By Ryan Broderick

When starting City Sleeps’ new album, one isn’t sure of what to expect. First track “Hotel” is kind of soft and sounds a little epic, with little pieces of twinkling prog-guitar, some symphonic stuff.

Second track, “Prototype,” opens pretty badass though, as the vocals enter, listeners feel tricked. City Sleeps packages itself as a trendy fashion-post-hard-fashion-core-core-fashion band but as soon as singer Elliott Marsh Sharp starts singing, you realize that “Butt Rock” has gained a new form.

As the album continues, you discover “Butt Rock” is not nearly a specific enough moniker for what this five piece is bending over and churning out. Normal “Butt Rock” is lame, irrelevant and loud. City Sleeps takes the lame and unoriginal guitar riffs reserved for a band the likes of Creed or Alterbridge and speeds it up. At the third track, it becomes all too clear that you’ve opened up a “Jock Rock” CD. Considering there’s no jogging, playing football, or any sort of sports movie montage, it’s easy to get a little angry.

Production is sleek, but not nearly sleek enough to hide the fact that without it, you could easily picture City Sleeps doing White Snake covers in a Bennigan’s somewhere.

Lyrically, the band is completely asinine and reads like a Puddle Of Mud mad lib:

“I made her from pieces of stars / The ones that fell when you shot through / A sky that burned not to return…Now it’s blue / I can barely see the sun / Because she kisses like a prototype” / OK? What does that even mean, though? You can be the judge of literary merit.

Federation’s newest CD is unbelievable. For those who are white and do not like rap, albums like this make you wish you did. “It’s Whatevah” starts off with “Playtime is Over,” which thumps with a swagger you’d normally only expect from a drunken pirate. Federation is the definition of high-fi. Every track gives you more and more reason to throw open your car doors and go dumb in stalled traffic.

Its flow is tight and aggressive, and the use of synth is as refreshing as a gust of new wind blowing over the landfill of by-the-book hip-hop. It’s something you don’t usually see in hip-hop but every track is a bouncing dance beat, filled with energy and power. There are only two ways to stay original in rap: by making a musically legitimate album with depth and beauty or by completely embracing the insanity and banality of rap and going to the other side of the spectrum.

Federation’s “It’s Whatevah” is a dirty, trashy, explosive and tasteless work of art. Its cleverness comes from its complete lack of class. It is pornographic, ridiculous and great.

Unfortunately, it suffers from the same problem that plagues most rap albums. A little less than halfway through the tracks of this 21-track album, you get a little bored. Sadly, there’s few ways to fix while staying inside the limited high-fi niche.

Having never heard of Carl Platou, it’s fairly easy to see why after starting his latest album, “Frozen Eve.” He awkwardly croons over bluegrass, twinkle-rock that’s almost reminiscent of the newest Shins album. Musically, it’s quite nice. While peaceful and beautiful in many parts, Platou’s voice and lyrics make one want to turn off the album the minute he starts.

Yes, there are parts to like, but it’s just incredibly hard to get past his voice. It sounds like an older, French, Michael Stipe and listeners get the distinct impression that he’s from France.

This album should be suggested to those humorless, late-20-something’s. Mildly hip, without coming close to anything ground breaking, “Frozen Eve” is especially perfect for this demographic because it’s got an old guy, and those people seem to like that whole “like totally being into the older singer-songwriter-types, chill man, ya know?” So if you like upbeat twinkle-rock with southern tints, Carl Platou is all yours.

You may or (hopefully) may not know Pat Monahan from his other band Train. They wrote “Meet Virginia” and that song about space, or something.

It’s easy to begin his latest album, “Last of Seven,” grinning with all the mean stuff those who consider themselves hip could nail this guy with. Train, by all accounts, sucks.

You can imagine the surprise at the fact that “Last Of Seven” didn’t suck at all. It is actually a mildly good pop CD though-by all math, it shouldn’t be.

Monahan’s solo album conveys a genuine emotion listeners truly won’t mind listening to the album. His words are poppy and a little floaty, but they work. It comes across as a Gavin DeGraw that isn’t a massive toolbag.

Don’t fool yourself, “Last of Seven” still isn’t for everyone, and it might not even be for younger people. But those who like it will like it quite a bit. It has a nice atmospheric sound and it’s rather pleasant. The recommendation here is to listen to it, even if you’re not a fan of Train. It may surprise you.

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