Bjork told a journalist recently that she'd always wanted to be a music teacher. And so she was, in her own dazzling style, during the first show of a six-night residency at the New York Hall of Science. A variation on her innovative performance at the Manchester Festival in England last summer, it presented the music from her 2011 LP Biophilia for the first time in the U.S. The album was issued in multiple formats, but it was best appreciated as a cluster of interactive, annotated iPad apps. The Hall of Science concert was something like those apps come to life.

The venue was the museum's Great Hall, originally built for the 1964 World's Fair: a temple-like space with a 100-foot ceiling and wave-like dalle de verre walls built of concrete and blue stained glass. Bjork's ensemble performed in the center of the room, surrounded by the crowd. Programmer/musician Max Weisel, the group's main science geek, employed an array of instruments, including four iPads, a laptop, two keyboards, and something called a Reactable to trigger preset sounds and some very strange instruments — including the massive Tesla coil that spit percussive electricity during the opening song, "Thunderbolt," a scene recalling Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory.

Drummer Manu Delago and harpist Zeena Parkins also contributed much to the mix. But the music's core was still that most lo-tech of instruments, the human voice. The 20-member Graduale Nobili, an Icelandic young women's choir, were striking in their golden hooded robes; they often encircled the stage, singing multipart harmonies on "Moon" and dancing barefoot like ecstatic ravers during the encore "Nattura."

Bjork, meanwhile, was the sun around which all revolved, moving among her cohorts in a turquoise miniskirt swollen with nautilus-shaped appendages, beneath a huge, rust-colored wig that seemed to progressively oxidize as the show unspooled. (Nicki Minaj could still learn a thing or two about presentation from this pop foremother.) Using little besides a simple microphone, she was a physics class on two legs, sculpting vowels into fanciful shapes, and vividly animating Biophilia's song metaphors, which connect the human heart to the universe beyond. During "Mutual Core," she sang of tectonic plates under a circle of projection screens illustrating the phenomena, and licked her lips after a line about how "the Atlantic ridge drifts" like she could feel that motion tingle beneath her skin.

The Hall of Science shows are part of a residency program that includes a workshop component (previously conducted in Reykjavik) for New York City schoolchildren. For the rest of us, they were a lesson in the scientific art of music, and how limitless it can be. During "Solstice," Bjork sang in duet with a gravity harp, a device that combines computer technology with wood, wires and the simple mechanics of the pendulum. It was the night's most intimate moment, a dialogue between music past, present and future.

Mati Zundel's an Argentine producer/songwriter, but that doesn't tell the whole story. He's making electronic music the likes of which you won't find in the UK or the US. In Zundel's electronic music and in this song "Señor Montecostes" you can hear the sounds of South America but also the sounds of Africa in the cumbia dance rhythms, the sounds of Detroit and some dubstep. Mati Zundel just signed to Waxploitation, a label known for Gnarls Barkely and Danger Mouse and so this may be your introduction to an artist you'll hear a lot from in 2012.

Zundel told us through email what he imaged the song's story to be:

A river boatman, Señor Montecostes, listens to the river. What he hears is the noise and mess of the out of the world — an out-of-control party that makes up the world that surrounds him.

His description "An out-of-control party" is the best way to sum up "Señor Montecostes." It feels as if Zundel somehow trapped a never-ending block party in his computer. The sounds of steel drums and maracas mix with electronic noise and fuzz to create an energetic, and slightly shambolic dance jam.

Matching the song's high energy, this video for "Señor Montecostes" may make your eyes pop out of your head. The dark subject matter (rainbow-colored goats being killed by a bloody butcher) is combined with frenetically-changing colorful geometric shapes. The directors, Luis Suarez and Moises Arancibia, keep everything constantly in motion. There's no time to think about the dark message underneath the bright flashing reds, yellows and greens. Here's how Luis Suarez described:

"Inspired by Latin American textile patterns, the video follows a goat's psychedelic mental trip through its life cycle, starting out in its the natural environment and ending in the hands of a butcher. It is a four minute trip of music and images through Latin American roots."

