Burning Airlines. Mission: Control! (DeSoto, 1999)

"And now we're learning/ About the charity that costs/ But we could do without/ The education."

DC hardcore vet J. Robbins spent time in seminal '80s District punk outfit Government Issue and headed '90s post-punk giants Jawbox before forming Burning Airlines (with fellow Jawboxer Bill Bardot and ex-Government Issue drummer Peter Moffett) at the end of the century. Burning Airlines (lifting their title from the 1974 Brian Eno track "Burning Airlines Give You So Much More" and betraying a bit of their artier tendencies) followed in Jawbox's footsteps, cranking out brutally melodic compositions delivered with an abundance of raw power, precision, and rhythmic authority. The sound was epic, unnervingly catchy, and big enough to take your block off at thirty paces.

Debut LP Mission: Control!, released on Robbins's own DeSoto label in 1999, is a mammoth calling card and one of the finest indie rock albums of the decade, demonstrating the full potential of the DC approach when done just right. Demonstrating an expert command of timing and dynamics, each track is impossibly tight and impressively hooky, built around Barbot's and Moffet's complicated interlocking drum (Moffett is a machine behind the kit, whipping out complex beats and counterbeats at will, playing off his bandmates and forging brave new sonic paths, a Bonham-level engine of timekeeping power) and bass interplay and Robbins's virtuoso guitar lines, which manage to thrash and smolder with an aching urgency.

But at its core, Mission: Control! is a simple guitar pop record, albeit one that you wouldn't mind backing you up in a bar fight. It sounds tough and takes its rocking so so seriously; but the sheer tunefulness of the songs saves it from humorlessness. Make no mistake: as accomplished as the instrumentation is throughout, Mission: Control! is a damn good time, a party record for the fitted-shirt-and-hornrims-set.

To say that there's a bad song on here would be perjury, but there are some notable highlights. Opener "Carnival" charges out of the gate in a flurry of roaring chords and bouncy syncopation, guitar lines chiming and slicing beautifully. "Wheaton Calling" unwinds around a choppy gallop, the choruses soaring and shimmering behind Robbins's cries of, "Repeat/ Times ten/ You're happy again/ Sinking where you lay."

Maybe Burning Airlines' single greatest song, "Pacific 231" is a model of its kind, an irresistible anthem with a hook impossible to ignore or forget, tense and coiled until the sun breaks through at the 1:56 mark. The plush "3 Sisters" finds Burning Airlines edging off the throttle a bit, proving that they can do tender without sounding like wallflowers. Over waves of reverb and clockwork rhythms, Robbins, Bardot, and Moffett craft a gorgeous post-hardcore ballad, marked by a bracingly corrosive solo from Robbins.

I once saw Burning Airlines open for emo poster boys The Promise Ring, and to say that the latter seemed anemic in comparison doesn't come close. It wasn't even a fair fight. Mission: Control! ably captures the potency and muscle of what were some of the finest purveyors of the DC sound to ever rise from the shores of the mighty Potomac, a trio for which power would be a shameful understatement.

Pacific 231 - Burning Airlines

Japandroids. Post-Nothing (Unfamiliar, 2009)

"She had wet hair/ Say what you will/ I don't care/ I couldn't resist it!"

The title of Post-Nothing, Vancouver duo Japandroids' debut LP, betrays a certain amount of impatience. Impatience with rock classifications, with post-rock and post-punk and post-hardcore; impatience with theories and overthought; impatience with patience. This is rock'n'fuggin' roll, after all, not math class or grad school. Let's hurry up and lighten up, plug in, and just play, man.

Which is just what Japandroids commence to do over the course of Post-Nothing's eight tracks and 35+ minutes, whipping a righteous racket of guitars and drums, injecting each tune with a sweaty, hoarse exuberance that belongs to the young and the young at heart. Brian King (guitar/vocals) and David Prowse (drums/vocals) keep things loud and simple, mining Superchunk, Guided by Voices, Chavez, My Bloody Valentine, and loads of untold hometown gararge heroes for blueprints and battleplans, cranking amps and punishing skins to create a direct, vital noise that's always aimed for the back of the room.

The guiding principle is intensity. King and Prowse play for the joy of playing, stoked simply to be recording their sounds for posterity, wide-open grins and breathless abandon as integral to the music as the instruments. Each blown out, distortion-drenched massive jam comes across as a rallying cry and a call to arms, a hooky entreaty to shout along at the top of your lungs. Lyrics revolve around youth, being young, and the drag of growing old, eternal themes warmed over awesomely. Smart melodies keep things from getting dumb, while the punishing volume and blistering beats save the project from being too cute. It's a fine line between clever and stupid, and Japandroids trace it.

Thin Lizzy prequel "The Boys Are Leaving" starts off like a Loveless demo before the drums roll in to give shape to the shimmer and roar, monster fills bleeding into the melodies to form an instinctively catchy anthem. "The boys are leaving town," shouts King before wondering desperately, "Will we find our way back home?" The track mixes wanderlust and reminiscence expertly, anticipation and loss duke-ing it out over twisted, burning chords.

"Young Hearts Spark Fire" is a timeless tune, the embodiment of juvenile elation and the sadness that comes with its eventual, inevitable loss. "Ohhhhhhh, we used to dream!" goes the chorus, "Now we worry about dying." Has there ever been a better middle finger to mortality than, "I don't wanna worry about dying/ I just wanna worry about sunshine and girls." It's "My Generation" for every generation, unburdened by boomer entitlement and other gross baggage. It's genius.

