The Beta Band
"The Three EPs"
(Astralwerks)

Since I'm not particularly cool nor that in touch anymore, the first I'd heard of the Beta Band was when I got this CD, though they're apparently all the rage among the cool and in-touch both here and abroad. The disc, "The Three EPs," is a compilation of—guess what?—three EPs released by this Anglo-Scotch outfit over the past two years.

But that's a bonus for you, dear readers, as I can foist an opinion untainted by hype or legend. And here it is: The first EP, "Champion Versions," kicks a whole lotta ass; the second, "The Patty Patty Sound," is about 50 percent good; and the third, "Los Amigos del Beta Bandidos" is pretty much pure liquid shit. Since they were put on the CD in order of release, this inverse quality/time curve isn't promising. The numbers that work the best—"Dry the Rain," "I Know," and "B+A"—are good ol' classic rock numbers with more hooks than Melissa Mounds' bra. Like a bottle of Saranac Black & Tan, you enjoy detecting the flavor notes: There's King Crimson here, pre-"Dark Side" Pink Floyd there, a bit of Stone Roses to freshen things up, and a nice Beatles finish. The numbers that don't work, which unhappily make up most of the disc, are pretty much lo-tech apings of the Orb, with more noodling than a boatload of ramen. Which is too bad, because these guys obviously have talent, but seem to lack focus and discipline.

Still, if you can accept buying a CD with about 35 percent good stuff on it (nice to know this in advance for a change, ain't it?), "The Three EPs" may be a happy addition to your collection. I found it a nice, relaxing balm to this spring's Kosovo/Columbine widening spire of violence, as listening to the good Beta Band allows one to put up a gauzy wall of pleasant apathy. If I was walking down Fifth Avenue with "B+A" on my discman and looked up to see a 747 heading toward me with those two teenage Nazi bastards at the controls, I imagine I wouldn't feel too upset at all.—D.X. Barton

The Make-Up
"I Want Some"
(K Records)

I used to be in total rock-star love with Ian Svenonious, lead singer of the Make-Up. Just to see him on stage—shaking like a crazed monkey or a young Mick Jagger, preaching his fake gospel, taking audience members' faces in his hands, and spitting an ear-splitting "Yeah-a-eah!" like Prince fucking "Darling Nikki"—was enough to make me sweat and swoon. It was all enhanced by the band behind him, who didn't move or blink, colder and straighter than Bill Clinton on the stand. Definite rock theater.

But alas, except for a couple of singles, the Make-Up's kick-ass live wallop didn't really translate that well for me on record. "Live at Cold Rice," which I believe was their first full-length, was an attempt to transmit the live magic, but just like real cold rice, you sort of want it heated up. (I don't really know what that means, but what I mean is that I didn't like it.) I do, however, like this more-than-full-length compilation of singles, which includes some cool old numbers, like "Blue Is Beautiful," a desperate anthem about pills—always a fun subject—and "R U a Believer," which makes me start jumping up and down uncontrollably and grabbing my hair. (That means I like it.) "Trans-Pleasant Express" is another one of those old singles that has Ian screaming about wanting to be put on a leash and taken for a walk. Who knew someone could wax poetic about wanting to be your dog, yet again, and still make me run to my nearest Petco?

Some of the songs on the record have all-star production: Brendan and Guy from Fugazi (both of whom can do no wrong in my eyes) produce 14 songs between them, and Calvin Johnson from Dub Narcotic Sound System produces "R U a Believer." There are a ton of songs on "I Want Some," and if the idea of the Who meets James Brown meets the Stooges meets Prince, all on lo-fi sounds good, then you will like this record. I was only let down once, when I excitedly began listening to "I Didn't Mean 2 Turn U On," expecting a hilarious, rocking version of Cherelle's 1984 classic. Well, listen: Fuckin' with the "I Wanna Be Your Dog" Stooges is one thing, but when you mess with Cherrelle, then at least do my girl some justice! It was all garbledy-mish-mash boring bangin' on a can! Oh well, I'm sure that they will Make-Up that to us soon. (Ha ha.)—Concetta "Princess" Kirschner

Iceland’s latest jazz-pop ingenue was holding all the cards long before she entered the game: She bears a strong resemblance to Uma Thurman, was signed on to Calvin Klein’s cKone 1999 fall fashion campaign, and is apparently a cousin of Björk's. But aside from all the preemptive hype surrounding her debut album, Móa does manage to strike a chord with her wiggy counter-melodic vibrato: In fact, there are moments when she almost sounds like a Björk impersonator. But there is also a self-evident depth to her style, which may not be apparent on a first listen. For all of Móa’s 24-year-old playfulness, there is an equal amount of dark Billie Holiday-style raving.

"Universal" is in many ways a timely album that may well find a niche in the current market of electronic diaspora. The music is the same formula of filtered drum and bass over synth noodling, with some live piano thrown in (apparently Móa’s been playing since age six). The surprise ingredient is the vocals: Móa’s voice often sounds more like a reprisal of a 1920s cabaret singer run through a vocoder, riding the line between avant-cool and faux freaky. Tracks to dig are "Joy & Pain," which dipped into the insular dance community when coverboy Victor Calderone and international fashion-surfer Dimitri from Paris did remixes for a Tommy Boy compilation. "Tenderly" is a jazz-club ballad (picture a pair of sleek legs crossed over a baby grand), only it sounds more post-millennial than post-war, rife with nostalgic keys and throaty pauses. "Raining in My Heart" is Móa’s stab at a disco-inflected tune. But "Memory Cloud" is the jewel in the tiara—watery grooves, subterranean bass plucking, and a hearty serving of scratched vinyl make it special.—Anicee Gaddis