Beneath the sidewalk, the beach, and out from under the rock - The Sand Pebbles. Situationist surfer dudes? Them? That blonde ain't from the sun, son. Their roots are showing. The look of Love, the Byrds and the B's - eatles and gees - as grateful as the dead, as happy as Mondays and ruby Stoned Tuesdays. This is The Sand Pebbles' third record, and it really is high time we noticed. Impeccable influences, the best intentions, the tools for the job, they have it all and they put it all together in a bewitching weave. Ghost Transmissions is the best mesh yet, a thirty denier net trawling the oceans of sound off West Coast and East Village lates sixes and early sevens. It's a sort of Americana, a sort of local and/or general rewriting of the best of all possible pasts. It's quite like lots of things, but not quite like anything. It's lovely, frankly. Metaphorically and literally. And literarily. The Sand Pebbles read with their ears and write with no shame. Australian rock may be about to be reborn, and somewhere David McComb is smiling.

- Mark Luffman