Reviews

If you head to My Friday Anthem’s Facebook page, you’ll see an image reminiscent of the old MTV logo, reconfigured to represent the band. The visual takes you right back to a time when music videos not only mattered, but they drove the musical corner of the zeitgeist harder than any other promotional tool. You didn’t listen to radio to hear new music — you watched television to stay hip.

Right at the epicenter of that phenomenon was Nirvana, whose video for “Smells Like Teen Spirit” shifted pop culture more than anything else in rock music over the last 30 years. It was aggressive and dark and dirty and ambiguous. It took no prisoners all while gladly spitting in your face. In fact, that track was so affecting, when the band decided to hop on MTV’s “Unplugged,” it’s hard not to forget how impressive it was to hear a band synonymous with being unbelievably pugnacious sound so … collected. So versatile. So calmed down.

This is all to say that the irony isn’t lost, then, when you see My Friday Anthem’s logo, and you consider their latest EP, “The Bliss Is Never Ending.” Much like the early ‘90s grunge years, this collection is muddy. Brooding. Unapologetic. The guitars are distorted and turned up beyond 11 while the vocals unleash constant anger and self-loathing, harkening back to a time when such tricks were still Very Serious and not attached to kids with pink hair, sitting at the mall, waiting for the next My Chemical Romance record to hit Hot Topic.

Where the irony truly lies, however, is the similarity in result both Nirvana and My Friday Anthem receive after deciding to turn down. It’s easy to remember where you were when you first heard the paired down version of “Come As You Are” because of how striking it was — not just due to the contrast, but also because of the vulnerability. The same move works on “The Bliss Is Never Ending,” most notably on the title track, perhaps the best moment here.

Singer Ryan Knight is left with himself and an acoustic guitar and the result is gloriously tortured. Evolving from a whisper to a sing/shout, he has the perfect off-key voice for this blend of alt rock. Settling it down actually serves him better because his agony can shine. He’s not asking you to believe him; he’s demanding you hear him. And he’s leaving you no other options.

The problem is that he only goes to this approach once. The closest he comes to channeling his chill again is “In The Driveway,” which leans on the refrain, “I can’t find the words to say.” Repeated over lush layers of harmonies and a sad electric guitar, the song is both haunting and infectious. Easy to sing along to, it toes the line between where My Friday Anthem should be and where they end up going.

So, where do they end up going? Well, they turn down Punk Rock Road and pull up at 392 Stay In Your Lane. OK, so maybe that’s a bit harsh, but songs like “Happy” and “Half-Love Song” pale in comparison to something like the title track, if only because of how cliched the formula feels. Of course these guys are going to have a couple barreling, up-tempo rock songs. Of course there’s going to be slight shifts in dynamics. Of course the vocals will find the sweet spot between apathy and anger. It just seems like low-hanging fruit when you know these guys are capable of providing something so much better.

Such is why “Dreamer” falls right next to “Driveway” in the category leaning toward success. Beginning with a steady acoustic guitar, the song opens up into a level of pop gold that’s rich enough, Coldplay might blush. The thing is, Knight’s voice is suited for this kind of stuff in the same way Kurt Cobain’s voice worked just as well toned down as it did amped up. So, while this might be a run-of-the-mill pop tune to some, it’s also the most glaring example of the potential that My Friday Anthem possesses.

Perhaps more importantly, though, it’s also proof positive that the band’s most valuable weapon is Knight and his knack for sincerity in song. Each time his voice cracks, a little more pain seeps through the speakers. Each time his rage overflows, he earns just a little more sympathy for his frustration. There’s an intangible thing that Ryan Knight brings each time he steps to the mic, and in short, it’s nothing less than invaluable.

Besides: It’s also the thing that, in the case of My Friday Anthem, at least, makes a certain kind of bliss seem impossible to ever end.

** 2 1/2 STARS OUT OF 4 **

Mess is really, really good at what Mess does. As someone studiously pointed out somewhere in the dark corners of the World Wide Internet, it would be hard to think these guys don’t own a bunch of records dated sometime between 1990 and 1994. The sound that so many kids in so many flannel shirts grew to love is so distinct, so obvious when it’s done well, and, again, without question, Mess does it well.

