1 OUT OF 10 MUSIC EDITORS HATE VOGUING TO DANZIG

I won't say where these were supposed to run, but I will say that assigning reviews and then acting like you never got 'em when they're submitted is bullshit. Needless to say, my days of scribing for NAME REDACTED are pretty much over. Not even a frickin' killfee! Or an email wondering where the reviews are or anything. Come on.

Beach House
Devotion
(Carpark)
Two years removed from its captivatingly cozy epymonous debut, there's something slightly different about Baltimore's Beach House. To be sure, the duo hasn't altered its core tactics: those lobotomized organs and guitars coast along on stoned cruise-control, those rattles and tambourines jangle blithely on occasion, and sombulant vocalist Victoria Legrand eks out dreamy relationship complaints and concerns as though she's on the verge of passing out on some opium-den couch. Yet Devotion feels slightly less passive, less drift-like in execution, more assertive: Legrand means it now, pushing up on figurative elbows to set her voice above the langourous fray, while the slo-mo drums hit harder and the woozy-snoozy melodies pop in the mix. For all its Sergio Morrocine overtones, "Gila" lives and dies on a sweet, loop-de-loop keyboard hook - not to mention Legrand's stretched, unsexualized "oh-oh-oh-oh" refrain. On "Wedding Bell," Alex Scally's ax figures register as dull buzz-saw roars as Legrand uncoils kalediscopic organ spools, drops. light-gobule keybs, and comes across as, well, happy. Creamy, reverb-soaked organ-balm "D.A.R.L.I.N.G." even deigns to ramp the Beach House pace up to a weak trot and indulge in a multi-tracked chorus that spells out the song's title; who'd have thought these two would ever have anything in common with Fergie?--Ray Cummings

The Whitsundays
The Whitsundays
(Friendly Fire)
You wouldn't believe it to listen to them, but the Whitsundays hail from Edmonton, Alberta - not the United Kingdom. That's somewhat surprising considering the influences this group's self-titled debut brings to bear: Clinic's sterile-yet-gritty garage revival chic and the Zombies' gloomy British-invasiveness. Whitsundays frontman Paul Arnusch - on leave from his drumming gig with post-rockers Faunts - clearly digs on the Walkmen and the Strokes, too: guitars jab gamely or stagger like a hungover sailor on Sunday morning, romantic quandries are drolly dissected and reassembled, warm vintage organs abound, and Arnusch maintains a practiced, above-it-all disinterest throughout. "Falling Over" is the sort of protracted, please-don't-dump-me appeal to some lovely young thing that inspires restraining orders in real life; as a pair of pealing guitars tease out a lightly grooving, retro melody, he wonders "If your feelings of love have truly gone, gone/and you can't find the strength to carry on, on/Or what to do, or what to say, say/Just tell me where to go/I gotta know." "The Ways of the Sweet Talking Boys" fairly bubbles over with gleaming strands of Fender Rhodes as multitracked gangs of Arnusch surf a darkly jealous wave. Given the mood here, "Antisocial" makes for a leftfield shock - tasteful, three-chord punk ala early Blur. As bygone, earnest pastiche goes these days, the Whitsundays are moderately enjoyable, at best; maybe, given the myriad options available, that's enough for now. Originality can wait. --Ray Cummings