of people. So be thankful we have him somewhat to ourselves for now. By Will Tunstall

Choir Of Young Believers have aged rapidly, like the mind of an old soul trapped in the physical incarnation of 26-year-old Danish mastermind Janis Noya Makrigiannis. Exploring the collections of his underground roots encouraged Janis’ return from the Greek Island of Samos to Copenhagen, where he glued together a mixture of recovered bones and erected the internationally praised pop-operatic ensemble Choir Of Young Believers. Six Danish Grammy nominations, a win in the “Best New Act” category, and Western praise for their live performances during SXSW fortified a solid future for the group and its debut album This Is For The White in Your Eyes.

Emphasizing the haunting sounds of holy warehouses and secular formalities of Nordic man, and injected with sudden jumps in tempo and form (tribal ritual bumps, harmonies of cultish joy), Choir Of Young Believers possess a Jonestown creep and garner appreciable looks of curiosity from their fans. Onstage, anywhere from one to eight members will be present wielding horns, percussion, bells, and strings, while Janis keeps his smooth voice ever present. From what I understand, Choir Of Young Believers don’t sport the uniform garb of their namesake — only the powerhouse sound of collective talent and lyrical depth equal to biblical diction.     

Makrigiannis confidently splashes his vocal brilliance all over This Is For The White In Your Eyes, in some cases giving self-analytical titles to his mournful compositions. His perceptive labeling of the lead track “Hollow Talk” isn’t negative or self-deprecating, but rather informative, using a refined echo and keen sense of sophistication to introduce the world to the collaborative power of Choir Of Young Believers. This Is For The White In Your Eyes’ release was even festooned with energetic European “holla backs” from Danish graveyard ghosts who just happened to get along in pure symbiosis. By Will Tunstall

You Can’t Take It With You represents a collective ringing. Undecayed and washing freely over you, the album makes its way between sturdy chamber operatics and melting collaborative harmonies. Each member of As Tall As Lions offers instrumental spike while working smoothly into the aggregate, lending support and weaving numerous qualities into the recording. This ability to flux and unionize without hitch is a byproduct of As Tall As Lions’ long past, dating back to their early formation in a Long Island, NY, high school.

To say You Can’t Take It With You rotates among ambient whirr and upbeat moxie doesn’t quite do justice to the transitions present. “Duermete” is a circular, dopey sloth’s sound that adventures amongst kindred qualities of an Animal Collective build-up, introducing “In Case Of Rapture” and its lyrical exploration worthy of holding court at a Billy Graham crusade. Multiple producers and long periods seeking perfection led Dan Nigro, Sean Fitzgerald, Julio Tavarez and Cliff Sarcona to the apex of a collective vision while finding them at times dysfunctional and on the verge of breakup.

But that emotional investment in As Tall As Lions’ third full-length release shows steady over 11 tracks, along with an expressed aversion to the intrusive technologies of the modern world. These self-made decrees do add an element of lecture to the lyrics on You Can’t Take It With You, which made me feel a bit childish and guilty. Harmony and instrumental prowess dwarf individual vocal heft for a large part of the album, but As Tall As Lions deserve a warm welcome — and the popularity that has grown with them in recent years. By Will Tunstall

Alt-country bands hailing from Brooklyn immediately run into an authenticity problem: how do you evoke the dusty roads and down-home feel of Middle America from the trendiest borough in the biggest city in the country? For Midwestern natives Jones Street Station, the answer is clear — stay away from the gritty revivalism of harder rocking bands like Deer Tick and opt instead for the straight-ahead pop clarity of mainstream influences like The Avett Brothers. Jones Street Station crafted their sophomore album In Verses as a collaborative effort, with multi-voice harmonies and emotional songwriting serving as their calling card, rather than trendy flannel shirts or whiskey-soaked lyrics.

Sparkling opener “Evergreen” kicks Jones Street Station off with heart-on-their-sleeves expression, segueing perfectly into the banjo-led “Front Door.” Ringing keyboards and chiming guitars lead into the slightly faster “Slow Lights,” which has all the catchiness and accessibility of a future Top 40 hit. But that sort of breezy quality drags the lightweight “Winter Waltz” down, flitting across the album with no lasting impression before the bluegrass-heavy Midwestern tribute “Flyover State” truly stands out amongst all the light-pop fare.

Things slow down again on “Neville,” but that track features one of the most perfect intro/build-up/climax song structures I’ve ever heard, exploding in a fury of Americana instrumentation and nearly punk rock vocals. And then there’s the urgent indie rock pace of “Oh Victoria,” which belies the band’s stated country roots. That kind of dexterity proves that Jones Street Station has the skills to take its uniquely pop-oriented sound to massive heights, Brooklyn point of origin or not. After all, it’s not the location that necessarily makes the band — sometimes the band is just so damn polished that they quickly transcend their location. –NM