I think you should know, I had it all planned out. Here's how things would go: I'd get in my car, drive in silence to the building, sit in the waiting room without once thinking of Fugazi, see the doctor-- all of this calmly, of course-- and after a quick, thorough examination, he'd tell me that, yes, my worries were legitimate, but no, there was nothing to be concerned about. I was okay; I could go home now. And that's when I'd fly out of his office, leap into my car and blast the Photon Band's sophomore full-length, Oh, the Sweet, Sweet Changes, because life, as often happens, had started anew.

But the gods of literary convenience weren't on my side today, so it turned out quite differently. The sky was gray-- nay, more like grey, as the English spell it. In other words, the clouds were the sky. In even less words, it was overcast. But everything went as planned until I found myself stopping at intersections, staring at green lights. And once I arrived at the medical building, every window became a mirror of my fears. Would everyone-- doctors, patients, receptionists-- be able to see it on my face? Would they know I was there for an STD test?

This, you should also know, is where the confessional style of music reviewing goes too far.

But I digress. I sat in the waiting room, and before I knew it: "I am a patient boy/ I wait, I wait, I wait, I wait." There was no stopping it. Ryan, pick up your ten-month-old Harper's, I instructed myself. Read about the mysterious insularity of Silicon Valley. (I found myself staring at the diamond-shaped periods, instead.) A half-hour later, I was lying on loud white paper, pants pulled down, hands sweating, being examined while staring at the white cork ceiling and all its tiny holes, as if a kindergarten class armed with darts, tacks, and a case of Mountain Dew had been loosed upon the room.

I wish I could tell you the outcome, but I can't-- not for fear of embarrassment, but because I don't know. I still don't know, really, since the doctor didn't seem to know-- that is, didn't seem to know what he was doing. Which is unfortunate because nothing about Oh, the Sweet, Sweet Changes has to do with irresolution or incertitude. Instead, this album is all about that feeling I suspect one gets after passing the gamut of STD tests with flying colors.

Colors, also, is what this album is about. Just look at the leaves on the cover, as they change from summer's sun-bright yellow to fall's deep amber. And the music, I assure, bursts of natural color, because, as you may have guessed, the "sweet changes" are also coming from Art Di Furia's guitar. Just listen to the momentum building during the opener, "Genius." It begins with children's voices and a bell-- the close of recess, maybe?-- before Di Furia's guitar breaks in full of youthful energy, then retreats into reverberation as an echoed voice counts down from ten. The guitar opens up again, jumping chords like a child skipping rope, as Di Furia sings, "The first time I saw you there was sunlight in your eyes/ The genius that you are."

And while "Genius" might have you thinking of influences ranging from the Who to XTC, the next track, "End of the Week," manages to combine the rollicking Status Quo with any number of long-forgotten psychedelic bands; and then there's those occasional deliberate guitar chords straight out of Something Else by the Kinks. With one foot in early shoegazer and the other in The Who Sell Out, "Could It Be?" maintains the surprise factor. Then, "Disillusion" exhibits a heavy Beatles influence, resembling low-key numbers like "Sexy Sadie."

The Photon Band is like this all the way through Changes, thereby teaching their peers a lesson in musical graverobbing. "Runaways" shows the Clientele how to make Simon and Garfunkel interesting: by adding street noise. (Who would have thought?) "It's Happening Now" beats out all Elephant 6 entries for the catchiest chorus of the year-- thus far-- because there's just the right amount of hooks and vocal inflection, but no bubblegum. And what distinguishes Art and Co. from the Lilys, of whom he was once a member, is that, as opposed to building albums around particular influences, he combines his influences on one album, and often on one song. While this means he may never make an Eccsame the Photon Band, it does make his work more consistently enjoyable than your average Lilys record.

Fittingly enough, a photographed excerpt from Ralph Waldo Emerson's essay, "Nature," appears on the back of the album's sleeve. In explaining why he loves the woods, the transcendentalist wrote, "There I feel that nothing can befall me in life,-- no disgrace, no calamity (leaving my eyes), which nature cannot repair." The same could be said for my experience listening to Oh, the Sweet, Sweet Changes.

-Ryan Kearney