Sometimes it’s hard to remember through Diarrhea Planet’s stage antics that they’ve got the skills. There’s nothing like a live show, with flying objects, usually beer cans and water bottles, rocketing through the air like the Fourth of July, stage diving in groups, and various forms of friendly assault. On Sept. 20, Diarrhea Planet share their jewels with the world, and thank the punk rock gods for that.

The teaser “Warm Ridin’” foreshadowed the glory of Loose Jewels, and the rest of the record delivers. And it’s not sloppy, either – just beautifully obnoxious and loud. There are sonic similarities to an endless stretch of punk aficionados, cigarette requests (“Cigarettes”), forgiveness for over-tanning (“Orange Girls”), crushing bass and guitar bowling over anything in its path, contrastingly sparkly, wiry guitar melodies and guttural growls that sound like dry heaves.

There’s not a disappointing track on here – disappointing as in it fails to revive your party/drinking mood, rock you or otherwise get you off. What else is to be expected from a record that opens with the Diarrhea Planet manifesto and ends with “There’s so much fucking shit to deal with/and I quit/so give me another beer/we’re gonna drink until the sun comes up/or at least til there’s no beer/and I believe god will find us/and forgive us for these stupid things.” Long live Diarrhea Planet and everyone they know. – Jessica Pace

Coco Hames’ cooing yet spiteful lilt drips onto a tambourine’s sparse rattle as a saloon bass drum echoes like an inevitable showdown. “Every time you smile, I can tell you’re just showing your teeth,” spits The Ettes’ frontwoman on the opening track of their fourth full-length, Wicked Will. Most live shows from this garage trio flaunt its grungier, messier side – distortion, concision, bleating vocals and bubblegum punk. Not as distinct as the ’60s rock jangle with a western kick as found on Wicked Will, which dropped Aug. 2. Coco’s still writing lyrics that sound both demure and defiant, at least coming off her tongue, and familiar fuzzy guitars are still present. The Ettes have just been cultivating their western flair and even an interest in the occasional Motown beat.

The spanking groove of “The Pendulum” is the sort of slick jam worthy of a nightclub scene in a Bond movie. It’s almost campy, but therein lies the charm. Things lag more when The Ettes slow down, though the meditative “You Were There” burns slower successfully. All the while, Hames’ vocals echo, coax, flirt and tease. You may not be able to pick out her voice out of the dozens of female temptresses in rock, but it’s irrefutably multi-faceted and able to set the tone of any track on the album, whether it’s playing up the rock ‘n’ roll glamor or leaning more toward barroom romp.

The rhythms set by drummer Poni Silver and Jem Cohen on bass hold everything together, like on the surfy jaunt “Don’t Bring Me Down,” its simplistic kick and shake electrified by a juicy riff bristling underneath it. Then “I Stayed Too Late” plays up a Motown rhythm, mixing in the dirty ’60s garage rock sounds that prepped the stage for punk. Wicked Will is just too easy to like. What else is to be expected from an album that’s got the swagger of Nancy Sinatra, the pep of The Supremes and an air of rebellion similar to that of pretty much any hellion rocking 50 years ago. – Jessica Pace

JEFF the Brotherhood gained Nashville – and international – notoriety by shooting out shabby punk gems like shotgun shells. For all the track titles on We Are The Champions about cooling and mellowing out, the record is riddled with Weezer melodies and vocal styles, and riffs borrowed from ’70s rock ranging from hard to classic. In other words, rest assured Champions bears the brothers’ iconic grimy stamp. Pinkerton flows in its veins beginning with the riff and distortion of first track “Hey Friend,” which opens with Jake’s comic-sincere declaration, “I been thinking about your mom.” It follows with “Cool Out,” which rips at top speed, more Weezer action with “Bummer” and loose, breezy pop on “Diamond Way.”

It’s tighter than ever, as energetic as the live shows and wears the more ambitious, vintage classic rock hat as easily as the ol’ punk hat. “Stay Out Late” is proof of that, as well as “Ripper,” in which skittish effects ripple over a lot of Zeppelin-like bashing and drilling, slowing down the tempo without losing the edge. It’s clear that JEFF haven’t lost an edge of any kind, and they’re still climbing. Rolling Stone recently branded them the “Band to Watch;” Nashville has been watching for a long time, now as its punk staples show they can slip effortlessly into other sounds without losing any of their old style. – Jessica Pace

Raised on rock and sown in the blues, Natural Child’s 1971 is a testimony to swanky, hard-driving blues rock of a past generation. Though there is a wealth of local artists – PUJOL, Those Darlins, The Paperhead – who likewise peer through the vintage rock sunglasses, Natural Child is the most blatant about it with an endless mess of stripped, blistering guitars and powerful bass lines. And of all the retro rockers whose influence bleeds into the LP, Natural Child brings in the focus on one group in particular – The Rolling Stones. The slinky, blues rocking Brits appear again and again through heavy, mean riffs and guitars bristling at the core beneath speckles of twinkling keys and tambourine bashes (“Hard Workin’ Man,” especially).

“So cut your bullshit son and let’s get high/time wears lines in your face/they don’t go away/never go away/so I just try to have my fun/gonna get it while I’m young/while I’m still young.” So goes the mid-tempo livin’-life jaunt “Makin’ It,” which, like “Hard Workin’ Man,” opens up into a languid jam trance in the style of Cream and Steppenwolf. Part of 1971’s accessibility, as well as what personalizes the record, is its layabout lyrics of drinking and drugging and the band getting theirs while they can. That, plus the grit, swagger and twang highly reminiscent of the Stones with just enough fuzz and distortion form a golden throwback album. “Make my record hot,” they sing on the opener “Easy Street.” Natural Child already did that by themselves.

