Depending on what you’re doing at the time, you could listen to Peter Bradley Adams‘ sophomore disc, Leavetaking, several times without taking much in. That is, if what you are doing is anything other that listening — be it working, reading, driving, etc. — the dulcet tones may well wash over you without leaving a mark.

But pay attention, and you’ll be rewarded. Adams, one half of the late country-rock duo eastmountainsouth, has crafted a quiet gem of a record with Leavetaking. It’s just this side of too smooth, too quiet, too sensitive. Again, close listening rewards. There is a sharp bite to some of the lyrics, and what comes across as smooth when piped over the coffeehouse speakers is really just stripped down and atmospheric.

Adams earned a few more listens here when I read about the title of his album, which comes from a line in the poem “The View” by Mark Strand: “He’s always been drawn to the weather of leavetaking.” According to Adams, “The word leavetaking resonates with me on many levels. It’s a theme you hear in so many traditional songs… some of them traveling songs, or gospel songs, or love songs… they’ve got that old longing in them that I’m really drawn to.” Strand is a masterful poet, and anyone who reads him and takes inspiration is worth a moment.

The Alabama native and Nashville resident has a smooth, slightly smoky voice that suits his songs well. He also knows the value of harmony vocals, carrying over the male-female counterpoint that drove the music of eastmountainsouth to this album.

The disc is short, but Adams said that is because these nine songs are the only ones that felt as if they fit. “I decided this was just going to have to be a short record and not apologize for it.” He shouldn’t. In an era of bloat, this album, which clocks in at just over half an hour, feels organic and right. And at this length, if you’re mind wandered and you let it slip into the background, you can always hit play again and vow to pay attention the next time.

There aren’t many acts that were big when I was in college that are still making relevant music, likely for the same reason I’m not headed out to clubs much these days to hear their successors: Life (and age) gets in the way. So it was a surprise to hear Secrets of the New Explorers from Glen Phillips. While I was an eager listener in the earliest days of his band Toad the Wet Sprocket –the band’s debut, Bread and Circus was issued the summer after my freshman year, and was on the playlist of every sensitive indie rocker that fall semester — I outgrew Toad about the time grunge took hold.

I knew Phillips had embarked on a solo career, but didn’t pay him much mind until this EP showed up in the mailbox. The premise is intriguing: The son of two scientists, he and collaborator John Askew discussed ideas while recording that led to a batch of songs about space. Three songs were completed, with Phillips recording an additional three solo. The result is a clever, catchy EP.

It sounds like Phillips if you know what you’re listening for, but I was surprised at the maturity of his sound. Credit the fact that he started with Toad while still a teenager, and is now a guy in his mid 30s. I wish more of my favorites from way back had stayed in the game in this fashion. Too many give up or put together years-in-the-making albums that fall flat. Phillips had an idea, came up with an EP’s worth of songs and put it out. Simple, and the kind of experiment that more artists would do well to emulate.

The disc is surprisingly diverse given its quick completion and its brevity. “They’ll Find Me” and “Return to Me” seem the most Toadlike, while “Solar Flare” seems like a sweet lullaby about, um, radiation poisoning. “Space Elevator,” with a faux funky vibe is one I could take or leave, but everything else is pleasant and compelling.

In just 20 short minutes, Phillips reasserts himself as someone for me to watch, with a model that ought to be emulated by any creative artists with access to a home studio and some ideas to explore.

MP3: Solar Flare

Perhaps this time the press sheet really does tell the tale. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was about Sons of William‘s disc What Hides Inside that kept me from feeling anything more than mind admiration for its competent craftsmanship. The band bio, however, tipped me off. Guitarist and singer Joe Stark “used to think of himself as a solo entity or as a hired gun, having been offered to play guitar with Avril Lavigne, Marc Broussard, Will Hoge, and Rock Star INXS, amongst others.”

There it is: A laundry list of blandness. From being a hired gun — someone brought on board expressly because they have no identifiable personality that might detract from the star — to heralding such a near-miss resume, it’s clear Joe has yet to discover who he wants to be as an artist.

His brother, drummer David, is another problem. The beat drags here and there, just enough to detract from the songs, and the way the drums were recorded makes them annoyingly up front in several instances.

All that said, there is clear talent on display here. The disc sounds like one of those AOR station hits of the year compilations, a bunch of faceless songs that share decent hooks, a lack of dynamics and an absence of grit. No two songs sound alike, and while that can be a good thing, here it means the band doesn’t seem to have its own identity. Opener “The Message” has solid hooks, sounding like a bar band covering a Pete Yorn B-side, but it is followed a couple songs later by “Easy to Love,” a song that is a hitch in the beat away from being Nashville worthy, followed later by the manufactured menace of “Lucifer Hands.” All are perfectly good songs, but nothing elevates any of them. You won’t press the skip button, but you won’t press repeat, either.

A prediction: Joe actually does become a hired gun or solo artist, or perhaps a songwriter-for-hire, or perhaps a few months on the road will help the Sons of William settle on their own true sound. Until then, What Hides Inside will stand as a testament to unfulfilled promise.

