Out of the ashes of the original L.A. punk scene rose two very different phoenixes. One was hardcore; the other was the Paisley Underground, and at the crux of that movement was the Three O’Clock, who invented the genre’s name. It’s been almost 23 years since they last played together, but when Coachella tells you to re-form, you fucking do it! This interview by D.M. Collins.

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Spindrift played Hotel Vegas with a bad-ass boogie rock sound, like something the Hell’s Angels would have been listening to in the 60s if they’d been less right-wing and instead joined forces with John Sinclair and the White Panthers to legalize pot and make love in the streets.

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We’re barely getting to know the guy yet, but already he’s changing again into something new, something with a hint of country that’s a little bit rock and roll and, despite the name, occasionally on the quiet side. This interview by D.M. Collins.

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Staying in the dark requires vigilance, because spoilers lurk everywhere. For example, your girlfriend is cheating on you. See how hard it is to avoid certain things?

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Although I openly dislike Orange County as a place, I don’t dislike its bands.

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“Beautiful Island” is even crazier, with a guitar straight out of Davie Allan and a cacophony of madness that hopefully will call to you like the siren songs of Samoa and force you to purchase 18 copies of this amazing disc!

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Flip the album over, and like wow, baby! Suddenly you’re in the paisley underground of Robespierre’s velvet basement.

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Summer Twins are not twins, but they are a pair of sisters who make vintage-sounding girl rock, and their ascent along the x-axis of fame could soon be more inspiring to a lot of young people than Al Gore’s hockey stick. They play this Friday at Desert Daze with Bleached, Audacity and more. This interview by D.M. Collins.

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Theirs is not “another stupid summer” in the parlance of 50 Foot Wave, but one of soft-serve, cartwheels and tranquil afternoons in a hammock. The production on their self-titled debut is refreshingly clean and the instrumentation minimal, in contrast to both current indie pop bands and the original Wall of Sound. They bring to mind 90s Brit acts like Helen Love or Talulah Gosh—you got it, twee!

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Deschryver’s insistent melee of beats gave the songs a feeling of urgency right out of the gate, as though they’d taken the crescendo at the end of a song by some lame Coldplay-type band and started there, building whole songs around something that felt explosive, hypnotic, and yet grimly final, like watching a tragedy played out over and over again on CNN as you stare, helpless.

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