The bellow of bass and thwump of drum in "Static," reaches out with a jump from behind my ears, grabs a fistful of bangs, and pulls me into yesteryear. Sharp guitars outstretch from the past. Holding a hypodermic of hypnotic elixir, the sound reaches over my shoulders and jabs its silver pistil prick into the fleshy underside of my jaw. It injects a numbing reminder of how beautiful the past is when viewed through the gauze and fog of nostalgia.

Jawbox's sampler of oeuvre out-takes and compilation cuts, My Scrapbook Of Fatal Accidents, serves as a final reminder of D.C.'s duel- guitar heroes, and it bores a large machicolation high on Jawbox's pedestal from which the band drops a succession of awesome, rare cuts. Even the band's first recording, "Bullet Park," packs enough taut, melodic punk to make most modern indie- rockers seem jejune. The stellar standard carries through to Jawbox's last studio recording, "Apollo Amateur." J. Robbins' abstract poetry continually evokes J.G. Ballard-ish themes of sexual guilt and the post- hi-technology loss- of- self. And it's hummable.

You'll be hard pressed to find three songs that rock with more lyrical rose- petals and sharp, hook- laden thorns than "Dreamless," "Static," and "Savory," the latter of which is easily one of the most jaw- dropping rock songs of the decade-- deceptively simple, simultaneously cacaphonous and ethereal. Covers of tracks made famous by Frank Sinatra, R.E.M., the Buzzcocks, and the Big Boys avoid rote rehashing and melt wonderfully into the Jawbox mold. The surprise gem, however, is "68," Jawbox's catchiest tune, loaded with a uplifting solo.

Scrapbook is both a perfect starting point for sideburned indie teens in zip-up sweatshirts to whom "Jawbox" is but a whispered myth, and a required album for any mournful fan.

-Brent DiCrescenzo

"68"

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