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 In 1994, after Infante had been replaced by Chris Norborg, the group relocated from Indiana to the nation's capital (Dugan was do-gooding at Amnesty International at the time), and soon ensconced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

Fine China. The Jaws of Life (Common Wall Media, 2005)

"So I designed a postcard/ To send out to my friends/ It had a photograph of you/ And it said, 'Happy, the end.'"

If you look up “sullen” in the dictionary, you may well find a picture of Fine China's lead singer Rob Withem glaring back, eyes hooded and mascara running. Seriously, check out the pictures in the liner notes to The Jaws of Life: these guys look like they’re in a perpetual pouting contest. I can only imagine the mood on the tour bus. Regardless, Fine China were a brilliant band hailing from Phoenix, of all places. They signed a record deal in 1997 and between then and 2005 put out three LPs. The Jaws of Life (sadly, because it finds them at the height of their melancholy swagger) was their last.

Withem’s dour, dream-soaked vocals combined with mega-catchy pop hooks make for a record you’re not sure you sing along with or cry along to. Either works, really; The Jaws of Life is equally at home on a road-trip or bawling your eyes out on your bedroom floor. Few bands are apt at serving both purposes; of course The Cure, The Smiths/Morrissey, and Joy Division set the standard, and Fine China stack up admirably, seamlessly mixing sometimes downright dance-y beats with positively grim lyrics.

"Rated-R" starts things off with a catchy organ line, then the guitar comes in almost surf-y, and then - wham! – that sighing synth smacks you in the face. You know what kind of record you’re dealing with even before Withem opens his mouth. And just in case there’s any doubt, lyrics proclaiming that, “kisses are the cheapest kind of drug,” cement the case.

"Don’t Frown" is presumably about a breakup, but just when things take a turn for the sappy, our singer is admonished repeatedly with, “You’re such a killjoy.” It’s shockingly easy to imagine that someone (or someones) have actually said this to the members of Fine China at some point, especially when the song ends pleadingly, “Please hang around, tell me don’t frown.” Next up is "Are You on Drugs?", hands down one of the best songs on this record, begging a friend to see the truth in a relationship: “Everybody knows/ That it’s not love/ Are you on drugs?” Condescension laid on so thick it devolves into hilarity; this is the point where you realize Fine China are in on the joke and you like them even more for it.

"The Cells Divide (And I Might Ruin My Life)" is a deliciously catchy gem about navigating the depths of vulnerability in relationships. Before that even has a chance to get stuck in your head though, you’ll be singing along with "Skull and Crossbones": “Somebody said I’m nice/ It tweaked me ‘cause they’re right.”

"Bivouac" is more mope-along than sing-along, but the crisp guitar and breathy vocals rescue it from the doldrums. "I’m Sorry For The Hating" is also a bit dirge-like, finding Withem nostalgic for (and ashamed of) experiences he hasn’t even had yet. "I Can’t Fall Asleep" and "Moving Up" continue on that theme, lamenting the aging process from the enviable vantage-point of a 26-year-old.

"My Worst Nightmare" sets fears of being abandoned by loved ones to a sing-along melody. "Prosecute Electrocute" breaks out the most Cure-like riffs, hearkening back to Three Imaginary Boys. And "Person Of The Month" rounds out the record with swelling keyboards and bass set to a frenetic drum machine beat, the singer begging his girlfriend, “I want to be the person of the month/ I need to hear you say you’re still in love.”

Well, I’m still in love with this record, and if you’re the only-happy-when-it-rains type, maybe you’ll fall in love with it, too. Who knew the desert-dry southwest could produce such moist melancholia, especially with all that sun? -- Anneke Chy

Fine China

Superchunk. Leaves in the Gutter EP (Merge, 2009)

"If I drift out into channels way too deep/ It's 'cuz I can't stand the shifting sand and shells beneath our feet/ Put your suitcase down and leave your shoes/ Gently by the door, in a puddle with your blues."

The aughts have been criminally Superchunk-deficient. With the exception of the 2007 7" "Misfits and Mistakes," the Chapel Hill indie pioneers haven't released any new material since 2001's stellar LP Here's to Shutting Up, the title of which appears, in hindsight, to have been a hint to their forthcoming silence.

But let's cut the quartet some slack: in the eight years since their last delivery, the label they founded has essentially blown up: Merge is home to two of the decade's biggest success stories, the Arcade Fire and Spoon, bands that have skyrocketed from fanboy obscurity to international acclaim. It's probably pretty tough to write and record new material when you're constantly trying to meet Win Butler's demands for more Faberge eggs and Bowie collaborations. I can only imagine.

At any rate, Superchunk -- who turn 20 this year, impossibly -- have broken their eight-year semi-silence with the Leaves in the Gutter EP, a classic good news-bad news story. The good news: this is as strong a batch of tunes as Mac McCaughan et. al. have released in a good long while. The bad news: there's only five tracks.

Despite its brevity, Leaves in the Gutter is bursting at the seams with the tried and true Superchunk sound: unceasingly hyper hooks, sweet-n-sour six string buzz, rushing rhythms, and wide-eyed melodies belted out by McCaughan in his eternally-adolescent tenor. If you're a fan, you'll be far from disappointed. And if you're (somehow, oddly; get with the program, already) not, then these tracks might just win you over, as overflowing with bright ideas and infectious energy as anything you're likely to hear. This EP once again confirms Superchunk as reigning kings of punchy, excitable indie pop, a band still capable of teaching kids decades their junior a thing or two about crafting blinding anthems and raucous verse-chorus-verse concoctions.

Opening track "Learned to Surf" might be one of the best songs Superchunk has ever recorded. Built around a patented Superchunk-style guitar line (file under: thorny), the tune chugs and charges brilliantly, as McCaughan cries out in his invigorating angry/righteous bark, "When I learned to talk/ I found words, they weren't worth dirt/ Heavy like the rocks we carry/ I stopped sinking and learned to surf!" It's straight shoutalong genius, custom-made for repeat listenings and bruised eardrums. There's an acoustic demo version included, as well, just to show that there's a fair deal of complexity underlying the brash bash-and-pop bluster. Check the fleet-fingered plucking for proof.

"Misfits and Mistakes" features neatly clipped riffage as its centerpiece, tightly wound and barbed; at the 2:45 mark, the song cracks wide open under manic drum rolls and cries of, "Put all the random pieces together!" Meanwhile, "Screw It Up" is Superchunk's summertime jam: crunchy major key chords wash up beside nicely reverbed strums and unspooling lead lines, glittering kitestring climbing ever sunwards. "Knock Knock Knock" takes no prisoners, drums and bass pinned in the red, guitars grinding away in double time, flailing solos the definition of unruly.

After nearly a decade, it's great to see Supechunk back in the saddle, especially when they're riding such an impressive (though brief) collection of new material. Leaves in the Gutter finds these Tarheels in fighting form and ready for action, a fitting memorial to 20 years of Superchunk and Merge; let's keep our fingers crossed that it's a harbinger for a similarly winning full length.

Leaves in the Gutter - Superch...