Just in time for Scooby Doo we have The Ghost, a high-energy indie quartet hailing from Berkeley, California. And like every phantom wannabe rooted out by those meddling kids, there's a man behind this mask: superproducer Steve Albini. The debut LP from The Ghost, This Is a Hospital, proves a point about Albini, and it's not the point you think I'm going to make. For all you know, Albini is a total hack. He may as well be Al Bundy. The reason? Albini works exclusively with brilliance. (Well, except Bush. But that was for the cash.) Albini may be the greatest thing since sliced bread, but when you're already working with sliced bread-- well, you get my point.

The Ghost may not be "brilliance" per se, but the seeds are certainly there. The quartet has been an official 'band' for just over a year (they played their first show in April of 2001), and they're already producing material twice the quality of some of their peers. The key lies in their formula, which, while familiar and easy on the ears, is awfully difficult to pin down.

Musically, it's clear that the Ghost worships at the altar of The Rock, and I'm not talking about The Scorpion King (though it would be brilliant if they prayed to that guy). The majority of This Is a Hospital blends straightforward indie rock with some jagged post-punk hues for a rhythmic, powerful, incisive guitar-and-bass attack. The vocals, however, are the hallmark of The Ghost: probably a quarter of the time, lead vocalist Brian Moss just flat-out screams. And I don't mean that calculated, affected caterwaul his punky brethren swear by; I'm talking raw, shredded throat gore with damn-near judicial conviction.

The Ghost also distinguish themselves with some impressive songwriting. There are a number of mix-tape gems on This Is a Hospital, and two of them open the album: the minor key, post-punkish "Death by the Bay" and the similarly unsettled "On and On," which opens with jagged guitars and poignant lyricism ("I fell in love every night/ How could I not?/ Somebody kiss me and prove me wrong"), but resolves its tension in the potent, poppy, chant-along chorus, "So it goes, we've clipped our own wings/ My arms have become roots." That's horror shit, dude!

Closer "Red Slippers Red Wheels" begins with a bright, midtempo pop rhythm, cutting back to just bass and drums for the verse. Something about the mood seems to promise an anthem, and as the song reaches its peak, The Ghost delivers on that promise, first halting the track altogether, then bringing back the opening chords for a rousing, top-of-their lungs chorus: "In this empty room/ I will live with my mistakes/ Hold this straw until it's gold/ It will, or I will, break."

I don't want to oversell, though, so I'll come clean and admit that the middle of this disc is a bit flat. However! The bookends more than make up for any perceived deficiencies. Besides, it's sort of an Oreo thing. I don't go for the chalky, jizzy center, preferring the crunchy chocolate punch of the surrounding cookie crisp. You might love jizz, I don't know. But I do know this, and look at me when I say it to you: baby, it's your money. You can put it down on a half-ton of horseshit (check eBay) or you can give it up for The Ghost. It's like Velma said: "Oh no! MY GLAAAAAASSES!!"

-Brad Haywood, June 11th, 2002