For a while, I couldn't understand why I liked electronic music. For a while before that, I didn't.

It hit me out of nowhere. Perhaps like you, kind reader, I was lounging with my wine and cheese and Decemberists, soaking in their Baroque strains and looking up words like "bagatelle" in the dictionary. Before I knew it I was blissfully lost in a blender of blips and bloops and lots and lots of fuzz.

And like that, a bookish, lyric-minded civilian was made a loopy marionette. I began craving more and more intricately layered drums, bass, synth, fuzz, frazz, floop, and thump. My head nodding increased 600%, particularly while driving.

Berkeley, California's Out Hud and London's Hot Chip approach this type of music differently, but their similarities bring out the best of the genre.

The opening salvos of Let Us Never Speak of It Again and The Warning mirror each other; the bands flex their sonic muscles hard, spewing among the most saturated moments on their respective albums. "This Just In," the 28-second intro on the Out Hud record, is like an action movie trailer. Within ten seconds they hurl out a breadth of sounds, from fuzzed to choked to metallic to organic. Then the track combusts under its own weight in an ecstatic human scream.

Hot Chip's "Careful" opens with a few seconds of Enya serenity, setting a launching pad for the blippy drum-and-bass beat backed by kick-drum explosions and human "Yeahs!" Although it's actually part of the first full song, Hot Chip uses the same intro method as Out Hud — a flash-bomb opening assault that quickly settles into the record's most accessible vocal hooks.

Those first 30 seconds are really what a first-time listener reacts to — it's like the sparks that flew out when Pandora's Box was opened, and everyone just stared and said, "Oh shit."

But most of us, hard-wired in pop music, still need a human voice to anchor songs. Even if it's crooning nonsense, just another instrument in the mix, I like to have something to mouth along to. And so do music video directors. Take Out Hud's "Old Nude." "They said you were very nice, but..." comes a repeating lyric. The melody line is low and accusatory, while focused drums help the music sound equally menacing. But during the snub, "But if you don't believe...," you can hear the mood lighten to carefree with sparse, plinky strings as the singer snickers at the subject of the song.

In both cases the lyrics guide the listener, as if to explain the music. It's the reverse of a movie soundtrack: here, the music is the focus while the words are background color.

But I never gave much thought to why I like this stuff until listening to Hot Chip's latest. As a drummer, I've always loved hearing new sonic textures and thick, layered beats — but there's definitely more to it.

I can't read while someone is talking to me. I can't write while listening to lyric-heavy music like, say, Bob Dylan. Similarly, it's hard to both listen to a ballad like the Mountain Goats' "Dance Music" without playing through the storyline in your mind. But instrumental-based dance songs like Hot Chip's "Over and Over" inject maybe 25 words for your consideration and then back off, letting you dig the music.

From the chorus:

Over and over ... like a monkey with a miniature cymbal
The joy of repetition really is in you.

The scattered dance music of Out Hud and Hot Chip is adventurous enough to be physically engaging. Restless, colorful textures keep your head awake and your limbs twitching. But because words take the back seat, it's also mentally relaxing — the joy of repetition.

Ganging Up on Guster

Yes, it's been over a month. No, I haven't given up on listening to music. But in addition to spending my time picking up Beach Boys and Simon & Garfunkel records for $1.91, I've been working. And since it's on the inter-web AND on paper (and they pay me), The Roanoke Times gets first dibs on my mindliest of musings.

Here's my review of Guster's new Ganging Up on the Sun, courtesy of The 'Noke:
(read the whole thing here)

Since forming more than a decade ago, Guster has consistently been a great pop band. Five studio albums under their belts, they've rightfully amassed a wild fan base and a reputation for stellar live shows despite only modest radio play.

But the acoustic, college-rock mindset of their first three records shackled their sound -- and their songwriting. That's why, when they enlisted fourth member Joe Pisapia on guitar, banjo, bass, keyboards and harmonica in 2003, the result was "Keep It Together," their best release to date.

