New York Music Daily

No New Abnormal

Tag: beatlesque

Revisiting a Soulful Favorite From the Outdoor Summer Concert Circuit

Since the Central Park Summerstage and Prospect Park bandshell concerts are cancelled this year, does it make sense to revisit some of the acts who played there? Or is that just plain depressing? After all, an album or a youtube clip is no substitute for the electricity of being a participant in a spectacle. Both venues have had their problems over the years, but it’s sad to see them go, maybe for forever. On one hand, it’s easy to imagine the Live Nation sleazeballs drooling over snagging those spaces more or less fulltime for their obscenely overpriced shows, with an injection of government cash and free rent – all under the guise of throwing a “benefit” for the parks, of course. On the other hand, if the lockdowners get their way, there won’t be any concerts anywhere, ever again – other than the ones we put on secretly, that is.

One of the bands who’d really entrenched themselves in the free outdoor concert series here was Lake Street Dive. They were a real feel-good story: they cut their teeth in New York at the Rockwood, then made the leap to Bowery Ballroom, reaffirming the eternal appeal of oldschool soul music. But the band rocked harder than most soul acts, and really turned up the volume with their 2016 album Side Pony, streaming at Soundcloud. It’s both more rocking and less 60s oriented than the sound they made a name for themselves with.

Bridget Kearney’s fuzz bass kicks off the opening number, Godawful Things; it isn’t long before the band hit a vintage Motown groove with her slithery, leaping, McCartneyesque lines. There are also plenty of White Album-era Beatles echoes in the second track, Close to Me, right down to drummer Mike Calabrese’s ka-chunk Ringo-isms.

Call Off Your Dogs is a smartly crafted exercise in tricky rhythms: briskly waltzing verse, perfectly executed early 70s style proto-disco chorus, complete with pillowy strings – and a theremin as it fades out! The band go back to the Fab Four in Spectacular Failure, which could be a gritty, bluesy John song from the White Album with a woman out front, followed by the even bluesier, I Don’t Care About You, with a dynamic, passionate vocal from lead singer Rachael Price.

So Long is a soul song as starry late 70s ELO would do it – that’s got to be Kearney’s twinkling Omnichord synth and sweeping mellotron (or damn good digital facsimiles). The band bring in swooshy organ in the oldschool ballad How Good It Feels (as in “how good it feels to be alone” – it doesn’t!).

They put a little extra funky bounce in the album’s vintage Temptations-flavored title track: funny how many years it’s been since that hair meme! The one track that doesn’t hold up here is Hell Yeah, a stab at late 60s style Rascals schlockmeister pop.

Guitarist Mike Olsen picks up his trumpet for Mistakes, a bittersweet, pensive cheater’s ballad, Price’s voice shiny with regret. Can’t Stop could be a standout early disco era Isaac Hayes tune. They go back to a vintage 60s sound for the catchy anthem Saving All My Sinning, Olsen’s watery chorus-box guitar over sunny organ. Imagine – if it’s not too painful – that you’re standing in the middle of a crowd of people, nobody’s wearing a mask, it’s hot and you have your shades on, and Lake Street Dive are slinking their way through some of these songs.

And while we’re at it, let’s resolve to never, never let what happened in 2020 happen again.

A Gorgeously Jangly New Album by the Corner Laughers

The Corner Laughers play a sharply lyrical, catchy blend of jangly psychedelia, to richly arranged folk-rock and Americana and several other styles from th enew wave era. Their latest album Temescal Telegraph – streaming at Bandcamp – has some of the most gorgeous guitar work of any rock record released in recent months: clanging twelve-string lines, burning distortion, jaunty 80s British riffage, purist Americana, you name it, this band can play it.

The first track is Calculating Boy, an emphatic new wave number with jangly twelve-string guitar – that’s KC Bowman and Khoi Huynh switching off on guitar, bass and piano behind frontwoman/ukulele player Karla Kane’s cool, inscrutable vocals. This could be an older Pulp song with a woman out front, with a pair of doomed narratives about what sometimes happens to nonconformists: “Ever since she was a child she often smiled, mind over matter,” Kane intones.

