This could be the defining sound of our generation. This could be the one our kids look back to as the one that meant everything to everyone. The way “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” did in the 60s, or “Forever Young” did in the 80s, or “Bittersweet Symphony” did for our older sister.

I’d like to defend this kind of romanticism, but I can’t. If anything, those songs were moments, little ones that fed into bigger ones that, when viewed together, formed a powerful but indefinable impression. There has never been one song, or one album, or even one artist that has ever captured all the fears, longings, fashions, and world crises of a generation, and This Is Happening will be no different.

But I wanted it to be. And even now, after self-deflating all my sweeping, misguided notions, there are still moments on This Is Happening that make me second-guess myself—notably, “All I Want.” Easily the album’s crowning achievement, it follows the footsteps of James Murphy’s other two great hits, “Someone Great” and “All My Friends,” by taking a familiar chord progression and a simple melody and letting them burn slowly above a growing swell of synths and circular beats.

All this builds while Murphy sings over and over, “All I want is your pity,” and it’s a pretty poignant statement for our moment in time. Sociologists say our generation is one of unabashed optimism despite an overwhelming burden of inherited problems—economy, environment, and world relations, to name a few. We’re the generation that expects much for ourselves, but not nearly as much as the passing generation expects from us. And when Murphy sings, “All I want is your pity,” it sounds like a preemptive apology for a generation that wants to create world peace as much as we want the doe-eyed glow of beer and strobe lights and petty romance, night after night after night.

But that only describes us—you and I—halfway, doesn’t it? What really defines our generation is our need for immediacy up against the wary economists who are telling us, “Save! Build! Wait!” This is the same tension that defines Murphy’s sound. The songs, most of which are seven-plus minutes in length, start with something simple, catchy, immediate, and let it patiently grow to an unbearable weight.

Above all that, Murphy speaks to us like a drunken, self-conscious Confucius, always trying to form his aphorism but never quite saying it. He runs trails around both images gathered from real life and those fabricated from an illusory pop otherworld—the one where James Murphy, an aging, rambling nerd, is an international pop icon. And that’s who we are, a generation guiltily torn between the pressing needs of our world-in-shambles and the majestic, if all but fleeting world that pop music has been promising us for the greater portion of our lives.

Is that our generation? Or have I generalized too much? Looking back on the first decade of the 21st century, a lot of people are trying to distill the sound of our music into one, all-encompassing tagline. It’s the unfortunate effect of historicizing to make complex things simple, and if at all possible we should avoid doing so. I can only hope that someday, when my son finds this CD in an old shoebox and listens for the first time to “All I Want,” he’ll understand the generation it was trying to capture, and maybe, for a second, he’ll feel this moment in time—our moment—as if it was still the present.

London-based beatmaster Rusko enchants an excited crowd with his suspensful build-ups and crazy drops.

Dubstep is finally seeping into American culture. For the past decade, Dubstep has grown into one of the most widely accepted and discussed new genres worldwide. Although the ideas and influences behind Dubstep may seem obscure, the outcome is surprisingly accessible, and has turned into a multicultural epidemic—but the good kind.

As Reggae grew in popularity in the 1960s, a small group of innovative, London-based music lovers sought to create a new subgenre of Reggae by simply distorting and manipulating the sounds of popular songs. Typically they just dubbed out the vocals, emphasized the bass lines, subtly affected the drums, and added interesting sounds to generate a very relaxed, ambient vibe. This genre was very cleverly titled “Dub.”

Now, fast-forward thirty years. London lays legitimate claim to the birthplace of the vast majority of notable electronic dance producers as well as a hotbed of clubs, fans, and underground pirate radio stations devoted to this music. Most great dance music pulses at about 128 beats per minute. That is the familiar tempo of the traditional bouncing, bassy kick drum that drives club music, house, UK garage, disco, and now most pop songs on the radio. Think Britney Spears’ “Toxic.”

A handful of London producers decided that such a tempo did not provide enough flexibility to exhaust their abilities, and created a new genre called 2-Step. 2-Step resides at 140 beats per minute. The kick drum doesn’t simply pound on every quarter note, but slowly and intricately bounces around the measure. 2-Step is more conducive to slow head bobbing than it is to energetic jumping or moshing. It uses much more syncopation and a variety of rhythms to create a less danceable, but more engaging sound, reminiscent of the forgotten genre of Dub. Thus, Dubstep was created.

Some of the first notable Dubstep artists like Skream, Benga, and Kode 9 got their start producing an identifiable sound using these sparse but intricate beats, deep bass lines, and an undeniable Reggae influence. Dubstep received strong promotion from BBC Radio 1 as these producers strung together long DJ sets of their own music mixed with music of lesser-known underground Dubstep producers.

