From the steamy depths of Dinkytown, Minneapolis, Minn. I have finally returned. Part of me is glad to be back (to finally graduate) and another part longs desperately for the social scene that is Minneapolis (even though there are too many straight-edgers, goths and crusty blond-headed dreads for my taste). I was practically the only twenty-something who didn’t smoke, didn’t regard drinking as a viable past time and didn’t have a tattoo and/or a piercing. Boy, was I a novelty!

Fun fact: did you know that Rob Pilatus and Fab Morvan (formerly Milli and Vanilli, in no certain order) are working on putting together another group? Ah, the power of positive thinking. Enough about me — reviews are waiting.

The country of Scotland (usually) never fails to stir up pastoral visions of a kilt-clad clansman and the wistful wails of his bagpipe as a wind gambols gently through the glen. Let Baby Chaos change that for you. Safe Sex, Designer Drugs and the Death of Rock-n-Roll is the first offering from a group that decided to tour hard when they were signed instead of going right to the studio.

The first two-thirds of “Breathe” just floats around like a bird of prey riding an updraft, then cranks up as it heads into a death-dive after its prey. Listening to “Sperm” is like being passed by a speeding freight train at the station while “Superpowered” is like cruising a long victory lap with no one within miles of the tracks.

This album as a whole unit is more like a blue neon sine wave because such a good job was done in sequencing. The strength of the album seems to be pacing, as Baby Chaos keeps their songs on a short leash much like the one on that big, mean dog down the street when you were a kid. You know the one — the one whose chain was just long enough to let him get in your face without ripping it off.

Short-n-Spicy

To most people, an accordion causes visions of portly men in lederhosen singing the “Beer Barrel Polka,” but for quite some time, the instrument has been used in that stuff known as zydeco music. There’s no kielbasa, no hulking steins of foaming brew, just a beat, a washboard and some killer jambalaya. Chubby Carrier’s Dance All Night is more like zydeco on Jolt cola. In a musical form where so many people can play with similar proficiency, it’s Chubby’s personality and flourish that make this disk worth at least one heaping helping.

Two . . . what’s two? It’s an even prime number, it’s between one and three and it’s not enough pieces of pizza. The music duo concept has thankfully passed the Sonny-and-Cher and Captain-and-Tenille phase and has recently entered the rock world as a viable option. The Spinanes pulled it off as has Des Moines band Buick McSnake, but Local H is taking it a bit harder with their niftily-titled Ham Fisted.

Assuming that the “ham” of the title refers to the hammer motif rather than a pork product, drummer Joe Daniels and guitarist/vocalist Scott Lucas hit like the ball pen that Dad told you wasn’t a toy (but it was fun anyway, wasn’t it?). They’re also fond of word play, bearing song titles like “Chicago Fanphair ’93” and “Strict-9.”

Thanks for listening and bearing with my easing myself back into the swing of things. Next week I’ll be more coherent. Until then, can anyone tell me why radio stations that go by the name “The Edge” really stink?