It’s not often a band can start its own genre, but you heard it here first: Milton and the Devil’s Party trade in jangle noir. OK, I know that sounds strange, if not ridiculous; but hear me out. The band’s sonic template puts it squarely in the early- to mid-’80s Southern indie-rock tradition of bands like R.E.M. and the Windbreakers, all chiming guitars, loping tempos and bright, melodic vocals. Yet those vocals tell erudite tales of woe, or, as the one-sheet sent with the band’s sophomore disc, How Wicked We’ve Become puts it: “The record began as a study in bad people — or, more accurately, ordinary people doing bad things or finding themselves caught in patterns of behavior that define them as wicked, lost or merely failed.” If there’s a more succinct definition of noir, bring it on.

All of that would mean nothing if this wasn’t undeniably catchy music. It would fit comfortably in the racks alongside the early work of the two aforementioned bands, as well as that of like-minded acts like Velvet Crush and even Paul Kelly, the Australian singer-songwriter who crafts similarly literate tunes.

Oh yes, about that: The band makes much about the fact that they’ve finally admitted that the two core members — singer-bassist Daniel Robinson and guitarist Mark Graybill — are English professors. Whatever. Again, literate lyrics are great, but if they’re not wedded to excellent hooks, they don’t count for much. How many hits does Leonard Cohen have? That said, Robinson’s lyrics are deliciously intricate and smart. The taunt of “I’ve Had Your Wife” is elevated by clever lines like “We’re relaxed as a beast with two backs, and you wonder why she’s getting home so late,” alluding to Shakespeare’s metaphor for sexual congress. Elsewhere, Robinson sings on “Muse of Mundanity” of a guy who wishes his girlfriend were smarter because she doesn’t offer suitable inspiration to spur him to creative heights.

Robinson must have a brainy significant other, because with How Wicked We’ve Become is a tight burst of jangling pop music that actually makes you feel smarter by the time the final track spins. At it’s core, it’s a disc of songs for and by adults. So much of power pop is about teenage boys who are frightened of the opposite sex. Here, Robinson offers pointed thoughts about what it means to be grown up. On “Too Old to Die,” he leavens such heavy thoughts with a few turns of phrase, including this verse: “Well, I thought there’s be time for me to have more fun/ I thought there’d be time to be number one/ But misery is a luxury when you’re seventeen (or you’re Morrissey)/ But now I’ve got people depending on me/ I’ve got to be and not not to be.”

All of that might add up to something to precious for some, and I’ll admit reading the above might turn me off if I hadn’t had the chance to hear the songs first. But if this sounds at all intriguing, go check out the band’s MySpace page to hear a few tracks. You’ll be happy you did.

This is the kind of record that makes keeping a blog worthwhile. I’ve written about music for more than a decade, and that means a lot of CDs have arrived in my mailbox, unannounced and unsolicited. I have a good idea of what I’ll like, and request such things accordingly, The discs I don’t request are usually a crapshoot. I’ll give anything a few moments of my time, and usually that’s all it takes to realize I won’t care to spend much more in its company.

And then there is a disc like The Strangest Colored Lights by 13ghosts. I’d never heard of the band, but was intrigued enough by the album title and cover to throw it into the CD player in my car one day recently. It hasn’t spent much time out of it since. The band, based in Birmingham, Ala., seems centered on the songs of Brad Armstrong and Buzz Russell. I haven’t figured out which is which just yet, but suffice to say that they are very different. The songs here veer from buzzing indie-pop to rustic backporch twang, though that isn’t as whiplash-inducing as one might think.

There is an air of mystery to this which I must admit is appealing, that sort of thing that makes a band yours for a while until everyone else catches up. From what I can gather, this will be the band’s fourth disc (it is scheduled for release in March) and its second on Skybucket Records. Beyond that, everything I can glean comes from reviews of its last, well-received disc, Cicada. The band isn’t much help, offering a quote from Stephen Crane about a “creature, naked, bestial” eating its own bitter heart from its hands while squatting in the desert as its official bio. It takes its name from a horror film, though that seems more ill-fitting than anything.

Still, mystery without good music is enough to keep someone’s interest for a moment or two, so while it may help spur people like me to dig deeper, the songs are what will keep me. The descriptions of Cicada make it sound like the work of a band with a lot of ideas and an unwillingness to edit itself, pouring everything out in the hope that something will stick. Without having heard it, I can say this one must surely be more focused. It is diverse, but there is a consistency of tone and intent here. The two singers’ styles may be very different, but they don’t fight against one another.

The catch with receiving a disc well before its release date is that you can grow tired of it by the time everyone else finally hears it. If that becomes the case with The Strangest Colored Lights — something I doubt — it’s nice to know there is plenty more music where this came from as I work my way back through the band’s catalog.

I was fully under the spell of power pop in the late 1990s, but somehow the Grip Weeds eluded my ears. I had heard of the band — heard it was among the finest of what had become a crowded field of power poppers, in fact — but I simply didn’t follow up. I know I heard the group on compilations, and eventually picked up one of its later albums, but it’s debut, House of Vibes, never graced my CD player.

