If you've ever worked in construction, you know that no one worries about touching the chemical-treated wood – hey, it might be a free high – and that rain always comes at exactly the wrong time. The Tarp finds Bay Area rockers Überhund predicting the floods and building a house upside down and backward, using rubber hammers and pounding them out to beats that twang in the mind like, well, Deerhoofs bouncing off the Pavement. And it's a fantastic abode. If you were into Überhund's angular single "Welcome to Hhothh," then The Tarp won't surprise you in the least. It's the same stuff, at varied tempos.

It takes a couple of listenings to ingest the dust of their constant tone-bending, but once you do, the catchy bleats become catchier and you may even want to clean your kitchen for no apparent reason. There's that much extra energy spilling out. I still haven't made it through "Wing Buffet," more than 10 minutes of fuzzy pulse without any necessary direction, but I love singing along to "Chuck Norris," especially the words "evil sores all waterlogged." Full of extra measures, extra whammy bars, and extra-geometric math rock, The Tarp is a natural disaster that never quite hits, and so we know it's art. See them live and shake your spinal column. Überhund play Thurs/1, Make-Out Room, SF. (415) 647-2888. (Ari Messer)

Delia Gonzalez and Gavin Russom
The Days of Mars (DFA/Astralwerks)

Ambient music has ended up with a bit of an undeserved bad rep. Whether it's queasy memories of being way too high and stumbling into the one room in the club without a strobe, or the threat of yet another coffeehouse chill compilation, the A word has needed the release of an album like this. At their best on The Days of Mars, Delia Gonzalez and Gavin Russom remind us that just because you don't have beats doesn't mean you can't have a brain.

At its weakest ("13 Moons"), The Days of Mars sounds like a heavy-handed update of Harold Budd and Brian Eno's The Pearl (Editions EG, 1990), but it is somewhat unfair to compare it to that masterpiece of nuanced ambience. Gonzalez and Russom are less concerned with showcasing keyboard virtuosity and more interested in enveloping the listener in mutating layers of synthesized drones and reflections that question electronic music's overreliance on 808 beats. The acidic pulse of "Relevee" propels that track forward with more urgency than any four-on-the-floor beat, and subtle sub-bass shifts tilt your focus in shifting angles – on the high plucking lines, on the midrange arpeggios, into the swirl of distorted echoes that take over the middle of the 13-minute track. The Days of Mars is artfully ambitious (you don't record an album with multiple 11-minute-plus songs looking to score a radio hit), and it is demanding. This isn't an album for your iPod Shuffle, nor for listening to through tinny computer speakers while answering e-mails. It's an album for lying on the living room floor, watching the dust vibrate on speaker cones as you wonder why more musicians don't aim high, even if that means that they sometimes fail. (Peter Nicholson)

Jim Yoshii Pile-Up
Picks Us Apart (Absolutely Kosher)

In a world infatuated with the sound of broken hearts, who will bear witness to the breaking of minds? Enter the Jim Yoshii Pile-Up with Picks Us Apart, a sonic universe gently compressed into a moody snow globe. The tone is set from the first thuds of "A Toast to the Happy Couple," a sparkling suicide note telling family and friends to go to hell. "You are all hereby formally indicted," vocalist Paul Gozenbach declares against steely bursts of guitar, as if demanding payback for the wrongdoings of everyday life. Villains and victims abound in the echo-laden beauty of this album, with songs like "Jailhouse Rock," an allegory of sexual abuse that manages nods to both Elvis and doomed British mobster Reggie Kray. Driven by a flawless call-and-response of vocals, the melodies build to a bridge that will one day find itself on a movie soundtrack.

Righteous indignation established, gears switch quickly to songs like the gently strummed "Heart My Home" and the helpless romantic abandon of "Black and Gold." "It's true that you can love someone you hardly know," Gozenbach whispers over the gentle crash of cymbals and almost gothic harmonies. "The Mind of God" follows suit with a fuzzy chime of guitars that recall the Cocteau Twins at the height of their powers. For an album composed of lost souls, Picks Us Apart never loses its way, weaving quietly between passion, pain, and ultimately, hope. "You and I will be the silt that joins the Pacific Rim tonight," "Beach Glass" promises with its sweet, shimmering layers of noise. An unflinching celebration of the small, gray moments of life, Picks Us Apart is the Jim Yoshii Pile-Up's finest moment, and clearly one of the best albums of 2005. (Kate Izquierdo)

Various artists
Gilles Peterson Digs America: Brownswood U.S.A. (Love N' Haight)

Removed from the original scenes by distance, decades, and cultural differences, British pop music archeologists often come up with curious takes on vintage American music that was little noticed at the time of its conception. From Northern Soul DJs who've kept clubs hopping since the early '70s, to Gilles Peterson, who launched the acid jazz movement in the early '80s, instantly transforming often cheesy-sounding jazz platters that had languished in dollar bins into coveted collectors' items, the obscurity of the disc being spun has been more important than the quality of the music on it.

For Gilles Peterson Digs America: Brownswood U.S.A., the London DJ mines his massive record collection for a set of 16 tracks, mostly from the '70s, jumping from jazz to R&B, much as he does on his weekly BBC Radio 1 program. A cheap Wes Montgomery knockoff by guitarist Moses Dillard and a model jazz vamp by the World Experience Orchestra that meanders for 15 agonizing minutes coexist with gems such as vocalist Ellen McIlwaine's minimalist folk-funk treatment of Stevie Wonder's "Higher Ground" and soul crooner J.R. Bailey's creamy, Marvin Gaye-like "Just You 'n Me." Little logic, other than the rarity of the material, is evident in the selection.

Peterson makes two Oakland stops along his archival route. "Didn't I," an Al Green-inspired slice of low-budget soul on which Darondo Pulliam multitracked his voice to create a multioctave dialogue with himself, was a hit in the Bay Area but is virtually unknown elsewhere. Pianist Lonnie Hewitt's "Ya Ya Cha Cha" was heard by few when he put it out on his own label in the late '60s, but it stands up nicely next to his celebrated Latin jazz sides with Cal Tjader. (Lee Hildebrand)