Maybe I'm just obsessed with the upcoming release of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but I can't help thinking of The Sunlandic Twins, Of Montreal's seventh album since 1997, as a psychedelic soundtrack for a tour of the chocolate factory, wherein the Beatles take the place of Willy Wonka and Prince takes the place of Charlie, and maybe the Beach Boys are the Oompa Loompas. We pass pulsing candy magma of guitars and waterfalls of layered harmonies, as lollipop sunflowers bounce back and forth to electronic disco beats. Which sounds ridiculous – and it is. But there's a tripped-out charm to this album. I usually agree with the dictum that you can't judge a book by its cover, yet in the case of The Sunlandic Twins' album art, you pretty much can: its fiery psychedelic terrain is filled with otherworldly characters, and the music's reds and yellows burn themselves into your ears, continuing to echo when the music stops. If nothing else, the pop from concentrate will erase any depressing feelings of maturity.

That's not to say the music is superficial or simplistic, but the emotional space it occupies is so specific that I'm not sure how much time people want to spend there. In fact the cheery veneer is a bit misleading, as close inspection of the lyrics reveals lines like "The chrysalis is breaking / And the superego's waking / I've been a gloomy Petrarch / With a quill as weepy as Dido," on "So Begins Our Alabee." Some acts use the contrast between blissful pop and recondite lyrics to great effect, but here the two step on each other's toes so much that they nullify any collective potential. If Kevin Barnes – who's responsible for almost everything you hear on the album – has a unified message, it gets lost in the confusion.

If you've liked what you've heard so far from the very prolific Barnes, you won't be disappointed by The Sunlandic Twins. If you're new to the band, this disc might pique your interest, although Satanic Panic in the Attic (Polyvinyl) and The Gay Parade (Bar/None) will make you a lasting fan. Of Montreal play June 2, Great American Music Hall, S.F. (415) 885-0750. (Keith Axline)

Caribou
The Milk of Human Kindness (Domino)

Dan Snaith was Manitoba, until "Handsome" Dick Manitoba of the Dictators threw a spanner in the works with threats of a trademark-infringement lawsuit. Now Snaith is Caribou, but he still rocks in all the best ways – with quirky abandon, bursts of swirling psychedelia, and a clutch of neck-cracking beats.

His third album is much more closely aligned with Up in Flames (Domino) than with Start Breaking My Heart (Leaf), his more IDM-leaning debut, but it's still just Snaith recording all sorts of instruments on his computer and building an orchestra from scratch. With chugging guitars that evoke Creedence Clearwater Revival under mumbled, narcoleptic Beach Boys vocals on "Bees" and a huge hip-hop break beat propelling a baroque clavinet on "Lord Leopard" sketching the parameters of Snaith's current style, The Milk of Human Kindness is like a freewheeling road trip where long stretches of back-road melody are broken by flashes of suburban beats. Despite being full of giddy crescendos and cascading drum sounds that threaten to roll out of control, some of the album's best moments are quiet ones: the click- and hiss-filled center of "Pelican Narrows" and the backward-swooping strings of "Drumheller" balanced against the snowy screaming apex of "A Final Warning" and the dizzying rhythms of "Brahminy Kite." Rising above occasionally overwhelming production (the distortion on both "Subotnik" and "Hands First" falls flat with its bombast), Milk is a fitting testament to a man who has a Ph.D. in mathematics and a penchant for playing shows in a dog mask. Caribou performs May 25, Bottom of the Hill, S.F. (415) 474-0365. (Peter Nicholson)

Roots Manuva
Awfully Deep (Big Dada)

Before the Streets and Dizzee Rascal blew up on the British hip-hop scene, there was Roots Manuva. The dub, ragga, and hip-hop artist's recognizable flow, introspective lyrics, and deep bass beats have earned him gold record status in the U.K. and a bit of love in the States as well. His last album, Run Come Save Me (Big Dada), received critical acclaim and had DJs everywhere buying up the 12-inches for the precious instrumentals.

The new Awfully Deep is a bit more electronic-sounding than the last record, but the beats still knock, and the rhymes are on point. As the son of a preacher, Roots Manuva, a.k.a. Rodney Smith, spends a lot of time rhyming about his soul and fate. One such rhyme is found on the title track: "I'm seeing things that I don't wanna see / I've seen the Devil sit right before me / Fire in his eyes as he spoke to me / Blinked, I blinked and I pinched myself / I screamed for Jesus but it was no use." Ouch. Burning in hell will be painful, but why did he say "it was no use" when "he was no help" would have fit better?

"Too Cold" features a straightforward beat and a great chorus that goes, "I'm too cold, I'm too old, sometimes I hate myself, sometimes I love myself." Most people can relate to that, even if they're not British rappers. Do you wonder if Slick Rick listens to British hip-hop? He was born in England and spent his childhood there, but the Bronx claimed the hell out of him.

Awfully Deep is good – it's not as chaotic and heavy-hitting as Dizzee Rascal and his buddies; instead, it's straight-ahead hip-hop from a deep Englishman. (Nate Denver)

Momus
Otto Spooky (American Patchwork)

For Scottish-born media artist, blogger, musician, professor, writer, and fashionable dandy Nick Currie (a.k.a. Momus), Berlin is merely a physical base for his body. Whereas he began his 20-plus-year career as a fixture in Edinburgh's post-punk scene in the Marxist 4AD band the Happy Family, Currie is, now more than ever, a citizen of the (virtual) world. His current recording situation – one that primarily involves a clear, well-read sensibility and a Powerbook – evolved over the course of almost 20 records, and throughout that time he has crossbred genre, gender, and language alike.

One gets the sense, though, that Currie isn't necessarily out to best himself with each new endeavor (though he invariably does). It's the ongoing search for newness, rather than simply making aesthetically pleasing sounds each go-around, that drives him, and his outside challenges – after being sued by gender-morphing synthesizer music pioneer Wendy Carlos years ago, Currie sold song portraits to defray his label's legal costs – frequently provide a real-life impetus.

Currie's latest challenge finds him in the dual position of curator and reinterpreter of worldly artifacts. Otto Spooky may seem like a mix disc of sorts, but the recordings are solely the work of Currie and his "reproducer," John Talaga (a.k.a. Fashion Flesh). The ideas, however, are culled from Currie's visits to real and virtual lands, and from those travels he's culled a type of decipherable net-flarf, with each track handily explained and linked on Currie's Wiki-blog imomus.com.

Currie's signature pocket-pop songcraft remains in the forefront of Otto Spooky, especially on "Life of the Fields," but it's heavily affected by his actual and Internet-driven memories, from which he picks up the musical patois of Japan, the U.K., France, the Middle East, and all points in between. He's now happily taken the job of museum director, and he's confidently pointing himself in a completely new direction – or, more accurately, pointing others that way. (Ken Taylor)