Until now. Playing on the trend of constant re-evaluation and reissue in the world of popular music, the band has cleaned up the sound of the disc through what sounds like a fairly intensive remastering process. Old tapes recorded in DIY fashion in the actual House of Vibes that gives the album its name were remastered, with tracks that had been combined at the time now separated for clarity’s sake. Not being privy to the original, I’m not sure how much better this sounds, but I can say it sounds pretty great.

Though it has only been 13 years since the disc’s original release, it seems like a smart move to revisit it. The Grip Weeds became a better, more accomplished band since, but there’s something about this debut that captivates at times. The rough edges of the band’s sound have been smoothed a bit, but here the garage rock the members clearly love is an obvious and welcome influence. The hook may come in the soaring three-part harmonies, but the thing that keeps those confections from sounding too sweet is the grit of the overdriven, distorted guitars and the pounding drums that give things a libidinous pulse.

The quartet — brothers Rick and Kurt Reil (guitar and drums, respectively) are joined by guitarist Kristen Pinell on vocals, while on this disc bass is handled by Mick Hargrave — crafted a dozen catchy pop songs here. Standouts include the rockers “Salad Days” and “Someone,” as well as the more dreamlike “Edge of Forever.” This revisited version includes even more, with demos of songs on the album and those that didn’t make it, live tracks and acoustic sessions. There are even a few radio interview snippets interspersed throughout, making it sound like one long radio program.

I’m not sure why I fell away from power pop a few years ago, though the ratio of good to bad as the genre exploded made looking for a good disc akin to strolling through a mine field (something that also led to a disenchantment with alt-country). Reconnecting with the Grip Weeds has been a pleasant surprise, and House of Vibes Revisited gives me a welcome chance to make up for lost time.

The easy comparison to draw with regard to Amy Cooper‘s music is that of Liz Phair. Rock chick with a guitar, simple but forceful songs and a take-no-crap attitude. That’s Phair, right? Maybe, but it’s not fair, because Cooper, while possessing much of what made Phair and the pretenders to her ballsy-chick throne in the early 1990s, has things in the plus and minus columns that make the comparison lazy at best, simply wrong at worst. Her new EP, mirrors, is a prime example.

As evidenced by the seven songs here, Cooper is a much more accomplished guitarist than Phair, and she has a better voice as well. Her songs are more conventional, and thus easier to grasp. At the same time, that conventionality means there is little to unlock here, so it remains to be seen if these will hold up to repeat listens. And while her lyrics aren’t bad, they do traffic in the kind of generalities that Phair eschewed.

Taken on its own merits, mirrors is a brisk, catchy listen. Over the course of seven originals, Cooper sticks to a simple formula of guitar, bass and drums (she handles the guitar, Frank Lenz plays bass and drums). The songs take on a depth on the choruses where Cooper multi-tracks her own voice to good effect, elevating her solid hooks and giving the songs a thrust that keeps the listener engaged. When she does shift the dynamics, as on the slow burner “You Can’t Have It All,” she falls closer to the work of Aimee Mann, showing that she has more range than might be evident from the first few tracks.

The song drawing the most attention is “25,” a minute-long solo tune that finds Cooper singing over her own guitar strums, “I thought everything would be finalized by the time I was 25.” Most people probably felt that way at some point. That Cooper realizes it and seems to see it as an open door to a room full of topics to explore lyrically is a good sign. I’ll be curious to hear what she’s up to by the time her angst about turning 30 sets in.

The band Fourth of July has a sound that I didn’t realize until hearing it that I’ve missed. At one time, it seemed as if there were dozens of bands recording and releasing albums like On the Plain — cheap-sounding, catchy, clever and palatably earnest discs that don’t bowl you over but instead simply entertain you consistently.

But those days, sadly, are gone, and it’s the rare treat like On the Plain that reminds you of what you once took for granted. All of that seems like a lot of hype, so let me be clear: This is not a great album. It won’t make many “best CDs of the year” lists, nor will it engender slavish devotion on the part of listeners. But I don’t imagine that was the goal of the Hangauer brothers at the core of the group.

Instead, I would imagine, they simply wanted to make the kind of music they like to hear. If that is the case, I’m with them. Brendan Hangauer has a knack with simple tunes — I’m no virtuoso, but I’m confident I could figure out how to play this entire album on guitar in an afternoon. These stick with you, and, big compliment coming, they make you want to hear them again. The best reference I have (and I mean it as no slight) is if Conor Oberst had a sense of humor. What I always assumed was simply a dislike of Oberst’s voice is now revealed, thanks to Hangauer’s similar pipes, to be a dislike of Oberst himself. Go figure.

Songs like “Why Did I Drink So Much Last Night?” and “The Faint” (which, yes, deals with a girl who listens to the Faint) are so quirky and quaint that you’re initially sure they were made up on the spot. Subtle touches like backing harmonies, horns and other elements convince you over time that this is a studied simplicity, and that somehow makes this all the more charming.

I never know what to expect when I open the mail and find a CD by a band I’ve never heard of, but the next time I find one like On the Plains, I’ll wonder if it isn’t my birthday. Go to Range Life Records to hear for yourself.