Since all reviews are pigeonholing crosshairs, would it help you if the Futureheads were described as barbershop, post-punk, off-Broadway rock? Probably not. The Futureheads love slipped harmonies and jagged riffs that lurch like tennis shoes tied together, ensconced in playfully soot-boxed production. "Alms" has all the rigid diagonals of a Devo song mixed with the spastic rock opera of Queen. English accents as thick as bricks, a cappella interludes and erratic, knifing bursts of guitar make this record exhilarating, even if the cadence is a bit like that moment you miss a stair and jolt yourself awake. The Futureheads might not quite live up to the breathless ink hype, but they certainly meet you halfway, which is more than you can say for most flavors of the month.