Changeling, a backbeat soul tune with gospel organ, could be a well-produced Grateful Dead studio track. In The Accepted Time, Kane traces an impending breakup, from hope against hope, to a graveyard gate, over a lush bed of jangling, clanging guitar multitracks,

The Lilac Line is a blithe janglepop song, 90s Hoboken transplanted to the Bay Area. Loma Alta, a slow, summery 6/8 tableau, has piano chiming through the mix: the Jayhawks at their late 90s/early zeros peak come to mind. Then the band pick up the pace over a soul-clap beat with the new wave-tinged Sirens of the Pollen.

Wren in the Rain has hints of a Kinks classic amid the distantly uneasy, lusciously jangly, watery guitar textures. The lone cover here is a cheery, Beatlesque take of Martin Newell’s Goodguy Sun, swaying along amiably over drummer Charlie Crabtree’s coy flurries.

Skylarks of Britain is a lavishly arranged take on 60s British psych-folk – Sandy Denny-era Strawbs on steroids, maybe – with a trippy lyric that could be an inside joke. The band stay in Britfolk-rock mode to close the album with Lord Richard.

Sharply Lyrical, Smart Purist Rock Eclecticism From Spygenius

Canterbury, UK-based band Spygenius play densely lyrical, erudite rock that draws on sixty years of classic tunesmithing. Their new double gatefold vinyl album Man on the Sea – streaming at Bandcamp – is as ambitious as it is vast. Their ability to channel an amazing number of styles is breathtaking. New wave? Check. The Beatles? Doublecheck. 80s pop, 70s art-rock? Check and doublecheck. Clever puns and cynical humor notwithstanding, frontman/guitarist Peter Watts’ songs occasionally take themselves a bit too seriously. But when this band connect, they really hit it out of the park (gratuitous American baseball reference in a review of an English band, WTF?), and they do that a lot here.

The opening track, Another True Story is Rubber Soul Beatles as Squeeze might have done it, with a twelve-string guitar: Oxford group Dada Paradox come to mind. Likewise, Albion, a snide dismissal of icy British conformity, is a McCartneyesque ballad with hints of the tropics and an unexpected snarl as it goes on.

Propelled by Ruth Rogers’ bubbly, dancing bass and Alan Cannings’ tightly clustering drums,  If You Go A-Roving looks back to the chimepop of 80s bands like Happy Mondays, with a Celtic tinge: keyboardist Matt Byrne’s trebly carnival organ is a deft touch. They keep the jangle and clang going throughout Salaud Days, a sendup of hypocrites. The title is a pun: “salaud” is French for “bastard,” Watts using the word in the Sartrean sense of an individual who refuses or neglects to exercise his free choice.

Side one concludes with Tomorrowland, a very clever critique of wide-eyed, futuristic techie fantasies, Byrne’s piano leaping and bounding uneasily. Side two begins with the Kinks-ish Café Emery Hill, followed by the sobering Dolphinarium 1986, a moody Celtic folk-rock reflection on how nostalgia is the enemy of history.

New Street is a snarky mashup of organ-driven 60s psychedelia and mid-80s REM. The album’s high point is the metaphorically loaded seafaring ballad Man Overboard: this grimly detailed account of a mutiny wouldn’t be out of place in the Charming Disaster catalog if that band played eight-minute songs.

Green Eyed Monster opens side three amid wild sheets of noise and then an anthemic, minor-key sway like the Church circa 1985 or so. From there the group segue into In a Garden, Byrne’s phantasmagorically twinkling piano elevating it above REM ripoff level. “She can’t help being stupider than you,” Watts rails in the scampering, organ-fueled Don’t Blame It on Your Mother, a dis to somebody who’ll do anything to avoid facing up to responsibility – a recurrent theme here.

