1 CENT CD: Dr. Manhattan s/t acid punk on Vagrant

Condition Of CD: Mint Condition!  Info at www.myspace.com/drmanhattan.

One review reads 'Halfway between Mars and the smoke shop, Dr. Manhattan are a funky bunch of space cadets. I mean this in a good way. The new Vagrant signees make art rock that's post-punk more than anything else, but it's charming, clever, intelligible and precisely erratic to the core. More in the spazzy seats, like an unruly little brother to Cursive, than the genre-bending, mind-f===cking experimental box, Dr. Manhattan is fresh in a set of all-over-the-place, stage-raping contemporaries like Kiss Kiss, Foxy Shazam and Man Man. The first full-length from the Illinois foursome is a grasping 11-song punch. No, literally, it can sock you in the face.

The album opens up with "Big Chomper, Big Chomper", a speedy, crashing and distorted mammoth. Singer Matt Engers introduces his impatient, careless yelping without any looking back, and by the time the track leeways into "You Put The I In Team", it's difficult to differentiate between the two. There's just a lot going on here. It takes a few seconds, or a few tracks, to get adjusted. By the time the band steps back to trip on a few atmospheric textures on the end of "Team", "Dirty, Scandalous, Dirty" opens with tumultuous, mischievous guitars. It's not until kitschy lyrical beat "Tracey's Buns" (Milkshakes are pretty f===cking tasty/but I enjoy you more/because you're Tracey/and I love you/so much) that the album takes a (purposefully?) awkward acoustic water break. I'm grateful for the breather and the track's total randomness. Because random can be endearing.

Structurally, Dr. Manhattan never feels sloppy or unplanned but conveniently disorderly, almost as though things in the studio just happened, like a conglomerate of organic rumples that fell into place. Between the fritzy guitars, the grab bag of impressive drumming or faint touches of piano and electronics, the product is thick with texture. But take all of this with a grain of salt, or rather, be prepared to mouth down a few abrasive melodies.

"Claims Should Echo" is the bread winner. The verses/choruses are perfect in ferocity and good-natured sequencing, the kind of song that makes an impression on a mixed CD or two. And, even though he's never hidden on other tracks, Engers is in top beast form. He understands inflection is supposed to be as moving as tone, and he integrates the grit and raunchiness of his vocals to a model of post-punk. Right after "Claims Should Echo", however, is "Gunpowder: A Ballet", a stubborn stump blocking the destructive, albeit infectious, path Dr. Manhattan has paved. It's not as magnetizing as the others. "Baton Rouge" falls short even with its cool as ice jazz trumpet. The album begins to drop off towards the end, or moreover, I begin to drop off towards the end. "Minds Like Ours" and "Peppers" are exhaustive and bleed into the rest of the album. It's time to rest. Maybe I'm just not tough enough to roll with Dr. Manhattan?'