Hard Place

Hair spray in hand, Hard Place has a nice time teasing up the crinkles and flats of new wave and late-'70s feathered-hair make-out sessions on its self-titled debut for the Oakland imprint Antenna Farm. Ass pockets alight and taking bouncers to task ("He'll rearrange your face for free!"), the L.A. trio is happily superficial and cleverly economical, never overdoing it with the keyboards and only suggesting their influences enough to catch your attention. For example, some operators would quit after establishing "Make the Cut"'s ragged Motor City guitar throb, and its assurance that the band do, in fact, party like rock stars. But Hard Place really begin to own it with a late-song shift into the Monkees' vocal sunlight, where their decadence is revealed as blue-collar dedication to craft. "Last Dance" probably gets scenesters whispering "Sparks" over their tumblers, but vocalist/guitarist Freddy Cristy's deadpan delivery — "Don't pack a thing/Just where your best dress baeeeebbbbaaay..." — feels closer to Ric Ocasek. Meanwhile, the chilly synth triggers and outsider POV dream of "Denim Boys" flirts with Gary Wilson's creepy freak-out new wave, and "Little Joy" is exactly that in a shiny pink suit. In the game of reference, Hard Place have nowhere to hide. But their debut's frequent allusions to girls of questionable virtue clarifies that they aren't losing sleep over your opinion.