Mati Zundel's new record, Amazonico Gravitante, is due out on March 27th through Waxploitation/ZZK Records.

Below are six drum intros and fills. Match the intro or fill to the album it's from. If you get it right, the artist and song names will appear.

We've come a long way from banging a couple of rocks together to make music. Apple's version of Garageband for the iPad, for example, includes "smart" instruments that play all the keyboard, bass, guitar and drum parts for you with the push of a button.

It's pretty cool. But if you use something like this to make music, does it really count? If you don't know how to play an instrument such as the piano or guitar or whatever, and you can't read or write music, but you have an app or synth that does the work for you, can you really call yourself a musician?

Listen to this song I wrote. It's called "Strangers Watch the Sunrise in Tianjin."

I generated the tones with Brian Eno's iPhone Trope app. You just touch the screen in a couple of random places and the app does everything else for you. Then I added a couple of pre-recorded sound effects and gave it a lofty name to make it appear as though I was inspired by something grand and beautiful. The whole thing took about 10 minutes, and can be filed under "New Age" at your local record store. I guess it's a song, but it kind of feels like cheating to say I wrote it.

I actually can read and write more traditional music, and studied the piano and guitar. Here's my take on Bach's "Fugue in C Minor."

Not too bad. But here's my dirty little secret: I recorded this on a computer (it's not a real piano) and used its editing tools to go in and tweak all the notes — the timing, tempo and dynamics — which means I ended up with a version of the song that sounds way better and more precise than anything I could ever really play on my own. Is this cheating? Do I lose my "I'm A Musician" membership card?

All of these questions came up recently when Bob and I decided to again do the RPM Challenge, our annual attempt each February to write and record an album in a single month. Bob is an electronic musician and uses a lot of machines that invite curiosity to make his music — synths and drum machines and apps that lead Bob down paths where he discovers his songs. I'm a lot pickier than that. I tend to write my music out based on very specific ideas in my brain. That said, this year I have a lot less free time than in the past, and I'm going to have to rely a lot on machines to do the work for me. All of which has left me feeling conflicted. I tend to dismiss any music I come up with if I don't actually write it and play it note for note or beat for beat. If it wasn't a lot of work, I feel like I'm cheating somehow. What's a musician to do?

Tell us what you think in the comments section. Do you make music — and if so, how? Are people who play fancy synthesizers that make all the sounds for them cheating? What about these new music-making apps for the iPhone and iPad?

If there's been one song that's been the earworm of the All Songs Considered office, it'd have to be The Magnetic Fields' new single "Andrew in Drag." Ever since we first played the song on the show we've been humming bars, singing stanzas and practicing their Stephin Merritt impression. It's no mystery why the song has such sticking power — Merritt's songwriting ability makes crafting extremely catchy songs seem easy.

Be advised, this video contains nudity.

"[The song's] about a straight guy who falls madly in love with the drag persona of his straight friend Andrew," Merritt wrote in an email. It's a concept that could seem hackneyed in another musician's hands, but Merritt's clever writing draws out the absurdity and wit of the situation. In his trademark deadpan he constantly finds every single word ending with "ag" that he could possibly use. The instrumentals could perfectly fit in the band's classic 69 Love Songs album with a bouncing bass line and glossy synths. In a mere two minutes the song packs in a gigantic amount of charm and style.

Director Scott Valins created what feels like an infomercial on a channel you can't comprehend. Faceless models slip on and off clothes in front of a clean, white background. Magnetic Fields members Merrit and Claudia Gonson rotate expressionlessly. The two stars of the video, Darrell Thorne and the fantastically-named Stormy Leather, are seen in various points of drag transformation. Their physical image is quickly shifting, make-up is applied and smeared, mustaches are glued on, a lot of tape is used. As the models finally wipe away their hard work a blank nametag is flashed on the screen, reminding us that identity is complex and beyond conventional labeling.