It did not take long for this sound to spread. In the years since, Dubstep has evolved in several different directions. Many artists like Skream still operate under the influence of Reggae, generating heavy, relaxed, very crisply produced songs, as exemplified by the song “Dutch Flowerz.” “Grime,” a branch of this traditional Dubstep sound actually samples Reggae vocalists, like in Tes La Rok’s Remix of Uncle Sam’s “Round the World Girls.”

American producers, like Joker and Bird Peterson have translated the ideas of Dubstep to a sound that flirts with synth-heavy Hip-Hop. This sound works so well that many producers have used it to remix popular rap songs. This seems to be one of the most widely accepted subgenres of Dubstep in America. In fact, Joker was commissioned to write the theme song for TRON Legacy, which is likely to be one of the biggest blockbusters of the year.

Another notable evolution of Dubstep is the “wobble.” The wobble is one of the most identifiable sounds in popular Dubstep. It is the “wah wah wah” sound of a distorted, oscillating synthesizer that has played a huge role in popularizing Dubstep. In fact, wobble-craftsmen Rusko and Caspa have been strongly criticized for over-popularizing and mainstreaming Dubstep by using the wobble.

Maybe the most popular Dubstep song of last year (my first exposure to the wobble) was Excision and Datsik’s “Swagga.” The throbbing, aggressive wobble almost sounds like it is talking, and whatever it’s trying to say isn’t nice. The sound is contagious. This subgenre, commonly referred to as “Bro-Step” is considerably more aggressive and often darker than traditional Dubstep. I recommend Rusko’s “Woo Boost,” Bogore’s remix of “Womanizer,” and virtually anything else produced by Excision and Datsik. Subtler examples of the wobble can be found in Rusko’s “Jahova” or Benga’s “26 Bsslines.”

Ambient artist Burial fits authentic, rustic drums sounds, brilliantly paced synthesizer, and atmospheric vocal samples into the Dubstep framework. He appeals to lovers of Aphex Twin, Boards of Canada, and other minimalistic IDM (Intelligent Dance Music) producers. Much of Kode 9’s music flows in this vein as well. DJ Rupture found success by using samples from all over the world in his brilliantly mixed 2008 album Uproot, forming a phenomenally diverse and seemingly organic interpretation of Dubstep.

Dubstep is very young, and it is already blooming into a global, diverse, and fascinating movement. It seems to transcend lines between other genres and cultures by fitting those genres into the loose framework of Dubstep. It is a common language. From the dark, underground, relaxed sounds that originated in London ten years ago to the festive subgenre “Cumbia” in Mexico and everything in between, Dubstep is, at the very least, worth a few listens.

To illustrate the diversity and quality of the music described in this article, I have recorded a DJ set that includes most of the songs and artists discussed. It is available for listening online at: www.soundcloud.com/johnrudolphdrexler.

In another story of talent gone wrong, a promising indie group sits in their parents’ basement doing copious amounts of hard drugs to inspire creativity, and after finding that creativity doesn’t come from drugs, relases a fairly poor album. CONGRATS

MGMT have joined the ranks of Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd, and The Grateful Dead. Before you mistake that for a compliment, allow me to qualify. Like these giants of rock ’n’ roll, MGMT has harnessed the power of LSD—lovingly referred to in the druggie community as “acid”—to enhance their songwriting abilities for their second long player, Congratulations. The results are less than impressive.

MGMT was hurled into moderate stardom a couple years back with their trinity of pop hits, “Time To Pretend,” “Kids,” and “Electric Feel.” These songs, some touted, promised a band that could reconcile the best elements of dance, electronica, and pop into a new golden age of music (whatever that means). Congratulations is MGMT’s countermove, a sharp jab to the hype machine that offers no recognizable hit. The big disappointment of Congratulations is that it offers lots of good ideas without the clarity of mind to follow them through.

The album cover says it all. Glance at it while you read this documented list of effects associated with LSD: an experience of vibrant colors, objects and surfaces appearing to ripple and breathe, colored patterns on plain surfaces, a sense of time distorting and stretching, crawling geometric patterns overlaying walls, and morphing objects. Uh-huh.

Influences for this album include the Scooby Doo theme song, the Addams Family theme song, and Bobby Picket’s “Monster Mash.” To be fair, MGMT also draws on legitimate psychedelic influences like The Zombies, The Yardbirds, and the 1960’s California folk scene, localized in San Francisco—where, incidentally, LSD use first became widespread. The album art also speaks to its surf rock influences as championed by The Beach Boys, whose Pet Sounds was also influenced by LSD.

The United States Drug Enforcement Administration has concluded that LSD “does not increase creativity,” and I have to agree. The original rock bands whose music thrived on acid probably had a lot better filter on what was good and what was garbage than MGMT do. At best, Congratulations lets the ideas flow, as evidenced in the twelve minute long “Siberian Breaks,” which takes so many jarring turns in melody, rhythm and mood that it’s more of a kitchen sink of b-side throwaways than it is a song.

