o apparently the burden of filling the Harlem Shakes’ bandwagon falls to me. All I can say is, “Sorry, guys.” It’d be a thousand times easier, of course, if I had an MP3 or two to dangle in front of you, because the way the Shakes sound carries the kind of currency that sets soundtrack directors’ hearts on fire; it’s always dangerous to break a band down to its component parts, but the Shakes simply have the same kind of leftfield hey-that’s-not-what-the-radio-usually-sounds-like indie pop appeal of the Strokes’ ruthlessly razor-sharp guitar lines or the Walkmen’s primeval yowl or Bloc Party’s gift for sending a song rocketing to the sky. But sadly, these are not the main reasons that you should be listening to the Harlem Shakes. You should be listening to the Harlem Shakes because they have absolutely nothing to do with ska. (Bear with me.)

I hasten to add that I use the term “ska” as more of a general signifier than to say that they refuse to sound like the Specials or the Toasters, and I’m completely aware that using the term like this might lead someone more measured about their taste to write me off as some sort of revisionist self-historian (and not inaccurately). Tough. Maybe it was strictly a generational moment for people who went through high school in that period between the deaths of Kurt Cobain and those kids at Columbine, or maybe I was more a product of the mid-Atlantic region’s penchant for upbeat, soulful pop compositions than I’d ever admit, but I went through ska like Britney Spears goes through husbands. Looking back, I really should have been trying to kill myself fifteen or sixteen times a month for all the psychic grief I was piling on myself; third-wave ska may have made grand, sweeping gestures of obeisance to its forefathers and adherence to the lifestyle trappings it promoted so aggressively (why else would a sensible band ever name themselves Mephiskaphales?), but come the fuck on—all those bands were really trying to do was getting kids to dance and yell and drink. No wonder it took me so long to warm up to the Rapture.

I don’t, however, want to pretend like I didn’t see some good bands; I’ve got ticket stubs and t-shirts from Toasters and Pietasters and Skoidats shows for days and days. I just didn’t see too many bands who enjoyed being good, which is ultimately far more important to a band’s overall worth than anything else. With enough time and practice and drive, anyone can get good at anything; this is why Bono is generally regarded by the world at large as a preeminent rock singer. Shame, isn’t it? Can you even consider how much less irritating U2 would be today if, whenever Bono opened his mouth about Plight A or Sorrow B, all you had to do was go “YEAH WELL LEARN HOW TO SING FIRST”? Well, more than any other genre of music I’ve ever experienced, ska lionized that particular stripe of maddeningly inarguable talent—I mean, it’s not like the horn section from my high school’s marching band formed a ska band called Frank Skanatra (true story) because they didn’t know how to play. In fact, they knew how to play impeccably well—they just knew how to play anything in a way that would be interesting to anyone who didn’t have an ambition to usurp their place on the ladder of the North Carolina unsigned ska band ladder, and I promise you that no matter how many times you read that sentence, you’ll never be able to grasp the true pathos at its heart. Go on, try.

Some of you, I assume, are wondering what any/all of this has to do with an aspiring New York indie-rock outfit you’ve probably never heard of before today, and I’m sorry to say that the answer is “nothing.” The important thing is that I mean it specifically has nothing to do with any of this, because the Harlem Shakes sound like they’re deriving more pure, unalloyed gratification from the sheer act of coming up with their songs than anyone living on this side of a heroin needle could reasonably hope to attain. The songs themselves probably aren’t going to be unfamiliar to anyone with even a passing education in poppy indie-rock archetypes, but that’s practically inconsequential next to the enthusiasm with which they come together—the way drummer Brent relishes banging away on his drums once the angular rhythms take over “Red Right Hand,” or the gentle restraint with which the kids all bring in the doo-wop-ish “Oh-ohhh”s in “Carpetbaggers,” or the way lead singer Lexy suddenly throws himself right in the middle of “Sickos,” the EP’s standout track (and the only one to survive from their two-year-old demo CD). The Harlem Shakes are a band that revels in the license afforded to them from on high to actually make music that sounds just like it does in their heads.

I hate to make the Shakes sound like some poppier second coming of, like, the Stooges or something, because they’re not; like any band releasing their first EP, there’s a litany of things they need to work on, particularly as it pertains to musical economy. But they’ve made a pretty remarkable thing the first time out, namely something I can push on people without needing to go all evangelical about it (um, contrary to everything you’ve just read). Burning Birthdays is merely an EP which packs way more fun than records should deserve to pack; it’s fun to listen to, fun to turn your friends onto, fun to obsessively check the Shakes’ MySpace for the latest details surrounding its release. The pleasures of just how fucking good it is, well, that’s my gift to you.