And that's why, three years later, they've topped it again with "Ganging Up on the Sun."

On "Keep It Together," Guster finally had the weapons of a real pop band: guitar, bass, drums and keys -- not to mention some of the best vocals this side of the Mississip'. This time around the band has all that, plus some experience with their arsenal. But rather than settle for matching their last release, they push into new territory with the exciting sound of a band in constant transition.

You're missing the best parts! Click here for phrases like "America's largest underground waterfall," "uncertain mortality," and "post-9/11."

Gnarly Barks

Evidently, someone shoved Danger Mouse and Cee-Lo into a time machine and shipped them back to the Motown era. Picking up some Italian movie soundtracks on the way, Gnarls Barkley returned with St. Elsewhere.

The record is largely Danger's playground, a sleek, chaotic jumble of double-time drums and orchestra swells. It's great to hear him a new setting, his beats unchained by the task of rhyme backing.

The tracks are diverse enough, from the Motown bass line on "Smiley Faces" to the spooky stomp of "The Boogie Monster," but the real highlights are those that push the envelope - and the VU meter. "Go-Go Gadget Gospel" has hooked many a friend on the album, and "Transformer" takes a zany page from Outkast's "Ghetto Musick" - no surprise, given the ATL duo's relationship with Goodie Mob. (And the garbled voice effect on "Necromancer" could be a cue from "Dracula's Wedding.)

DM said in a Pitchf**k interview that brevity was a goal in creating the album (much like theDangerDoom project), and by the end of the 37-minute episode, things feel undercooked, or at least shallow. "Feng Shui," sporting one of the disc's top beats, begs for a guest emcee appearance (ideally a Kweli soundalike) but is cut short. The record's closing tracks fade in quality, tapering to an anticlimactic end with "The Last Time."

Like the pop era it borrows from, St. Elsewhere emerges very entertaining yet thin. It's a pleasant benzi box shaker for the summer, but more than anything, I'm just left all the more anxious for Outkast's Idlewild. (Thoughts on single "Mighty O" upcoming.)

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For the comments: When Cee-Lo sings "Here I come, I come, I come, I come" on "Storm Coming," is that a shout-out Stone Temple Pilot's "Sex Type Thing"? It's gotta be, right? Man, how random.

Rocky Votolato is probably the kind of guy I hate - almost.

He's that long-haired dude at the party strumming his guitar in the corner just a little too loud. About half the people know him, and his friends are reduced to apologists by association. "Yeah, he's not bad," they tell the ladies, fondling a Solo cup. "Did I tell you I used to play guitar?..."

Only, like the knockout's boyfriend who turns out to be a nice guy, Rocky V's actually pretty good at what he does, which makes him all the more hateful.

At worst, his earnesty fringes on unbearable, one swig too many from the Springsteen bottle (though it's watered down with Gin Blossoms). Makers' highlights - "White Daisy Passing" and "Uppers Aren't Necessary" - are the folksier numbers that don't allow for any constipated redemption a la the Boss.

His songwriting is generally compact and neatly structured, but for every strong image there is an easy, overused complement. In "Wait Out the Days" - easily the most irritating chorus on the record - he opens with, "When the memory is a blank page / And the teeth in your
mouth are all cliches." It's all too easy to picture him sitting down with a blank page and taking the easy way out, writing down the first thing that comes to mind and then covering himself with a self-aware cliche reference.

And his best influences are also scarcely hidden: Iron & Wine, some Ray LaMontagne and Damien Rice. His "nu-singer-songwriter" style (consider that coined) in between poetic folk and adult alternative is derivative of his contemporaries, giving even his best work a thin, microwaved feeling.

But while it might not be one of the year's best, Makers is solid. If this is the quality of the genre's imitators, to complain would just be jealousy. "Y'know, I used to play guitar..."

Aww, Interpol.

