Mr. Airplane Man
Moanin’
(Sympathy for the Record Industry)
***
Moanin’ sounds like a howlin’ girl gang raised in the garage by Thurston, Kim, and Grand­daddy Spector after they ran off hitchin’ with those trouble-makin’ neighbor kids, the Honey­moon Killers, and were picked up by Big Mama Thornton. These Boston indie ladies manage to relay the gamut of emotion without whining or begging for your attention. Where you feel their labelmates might hold you down in the woodchips to hawk a loogie in your face, these girls could kick some White Striped ass—with the raw, sultry vocals of Margaret Garrett and the straightforward, pounding beat of Tara McManus’ drums. They invite you in and even the score. This, the duo’s second full-length album, has a schoolyard-scrappiness feel, in which Garrett and McManus run with bloody knees and dirty knickers. Wait! On closer inspection, that’s not dirt. It’s just a little bit of the blues. JEN McCABE

The Streets
Original Pirate Material
(Pure Groove Limited/Locked On)
***
Sick of other labels picking up on and making money off their good taste in music, Vice magazine started a record label and began releasing their favorite underground stars themselves. Birmingham, England’s the Streets (AKA Mike Skinner) is the first artist to get the official vinyl imprint; the 22-year-old lyricist blends elements of reggae, UK garage, and stripped-down hiphop into a spoken-word collage on the daily lifestyle of a working-class kid. With the sound of trains roaring in the background, Skinner raps without posturing or pretense at “street level,” calling himself the Everyman “geezer.” With a heavy British accent and a gentle delivery style, Skinner’s stories of eating chips, searching out excitement, and drinking pints in the pubs become smoothly strewn webs, interconnecting his life with those of the deadbeats on the gray street. Although it comes up from the ground level, the Streets’ soundtrack to urban culture is a well-polished debut. JENNIFER MAERZ

Voyager One
Monster Zero
(Loveless)
**
Even in shoegazer rock’s heyday (1988-92), it was never very popular. Detractors thought the genre—a shy aesthete’s take on space rock—lacked balls (hey, rock can’t live by testes alone) and often meandered fruitlessly. But when done right (My Bloody Valentine, early Ride, Slowdive), it mainlined bliss with unparalleled grace. Voyager One recall star-sailing icons like Echo & the Bunnymen and the Verve on their sweet-sounding second album. Anyone who’s ever swooned to Ocean Rain or A Storm In Heaven will appreciate Voyager One’s melli­fluous, mammoth opuses. Occasionally they take a too-familiar Ride with Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (and radio will love them for it), but more often than not, they evoke the tension between the druggy and the erotic found in shoegazing’s craftiest artists. DAVE SEGAL