The D4 Out of My Head (Flying Nun/Hollywood) -jen humphreys

If the D4 were medical students, they'd be at the top of their class. I would never consider any major surgery in New Zealand again, but they'd get good grades. They work hard; they'd earn them. They are completely self-made and sacrificed their sweat, blood, time, energy and bank accounts to become successful rockers. They toured relentlessly on independently-released materials before making the big jump to international-dom and they have a ridiculously energetic stage show that typically involves crowd-surfing guitarists and jumping off of speakers for a mad solo. While they were early enough on the band-wagon of this newer-wave style of rock'n'roll, I still have to raise a well-shaped eyebrow and say, "Gee, I've heard this before."

A first go at Out of My Head makes it seem as though they ran out of room on its predecessor, 6Twenty, so they put out a B-sides compilation with some impressive production credits. It's not that a follow-up album necessary needs to entail a progressive movement of artistic vision, a whole new style of sound, an inventive genre, or guest vocals from someone particularly famous. However, no one expects it to be a cover-album of the previous, either.

All that aside, it's not bad. Sake Bomb opens the show with a shout-out to alcoholism, but it's short and it's catchy. In fact, they felt it was so catchy that they recorded it in Japanese, too.

While this does turn on a slight drinking binge, there's also some good old fashioned jukebox coming out of the next few tunes so you can listen to it with your grandparents and talk about the good old days when guitars were considered scandalous and only dirty street-walkers would shake their booty to this sort of thing. Maybe there's a dirty street-walker in all of us.

Stops Me Cold presents itself with complete and total Remember-When-Chris-Isaak-Sang-Wicked-Game-Oh-My-Gosh-Oh-My-Gosh-Oh-My-Gosh-Swank. Wait, did he just say he'd look through my garbage to find something of me to keep? Never mind, this song makes me feel stalked.

If there were more falsetto-part harmonies and Buddy Holly glasses, Too Stupid to Live could be a Weezer song. The lyrics are negative enough, too. I had to listen several times to pinpoint exactly where the crunchy yet swinging riffs seemed to have come from, but, I'll have to listen again, and perhaps live on with my wonderment.

The whole record is a very anything-goes mentality. It's jerky, but not heavy, and an honest look at confusion, desperation, and climbing in some unsuspecting chick's window. It is ultimately downcast, but you'll never know until you sing along.

Someone put The Hives, Jerry Lee Lewis, a v-neck sweater, Lookout! Records and some sideburns in a blender with a whole lot of malt liquor and gave us an album. This is it. And really, this is what kids should be listening to these days. A more nihilistic approach to rebellion, youthful truculence and a shell of isolationism that, all shame aside, one can actually dance to. At the end of the day, although this is a mix of everything we've already heard, they mostly picked the good bits. They're the kind of boys you'd want to bro down with, and that should be reason enough to have a listen.

Shihad Love is the New Hate (Warner) -jen humphreys

One of New Zealand's most highly anticipated rock releases of 2005, Shihad's Love is the New Hate, was nearly three years in the making, and if it is to be described in one breath it would be "a crime against music".

What, were you expecting "BANG!"?

This is a concept that has sucked since Eddie Vedder was still breastfeeding, yet for some unknown reason people keep trying to re-replicate it, with much fail.

The album starts off very slowly with None of the Above, a tune easily mistaken for a solo-career pursuant Fred Durst.

Next, Empty Shell is meant to pick up the GRIND with some HEAVY RIFFS to get you REALLY WORKED UP and WILD. What it really demonstrates is that once upon a time, there was grunge, which was revolutionary and defined an era of unkempt long hair and un-tucked flannel shirts. Then, there was post-grunge which still kept us moshing. Then, there was Puddle of Mudd, and we turned the radio off. Then, there was Shihad's new record, so, hopefully, the radio is still off.

Hell is Raining Down Upon You
Wait for the Sky to Fall
And Life Goes Grinding On
Like a Month of Fucking Sundays

What harm did society inflict, causing lyrics this bad to be written? And what's wrong with a month of [expletive-deleted] Sundays? I'd never have to go to work! Then again, I'd never get another paycheck, either, so I couldn't afford this album. A paradox, truly.

Saddest Song in the World sounds like Richard Marx on a rock revival and anti-depressants, but in it the singer demonstrates real potential for a hidden talent: singing! It is here that he first showcases that he does actually have a good voice and a strong voice, and he can carry a tune instead of just his frequent quasi-barking. This was one of two songs on the record that is legitimately 100% bearable, especially if you have nothing to live for.

Around this point, tracks begin to fuse together. Sometimes one hears a hint of Rage Against the Machine, of P.O.D., or the whiney guy from Linkin Park, once a carbon-copy riff from Lauren Christy's 1997 tune Breed, or something reminiscent of System of a Down, even a little bit of Incubus after they had used way too many drugs. In fact, it is essentially the excrement of all of the above rolled up into one then recorded, mixed, engineered and produced into 39 minutes of complete shit.

Only one other song stood out enough to be worth addressing, the finale Guts and Glory. It ends the release on the same note that it started: softer, slower, less cussing, etc., only less whiney and this time allowing for a small bounce in your step. It is nearly obligatory to write this song: the slow and sappy single about friends and life and growing up and, oh, man, the pain that's just there, man, it's there. That's what life is about. The pain that you just can't escape! And seeing it through with your friends and trying to find home. But what is home? Do I remember? Will I forget? Let's hold hands and mope. About old times. About home. Did we find it yet?

Maybe one song does make an album worth something. I hope this one finds its home, although it won't be my CD player.