So, what’s the sound? You know it when you hear it. Sadly pretty guitars that distort on a dime. Driving pop rhythms punctuated by mild twists and angsty undercurrents. A pleasant singing voice able to burst from Bruce Banner to the Incredible Hulk whenever a song’s evolution calls for it. Production that finds the sweet spot between lo- and hi-fi without committing to either. Think anything that was cool enough to dominate college radio in the early ‘90s and yet never break through into “120 Minutes” territory — and was all the cooler for it.

Mess is all those things and more. And on “Tree,” the band’s seven-song debut EP, each element of that formula is presented with enough confidence to significantly further an already-prevalent aptitude for this specific blend of rock. In short, it will make you tap your feet as you lace up that pair of high-top Chuck Taylors you’ve been meaning to dust off ever since Superdrag broke up.

To back all that up, just listen to how the set begins. “Lean,” the shortest track here, busts through the door to settle into a slow mid-tempo anchored by Evan Braswell’s melodic guitar work. The true victory, however, is when things go from loud to soft, the verses bleeding that familiar alt-rock vibe that made a band like Nada Surf so Popular. Throw in Erik Wagner’s longing voice — one you swear you heard before — and it’s like stepping into a time machine.

Speaking of time, the 6/8 signature of “Mr. Crowley Flung Among The Crowded Rooms” sways wonderfully, introducing itself with a combination of Mike Barth’s drums, a crisp guitar and Wagner’s signature vocal stylings. Not only is it the best song here, but it’s also the most compact. Sure, it lends itself to as much because of its waltz-infused textures, but not once does the song feel like it drags. And once the bridge hits and Barth has room to spread out with his hi-hat work, look out, because a joyride awaits.

Yet what makes “Crowley” so much fun is also what lacks in moments elsewhere throughout the record: editing. These are the types of songs that were made to be in and out in four minutes or less. “We Are All Returning” meanders just a little too much for its own good. The slow groove, in this case, doesn’t help, either. What is intriguing about the song, however, is the way Wagner approaches his lines. When he offers “Today is the last day/Of the rest of your days/To be spent/So present” to begin the track, he’s a dead ringer for Middle Kid’s Zack Willis, all the way up to the subliminal quiver in his enunciation. It’s enough to make anyone smile through the tears.

The other longer songs aren’t as bothersome. “Blossom” succeeds not only because of its accents, but also the creative drum work that fills the instrumental gaps between words. The mid-track break in action also serves as a stark signifier of the group’s versatility. Meanwhile, EP-closer “Everywhere Is Falling Everywhere” earns its five-and-a-half minutes with its opening aggression. With more than a minute of music to open it, Wagner eventually sells the hook with aplomb, asserting, “Why wait for something that will always come? F— it, let’s have the most fun.”

Wise words for a band called Mess. And in truth, having fun is what makes “Tree” so appealing — everything from the music to the lyrics feels sincere, and it probably goes without saying that you’re always your most honest when you’re having the most fun. Sure, that might not mean everything is particularly happy, but it’s better to be miserable with your friends than it is to be miserable without them.

“Let the song be the song we sang,” Wagner croons on the melancholy “Another Song About The Grave” before eventually concluding the track with a memorable revelation: “We can cry about it and we can laugh about it.”

A beautiful Mess, indeed.

** 2 1/2 STARS OUT OF 4 **

Growth is what comes to mind while listening to Karen Jonas’s “Butter.” It’s been nearly five years since she burst through the saloon doors, guns drawn, with her masterpiece, “Oklahoma Lottery.” It wasn’t long after that when the decidedly more tame “Country Songs” was unleashed, led by a title track as clever as it was desperate.

And now there’s “Butter,” a more accessible set than her previous efforts that leans more toward straight-ahead pop than both her other records combined. Continuously paired with her machete-like wit, the stories here are as good as ever while the music tones down the type of aggression you heard so cuttingly throughout Jonas’s earlier work. It combines for a fulfilling listen, even if you do occasionally wish she would opt to cook with more, say, bitter than she does butter.

But that’s what makes this such a curious collection — while she pulls back on past predilections, she opens up rooms to which no one probably even knew she had a key. “Mr. Wonka” is circus-like (which, perhaps unsurprisingly, might be why it’s followed by the album-finale called … well … “The Circus”), its waltz echoing visions of the track’s namesake, horn section and all. It’s a fun exercise that’s about as far away from Country Songs as Jay-Z is to the Florida Georgia Line.