Midnight Bandola comes across as an Irish take on the Grateful Dead circa American Beauty.  Rogers sings Spite, its bright Manchester pop sheen masking her hilariously venomous portrait of a pompous twit. Watch Your Back rises slowly from unresolved Robyn Hitchcock jangle to a big payoff. Windy (an original, not the 60s pop hit) has its airy late Beatles ambience: it could be late-period Love Camp 7 with a keyboard. That’s where the album ought to end; the intro to the last track is torture. Back in the radio-and-records age, this band would have been huge.

Sloan Bring Their Perennially Catchy Powerpop and Psychedelia to Bowery Ballroom

You remember Sloan, right? The Canadian Guided By Voices? They’ve got a characteristically burning, catchy, anthemic new album, simply titled 12 (since it’s their twelfth) streaming at Bandcamp, and a Bowery Ballroom gig tomorrow night, May 10 at 9 PM. General admission is $25.

The opening track, Spin Our Wheels has everything that made the band so popular back in the day: insistent downstroke guitars and a big stadium rock chorus, part Big Star, part Cheap Trick. “Watch how far we spin our wheels,” lead guitarist Patrick Pentland intones with sarcastic cheer.

The band build All of the Voices from spare, fresh-faced 60s Britpop to big-studio crunch, with a deliciously icy Pentland chorus-box guitar solo. “All of the choices you made are killing me,” is the refrain.

“The sun shadows the cool chalet,” bassist Chris Murphy sings in Right to Roam, a tongue-in-cheek 60s psych-pop travel narrative that wouldn’t be out of place in the Jigsaw Seen catalog. Murphy’s bass dances out of the mud, drummer Andrew Scott builds from spare and spacious to a steady shuffle, and the guitars build a folk-rock web in the Grateful Dead-inflected Gone for Good.

Rhythm guitarist Jay Ferguson’s gritty, distorted chords anchor The Day Will Be Mine, a relentless, vintage Cheap Trick-style anthem with a big Mick Ronson-esque solo from Pentland.

Essential Services is the band’s surreal, insistently pulsing Mr. Blue Sky:

Is everyone a soldier and there’s no end in sight?
And the ones that do the running exercise their right
To police tomorrow ‘cause they must be moving on
So much for the frontline, win the marathon

Don’t Stop (If It Feels Good Do It) is Sloan at their cynical, sarcastic, faux Chuck Berry best:

You’re site-specific, Mac
I’m under attack
The only time you cross the line
Is when you cross it back…
If I said your behavior suffocates, would you care?

Year Zero is a delicious blend of enigmatic 60s Laurel Canyon jangle and powerpop from ten years later. The band gets even more retro with Have Faith, a garage-rock nugget that could be the Flamin’ Groovies.

The Lion’s Share has a sparkly shine and a cynical singalong melody, part Smiths, part New Pornographers. By contrast, Wish Upon a Satellite has Quadrophenia-level Who bombast. The album winds up with 44 Teenagers, a broodingly swaying Beatlesque anthem, sort of a mashup of Paperback Writer and I Am the Walrus. Raise your lighters and sing along.

Ward White’s As Consolation: Best Rock Record of 2017

Ward White’s album Bob topped the list of best releases of 2013 here. So it’s hardly a surprise that his latest album As Consolation is by far the best rock record released this year. Most artists who play loud, troubling, psychedelic music usually get quieter and more pensive as the years go by. but since the early zeros, White has gone in the opposite direction.

The new album – streaming at Bandcamp –  isn’t quite as surreal as Bob, but Bob is unlike any other record ever made, a disjointed whirlwind murder mystery psychedelic lit-rock suite. Its closest comparisons are not albums but Russell Banks novels and David Cronenberg films. As Consolation, on the other hand, does not seem to have a central storyline  – other than a relentlessly grim cynicism that crosses the line into sadism and the macabre. White’s worldview has never been more bleak – yet there’s never been this much unselfconscious joie de vivre in his music.