1971 drives hard even when the tempos steady, like the slow-burners on the flipside, “Yoko” and “Let It Bleed.” The former is a richly anguished, heavy-honeyed blues number (driven by an incredible riff) that draws from the White Album or Revolver (go figure) or the White Stripes (“she makes all my friends think I’m gay/but I’m not so that’s okay/I’m gonna love her anyway”). The latter is the slowest standout – a sleepy-eyed, you-treated-me-like-shit jam with lightly treading drums and chords. 1971 is a little record lost – it’s in the wrong decade for sure, but listeners should be glad it is, because Natural Child has chomped down on the sounds of the veteran rockers and spit out some of their own holy rock ‘n’ roll. – Jessica Pace

Yeah, Those Darlins are wildwood flowers, but they thrive on hard liquor and love instead of water and sunshine. On their sophomore album, Screws Get Loose, the country influence drawn from the Grand Ole Opry’s heyday is still present, but the foursome tame the punk spirit that ran wild on their 2009 self-titled debut. Those Darlins’ bite is distinct, particularly in the lyrics, but this album is more polarized than the last. Their debut boasted comic blue collar tales of DUIs and drunkenly eating a chicken. On Screws Get Loose, they sing of playing in the dirt and being too hungry to have sex, but they also sing of wasting away, being “bumd” and screws just generally getting loose. The mood fluctuates from high to low as the band reconstructs and sometimes trashes out the old-fashioned country sound of the first half of the 20th century.

The record doesn’t “experiment” but it gropes deeper, portraying the band as rowdy realists who don’t take money too seriously (“$”) or glorify romance (“Boy”). “He knows what I’m going through/we love each other when we can,” they sing. On the vaguely wrenching track “Let U Down,” amid a jangly, ’50s retro rhythm and a percussive thwop, they harmonize, “I can’t help it if I let you down,” dragging the last word.

But then tracks like “Fatty Needs a Fix,” with the chorus, “starving for something and it ain’t your touch/baby baby baby, too hungry to uhh,” bring them back to the realm of ridiculousness and hilarity. “Fatty” is probably the equivalent of the first LP’s, “The Whole Damn Thing.” Also in that realm is the playful honesty of “Be Your Bro”: “I just want to be your brother/you just want to be my boyfriend/I just want to run and play in the dirt with you/you just want to stick it in.” Not a lot of sugarcoating here.

Some of the best is found in the somber title track: “Can’t blame me for what I choose/can’t change me after all the abuse/can’t blame me for who I use/whoa, screws get loose” sung in their tinny, southern and sometimes eerie vocals. Or the rollicking drums, lackadaisical tambourine toss and hairy, electric pulse of a hot and painful-sounding guitar in “Mystic Mind,” which channels country roots, psychedelia and some of the freakish stuff of the ’80s.

Screws Get Loose is softer; Those Darlins don’t sound quite as carefree and raucous as they used to be, even though it’s unlikely they’ll ever stop writing lewd songs about their various shenanigans. They haven’t “grown up,” but maybe they’ve had a few more hard times. Not that it’s keeping them down. – Jessica Pace

It’s difficult to discern any kind of category for Heypenny. Suffice it to say that their LP, A Jillion Kicks, is like someone banging two pots together near your ear. It’s loud, amusing and almost impossible to ignore. With a hometown performance at the end of February, the record was finally released – 13 tracks of boisterous, key-reliant pop rock candy recorded with other Nashville names like Mikky Ekko and Natalie Prass. These songs have already reached the ears of those who frequent Heypenny shows, but for new listeners, the album kicks off with the single “Purple Street,” a revving anthem crafted with a synthesizer’s trill and a ridiculously catchy bass line. As most Heypenny listeners are aware, ridiculousness is something of a trademark of the band, notorious for decorating the stage with TVs and giant robots, performing in pastel marching band uniforms and releasing 2009 EP CopCar with a coloring book.

The bounciness of the melodies and the chipper, almost satirical quality of Ben Elkins’ pinched vocals ring like children’s songs at times, particularly in “Star For All The Kidz” – thick with soulful vocal harmonies and the bash of a kick drum. Or the march song “Parade” in which Elkins sings, “It’s the shittiest rock ‘n’ roll ever played by anybody, but you’re singing great.” Hm. The dizzying nature of his sometimes more-spoken-than-sung rhymes and his comical lyrical insight (as found in “Oh No”: “all my friends are getting old but I’m staying the same age/so I trump it in their faces and they act like you’re a freakin’ idiot”) are countered by a lot of percussive racket (“You Shine”) or unexpected Zeppelin-like breakdowns (“Water”).

At times, AJK sounds over-produced. There are enough key-induced noises and glitches as is without the record being polished to perfection. This album’s version of “CopCar” sounds cleaner and pales in comparison to the CopCar EP’s version. The more live a Heypenny recording sounds, the better, and seeing them perform in person is best considering how they tend to take the word “perform” very, very seriously. Excessive? Yes. Flamboyant? Absolutely. A Jillion Kicks offers a munchkins-at-a-rave sound from the Nashville band with the most blatant sense of humor. – Jessica Pace