Brain-teasing intellectual weirdos all, the quartet we call Singer has taken it upon themselves to dispel the rumors that independent music was doomed to cough up its predecessors. The band (composed of some ex-U.S. Maple folks) summons all the greats of obtuse, atonal and jazz-influenced punk rockers: the machinations of subtly Albini-ish guitars grind against Karate'd strums and twinkles, the relentless kick drum bellows out for Slint while the cymbal work (while minimal) and snare-tom exchanges flirt with pure jazz. Robt A.A. Lowe's vocals flatly ignore convention, cooing in high registers like a bratty young Craig Wedren. ...