He’s a one-man guitar army here with his lavish but tersely arranged multitracks – for what it’s worth, he’s also an excellent bass player (that was his axe in the legendary Rawles Balls). This time around he’s fallen in love with a vintage analog delay pedal, for an eerie, watery effect akin to running his axe through a Leslie speaker. Now based in Los Angeles after a long stint in New York, he’s joined by Tyler Chester, who plays a museum’s worth of vintage keyboards (or clever digital facsimiles) – he turns out to be a sort of a left coast Joe McGinty, a longtime White collaborator who put out a fantastic album with him in 2009. Mark Stepro, who played on White’s withering 2008 album Pulling Out, returns to the drum chair.

Overarching narrative or not, there are characters who make multiple appearances in these allusively grisly, meticulously detailed narratives. One is the titular girl in Here’s What Happened to Heidi, the opening track. As with Bob, the events are anything but clear. Is this being told from the point of view of a corpse? A murder victim? “”Please tell me it’s not morning yet,” someone pleads again and again.

It’s rewarding to see White getting back in touch with the psychedelia and heavy rock he grew up with as a kid in Connecticut: there are more textures and more stylistic leaps than ever before in what has become a back catalog that ranks with guys like Richard Thompson and Elvis Costello.

The murderously catchy, organ-infused Crater is one of the most straightforwardly sinister cuts here – an incriminating envelope is involved. “Under the stone, don’t fight it, you’ll be at home,” White intones nonchalantly as the band gallops behind him.

A mashup of psychedelic soul and Abbey Road Beatles, Dude is White at his sardonic best:

Girls in California call me dude.
It’s non-negotiable
As smirks and disapproval misconstrued

“A few dreams, that much you’re owed,” White muses to the girl passed out on the sofa as Rhodes piano echoes uneasily in the miniature that serves as the album’s title track. Then he picks up the pace immediately with Spurs, its treacherous western vacation plotline shifting suddenly and strangely between a hard-hitting, syncopated pulse and lushly ethereal cinematics. “The paralyzing fear that we’re alone makes us cling to the humdrum,” White asserts: the rhyme that follows is too good to give away. It’s definitely a first in rock history.

Stepro flurries like Keith Moon throughout Hotel, a mashup of mod and new wave.

The fumes are playing havoc with your senses
You never listened before
Why would you listen now?

We never find out what Heidi, making a reappearance here, has to say to her assailant; White’s tongue-in-cheek, bluesy guitar solo adds a blackly amusing tinge.

White goes to the top of his formidable vocal range in Dog Tags, the narrator telling someone who was “naked on the fire escape: – his killer, maybe? – not to bother to look for the body, over an artfullly lingering remake of Satie’s Gymnopedie No. 1. Then the music picks up with a blast of Beatles and Bowie in Parking Lot: “Frozen onfire in the parking lot, better hold your breath til I count to ten again,” White instructs.

With its tense, broken guitar chords and smoky organ, Stay Low is the most distinctly Lynchian song here: it wouldn’t be out of place in the Charming Disaster catalog. The raging guitars of Coffee Maker echo the sonics on his 2014 release Ward White Is the Matador, a pair of accomplices growing more desperate by the hour. The way White caps off his guitar solo is as cruel as it is priceless.

The psychedelic Twin Peaks narrative Which Pain takes place in a torture chamber: “Too late to turn back now, not too big to fail,” a vindictive narrator tells his victim. More echoes of early-70s Bowie return in The Crows, another chilling tale from beyond the grave. “Sadness will make you insane, leave your cake out in the rain,” White reminds: that’s among the most telling of the many wry and far more subtle lyrical references here. The album closes with Weekend Porsche, a surreal soundscape that slowly coalesces into a reprise of that glam theme. It’s the first instrumental White’s ever recorded and the Eclipse to this Dark Side of the Moon.

