Unlike fellow New Yorkers and shameless cultural imperialists Vampire Weekend (j/k!), Sleepy Doug Shaw doesn't beg you to perform tricky postcolonial calculus or diagram the ethical implications of paternalistic blah blah blah. His solo project Highlife-- busman's holiday from druidic folk combo White Magic-- is so candid and specific about its artistic inspirations and faithful to those sources, it's basically a tribute act. Highlife, of course, is a genre prevalent in West Africa, characterized by rippling guitar lines and seesawing time signatures. And "F Kenya RIP" namechecks F. Kenya's Guitar Band, ripping its central refrain, "Madame Zehae Ala", from the song of the same name. But what "F Kenya RIP" lacks in imagination or ambition, it makes up for with an easy-going, summer-suited sprawl, with tuck-and-roll guitar lines like kids on a grassy slope, tip-tapping percussion breezy as a white linen shirt, and backing singers so sanguine in their hums and coos and "woos," they can only be supine in swaying hammocks.

Oh, that hook! Immediately familiar, yet impossible to place; a riff so warmly nostalgic it feels classic upon the first listen. Brooklyn's Beach Fossils make good use of it, putting it right up front, repeated sans vocals, shimmering in its summery glow. A simple drumbeat joins in the second go 'round, muted and underwhelming, working as little more than a toe-tapping cue-- but that's hardly a problem. The guitar line makes the song. At some point the singing starts echoing about, as if piped in from some forgotten era, but it's inconsequential: the words, the verses, they're all indistinguishable and, quite frankly, not that important. In the wake of Wavves and his no-fi brethren, it's easy to cast the beach-bleached vocals aside as so much trendy trash on the shore-- when he starts sighing "Daydream" at the end, he might as well be moaning "I'm so bored"-- but Beach Fossils' music is much more straightforward, and it's all the better for it: A guitar line like he's got here doesn't deserve to get buried under so much sand and tape-fuzz detritus. Now if he could only beef it up with some truly memorable lyrics, or a knockout chorus, or even some harder-hitting drumbeats to give the song some dynamics, some tension, some sort of propulsion. Then again, it's hard to complain when it's so warm and inviting-- sometimes a nice lolling track to relax to is enough.

"Autumn Beds" is the A-side off Modest Mouse's second 7" in a month, backed with recent set-list staple "Whale Song" (like their last single, it's slated for release in limited-edition vinyl). The new track is a particularly accomplished showcase of Isaac Brock's preternatural ability to write a sing-along chorus. Although "We won't be sleeping in our autumn beds" is delivered sweetly, it's a bit of a cryptic message, equal parts lullaby nonsense and unsettling equinoctial prophecy. Brock's voice aptly reflects this duality, since-- depending on the accompanying arrangement-- it can easily transition from a boyish innocence to a menacing howl. The arrangement reflects this tension. The lighthearted banjo is balanced at times by a hollow, insistent drum and an undercurrent of burbling noise, emphasizing the protagonists' dire situation: "Our case is drawing to an end/ They said guilty so many times/ All I heard was just the buzzing lights." It's a summer song that gives the listener pause, one that reminds you darker, colder times wait in the wings.

Ty Segall has been kicking around the Bay Area scene for a couple of years now, first as a member of the Traditional Fools and Sic Alps and more recently as the kind of one-man-band solo act that gets more attention for playing so many instruments all at once than for playing so many styles all at once. With one album out and another one on the way, he skirts gimmickry because he doesn't use lo-fi to apologize for catchiness, energy, and a debt to 1960s source material. Instead, as on "Goin' Down" (from a split LP with Black Time on Telephone Explosion), the skuzzbucket sound enhances those qualities, even as he buries his vocals deeper in the mix than any of the other instruments. A musical palindrome, "Goin' Down" ends just like it begins: with a "Wipeout" tom roll and a garbled Ross Johnson-ism that makes Segall a particularly good fit for Memphis' Goner Records. In between, the song stomps vigorously, part Nuggets revivification and part fuzz-pop trendiness. Oh sure, he could be compared with contemporaries like Wavves and No Age, but "Goin' Down" toys with so many pre-punk influences that Segall sounds more like the a blasted-out Surfaris.

