Like many of their NYC brethren in the much-hyped punk-disco movement, The Rapture liberally steal moves from post-punk trailblazers. Sure, Luke Jenner often sounds like Cure singer Robert Smith's doppelganger and Gang of Four guitarist Andy Gil's apprentice. Elsewhere, the Rapture allude to A Certain Ratio rhythms, John Lydon's vocals on PiL's "Careering," Au Pairsâ uptighty-whitey funk, and even a cacophonous This Heat-like lock groove. But all the Rapture's plagiarism is forgiven when the unstoppable, cowbell-enhanced groove of "House of Jealous Lovers" enters with bass that could wobble the Trump Tower. With one Gucci'd boot in da club, one Doc Martin in the punk dive, and a few lighter-waving ballads waiting in the wings, the Rapture have crafted a benchmark album that'll unite assorted tribes for months to come. DAVE SEGAL


"Pass that Dutch" single



"Hooty hoooooÉ" The first single from Missy's next record (This is Not a Test, coming Nov 25), has hit the airwaves with the banging, pared-down thud of the ever-present Diwali riddim. It's so very 2002--and still, Missy's emergency broadcast-style ode to the dance virus and your bottom-heavy pot is still lyrically zeitgeistical (what with our rampant fear of face-eating bacteria and all). Missy gets brilliant like Rerun ("Hay, hay, hay, I'm what's happenun'"), hangs out the window "like Michael Jackson," and stops the song in the middle to let the Dutch-passers catch their breath. She tells us to shake our stuff, jiggle that fat and delivers like she was taking her own advice in the studio, her cadences anticipatory and dripping with sweat. While the track doesn't hit with the visionary weight of "Work It" (or her amazing work in that Gap commercial), if the "Dutch" don't get passed in the club at least once every night for the next two months, hang the DJ. JULIANNE SHEPHERD


Blue Cloud

(Holy Mountain)


How much instrumental psych rock can scare the excrement out of you? Not much, Poindexter. But Portland occultists Davis Redford Triad possess the secret knowledge of sinister chords and tones to void your bowels--and transport your mind to hitherto unexplored depths of surreality, and they don't need death metal's corny cartoon graphics to do so. Blue Cloud's their third studio album, and it oozes serpentine kosmische klang from the mysterious East and seethes with fuzzed-to-Gomorrah feedback that's as haunted and turbulent as the mind of a Sufi mystic. Led by guitarist Steven Wray Lobdell (who's played with the rejuvenated Faust and is therefore unfuckwithable), RDT channel the universe's eternal aum into levitational, liquefied jams that suck the Grateful Dead's Dark Star into a black hole. You don't hear that every day. DAVE SEGAL

**** Dropsy

*** Jail Fever

** Milk Leg

* Bloody Flux