Heaters Swirl Through Deep Space to South Williamsburg

Heaters have been through a lot of changes over the last couple of years. Their 2015 debut, Holy Water Pool, was a reverb-iced, dark psychedelic rock treat. Baptistina, from last year, drifted toward a more hypnotic Brian Jonestown Massacre post-Velvets expanse.  The group’s latest album, Matterhorn – due up at Bandcamp at the end of the month –  completes the shift into spacerock, an extended suite in the same vein as what King Gizzard were doing before that band went Middle Eastern and microtonal.Heaters have a gig tomorrow night, Oct 29 at around 8:30 at Baby’s All Right. Careeningly intense “occult blues” bandleader Breanna Barbara opens the night at 7:30; cover is $12.

The new album opens with a twinkling, oceanically propulsive diptych. The rhythm goes almost motorik as the song goes on, frontman/guitarist Nolan Krebs’ vocals awash in echoey layers of guitar: the Church gone way over the Milky Way. There’s so much reverb that the chord-chopping intensity of the trick ending becomes deceptively muted – the band are working much harder than it seems.

Likewise, Black Bolt is assembled around a popular paperbound Beatles riff, echoing and pulsing over drummer Joshua Korf’s scampering beat. Bronze Behavior, with its long, droning intro and low, looming ambience, is practically a dub version,guitarist/bassist Andrew Tamlyn moving to the front. Then the band picks up the pace again with Kingsday, a more concise variation on the theme. This band get an awful lot of mileage out of what’s mostly a one-chord jam.

Finally a new theme appears in the glittering, quickly pulsing Hochelaga, repeaterbox guitar in perfect sync with the skittish drums, a cheerily warped sunshine pop guitar melody chiming and then reaching for an unexpected majesty. With its resonant clang and echo over Ticket to Ride syncopation, Pearls has the feel of an outtake from the Church’s Blurred Crusade album. The closing cut, Seance – a nod to another 1980s Church album, maybe? –  brings the record full circle with its vast sweep, express-track groove and unexpected dynamic shifts. Crank this and drift away to a better place.

Dawn Oberg’s Nothing Rhymes With Orange: 2017’s Funniest Political Album

What’s more Halloweenish than Putin’s little bitch in the Oval Office? That’s what Dawn Oberg calls him in the scathingly hilarious, Beatlesque parlor-pop title track of her new ep, Nothing Rhymes with Orange. It’s streaming at Bandcamp, and she’s making a relatively rare New York appearance at 2:45 PM at Matchless in Williamsburg on Nov 12. Similarly lyrical, unpredictable, wickedly catchy keyboard-fueled art-rockers Changing Modes eventually follow later in the evening at 5:45; cover is $10.

Oberg is unsurpasssed at sardonically funny, insightful tunesmithing. With her sharp wit, erudite gospel-inspired piano chops and quirky vocals, she’s been pursuing her distinctive, literary parlor pop and artsy rock since the early zeros. She never met a good pun she could resist, and slings one of those after another at the failed casino magnate whose unlikely ascendancy to the one public office he’ll ever hold left the world in a state of shock and horror last November. Until the slow wheels of impeachment reach their inevitable destination, we have this record to soothe the burn.

Oberg’s band here includes Roger Rocha on guitar, Shawn Miller on bass, Erik Ian Walker on organ and Andrew Laubacher on drums. They shuflfle along with with Oberg’s tumbling piano and torrents of lyrics in Information Is Your Friend, a snide response to the deluge of fake news being sent out by the “tweeting twat” in the White House:

Someone smart said a long time ago, the truth will set you free
And it sucks I even have to say it, that I have to sing and play it…

That disillusion is echoed in I’d Love to Be Wrong, which alludes to Oberg’s classic breakup-as-earthquake anthem End of the Continent:

I see four guys on horses
The sky growing dark,
I can hear the rattle of chains
They ain’t coming to help us
Their hostages already slain

Oberg is no stranger to political satire, or irresistible jokes – her 2008 album is titled Horticulture Wars – but this is the funniest thing she’s ever done. And it’s reason to look forward to what she has to say when hubris catches up with that tweeting twat. Let’s just hope he doesn’t start a real war when he finally figures out that he bit off way too much more than he could chew.

