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Much can be said about the smarmy, bare-chested brothers Perlick-Molinari. The two siblings, who together make up the electro group French Horn Rebellion and are definitely neither smarmy nor bare-chested (well maybe on occasion), were born/bred in Milwaukee before later relocating to hipster heavy Brooklyn and posses a unique knack at creating eclectic, synth-driven pop. Read More…

Starting in the stale summer of ‘07 as little more than a collection of innocent bedroom recordings from singer and then sole-member Harrison Speck, Austin-based effort One Hundred Flowers has since rounded out into a full and unique indie-pop entity. The now fleshed-out quintet (featuring Speck along with Eva Mueller, Amber Nepodal, Gary Calhoun James, and Curtis Henderson) has been performing their lush brand of eclectic melody in and around Texas’ capital city for a while now and following a well-received EP, the group recently released their debut full-length in late 2010. The LP, thoughtfully entitled Mechanical Bride, features a collection of carefully crafted tunes that manage to maintain the approachable familiarities of traditional melodies yet still offer something fresh and new.

We recently caught up with the band as they completed a hectic week of performing (about a handful of shows for Austin’s Free Week fest), and asked them a bunch of questions for this week’s Sounds Good. Jump down to hear the band discuss, among other things, the trials/tribulations faced by fiercely independent bands, their involvement in Austin’s creative community, as well as the band’s favorite movie from 1989. Mechanical Bride is currently available through Stem and Leaf Recordings.  Read More…

With little more than an acclaimed three-track demo and a well-rehearsed live show tucked tightly under their belts, Brooklyn-based MEN has spent a sizable portion of their three year existence out on the road. Non-stop touring with the likes of Peaches and Gossip gave the art/performance trio, fronted by Le Tigre multi-instrumentalist JD Samson and firmly rounded out by friends Michael O’Neill (Ladybug Transistor) and Ginger Brooks Takahashi (LTTR, The Ballet), an opportunity to hone the assumed spectacle and expand their lively brand of polished electro-pop from an imagined sparkle to a sizable effort. And in just a few short weeks the trio will release their long-awaited debut full-length, the dance and pelvic-thrusty Talk About Body, on Los Angeles label IAMSOUND (artwork after the jump). Delivering with it enough disco-gloss to magically alter any pair of pleated pants into crotch high, dance ready cut-offs. Read More…

In this week’s Sounds Good question and answer, we hook up with Chicago’s own Rabble Rabble. A psych-rock fixture for the past few years, the Windy City quartet has been gaining ground ever since their full-length debut hit last August.

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The idea was to barricade myself within my bathroom’s confines and lay spread eagle in the cracked claw foot tub. Wearing nothing but a pair of day glo briefs decorated in glitter and puffy paint, I’d tighten my best Kanye-style Lost Boys’ headband and then, at least in theory, drink enough awesomely white-trash Nyquil-cut-with-vodka nutcrackers to successfully black the hell out. Fingers crossed, I’d dream of fluorescent skies and Pixy Stix over-consumption, CareBears playing drum pads, and satirical one-liners branded with ever-clever wordplay. Oh, and there’d be nightmares too. But mostly of the sugar variety. The kind that decay teeth beyond repair ‘cause the sounds and visuals and synths occurred run risk of being just too damn candied.

It’d be a marathon sleep session and by the time my eyes open, every dude with an ‘05 Postal Service agenda and a Passion Pit falsetto would’ve started taking music ‘more seriously’ by drastically lowering their voices and basically getting boring as all hell. Then I’d leave Chicago, move somewhere in Michigan, and record an electro-pop CD of everything experienced during my medicated, fuzzy, bathtub stopover. And I would simply win at life.