The other departure comes in the form of the title track, which transports you right from the rodeo to a 1950s nightclub somewhere in Manhattan. It’s jazzy and smokey and everything that used to make pop music so great. Providing more fun is the singer’s ability to turn phrasing as brilliantly as she does. There isn’t another artist within 500 miles that can take “Mama cooks with butter” and turn it into “Mama drinks straight whiskey” so effortlessly.

And yet still, these are the novelties. When Jonas returns to the flavors we’re used to tasting, it’s hard to forget there’s nary a better chef around. “My Sweet Arsonist” has deliciously western leanings, pedal steel and all, and it showcases the singer’s tender side, her voice downsizing to something just above a whisper every now and then. Naturally, that dynamism makes her regret feel just a little more palpable than it has before as she confesses, “I could build a lifetime from the things I’ve given up.”

One thing she hasn’t given up is her world-weary eye, and that’s as prevalent as ever on “Mama’s First Rodeo,” another retrofitted country swing dance that reestablishes Jonas as someone who knows more about a thing or two than you probably know about a thing or two. One of her many secret weapons has always been her ability to curse effectively, and this song is no exception as the chorus takes hold (one listen, and you’ll see what that means). And with a groove that subliminally walks the line between Nashville and Jamaica, it’s perhaps the most interesting song here.

As for the best song, that title could go to “Dance With Me,” a mini epic that allows the singer to leave a lasting vocal impression once the song gets its feet under it. Sure, it seems simple at first — a traditional slow burn of a tune with structure that’s as straightforward as it gets — but while the organ rises and she dares you dance through it all, your heart both breaks and lights up in a flurry of flames, inspired by the demand, hopeful for the perseverance.

Thankfully, perseverance is an idiom about which Karen Jonas knows a thing or six. This being solo album No. 3, it’s hard to blame her for adding new ingredients to recipes already deserving of Michelin stars. Such is why, in this case, adding a little “Butter” to the formula doesn’t just make the meal a little more versatile; it signifies how essential it is to keep filling the pantry with the type of things you once never knew existed.

Or in short, regardless of if it’s a guitar or a frying pan in your hand, growth is imperative for artistry. These 10 songs affirm that at this point, Karen Jonas is cooking with gas.

*** 3 STARS OUT OF 4 ***

The thing about live music is just that: It’s live. The performance itself carries almost as much weight as the energy from the audience. You play. People (hopefully) respond. That response fuels the playing. The playing, in turn, fuels the response. It’s a cosmic type of vigor impossible to accurately depict with mere words.

Compromising that equation, of course, is the studio. You might be a great live band, but when you step into the booth to solidify your work, things change. The cosmos can’t be reproduced and you have to adjust. A missed hit here, a wrong note there is fine in front of a crowd. In the studio, though? That can be the difference between a good record and a great record.

By all accounts, Ginada Piñata is a very good live act. Falling into the jam band crowd, they actually deserve a more thoughtful descriptor. There’s some Steely Dan in them, a dash of select Frank Zappa instrumentals, some Billy Cobham textures, adult-contemporary R&B leanings and interesting guitar work that doesn’t not sound like it could be heard on the Weather Channel. See them live, and it’s a blast. Dancing is imperative. Musicians’ mouths water. Crowds go home happy.

But how does that translate into a studio LP? Well, in the case of their most recent self-titled album, the results are mixed. Yes, there are compelling turns that occur consistently throughout each of these eight songs, and sure, there’s no doubt it takes some seriously imaginative musical minds to craft a lot of what is heard here. But when you listen to a band like this, you want everything from the production to the performance to be crispier than a Don Draper suit. And while these songs get there sometimes … well, sometimes, they don’t.

Take “Open Road,” which showcases a bunch of great ideas. One of those great ideas is a time-signature manipulation that accents with regularity as the song progresses. It’s a neat trick — and it certainly suggests that these guys go the extra mile to put thought into the details of their work — but more often than not, the moments lack the confidence and consistency needed to sell the quirk. Sometimes they line up, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes, the timbre stands tall; sometimes, it has weak knees. It’s frustrating because you can hear how great it could be with only a tiny bit more focus.

“Lancey” lives in the same creative area, a flurry of off-time pauses highlighting the track’s hook. When things do commence into structure, an awesomely funky guitar line takes hold and it’s clear that the riff was designed to stay in heads for days. An argument could be made, then, that the repeated returns to the awkward stabs make the song lose momentum, but instead, they grant the composition a layer of intrigue that should make fellow players grin each time they hear it.

