As filtered through Gogol and Mussorgsky, a night on Bald Mountain involves free-floating wickedness, St. John, and plenty of pagan party people. As synthesized by four hotties from Manchester, Nine Black Alps seem to factor in a certain disarming sincerity ("I'm not afraid to lose a little gravity / Hon-estly," onetime San Francisco denizen Sam Forrest croons on "Attraction," off the group's new self-titled EP), wall-of-commercial-punk production, and Nirvana-like, tooth-breaking hard-rock candy crunch via acolytes like Vines and Silverchair. It's the kind of din that yelps to be played loud. It hopes to cut through the chatter of a high school auditorium, and fill in the gaps of long summer-vacation days spent driving round the subdivision, looking for a Courtney, and dabbling in distortion, breakneck speed, and suicidal thoughts.

"You're not pretty enough / You're not skinny enough / You're not healthy enough / You're not shaking at our touch / You're not lonely enough / You're not holy enough / You're not saying too much / About what you think we want," Forrest barks on the opening track, "Cosmopolitan." The entire band muster a runaway sense of urgency to match the Killers' and other, more energetic mod rock types', as the vocalist enters Kurt-like: "So shock me / So shock me … Well you spend the night / I'll take my life / We'll close our eyes / We'll be dead by sunrise."

There's power in those plain monosyllables. The song channels the kind of pressure you felt as a kid when recess, nap time, and unconditional acceptance fell away, and SATs, tutoring, and crammed after-school activities took their place. In the same sense, the overdriven rock on this five-song release threatens to fragment with the stresses that come with carving out a place among fellow UK rock invaders like Bloc Party, Futureheads, and Maximo Park. So they seem to only have tenuous links to Sonic Youth ("Ilana Song" vaguely resembles a Thurston Moore pop tart, but it also mimics grunge-era Seattle groups) and Elliott Smith (whose longtime producer Rob Schnapf produced two songs) – Nine Black Alps entreat you to "appreciate the grand design" of rock anthems bred in the '90s and still hoping to crash the '00s party. Nine Black Alps play July 28, 330 Ritch, SF. www.popscene-sf.com. (Kimberly Chun)

Isolée
We Are Monster (Playhouse)

If you went out dancing in 1999, you've heard Isolée's "Beau Mot Plage." Rajko Müller's single was absolutely everywhere and was included on mixes by everyone from Danny Tenaglia to Naked Music, but its liquid, burbling tech house never got tired, and it worked the crowd at everything from the Top to 1015 Folsom. After the somewhat impenetrable Rise, in 2000, the German producer is back on track with We Are Monster, an album as fascinating as it is funky.

There are plenty of songs that will work for the dance floor – the plucking, pirouetting 10 minutes of "Pillowtalk" probably come closest to the enigmatic majesty of "Beau Mot Plage" – but Isolée's vision of house music thrives beyond the club. "Do Re Mi" announces itself with an instantly catchy groove, a metallic ping-pong ball hook that lodges in the mind before bouncing off into acid house territory, while "Shrapnell" begins with a chugging rock riff that is joined by an improbably poignant slide guitar and strings that end up pierced by tiny arrows of electronic flourishes. With the exception of the somewhat leaden "Jelly Baby/Fish," none of the songs follow a predictable path; instead they wobble charmingly off their orbits in search of a new sun as Müller follows along, gleefully embellishing and refining his production to suit their course. When the electroid disco of "My Hi-Matic" suddenly drops into a huge, bass pulse-driven break, it's both startling and seemingly inevitable. Full of confidence and quirk, wiggle and squirm, We Are Monster challenges house music to live up to its visceral, adventurous potential. (Peter Nicholson)

Fanfare Ciocarlia
Gili Garabdi (Asphalt Tango)

They're no match for pan flute master George Zamfir in terms of name recognition, but the 12-piece Fanfare Ciocarlia are one of Romania's better-known musical exports of the past decade. In fact, they're one of the only active Romanian groups with any decent notoriety outside of Eastern Europe, second only to Nonesuch signees Taraf de Haidouks, by my calculations. It's not as if either band is popular or current in their home country – where gypsy is a pejorative, not a helpful marketing term – nor is either one totally unique, as both draw on folk music traditions that are generations old. Still, it's hard to think of better musical ambassadors, even if they do depict a Romania that's much simpler and more old-fashioned than the more chaotic reality.

Fanfare's so-called speed-brass sound is immediately infectious, although more squeamish critics might call it simply nerve-racking. Imagine German oompah at five times the speed, crossed with New Orleans brass band music and the minor modes of Balkan or Turkish folk. Tubas, trumpets, saxophones, and a couple of drums racing at breakneck speed, topped off by the occasional gravelly vocal sung in Romany: It sounds like a mess, and it kind of is. If you saw Underground director Emir Kusturica's ode to the former Yugoslavia, you have a good idea of what kind of a mess. Fanfare aren't in that movie – the omnipresent brass band were played by Serbia's Boban Markovic Orchestra – but their sound and spirit are similar, and Fanfare even recorded several songs from the movie on their first CD, Radio Pascani (Piranha). Gili Garabdi, their fourth, is tame in comparison and includes a few crossover stabs that range from amusing (a New Orleans jazz version of Duke Ellington's "Caravan") to tacky and unnecessary (a cover of the James Bond theme and a cheesy "radio mix" of the already suspect vocal number "Alili" that's thankfully stuck on at the end). When they're not trying to be world music stars, Fanfare can pretty much do no wrong, and two-thirds of this CD is perfectly enjoyable. But with Radio Pascani and two other superior albums, Baro Biao and Iag Bari (also on Piranha), still available, it would be silly to shell out the import dollars for this disc before investigating the others first. (Will York)

DJ Craze
Miami Heat (System)

The cover of DJ Craze's latest mix CD, Miami Heat, might make some put it right back down. The cheesy pool setting, complete with half-naked model and pimped-out DJ in a white linen suit, doesn't look too promising. But give it a spin – you'll be more than surprised. Drum 'n' bass fans will appreciate the thumping production that will make the trunk of their ride rattle and shake, and scratch listeners will discover that DJ Craze's skills on the decks are hype. Dance music followers won't be able to stay seated.

DJ Craze, né Aristh Delgado, has done his part for the Miami dance sound: Internationally renowned for winning the Dance Music Community championship title three years in a row, from '98 to 2000, he hasn't slowed down. This is the fifth album he's released since his 2000 debut, The Nexxsound (Razor and Tie), and every track on Miami Heat is pure insanity. The tempos race, and synth keyboards mix with organic sounds for an almost psychotic production. "Guns at Dawn" will make dancers feel like they're flying instead of grooving. Meanwhile, Craze's South American roots (he was born in Managua, Nicaragua) are evident on "Dub Ting" as the underlying percussion fills the dub-inspired cut with raucous energy. Rock infusions make "X-ray" at once a headbanger and a groover. Few turntablists are able to cross so many genres so smoothly and naturally, and it's refreshing to hear that not everyone believes dance music is dead. (Jana Rogers)