The '80s have come and gone at least twice now, but some people's tastes will not be dictated by the revolutions of our three-decade trend wheel. The new wave never crested, it never will, and perhaps it's no crime to be permanently stuck on the sounds of synth pop, as long as you do something constructive with your obsession.

Such is the position taken by Anna Oxygen on her debut full-length. An album of aerobic aesthetics, catchy dance beats, and the lilt and tremolo of the new romantics, All Your Faded Things was made for those who enjoy Flashdance-Footloose doubleheaders and late-night living-room dance parties; still have their middle school yearbooks with all the most meaningful lyrics from Yaz's Upstairs at Eric's scrawled in the margins; and occasionally choreograph dance routines when they think no one else is home.

Other requirements include an appreciation for keytars, drum machines, and the dramatic vocal stylings of Martha Davis and Alison Moyet, minus the latter's hints of heartbreak and suicidal tendencies. Anxious to take your passion and make it happen but can't find the right synth line? Try the sexy-goofy opening track "Baby Blue," the wildly romantic "Aviva," or the coolly jaded, irresistibly pretty "Spectacle." (Lynn Rapoport)

Atmosphere
Seven's Travels (Epitaph)

So much hip-hop is directed outside, by aspiring street journalists chronicling urban life or wanna-be dramatists glamorizing corner strife. Atmosphere's Slug is more fascinated with the interiority of human life: the complexities and comedy of love and sex, the ugly realities of his profession, the constant struggle against inner demons. That Slug brings much humor to these character sketches doesn't make them less poignant – there's always a touch of the bittersweet in his music, the inside joke that he only hints at but never fully reveals.

Critics are fond of labeling Atmosphere "emo rap," an unfortunate label (since when do emotions in hip-hop need to be qualified?), but it at least acknowledges that the group dwell mostly in the ghetto of the mind. Atmosphere's ambivalence over their own career manifests on the aloof rhymes of "Trying to Find a Balance": "While everyone was trying to outdo the last man / I was just a ghost trying to catch some Ms. Pacman." Fear not, Seven's Travels isn't a complete angst fest, and Slug shows impressive diversity in his missives. "Reflections" and "Shoes" follow his insatiable quest for female affection. "Los Angeles" is a loopy, meandering sketch of Slug's favorite city to love/hate. "Lift Her, Pull Her" powerfully narrates the story of two drifters trying to keep afloat.

Because Slug's presence looms so large, producer Ant rarely gets the credit he deserves. Seven's Travels is certainly some of his best work ever, creatively playing with samples that reference everything from '70s sweet soul to Latin rock rhythms. Slug shows his many faces, and Ant keeps up with a beat craft that proves just as malleable. Together, the two form one of the best-kept secrets in hip-hop – people may label them alternative, but they're too gifted to simply remain cult favorites forever. Atmosphere perform Sat/20, Fillmore, S.F. (415) 421-TIXS. (Oliver Wang)

Dynamite Brothers
Clap along with the Dynamite Brothers (Oxrat)

The Dynamite Brothers' debut, Clap along with the Dynamite Brothers, shakes its thang with supa soul-revival sounds reminiscent of the Dirtbombs and Harold Ray Live in Concert. They bring to mind the stripped-down blues skronk of the Coachwhips, but with a heaping helping or two of technical chops. Songs like the soul send-up "Bus Stop" definitely get you clapping along, but the Chapel Hill, N.C., group's instrumental adeptness loses me at times. I'm going to go as far as to say that they'd be a better band if they were worse musicians, because that'd be asinine. It's just that they play in so many styles, with such dexterity, that at times they seem to be aping it.

On the other hand, the blues stomps are enjoyable, and it's clear the Dyna Bros know the idiom well and really do feel it. "My Lover," a rocking garage-blues joint, is one of those songs that's so naturally cool, it can refer to screwing as "making love" without sounding dorky. On "Sack o' Locks," singer-guitarist Mitch Rothrock's vocals exhibit a throaty wail that approaches that of the Candy Snatchers, but musically things never get so out of control. It's the funk jams on Clap that leave me flat. For "Sleepwalkin' Again," with its repetitive Black Keys-style guitar riff, Rothrock puts on his star shades in a somewhat unconvincing – or too convincing – attempt to channel Bootsy Collins.

Still, this CD does get down, except at those moments when it's just too perfectly polished to buy. I get the feeling they'd be a fun band to see live, in a context where some of that veneer is missing. The Dynamite Brothers perform Sept. 28, Parkside, S.F. (415) 503-0393. (Duncan Scott Davidson)

Otis Taylor
Truth Is Not Fiction (Telarc)

Otis Taylor's lyrics are frequently surreal, as on the song "Be Your Frankenstein," from Truth Is Not Fiction. At other times, however, they're almost too damn real, as when he tells the tale of an American Indian family that commits suicide rather than live on a reservation or spins a story from the viewpoint of a prison guard watching over his father, imprisoned for raping the guard's mother. Moans, shouts, whispers, and coughs propel the Denver blues singer's gruff baritone vocals, and his own accompanying banjo, guitar, and mandolin patterns seldom change chords, serving as trance-inducing frames for the stark subject matter.