This week’s Rock-a-Ramas were written by Mandy Brownholtz, Zachary Lipez, Grace Scott, and Maria Sherman. Read last week’s reviews here.

This is kind of the box set to end all box sets, at least if you’re an extreme Blondie fan like me. However, as CREEM’s lowley reviewers only get digital downloads, lacking the tactile experience of actually sitting with this behemoth and playing every album individually—six remastered full albums, four albums of outtakes, demos and home recordings—observations are limited. From the promotional video, though, the design is really nice—exactly what you would expect from any Numero release—and keeping with Blondie’s own world of visual coolness, so that’s a relief. The accompanying hardcover book of liner notes and essays features photos I’ve never seen, which also makes me want it. And the rarities are cool; a stripped down, twangy track called  "I Love You Honey, Give Me a Beer" (an early demo that would become “Go Through It”); a surfy, home recording called “Mr. Sightseer”; many, many demos. If my landlord wasn’t raising my rent, I would buy this.

This release best encapsulates what’s poppin in contemporary Los Angeles music circles: post-punk bass licks, coldwave synth, tongue-in-cheek rap meets chilled-out psychedelia. For the kids who grew up on the Smiths filtered through 2010’s Captured Tracks bands and, like, whatever lowrider oldies their cool older siblings blasted on the 101. But if the name Mac DeMarco and all he’s brought forth gives you hives, move on.

During the first COVID lockdown, my lady was stuck in New Orleans. She didn’t feel right traveling, and New York City, where our home is, was pretty much just sirens and young urban professionals clanging their pots and pans out the window, at dusk, like they were calling out to the Angel of Death or Takeout. So my lady stayed put. I missed her a lot. Anyway, she adopted two cats; one from Louisiana and one from Texas. When shit got slightly less ostensibly hectic, my lady’s dad, mom, and sisters drove from Los Angeles to New Orleans, picked my lady and her cats up, and drove nonstop to the east coast. That’s how I got my lady back, and two cats. One cat’s name is Kismet and the other is Brisket. Brisket is big and shy and sweeter than you can imagine. She loves to rest her butt on me and, I’m not going to lie, it’s been a real comfort over a time that’s had its share of deep unpleasantness. Point being: I’ll see you all in hell before I listen to a Muse record. But Brisket’s original name was “Muse,” and she’s been a real life saver. I know Muse (the band, not the cat) has had a similar effect on people. And I think that’s wonderful.

5 stars. 10.0 out of 10. Highly recommended.

(P.S.: To Muse’s PR team, you absolutely have my permission to use those ratings, completely free of the context that lead up to them, in your advertising/PR blasts. It’s a lovely thing to give people joy and you should be proud of what you do.)

So I’m listening to the new Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith record, which finds the composer exploring sonic landscapes beyond her established perch within the ambient world. You know, it’s “less ethereal,” and “more chaotic.” Her press release articulated what I’m trying to say as “traversing avant-garde pop, neoclassical, and otherwise undefinable expression,” which is a far more sophisticated way of saying this record is giving “AI robot attempting to produce hyperpop.” And yet, it succeeds in doing so, somehow? She pulls in some vintage chiptune elements (am I the only KAS fan that picked up on that from listening to 

 as opposed to playing vintage video games?) and ultimately I’m unsure if it's meant to make the listener feel like they’re trapped inside an arcade game or a utopian reimagining of 

 to be in one of those gooey artificial uteruses, ya feel me? Anyway, I’m not mad about it. Give it a whirl.

Is writing about an album’s anniversary cheating? I don’t give a fuck—it’s CREEM, honey, and there are no rules. Vancouver’s all-too-short-lived NÜ SENSAE dropped 

 ten years ago this month, and that’s well and good—righteous anger truly never goes out of fashion. If it’s new to you, check it out! (Did you know their drummer is Orville Peck now? Wild.) If it’s old to you, check it out! (The motherfucking masked cowboy crooner, seriously! If you didn’t know that, don’t worry, darling, 

“Long live the asbestos on the rental / It looks all right to me,” sings Australia’s Stella Donnelly on “Lungs,” an angry and restrained song stacked with “Surgeon”-era St. Vincent guitar effects from her 

 LP. If you find a lot of gentle indie-rock to be soulless, or worse, 

 may very well be for you. It’s cheeky and unhappy

in combination, one the best things a songwriter can be

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