Pitchfork

"Shit! As if my problems weren't enough," I thought, as the huge, white, lead sled made contact with my ride at a high rate of speed. I watched the ripple of crumpling steel and exploding fiberglass coming toward me for a moment before the airbags deployed and it was over. In the radio, playing all the while, were those craz-ee Space Monkeys, bless 'em.

Exiting the vehicle, my feet crunched on the debris of my lights, my fenders, my engine, my radiator. Green slime ran like a river as I brushed the airbag powder off my chest. I walked around, climbed in the backseat, crumpled up into the fetus position and listened.

I can't beef these boys. Sure, they're following closely in the footsteps of Oasis, but the combination of shrill, boyish British angst vocals and heavy Fluke- like techno beats works both for the tech- terrified and the pop- jaded types. Ah man, my head hurts. There're blood spots on my fingertips. I hear sirens. The Space Monkeys play on, undaunted.

If you heard Definitely Maybe, you've got a decent idea what we're looking at. The Daddy Of Them All has a much beefier lean toward aggressive (and decidedly dance- friendly) beats, and rather than sprinkling tracks with egocentric moments of quietude designed to imply depth, these new kids are content to demonstrate their depth with electronically generated texture. Sure, it's got guitars. Hell, it's even got a Sugar Ray carbon- copy in "Sugar Cane," and I can only hope that the track name and the sound are not mere coincidence. I can hear voices outside. People shouting. Red and blue lights are reflecting off the headliner of my car. The back door pops open, and a State Trooper beckons me outside. Flashlights are stuck into my eyes, I see the destruction I have wrought, and part of me is so grateful that I spent that moment of peace in a world turned to chaos with those careless British boys with the Beatles in their blood and tech in their step. Easy.