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Aging gracefully is tough for pop punks and goths alike: The makeup starts to look silly, for one thing. But Alkaline Trio singer Matt Skiba proves it's possible with Heavens, which imagines the Cure born to the Warped generation. Despite the occasionally cringe-worthy lyrics (arterial spray, guillotines, hearses), the songs are surprisingly tuneful and thoughtful.

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With his forlorn lyrics and geeky fashion sense, Forrest Kline quickly scored the devotion of MySpace users everywhere, and perhaps as a result, the 22-year-old songwriter now feels confident enough to follow his muse wherever it wanders.

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It's true: Montreal's the Dears are fronted by a black man who sounds exactly like Blur/Gorillaz leader Damon Albarn crooning the Smiths' songbook -- an ear-turning reversal of the usual white appropriation of African American and Jamaican styles. And Murray Lightburn doesn't flinch from the race issue that comes with his band's particularly pasty shade of rock.

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The arty contrivances -- numbers instead of song titles, impenetrable lyrics delivered in a strange wail, that band name -- are tough to overlook, but these Brits mitigate their affectations with solid, if flailing, songs.

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Scissor Sisters once lamented that "there ain't no tits on the radio" -- a scientific observation on the limits of sound, sure, but also a comment on the conservative strangling of the band's out-and-proud New York milieu by former Mayor Giuliani.

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With the long, hot summer finally gone, we all need something to soothe our racked nerves, and one-man band Jimmy LaValle is doing his best to fill that role. On his fourth album, he gently eases you into his mostly instrumental world, where shimmering keyboards float around sweeping strings and understated beats.