Dropsonic

Rock is dead, they say. Long live rock, says Dropsonic. Long live the low-slung guitar, the blues solo, the power trio, the butt-shaking bass, the sing-along chorus and the snarling rock jeremiad. And, above all, fuck pop. This ain’t no disco — this is life during wartime, folks, and this band from Atlanta is equipped to arm the masses. Dropsonic is the Arcade Fire’s heavy-metal cousin, Shiner’s favorite nephew, the Cream for a postpunk, post-psychedelic, post-not-giving-a-shit day and age. Out Tuesday, the band’s newest album, Insects With Angel Wings, is an empowering listen — a largely uptempo exercise in electrifying, soulful rock and wailing paranoia (Dan Dixon is without a doubt the deep south’s Thom Yorke) that dishes out more deep-fried riffage and fist-through-a-window jams than any release this year. That’s not to say Dropsonic is without its gentle side, however — three or four melancholy acoustic numbers on the disc don’t make you want to steal a semi and plow through commuter traffic, unlike almost every other track. Still, fellow power trio the Life and Times gets the air vibrating at the Brick before Dropsonic takes the stage, so, for God’s sake, bring earplugs.