Interpol is firmly glued in its niche, to the point where they're listed as an influence for arty post-punk bands once removed, in place of Joy Divison. But a subtle but key change happened between Turn on the Bright Lights and Antics. On Antics' opener, "Last Exit," Paul Banks sings in a fresh, new voice. Suddenly he sounds much less robotic - light and even happy, for Interpol.

On Bright Lights, Banks was aggressively gloomy - like a sad person prone to violent fits. On songs like "Obstacle 2," "PDA," and "Stella," Banks is controlling. Even when the lyrics read uncertainty, like the desperation of "Obstacle 1" and "Say Hello to the Angels," he's insecure but lashing out. You can't go up and console him because he'd stab you in the face.

Maybe between the two records, Banks got laid. With "Stella" and "Say Hello," he clearly needs it. Antics is definitely less impacting than Interpol's debut, but its sound is airier and more diverse.

But above all, his insecurities are laid barer. Without the angry, violent edge, Banks comes off more like a sensitive (coughemocough) kid. Yeah, kid. He sounds honest and even innocent, none of that rape language that peppers Bright Lights.

"It took a life time spent with no cellmate," Banks sings on "Evil." In that case, Antics is the afterlife, and he's now an emoting, functioning member of society, if a touch less interesting. And for all their obliqueness, they couldn't have made their point more bluntly. Their album covers are black and then white, for god's sake.

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Soundwise, My Morning Jacket kinda had a similar transformation with Z. Stripped of miles and miles of reverb, Jim James' voice was cut loose and has never sounded better. Even on songs with a touch of echo, like "Wordless Chorus," he unleashes soaring shrieks he didn't even know he had. Or at least I didn't. The new, more direct Jim James, combined with shaving 30 min off their record time, makes for a really great album. I picked it for my #1 of 2005, and I'm still pleased with my choice. Look at all that smug.

"Y'know it's time ... that we ... grow old and do some shit."

Broken Social Scene is usually mentioned in the same breath with its blood relatives - Stars, Feist, Metric. But musically it's pretty far removed. The albums hang together in my mind like a Salvador Dali painting; amidst all the shifting sound pallettes, oblique song titles, and an inordinate amount of instrumental tracks, some kind of image comes out.

I'm pretty pop-minded, and the record highlights for me are usually more straightforward cuts like "Lover's Spit" or "Major Label Debut." I realized that getting lost in all the fragmented instrumentals is like twiddling through static on the radio, driving on a distant highway with shaky reception. It builds mood, and when that song comes through it's that much better.

My first inclination is to say, "You rat-bastards, if you can write songs like that, write 12 and put them on a record." But that would ruin it. BSS's music is pure cinema, and its climaxes need lulls in between. Otherwise it would play like watching Mission Impossible 2 and Speed 2 at the same time, fast-forwarded. And no one wants that.

Earn free indie-cool points!

Scandinavian, import-only: check.
Cute, obscure label name: check.
Kooky electronica concept: check.
Name-checked by Norweigian pop siren Annie: check.

I'm rarely shill this shamelessly for bands, but this cd is a surefire way to boost your indie cred. More than all the corduroy in the world.

The band's called Toy. It's a duo of a UK composer and a Norweigan producer who's worked with Sondre Lerche and Magnet. The self-titled debut is a bright electro mix of - surprise, surprise - toys. Children's toy sounds, cutesy synths, and other snaps, crackles, and pops.

"Rabbit Pushing Mower," one of several reggae-infused tracks on the record, was on Annie's DJ Kicks installment. Download it.

The soundscape is schticky by nature, and somewhat limiting. But Toy keeps things busy, incorporating various genres and doing a fine job with L-R mixing. It's chaotic and fantastical, but also very accessible. If Cosmo were still around, it'd make a marvelous video game soundtrack.

Go Cosmo! Suction those walls! Bomb those aliens!

Incidentally, here's the cheapest place I've found to buy imports. $1 shipping? Sign me up.