The Feelies’ debut album Crazy Rhythms (1980) was the album that I had been waiting to hear, even if I had no idea before I heard it. The first listen was like meeting a soulmate—sparks flew, and I tattooed a flaming heart with “The Feelies” on my breast. The tattoo part may or may not be true. More to the point, The Feelies take the irreverence, hyperactivity and underproduction of punk as building blocks for an unparalleled brand of manic pop songs. The guitars tear out tight, nervous melodies against a hypnotic rhythm section that never pauses long enough to allow moments of gooey pop sensitivity to bubble up. It’s the music that the Velvet Underground might have made if they were dorky boys from Des Moines, strung out on trucker’s speed and blue raspberry icees from the Kum & Go. —L.C.

Clinic’s sophomore release Walking with Thee (Universal 2002) sits in the Campus Center’s jukebox but serves as a poor introduction to a fabulously indefinable group of Liverpool Sgt. Pepper’s lookalikes. Appearing clad in their trademark surgical masks, Clinic’s debut Internal Wrangler (Domino 2000) pounds out tense and edgy sixties kitsch influenced avant-garde danceable rock. Clinic combines standard rock instruments with a moody, vintage organ creating a sound that’s difficult to describe from a standard rock setup. The rough lo-fi edges by stomping drums makes Internal Wrangler not avant-garde in the sense that it’s unlistenable but that it defiantly defies classification. Try if you like Wire, Gang of Four, The Fall, dancepunk and electroclash. —E.K.

The Unicorns make lo-fi experimental pop that, like their native Canada, is quirky and slightly dorky, yet totally endearing. I mean, really, how lovable is Canada, what with its little maple leaf flag, funny accent and rosy-cheeked pacifism? And how lovable are the Unicorns, their more-sweet-than-sour pop songs, littered with synths, recorders and pennywhistles, comprising an album that asks a barber’s most existential question: Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone? (Alien8) The Unicorns are terribly lovable, not least because they are inventive, intelligent musicians who can rock a little and roll a little, and know just when to do which. Their lyrics are cryptic and goofy and vaguely about death, ghosts and—what else?—unicorns. But with lines like “Somewhere in the asshole of my life/ There’s a muscle that relaxes when you cry,” who wouldn’t want to let a Unicorn whisper sweet nothings in their ear?—L.C.

Lesser Birds of Paradise combine the country-folk of early Clem Snide with the love-torn, traditional indie-rock singer/songwriter on the Chicago quintet’s latest release, String of Bees (Contraphonic) singer and songwriter Mike Janka shows himself less sad-mouthed and plaintive than his contemporaries and more about making right. Janka eclectically touches his songs subtly with accordion, lap steel and ukulele creating august and subdued harmonies. Try if you like Smog or the many manifestations of Will Oldham. —E.K.