The space cadets from New York's White Hills are all about propulsion—they won't shy away from a meandering psychedelic passage or three, either. Over the past few years White Hills have left in their wake a purple haze of CDRs, 7-inches, EPs, and a couple of long-players that are as much druggy fun as staring at a black-light poster while chewing on a bag of mushrooms. (Or so I've heard.) The band's latest, Frying on This Rock (on the otherworldly Thrill Jockey label), captures the band live as the psychedelic squalor gets a bit of a makeover—more controlled chaos, less infinite space jams. White Hills occasionally tread into '60s psych parody with some Velvet-y spoken-word breakdowns. But by then you're already on board. MARK LORE