Another smile-maker? Ken Bussey’s guitar playing. Album-ender “Joe” is a near perfect way to go out because of the spotlight that focuses intently on Bussey. Providing requisite instrumental runs and musical turns, the track also allows the guitar player to explore his bluesier influences, resulting in a series of solos (Sam Jannotta’s keys included) that reaches the amount of silk Ginada Piñata deserves in order to be so riveting at times. It’s a bittersweet goodbye.

Not as bittersweet, however, are the moments that groove takes precedence over everything surrounding it. “Spittin Lou” swings with a lazy funk that evokes visions of someone walking down a busy city street on a warm rainy day. It’s a fantastic way to begin the album. And “A1E” should make fellow area jammers SoulXChange smile. Laid back in feel, the song has a darkness to it that’s as sexy as it is smokey. Throw in some retrofitted “Superstition”-ish keys and it’s more than just the sci-fi sound effects that blasts the tune out of this world.

Still, it’s hard not to want more. For as inventive as Ginada Piñata, the band, can be, “Ginada Piñata,” the album, feels like a good introduction — and not a great representation of all these guys could achieve. Without question, there are moments throughout that force heads to turn and ears to open, but when you’re dealing with a group this promising, the standards are higher and the expectations more demanding.

That’s not to say this quartet isn’t still a very good live act. And it’s not even to say that they couldn’t be a very good studio collective. It’s just to say that hopefully next time, they pay more attention to that dastardly devil constantly lurking in the details.

** 2 1/2 STARS OUT OF 4 **

Ethan Larsh breaks hearts.

It kind of writes itself, doesn’t it? Not only as a first sentence for a record review, but also as a title for a record. It rolls off the tongue easily. It’s simple. It’s right to the point. And, above all, it sets the tone for a collection of music that ebbs and flows so naturally, it’s hard not to wonder how much of that title is a wink and a nod, or how much of it is a confident declaration of one’s past romantic escapades.

Such is what makes “Ethan Larsh Breaks Hearts” so fun: toeing that line between being in on a joke and being taken too seriously. The album, in itself, touches on all the tropes a good, old-fashioned rock album should: sex (or, in this case, perhaps, love), drugs, and … well … rock and roll. Presented in the context of quirky piano pop, though, it’s beyond refreshing to hear someone so confident in who they are as both a musician and an artist.

Let’s be honest: It takes a healthy dose of self-awareness to concoct the one-two-punch that is “Coca-Cola” and “I Miss Cocaine.” The two tracks running back to back, “Coca-Cola” begins with a faint piano blues boogie before the band mildly kicks in and Larsh immediately begins listing off the brands of soda that don’t impress him. This, of course, leads to a chorus that feels like the moment the sun finally sheds the clouds around it, offering a bright and radiant proclamation that Coca-Cola is “the best drink money can buy.”

Yet because the message is so obvious and so innocent and so plain, you don’t think Ethan Larsh, the man who breaks hearts, could be talking about … oh, wait. Yes, he could be. And, yes, he is.

“I Miss Cocaine,” landing right after the ode to a soft drink, is a love letter to the famous white powder that oh-so-many musicians love to frequent from time to time. What makes the trick work, however, is Larsh’s grinning vocal riff that splits the hook: “I miss cocaine/and how it effects my brain,” he begins before playfully admitting, “I’ll say it again.” Presented over ballad-like longing, the turn is so unexpected that it works, both in sincerity and purpose. If you’re not smiling yourself, you don’t get it.

And getting it is half of what makes these 12 songs so intensely endearing. “Breaking Up The Band” opens with only piano, strings and vocals, and while the music is decidedly pretty, the singer’s words are cutting as he confronts what sounds like a frenemy about a collaboration that’s turned sour. The brilliance comes when the chorus hits and Larsh impressively evokes the Beatles with boppy work on the keys and a pop-tastic electric guitar riff, all before the strings return and the best Top 40 hit that 1971 never heard unfolds.

Yet while McCartney is a great influence on which to call, what makes Larsh so compelling is his chameleon-like ability to switch up sounds. “Belleville,” for instance, feels far more Ben Folds Five than it does Fab Four — right down to the singer’s voice, which doesn’t not recall some of Folds’ solo work. The constant smirk that lurks behind everything also makes it hard to ignore the comparison. An uptempo introduction to the record (save for the 30-second “Intro”), it’s the perfect greeting from an artist as charming as he is talented.

