Three quick corrections^† before hitting you with the tuneage:

• That LILY ALLEN album I raved about, a couple of months ago? It's on Capitol, not Virgin. But since those two labels recently underwent a merger, or somethin' like that, and the same publicist who has serviced me with Virgin goodies sent me Allen's wonderfulness as well, you can understand my brief confusion, yes?

• That KEITH URBAN song I referenced? The actual title is "You'll Think Of Me", not whatever I called it before, and would that he sing—and have a hit with—such edgy material, soon.

• AKON? He's not natively Senegalese, but was born in the U.S.. Raised in Africa though he was, I don't want to saddle another country with any cheesiness for which it isn't rightly responsible.

And now for the job I came to do...

Since his earliest days with DC TALK (later, and more pretentiously, 'd.c. talk'), TOBY MAC has made musical comfort food. With that old trio of his, he introduced contempo' Christian kids to hip-hop in baby steps that split the difference between Vanilla Ice and Rakim. By the time of their dissolution, DCT/d.c.t eventually worked their way out of much hip-hop influence into being a reliable pop/rock act. Whether experimenting with grunge or getting their boy band thang on, the best of their smoothness went down like the favorite of your mom's piping hot suppers.

On his third non-remix longplayer, Portable Sounds (Forefront/EMI), Mac comes closer than ever to perfecting his one-Euromerican-man musically-multi-culti crusade to mash hip-hop, reggae, soul, funk, even operatic vocalizing and Vocoder, and the kind of slickness Nashvillian cCm popsters do best (and worst?) into the kind of theologically lite bag of tricks that should have yielded him a few general market hits by now.

Maybe this time? A trio cut with Kirk Franklin and "American Idol"atress Mandisa could earn Mac some soul gospel and R&B traction. He gives his son, Truett, a third shot at spitting on the mic, and the kid could eclipse his dad's rhyme skills, soon. And he knows how to gather musicians sympathetic to his possible mission of giving church youth group attendees—and anyone else within earshot—reason to turn into the semi-rare groove freaks Mac probably is. The closing instrumental, alone, sounds like a recreation of the vox-free track to some glorious old 45 released somewhere amid the fall of Southern soul and rise of American disco.

And that Mac is beginning to sing even better than he raps (which has always been, at least a smidgen, underrated) bodes well, to boot. (learn more); (learn even more)

CHTHONIC would be worth checking out if only to hear and see a Taiwanese woman named Doris singing operatically in black corpse makeup—à la King Diamond and his innumerable Satanic scions in extreme metal who apply their greasy, monochromatically-painted facial disguises in less stylized patterns than the former Mercyful Fate frontman daubed onto his mug.

But, as can be heard on the co-ed ensemble's latest release, Seediq Bale (Down Point), they deserve their place in the international underground metal demimonde—and for more than the fanciful epidermal designs throughout their ten years of recording and touring. Although they're still pretty subterranean on these shores, they've won a Best Band of the Year award at Taiwan's equivalent to the Grammys. And the Chinese government isn't so keen on its citizenry catching an earful of the symphonic darkness unleashed by bass playing, background singing Doris; lead vocalizing, violin playing Freddy; and their cacaphonous cohorts.

That's because, as evidenced in plentitude on this disc, ChthoniC has no use for the most populous country in the world bullying around their homeland. Furthermore and primarily, however, the band's prog-tinged extremity aims to resurrect the mythology and history of Taiwan. In that way, think of them as folkloric kin to fellow metalurgists Nile's Egyptological obessessions—except that ChthoniC's members live in the land about which they so violently rhapsodize.

Fortunately for us Yanks, Ozzfest is free, this year, and Taiwan's most heralded hard'n'heavy musical export will be on the second stage of touring moshpit-and-headbanging revelry. If I go, I'll tell you all about it, OK? (learn more); (learn even more)

Starflyer 59, I've already written about in this space; but, long before Sf59 started on the road to protean, shoegazingly post-punkiness, leader Jason Martin was in an especially trippy techno-ravey duo with his brother, Ronnie. Together, and briefly, the world (though mosttly hipper Christian kids) knew them as Dance House Children.

Ronnie went on, lately solo, with/as Joy Electric, to create facinating and under-appreciated electronic pop of manifold stripes. Now, he's back with his rockier sibling as THE BROTHERS MARTIN (Tooth&Nail, the label that also has the bruh's individial acts). Not disappointingly (but a tad predictably), the recombinant Martins sound like a mixture of the entities from which they're taking a hiatus to come together, once more. No bad thing, that.

And if it sounds like an especially accomplished and engaging entry into the current spate of danceable alt rock, stylstic forebears such as New Order would do well to make a comeback as listenable. The odds would be strong that those agnostic (I'm guessing?) Brits would be about as obliquely melancholy with their lyrics as these Californian Xian Martins. I couldn't tell you what that says about either act.