Sam Kogon Releases One of the Year’s Catchiest Purist Psychedelic Pop Records

Over the past couple of years, Sam Kogon has earned a well-deserved reputation as one of the most consistently interesting, original psychedelic pop tunesmiths in New York. After a well-received debut full-length, he’s finally released his second album, Psychic Tears, streaming at Bandcamp. He’s playing the album release show tonight at Baby’s All Right at 10 PM; cover is $10.

Most of these tracks are very short, less than three minutes. The hooks flash by so fast that you barely have time to savor one before Kogon throws another at you: his songs are that catchy. Stylistically, he draws on a half a century worth of classic and obscure psychedelia and baroque pop. Jeff Lynne is the closest comparison, which is the highest praise imaginable for someone writing this kind of music. The album opens with a wry minitature, part Ventures, part late-period ELO, part XTC in their satirical Dukes of Stratosphere disguise, trebly bass climbing over a lattice of vintage keyboard patches.

Work It Out comes across as a surreal mashup of Abbey Road Beatles, Ward White and early 70s Lennon; the lush chorus-box guitar adds new wave mystique. By contrast, I’m Letting Go is a dead ringer for Wizzard-era Roy Wood, right down to the boogie guitar and the vocal echo.

The uneasily keening, swaying, minor-key Don’t Know Now brings to mind the Allah-Las in a particularly buoyant moment. I Was Always Talking, a duet with airy-voiced chanteuse Frankie Cosmos, has a noisy guitar backdrop behind its easygoing retro soul sway, soaring toward Jeff Lynne territory as Kogon builds it. The album’s longest track, Something’s Wrong has hints of jazz within its lush, elegant orchestration: it would be a standout ballad on ELO’s Discovery album.

I Could Kick Myself takes a scampering detour into new wave, followed by Tonetta, awash in clever echo phrases, chiming guitars and bubbly electric piano. Lincoln Lincoln has tricky symcopation and starlit Omnichord synth, then builds to stomping, anthemic propoortions.

My Love It Burns is an exercise in easygoing Double Fantasy-era Lennon pop, while The Way to Talk to Boys edges toward Chad and Jeremy style early Merseybeat territory. The brief, vampy final cut, I’ll Be There has the feel of a Double Fantasy outtake. Maybe if we get lucky Jeff Lynne will pull another ELO tour together like he did earlier this fall and Kogon can open for them. Now THAT’s a bucket-list show!

Heaters Bring Their Envelopingly Tuneful Psychedelia to South Williamsburg

Heaters‘ new album Baptistina – soon to be streaming at Bandcamp, and available on both green and black vinyl – further cements their reputation as one of the world’s most consistently excellent dark retro psychedelic bands. What’s most impressive about them is that a close listen reveals how seldom they change chords. They can vamp out on one for minutes on end and it never gets boring because there are so many interesting things going on, texturally and melodically: repeaterbox echoes flitting through the mist, shifting sheets of feedback and jagged twelve-string guitar incisions in contrast with an enveloping quality that seems to draw on Indian classical music as much as it does classic 60s psychedelia. The trio – guitarist Nolan Krebs, guitarist/bassist Andrew Tamlyn and drummer Joshua Korf – also shift tempos on a dime, making things all the more strange and compelling. They’re playing the album release show at Baby’s All Right on August 5 at 10 PM; cover is $10.

The obvious influence is the 13th Floor Elevators, but there’s also a little early Country Joe & the Fish as well as Brian Jonestown Massacre in the mix as well as a whole slew of other influences. The sonics are period-perfect: guitars awash in reverb with a clanging, slightly tinny vintage Vox amp attack, trebly melodic bass hanging back with the drums. The opening track, Centennial, begins with a Byrdsy jangle and ends with White Light/White Heat guitar freakout .The lushly crescendoing Ara Pacis puts Syd Barrett on a Magical Mystery Tour bus, while the expansive soundscape Orbis brings to mind early Nektar.

Elephant Turner pounces along on a tricky fuzz bass riff, sinuous guitar interweave overhead. Garden Eater sets a nimbly scampering bassline over a steady, swirly stomp and then floats off into spacerock. Another catchy fuzztone bassline fuels Dali, which then sinks in a morass of trippy waves. Then the band picks things up again with Mango, referencing both the Kinks as well as early 70s proto-metal.

