I started listening to this as a life-zapping heat wave descended on the Southwest, my dark bedroom a meager fortress against the harsh light of day, so I think of it as The Heat, which is pretty much the same thing.

Such a good example of itself that it might as well be called Long Kurt Vile Songs. I wouldn’t say this contains any of his best melodies, best guitar work or best vocals, but in place of all that, he’s a more delightful punk than before, indefinitely sustaining vague feelings and occasionally pulling out ridiculous lines like “I promise not to party… too hard” or “music is easy, watch me!” Exclamation point optional.

Music you can grow old with, in specific ways, like how the man counting on “Telepath” (over “Live To Tell” chords, even more spookily) must be the adult of the child that spoke “love” on 1998’s “The Color of the Fire.” Of no one can it be more truthfully said that their music ages organically.

You say we’re in New York but I just don’t believe it’s true anymore.

The Modern Lovers’ “Old World” now refers to itself, and even The Secret History, whose Michael Grace Jr. used to write all those amazing ghost songs for My Favorite, are having some trouble locating the romance of the past. And yet, they’ve made a thrilling record that is, in sound, like a dream of the future of the popular album from a time no later than, probably, Can’t Stand The Rezillos or Blondie’s Eat to the Beat.

—“How’s the publishing industry?”
—“Not good as usual.”

That’s an exchange from Frances Ha, a recent movie about young-ish people inhabiting lives and image-moments that belong as much to their city’s history in cinema and photography as to themselves. The city is New York, and the sort of unconscious adulthood ritual is further complicated by this place that was always difficult to live in and is now barely worth the attempt. The young-ish people fail, mostly, in excellent ways. Well, the industry of indie labels, records and stores is doing a little better, relative to its recent past, and on the opposite coast, the Bay Area’s Mantles discover, on Long Enough To Leave, a more tenable existence in which they may live according to the moments they know from records. Theirs is wonderful, composed of a stronger melodic sense than many of their peers, and, for the words, interesting grammar gnarls that hardly hold up as phrases (“More That I Pay,” etc.) but sound good.

Or, to substitute a different eloquent monster, Modern Zombies of the City. The best I could’ve hoped for this band is that they’d end up sounding like The Zombies, and that’s exactly what happens here. “Step” contains light and substantial beauty unlike any since Odessey & Oracle or Kaleidoscope’s “Dear Nellie Goodrich.”

Refers to a sound, not a girl, it turns out.

A few years before the final great refinement of their sound, this song’s even a bit crazier, sweeter and more momentous than anything the Lips attempted in the 90s.

Pretty much my favorite thing about classic synth pop music, embodied by this song, is the way all its momentum and grace seems somehow derived from the tedium of working life.

But this is his least sincere and/or most condescending song, you’re saying. Possibly true, but it works for a night drive, and since, when I was younger, Beck was Beck, music was whole, and style and genre were mostly useless ideas, it’s helpful to look back and find or remember that Beck was also a living synthesizer and uncensored parodist, even if those are the least of his arts.