Valins described for us the process behind creating the video's concept:

Stephin came to Valins&Co with this extraordinary song and together we explored the concept of playing with the ambiguities of gender and attraction. We took the opportunity to create a vibrant collage, exploring the intimate process of transforming ones gender. The backbone of the piece is a series of intimate portraits that lead the viewer to their own complex conclusions of what they are attracted to.

Love at the Bottom of the Sea will be out on March 6th from Merge Records.

Every February, for the past five years, I've made an album. I got inspired by the RPM Challenge. It's a simple invitation put out by the small New Hampshire weekly paper The Wire to write and record an album in the shortest month of the year. This year I hope to make some music with you. Here's how we start: I have this beat called "Big Rhythm." Download it with the link below, then turn it into something. Add a bass line if you want, or guitar or sing over it. Upload your song to our Soundcloud page by Monday February 6. I'd love to hear a fully formed song, but add anything you'd like. If it works I'll post another. Let's see what we can do together.

You can hear what others are doing by going here. Feel free to grab someone else's idea and add to theirs as well.

I love an evil-looking record cover as much as the next guy, and can appreciate a good schtick, but I sometimes wonder what's really being communicated in the whole package. With Pervertor, the members of Lord Mantis are not simply paying lip service to blasphemy — this is wretched bile pounding away at your insides, perhaps best heard (experienced?) in "At the Mouth."

"At the Mouth" comes from several places at once: Swarming blast beats invade a Neurosis-style galloping rhythm section, a perverted sense of melody reigns in the metallic chaos of early Today Is the Day and, at 1:27, those raspy screams give new meaning to "sick vocals." But the track also heaves with moments of woozy guitar fractals, making Lord Mantis much more than just a "blackened sludge metal" band.

Guitarist Andrew Markuszewski has much to do with the "more sludgier and mechanical odd-time-signature s—-," which makes sense given his time in the hard-to-pin-down black metal band Nachtmystium, as well as his own one-man band Avichi. In an email interview, Markuszewski not only talks about his role on Lord Mantis' second album, but also describes what evil means to the band.

"The death metal crowd didn't understand us. The hipsters hated us. Obviously, we are not traditional black metal."

Each year at All Songs Considered, we like to celebrate Valentine's Day with music. Filmmaker John Waters and crooner Tom Jones played guest DJ for us in years past. We've also done lesser-known love songs and our favorite breakup songs. This year, we're turning the mic over to you. Dedicate a song to a certain someone you love or miss. Or you could dedicate one to that dirtbag you recently broke up with. Either way, tell us the song, who it's for (first names only, please) and the story behind it.

Record your dedications, thoughts and stories on our Soundcloud page:

You can record directly into the Soundcloud site or upload a pre-recorded file. We'll play some of the stories on an upcoming edition of All Songs Considered. Remember: Tell us about the dedication, don't just play the song. We'll add the song to your story later.

You can also leave your dedications in our comments section, too. (But recording the audio is better!)

If you like wistful tales of growing old, synchronized dancing, and the magical surrealism that could only come from a band named Dinowalrus, check out the group's latest video for the song "Phone Home From The Edge."

Dinowalrus is a Brooklyn-based trio whose previous debut record, % (yes, it's called a percent sign), was a sometimes challenging, angular set of arty synth-rock songs. The band's latest album, Best Behavior, is a slightly more restrained production, but no less surprising in its mix of dance beats and dreamy, psychedelic soundscapes.

For this video and song from Best Behavior, director Charlotte Kaufmann says they wanted to tell a story based loosely on Rip Van Winkle.

"A young man awakes from an extended slumber to find that years have passed and his hair has whitened. As he passes through his home, he is haunted by the mysterious specters of his past life. Perhaps the video is also, simply, an approximation of a mid-life crisis experienced on acid (something about which, as a 24 year-old I'm well versed). Either way it was inspired by the layered and psychedelic sound of Dinowalrus' 'Phone Home,' which somehow evokes the effect of memories rushing back."

Dinowalrus frontman Peter Feigenbaum says the song was pivotal for the band, but initially had a more elusive story.