If the combination lasts as an on-and-off again respite from their main gigs, here's hoping The Brothers Martin broaden their template, next time out. But as the reuniting of prolific songwriting siblings with penchants for inscrutability, it's a consistently winning effort...even if long-time JE and Sf59 admirers could have probably guessed what it was going to sound like. (learn more); (learn even more)

THE ICICLES kinda' have me wanting to get back to my old college haunt of Grand Rapids, Michigan (Calvin College; and, yes, I'd best complete my master's thesis sometime before The Second Coming). This is because that's where this four-gal-one-guy semi-retro pop combo calls home, and there's nothing like seeing a band on their home turf, right?

Of all the groups to which their publicist compares them, I know from Camera Obscura and Tiger Trap. Suffice it to say that The Icicles belie their frigid moniker with bright, summery light rocking recalling the harmonics of early '60s "American Bandstand" hitmakers, albeit with wistfulness and longing that comes with ages more advanced than the teenybopping acts parading 'cross Dick Clark's stage in the years surrounding the Bay of Pigs crisis.

And maybe the 'Cicles, themselves, are too chipper to deny it, but their keyboards sound like the more emotionally stable aural cousin to the roller-rink bluesiness of so much '60s punk that culminated/transmogrified into The Velvet Underground's occasional use of the same vibe.

Anyway, their second full-length effort, Arrivals & Departures (Microindie), is the sound of pining for lost youth before it becomes the sound of remembering that being all grown up isn't such a bad deal either. And they make both inviting, realizing that the twain won't meet at any given moment we're liable to specifically recollect. And that's OK, too. (learn more); (learn even more)

More than once have I commended, to you, the 'tweener'ific bubblegum dance charms of Jump 5. Since it looks like it's been a couple of years, minimally, maybe it's time to look to the newer, younger, more compact PURE NRG—from some of the same parties responsible for the now (relatively) long in the tooth J5.

The self-titled début (Fervent/Word/Warner Brothers) by the blonde/blond/brunette trio—none of whom look to be over 12—updates that sugary danceyness with bolder 'God' content than the Jump'ers may ever have released for their primarily Christian constituency and at least as wide a sonic pallete as their quintet predecessors.

But, like the kids who came before them, Radio Disney's probably going to help them move more units as whatever type play they manage. An obvious bid for the House of Mouse's affection is an imaginatively arranged—if ultimately goofy—remake of a certain Kenny Loggins movie theme oldie. Better still are these youngsters' stabs at trance-vibed house, rhythmic balladry, and discofied pop. Some Michael W. Smith detractors will likely find themselves saying "Awww..." (in a good way) upon hearing PNRG's spin on "Thy Word", too.

Clean, fun, and likely as easy to grow out of as they are to get into, Pure NRG may have taken their name from a "Star Trek" quotation that became the subtitle of Information Society's biggest single (and I'll trust these NRG-ists know that), but they fill their unembarrassingly fam'-friendly niche better than some of Radio You-Know-What-Dead-Animator's most currently favored acts. Join me in awaiting their first mall tour, won't you? (learn more); (learn even more)

It's not just for the delightful sights of nutrition and exercise specialist Ximena Gonzalez, news anchor Ana Patricia Candiani, and weather presenter Mary Gamarra that I watch "Cada Día", every chance I get, on Telemundo. There's the music (or lip-sync'ing thereof) that ends every show, as well. And sometimes between the major Spanish-speaking market label regional Mexican and poppy rock acts, tropical and poppy dance acts get to close out the weekdaily 150-minute farrago.

And there are those times when an act that wraps up "CD" is poppy, tropical and...indie (GASP!). Such is TWIN SOUL. The two tall, fashion-model willowy, Puerto Rican/Miamian Rivera sisters, who not only take the route of Ivy Queen and former Rake On Music subject Adassa in adding their four-cents' worth (two each 'cause they're twins) to taking reggaeton to dramaticaly sexy heights, but all through Ojala (Miami Hot) the sultry sibs incorporate vallenato, tribal house, samba, rhumba, and salsa, in addition to the occasional Middle Eastern conceit.

That combination could have had the effect of producing airily academic world music. Or fusionistically New-Agey background banality. Granted, the line between those two can get imperceptibly thin. Thankfully, neither's the case, here, as Yvonne and Lisa work their hybrid leanings into—as I was saying a couple of paragraphs ago—something poppy. That's 'poppy' as in hooks, danceability, imagination, and taking it all over the top working together into something instantaneous and memorable.

Unlikelier sounds have made their way into the American Spanish-language mass consciousness (urban regional hip-hop from Akwid and Kinto Sol, mariachi and ranchera albums from glammy ex-telenovela starlets whose business around those genres is questionable, at best). It follows that this nearly identical duo have as good a chance as any to do the same. And better Twin Soul than [insert least favorite telenovela actor/reality show winner here]. (learn more); (learn even more)

Were I to stick to writing about CDs of guys singing along with their guitars, it's doubtful I'd ever run out of material for this gig. That is to say, I don't seek them out, but when one lands in my mailbox and impresses me, you share in the blessing, friends.

