“Existentialism is to hard to grasp. Person-centered theories of counsel and correction, including the complete consumption of true empathy, is hard to accomplish and fulfill, and the ambiguity of available intellect but shitty memory will drive many of us insane and bring us to the ultimate conclusion: we are all screwed. Man, we sound stupid huh? Does anyone want some cider?” 

Magic Central is not just an album — it is an actual Michigan cabin in the immense world of magical machinist cogs. It is in the never-ending rural wilderness, and it belongs to Breathe Owl Breathe. The quote above is something I imagine I might hear whispered over a hot cup of cider during a hard winter shared among the three inhabitants of Magic Central and members of this band.  They are Micah Middaugh, Trevor Hobbs, and Andréa Moreno-Beal — a Jordanian, a vocalist, and a Columbian beauty.

The story of Magic Central and Breathe Owl Breathe points to signs of the classic charismatic man Micah, the bearded scarecrow, starving and harvesting the seclusion of art alone in his Lincoln logs until along came the beauty and the pal. So began the cello, toy pianos, classical instruments, and gruff storytelling that makes up the fairytale album, complete with appropriate voiceovers and deeply empowering lyrical content.

Magic Central falls into another road laden with signs pointing the way of individuality and musical phenomenon. This really is a profound work of diversity from an audible core of sincerity. Whether it is Micah’s composition, Trevor’s introduction to the ballads of dragons and damsels, or Andréa’s soft-pitched coo of royalty, the beautiful truth holds strong throughout Breathe Owl Breathe’s new analog masterpiece. By Will Tunstall

Teenage Fanclub released an album titled Bandwagonesque in 1991, the title being an ironic slight directed at the heaps of grungesters and shoegazers that were jumping on the proverbial musical bandwagon of that time. While it was a revolutionary time in music, originality began to fade quickly. Enter 2010, a year of post-punk noise/ haze/ lo-fi/ whatever you want to call it and the seemingly endless stream of sonic fuzz bands that are regularly issued revolutionary praises without warrant. Sisters, a Brooklyn outfit with roots in celebrated DIY venue Death By Audio, have jumped on said bandwagon, with or without knowing, to form a fairly decent, albeit repetitive No Wave-esque lo-fi punk album.

No Wave certainly is held in great reverence, particularly in Brooklyn, mainly due to the fact the uber-hip borough is where it was incepted and subsequently faded within short order. Acts like Sonic Youth were and still are at the forefront, and Sisters have taken them as a great influence, as evidenced not only by their name (taken from an album by Sonic Youth) but also in their songwriting and stylistic approach. While Ghost Fits has that scrappy early ‘90s vibe, it also sounds a bit like early Sebadoh, indicating a willingness to participate in a more poppy light, which, strangely, was actually the antithesis of No Wave. The contradiction set forth here is neither engaging nor clever, leaving the chord progressions and cymbal crashes that sound like No Age and the melody and lethargic vocals that recall Women or Wavves to fall flat and almost resemble a straight Sonic Youth tribute band.

Listeners will find a few gems on Ghost Fits — in fact, the album isn’t really bad at all. It’s just that Sisters sound a bit contrived and, unfortunately, sort of bandwagon-esque. By Peter Viele

I can still remember the hubbub surrounding 1998, when Jamaican-American rapper Canibus released “Second Round K.O.,” which featured a memorably nasal guest spot from Mike Tyson and dissed LL Cool J hard. The song eventually helped Canibus sell hundreds of thousands of records, and, in a way, it was one of the last instances of a single track (not the Internet, not a music video, not a hype campaign) driving album sales — Can-I-Bus even reached #2 behind Lauryn Hill’s classic The Miseducation Of Lauryn Hill that year. But the intervening time between that gold-certified debut and C Of Tranquility, his 10th studio album, has not necessarily been kind to Canibus.

There have been public battles with superstars like Wyclef Jean. Drubbings by the critics for some of his more commercial-minded releases. Lackluster production collaborations. Even a stint in the United States Army. But we all know what turmoil like that can do to a burgeoning hip-hop artist, turning him from an arrogant star into a world-weary sage. And that’s exactly the role Canibus plays on C Of Tranquility. His fire-breathing delivery still sounds urgent and revelatory, even when he recycles past taglines on “Salute” and gets downright grimy on tracks like “C Scrolls,” which features wonderful production from Jake One. “Merchant Of Metaphors” showcases Canibus’ uncanny ability to spit some of the most complex rhyme schemes in the game, while “Lunar Deluge” slows down to ruminate over the perils of life in the 21st century.

“Golden Terra Of Rap” hearkens back to the good ol’ days over a quirky woodwind beat from DJ Premier, before “Free Words” lives up to its name with an abstract electro beat that unfortunately overshadows Canibus’ expert verse. Further gems follow on “The Messenger’s Message,” the funky “Cingularity Point,” the slow groove of “Good Equals Evil,” and the eerie closing volley “Right Now.” But the main downfall of C Of Tranquility is the lack of guest spots, leaving you either to love or hate Canibus’ steady barrage of rough-hewn vocals. Of course, that’s the role this unusual rapper has always filled: never quite likeable enough to achieve huge success, but too damn talented to ignore. I’m only one person here, but I’m hoping Canibus keeps his prolific and underappreciated output coming. By Nick McGregor

Break out the coffins, because Margot & The Nuclear So And So’s is back with its third album, Buzzard. The men of Margot continue where they left off on Buzzard, exploring ravines of dark depression and creating canyons of crap fiction. While clearly lying within indie rock’s parameters, the band laces its music in a sadistic trim, switching between seriousness and jokes. Their sound is somewhere between generic ‘90s alternative and modern rock, with run-of-the-mill vocals that sometimes pin on joke-punk vocals. The band also does a solid job of throwing in unnecessary noises or monologues in a vain attempt at artistry.

“Tiny Vampire Robot” is a four-minute song about, well, an ostracized tiny vampire robot. This slow rocker finds the band holding a straight face while singing about one of the most ridiculous concepts this year: “Forget the place you’re leaving/ But no one ever does/ Oh tiny vampire robot/ Fill the dance floor with blood,” Margot frontman Richard Edwards sings. Despite the music’s lack of originality, this sad song about isolation is one of the most entertaining on Buzzard, if for no other reason than imagining what a sad tiny vampire robot would look like.

But Margot gets most carried away with the monologues and noises on “Your Lower Back.” This ode to loss of sensual innocence opens with a ‘50s style narrator stating, “Sex is fun. Sex can even be great. But it can also make us risk everything.” The band then breaks into a foot-stomping romp, complete with vocal harmonies and a faint lead guitar whispering simple melodies, creating a sound similar to a darker version of Jet’s debut album. The song’s chorus is the catchiest on Buzzard: “If they rough you up in the evening/ You’ll get them back by the morning/ Why would you do this it’s so God damn demeaning ya/ Your lower back.” The song then returns to ridiculousness in its closing, with yet another “scene” in which a woman declares that on her 18th birthday she went to a strip club and got a job, followed by some random noises and a man screaming “hot sauce.”

In the end, Buzzard has entertaining moments, but the twelve-song album lacks diversity and any true sense of originality, leaving the listener bored enough to take a second look at that coffin halfway through the album. I only ask that Margot provide listeners with drawing utensils so that we can draw our best tiny vampire robots. By Alex Lemonde-Gray