The self-titled debut from Chicago, Illinois, duo Hobbyist is a knock out-passionate post-punky protest against all the societal gears that grind women (and men) down every day in work, religion, home, health, life and death. Holly Prindle (vocals) and Marc Mozga (vocals, drum machine programming, guitars, bass, melodica) angle their arch, sample-fueled, dubby rant-stomps as musical sabotage to the factory of fear called Modern America. In a world where sacramental wine becomes after hours buzz against pain, and the thin girl playing the fat girl wins the awards, it's all about clinging to each other and hearing each others' beating hearts. 

The two used to be I Luv Luv Birds, but I've never heard the self-released albums they put out under that name. I wonder if they've always been as good as blending their female-male short story narratives in sweet and sour sing-song, owning these stories of life across the wrong side of the tracks, against the "kamikaze heroes and nazi fucks," capturing the essences of whole lives in a couple of shattering lines. This collection of songs are based around a "verite-type film" that Mozga has been working on about a family with an autistic child. None of it sounds anything less than powerful, but seductive, well played and produced, delivering the anthemic goods without any sonic slush to keep from connecting. Holly's voice warmly reminds me of everyone from Poison Girls' Vi Subversa (!!) to Ari Up to PJ Harvey -- without acing in on any of 'em. It's all hers. "Goddamn soulless lies, get back under your rock and hide" she sings, and she has the vocal strength to make it sound liex a very real hex on what vexes her deeply.

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This is Solvents' least stylistically ambitious release -- and that is a very good thing. The band hasn't gone purely minimalistic in working with Karl Blau for one day in his Anacortes studio; the absolutely luscious violin of Emily Madden honey-drips upon her husband Jarrod Bramson's salty sighed-vocals in a way that could never be described as overly restrained. But the duo are sounding gingerly tight and scrupulously aware of their best qualities in the seven songs that make up Ghetto Moon, and every song could be a gentle giant hit. They've left the cut-and-paste scruff of oblique fanzine rock for cafe troubadour waltz, august vocal melodies partnered with bardic elucidation. And yet not without coy humor ("I'm so obscure, and bitter cool, and long to come undone"). 

The Port Townsend, WA creator-couple have released, over time, a flurry of diverse-sounding cassettes and CDs and Internet-mixes, and their last planned full-length, the appreciated forgive yr. blood, showed they could be a lo-fi Basement Tapes jukebox of styles. Ghetto Moon is much different: it's all stately-gorgeous, if denuded to Jarrod's mellifluous lead vocals and Emily's complimentary harmonies, truly deeply sung melodies that are going to stick with you as much as her lovely fiddling.

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