Big Dipper
Supercluster: The Big Dipper Anthology
(Merge)
How could Big Dipper have been forgotten? It's not fair. They were as big as other Bostonian late-'80s alterna-idols like the Pixies and the Lemonheads. Big Dipper offered a smart melodic and jumpy twist on the era's post-punk pop, with bright guitar lines evoking Johnny Marr. Thankfully Merge made this career-spanning three-disc set showcasing songs from their 1985 beginnings to their post-major label demise in 1992. Listen to "Ron Klaus Wrecked His House" for proof of their greatness. —John Adamian
The Raveonettes
Lust Lust Lust
(Vice)
Shallow and shameless, The Raveonettes' latest album steals musical cues from a dozen bands. It's achingly familiar, so why is it also utterly irresistible? Blame the precision Swedish engineering of mastermind Sune Rose Wagner, who retools well-used parts of Luna, Phil Spector, and The Jesus and Mary Chain into concise pop nuggets that manage to sound fresh. He even makes vocalist Sharin Foo's hand-me-down ennui seem interesting, offsetting her narcoleptic cool with twanging guitars and gales of feedback. Aptly titled, Lust Lust Lust may leave you feeling cheap for bringing this two-dimensional pastiche home. But that knowledge won't stop you from embracing it in the moment. In fact, it's all part of the music's unlikely allure. —Jeff Jackson
Daryl Hall & John Oates
The Very Best of Daryl Hall & John Oates (Remastered)
(BMG Entertainment)
The Starsky and Hutch of yacht rock keep it fresh with a digital release of The Very Best of Daryl Hall & John Oates (Remastered). Here, in one easily downloadable set, are all the most-loved tracks: "Kiss on My List," "Family Man," "I Can't Go for That (No Can Do)." Now digitally delivered as well as remastered, this collection soars above the earlier The Very Best of Daryl Hall & John Oates, and will make even ardent fans forget the prior, less-than-the-very-best Best of Daryl Hall & John Oates. —Mark Roessler
Earth
The Bee Made Honey in the Lion's Skull
(Southern Lord)
Earth could easily cash in on its status as forerunner of some metal icons, but the band forges its own path. The Bee Made Honey recruits jazz guitarist Bill Frisell for a fuzzed-out excursion into Americana. This isn't a genteel exploration of country, gospel, and Southwestern tropes. These dense, droning instrumentals evoke an Ennio Morricone soundtrack for a scorched-earth Western with only 20-minute tracking shots of windswept burial grounds dotted with bleached bones. Too abstract and monolithic for the Americana crowd, too prairie-dusted for the metal crowd, this album will likely find its audience wandering in the wasteland between genres, welcoming a chance to be pulverized by a distinctly American beauty. —Jeff Jackson
