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Damn it’s tough keeping up with fickle tastes of kids nowadays. It wasn’t too long ago rap-rock and its nü metal ilk were the whipping boys of disgruntled record store employees nationwide.

Papa Roach, Limp Bizkit, Linkin Park? So 2001.

Not that any such matters affect Dragon Ash. By the time Fred Durst rode the coattails of Rage Against the Machine into the ground, Dragon Ash had already married hip-hop beats and metal guitars in a union of musical co-dependency. Take one away from the other, and the whole thing would unravel.

(It’s probably just me, but it seems the whole rap-rock thing treats hip-hop beats as an afterthought anyway. The DJs are just window-dressing.)

At the same time, Dragon Ash are savvy enough to know beats change as often as most people’s underwear. The big beats of 2001’s Lily of da Valley would have as much relevance today as, say, Fatboy Slim.

So on Harvest, Dragon Ash have found a new driving force in beats even more dated than Norman Cook — drum ‘n’ bass.

On a certain level, it’s actually pretty imaginitive. Drum ‘n’ bass usually marries quick, double-time rhythms with slow, minimalist textures. Dragon Ash don’t bother with the slow, minimalist textures and go for the fast, minimalist riffage instead.

Sure, “Posse in Noise” offers breaks from the frantic guitars here and there, but “Revive” gives off a claustophobic vibe with its busy rhythm and Furuya Kenji’s reggae chanting.

For the first few times, the combination of rap, reggae, electronica and metal creates a sensory overload that makes it difficult to digest what’s going on with Harvest. Eventually, it all becomes a blur.

“Canvas” vs. “Massy Evolution” — is it really that easy to tell the two tracks apart?

Dragon Ash doesn’t let you forget just how damn clever Harvest is. Over the course of 17 tracks — a few of which are short interludes — the band doesn’t let up with its über-raprockreggaemetal montage. And it gets tiring.

Unlike Lily of da Valley, there are barely hooks. “Morrow” comes pretty close with its alt-rock ballad conclusion, but there isn’t anything as immediately catchy as “Amploud” or “Shizuka na Hibi no Kaidan wo”.

Harvest once again shows Dragon Ash can barely be contained by the limited scope of rap-rock, but for an album with so much going on, it’s not one that captures nor holds on to attention.

When a band produces such a bilstering debut as Molotov did in 1997 with ¿Donde jugaran las niñas?, it’s tough to imagine how anything after could surpass it.

Six years later, Dance and Dense Denso arrives to become the sound of a skeptic eating his words.

Sure, there was an album between that debut and Dance and Dense Denso. But Apocalypshit suffered from trying to stay within the lines of what happened before.

Yes, Apocalypshit was every bit as angry and confrontational as its predecessor, but it lacked an intangible charm that reached out and grabbed listeners would normally hate metal-rap.

Dance and Dense Denso reclaims that charm and goes for your fucking throat.

Of course, it’s risky writing a review for a hip-hop album in a language you don’t understand. Rap draws its power as much from rhythm as it does from words.

But when you’re faced with chants as addictive as the title track or “No Me Da Mi Navidad”, who the hell cares?

Never mind the inflammatory chorus of “Frijolero”, or the objectifying language of “Changuich A La Chichona” — Molotov has written some the funkiest shit of the year.

“Here We Kum” starts off with a robotic riff that hinges of a bizarre break as a hook. “Noko” concludes with a series of fake endings which effectively slows down the album’s break-neck momentum.

On some tracks, Molotov is more of a punk band with throat-busting vocals on “Queremos Pastel” and “Nostradamus Mucho”. On everything else, the quartet has just about nailed the essential chorus.

Even though language is a barrier for this review, it’s not tough to channel the satire of “E Charles White”, an Anglo-named song in which the band adopts the voices of a series of Mexican stereotypes.

Language is no barrier on the controversial — and Grammy-nominated — “Frijolero”. “Don’t call me gringo, you fucking beaner/Stay on your side of the goddamn river,” the band sings in one voice. “No me degas beaner, Mr. Puñatero/Te sacare un susto por racista y culero,” they respond in another.

In the past three years, rap-metal has pretty much been diluted by bands pummelling the same damn power chords over and over.

Molotov gives some genuine rage back to the genre. Listen to the maniacal laugh at the end of the title track, and you know these guys aren’t messing around.

Powerful hooks, addictive choruses, a heart behind the music — Molotov could be playing huapango and listeners would dig it.

Instead, Dance and Dense Denso shows rap-metal can be saved from itself and transcend borders.

What were the Delgados thinking working with Dave Fridmann?

Don’t they realize having the Flaming Lips producer helm an album of orchestral pop will inevitably draw comparrisons to his “other” band?

Perhaps. And maybe it’s a shrewd move on part of the Scottish band.

Because Hate, the Delgados’ fourth album, does indeed indulge in the swirling, psychedelic effects of the Lips — without Wayne Coyne’s crypticness.

Sure. What’s the Flaming Lips without Wayne Coyne, let alone a band gunning for guilt by association? Pretty damn good, as it turns out.

