Finally I’ve found the label for this nonsense I’ve been spinning obsessively for the last few weeks. (Picture the little rat in the cage, tongue lashing the coke-spiked water-bottle foaming away at his little lips. twitch twitCH! TWITCH!!… ) Anyway here ’tis: INDIE-POP. Post-Pop’s already taken (damn you, Peaches!) And this is more of a return to form, like your third-wave feminism: It ain’t afraid to be what it was born to be. More Carrie Bradshaw, less Murphy Brown.

So here’s The Ting Tings: Big in the UK, and (I predict) without a future in the states. We can’t handle ambiguity (see: the Darkness). You’re either in or your out. Hanging with the in-crowd or slumming with the freaks, take a pick and don’t cross the line. These kids have played both sides of the fence and can’t seem to sit still. Picture the White Stripes playing a round of Dance Dance Revolution and you’ll get the idea.

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addendum: I just googled indie-pop and it’s been taken too. drat! suggestions anyone?

Like a Big Mac, I’ve been loving it. But I must confess: I’m afeared. I’m quaking in my creative boots. I’m weak in my musical knees. Atrophy, dust, rust, and disease. The problem is this: Do I only like things that remind me of the music of my youth? Is there a future left for me? Or am I on a slow slump to a Sarasota double-wide pining for the way it used to be?

First of all, the album: It starts off with (and gets back to every 3 tracks or so) a nice bit of retro-80′s pop-balladry. That’s the hook. The barb is the dub, the punky-reggae party that slips into the groove like a track off of Sandinista and lights up this little corner of the dance floor of my heart. Throw in some sonic experiments that wouldn’t be out of place as a later Massive Attack track and you’ve got yourself an album. You’ve got yourself an album that sounds a lot like something I can relate to. Yes me: a 30-something, formerly hip, trying to keep up with the day job and the kids and the wife and the rest of life. Is this really a market to target?

There’s more to Santogold than that, but there’s something purposeful about the way she snips melody from the Smiths, screams like one of Siouxie’s banshees and has a Peter Murphy impersonator guest on the track “I’m a Lady”. Or maybe she just has good taste. Maybe I do too.

Here’s to hope, and here’s to the future.

… is good for at least the drive home too.

Call me shallow, but I really don’t care that I can’t understand a word of this. I actually tried to learn French a few years ago. Rocki and I picked up a “Learn French In 24-Hours” type course on tape at a bookstore while vacationing in Chicago. It seemed like a good idea at the time. We listened to the first cassette too. Then we got bored when it asked us to repeat the phrases back to the unseen man hiding in the car radio. I just couldn’t bring myself to ask for the whereabouts of the watercloset from an automaton in mixed company. Though he did have an outrageous accent.

I liked the accent a-plenty. Which brings me back to Yelle. It’s 80′s dance-pop (with a few updated beats here and there for good measure.) She sings like Stacey Q and raps like Debbie Harry. Shatter this heart of glass!

Come to think of it, it might be better that I can’t understand the words. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cringed mid-step in an otherwise enjoyable moment of self-adulation, dancing alone to one of Madonna’s more recent tracks. Sometimes the words just get in the way.

Need more proof? Just can’t get enough? :: You Tube !

So it’s starting to scare me a little bit. My Top Two newest favoritest bands of 2008 came to me via recommendations in GQ. Why do I read Spin? Why do I read Paste? Why do I talk to all of you music geeks out there? All I really need is a connection to MySpace Music and my subscription to GQ. I’m all set. And they can help me with those annoying button-down vs. spread collar questions that keep coming up. It’s a two-fer!

I’m pretty sure I’ll have forgotten these guys by 2009, but they’ve been nice to pal around with the last few weeks. The new self-titled disc is 12-tracks of solid rock ‘n roll. Nary a bum cut on the platter. Some of the lesser tunes (like “Love It All”) are nicely rescued by ‘ze guitar which likes to hang out in the left speaker and tastefully fill the melodic holes with little licks.

Sometimes it sounds like The Strokes, sometimes it sounds like The Stones. Basically, it’s the album that Jet tried to make 5 or so years ago. Remember them? No? Me neither. But I might remember The Kooks a little bit longer. This isn’t the kind of rock that’s built to last (a lesson The Killers forgot while recording Sam’s Town.) They’re just playing the game — the rules of which were written years ago by guys like Ray Davies and Pete Townshend. But it’s a game that I like playing too. Roll the dice, you Krazy Kooks! I’m in!