Remember that weird childhood game of sitting in the dark on Halloween, passing around human body parts? You know, carrots for fingers, peeled grapes for eyeballs, or chilled spaghetti for guts? The mere power of suggestion (combined with too much candy corn) could make for a rollicking evening of disgusting…

As alleged “gay supremacists” who rattled the cage of underground music with 1989’s cult classic It’s Only Right and Natural, Dennis and Jimmy Flemion have gone beyond telling the world “we are homos, hear us roar.” Racially Yours found the two singing about ethnic tension — one in blackface, the…

Uwe Schmidt — one of Germany’s quirkiest electronic musicians with more than two dozen alter egos, including Atom Heart, Lassigue Bendhaus, and Lisa Carbon — masquerades as South American composer/dancer Señor Coconut on this release, the now-available precursor to 1999’s El Baile Alemán. For that album Schmidt reconfigured the sterile,…

British bird watcher Alison Goldfrapp digs spaghetti Western soundtracks and can sing and whistle to beat the band. Having provided vocals for both Tricky (Maxinquaye) and Orbital (Snivilisation), she expands Bristol’s artsy acid-jazz scene with a remarkable debut — one that waxes nostalgic for sultry torch songs (think Eartha Kitt…

The older Frank Black gets, the less he sounds like himself, which probably happens to everybody at some point. But ever since Pudge let his monkey go to heaven, he flat out refuses to scream at traffic anymore — or at the powers that be. He’s like a tired, prospectin’…

When Veruca Salt drew countless comparisons to the Breeders, “Seether” received massive mid-’90s airplay, putting the Chicago band on the map with Smashing Bald Guy for a while. Six years later, after a nasty split with cofounder Louise Post, singer Nina Gordon flounders for a new identity and finds one:…

Fifteen fuckin’ songs! Bang for your buck! Puttin’ fuckin’ bounce in the mosh pit, motherfuck! Rollin’ wit’ Napster! Get the fuck back! Freddy D is still pissed (yeah) — an’ he’s bustin’ out the smack! Cargo pants be saggin’, spray-paint can be taggin’! Phat-mad mic-skillz: Say: Fuck yeah! Say: Fuck…

At first blush, Tim Rutili’s five-song EP about disaster, grace, dumb luck, and fear of machinery might seem like a cynical prayer for peacenik John Lennon: consider the hollow-sounding, resonating piano of the disc’s opener, “Electric Fence,” and its narrator’s vocal resemblance to the Fab Four’s often acid-tongued martyr. “Jesus…

Don’t expect the sons of Kyuss — an underappreciated band that drew comparisons to Nirvana in the early ’90s — to rise up lethargically like Lon Chaney Jr. and embarrass their ancestry. Sure, guitarist Josh Homme packs bowl after bowl of blooze-metal variations from the seedier side — admittedly equal…

Anyone who thinks the Confederate flag is better suited for burning than waving better tiptoe around Nashville Pussy’s latest disc like a Sturgis preacher on Labor Day weekend. Yet for all of its sinfully contrived bombast, High as Hell shouldn’t prompt God Himself to declare smitin’ season on backslid rednecks…

Pop tart Gwen Stefani — pretty as can be, with a midriff for the ages — celebrated a special birthday recently: the dreaded three-oh. And by industry standards — those youth-obsessed, number-crunching principles — such a cosmic reckoning usually means one thing: Keep the salt lick and denture grip handy,…

The Rockfords The Rockfords (Sony/Epic) Step off, Eddie Vedder. And Stone Gossard — you might as well be Stone Phillips this go-around. Mike McCready, lead guitarist for Seattle’s Pearl Jam, has assembled some childhood pals to eke out a dozen James Garner- influenced songs about angels and bad relationships. Let…