The Hidden Cameras - "Builds the Bone". The second song from the Hidden Cameras' upcoming record, Mississauga Goddam. According to AllMusic, it's the only album to have ever named the Toronto suburb in its title. I looked.

I like the Hidden Cameras in concert. They bring an astonishing energy, a Flaming Lips party-craze display, a love of life and a cheering, dancing spirit. Listening to the recording "Ban Marriage," from their first album, is entertaining. Seeing it in person is life (and love) affirming.

So on Mississauga Goddam things are at their very best when the band's not trying to be manic, to be carnival. Whereas the live performance of "Builds the Bone" went on a little long, here, set to wax, it's rosy-cheek'd and very beautiful. When the strings glide in, it's icing on the cake: I'm already weak at the knees from the stumbling electric guitar, lost in a young crush (am I projecting when I hear "St Swithin's Day"?). I'm already swooning from Joel Gibb's pop song, the double-track of vocals, the openness of it all. I'm already dying. (There is, of course, there's what the song's about. Which is subversive, maybe, but I think really it's just honest. Sad. And, as I said, beautiful.)

Rachel Goswell - "Warm Summer Sun". Slowdive/Mojave 3's Rachel Goswell has gone out on her own, recording an album of girly folk that's noisier and more complicated than most. "Warm Summer Sun" is the opening song, and boy did it surprise me. It starts with a chittering rhythm and acoustic guitar, simple as something by Rosie Thomas or Dar Williams. In the second half, though, the uilleann pipes that had been lurking in the background bound to the forefront, a piano dives through the canopy, a bassline casually sets the ground a-trembling. One expects to hear such things on Mary Jane Lomond, Ashley MacIsaac or Capercaille records, but not on the solo debut of a founding shoegazer. Better yet - it works gloriously: a slow-motion trainwreck, a decelerated whirwind, an orchestra-hall at the end of the movie when you can't hear anything but the soundtrack and the roof caves and the instruments splinter and green shoots burst out from where the woodwinds would sit. A panicked quiet. Church bells. (From Waves are Universal, which is released tomorrow.) [buy soon]

Klosterman's brilliant piece on "advancement" does things that make me giddy with pleasure: punctures egos, laughs at nonsense, celebrates the fascinating. It's about the musical artists that transcend our ken, and is published in this month's Esquire. (via fp and then clap clap)