Perhaps the set’s greatest achievement has little to do with what he does here and rather with what he doesn’t do, which is slide into an uninteresting, predictable formula that would bog the album down. “Most Of The Time” is even kind of — kind of — funky, fainted cowbell and all. Touching on praying to God, losing his mind and “a Hot Topic in a sea of shopping malls,” it’s a sad kind of happy dance that the pianist brings to the floor.

“Tick Tok (We’re All Going To Die),” in all its Randy Newman-esque glory, then addresses the happiest of subjects — death — with jangly pop and even a few horns that jazz up its surroundings. And “You Don’t Know Me” is a fantastic shot of piano-driven classic rock with a chorus that definitely deserves to be heard by millions. It’s Exhibit A when wondering if this guy is merely a victim of being born during the wrong era of pop music.

That doesn’t mean, of course, that Ethan Larsh doing Ethan Larsh things in the current day should be ignored on any level, even if his chance at superstardom may have washed away with Elton John’s peacock-backed jackets. In fact, it should be even more reason to lend your ears to his efforts if only because nobody else is doing this kind of stuff locally — let alone doing it as well as he’s doing it.

“How was it when you broke my heart?” the singer asks toward the end of the record. If it sounds anything like the way he did it here, the guess would be “pretty darn good.”

*** 3 STARS OUT OF 4 ***

Even though Crooked Hills lead singer Brett Putz is a noted professional wrestling fan, the jury’s out on if he would approve of the following conclusion: Every song on Crooked Hills’ self-titled debut full-length could very easily — very easily — stand in as a theme song for a professional wrestler.

It’s all there: The riff-tastic crunchy guitars. The precise, double-kick-heavy drums. The unapologetically chugging bass. The intensely snarling vocals. There’s even a moment during “Army Of Phantoms” when Putz growls after an impressively long tom-tom roll, “Burn it down!” Which, of course, also serves as the tag line and title of the theme song for WWE star Seth Rollins. The parallels are too obvious not to note.

But even if you don’t know what a Hell In A Cell is — or, for that matter, if you do, but shrug it off as mindless, irrelevant, idiotic entertainment made for only the lowest of lowbrows — there’s one thing that’s undeniable about this collection of songs: It might just be the best front-to-back hard-rock record to come out of Frederick in 2018. The production is uniquely pristine, the performances are top-shelf and the writing is compelling enough to ensure that these guys don’t fall into a pattern so often abused in this genre, which is the pattern of repetition. Each song is different. Each song is special.

The heavyweight champion of the operation is drummer Marcus Collins, who makes a strong case for best stick-man in town with his performances. There isn’t a song on which he doesn’t shine remarkably bright, his fills flawless, his tempos in check, his imagination present, his chops sharpened. In a band like this — one that straddles the lines that separate metal, hardcore and rock — you need a demonstrative drummer to succeed, and without Collins’ myriad of abilities, it’s hard to imagine Crooked Hills being as triumphant as they are.

That’s to say nothing of the other players here, who also deserve honors for their exceptional offerings. If Collins is holding the title, Putz is right on his heels with his commitment to both the sound and the message. “Loveable Losers,” driven by a 10-ton bass line, is perhaps the best example of the latter, as he demands, “Love your life/love your people/love the process/it’s all we were put on this earth for.” On top of a racing double-kick drum and intense guitars filling out the scene, it’s a dichotomy at which it’s impossible not to smile.

Ditto for opener “Nightmare Synonyms,” which smartly comes out of the gate with a message that turns heads with surprise and intrigue as the narrator confronts a dealer who’s “been giving me the wrong drugs/when all I need is love.” With such a hostile undertone in tact, it’s fun (if not somewhat inspiring) to hear positively optimistic memos being circulated throughout the Crooked Hills camp. And considering the fervor with which the message is presented, you have to think that these guys won’t stop until that hopeful tenor is fully embraced.

Because if it isn’t, songs like “History Repeater” and “Deeper South” suggest that these are people with whom you may not want to mess. The former, sung fiercely by guitarist Ben Jardeleza, is musically angular in exciting ways, the feel relying less on a groove and more on a statement. When the second act commences and the breakdown begins, a refrain like “Learn from history/Are we doomed to repeat ourselves?” plays more like a threat than a question. “Deeper South,” meanwhile, embodies everything these guys — who describe themselves as “dirty heavy Appalachian hill music” — are. Not only does it swing, but it hits you in the face each time you turn around.