But then someone played me the song “My Leather, My Fur, My Nails” and I was like, ah damn screw the plan. I’ll just listen to Stepdad ‘cause that song and the EP it’s found upon is basically my rainbow delight manifested. Both the good and the bad. Read More…

Raised under Floridian sun with formative years spent in suburban palm tree sprawl, Dominican-born George Lewis Jr. has endured the better part of the last decade in various modes of sojourn. Time spent in Boston with extended stretches throughout Europe and beyond, Lewis eventually settled in the borough of Brooklyn, where he writes and records under the melancholy moniker of Twin Shadow. His debut record Forget, released in early September via Terrible, was produced by Grizzly Bear‘s Chris Taylor and has been heralded as one of the year’s best. Flush with translucent moments both pristine and hazy, it delivers synth-driven ‘80s smoke that’s competent enough to construct even the most neglected nostalgia; barely visible, yet still within reach. Definitely capable of loosening the taught skin of any Friday night spent swallowed in modern-hugging stirrup pants.

I talked with George the last time he played Chicago. It was a few weeks back, just prior to Twin Shadow’s set at Lincoln Hall. We conversed while he picked at his combination plate of XL tater tots and burger cooked to medium. Oh, and he was wearing jeans the color of diluted Pepto-Bismol. Which were/are super rad. Jump down for the Q&A where we discussed Forget, Katy Perry, fashion, and super shitty movies that carry the threat of frostbite (looking at you Russell Crowe). Read More…

Like empty urban lots overgrown with gnarly weeds and tall grasses, Chicago’s inundated with acoustic guitars wielded by twenty-somethings who really have no business picking up a six-string in the first place. The city’s tired open mics run wild with standard-issue voices and subpar songs performed uneasily on foot-high stages. So it’s refreshingly pleasant when someone like Derek Nelson arrives on the disparate singer-songwriter scene. A fervent and sincere old soul who actually knows how to craft a decent song.

Following last year’s much-applauded Something Obscure debut EP, a six-song stretch toting both sparse guitar and rich vocals rooted densely in reflective folk, Nelson’s returned with some fresh recorded output. And this time he’s got a full-band. Jump down for our review of Riders of the Tide, the new EP from Derek Nelson & The Musicians, along with a quick Q&A with the artist. Read More…

Warm to trot music blog Cream Team hosted a black market shindig in Chicago’s Palmer Square pocket Sunday night. Thankfully there was enough fight left in my tank to shit out one last night of Halloween revelry. Up in an attic damp and dirty, the party was a college throwback; complete with fog machine and hammer ‘n nail cash bar. It was the third night of tricks/treats and I’m fairly sure my body, which had been operating on a lethal combo of candy and booze all weekend, was on its death throes. (Thanks to CT’s novel 4Loko fountain, my eventual hour of shut-eye came late into the morning.)

I showed up early and left late, but among the costumed cats spilling drinks and snorting Pixie Stix (really, I saw a scantily-clad calico abusing the sweet sugar), I had the chance to talk with Big Splashes. Read More…

On a blue sky afternoon last month I caught up with recent Chicago transplants, Archie Powell and The Exports. Officially in the city just over a year, the energetic power-pop quartet plays rapid-fire classic rock. A choice variety that carries working-class leanings and pushes at a pace that’ll be relevant as long as Fenders still arrive with six taut strings. Not lousy plastic/spastic buttons.

Positioning asses on a Wicker Park grassy knoll like a bunch of Haight Street dandies, we talked about crappy late night Mexi-joints, the band’s recent full-length debut Skip Work, and the bonk-ass pistol tribulations that come with slinging Playstation 3s at a low-level Gamestop. Screw dem buzzbands (not really), Archie Powell and company is fundamentally prime. Read More…

By now White Mystery, Chicago’s stripped-drown brother/sister duo of Francis and Alex White, probably get a little bit ill every time they’re compared to that other midwestern twosome with the fondness for similar surnames and the color red. But unlike their more famous Motor City-bred garage rock parallels, White Mystery are still full of rock piss and roll vigor. Still hellbent on churnin’ out stripped-down bangers laced with crooked chords and unruly percussion. Read More…