****
Few records make me question my own skill or relevance as a critic like When I Pretend to Fall, the sophomore release by the Long Winters. I've been stumbling for a metaphor for days now, and the best I can come up with is this: Frontman John Roderick writes pop songs with all the perfection of cut diamonds--even when held up to the harshest lights, they remain flawless and alluring. Roderick and his cast of local luminaries (Peter Buck, Chris Walla, and members of the Posies, among many others) have tightened and solidified their sound with their sophomore album. Though crisp electric guitars still dominate, the instrumental roster expands to take in more orchestral sounds: "Prom Night at Hater High" flushes with string arrangements, and "Blue Diamonds" reclines on a lush bed of horns. Vocally, Roderick melds the aching passion of Michael Stipe with the off-kilter nuances of Neutral Milk Hotel's Jeff Mangum; the banality of lines like "New York soon will hum/The electric car has come" (from "Stupid") are erased by his honest tone. In short, the only thing really worth criticizing is the hideous retro cover art. Thanks, John Roderick: I'll need several years of therapy to deal with knowing I'm irrelevant, but at least I'll have When I Pretend to keep me company. TIZZY ASHER

The Long Winters play Sonic Boom Stores May 10. See Up & Coming page 62.

CHROMATICS

Chrome Rats vs. Basement Rutz LP

(Gold Standard Laboratories)

****
Though I'm sure they'd be annoyed to hear me say it, Chromatics always felt like the closest I'd ever get to the amphetamine genius of the Fall's infancy. Like the Fall, they sounded like nothing at all--not in the sense that they were without parallels, but insomuch as their sound was that of an absence--a propellant, ominous nothing that relied more on what it lacked than what it held. A word like "minimalist" seems fitting in form, but it hardly does justice to their powerful, ghostly gestalt--like Mark E. Smith's bitter nothings--those impossible gaps that held such compelling respiration.

The final document of that Chromatics (the band has since lost/changed members and is now a two-piece instead of four) is the 16-track, Hex Enduction Hour-sleeved Chrome Rats vs. Basement Rutz, a cut-and-paste testament to, more than anything, the potential of the band's ill-fated trajectory. Recorded in a marathon three days under the singular eye of Glass Candy Svengali Johnny Jewel, Chrome Rats is a strangely seamless blend of Chromatics' volatile inconsistency and Jewel's staunch, Spectorian craft--a rough, newsprint-gray palette of cloudy half-thoughts somehow made lucid. Side B's thoughtfully wanky transgressions serve to balance the almost uncomfortable perfection of the record's lead tracks--the A-side is so good it's unsettling. An important sonic document of the almost paranormal presence that was Chromatics' powerful artillery. ZAC PENNINGTON

WHIRLWIND HEAT

Do Rabbits Wonder?

(Third Man/V2)

***
Whirlwind Heat provide just about everything that the premier signees to Jack White's Third Man Records should: rapid-fire rhythms, tight riffs, feedback-laden squeals, an overarching aestheticism. With a robotic punk sensibility that values rhythm and volume over melody, the Devo comparisons have already rolled in, though to this writer's ears Fugazi is a more clear starting point; either way, if you like your synth-pop herky-jerky, Do Rabbits Wonder? is for you. And in an ironic perversion that Jack White must love, the featured instrument is the overdriven bass of Steve Damstra, who achieves metronomic precision with basher Brad Holland. There isn't a lick of guitar on the whole album, and much of the three-piece's approach is based entirely on the drums-bass-vocals axis, although when called for, David Swanson admirably directs his synthesizers toward a noise-based approach to rock 'n' roll. His vocals recall Jack White's strangled agony and, like the Stripes, there are concepts firmly in place: every song is titled for a color, and lyrical obsessions recur throughout the album. But, like all good punk, the confusion and anger in the words drive the band, and their propellant musical force makes for a compelling listen. ALEX STIMMEL

WILDCHILD

Secondary Protocol

(Stones Throw)

***
With half the tracks produced by the genius Madlib and the other half by his talented brother Oh No, Wildchild's debut, Secondary Protocol, is, as anyone familiar with the Lootpack and Stones Throw records would expect, a work of competent hiphop. In fact, Secondary Protocol may best be described as the follow-up to the CD that helped inaugurate the rise and dominance of L.A.'s underground hiphop scene in 1998, Lootpack's Soundpieces: Da Antidote!. But Soundpieces is amazing, whereas Secondary Protocol, which has only one track that clearly breaks new ground--Madlib's intensely haunting "Hands Up"--gets the job done. The raps are fresh, the production is full, and the guests (the usual underground suspects--Tha Liks, Planet Asia, Aceyalone, Vinia Mojica) do what they always do well: showcase their skills. But ultimately, the real function of Secondary Protocol is this: It offers some relief to those who, like me, are waiting impatiently for the arrival of Madlib's collaborations with MF Doom (due sometime in spring) and Jay Dee (due sometime in summer). CHARLES MUDEDE