I don't particularly care much for Salon's Wednesday Morning Download music section. It's a sort of analytical cop-out that serves more to pitch discs Amazon.com-style – replete with sound clips and links to Apple's iTunes store – than it does review them. But in certain instances, such as with Glasgow's Franz Ferdinand, a band that in the critical realm seem to only exist in relation to their influences and contemporaries, the download-and-let-the-listener-decide format is probably the most effective, and fair, method of presenting the work. And in this case, I too am an unabashed Franz Ferdinand cheerleader; I'd rather just get you to the record store than have you read another word that will ultimately never grasp the populist pop brilliance of the band's self-titled debut album.

Franz Ferdinand's hype machine has undoubtedly spit out more supporters than detractors, and barring only the fact that the resplendently dressed foursome seem to cut a perfect centrist divide between Duran Duran, Interpol, the Strokes, and such, they deserve all the praise bestowed on them; they're a fiercely talented group with commensurate songs and presence. To say the least, they've got a reputation that precedes them, but even the most skeptical pundits will have a hard time denying the band's appeal.

With all due respect to the Rapture and !!! for coolly coaxing rock kids back onto the dance floor, Franz Ferdinand seem to be what's keeping them there, holding court with more than just funky bass lines and dancey high hats. Lead singer Alex Kapranos's a cappella opener – a launchpad for the angular, bass-heavy rocker "Jacqueline" – is the stuff of Brit pop perfection, less Blur's upbeat free-spiritedness or Pulp's über-chic pretension. And while they have a similar '80s Brit flare, "Take Me Out" suggests they're as much into Billy Squier stomp-clap riffs as they're into dandy swagger and Italian suits. Truthfully, if given a choice, I'd prefer to keep the unfair comparisons focused on Franz Ferdinand's manner of dress – more Spandau Ballet than Buzzcocks, if you need know. (Ken Taylor)

Magnetic Fields
i (Nonesuch)

It's tempting to view the Magnetic Fields' last proper release, 1999's 69 Love Songs, as a bounty at the end of boom years. In the Clinton era, Stephin Merritt's chief group rose to prominence, and they haven't returned with a fresh song collection until what one hopes is the end of the Bush regime. Their new album, i, is comparatively stripped-down in terms of tune count (14) and conceit (each title begins with the letter i). Immaculate from start to finish, the arrangements here benefit from Enoch Light-like production polish. Impeccable Merritt's wordplay remains, and yet a question lingers. Is his sitting-room sensibility too mannered and cloistered for these brutal, ugly times? Is it irrelevant? If Merritt's vocabulary makes Morrissey – also returning from a lengthy absence – seem plainspoken, that doesn't necessarily mean his precision is superior. Intelligent minds sometimes have to paint a vulgar picture.

The album's lowercase title is apt. Iconographic in the tiny-i indie sense, meticulous Merritt hones his sad-clown persona (on display on "I Looked All over Town") for comic effect, while steering clear of the overblown melodic moping that has reduced Rufus Wainwright's songwriting to ruin. In other words, no damned ladies for him: on "In an Operetta," he'd rather pay whimsical homage to Monteverdi and transform an expiring Violetta into a sprightly androgyne named Pip. Influenza isn't as catchy as "I Thought You Were My Boyfriend"; ideal for lamenting an ex while scanning the dance floor for replacements, the song does a superb job of replicating synth effects. (Instrumentation throughout the album is rustic, built on a "no synths" rule.) Images of car crashes and toppled walls of boxed chocolates make "Irma" a surreal interlude. Illness of the romantic sort causes Merritt to keel over on the very first song ("I Die"), but don't worry, he's born again to moan on the sixth ("I Was Born").

Images by Fred Tomaselli provided some of the highlights at this year's irrelevant and waning Whitney Biennial, and a piece by Tomaselli is an integral part of i's cover art. Indebted to Lari Pittman's work, Tomaselli's intricately spangled Gravity in Four Directions suits Merritt's hope metaphors, which travel up and down in the same song on more than one occasion. "Is This What They Used to Call Love?" ventures from the top to the bottom of the piano keys, resulting in a standout moment from the album's superior closing-stretch venture into torch territory. I can't help but suspect Merritt could have written these songs backward and upside down in his sleep. The album sounds perfect, and he sounds perfectly bored – he's just adding some numbers to his canon, as a main project turns into a side project and his first musical waits in the wings. (Johnny Ray Huston)

Boyjazz
In the City Tonight (Frenetic)

Not to be confused with San Francisco all-girl action band Boyskout, and definitely not to be mixed up with turgid boy-beef pop group Boyzone, Boyjazz cometh, announcing their wiseass yet altogether kick-ass glam rock presence for all to see and hear and file noise complaints about, in tribute to their undeniable loudness. 'Cause you know you've got to turn this kind of Bud-guzzling, silly-strutting, snarly, gnarly cock rock up. Retardo-cool from their name to their corduroy blazers, the 'Jazz and their debut, In the City Tonight, just make you want to dispose with those lame formalities like taste and live the rock-hard hard-rock cliché. To heck with it – it's fun like that. Let's say any band that promises to "make your head explode" – even in passing, like an afterthought – should be given a high-five for their appreciation of Scanners and ultimate teenage kicks, or a good sound spanking for their lack of imagination.