The most distinct cliques in my jerkwater high school were the Stoners and the New Wavers. These two factions, fashionably predisposed to loathe each other, derived their pubescent sociological force from the influence of mascot bands: Judas Priest and Duran Duran. The former outfit loudly articulated the angst felt by disenfranchised teenagers; the latter group gave wild middle-class boys permission to be androgynous and smoke clove cigarettes. The Stoners regularly beat up the New Wavers, accusing them of being fags. The New Wavers retaliated by calling the Stoners stoners and slashing their tires.

It's 15 years later. The lead singer of now-disbanded Judas Priest has come out of the closet, bestowing a bittersweet irony upon all those messy beatings so long ago. And what happened to Duran Duran? Not that anyone was clamoring for one, but they've made another album. Pop Trash has all the outward trappings of their early stuff (overwrought hooks, pretty harmonies), now pompously amplified by a dreary orchestral grandiosity (i.e., string arrangements). The lyrics are uniformly ghastly, as always, but without the levitating charm of youthful naiveté. And, since image is unquestionably the most crucial component of their appeal, let it be said that the boys look terrible. The photos accompanying the CD show three bloated, middle-aged men, tragically crass and somewhat predatory-looking.

It's all rather sad and unattractive, in a 20-year high school reunion sort of way. Pop Trash is a full-length titular Freudian slip. It proves once and for all that you can't recapture youth or the youth market with pie-eyed sentimentality and flimflam. You can't be new wave twice. RICK LEVIN

THE BLOOD BROTHERS
This Adultery Is Ripe
(Hopscotch)
***

There are many ways of screaming in a song. The most common, of late, is the Korn way: through a tube, with all the drama of a TV cop show. Then there are the Blood Brothers, whose frantic cries are artful, genuine, and thrilling. I have never heard a band so young with a sound so complete and self-assured. They take their influences somewhere entirely new: a lot of the sharp turns and heated rush of Fugazi are here, even down to the contrasting arch and plain diction of dual vocalists Jordan Billie and Johnny Whitney. Seeing the band live a few months ago, I sensed that what they were squalling were complete and logical sentences, and sure enough there are echoes of early Wire in barely intelligible lyrics like "Milk white for the impossible vista of the skyline as it shorted out, crackled with static and was replaced by a network of newsprint." In fact, the title song, "Marooned on Piano Island," and "Jennifer" are as good as just about anything Wire ever recorded. A bunch of high-school kids from Redmond doing an amphetamine retake of Chairs Missing is a most unexpected pleasure. Matt Bayles at Studio Litho is some kind of recording genius. This is a very strong debut and the beginning of something vital. If loud spaz rock has all started to sound like so much impotent wheedling and complaint, buy this. You will not be disappointed. GRANT COGSWELL

CURSIVE
Domestica
(Saddle Creek)
***

Let it hereby be noted that, in no uncertain terms, and without further ado, I forthwith amend my previous highly personal list of recorded works, of which I unconditionally forbid myself to partake when I am feeling emotionally fragile, romantically devastated, or in any weakened or reduced state, psychologically speaking. Seeing as music is the most powerful force in the universe, and yet also sometimes the damaging cause of its own fantastically curative effect, I now add to the aforementioned list of very beautiful but acutely frightening albums--which contains (1) Hüsker Dü's Zen Arcade, (2) Nick Drake's Pink Moon, and (3) The Carpenters' Greatest Hits--the title of Domestica, by Cursive.

Succinctly, the reasons for this insertion can be easily ascertained by an analytic perusal of the extant list's three titles (now increased by one): namely, that Cursive's album is (as with #1) an unremitting lyrical/instrumental assault on the nervous system by naked and noisy emotional truths far too difficult to bear in any of the aforementioned weakened states; that Domestica (as with #2) is a bitter pill coated in sweet sugar, or, more bluntly stated, an undeniably well-crafted and superbly executed artistic lure into someone else's exceedingly symbolic psychological hell; and, finally, that Cursive's gorgeous and inventive yet ultimately terrifying opus becomes (as with #3) more creepy with each successive listen, and tends to linger and leave unwanted traces in the memory--which has a difficult time ignoring the music's wonderfully catchy yet ultimately brooding tunefulness.

In conclusion--and with full awareness that the inclusion of Cursive's Domestica on this list is a dubious honorific--let it be said that I can't really wish singer/songwriter Tim Kasher well, since he seems to be moved to what, I must say, are very important (if frightening) musical and poetic heights by the internal pain he suffers. Furthermore, to wish him good luck would be to bestow upon him the one thing he needs least. (I can, at the very least, hope he doesn't get married--and therefore divorced--again. One marital rock opera per lifetime is enough.) RICK LEVIN

IN STORES 7/11
by Kris Adams

Ani DiFranco, Swing Set (Righteous Babe) Rubin Carter may be free, but we can always use a cover of Bob Dylan's "Hurricane," can't we?

Everclear, Songs from an American Movie, Volume 1/Learning How to Smile (Capitol) Listen to the poppy music and you may feel happy. Pay attention to the lyrics and you may feel sad. How ironic.

Soundtrack, Nutty Professor II: The Klumps (Def Jam) Janet Jackson: She's not only the co-star; she's also on the soundtrack.

Mötley Crüe, New Tattoo (Motley/Beyond) It's hard to type with one hand as the other is thrust in the air, pinkie and index finger pointing skyward, my head thrashing wildly....

Dogstar, Happy Ending (Ultimatum) The band's first full-length album may prove once and for all that Keanu Reeves can play more than the air guitar.

Big L, The Big Picture (Rawkus/Priority) The second and last album from the Harlem MC, who was killed last year.