Almost everything else here is equally as memorable. “Shadow In The West Woods” evolves like a horror movie, slowly drawing listeners in with its mid-tempo introduction before exploding with a fury of pounding beats from Collins’s feet. “Last Call” turns on a dime as quickly as it starts and features vocals more snarky than anything else preceding it. Better yet, the song even offers a blend of (gasp!) traditional singing once the hook hits, which proves to be a pleasant surprise. And then “Unnatural Disaster” wraps the whole thing up in an epic fashion that’s fit for stadiums around the world with its through-line of tension that emanates as the verses unfold.

In the end, it all combines for an impeccable listen. Making it more memorable is the mere reality that it’s easy for music like this to grow old quickly — turn on any modern rock radio station today that doesn’t rely on the classics and see how long you last — and yet here, Crooked Hills consistently finds ways to keep things interesting. They know their strengths. They have a formula. And they’ve perfected a sound that’s all their own.

So, they can call it hill music if they want. But “Kings of the ring” might be just a bit more veracious.

*** 3 1/2 STARS OUT OF 4 ***

“When I’m not playing dumb, I’m biting my tongue for good reason, dear.”

“I will crystalize your tears and make a thousand chandeliers.”

“You carved out your life with some dull, rusted knife, now you’re tasting it. And you got what you want, so stop crossing the lines, you are taking my time and you are wasting it.”

… And those come from only the first song.

Indeed, “Mortal Cathedrals,” the 10-track latest effort from Greencastle Pennsylvania’s The Positronic Cats, is littered (pun intended) with word-y, angst-y, (and dare we say) emo-y passages that, in fairness, are as delicious as a case of Purina would be to any feline frenemy. It’s the speciality of Waylon K. Smith and Jim Taylor. Roll Death Cab For Cutie and Mumford & Sons into one, and you kind of/sort of have the gist of who The Positronic Cats are.

Thing is, though, when it works … man. It works. There are moments on “Cathedrals” that rival the best of any local troubadours strumming their acoustic guitars unreasonably hard, bleeding out their heart with lyrics so cutting, the microphone weeps both in fear and sympathy. Smith doesn’t just know how to sing, he knows how to deliver, and when his words escape those unforgiving lips, it feels like every inch of his soul is exposed.

Take the aforementioned opening track, “1,000 chandeliers.” Beginning innocently enough, Smith croons over a slow picking six-string, hinting that an earthquake might be ready to explode energy into the lithosphere. Before long, the waves form, fissures filling forests near and far as a kick drum shows up and the new-grass commences. The hook is infectious, the energy is superb and the drama is dazzling. It’s the best song here.

Almost equally as impressive is the follow up, “Love Me.” The most radio-rock-friendly song offered, the track is supported by an uptempo that’s as straightforward as these guys get. Sure, it’s still just an acoustic guitar buoyed by a spattering of electric six-string work, but Smith gets his Max Bemis on with a chorus like, “Just tell me that you love me/you don’t have to mean it/just tell me that you love me/and make sure that I believe it.” It wouldn’t work if he didn’t sound so desperate and he wouldn’t sound so desperate if it didn’t work.

Yet that’s where the bulk of the victories end. Weirdly, from that point forward, the duo settles into a pattern of brooding jams that blend too much together too often. The lyrical gems can still be found, of course, but the stomping influence of Mumford pops up again only in “The Beautiful Chaos Of Time” — and even then, the Cats opt for no drum to help propel it forward, rendering Taylor’s tasteful and interesting mandolin playing almost moot in the grand scheme of the song.

Granted, “Glitter” has some spunk, with its aggressive waltz and filled out production. And yes, “Fluidity Of Fate” doesn’t come with a lack of emotion, especially with the rise and fall of each hook and the way Smith enunciates the payoff line. Throughout both tracks, his hunger continues to be one of the duo’s most valued assets. Even if your attention starts to fade, his passion more often than not pulls you back in, no matter how hard you fight it.

Still, it’s hard not to hope for a more varied collection here. The back-to-back curtain call of “Heart Of The Sea” and “Cosmonauts” ends things on a downer, if only for how their slow burns ultimately turn into smoke before you’re ready for a complete extinction of flame. The full group sound makes its comeback — complete with drum kit and a screaming Smith — halfway through “Cosmonauts,” and while you want it to be the exclamation point a set like this deserves, it amounts to an ellipsis that almost — almost — calls for a question mark.