Hate is actually something of a fun album. The politically incorrect title track alone (“All You Need Is Hate”) sets an insanely bouncy melody to a rather unique socialogical perspective.

“Hate is everywhere,” singer Alun Woodward sings, “inside your mother’s heart and you will find it there. You ask me what you need, hate is all you need.”

The rest of the album follows suite, delivering one grandiose tune after another. Singers Woodward and Emma Pollack alternate between tracks, forcing the album into a loose structure.

After a while, the Delgados songs become somewhat indistinctive. When Pollack delivers the melody for “Favours”, it almost feels like deja vu, considering “Coming in from the Cold” contains some of the same melodic leaps.

The lilting meter of “Never Look at the Sun” isn’t too different from the lilting meter of “Child Killers”.

Still, the Delgados know how to craft a tune, as evidenced on “The Drowning Years”, “The Light Before We Land”. Hate makes for fine listening regardless.

The two bonus tracks on the American edition, however, don’t contribute much to the overall album. In fact, Hate works best when it ends after “If This is a Plan”.

Hate may not knock The Soft Bulletin of its critics favorite mantle, but the one degree of separation from the Flaming Lips doesn’t diminish the band’s own work.

Man, this is what Interpol should have sounded like.

Yeah, it’s so tired namedropping Joy Division all the freekin’ time, but in the case of Longwave, the influence is less pronounced.

Or to put it more directly, Longwave don’t sound like a sonic photocopy.

“Wake Me When It’s Over” starts off Longwave’s debut album, The Strangest Things, with the reverb-drenched, haunting guitar work of — say it with me now — Joy Division (or perhaps early New Order?). But when singer Steve Shiltz chimes in, the ghost of Ian Curtis rests soundly in peace.

Shiltz’s voice is actually refreshing. He can actually hold his notes, and his alt-rock timbre is tempered by a subtle crooner feel. This guy could probably sing some mean karaoke.

After that initial tip of the hat, the rest of the album comes across as early-80s underground rock album recorded on post-90s digital equipment. That is, it’s as comfortable as your Smiths’ vinyl collection without all that dated 80s analog stuff.

On “Pool Song”, Dave Marchese’s bass line does more to complement Shiltz than guitarist Shannon Ferguson’s rhythmic strumming. “I Know It’s Coming Someday” ought to remind U2 what it used to be.

“The Ghosts Around You”, on the other hand, might have even worked as a Smashing Pumpkins outtake.

As an album, The Strangest Things possesses a surprising strong clarity. The songs may not hide their 80s college rock influences, but neither are they filler.

Of course, that means its tough picking out particularly singular tracks on the album. “Tidal Wave”, “All Sewn Up” and the title track come pretty close.

Flaming Lips producer Dave Fridmann gives Longwave a strong, clear sound. The drums are never muddied, and even when the guitar work gets fuzzy — as it does on “Exit” and “Meet Me at the Bottom” — they never bleed into the background.

Thing is, such a strong 80s influence calls into question the root of the band’s appeal — is it nostalgia or originality? The answer is a bit of both.

There’s no denying Longwave’s appeal to a thirtysomething audience, but the band’s songs stand on their own in spite of any pop culture resurgence.

Cuatros Camino may well be the most straight-forward album Café Tacuba has so far recorded.

And that’s still many steps forward from most angular, critics’ darlings indie acts in Estados Unitas.

The Mexico-based quartet isn’t afraid of dissonance, and the band’s collective avant-garde ear has attracted the likes of Beck and Kronos Quartet.

So it’s a bit surprising to hear singer Ramon Albaran delivering an actual hook on the album opener, “Cero Y Uno”. It’s even more shocking to hear the rest of the band crash in with alt-rock riffs from which the Flaming Lips wouldn’t shy away.

The normalness doesn’t stop there.

“Que Pasará” rumbles with a shuffle beat and an almost garage rock feel. “Eres” possesses a poignant melody but understates its Mexican influences for more of a rock ballad feel.

“Encantamiento”, on the other hand, is a ballad, although that intro is the same used on Duran Duran’s “Planet Earth”.

Sure. It’s pretty obvious isn’t it? Sell out.

Not so.

“Eo”, the first single from the album, possesses some quirky chords and Mexican beats sifted through electroclash effects. It actually sounds a lot cooler than that description.

“Camino Y Vereda” mixes up synthetic timbres and guitar hooks as well as anything off of Ré. While “Soy Y Estoy” shows the band can still turn its Mexican influences on its head.

Café Tacuba’s albums tend to be as scattershot as the band’s wildly diverse interests, but Cuatros Camino shows the band at its most cohesive. There’s not a bit of filler nor a moment of incongruency on the album.

Producer Gustavo Santaolalla has coaxed some of Tacuba’s best performances yet. The band’s more straight-forward songwriting may be disappointing for fans of its more esoteric work, but stack Cuatros Camino against what passes for mainstream nowadays and the distinction is still very much clear.

Cuatros Camino is a marvelously accessible work that doesn’t dilute Café Tacuba’s daring. If anything, it shows just how more accessible rock can benefit from a band that knows its stranger side.