Every once in while, I’m thrown an album that is too good for my movement forward as a writer. Given this, I become a victim of sporadic Klinefelter’s Syndrome — my mouth presses into a triangle, tears well in my eyes, and my X chromosome doubles up, leaving me a bitter half-female. I sit in front of a laptop, offering my opinion on persons more talented than myself while thinking about how one day I will get mine. Kurt Vile is a friend once claimed to be the most scarce breed of musician. You can easily spot them in a sea of people: the guy with long, unkempt hair, a disdain for vogue fashion, a black T-shirt, a stern square-mouthed expression, and his entire being churned from the inner depths of musical god butter.

Kurt Vile has been compared to American folk-rock nobility. The Philadelphia native’s sound is lucid on his major-label debut, Childish Prodigy. His demeanor in interviews is smooth and inviting, massaging the methodical, processed approach of relentless effort to the gaggle of angst-ridden youngsters following in the footsteps of solo greats. Legends like Springsteen, Dylan, and Petty often pop up in questions presented to Vile, and he takes them with a grain of salt sprinkled lightly on top of an “I don’t give a shit” breakfast. “Perseverance,” he preaches, detailing how driving a forklift beginning at age 20 was one of the great reality checks of his life. Vile knows the value of slogging through a day in order to make the necessary means for a recording session.

Fortunately for both parties — artist and audience — Vile has now signed with Matador Records. His independent style has been delicately fostered, allowing tracks like “Hunchback” to blossom untouched. Childish Prodigy is a collective boomerang paired with symphonic vocal choruses that could soon be the mega-industry frame built on the boundary-free careers of Vile’s forefathers. It’s so much easier to bash an artist than talk about how great they are, and I have the ultimate privilege as a reviewer — to think for hours before I speak. I’ve got Zack Morris’ pause button for life from “Saved By The Bell.” I beat the button with my clenched fist every time I listen to Kurt Vile’s Childish Prodigy, and as I write this, you are in pause while I’m listening to what I believe is a true masterwork of our time. By Will Tunstall

The Willowz slam vintage classic-rock style into California heads with more energy than ever on their fourth album, Everyone. The band’s lengthy list of accolades is well-deserved, and their latest effort should only push them further through the rock headwind of potential failure and into the future, where they can tour and record for the next 30 years, eventually becoming a great Super Bowl halftime act in 2040. In all truth, The Willowz are on the cusp of legendary status, recording and writing albums which will be looked back upon and dissected as certain indicators of the group’s internal structure. Independent filmmaker Michel Gondry grabbed the band’s work to soundtrack his hallucinatory classics “The Science Of Sleep” and “Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind,” while in their home territory of Orange County, CA, they’re regularly treasured by LA Weekly and OC Weekly as the best rock band in the area.

Everyone raises lead singer Richie James Follin’s vocal podium just above the over-amplified blare, occasionally allowing his voice to solo but ultimately working it into the band’s ethos as a full unit. The album spans only 26 minutes, making for a quick listen and bringing the loving pace of punk rock alongside the antique dignity of growling choruses, twangy guitar slings, and beastly percussion. An evident confidence in The Willowz’s sound is the noticeable glue; their hyperactive charge makes for a desired guitar smashing at the end of several live performances. If I had a dime, I too would smash one of my roommate’s guitars against the wall after listening to Everyone.

Give The Willowz a few whiskey listens, because their blend is the perfect bourbon cocktail — the angry speed of tracks like “Twenty Five” moving into deep reflection on “You Do.” Overall, The Willowz have appropriately long hair, a grimy chic appeal, and wonderful duet contributions from Jessica Reynoza, their beautiful bassist. Seven members, five of whom share vocal tasks, manage to sound like three polished best friends who have been playing together since grade school. By Will Tunstall

After five years as the original Headlights three-piece, Tristan Wraight, Erin Fein, and Brett Sanderson became a quartet with the addition of bassist Nick Sandborn. And the group works back to their elegant roots — “elegant” in the sense that they produce a version of dinner music refined — on their third album, Wildlife. Sanderson’s percussion is driven into a robotic movement on album opener “Telephones,” and couples with the vocals of Wraight and Fein to produce a collective product as complex as a sonic calculus equation, meticulously timed and predictable.

Yet Headlights suffered a rough beginning with Wildlife. Temporary guitarist John Owen departed on mutual terms, while the rest of the band dealt with inner emotional tangles, lyrical roadblocks, and the remaining spectrum of musician drama. On first listen, Wildlife sounds like fern gully tears dropping in doomed Amazonian rainforests. On second listen, the album sounds like post-puberty super-skinny black denim pop. But listen again and you’ll realize that Wildlife may need a xylophone and some heavier hands on the Casio loop effect. Then Headlights would truly pop. But Wildlife will eventually take hold and make sense. Erin Fein is the driving force behind this realization, because she is capable of springing to life at unexpected moments. In spots like “Love Song For Buddy,” her quirky trysts with energy politely interrupt the pre-designed path.

Wildlife works against the grain. Headlights have created a formula, while many artists seek to mix everything they can grab a hold of into a pastiche of collage. Much like Iron And Wine and even Radiohead, Headlights are dependable in delivery — just don’t expect the experience to be uplifting or energetic. You can expect deep lyrics and meditative backdrops for bubble baths, light stretching, or cutting vegetables. By Will Tunstall

Here’s all you need to know about Basement Jaxx’s newest electro-clash/ dance album Scars: after their downtrodden yet popular 2006 release Crazy Ditch Radio, the British duo of Felix Buxton and Simon Ratcliffe toured with UK mega-star Robbie Williams and subsequently decided they “felt like we’d strayed too far into pop territory.” So they went back to the late ‘90s drawing board, rediscovering the bombastic and uptempo club cuts that made them famous while enlisting hot-shit MCs and singers like Santigold, Lightspeed Champion, Yo Majesty and even freakin’ Yoko Ono to make their 2009 album Scars thrum with steamy excitability. Which it does immediately: the opening title track combines R&B vocals with epic computer beats to lay a shuddering foundation for the rest of the album.

“Raindrops” has a bright, dance floor-ready sheen, with other highlights coming on the jungly, almost bluesy “She’s No Good” and the flitty, nonsensical ragamuffin of “Saga.” But Basement Jaxx also prove that dance music can have soul on the heartbroken “Feelings Gone” and the tender, guitar-led ballad “My Turn,” nailing 21st century hipster emotion better than any posturing indie rock goddesses. Further slowdowns occur on the ‘60s pop mash-up “A Possibility,” but the underwater thump of “Twerk” allows lesbian Florida rappers Yo Majesty to play hilariously on the Hall & Oates classic “She’s A Maniac.” Yoko Ono actually sounds fairly normal on “Day Of The Sunflowers,” leaving Paloma Faith to come across as quirky and crazy on “What’s A Girl Gotta Do?” Plenty of you will think, “Why would I listen to this mish-mash of electro crap?” but as we enter a whole new digital orbit in the 2010s, Basement Jaxx embody the successful marriage of disparate genres and clashing sounds. If you dig the rapidly changing cornucopia of modern music, Scars might just be the mash-up for you. By Nick McGregor