ifteenth-century Venetian Renaissance realist. Nineteenth-century Sicilian bel canto composer. Twentieth-century mixed drink made with sparkling wine and peach puree. Twenty-first century four-headed noise-rock phoenix spawned from the ashes of Don Caballero and Uzeda. They all go by the same name, but one of these things is not like the other: can you guess which? That would be Bellini the post-whatever indie quartet, but only because they're just half Italian. That's the Uzeda half, which apparently dealt in confrontational rock abrasion between 1987 and whenever it was in the late 90s they parted ways. Now they've joined forces with former Don Cab octopus Damon Che (and bassist Matthew Taylor) to form perhaps the most formidable angular rock monster since Shellac.

The liquid ferocity contained within Snowing Sun will either send you scurrying in aural terror or annex your musical attention like an eleven-car pileup on the interstate. My near-superlative rating makes it obvious which category I belong to, and the band fully deserves every last tenth. Their sound is remarkably easy to describe, even for the inarticulate music fan: simply start with Shellackian rock 'n roll and mix in granulated guitar dexterity and atmospheric sampler experimentation. Vocalist Giovanna Cacciola's voice is a pure 50/50 combo of Kim Gordon and Kazu Makino, mostly droning like the former with a hint of the latter's quirky accent. White-hot arpeggios spill like foundry sparks from Agostino Tilotta's guitar, only occasionally coalescing into chords, and Che's thunderous thud keeps the whole train from derailing completely.

Bellini waste no time getting straight to the point on "A Short Tale/Medusa," which works just fine as a single song although technically it's two. The opening free-associative jam works well, with drums, bass, voice, sequencer, and some spectacular fret runs fomenting the chaos. Around two minutes in, the track erupts into Action Park-era chord pummelling punctuated by Tilotta's inventive fills, which usually involve an astonishingly large number of notes played at a sliding tempo. The effect, although almost certainly not original, is definitely refreshing, as well as lightyears beyond Albini's crippled (by his own admission) guitar scrapings.

"Furious" skulks around on a spindly rhythm, as bass, guitar, and creepy electronics (no drums yet) construct a musical analogue for Cacciola's tale of rising emotional tension. The onset of the drums after 2 1/2 minutes provides a much-needed catharsis and more than adequate expression for the titular fury. Album apogee "Patience and Passion in Brown Gloves" pulls out a carpal-tunnel inducing riff and pairs it with Cacciola's incomprehensible musings, mincing audience expectations by pulling out an actual refraining chorus. Minus the catchy vox of course; since Cacciola's not really a singer, she's probably the group's least memorable contributor, though her distinctive intonations do help combat accusations of direct Shellac-jacking.

And yeah, Steve engineered Snowing Sun. At Electrical Audio. Take that for whatever it's worth to you; the record sounds expectedly phenomenal, with Che's signature drum tone leaving no mistake as to who's pounding the skins. Ah yes, that reminds me. . . anyone looking for the kit acrobatics that earned Che his infamous nickname might find themselves slightly disappointed. While his kit work on Snowing Sun is unquestionably far above average, it doesn't really shoot for the abstract heights that earned What Burns Never Returns its ardent fans. But that's fine by me, as excessive membranaphonics would have likely proved superfluous in the explosive context Bellini has already created for itself. The final analysis is this: Bellini's four heads all spit hot plasma as one in the same direction. Whether you choose to recoil in fear or bathe yourself in the cleansing scald is completely up to you.