Make no mistake, Post Pop Depression — if the album title wasn’t already a clear giveaway — is an existential album. Iggy is in full virtuosic form, with his genius — or Homme’s genius, because who can tell — on full display throughout. Iggy just plain old doesn’t care what you think anymore.

Josh Homme does, though. His production values are incredible on this record: the guitar notes are clear, the drums sound impeccably tough, and the bass hits hard. Homme has given this the same level of production he would a Queens of the Stone Age.

In particular, Gardenia reeks of Homme’s quality production and songwriting. Lyrically, it’s Iggy at his most torrid as he explains how he wants to tell Gardenia “what to do” tonight:

“America’s greatest living poet was ogling you all night. You should be wearing the finest gown, but here you are now — gas, food lodging, poverty, misery, and gardenia.”

And on Paraguay, in the record’s final moments, Iggy accuses the audience of being positively inhuman and tells them he’s tired of all their fear and insecurities. It’s pure Iggy — pure punk.

The inclusion of the other band members is vital, but confusing: is Iggy passing the torch to them? What’s next? When Post Pop Depression was first announced, the first thought I had was about how meta it was. Iggy Pop will come out and pass along the torch, making it clear who’s taking over the rock and roll establishment in his wake.

On Depression, though, Iggy doesn’t do that. He proves he’s still alive, pissed, and ready to take some names. If it really is his final record, it’s a great way to go. It’s an unapologetic admission that Iggy’s tired of being the guy America calls when it needs a friendly old-school rock and roller for an advertisement. It’s Iggy giving the establishment a big middle finger before walking offstage and riding a horse off into the sunset.

Instead of passing the torch, Iggy reminds us that nobody of the current generation can do what he does. He reminds us of his singular talent in front of the mic. It’s a reminder that nobody can do what he do. And maybe the significance of Post Pop Depression’s grease-filled, sexed-up angry sadness is that Iggy’s not ready to die with rock and roll — but he’s going to get out while the getting’s good.

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Throughout the album, that first impression never fades.

Mothers’ debut moves from one style to another, dabbling in the baroque folk on Too Small For Eyes, but also playing songs that sound more like Canadian musicians Rah Rah (like It Hurts Until It Doesn’t or album stand-out Copper Mines). There’s a swirl of building tension in each song, shifting tempos and shapes as every song morphs from its beginning to its (usually) cacophonous end (Hold Your Own Hand being a great example).

But the star of the show consistently remains Krstine Leschper, whose voice sounds at once fragile, powerful, acutely sharp, and terrifying all at once. She has a habit of nearly whispering into the microphones, hitting notes that force her voice to crack, or refusing to let a note hang long enough in the air before she lets the guitars swallow it alive. She falls apart on the microphone.

The resulting record isn’t for everybody. Blood-Letting isn’t a crowd-pleaser of a song, and I suspect many people will think Leschper’s voice has an odd, screechy quality. But I think the band knows this. The whole record is drowned in treble, forcing everything to sound wobbly.

For Mothers, that theme of sounding broken, or like it could break at any moment, is sort of the point. They play to their strengths throughout, writing remarkably consistent songs that never falter from the album’s core strength of self-loathing introspection.

When You Walk A Long Distance You Are Tired is a debut record that sounds like nobody else in the genre. With the exception of Lockjaw (which is a great track), it doesn’t go after the hook or groove of a singles-filled record, and it’s not terribly catchy. WYWALDYAT hits on an emotional level that few bands ever succeed with, especially not on their first try.

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And then Jimi asks, “If a body drop in the hood, and no one around, does it make a noise?” overtop of a kinetic beat. By the end of the song, he’s answered his own question, but it’s a provocative thought process.

Most of the songs on 5 O’Clock Shadow, which is a seven-song EP that feels as long as a full-length, deal with Tents growing up in the hood. This is East Coast hip hop though; it sounds nothing like the hood Dre grew up in. One spin of The Way (Intro) clears up any misconceptions; Jimi Tents isn’t hear to sound like one of his heroes. A melancholic bass line walks him onto the record, and that melancholy stays with him.

That melancholy suits his voice, which reminds me in some ways of the baritone sound of The National’s Matt Berninger. Both of them sound positively morose sometimes, almost like Leonard Cohen. For Tents, this is a sound uniquely his own in hip hop. There’s nobody else in New York who sounds like this, and I’ve read some comparisons to Kendrick.