"Varied" is not a word you would use to describe the Woodsist label's roster, which is mostly comprised of shambling lo-to-no-fi acts that fit somewhere on a gradient that slides from psych to punk. Most of these bands, however steeped in pretense or perhaps even inflexibility, are at least interesting, well worthy of your listening attention considering their less inventive peers. But in all honesty, how long can you really expect to pass the tape-hiss bong around for? This same skepticism might be applied to Sacramento's Ganglians, another addition to the Woodsist family that could reasonably fill out a bill with Woods and Kurt Vile. So before you write them off as nothing more than beard-enthusiasts, give "Valiant Brave" a quick listen. The first minute or so kind of rambles on with patches of directionless humming and mildly frightening/spiritual allusions, but what follows is a groovy medley of sinister sunshine, like the Mamas & the Papas getting knee deep into some serious backwoods voodoo. Weird flute flourishes and heavy psych drench what would otherwise be a pleasant little Kinks B-side, giving all of that feral hootin'-an-hollerin' some much needed texture. Whether Ganglians hang around for long is to be seen, but for now we have this solid little mushroom-fueled campfire boogie, reserved only for the most lascivious of teenage camp counselors, long after call for lights out.

In "Two Hands", from Nudge's forthcoming Kranky album As Good As Gone, singer Honey Owens spins a mesh of vivid couplets. But the best one comes in the middle: "We are, we are heroes/ With heat-stained cornea." The image of confident saviors with faded, transfixed eyes perfectly catches the aura of this assured, entrancing song. Over dub-infused bass and a shuffling rhythm, Owens' hums fade into the music like smoke drifting into the woods. The song's languid flow is so hypnotic that when noisy guitars enter, the transition is a smooth dissolve rather than a jarring cut-- as if the track's atmosphere can catch any sound in its soft, silky web.

Nudge may seem like a collective of erstwhile solo artists-- Owens records and performs as Valet, Paul Dickow does the same as Strategy, and band leader Brian Foote collaborates with both, as well as Bradford Cox's Atlas Sound. But their music, a singular combination of sparse minimalism and thick atmosphere, doesn't sound like the work of a side project. Not that the band is working in a vacuum-- "Two Hands" evokes the slo-core vibe of Beach House, the avant-folk chill of Charalambides, the surreal jazz of Julee Cruise's work with David Lynch. But judging by this track, Nudge's breezy hybrid has become a style all its own.

Memory Tapes is an offshoot/collaboration between Memory Cassette and Weird Tapes, two acts so similar in sound and name they simply had to align (it's also possible that they all may be the same person). After hearing the project's first official offering, "Bicycle", my only qualm is that they didn't label themselves Weird Memory, but I'm guessing that such a no-duh moniker would spoil the surprise. However clever or inventive those projects were, both usually opted to hide behind the quirky histrionics of tape haze and vague dance loops ad infinitum, whereas Memory Tapes embrace the bright, frightening light with a vigor and that's almost startling. Much like Tiedye's celebrated rework of DJ Kaos' "Love the Night Away", "Bicycle" has a confident hold on the blissfully bored and gorgeously relaxed, but where you'd expect it to wash down like Sunny Delight, it flips inside out and transfixes into something unsettling and astringent. Hell, things get downright eerie as a seemingly benign declaration of love melts into a deliriously disquieting medley of pitch-shifted synths, ghostly come-hithers, perilous low-end melodies, and a grab bag of island-infused percussion.

If that trendy juxtaposition of salty and sweet leaves you a little neutral, you're not alone, but it's in the final two minutes that we can fully see Memory Tapes' shiver-spurring potential. "Bicycle" glides out on a wonderfully languid guitar break that's more authentically New Order than anything New Order have offered in almost 10 years, operating like a long-lost, sweat-drenched hymn from the Haçienda's 11th hour. It's a breathtaking moment, one capable of emotional transport beyond the sort of nostalgia that's so often tastelessly cooked up and thrown into the mix. If Memory Tapes can continue to put out stuff as vibrant and bold as "Bicycle", we're richer for it.

