After little to no wait, El Guincho is back, bringing danceable grooves to the masses in his forever-seductive Latin tongue. El Guincho released Piratas de Sudamerica in July, and the feisty EP saw everybody’s favorite conquistador drawing his dagger, reworking Latin American classics into happy-hour anthems. Now El Guincho has unsheathed his sword, releasing Pop Negro onto the world. This full-length album features nine songs that collectively come in well under an hour, yet still prove irresistible. Pop Negro has a distinctly different feel than Piratas de Sudamerica; where Piratas gave us more of a beach-time vibe with slower beats and fuzzy vocals, Pop Negro is louder, clearer, and bolder.

Pablo Diaz-Reixa, the man behind the moniker, grew up in the Canary Islands, a territory owned by Spain. An avid windsurfer, Diaz-Reixa is submerged in beach culture, and that good-times vibe is present throughout his music. Although it’s not a particularly long album, Pop Negro is packed with solid tracks. “Ghetto Facil” sees El Guincho channeling hip-hop and soul with heartfelt lyrics, simple beats, and infectious melodies, adding diversity to the album and demonstrating the band’s ability to process genres not native to Spain or her former colonies.

Album opener “Bombay” is possibly the most complete song on Pop Negro, with rich beats and rhythms piled on top of each other like a ten-layer cake, creating a remarkably textured but unified sound. And songs like “Bombay” allow El Guincho to thrive: minimalist singing, background humming, and steel drums make the track a keeper. Another highlight is “FM Tan Sexy,” which is just what it sounds like: hot and sweaty sex on the beach. Beware — you’re liable to have sand in really weird places after listening.

Like his conquistador forefathers, El Guincho is blazing new trails through lush, established rainforest. However, rather than mass-murdering music’s anchored natives, El Guincho is learning along the way and processing his collective influences. Some listeners may feel that Pop Negro is too homogenous, but a closer listen reveals the budding genius that is El Guincho. By Alex Lemonde-Gray

Jim Lindberg has spent more than two decades with punk pioneers Pennywise. Jim Lindberg penned a book on fatherhood. Jim Lindberg loves California, bleeds punk, and will not stop battling corporations and The Man. Jim Lindberg has now founded The Black Pacific, and they are an outfit sweating professional talent from every pore.

Punk rockers don’t often do things wrong. They live the oxymoron and thrive on intellectual challenge. In that sense, The Black Pacific has not broken stride with tradition on their new self-titled album. It is a brilliantly fast birthing of health and hurt with wit to match. Expelling speed and anger while holding the attention of a listener has been done before, but rarely with the work ethic and consistency found in the heart of Jim Lindberg. I can judge most music I like on the criteria that my colleagues and friends will despise it. And The Black Pacific is a winner in both categories. But shit, driving alone and giving this album a go will leave you with a taste for all things true in your mouth and heart. 

Catching The Black Pacific live will be an experience to remember in any stage of your life. Meaning that, right now in right this moment, whether you are 12 or 50, you should reconnect with some of your old roots through this time warp of an album. Pump a fist in a friend’s face, or break some porcelain in your mom or wife’s living room. Just do it with The Black Pacific playing loud. By Will Tunstall

It’s easy to disregard the kind of downcast female folkies that come to mind every time you hear a woman singing evocatively over acoustic guitar. Sarah McLachlan, KD Lang, Beth Orton… the clichéd list goes on and on. But Canadian Amelia Curran has something none of those stars do: authentic maritime East Coast roots that lend her music equal parts salt-stained gravity and seabreeze lightness. Her fifth album, Hunter, Hunter, is also her first recorded at home in Newfoundland, and the compelling twelve-song set even won Curran a Juno Award for best Roots & Traditional Album of 2010.

Right off the bat, splashes of rural folk set Amelia Curran apart from the fem-folk pack. “Bye Bye Montreal” luxuriates under the spell of woozy Cajun accordion, while “Hands On A Grain Of Sand” features a gentle banjo pluck that calls to mind Iron & Wine’s early work. And “Ah, Me” rollicks with an intriguing depth charge of a drum beat that adds sinister suspense to the song’s otherwise elegant slide guitar. But forget all the exquisite instrumentation: the real star of Hunter, Hunter is Curran’s smoky, somewhat husky voice, which twists and turns and draws the listener in on smoldering blues number “The Mistress.” This isn’t whiny self-examination a la the Lilith Fair set — this is sexy, real, gut-punching acoustic folk: “I don’t come with no disclaimer/ I’m like everybody else/ We keep our demons on the burner/ And our morals on the shelf.”

While “The Mistress” is easily the highlight of Hunter, Hunter, other gems also follow. “Mad World, Outlive Me” boasts a nearly comatose pace, but bristles with discomforting honesty and is eventually saved by quietly mournful symphonics. “Julia” and “Tiny Glass Houses” are catchy little ditties, while “The Company Store” and ”The Dozens” are both jazzy slices of cabaret folk that would surely go over great on a live stage. It might feel natural to lump Amelia Curran in with every other emotional lady plucking a guitar and singing about life, love, and the pursuit of melancholy, but this Canadian Maritimes native deserves much more credit than that. And on Hunter, Hunter, she’s definitely earned it. By Nick McGregor

I’ve been working in an environment founded on no less of a basis than one might call the individual crusade of a ponytailed charismatic cult leader. I haven’t learned the chosen word, but I have learned that written prophecy allows for an outlet upon which one man or woman can build something around himself or herself without much more than a set of very white teeth and good hair. I don’t think the same holds true for the music industry. They both require charisma and skill to succeed, and I look upon both with simple interest suppressing judgment by bottling it up — a bunch of angry lightning bugs.

For those who create something profound within the music industry, I have more respect and less bottled lightning bugs. In this field, there is no book of rules or congregation of guidance. One person or a group must build their following on their own shoulders and push boundaries. This is why they are musicians. This is why they are artists.

Magnetic Islands, formerly the Brooklyn-based band Renminbi, have built a prolific album upon their shoulders, and like any true artist have reformed in order to challenge themselves and no other. Out At Sea is a gothic tracklist worthy of any congregational following — “End in Bender” is a mash of opening screams and warnings, an announcement of Magnetic Islands’ march to follow (occupation seems like an appropriate term). Prepare to be occupied, as Out At Sea rings right in the ears. The occupation is framed upon the instrumental mix-up of the members, who are playing any or no particular piece at any given time. And I can imagine each of them not really giving a shit about what any one of us might have to say. By Will Tunstall