Various

Rather than some hackneyed futurist theme, the CD cover is made from blue fuzzy cloth, each copy displaying a different cut-out cloth picture of children's-book cowboys. And a sense of childhood play is the overriding atmosphere of the music within: These people may well know as much (or as little) as DJ Spooky and European labels like Mille Plateaux about musique concrete and the 20th-century avant garde, but the fact that they're not so achingly self-conscious about it allows them to be far freer in their application. Thus, rather than sludgy composts of abstract noise, we get My First Casio tunes, garbled screams, marching bands, electro-burbles, and a synthesized snatch of "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head." And that's just the first track: Through 17 more, you get African chants, spaced-out experiments in static control, manic breakbeat pileups, folk guitar motifs, and what sound like amplified versions of the explosions in "Asteroids." Plenty of stuff, in other words, that your friends will tell you just isn't music—which has always been my favorite definition of rock-and-roll.

For something a little more rhythmic and rounded, try the equally excellent "From Beyond" on Detroit's Interdimensional Transmissions label, which pursues a similar homemade aesthetic in the American tradition of electro and techno. The artists here are culled from all over the world, and more well-known (though, since by "well-known" I mean the likes of Mu-ziq's Mike Paradinas, Sluts 'n' Strings' Patrick Pulsinger, and 4E's Khan, that's relatively speaking), but from the opening track, "Space Invaders are Smoking Grass," on, they manage an equally convincing reinvention of ideas that have been around for a long time. The key, once again, is that there's nothing self-conscious, smugly retro, or worshipfully referential about these tracks; they represent artists going back to music that is, by now, rich in tradition, rather than an eternal brand new thing, and scraping the rust away to find idiosyncratic, personal, immediate music within what seemed to be dead and over-determined styles. And that sounds like a good definition of punk to me.—Ben Williams

Very often, the best bands onstage aren't the best bands on disc. Somewhere, in the recording or the mixing or the pressing, edges get dulled and the finished product resembles the stage act about as much as the next morning's recollection does the wild night before. However, with "Back in the U.S.S.A." (freshly re-released by their new and major label), the Interpreters actually manage to capture the stylized yet spontaneous frenzy of their live show for posterity. How do they do it? Largely by the age-old principle of making rock records the same way you would commit an act of vandalism: Bust in, take care of business, and bust out before anyone realizes they've been had.

It's a sharp record; all the songs fly by in a seamless blend of pop and punk, sophistication and juvenile snottiness—the sort of album that, as a kid, you used to crank up until the speakers gave static and jump around your bedroom (OK, I still do). Lots of major chords and "Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" delivered with an array of stuttering, drawling, mock-British accents and three-boy harmony. Not that this taste for brevity and the direct approach means that this band or this record is dumb—it's just a matter of being smart enough to know that you don't have to show off, and that, no, people don't necessarily want to hear all your tricks twice over. "Uptight" packs a bombastic intro, trick fadeout, break, and a couple choruses into well under three flailing minutes. "Glorious" is a plotless tale of a suburban romance, punctuated with shouts of "Go!" and "Hey!" backed with a mid-'80s bassline and windup-monkey drumming. The mere 64 seconds of "Dogskin Report" still has room for a spy story, handclaps, a big guitar buildup, and a flashy finish.

This record will make you feel good—or, at the very least, it'll get you off your ass. And who can really ask for anything more? —Lissa Townsend Rodgers