*The sound of eyes glazing over*

Socratic - Socratic
Antique Records

My two oldest play the saxophone (tenor and alto), so naturally I've saturated their lives with jazz. But what I anticipated to be an exercise in hipster dad/hipster kid bonding soon turned into a lesson in how quickly children can become comfortable with tuning out their parents.

Me: "Did you listen to that Coleman Hawkins album I put on your iPod?"

Them: *The sound of eyes glazing over*

So I spun them Socratic's "Charlie Parker (Music Will Save His Soul)," so they could better appreciate how jazz holds sway over the masses, but also because I didn't want them to think I'm daft, that I'm the only individual in the world who thinks jazz is fucking boss. (Well, they already think I'm daft; I mean daft when it comes to my taste in music.)

The New Jersey power pop trio's ode to Parker is infectious, referential, celebratory—it makes you as giddy as a Parker solo on that ole Grafton plastic saxophone of his.

Turning on a dime

Art Decade - Western Sunrise
Antique Records

There are instances where the universe turns on a dime: when a stopped heart starts beating once more; when an empty glass is filled to its brim; when averted eyes make contact; when silence gives way to song.

But what about those moments when the universe is more cynical? Like when a light bulb burns out or when a tire blows on the expressway or when molten lead inexplicably falls into your throat as you look up at a burning lighthouse?

I pondered all this while listening to Art Decade's Western Sunrise. Because the Boston group's brand of progressive rock is teeming with soaring vocals and emotionally charged choruses, and orchestration that feels like soft breezes on bare arms, and further orchestration that reminds you of the thrilling, anticipatory feeling you get when descending in an airplane, and guitar riffs that have you strumming the air, and recurring shifts in tempo and tone that leave you dazed and giddy and needing to put a steadying hand on a piece of furniture—and then the song "A Lie" concludes with "As usual / nothing's perfect / as usual / no one's there / as fearless as I try to be / I know that no one cares," and this turned-on-a-dime moment feels like being sneaked up on and jabbed in the ribs with a bony index finger.

Washing and waiting for inspiration

Nathan Ventura - Silly Secret
Self-released

It's like someone gained access to where I hoard my most intimate and fervent thoughts regarding cassette releases and compiled said thoughts on a sheet of loose leaf paper and slipped the paper under the pillow of Nathan Ventura, who then had the paper laminated and furnished with adhesive before sticking it to one of the walls in his shower, where he read the words over and over as he washed and waited for inspiration to sneak up behind him and poke his ribs.

Silly Secret has everything I lust for in a tape: pure originality, refined weirdness, an infectious mood, one artist handling all the instrumentation, lo-fi sensibilities—and, most crucial of all, a cover of Stevie Nicks' and Lindsey Buckingham's "Landslide!" In Ventura's hands, the song is unrecognizable save for the lyrics. Ventura, who sings in a guttural and menacing manner (he casually reminds me of Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade), wrings out all the poignant self-reflection, and replaces it with anguish and hopelessness. It's fucking glorious.

Tracks like "The Mayor" have me thinking Ventura's approach to songwriting works like this: A melody comes to him, but rather than transcribe it from his head to his guitar exactly as is, he does an approximation of the melody; he leaves out a note or three, slows down/speeds up the tempo a tad, plays purposely sloppy. On "Funny Feelings," it sounds like Ventura is simply plucking open strings, like when someone who has never touched a guitar picks up the instrument for the first time and makes an earnest attempt to legitimately play.

The vocals on "Outside" are a bit low in the mix, which creates the impression that Ventura is singing from inside your walls or beneath your floorboards. Upon further thought, this is possibly how Ventura was able to access my most intimate and fervent thoughts regarding cassette releases. I'm now weirded out.

Ten-lane super highways

Retreat From Moscow - In Search of Home
Long Lost Records

Retreat From Moscow (the project of Dubliner Stephen Tunney) sounds absolutely fully formed on debut In Search of Home. It's like opening a modeling kit and peering inside and seeing the airplane has already been assembled. There's acoustic and electric guitar parts that supplement one another, a finely tuned rhythm section, crisp lyrical narratives. I believe Tunney handles all the songwriting and all the instruments. He sounds like he's been playing and arranging for a lifetime, not a tiny, bite-sized portion of one.