Which is a shame, because the promise of the first two tracks here suggests that these Cathedrals have potential to be immortal. For the mortal kind, however, a hope for next time is the best it’s going to get.

“In our search, we may become the gods we seek,” a final soundbite suggests before the record fades to black.

They aren’t gods yet, but they also shouldn’t stop searching.

** 2 1/2 STARS OUT OF 4 **

“If time is really only a fourth dimension of space … why has it always been regarded as something different?”

It’s less than a minute into Jay Berd’s “Overtime” when you hear the aforementioned soundbite. Deep stuff? Yes. But in reality, the notion of time — beyond a fourth dimension — is something that’s on the local rapper’s mind throughout most all of these 11 tracks. And even if it wasn’t on showcase here, it’s a concept impossible to ignore while considering the guy, who is one of the most “veteran” veteran hip-hop artists around. At this point, he’s forgotten more about the local rap scene than most listeners probably know currently.

Such is what makes “Overtime” feel more like a victory lap than it does a coming out party. Still, Berd has reason to celebrate: Not only is this a deliciously retrofitted collection of songs that celebrate a simpler, more accessible time in the music, but … well … it also marks the release he’ll be showcasing when he takes the stage at The Anthem in D.C. Friday night, opening for the legendary Black Star. This set being a callback to a more innocent — and some would say fruitful — time cements the artist’s place on stage next to legends like Yasiin Bey and Talib Kweli.

And at one point in time, maybe either of those hip-hop icons could have dropped a verse on the remix of a song like “Cassettes.” Reflecting on those fascinatingly tiny pieces of electronic square, Berd does the decade of the 1990s justice. With a groove as charming as it is jangly, the rapper cites everything from rewinding to fast-forwarding to Maxell to Memorex, climaxing with perhaps the most endearing thought a record this side of TRL has ever offered: “Singles had the instrumental, those were the days.”

Not only does Berd reflect well, but he also knows something about the purpose of a hook, both musically and otherwise. “Cassettes” features a bevy of Berds offering up the chorus while other tracks have notably valuable guest spots featuring artists who step up in the hook game. Seez Mics stops by “Write Of Way” to add just a touch of aggression along with a flow that fits perfectly on top of Jay’s monotone approach. Each player clearly understands the value in tone, and the combination of as much amounts to memorable results.

But “hook” doesn’t just have to mean “chorus” in the world of Jay Bird; rather, another, more prominent hook throughout all of “Overtime” is the rapper’s decision to refrain from using swear words. A novel idea in modern day hip-hop, it forces him to go the cerebral assassin route rather than use a bludgeoning method that can quickly become all too played out. It makes a line like, “I hold court like I was subpoenaed to attend” shine in ways it might otherwise not.

That phrase comes from one of the set’s highlights, the Upgrade collab “Moonwalker.” With a chorus that sounds almost too much like Eminem, it’s easily the most complete song here. Centered around a clever play on the iconic dance move that Michael Jackson made so popular so long ago, it combines a slightly menacing beat with a laid-back ethos that make the dichotomy not only work, but thrive. Plus, with no swearing allowed, Berd makes his points via attitude and confidence.

Attitude and confidence are in ample availability elsewhere, too. “Omaha,” a nod to the Peyton Manning zeitgeist moment from a few years ago, sees the rapper equate his skills on the mic with an array of athletic assessments, announcing, “I got a lotta plans on this planet/I like to travel, I can’t keep my pivot planted.” Laid down on top of the smoothest groove on the record, it sets the stage perfectly for a near-perfect album. Or, as he so eagerly explains, “I love it when it works out like I planned it.”

The thing is, with “Overtime,” it does. Right after Berd provides that proclamation, a spoken word track commences with him riffing on a music video shoot and how he should dress up like “old people, but still doing the same kind of things,” and so on and so forth. Everything he does, he does with a wink and a nod, which not only makes him endearing, but it also makes him someone to whom attention deserves to be paid.

And regardless of if “Overtime” means he’s earned a few more minutes in the game than he thinks he deserves, or if it means he’s simply over the idea of time being an issue in the hip-hop community, or if it means something entirely different from either of these possibilities, one thing is remains clear, his fourth dimension of space probably won’t be running out any time soon.

