Thank God – literally, in this case – that solo projects aren't always just the wonky indulgences of bored musicians. Thank God that in the case of Daniel Smith, founder of the Christian indie pop band and Rutgers University MFA thesis project known as the Danielson Famile, a band member has the bravery to step outside the safe haven of his group to present us with a new, unfettered look at who's really behind the wheel.

With his real-life brothers and sisters backing him up in the Famile, Smith gave the indie world an obscure snapshot of Christianity when it was either being pissed on by the Young British Artists or painted into a corner of war-hungry, must-conquer-all zealotry by George W. Bush. Now that he's defined the group's quirky and playful, religion-questioning space – and redefined what it means to be an independent contemporary Christian musician by simply proclaiming "we're not all the same" – Brother Is to Son finds Smith on a different mission, one with which he delivers his own singular, rock-friendly devotionals.

To Smith, songwriting is carpentry of sorts, and being a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy, he's a master of his tools. On Brother, he takes a much closer look at his arrangements and studio methods and finds himself in a whole new experimental realm. That's not to say he's gone all Timbaland. Tracks such as "Physician Heal Yourself" and "Sweet Sweeps" prove Smith can do more with his voice and an acoustic guitar than many producers can achieve with a slew of plug-ins and sound processors. And regardless of his rhetoric, Danielson's songwriting X-factor can still knock the most jaded listeners flat on their asses.

Perhaps it's that, despite his lily-white skin and middle-class upbringing, Smith's got a whole lotta soul and conviction. Truth be told, his passion on Brother is downright eerie. When he utters, "You are my wine," on "Perennial Wine" – presumably to God rather than his goddess-like wife, Elin – his intensity is chilling. And it's moments like these that demonstrate Danielson's rare brilliance: the song's intoxicating pitter-patter percussion and Seals and Croft-like melody withers away any question of whom he might be singing to. No, Smith isn't really asking for it. But someone overhead is surely shooting him the devil's horns of rock-solid approval. Br. Danielson plays Sat/18, Bottom of the Hill, S.F. (415) 621-4455. (Ken Taylor)

Tegan and Sara
So Jealous (Vapor/Sanctuary)

Like a less hedonistic and more, uh, Canadian Kim and Kelley Deal, Tegan and Sara Quin have turned sibling rivalry into an art form since 2000. The 24-year-old twins are known for pushing each other's buttons onstage, drawing on family drama and their sisterly differences for some of today's most hilarious between-song banter. On So Jealous, however, they couldn't sound more in sync: as the follow-up to 2002's superb If It Was You, their third album illustrates the same-but-better pop sensibility that's landed 'em gigs opening for everyone from Hot Hot Heat to the Pretenders. Yet for all their infectious rock hooks, Tegan and Sara have been inexplicably ignored in the United States outside of college radio.

Whether or not it'll give them their overdue breakthrough, So Jealous has more should-be blockbusters than albums by most anyone currently atop the pop charts. And like fellow Canuck Alanis Morissette minus her self-help obsession, Tegan and Sara use those ridiculously catchy choruses to tackle breakups and makeups with largely unrivaled insight into matters of the heart. Among the highlights are downtempo moments like "I Won't Be Left" and "I Know I Know I Know" that capture real remorse without resorting to clichéd confessions, and "Speak Slow," a propulsive paean to unexpected love that – like all of So Jealous – deserves to make Tegan and Sara the envy of their peers. (Jimmy Draper)

IQU
Sun Q (Sonic Boom)

When IQU first bloomed out of the Northwest six or so years ago, they confounded many people. The trio's club beats and colorful gloss couldn't have been further from Melvins-y sludge and the chord-crunching of Sleater-Kinney's fellow – if fellow can apply – Olympians. Likewise, their analog elements, buoyed by Aaron Hartman's frenetic stand-up bass lines, came across as decidedly wacky to those dance music maniacs who mistakenly thought nonturntable instrumentation was soooo 10 or 20 years ago.

It's been more than a moment since 1998's Chotto Matte a Moment!, and IQU have slimmed to a duo now, with Hartman leaving Kento Oiwa and Michiko Swiggs. Sun Q doesn't have the same quirks found on the group's debut album; but it more than makes up for their absence with brash, speaker-leaping pop sheen. The oddball bass is gone, replaced by vocals that are often catchy. One tune takes the ladies' room-break idea of Bjork's "There's More to Life Than This" and does it one better. And a cover of Minnie Riperton's "Loving You" is terrific: it hits that song's proto-Mariah heights better than the Orb's ever growing, pulsating Riperton sampling, not to mention the terrible version recorded by R. Kelly protégé Sparkle. When Oiwa's theremin does a drunken mosquito's impression of the late Riperton's soprano, the sound is sweet, funny, and a little bit sad. Brava and bravo. IQU play Fri/17, Hotel Utah Saloon, S.F. (415) 546-6300. (Johnny Ray Huston)

Björk
Medúlla (Elektra)

Let's face it: a little pagan poetry goes a long way. And wherever Björk has gone, I've tended to follow – gliding along to the euphoric, punkily styled Euro-pop of the Sugarcubes, sinking my fangs into the creamy electro textures of her last album, Vespertine, and enjoying the singles in between. I appreciate a good swan frock when I see one (especially when it's dubbed one of the red carpet's worst). I call her Buh-jerk, affectionately, kiddingly. Ms. Gudmundsdottir was never an Icelandic ice princess to me.

Medúlla cuts to the marrow, and indeed means "marrow" in Latin. In my school of live-life-to-the-fullest, we suck that stuff up, and you can make a correlation between the fact that the music is completely composed of vocals, sounds originating from the human body, and the electronic plastic surgery of live collaborators Matmos and their snip-and-paste A Chance to Cut Is a Chance to Cure. Reinventing Icelandic composer Jorunn Vidar and collaborating with the Roots' Rahzel, Richard James, Robert Wyatt, and Mike Patton, Björk provides a lot to like, if not outright love, beginning and ending with coos and pants and coming to a funked-up climax with the pinging and ponging, slinky twang, and kittenish mews of "Triumph of a Heart," the closing track that seems to go on forever and even tosses a boinging Michael Jackson-ish "Ewww" like a potato into the aural blood-bone-and-whatever stew. Gather around – Medúlla provides radiant beauty and a certain grating, grunting, cave-dwelling coarseness that heads kitsch-ward like a joke song (next stop: the New York Dolls' "Stranded in the Jungle"). You almost expect to hear a nice, fat "ooga-booga, ooga-booga, mat-su-wanna, oon-ga-whee" somewhere in the mix. A choral throwback and a strange sort of fast forward to a future less reliant on fossil fuels and more dependent on an over-the-top humanity. (Kimberly Chun)