Should’ve Called and Landslide (the most upbeat track here) feature the strongest rapping on the record. Tents’ flow is impeccable, but it’s interesting that he doesn’t often spit that way. As a rapper, he’s more interested in songs like Elmer Fudd and Jazzy, which slow the genre down and let him ask these introspective questions.

The questions lack some of the depth that the leaders in the genre carry. Elmer Fudd is a great track, but listening a second time doesn’t bear repeated revelations about growing up in the hood. 5 O’Clock Shadow isn’t the sound of a landmark rap record, but rather the sound of a rapper coming into his own and being confident in his own voice.

Jimi Tents’ debut EP is a pitch to hear more from Jimi Tents later. The pitch is successful enough that I vote we just give him a seat at the table.

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As Willaume laces his voice, often in falsetto, over the tracks, it’s hard not be reminded of all sorts of British Baroque pop from eras gone by (like the adventurous Beatles songs, The Flamingos, Elliot Smith, or even Radiohead), but it’s clearly something Sage is interested in taking in his own direction. The tracks here aren’t predictable pop music made for the masses; they are made by somebody interested in “going for things he hasn’t yet mastered.”

The record is devoid of anthemic radio-friendly singles, but it has a consistent air of familiarity, almost as if you’ve heard it before, but you don’t know where. Part of it is because of Sage’s amalgamation of influences, for sure, but I wonder if it’s also a result of his sincerity. His earnest (but somewhat vague) lyrics, peppering emotion on every track, makes his music feel universal.

Sage also feels like a continuation of the sort of music that Willaume would have continued to make with Revolver: baroque pop influenced by chamber music in France. And it captures an undefinable quality, perhaps because of its French background, that sounds like magic on tape. There’s an air of lightness to the record.

On Eyes Closed, as Willaume approaches Radiohead territory, and his voice sprawls out over the track covered in reverb, it feels like he’s discovering something unearthly buried in the echoes. And when the album closes it out with the final notes of that track, it’s an honest surprise because it doesn’t overstay its welcome.

On his first record as Sage, Willaume is doing two things: he’s wearing his influences on his sleeve, and he’s refusing to write two songs that sound the same. In a lot of ways, it’s unfortunate that his music is destined to avoid the radio, because he has a winning formula on his hands. His tasteful mishmash of styles, combined with his French chamber music influences, makes Sage feel like a unique and earnest pop record completely devoid of label compromise. Sage offers a refreshing take on pop music with his debut, and it’s hard not to recommend it.

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The comparison to White Stripes (and in some ways, The Black Keys) is very apt: not unlike their predecessors, The Bonnevilles are a blues rock band with the aesthetic of a punk-influenced garage rock sound. And to top it all of, the band is a duo from Northern Ireland featuring a guitarist and a drummer (Chris McMullen).

The Whiskey Lingers is another track reminiscent of vintage White Stripes, particularly its smashing chorus. Raging guitar riffs, aggressive drum hits, and more bring it all together — but not before The Bonnevilles bust out a dark blues riff that lingers like that shot of whisky they sing about.

It illuminates the difference between The Bonnevilles and their predecessors: The Bonnevilles have a darker sound that feels more primal and bluesy than White Stripes ever did. McGibbon’s guitar tone is darker and bassier, and has more in common with Queens of the Stone Age than it does Black Keys.

And they don’t always sound as rock-inspired. The Electric Company and I’ve Come Too Far for Love to Die are both blues jammers, with little punk influence, and it’s clear that the band know the genre well.

And what’s more, it never sounds like they’re vying to be a clone — in fact, they don’t sound like a clone of White Stripes or Black Keys. The similarities sound coincidental, as if The Bonnevilles wrote a thesis paper on blues-influenced garage rock and came to similar conclusions on the genre independent of other influences.

All of that is to say, despite obvious influences, it’s hard to accuse The Bonnevilles of ripping anybody off. When all of their influences come together, it’s a rousing success: I Dreamt of the Dead and Learning to Cope are fantastic songs that scream to be witnessed in a live show.

If the album has any sore note, it’s the closing Who Do I Have to Kill to Get Out of Here?, which is too messy and lingers too long after the album’s previous momentum. It’s a single wrong note in what’s otherwise a sterling album from The Bonnesvilles, who make the case that rock is far from dead — it just needs a shot in the arm.

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