And DESTROY NATE ALLEN is out to bless anyone taking the time to hear him out. How else to describe it when a guy, who holds down a grocery bagging job in San Francosco and will do his dangedest—hitchhiking included—to play his music wherever a venue booker may want him, gives away his latest CD at performances and on his Web site?

That latest longplayer—if ten songs in under 30 minutes constitutes longplaying, nowadays—Awake O'Sleeper (Quiver Society), sounds like perfectly enough realized, minimalistically produced folk-pop-rock with an engagingly plainspoken voice and populistically poetic lyrical bent. He sounds as at home in his humble declarations of faith (which he's not using as a marketing angle, thank goodness) as he is exploring his doubts and shortcomings. Exactly the kind of unassumingly talented bloke in whose guitar case I'd throw some change or a couple of singles were I to see him busking. And the kind of guy women attracted to spiritual geeks could fall for, considering what I've told you about his music and how he looks like the juncture of a family tree wherein Allan Sherman and Brian Posehn meet.

If you'd like to support Nate The Self-Destroyer enough to fairly exchange him some of your money for his artistry, go HERE. If you want a freebie ('can't tell you whether he's going to be that generous with the other four CDs he's supposed to issue this year), visit HERE and either eMail him for one or catch him live. The guy gets around plenty for a grocery bagger.

'Much as I can appreciate how WINTERPILLS' latest, The Light Divides (Signature Sounds), is vaulting them further into the indierock statrosphere, due to the band's emotionally varied songwriting and the way they turn in a relatively fresh angle on folk-rock that's both personally poignant and politically pointed, imbuing their bag with Byrds'y traditionalism with—to what my ears sounds like—the gauziness of My Bloody Valentine, they're still pretty much not my thing. Too arch? Too slick? Just a tad too emotionally distant?

Something's not clicking for me, but I can hear the potential for them to do so, even in my second spin of the disc. If, however, the first paragraph describing the item at hand prompts you to check them out—should your favorite CMJ-charting radio outlet not already be playing them—by all means, let your (cyber)legwork take you to... (learn more); (learn even more)

And if you think telling them I sent you will do any good, don't let me stop you.

Not long ago, for another freelance assignment, I reviewed an engagingly composed and thick—if not exhaustive—encyclopedia of post-Black Sabbath metal. Of the many subcatagories into which that book was divided, you'd still have me as to where THE SHOWDOWN would be placed. New Wave of American Metal, perhaps?

On their Web site, they refer to themselves as Southern metal and heavy metal (the latter apellation's also tatooed down the sides of one band member's arms—one word per arm). Since they're from Tennessee, the Southern tag fits. Ditto the heavy. On their second, latest, already-Billboard-pop-and-cCm-charting set, Temptation Come My Way (Mono Vs Stereo), it's sounding like they're refashioning the whole of pre-death/grind/black pigeonholing into a combined trad'/doom/power/thrash fussilade of riffage, angrily impassioned vocalizing of socially/spiritually conscious lyricism, and beats that split the difference between the moshpit and the first couple of rows that should be justly reserved for the most fervent headbangers.

Some in the more deeply metal press have said that Temptation isn't as wholeheartedly metal as their first album (catching them touring behind it a couple years ago is what made me a fan; these guys exuded metal in a festival setting where "rocking" more often meant meeting diminished Xian evangeghetto subculture expectations of same). Pshaw!, save , perhaps, for the unnecessary but compelling cover of crap-progsters Kansas' "Carry On Wayward Son". Aside from the song's inherent ickiness, if said son is wayward, how long do you want him carrying on, Showdowners? Thank Jah all the same for it being one of the several songs on which you loudly and proudly bang your mighty cowbell.

Per Chthonic, if I can make it to Ozzfest this year, The Showdown are on my must-see list. (learn more); (learn even more)

Yes, it's been out a while, it's even been more than the proverbial hot second since I bought it as a present to myself, but the JOEY HEATHERTON compilation of her one album and stray singles sides on Hip-O Select—which I just got around to putting on my Bose unit—is some riotously exuberant, expertly over-the-top, showtuney loungeyness sung by a lovely blonde with some brassy pipes, in or around the prime of her mass media-perceived hotness. 'Fun stuff from the gal I best remember from her '70s Serta matress TV ads and 1975 CBS summer replacement miniseries with her dad (begging for DVD reissue!). At least a few of the limited 5000 copies pressed should still be available

So, hey, Hip-O Select, how about servicing me, as well as the label from which you seemed to have taken your template—Rhino Handmade? (woefully incomplete, but...learn more); (learn even more)

More music next time! Send some, why don'tcha? Do so to...

Mr. Jamie Lee Rake
P.O. Box 29
Waupun, Wisconsin 53963-0029
USA

Vegetarian, goat, lamb and fowl recipes are also appreciated.