The album’s strong psychedelic leanings capitalize on the same two emotions that its pysch-pop predecessors did–unqualified happiness and ghoulish paranoia. The movement of the album is structured by an antithesis between the two, as the songs move between levity and anxiety with the phantasmagoric flow of a drug trip. As the album unfolds, it becomes more and more difficult to distinguish between the root of their happiness and the root of their fear, until one suspects that the reason for both is the same thing (read: LSD). The moral of the story is, don’t do drugs, and don’t listen to MGMT.

Congratulations drops April 13, but it is now streaming in its entirity at whoismgmt.com.

Singer-songwriter Joanna Newsom released her third full-length album, Have One on Me, in February.

My first listen-through of Joanna Newsom’s third official album Have One On Me left me feeling as if I had picnicked in a field of wildflowers at noontide, pedaled my vintage teal Schwinn bicycle (complete with wire basket) home to my Anthropoligie-ridden suburban cottage, in which I sang as I showered in my revamped white claw-footed bathtub, prepared myself a strawberry parfait, and were currently sitting out on my back porch eating said parfait in the late spring.

Newsom’s musical style echoes a melding of pseudo-country soul-singer Emmylou Harris and fellow Californian Tom Waits (in terms of composition and instrumentation). While Newsom herself claims no genre, she fits snugly into a modernized old-time American folk category, and is also considered to be part of the psych folk genre (began in the 60s, named for its attempt to imitate the trance-like state resulting from psychedelic drug usage.

The two-hour long, three-disc album is a refreshing commitment for the ears; each of the seventeen original songs is a pleasant experience that leaves the listener enthralled. The humanly raw and poetic nature of her lyrics captivates and pulls the listener into her world—one of oddball fantastical elfish parties and old-fashioned madrigals. Newsom’s folk-esqe poetry is complimented by the sultry, yet lively, manner in which she plucks her harp—her second signature, following close behind her quirky vocals.

Newsom’s voice is often a point of controversy for listeners. The response seems to be that her squeaks and crooning are either endearing or grating. Compared to her previous work, this album showcases subtler vocals that cater to a wider audience, especially as the album progresses. Her tone becomes more powerful and less child-like (a description often used that Newsom herself resents). This change is a result of the songstress contracting vocal cord nodules (a tissue growth that incapacitates vocal chords) early in 2009. She was able to recover and record Have One On Me in the same year.

With this album, a marvelous display of talent, creativity, and an ability to communicate personality, Newsom has firmly established her place in the ranks of this musical generation’s great singer-songwriters.

Gorillaz has always been somewhat of a novelty. The side project of Blur frontman Damon Albarn and comic book illustrator Jamie Hewlett, the band is best known for their hit singles “Clint Eastwood” and “Feel Good, Inc.” As an “animated band,” they have relied heavily on a rotating cast of guest artists and slick music videos for substance, but somehow this group of cartoon characters has enjoyed double platinum sales and five Grammy nominations.

Their newest album is titled Plastic Beach, and every song on it is crafted around a central image presented in the cover art: a lonely mansion perched atop an island formed from flotsam. The elaborately illustrated back story for the album retells the psychological tailspin of Murdoc Niccals, the cartoon “brains” and bassist of the band, who retreats to the island to record the “last LP on Earth.” During production, he learns that the island is actually an ecological disaster of collecting garbage that is growing as mankind declines.

This forms the basis for the album’s rich tones of apocalyptic paranoia. “The waves are rising for this time of year / And nobody knows what to do with the heat” sings Damon on “Rhinestone Eyes” and guest artist Gruff Rhys of Super Furry Animals warns that the “sea is radioactive” in the chorus of “Superfast Jellyfish.” The album is incredibly consistent thematically, considering the “band” has shied away from a firm identity in the past. And despite the uncertain future of the LP format, Plastic Beach is a concept album meant to be heard in its entirety.

Gorillaz has always been known as genre-bending band, but Plastic Beach explores new territory, deftly blending disparate musical styles. The album opens with a string score that fades into an electro-funk backing track for Snoop Dogg. Arabic orchestra and British grime find a home together on “White Flag.” Soul heavyweight Bobby Womack comfortably shares the mic with Mos Def on “Stylo.” De La Soul contributes the verses for “Superfast Jellyfish.” Even Mick Jones and Paul Simonon of The Clash make a brief appearance on “Plastic Beach.” These guest artists enhance Plastic Beach with their presence but are never allowed deviate too far from its wider vision.

For doubters, Plastic Beach is all the necessary proof that Gorillaz has transitioned from an MTV-fueled gimmick to a more mature musical endeavor. For fans, it shows that this so-called “side-project” may have much more in store.