This is the "new" record from Algernon. If you arent aware by now these guys lead the pack when it comes to Cap'n Jazz aficianados and they manage to stretch out a little bit past the whole midwest emo thing. Still plenty of the Cap'n but also the usual Piebald wink wink nudge. I here a little Dinosaur, Jr. and some other stonery parts really due break up the craziness that is Joe's technical prowess.

This album really renews my faith in this band, even though this album has been floating around the internet for about 5 months now, definitely pick this up, worth the money.

(from Clicky Clicky)
Top 10 of 2011, easy. The explosive joy, kaleidoscopic melodies and desperate energy that are the musical hallmark of Philadelphia-based contemporary emo superheroes Algernon Cadwallader tethers the trio's magical sophomore set Parrot Flies to a familiar musical center. The evergreen nature of these core components make for reliable building blocks; while many acts cut figurative corners and compose crap with figurative straw or sticks, Algernon Cadwallader's shit is constructed with brick, built to last. That the core components of the band's sound were first forged by superlative second-wave emo standard-bearers Cap'n Jazz doesn't matter. In fact, that the band is DIY from end-to-end (from the Facebook page: "Pete makes the t-shirt designs. We print all the shirts in our warehouse. Joe records and mixes all the music in his studio. We book our own tours. Tank does his own stand up comedy. Peter, Craig, and friends put out our records.") -- while interesting -- isn't even relevant, except to mass media pubs that still find it remarkable that bands and scenes can take care of themselves. No, what is paramount is the songs, and Parrot Flies' 11 songs represent an embarrassment of aural riches.

Which is a couple hundred words too many that aim to underscore the simple point that Algernon Cadwallader's new collection is uniformly thrilling. Sure, the adenoidal screaming, continually refracting guitars and propulsive rhythms aren't surprising at this point, but that aforementioned familarity subtracts nothing from the rush and push that Algernon Cadwallader reliably conjure on every song. A listener can literally drop a needle anywhere within Parrot Flies' 30-ish minutes and hit sex, from the characteristically raw, up-tempo mid-album fireball "Glenwood Ave" to the blindingly brilliant album closer "Cruisin'." The production has its occasional subtleties -- synth buried in the right channel of blitzkrieg opener "Springing Leaks," the different bits of percussion that surface throughout "Sad" -- but none of the appointments weighs down the live feel and engaging dynamism of the performances. Parrot Flies sounds real, like it's happening right now; it will probably always sound that way.