Back in June, I drove to D.C. to see two antipodal shows-- the Dismemberment Plan with the Wrens at the Metro (capacity: two city buses) and the Tibetan Freedom Concert at RFK Staudium (capacity: two cities). One of them blew me away and put pink in my cheeks for weeks. Hint: it wasn't the one where a girl got hit by lighting 20 yards in front of me. Although fascinating from a how- freaking- sad- are- today's- youth sociological standpoint, the Tibetian Freedom Concert was an aloof circus. Sitting there watching 20,000 baggy khakis kick wet boxes and hacky sacks at each other, I drifted back to the previous night, when the Dismemberment Plan rocked my ass like a muthafuckin' cradle.

Listening to the Plan coast through a batch of their freshest songs filled me with a sense of participating in history. My eyes documented the show in slow- moving, black- and- white pans- on- stills-- like "Ken Burn's The History of Rock: The Dismemberment Plan." I found myself not caring about missing the Talking Heads at CBGB's or the Pixies in some New England basement. Perhaps it was the crowd cocktail of local rock heros, sing- along teens, and even the bassist from Blondie, but you could just feel rock history dropping its jello- mold over the joint, pouring its gelatin, congealing the scene in a preserving suspension.

I'm not saying the Plan will change the planet, teach the world to sing in perfect harmony, sell platinum in Southeast Asia, spawn action figure lines, etc. That would be extreme for obvious reasons. It's clear, however, that the Plan signal a new wave for pop-rock. Never again do I ever wanna hear anybody talk about how rock is dead; now we've got pop that truly belongs in the next millennium.

There was one song that night that stuck in my head for about five weeks. I found myself bobbing my head to its memory at red lights, while squeezing honeydew in the produce section, and on the john. Finally, the Ice Of Boston EP provides unlimited doses of this gem, "Spider In The Snow." The Plan's rhythm section is deeply influenced by funk and soul, without being overtly referential (read: there's no slap- bass and "funky drummer" fills); this persistant groove keeps the tune on smooth cruise- control. There's a beautiful tension between the laid- back and the antsy. Unlike artists like Beck or Cake, the Plan have found a way seemlessly fuse seemingly opposed genres without resorting to conspicuous sampling or mimicing. Thankfully, keyboards have new purpose.

The other new song on this EP is "The First Aniversary Of Your Last Phonecall," and, like "Spider In The Snow," it perfectly captures the essense of Plan: metropolitan themes of post- teen ennui, tickling rants, underlying unease, thick riffs, complex instrumental intercourse, and more hooks than the Predator's mouth. Lead singer Travis Morrison reassures himself that he's not losing his mind while slowly building to uplifting choruses. It's just so damn smart, without being an arty put- off. Like all great rock it appeals to your brain, booty, crotch, funnybone, and whatever other muscles drop jaws and raise smiles.

Along with the other Pitchfork darlings, 12 Rods, the Plan stand out as completely new and original without being experimental. Somehow they "get it." As you can tell, I highly endorse the purchase of this cheap EP. The only downside is that it should trigger unhealthy anxiety over the band's forthcoming full- length.

-Brent DiCrescenzo