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Care to feel some good vibrations in this broke, fever-dreamy summer? Defer to the Allah-Las. On the first album of a career that promises more great ones to come, these Los Angeles garage-pop brats talk out of school as freely and casually as James Dean's loiterer friends at Santa Monica High. Frontman Miles Michaud's voice - an oleaginous sneer as difficult to faze as it is to mimic - is up to the task; you can hear dude's lip curl in disgust on the tape-hissy "No Voodoo." The Allah-Las is the rare summer album that smells completely of ocean salt; the group's thickets of surfy reverb bloom into something worthy of the Beach Boys' "Then I Kissed Her." (4 out of 5 stars)
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