Every song on Lux, the gritty debut album from Chicago's Disapppears, might induce the listener into thinking of another band, scene or era, as the tightly-wound four-piece brazenly and unapologetically mine their own record collections and influences while tearing through 10 taut songs in a scant 29 minutes. While their sound is instantly familiar and not breaking any new musical ground (is that even possible anymore, anyway?), the force and fun found within these insistent tracks are enough to completely sweep you away and, once you've managed to collect your wits, start the record over again. The songs are drenched in reverb, distortion and attitude, with the Ponys guitarist Brian Case leading the charge while shouting warnings at you through the din and darkness found at the heart of these edgy tracks. Lux storms out of the gates with the raucous opener 'Gone Completely,' and doesn't really pause for breath once, nor allow the listener much time to process what they've just heard. The album bulldozes you with both its massive sound and relentless pace, burying you under the remnants of your shattered belief that rock 'n roll can't sound this effortlessly striking again. It's a good-time record full of bad-time themes, but the tempo moves so frantically that there isn't really time to get caught up in thinking; and why would you waste your time with something so cerebral when you should just be losing yourself amidst the relentless tide of guitars rolling out of the speakers. It's all intentionally disorienting, like all good, loud music should be, with the intoxicating buzz of the songs left ringing in your ears long after you've finished listening. 'Pearly Gates' sounds like a Queens Of The Stone Age record played on the wrong (and better) speed, with the band driving home the unceasing, urgent beat as if it holds the key to humanities survival, while 'Marigold' pounds along confidently, with Case throwing off the truncated chorus like an anchor amongst the squall.'Not Nothing' could have easily been played in the background during photo shoots at the Factory, with the cool detachment of the Velvets mixed in with a modern intensity and edge. The title track again hints back to Warhol, with a character fascinated with celebrity and Jackie O that churns with an unrelenting rhythm and icy style. The tracks do have more than just their brevity in common, sounding slightly indistinguishable as the album plays out, but that has more to do with the restrained, tense arrangements than a lack of musical ideas, and the songs ultimately come across as more unified due to that acute focus. Disappears (after being one of the last casualties of legendary Touch & Go's demise) have found an unlikely home on Kranky, a label that tends to focus more on skittish experimental electronica than straight ahead rock 'n roll, and that abstract unconventionality artfully finds its way into the songs on Lux. For while there is a recognizable acidity to their sound that is reminiscent of countless bands that have rolled through the Village, there is a clear contemporary urgency to Disappears songs that elevates this album high above a mere pastiche into something far more imposing and distinguished.