Honest pop

This isn't a kind of protectiveness that closes the music off from the world; it's more like a layer of gauze between a tender wound and the universe. That unacknowledged, maybe unintended, sense of self-protection infuses even some of the brightest, most upbeat-sounding songs on Viva La Void (Big Pop), by the New Jersey band Melting Hopefuls, and Communist Love Songs (Homestead), from New York City's Sleepyhead. You can usually hear a shadow or two flickering behind the songs and speaking of a vulnerability that needs a shield. Far from keeping the music muffled, toned down, and safe, that shield seems to be the thing that keeps it from crawling into a hole; these are songs about getting ready to face the world.

Despite clocking in at just 26:03, Viva La Void covers a surprising amount of territory. The backbeat sure doesn't hurt; songs like "What Gets Me Up" and "Blackie" seem like bright, open, billowy tents staked down by the alert, agile rhythm section of Ray Ketchem on drums and Sue Kresge on bass. Max Siebel's guitar has more bounce than Gidget's hairdo, but he also knows how to darken his tone with layers of fuzz and subtle feedback. And Renée LoBue's vocals, sometimes pale and airy, just as often strike a coppery richness that suits the band's no-nonsense pop.

The songs on Viva La Void don't beg for attention. There's something unassuming, tossed off in the way LoBue sings, "What gets me up? I'll chase it." She's acknowledging that she'll go after whatever pleases her, excites her, makes life worth living; Siebel's guitar echoes her, bounding along like a happy pup out for a walk.

The band also have a knack for songs with unusual points of view and turns of phrase. "Turn on the Turn-off" is the only number I can think of that expresses how a woman feels when she's rejected while working the pick-up scene. LoBue describes the anguish of seeing a potential lover lose interest right before her eyes: "My eyes flutter and your smile starts to fade/I start talking and you start backing away . . ./Turn on the turn-off in me/Very well, you're running from my hard sell." The words are wistful, but she's undaunted. Something about LoBue's resolve keeps you from feeling too sorry for her. It's as if she believed that the guy who'd turn on the turn-on has to be just around the corner. And the wrong guy? Who needs him.

On Communist Love Songs, Sleepyhead improve on their peppy 1994 Starduster. They sound a little like the legendary Athens outfit Pylon -- maybe because their songs are often driven by chunky, prominent bass lines. Spare, rhythmic guitar phrases and the dueling vocals of Chris O'Rourke (who plays guitar and keyboard and does the leads) and Rachael McNally (the band's drummer) fill out the rest of the landscape. The sharply focused numbers on Communist Love Songs are often dryly funny ("I'm gonna grow my hair real long and smoke a ton of grass/And stay up all night every night, discussing race and class," is just one of the gems in "The Communist Love Song"), but they harbor their share of heartache and uncertainty. O'Rourke's voice betrays more helpless frustration than vindictiveness when he sings, "You and yours are gonna pay for all the way you made me feel." And when he gets to the chorus -- "I want you to stay more than I want you to leave/I don't have much money, but there's so much of me to steal" -- he's unabashedly needy.

But the most affecting song here is "Forensic Studies Show," a majestic slow-motion swan dive into domestic disillusionment and bitterness. "Talk dirty, you can't hurt me/Forensic studies show/You killed me when you asked me my name," O'Rourke sings, as if delivering a marriage's death certificate. The lyrics detail a home life that's turned into a nightmare: "The house is stretching out and full of ghosts/Little League, a ballerina, talk-show hosts/Cry myself to sleep until the afternoon."

"Forensic Studies" is shaped by sloping, bluesy guitars; it doesn't sound like a country song, but it sure cuts like one, closing in on ugly truths without looking away. It's not a pop song, but it could be the sequel to any number of pop songs that detail domestic bliss. It's driven itself through a wall, only to gain momentum as it crashes through to the other side. It will have to do its damage before it grinds to a halt; nobody ever said that a pop song had to be completely harmless.