Mr. Mxyzptlk, Dzdsgdseszrh (Red Kryptonite) Yes, the rumors are true: Criminal irritant and Superman villain Mr. Mxyzptlk has forsaken his life of crime to follow his muse, making abstract electronica on his own micro-indie label. Created with a barely functioning Casio, a cheese grater, a Speak & Spell, a distortion pedal, and several drops of water, Dzdsgdseszrh may be the most radical, severe home-listening techno album ever made, full of harsh scrapes, beats that regularly fall out of sync with their alleged time signatures, several long stretches where absolutely nothing happens, and, occasionally, things that resemble actual music, but not so much so that you’d mistake them for being it. Therefore, it is a work of genius, because we all know that if more than a dozen people like a piece of music it is obviously stupid and has no value whatsoever. Let the masses fall in lockstep with their tuneful, rhythmic opiates. Those who know how to think for ourselves, however, will rejoice in Mr. Mxyzptlk’s pointless rambling as we curl up in our bedrooms, suck our thumbs, and bitterly plot our revenge on those who would oppose us.—Lex Luthor

Beats wit’ a Z (B.E.A.T.Z.), Standing at the Threshold of Keepin’ It Real (Cribsnatch) Yo, when I heard about this seedy, I knew I had to gets me a copy, because check it, it was produced by DJ Icicle, the hardest-core up-and-coming waxmaster out there. I mean, nobody’s heard of this guy except his mom, his two half brothers and his second cousin, a.k.a. yours truly. And sure enough, his first album brings the ruckus like nobody’s business: Beats that sound like a naugahyde couch getting smacked by a Ping-Pong paddle; string samples taken from that live Portishead record; and lots of good, old-fashioned, urban African-American male yelling. Damn, it makes my heart feel good when I hear some o’ that voice-hoarsening shouting goin’ on; makes me feel like puffin’ out my chest, spittin’ on the ground, grabbin’ my nutz, clearin’ my throat so loudly you can hear it half a block away, and screamin’ along wit’ it, ya taste me? Gives a man a sense of pride, knowhamsayin’? Over the top of it all, MC Szizzorz comes correct with the kind of intense secret messages that require a combination of the I Ching, the Talmud, and Little Orphan Annie’s secret decoder ring just to begin to understand: “835 of us/Crawlin’ through a bottle of Scope/ I stepped onto a jeweled scarab/Hanging at the end of the rope/10,000 gimlets shining through the ghetto sky/And then I shot your momma/Just to watch her die.” Truly the next level.—Che Guevara

Stuffynose, Yeah Sure Uh-Huh Whatever (Tinytots) Fields. Miles of glorious fields with golden sunlight bouncing effortlessly off count- less blades of grass that cover them in endless rows of shimmering beauty, unadulterated by the presence of anyone who isn’t a maladjusted member of the Converse-shod, slim corduroy pants-wearing, slightly ill-fitting T-shirted upper middle class. That’s the mental picture conjured by the third album by Boston-based indie-pop trio Stuffynose, and if anyone out there doesn’t think it sounds like paradise, well, my privileged upbringing has ensured that I’ll never have to encounter them. I mean, who in their right mind could not just love the hell out of fey-voiced Jordan Tartling, whose vague, noncommittal lyrics (“Sometimes when I’m looking at the sky/I see the clouds turning into shapes of/Sha la la la laaaa”) perfectly complement the anemically chiming guitars and wilted rhythm section? Oh, some might scoff that no one in the band can sing or play his or her instrument, but phooey on them. They don’t understand that art doesn’t come from knowing how to do something right, it comes from art students. But most of all, Yeah Sure Uh-Huh Whatever makes me think of the English countryside I visited every spring when I was a mere lad, puttering about and gazing fondly into the middle distance at the shaggy moss that envelops us all when we’ve forgotten our inhaler during allergy season.—Smith Sherman III

Boyeeee, I Useta Breakdance (But Now I Slamdance!!!) (Blammo!/ Atlantic) This record profoundly disturbs me. For example, lead singer Trashcan Diamond’s state-of-the-teenage-nation discourse can only be labeled profound. For proof, try the extreme self-hatred of “Stink” (“You stink/But not as bad as me/Because I fucking stiiiink/Duuude!”) and the working-man anthem “Shit Job” (“I’m gonna end up flipping burgers for the rest of my life/Just like my father/Why the hell do I bother/Maybe I should just kill myself/Duuude!”). But it’s Diamond’s attitude toward women that forces me to loosen my bow tie and dab the sweat off my tenured forehead. Is he calling them “bitches” because of his underclass anger or just because he’s a big dunderhead? Does he threaten to kill his mother because she abused him or because he’s just a spoiled brat? Does he end every verse with the word “duuude” because of some subcultural code or simply because he’s an inarticulate boob? And what does all of this say about the effect of the suburbs on the white male psyche? I must investigate this phenomenon further.—”Chuckles” Eddie