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Jack Dangers' industrial-identified ensemble was dipping deadpan samples into the deepest dub years before post-rock indie bands and post-jungle dance subgenres caught up. And on their 12th album, Meat Beat's bottom end still holds weight.

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These meat-and-potatoes Missourians spend their third album returning to the scene of the crime: murders on the Jersey Shore, outlaws in Oklahoma, Salinas jailbirds' daughters on the lam, MILFs seducing future MFAs in Orange County. They wear black and carry guns like Dad did, but so do the crooked cops. Their riffs aim for Angus

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A dozen years and one drummer removed from their copacetic Nirvanabe nugget "Bound for the Floor," Scott Lucas' Illinois-bred bubble-grunge duo are still loudest and prettiest when hitching their power chords to power pop. This time, though, there's a concept: One title per month, all revolving around an ugly breakup.

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This Portland, Oregon quartet piece together a lysergic cocktail of stoner sludge, prog pomp, and rocket blastoffs on their second album. Pinning a heavy thump under the melodrama, they turn paradiddles on a dime, swirl toward the stratosphere, slink back into rainy-day cave dwellings, experiment with Moog and cello and woodwind and horns, even bang heads now and then.

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Like countless noise bands before, Ypsilanti, Michigan's enfants terribles are secretly better at pleasant background environments than screeching terror. And on their eighth album, sundry spans of dub space and seashore thunder throb more gristle than their vaunted Tasmanian devil tantrums.

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Oregon living fossils Fred and Toody Cole were both born in '48, got married in '67 (three years after Fred first recorded), started Dead Moon in '87, and have never quit. They're as legendary for their dogged perseverance as for their lo-fi psychedelic cow-punk, and this two-disc, 49-song retrospective of self-released output probably should be half as long. But so what?