No doubt it’s with a characteristic tongue in his cheek that Fatso Jetson guitarist/vocalist Mario Lalli sings “These archaic volumes won’t ever really be heard” on the title track of the band’s sixth full-length, Archaic Volumes (Cobraside Distribution), but there’s something about the use of the word “really” that sets the line up for multiple levels of interpretation. The “volume” pun is one thing, but the line also seems to be saying those of us hearing the album aren’t really hearing it. There’s more behind the music and words than a surface listen can reveal. This is, as repeat visits to Archaic Volumes reveal, the complete and utter truth.

Fatso Jetson’s first studio album in eight years’ time since the release of Cruel & Delicious — there was the vinyl-only Fatso Jetson Live in 2007 – is rife with complexity, whether it comes in the tight, careful riffing of the infectiously catchy, harmonica-laden opener “Jet Black Boogie” or the casual surf influence topped off by Vince Meghrouni’s saxophone on “Back Road Tar.” Fatso Jetson has always been a complex band, meshing the members’ love of early ‘80s SoCal hardcore punk (read: Black Flag) with the more open tones consistent with the desert they call home, but the maturity on display with Archaic Volumes goes beyond genre meshing into individual expression, as the lyric-heavy near-psychedelia the band manages to fit into closer “Monoxide Dreams” would confirm.

And then there’s a completely different level on which to experience the album. The alliterative rhythm section of drummer Tony Tornay and bassist Larry Lalli are flat out astounding on “Golden Age of Cell Block Slang,” working the kind of swing into the song that Chris Goss’ Masters of Reality was reaching for on Pine/Cross Dover and fell comparatively short of. They work equally well in the straight desert push of second track “Play Dead” and the cover of The Cramps’ “Garbage Man,” which Mario’s vocals turn into an anthem and mission statement for the band at this stage in their career. While I’m pointing out highlight tracks, the pulsating crunch of instrumental “Here Lies Boomer’s Panic” finds all of Fatso Jetson firing on all cylinders, Meghrouni belting out jabbing sax notes in line with both Lallis and Tornay and still managing somehow to stand out in the mix.

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Claremont, California, four-piece Ojos Rojos (“Red Eyes”) play a psychedelic brand of post-rock that varies in meter, space, structure and memorability. Their new album, Disappear (available via Cobraside Distribution), bravely begins with the aptly-titled, eight-and-a-half-minute “In My Head,” and it’s clear from the start the band aren’t shy about self-indulgence. Anyone who’s ever enjoyed, well, anything, knows that’s not necessarily a negative, but there are moments when I find myself wishing Disappear, or a given track therein, would make its point and be done. The songs tend to meander, lost in swoops and swirls of delay in a kind of ambient desert nighttime vibe that, when it’s nailed, is nailed really well, and would probably come across even better live than on disc.

The band is comprised of Aaron Emil, George Serrano, Luis Vera and Rhett Delang, and though they claim “love” as their primary influence, there’s a good bit of Dead Meadow’s shoegazing psych-rock in there as well. That’s not to say Ojos Rojos aren’t doing their own thing, but they’re working within a genre even if doing so reasonably well. In the end, I find I’m not wowed by Disappear, but neither am I underwhelmed. Again, at night, plugged into a desert generator, drunk on cheap keg beer — and while we’re at it, let’s just pretend I’m someone who can enjoy himself, ever — the case would almost certainly be different. It’s fair to say, then, that Disappear is a strong enough album to accompany such a mood, but not necessarily strong enough to change a contrary mood to better suit listening.

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