*** 3 1/2 STARS OUT OF 4 ***

Here’s a hell of a tour: The take-no-prisoners, out-of-flips-to-give aesthetic of Baltimore’s Santa Librada, whose debut LP was featured here only a handful of weeks ago, and Frederick’s own The Xiles, a deliciously snotty teenage punk rock quartet that actually will remind you why The Clash kicked so much ass when they first started out. Grab the combat boots, slip into those black jeans and get ready to sweat. If this anarchist’s dream tour ever came true, it’d leave cities burning one sneer at a time.

Naturally, this is why The Xiles’s debut EP, “No Comply,” is so irresistible. Rarely these days does punk rock connect in the way it was always meant to: Youthful angst and ignorance combining with a kind of self-loathing confidence that provides the necessary aggression and authenticity needed to make the music so imperative. It’s novel in its simplicity, its straight-ahead, no nonsense approach to both message and performance. Fall Out Boy care about candy. The Xiles care about corruption.

Which, of course, makes them wise beyond their years. “I’m Fine,” perhaps the most confrontational track here, features multiple spoken-word interludes from singer Zephyr Henderson, who is a star in the making. Part of the secret to being a lead singer is an unabashed willingness to GO FOR IT, and while most kids similar in age might be reluctant to let loose, this guy embraces the spotlight, holding nothing back and gripping your attention with the heat of a thousand suns. By the time the bridge comes and he demands answers for why he got passed up for a job, you almost want to call the prospective employer yourself and make a case for why not hiring him isn’t a great idea.

The title track validates as much, too, when he asserts, “blood on my hands, blood on my knees” to kick off the second verse. Led forth by Samantha Wallace’s opening bass riff, it’s the best — and the snarliest — song here. Repeating the title with vigor and rancor does them favors as well, Henderson jamming the words into the listener’s head without remorse. It amounts to a disregard for rules, let alone authority, and somewhere, you gotta think Joe Strummer is smiling.

Another grin might come across another face — Billie Joe Armstrong’s, to be exact — with “Democrassy,” a song that ultimately proves the band’s weight in gold … or, well, leather jackets … more than any other track here. Yes, it’s a lot of the same gruff vocals and driving tempos, but what sets this particular moment apart is the group’s knack for harmony and melody. The hook here is classic ‘90s grunge/pop-punk and it begs the question: Whatever happened to this kind of stuff, anyway? It’s one thing to shout and stammer over echoes of electric guitar; it’s another to understand the value of tune. These kids do. And that’s impressive.

Still, that doesn’t entirely make up for the very inevitability that comes with this genre of music: unapologetic repetition. Nobody’s trying to win musicianship awards in the punk rock world, and while that’s a fine rule of thumb by which to live, it can occasionally make for a boring, if not uninteresting, listen. The notion of “not doing what I’m told” pops up in multiple songs here — so much so that you almost want to grab Henderson and tell him, “Good for you. Now what?” Granted, these are kids and this is bonafide street punk, so it’s not like they ought to be expected to wax poetic on foreign policy or the GOP tax plan, but it might be nice to sometimes mix things up a bit, both sonically and lyrically.

Nothing beats the promise of a record’s beginning, however, and from the minute “Wrong Direction” kicks off, all listeners should know what they’re in for. At a crisp 2:21, it’s the most apt way to start the collection, its defiance and pugnacity creating the perfect introduction. And “Road To Nowhere” even has a little Black Sabbath in it, feeling as much like a retro rocker as it does a call to arms for the disenfranchised. Plus, the way Henderson moves his voice, however slightly, as he enunciates the final phrasing of each hook is the thing that made ‘70s rock as memorable as it was — for both better and worse.

Yet at their age, The Xiles probably don’t care much about ‘70s rock … or more sophisticated lyrical content … or advanced musical textures … or, shoot, this review. That’s what makes them a joy to listen to and a band that has so much potential staring them square in the face, daring them to take advantage of it. The fearlessness is there, the energy is intoxicating and the commitment is unquestionable. It’s a recipe for undeniable success.

“I’m pugnacious, never politically correct,” Henderson snarls on the satirical “Mad Man Of The Year,” which closes out “No Comply” in respectable style.

But that’s what makes you great, man. And even if you have an issue with taking orders, do yourself a favor and follow this one: Don’t you ever forget it.

** 2 1/2 STARS OUT OF 4 **