Throughout Post-Nothing, Japandroids return again and again to living in the present and letting the future take care of itself. Each song is a self-contained ode to wasting time and having a blast doing it, and the music underscores the point. The guitars buzz and crackle and blast, frantic strumming the backdrop for stun-ray acid surf solos, distortion hiding the cracks and flaws. "Wet Hair," with its exhortation to "French kiss some French girls," is a perfect distillation of the Japandroids' sound: simple changes played loud and fast, floor toms and kick drums and cymbals all elbowing their way into the mix, lyrics a hectic shout over the turbulence. "Rockers East Vancouver" stays tense and tight, opening up but never letting up, switching tempos to vary the abuse. "I Quit Girls" rides a wave of phase like the best early Pavement, a surprisingly beautiful dose of naive guitar delinquency shot through with trebly spikes and thorns.

Post-Nothing trades in simplicity and timelessness, its greatness grounded in a faith in extreme volume and hooks. This is honest music about being young and playing music, performed with an utter lack of self-consciousness or giving-a-shit. Japandroids just wanna rock you, and on Post-Nothing they succeed admirably. Plus, the cover of the album looks like the cover to Television's Marquee Moon, and they occasionally play the immortal McLusky's "To Hell With Good Intentions" during their live sets, both of which are totally worth a few points. It's like they're trying to be the best band ever.

Japandroids

Chisel. 8 A.M. All Day (Gern Blandsten, 1996)

"You're solid gold now, but they'll still be a show without you."

Before he developed into one of indie rock's foremost purveyors of thoughtful, stunningly accomplished, expertly crafted guitar pop, Ted Leo headed up DC's oft-overlooked neo-mod-punk outfit Chisel, a burning ball of hopped-up zealotry and blistering hooks. Though not as expansive or ambitious as Leo's later work with the Pharmacists, Chisel was solidly top shelf, and stood out from the pack of early '90s punk poppers due to an abundance of style and clever concepts, setting the foundation for Leo's subsequent sound and establishing the Jersey troubadour as a talent to watch. Listening to Chisel, you can hear the bright days ahead.

The trio (Leo on vocals and guitar, Chris Infante on bass, and John Dugan on drums) first coalesced at the University of Notre Dame, where Leo, Infante, and Dugan bonded over a love of nervy post-punk and brash Who-, Jam-, and Faces-flavored mod abandon. Leo was a veteran of the New Jersey and New York all-ages punk scene, while Dugan had been playing in DC hardcore bands since high school. In 1994, after Infante had been replaced by Chris Norborg, the group relocated from Indiana to the nation's capital (Dugan was do-gooding at Amnesty International at the time), and soon ensconced themselves in the city's then-flourishing indie scene, falling in alongside such titans as Fugazi, Jawbox, and the Dismemberment Plan and building a reputation for bracing, galvanizing earcandy.

Over the course of their too-short career, Chisel released a bunch of singles and 7"s, an EP (1995's Nothing New), and two LPs, 8 A.M. All Day and the 1997 swan song Set You Free. Introductory full length 8 A.M. All Day is their strongest collection, a slashing, crashing set of tight-fitting and well-turned-out garage mod mayhem, bursting with memorable melodies and insistent riffs that manage to capture the cool essence of '60s and '70s rock-n-soul without sounding goofy or stale or slavish. Throughout, Leo's fleet-fingered axemanship is on full display, and his fervent tenor -- occasionally joined by Norborg's infectious background harmonies -- wraps the tunes in a palpable enthusiasm. It's nervy, electric, and invigorating music, guaranteed to break a sweat and wear out your dancing shoes in the best Northern Soul-cum-Jersey Turnpike tradition.

Nearly every song here buzzes with raw pop power, as the band pushes the limits of the three-piece setup. Leo's guitar playing is, as always, incredible: the sound he coaxes out of just six strings is consistently surprising, blending choppy, chunky chording with bursts of blazing fretwork. "Hip Straights" blasts out of the blocks with violent strumming and soaring backing vocals, the skewed main riff bouncing off the rhythm section to excellent effect. "The Dog in Me" is a reluctant anthem and tuneful mea culpa, riding a lovely crunch, while "Your Star is Killing Me" stomps and swaggers and points fingers, frantic distortion and running-scared treble framing Leo's sadly accusatory pronouncement of, "And I'll always be thrilled, and you'll always be the one who's thrilling me/ But if I die unfulfilled, I want you to know that your star is killing me."

Elsewhere, the serpentine melody of "Looking Down At The Great Wall of China" captures the structure's vast, winding ways effortlessly. The LP's title track is a lilting pearl, and one of the best numbers on the album, as Leo pleads and cajoles behind a jittery, buoyant instrumental, finding space to stretch out and open up while retaining the thrilling claustrophobia that defines the band. "Citizen of Venus" is almost impossibly catchy, built around a downbeat wavering between stomp and glide; the solo that breaks through at the 2:30 mark is a heartstopper, further testament to Leo's abilities.

In their time, Chisel were a welcome dose of levity and fun in what could be an overly-serious DC scene. By placing post-punk and hardcore in a mod and soul context, Leo and his accomplices created a thrilling and exciting sound with a debt to the past but an eye on the future. And a decade-plus down the road, 8 A.M. All Day sounds as quick-witted and spit-shined as it did the day it was released.

Chisel