Clinic

It's time for rock aesthetes to hoist a pint of stout to the British and their loss-leading attempts to break bands on these indifferent shores. Somehow, we're lucky enough to get Clinic's Liverpudlian art-punk, which is alternately scary and gorgeous, cranked-up and synthy. Too often, the group is compared to Radiohead, with which it shares a daft ennui and little else. These guys still write songs, see, and they don't seem ashamed of that career path. Better yet, Clinic's experimentation -- some screechy madness, light dub, harmonium flourishes -- never blunts the rock thrills, giving us odd-angled tunes that hit the brain as hard as the solar plexus. That the group's latest disc hasn't yet been released stateside shouldn't dampen the show; frequent surprises are what made Clinic's first two efforts such a pleasure. And then there's the dress-up bonus: twitty Brit suits and Michael Jackson surgical masks.