The photograph is dated June of 1967. On the back, it says "Manda White House" in penciled cursive. A Spanish style, two stories, vines growing across the railing of the balcony. It looks like California.

I didn't find this in a scrapbook, an old photo album, or a newspaper clipping. This photograph was Elmer- glued to the front cover of the new record from the Jim Yoshii Pile-Up. Not printed on, not drawn on, but glued by hand. For some of you, this may be all you need-- a record so lo-fi, so DIY, and so indie that the band sat up all night in their garage gluing old Kodaks to the cover of their record. Sadly, I'm not writing to those people-- I'm writing to people like me who are sick of lo-fi, a sound whose aesthetics take more studio time to perfect than if a band just sat down and produced the damn album. People have used cushioned toilet seats as bass drums. Nice gimmick, but how does it sound?

Luckily, the Jim Yoshii Pile-Up would never pull that stunt. If lo-fi is banging on toilet seats then this album is a velvet- topped throne. This album is soft and gorgeous-- as opposed to tape hiss and drenched reverb, these guys pull out clean guitars, restrained beats, rolling bass, and whispering vocals-- it could be the soundtrack for the most relaxing bath you've even taken. Trust me-- put away the candles and whale sounds.

But the Jim Yoshii Pile-Up isn't all candlelit baths (or as I call them, Friday nights without a date). The guys crank it up a notch on songs like "Harmless Hobby or Bicycle Crash," a song with the best build since Slint's "Washer." It opens with the low rumble of a fiery bass and a fierce staccato guitar line. Three minutes in, the dissonance arrives. Clashing riffs culminate into an overwhelming crescendo before Yoshii's voice re-enters the mix, calming the struggle.

Looking at the cover photograph, it somehow makes sense. The same way that "Everybody's Talkin" worked so well with "Midnight Cowboy." A slow pan from one window to the next, peering in the shutters for the forbidden sight of a naked girl as echoing Gibsons climax. The rhythm matches the slow turn to the photographer, lovelorn and looking for a way in. As he makes up his mind, resolutely walking to the front door, the camera clicks, the record ends, and the uncertainty begins.

-Yancey Strickler