In Search of Home calls to mind Oh, Inverted World or Saturday Looks Good to Me. Or even Sarah Records, the guitar pop authority on how to make hearts soar/sag/stop. On "Street Life," Tunney's thin, reedy voice transforms the chorus, "I can't live on the street where you live," into an act of total surrender. It's a decisive moment captured perfectly: He will not stand his ground against the one who spurned his advances but instead, fully retreat.

Tunney actually fizzes over on "With Uncertainty Comes Reassurance," peppering his lyrics with naughty words: "I don't give a fuck about your second or last regret." But even then, Tunney's anger sounds like it comes with its own thin, melancholic-coated shell. Like he's exasperated with this individual, but at the same time, torn up over letting their dissolution occur and even more torn up over realizing there's no chance of hitting the relationship rewind button.

(A completely unrelated side note to all this: On one of my various trips to Ireland—on this occasion, we were gamboling about Killarney—we took a cab to a golf course I have since forgotten the name of. During the ride, the cabbie told us about his recent vacation in Moscow and when asked what he thought of Mother Russia, he only wished to discuss the super highways entering the capital. "They have massive, 10-lane highways going into Moscow. Ten lanes on both sides. Ten going in and ten coming out. Massive. You wouldn't believe it." Part of me believes Stephen Tunney is this man.)

The promise of a pretty boy

The Aqua Dolls - We Are Free
Burger Records

There is ambitious and there is ambitious and there is Mark E. Smith-level ambitious. Finally, there is Burger Records-style ambitious, which at the moment trumps any other variety of ambitious. The Fullerton, Calif., label is releasing a new cassette every day during the month of January. I'm probably telling you something you already know, but that's a fuckton of home dubbing and cutting of inserts.

The Aqua Dolls' We Are Free was the Jan. 6 release. The two-girls-and-one-boy threesome does candied, messy, up-tempo pop that reminds me of Shop Assistants, the Flatmates, and Talulah Gosh.

I jotted down my favorite moments on the inside of an empty popsicle box:
• The opening guitar melody in "Pizza Party" sounds like it has a tiny hitch to it, like a slight pause in between notes. Almost as if the guitarist forgot what to play or his fingers slipped or he was distracted by someone opening a bag of potato chips nearby.
• I particularly dig the manner in which "Keep away!" is sung in the tune of the same name. There's some enmity, sure, but the sendoff is also delivered with a hint of sweetness. Like a handwritten note with the words "We are finished!" and the I's are dotted with tiny hearts.
• "Maybe" is your classic girl-pines-for-boy number. The vocals oscillate between pouty and sultry. The chorus leaves you a bit heartsore ("Maybe you can maybe love me too") until you realize this song is all about promise: the promise of a pretty boy, the promise of a new day, the promise of a whole career writing lovely ballads such as this one.

A mass quantity of bubble wrap

Adultrock - Loves
Long Lost Records

Adultrock never met a synth line it didn't like. This debut cassette from the Newbridge, Ireland act (and on the Irish label Long Lost Records) features purring synths and wilting synths, and synths that are like fizzy champagne bubbles tickling your nose and other synths that leave you feeling tingly in the legs like when you're about to jump from a significant height into water, a snow drift, or a mass quantity of bubble wrap.

Synthesizers provide the foundation to just about every track on Loves. Droning, uncomplicated melodies serve as the backbone, while incessant, staccato synths course through songs like adrenaline through veins. On "Sleeper," the mood and pace is dictated by two different synth lines that flirt, walk hand-in-hand, push one another off bridges, and have make-up sex.

However, my favorite track, "Poplife," is not dominated by synthesizers at all, but the vocals of a singer named Jen Connell. Her words are indecipherable, but that's just fine, because the allure lies in how she sounds, not what she says. And Connell sounds like she's trapped underneath the sonic surface of the song, like the synths have entombed her in glistening, frosted glass, and rather than express panic, she's pleased with this tiny slice of solitude, pleased enough to make the listener feel a pinch of jealousy.