Mudhoney -- Piece of Cake

Most people won't like Piece of Cake, the major label debut from Mudhoney. It's supposed to be that way.

After all, songs such as "When in Rome" and "Suck You Dry" aren't exactly ripe for rock radio, despite their calamitous hook-laden guitar lines.

The band plays with fuzz on the mind, from the moldy depths of garage-punk bliss. The sound is beefy, like a gargantuan eight-cylinder car engine from the '60s, minus the muffler. The album's package might as well have a carbon monoxide warning on the label.

So for those who despise eco-safe rock 'n' roll, there are guzzlers such as "Youth Body Expression Explosion" and the snotty, achy-breaky "Acetone" -- both of which harken to Mudhoney's previous ozone-eating classic, Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge.

Other songs, such as "No End in Sight," take a slant similar to the band's breakthrough single "Touch Me I'm Sick." Vocalist/guitarist Mark Arm and his Rainier Beer-quaffing pals don't take themselves too seriously, which (note the irony) is a breath of fresh air.

But don't be fooled. Piece of Cake is a slab of delicious, soupy alternative rock smog.

Luna -- Lunapark

The newly formed Luna doesn't make fast songs. Speed is not important when you have the right mood going for you.

Made of ex-Galaxie 500 Dean Wareham, drummer Stanley Demeski of the defunct Feelies and ex-Chills member Justin Harwood -- you won't hear any finger-tapping or odes to cherry pies and Jersey women.

Teeter-tottering between the best album the Velvet Underground never made and a collection of great mellow pop songs, Luna's debut, Lunapark exudes an air of experienced cool. The Jesus and Mary Chain sans distortion, it sacrifices noise for three chords and a groovy beat. Whatever the effect, it's just swell. Lunapark is the feel-good record of the year.

On "Slash Your Tires," Wareham distorts the Underground's "Sweet Jane" with perfect pop results. Driven by Demeski's steady beat and Wareham's three-chord push-ups, the song sticks out above the other stellar tracks.

The song's guy-gets-revenge-on-demented-girlfriend theme works. Lyrics such as "In my dreams/I slash your tires/and in my brains/I set these fires/and all your fears/it's nothing new/and all your tears/they won't help you" provide uneasy comic relief.

Unlike a lot of bands, Luna has produced an album that doesn't stall halfway through -- you won't have to pluck through any duds. At Lunapark, there are only good downers.

Diamond D and the Psychotic Neurotics -- Stunts, Blunts and Hip Hop

Bronx-based rappers Diamond D and the Psychotic Neurotics are a little thin inthe lyric department.

On their debut album, Stunts, Blunts and Hip Hop, this edgy clan of self-proclaimed b-boys and hoods spends most of the time weaving beats with plenty of flow and style.

The basslines are current and the samples are crisp, but the rhymes lag behind, focusing on pseudo-gangsta topics such as chasing women (the "stunts") and enjoying certain smokeables (better known as "blunts").

For example, the single "Best Kept Secret" and the title track are missing any sincerity. It's a philosophy of here's the groove, here's the lyrics, cool out, but don't pay too much attention. Maybe it's just me, but L.A.'s House of Pain yelling "jump around!" moves me more than any of Diamond's recitals.

Lines such as "he's got a small wee-wee" and "my style stands out like a varicose vein" leave me guessing if this stuff is toward the Biz Markie tip or just an ill attempt to camouflage D's lack of talent.

Sometimes rap is purely something to pump in the boomin' system -- and not every East Coast group that comes bouncing along has to be the next Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth.

But I really wonder if Diamond D's weak bag of verbals will give him and his crew any staying power.

The Sundays -- Blind

There is something to be said for a good voice. The Sundays' Harriet Wheeler is no exception -- her ethereal shrill stands out among the Mariah Careys and Madonnas.

Unfortunately, her pipes are not enough to rescue listeners from a coma. The Sundays' new record, Blind, never wakes up from its formulaic slumber.

So the album is boring; what disappoints even more is that the band hasn't changed at all since its debut, Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic. The Smiths/Trash Can Sinatras shimmering guitars and simple beats remain all too familiar.

Those Rice Krispie guys -- Snap, Krackle and Pop -- have altered their sound more than this band, and they're cartoons.

The band even stole songs from its own catalog. "Love" is a dead ringer for its alternative radio hit, "Here's Where the Story Ends."

Progression, if any, is very slight. "24 Hours" and "What Do You Think" show at least a tempo change. Ironically, the best song is a cover of the Rolling Stones' "Wild Horses."

Its interpretation uses Wheeler's voice to full effect. Under a bed of plucky guitars, her vocals are strong enough to make us forget all about Mick Jagger in green sweat pants.

While playing the record, someone asked if this were the new 10,000 Maniacs.

I wish it were.