The word pikadori isn't Japanese for a "Hiroshimic flash of light," as the band originally thought. Current translation shows that the band's name is nonsensical, even though power surges haunt them during shows and practices. It's nice when a project sets out upon a name, throwing all of their collective art into one small identifying moniker, only to find later that it meant nothing at all. It's the truly great that, when this happens, prove that it really didn't matter anyway.
   On the band's first, self-titled release, Joey Vesely, Joel Grimes, Jason Kirker, and Jake Leger prove that names don't mean much—it's the rock that really matters. In "Mission Statement", the guitar chords ring like dirty toy rayguns as the lyrics provide a glimpse into the band's playful sense of optimism, exposing Pikadori's plan to rebuild an unstable music scene that has a tendency to suffer through a yearly creative exodus of its finest artists. Many of Pittsburgh's prior musical success stories have set unhealthy habits for their contemporaries, and the most detrimental example a band that can only thrive by relocating to New York, Chicago, or San Francisco. "Mission Statement" expresses these concerns by showing that the only way that the Pittsburgh scene can flourish is by everyone sticking around.
   Another mesmerizing rocker, "Anthem", was collectively written in almost one day. A sense of urgency is felt in the form of a sonic call-to-action; the force is especially channeled through a lush atonal bridge that puts the listener into a trance and then carefully guides them into the deep content of the next track, "Hour Clock", written as a chilling response to 11 September 2001. The band would normally spend several months writing one song—the process seems tedious, working on one idea at a time for several hours, three days a week—but this laboring songwriting process resulted in one of the tightest sounding rock albums to come out of Pittsburgh in years.
   Pikadori's complex arrangements avoid indie-rock pretense and go straight for the jugular. The call and response guitar parts in "Anthem" act as a watchtower spotlight to guide all lost and stranded rockers of Pittsburgh's past back home. The production on this release captures the intensity of Pikadori's shear volume, but never truly exposes the frenzy of the band's live performances. It's impossible for anyone to totally capture the feeling of anticipation that accompanies Joey's tobacco sunburst guitar, and the possibility that it may snap in half at any moment during a feverous set. Or to convey the pleasant commotion that makes Joel and Jason's strings break at almost every show. Or recreate the chaos of Jake beating his drums until the heads wear thin and eventually break.
   One could best describe this record as an invitation to beautiful destruction. Pikadori sounds like beating apart a birthday piñata on fire and the taste is a brand of sweet aluminum-flavored angst. It's this urban folklore shared in games played in neighborhood alleys, where young heroes outwit bullies and stray dodge balls that the band's self-titled release opens up to the one pervading theme behind it all: Hometown. The guitars gargle like glass over razor keen production. Pieces are shattered in the street. Bass bends around sharp alley corners. Drums are open and breathe in a space that is evenly carved. Pikadori plays friendly. There's no stepping on each other's toes as they shadowbox in syncopation.

[ Pikadori is available at Paul's Compact Discs at 4526 Liberty Avenue in Pittsburgh's Bloomfield neighborhood. For directions and more information, call 412.621.3256. ]

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