Also sprung from an overhyped scene, the Fever shares some of its Brooklyn, New York neighbors' new-wave traits (Devo beats, analog keys). What saves the Fever from boho dance-rock fatigue is its swamp-rock center, blurry burlesque lyricism, and a stomping live show. Like the Flesh Eaters or Gun Club gone vaudeville, the Fever reassembles its chopped beats, wiggly vocals, and decadent dreams in that post-industrial answer to a cemetery, the automobile graveyard, enveloped in an eerie, spent metallic uneasiness, abetted by clunky, wood-block percussion à la Tom Waits. Its latest, In the City of Sleep (Kemado), is an impressive leap -- one of the year's best.