Just dismayingly bad. Despite what the production credits would lead you to believe, "The Neptunes" likely had nothing to do with this-- I don't think Chad Hugo has been allowed near a Korg synthesizer since at least 2004, if in fact P didn't just lock him aboard his ass spaceship and send him into orbit after the last N.E.R.D. record. No, this is a 2009-era Pharrell production, and hoo boy, the difference is crystal clear. Garish cocktail-jazz keyboards, weak snares, and Pharrell's endless, irritating squeaking-- "I'm Good" is the same atrocious beat he's been peddling since "Allure". He might go down in history as the first major rap producer to be completely undone by the discovery of Mel Bay's Jazz Piano Chords. If your first thought upon hearing Snoop Dogg's "Sexual Eruption" was, "Man, I bet Clipse would just kill this," then you're in luck. For the rest of us, though, "I'm Good" is depressing, like biting on tin foil for three straight minutes. Surrounded by such Euro-cheese, Pusha and Mal sound utterly lost-- blank, tired, and detached, and not at all compellingly so, as they were on "Emotionless". Over three verses, the sharpest shit either of them manage is "today was a good day, ice cubes on my chest" and "swimmin through the streets, lookin like I'm Shamu." After years of weathering bullshit and coming out stronger and more determined, it seems the Thornton Brothers are starting to sag inwardly, and at this point, who could blame them?

"The battles over authenticity, over appropriation, are ancient history to these guys. They are playing the hand they've been dealt, and... they're playing it expertly." So said critic Andy Greenwald cutting through all the "How dare they?!" bullshit over Vampire Weekend's initial bum rush in his excellent Spin cover story from last year. The sentence also applies-- probably even moreso-- to Discovery, aka VW keyboardist-singer-producer Rostam Batmanglij and Ra Ra Riot frontman Wes Miles. Maxed-out with Auto-Tune, 1980s synths, and drum cracks that instantly recall everything 00s r&b, Discovery's debut album-- slyly dubbed LP-- probably swerves like a tipsy Mustang going 115 in a school zone to the world's appropriation police. "So Insane" may seem pretty insane to those still stuck in a world where pop and indie are separated by propped-up dividers. Pity them.

To everyone else-- i.e., people who don't think twice about waking up to Bitte Orca and then driving to work with T-Pain, i.e., people who only know broadband, i.e., the post-authenticity generation-- "So Insane" shouldn't sound too surprising. There's some "Electric Slide" ("teach you! teach you!"), snares possibly ripped from OG Nintendo cartridge "Wild Gunman", some "Bleeding Love" breaks. Pleasure is pushed. Fittingly, the song is all about first-look infatuation-- a truly universal mania. "Oh baby, you got me going so insane and I just don't know what's going down," sings Miles, gilding his crush with harmonies, chirping backups, and sheer pop vulnerability. No navel-gazing crypticisms here. "I don't even know what to do," he concludes. Let's hope he never figures it out.

Relative to the other high-ranking Wu-Tang officials, Raekwon has always been strictly for the heads. RZA has his legions of weirdos, Ghost holds it down for the hipster set-- even GZA has managed to carve out a niche for himself with some of his headier constructions. But the Chef has made his M.O. pretty clear, his flow remaining entirely un-fucked with, his production as stocky and raw as the man himself. So if you're going to look at "Olympus" (supposedly from Only Built 4 Cuban Linx II, but you never really know with these guys) in any other context, well, you probably aren't a big Raekwon fan. Are the stories any good? Are the punches tight? Is he getting aggro or cooling out? It's kind of a mixed bag. If I were to venture a guess, I'd say that this is Rae getting gassed up, squeezing in a little exercise before the main event. Most of the quick little couplets land nicely over Tru Master's unassuming baseplate of snaps, shakers, and a wavy little synthesizer loop. This isn't Raekwon at his ballsiest or brawniest; instead, he's using "Olympus" to loosen up and get his mind into full-on Linx mode. Casual fans probably won't give "Olympus" a second spin, believe that the true heads will be able to find something here.