It's not very exciting behind the scenes at Pitchfork. Writers wearing button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up don't hustle around a maze of cubicles while Ryan chews out rookies in his office. We have converted no lofts into spacious playpens loaded with iMacs and Nerf hoops. No interns yet. (Unless Ryan's holding back on me.) Mostly we sit around discussing music. And this isn't even done in the photogenic setting of a stoop or a coffeeshop. We talk about music constantly on the Internet, which, admittedly, is geeky. Plus, we're not even trying to sell anything on the Internet, further compounding our stubbornness. (Some lady beat us to the punch with our farming equipment site at Pitchfork.com, but we're still looking into eRakes.com.)

Yet every so often-- whether due to astronomical occurrences, economic fluctuations, or inherent quality cycles (which have all actually been debated at one point)-- an album comes along that inhibits our serotonin uptake, cleans our ears, palpitates our hearts, ignites our passion, and justifies our existence. I've argued that this occurs approximately every three years, due to slight financial recessions. It's that time again. At this point, I think the world agrees on OK Computer as the last major event in album rock. For at least a few months, the world can stop waiting for Radiohead's next album, and start wondering how in the hell Modest Mouse will ever top the monumental, ground-breaking, hypnotic, sublime The Moon & Antarctica.

Somebody just snickered. Modest Mouse generate a divide between the venerating and violent like few other bands. The latter of which currently questions my ascertations. Wipe the slate clean. You officially have not heard Modest Mouse until you have heard their major label debut. The growth, bravery, and confidence are staggering for a trio that most recently hammered through a song about "doin' the cockroach." Producer Brian Deck of Red Red Meat conjures the supernatural. Layers upon layers of treated and raw sounds blend into a thick headtrip. Piano, cello, sleighbells, keyboards, chimes, and more can be excavated from the mix. Singing guitarist Isaac Brock constantly obsesses over the afterlife, and with Deck's help he's found it, far out in space and inside his clouded, scattered brain.

"3rd Planet" opens the record innocently enough. Isaac plucks a lovely fluttering acoustic bed before he admits, "Everything that keeps us together is falling apart," tersely summing the human condition and the theme of the record in ten seconds. Suddenly, echoing, truck-sized drums stomp over the ebow-dripping chorus as Brock repeatedly pronounces under a sheet of reverb, "The universe is shaped exactly like the Earth/ If you go straight long enough you'll end up where you were." Those failing to find the brilliance inherent in Modest Mouse at this point, please check in your Xanax at the window and an agent will escort you to the Target music department.

By the time track two, "Gravity Rides Everything," begins with backwards drums, strums, and plucks, it's quite evident Mouse Mouse have traveled well beyond their past. The song's percussion relies on jacked drumstick claps and electro-bongos as no less than five guitar tracks float on aching melodies. Deck's hands keep the affair shimmering and clear, in what will undoubtedly vault him into the echelon of Fridmanns and Godriches. Laser guitar lines and Brock's wrath blare over violins and undulating bass on the massive "Dark Center of the Universe." Structurally, it's still classic Modest Mouse up to this point, excepting the volume of warped effects.

"Perfect Disguise" quietly kicks off the otherworldly passage of Moon. A chorus sighs "Broke my back" over delicate pickings, sleepy kickdrums, accentuating banjo, and oddball guitar pings. Looping tones usher a nasty bassline and disco rhythms as "Tiny Cities Made of Ashes" ceremoniously kicks listener ass. Sinister vocal doubletracking bursts into crackled shouting. Those familiar with Modest Mouse's live show will instantly recognize this as a trademark moment for Brock screaming into his guitar pickups. This heavy march, driven by Jeremiah Green's hissing breaks, sounds wholly unique and creepy.

"A Different City" sits like the obvious single. Flanged riffs pump Pixies-ish glee in Modest Mouse's tightest punch to date. After this brief foray into crunching pop, "The Cold Part" stretches out to infinity. Chiming guitar, strings, over-dubbed echoes, deteriorating machines, and thumping drums fill a dark, beautiful void as a ghostly Brock laments, "So long to this cold, cold part of the world." Any of Brock's prose is instantly quotable. "Alone Down There" announces, "Hello, how do you do?/ My name is you," uncomfortably close to the inner ear. As the song crescendos with building, buzzing guitar, Modest Mouse distills Built to Spill's essence in two minutes. "I don't want to you to be alone down there," Brock pleads. Angelic harmonies grant him his wish.

The epic "The Stars are Projectors" furthers the future of rock in grand gestures. Shifting between acoustic interludes and searing guitar over pounding drums, lyrics postulate the Descartian notion that our world is merely an elaborate dreamscape. Pretty sharp for Northwestern punks. The pace soon accelerates as the song swirls into a sonic twister. Through studio trickery, warbling drums sound as if winds howl outside, prying the roof from above to snatch you into a maw of shrill violins and sheer feedback.

A stripped death ballad peppered with accordion provides perfect comedown on "Wild Packs of Family Dogs." Thus begins the third movement of the record. "Paper Thin Walls" pops along in blue-collar fashion on cowbells and and woodblocks like fIREHOSE, while still injecting the haunted flourishes of the album. If Nirvana played folk with Massive Attack it might end up a bit like "I Came as a Rat." Standard power chords melt into astral tape manipulation. The calm, beautiful respite before the closing snarl comes in "Lives." "It's hard to remember you live before you die," Brock sings over weeping strings. "My hell comes from inside," he reminds. Back comes the resigned aggression. "Life Like Weeds" jangles and bows with still more poignancy. Most grand, expansive, experimental albums of this sort are expected to end with a quiet snuff. Modest Mouse explode into the noisiest, fastest piece to close the record. "What People are Made Of" cuts abruptly on fuzzed bass, clashing cymbals, and attacking guitars-- an ideal ending for a record centered on death and the inability to understand.

So I've just taken you through the entire album. As a fan, I know this sort detail is expected of hallmark albums. In anticipation of the next masterpiece, we all soak up as much info as we can get. Getting geeked up is part of the drama. For the first time, Modest Mouse craft an album, not a collection of songs. That they manage to go beyond any other rock band out there is staggering. The sequencing weaves a dramatic ebb and flow of emotion. Every song is packed with fantastic sounds that reach out for space and salvation. The band is now precise and broad. Eric Judy's fluid bass quietly escorts the ear subconsciously through the appropriate moods. Green's drumming is playful and inventive. There is no way Modest Mouse will ever pull this off live. The space, equipment, and personnel needed seems limitless. Yet this scale rockets the album instantly into Vahalla.

An intoxicating mix of uncertainty and confidence, The Moon & Antarctica constructs hallow approximations of heaven, hell, and deep space-- most of which exist vividly in Isaac Brock's questioning mind. OK Computer must be mentioned, for Modest Mouse just got invited to the same club. They can chat existentially in the sauna. But unlike's Radiohead's unease at technology and quickening society, Modest Mouse grapple with the general conjectures of humankind. The title aptly entails the whole of the album. Sometimes the most spooky, alien places are not too far off. Similarly, our immediate surroundings and internal environment feel even more otherworldly. Modest Mouse seek salvation in God, death, and relationships. Fortunately, the rest of us can sometimes find it in records.

-Brent DiCrescenzo