The resonant spacerock ambience returns as the band sets the controls for the heart of the sun in Voyager. The album winds up with the teasingly loopy instrumental Turkish Gold and then the catchy, propulsively tumbling Seafoam, Del Shannon on brown acid, winidng up with the longest, most searing guitar solo here. This is music for people who won’t settle for merely being stoned: it’s a soundtrack for getting high as a kite.

Their excellent, somewhat more kinetic previous album Holy Water Pool is also streaming at Bandcamp, for the most part. Kamikaze, a slowly simmering, echo-drenched minor-key neo-Elevators number, opens it, bass rising as the chorus winds up, twelve-string guitar piercing the reverb cloud. There’s also the loping and then frantic spaghetti western blues of Master Splinter; the careenng Highway 61 vamp Sanctuary Blues; Propane, with its spiky/drony neo-Velvets sway and artfully menacing rhythmic shifts. the jangly, catchy Hawaiian Holiday and its playful tv theme references; the uneasy Bakersfield twang-influenced Detonator Eyes; Bad Beat, a mashup of early Pretty Things, Brian Jonestown Massacre and Radio Birdman; the starlit stoner soul of Gum Drop; Honey, a Blues Magoos/Count Five hybrid; Cap Gun, which very cleverly nicks the chords from a new wave-era cheeseball hit; and Dune Ripper, part BJM, part Byrds. The band takes their time with each of these, although they don’t go on nearly as long as that previous sentence.

Avers Bring Their Catchy, Psychedelically-Tinged New Album to the Mercury

To what degree does allusiveness and indirectness describe Richmond band Avers‘ sound? Pretty well. Beyond having not one but four songwriters, they distinguish themselves with their sense of humor, exuberantly referencing and mashing up styles that date back as far as the 70s. Adrian Olsen, Alexandra Spalding, James Mason, and JL Hodges share vocals as well as their songs, with multi-instrumentalist Charlie Glenn pitching in on keys and guitar. They’re playing the album release show for their new one, Omega Whatever – soon to be streaming at Bandcamp – on August 4 at 10:30 PM at the Mercury; adv tix are $10.

The wrly shuffling opening track, Vampire alludes to both Lou Reed and a cheeseball 80s goth hit, stadium rock spun through the warped prism of second-wave dreampop. Spalding sings the glam-tinged second cut, Everything Hz – damn, another great title just got taken, huh? – with an icy calm: “Take a pill, sleep it off, let it in…these are the days that everything Hz, these are the days in reverse.” If Spacehog weren’t so over-the-top, they would have sounded something like this.

With its catchy, Beatlesque blend of six and twelve-string guitars, Tongues is a dead ringer for Oasis circa 1996, but with better vocals. Insects is a lot simpler, and kind of a throwaway: the backward-masked guitar solo is the high point. Spalding returns to the mic for Low, another post-Velvets shuffle, looking back on “Flowers sent to my door…fancy bottles of shit you no longer can afford.” Then the band goes back toward swaying, midtempo Oasis territory for All You Are.

The fuzztone stomp of Holding On brings to mind vintage Brian Jonestown Massacre. The band blends that with a brightly clanging Oasis drive in Santa Anna. With its moody, wavery chorus-box guitars, Don’t Care looks back to the 80s, over the shoulder of Deer Tick. Then the band synthesizes every style they’ve mined up to this point – hypnotic post-Velvets psychedelia, towering 90s Britrock and a little uneasy 80s jangle – in My Mistakes. The album should stop there, but it doesn’t; the long, unfocused concluding track doesn’t add anything. And one of the guys in the group hasn’t outgrown the emo of his gradeschool years: that singsongey dorkiness pops up annoyingly once in awhile. Maybe he’s the weak link who could be replaced. Otherwise, Avers are proof that accessibility and intelligence don’t have to be incompatible.