ANYONE WHO HAS ever attended a Fairgrove show knows that vocalist Jay Harrison is a star. It's often discomforting in a small club. One expects a local singer to either demur or self-insulate--to behave in a manner fit to shroud himself in at least a modicum of aloofness or cool. Instead, Harrison is always alight, jumping and flailing like a rag doll with hot wire inserts, in a relentless effort to work himself and the crowd into whatever state of emotional panic or rapture Fairgrove is attempting in a given song. It's pure spectacle, and it's one of the reasons Fairgrove has done so well as a performing band in Seattle. Fans dig the freak-out. And, to his credit, Harrison's take on pop iconism seems less affected than it is unique and intrinsic.

Drummer Chris Vandebrooke, also of the more recent Transmarine, is a confident, ambitious player who, despite the occasional overzealous fill, is consistent, heavy-hitting, and ambidextrously impressive. He is a percussionist of the rolling thunder variety, perfectly placed in a guncotton affair such as Fairgrove. Michael Graham's guitar intelligently vacillates between buzz-saw affectedness and more traditional, fundamentally skillful riffs, as Harrison's lead keyboard lines interweave with the melody to create a cacophonous musical experience. Fairgrove has a new bassist. He has shoes to fill, and it's likely that he will fill them gracefully.

Fairgrove is undeniably emo-core, and seems dedicated to being so as a mission. The band is not a live experience for anyone with a low tolerance for drama. Remove Harrison's hefty stage presence and there is still his voice--a thick, mezzo-ranged moan that opens into a strained albeit ripping howl, brightly suffused with emotion as it wraps itself around cloudy stories of emotional and sexual anxiety and desire. One imagines the physical points of reference in some of the headier lyrical imagery and shudders with either glee or disdain. ("Even though you woke me up from behind/I don't have to be aroused to let you inside," from the song "Pig's Blood Blue," is a fine example.) Choose your angle--Fairgrove will put out full-length records and will have many listeners.

But the real story is about the new kids: Seattle's Aveo. Aveo is William Wilson on guitar and vocals, Jeff MacIsaac on drums, and Michael Hudson on bass. At first, it's Wilson whom one watches. Aveo seems to be all his. He has a quick and clean guitar style, and his vocals are full, buttery, and graveled--reminiscent of Catherine Wheel's Rob Dickinson on the low end. As the show progresses, however, one realizes that MacIsaac is what propels Aveo. He's a cool, meticulous drummer, an anchor for the band in the same way that Stewart Copeland was for the Police. And therein lies the spectacle. No flash, just letter perfection. Aveo may have only played five or so shows at this point, but if those shows are any indication, this band is going to be big.

What makes Aveo unique is the intuitive sense of melody that threads itself gracefully through rich, intelligible song structures. The songs are written from a very introspective place, where a more heightened expression takes less effort. There's no work--the band is in the song; the song is in the band; the audience naturally follows. This altruistically artistic process places Aveo, even in its relative youth, years ahead of contemporaries who are far more seasoned and experienced. In short, these guys are naturals.

Imagine that the Smiths and Catherine Wheel had a baby. Now pretend they raised its viscera in the American Heartland (where it fell in love with everything from Neil Young to the Replacements to Hüsker Dü), but kept its brain in Great Britain throughout the 1980s (where it developed a very smart aesthetic without the smugness that Morrissey and his ilk are so fond of). If that were actually to happen, Aveo might be that child. It would be a good kid. As it matured, it might even eclipse its parents by being the very best of both worlds. It would be smart and cool, while being wide open and sappy simultaneously. A kid that everyone would want to play with and listen to. That kid would be the finest, most exciting new band in this sleepy Northwestern city.