Yeah, I know what they're talking about. Isn't it obvious? Okay, so those arrows scrawled on the record cover's juvenile map of the U.S. could be converging on any number of major metropolitan areas, historical landmarks, Denny's restaurants, etc. Just listen to the music, though, and you'll agree that this isn't about DC, NYC, Gettysburg, Amish country, or any of that crap. This is pure New Jersey.

Ignore for a moment the fact that the Rapture are from New York. What's New Jersey, anyway, if not the cracked and smeared reflection of the Empire State-- the Evil Twin NYC keeps chained in the basement? Whenever New York walks into the room, New Jersey crawls out from behind the radiator, croaking its truncated, mocking call of "Newark!," and it scares the shit out of those Soho snobs every time.

The mixture of hatred and odd admiration in my description has probably already tuned you into the fact that I'm from Jersey. Maybe that's why I like it when the Rapture come on like Manhattan proto-punk scenesters Television buried up to their necks in a toxic waste dump. The title track of "Out of the Races and Onto the Tracks" finds guitarist Luke Jenner slowly easing his tangled guitar riffs into Matty Safer's thick bassline stew until Vito Roccoforte's disco-shambling drums bring the song to a boil.

These guys are both extremely tight and menacingly unhinged at the same time, thanks in no small part to the vocals. Handled here and throughout the album by Jenner and Safer, the high, nasal reports of "Punishment in Higher Places" sound like Tom Verlaine's cries for help as he struggles to keep his head above the muck.

The Rapture manage to carve out an interesting niche for themselves in the aggro-punk/noise-rock fringe by capitalizing on their uncanny ability to groove in what would seem like the most inhospitable and abrasive environments. Safer and Roccoforte are a fantastic rhythm combo, swerving through the convoluted song structures in perfect sync and usually keeping Jenner's flightier guitar tethered. As Jenner slashes and swipes wildly against the rhythm in "Modern Romance," for instance, Safer and Roccoforte hold their ground, grinding out an insistent, fluid, cymbal-heavy pulse. Below the trebly feedback fever-dream of "The Jam," the beat warps and stretches into impossibly strange configurations without ever losing its way. Between the skin-thumping swagger at the song's close, you can barely make out the ringing of church bells, an effect so eerily submerged that it's hard to tell whether it belongs to the realm of happy recording accidents or found-sound genius.

Unfortunately, the vocals tend to slip through the band's tightly-laced fingers every once in a while. The sparse "Caravan" breaks down into stretches of near-nothingness, leaving only the thin, whiny vocals to crack their way unsteadily through the melody. "The Pop Song" delivers on its weirdly upbeat instrumental sections, only to fall flat with a strained fantasy-metal sort of yelping that would be better off toasting the Bravery of the Elf King than attempting these unintelligible lyrics.

The rhythm takes over again (thank God) for the last track, "Confrontation," and neither the spiraling, metallic guitar nor the admittedly more palatable vocal exhortations can do anything to stop it. Roccoforte churns out an endless stream of cymbals and snares while Safer counterbalances with a rock-steady motorik throb. Soon, the song crashes to a near-halt before Roccoforte takes over again, leading off into the distance with a strangely serene rhythmic outro.

Jersey, of course, isn't all ugly. It's almost like New York sometimes. Likewise, New Jersey is what New York is always on the verge of becoming. Hundreds of thousands of Jerseyites stream in to the city every day, becoming part of the place for eight hours before shuttling back across the borderline. With a sound in constant, uneasy flux, the Rapture speaks (not always eloquently, but effectively) for the commuter-- the ordinary-looking joe capable of blending into the Broadway crowds but forever holding a dirty secret in his irradiated little heart.

-Brendan Reid