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Of today's numerous punk bands reminding us that the Jesus Lizard and their queasy ilk didn't die in vain, this quartet of mopes from Allentown, Pennsylvania, might be the best. Their blown-amp sludge punk demonstrates, as noise-rock godfather Steve Albini once put it, "how fucking holy distortion sounds on just about anything." Amen, brother.

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The title track to the Holloways' debut is a stinging, if jaunty, rebuke of Britain's shallow booze-, sex-, and celebrity-fueled culture ("A sinking ship that's full of shit and someone nicked the oars"). But rather than forsaking the sleaze, they dive in headfirst, searching for a meaningful pulse.

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Jack White makes a lot of strange noises on the appropriately titled Icky Thump: There's an unnerving, high-pitched guitar whine that's straight out of a Tom Morello fakebook (we'll call that one "the Squawk"); a brooding, bubbling-under-the-surface organ hum (to be dubbed "the Surge"); and a discomforting, annoyingly childish yelp (actually, on further examination, t

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With this Stateside debut, the Bergen, Norway duo of Fredrik Saroea and Ketil Mosnes bring a singularly warped exuberance to their double-entendre disco pop. On tracks about beastly divas and dancing with Daddy, they combine campy humor, hair-trigger club hooks, and electro-charged rock riffs.

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Techno's earthy cousin microhouse is generally as unassuming as its name, but Michigan-based producer Matthew Dear infuses the snapping, beeping compositions of his second album with a sincere yearn, broadening the genre in the process. Dear's breathy, throaty voice has a stirring tunefulness that recalls TV on the Radio's Tunde Adebimpe.