"We wrote it a long time ago, but it was the first song to really represent the direction we wanted to take the songs for our second album: A combination of slow-groovey dance-breakbeats, spacey sampler textures, melodic dubby basslines and iconic, hi-register guitar themes. It also uses a strange alternate drone tuning on the guitar.

"Whether the song is about ET, U2, or the waterfront condo-ization of Williamsburg is still up in the air. Lyrically it doesn't have much of a narrative arc, so I'm glad Charlotte invented one in which I fall into a Rip Van Winkle style slumber and wake up to find that I've turned into [actor] Lloyd Kaufman. There's a line about 'the roof you designed, will never hold up in the weather,' so I'm glad we incorporated the good ol' rooftop finale into the script."

Best Behavior is out March 6 on Old Flame records.

It started innocently enough. Someone used the words "indie-pop," which is a term that gets under my skin because it describes music more as a business model and not its sound. From there it took no time to get my NPR Music officemates sharing the genre terms that make them bristle. In seconds, we were throwing around Crabcore, Witch House and Canine Core among other least favorite genre names.

Remember, we might love musicians who get tagged with each of these names, but we're not talking about the actual music here, just the descriptors. Crabcore didn't actually make the list — it might be an ugly sounding word, but it's too appropriate to deny. We bet you have your own pet-peeves. Here are our absolute least favorite genre names.

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Filk Music
An entire "genre" of science-fiction and fantasy themed folk song parodies. The more recent (and noisier) reincarnation is the Wizard Rock phenomenon from Harry Potter fans. Doctor Who Filking, anyone? — Jenna Strucko, NPR Music Intern

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Post-Wave
Once I unballed my fists and did a little research, I learned that (1) post-wave is a contraction of post-punk and new-wave, and (2) I'm actually a fan of its most visible band, Future Islands. But I'll stand by my initial blind rage at a buzzword that yokes together a prefix and a suffix, with nothing in the middle. — Daoud Tyler-Ameen, NPR Music Producer

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Based Rap
It's not so much about either the name, or even the music, but what good does a self-ascribed genre name do if it only describes one artist (In this case, rapper Lil B)? Effective as a gimmick or fodder for music blogs, perhaps. See also Hollywood pop/sadcore's lone ambassador, Lana Del Rey. - Jane Gilvin, NPR Librarian

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Seapunk
Treading the line between elaborate social media joke and underground cult genre, Seapunk's aesthetics can only be described as "Windows 95 and Yo! MTV Raps having a baby during a cruise ship rave." I can't lie and say I hate the genre, but the name is so painful to say out loud — Dan Raby, NPR Music Intern

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Math rock
This has always pissed me off, but then a lot of stuff pisses me off. What does "math rock" MEAN? Is it just "prog rock" with a different name? Is it just some blogger or music critic trying to come up with a new way of pigeonholing musicians? — Tom Cole, NPR Arts Desk Editor

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Mexican Regional
I used to gig with my uncle's accordion-fueled band slinging corridos and rancheras to rowdy bars full of Mexican cowboys and their cowgirls. Calling that music Mexican Regional would have started a fight. It's "Norteño" or "conjunto." Period. — Felix Contreras, Host of NPR Music's Alt.Latino

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World
Though it's less gruesomely awesome than, say, Crabcore, it's still seriously awful as a descriptor. This essay by David Byrne about the term is worth a read — Anastasia Tsioulcas, NPR Music Producer

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Adult Contemporary
Is there a sadder genre name that better evokes the languid creep of middle age than "adult contemporary?" It's the musical equivalent of giving up (mom-jeans, mid-priced chardonnay, dress socks with tennis shoes, sensible minivans, slow and steady weight gain, etc.). No offense to the chardonnay. Actually, now that I think about it, "Soft Adult Contemporary" is even sadder. - Robin Hilton, All Songs Considered Producer

Here at NPR we've been singing the praises of Laura Gibson's new album, La Grande, for a while now. It's a beautiful, complex piece of work that often veers into wonderfully haunting territory. The video for the album's title track matches that emotional tone expertly.

Though "La Grande" is a dark song, Gibson's voice rings out clear and strong. She's the spark of life among the "ghost winds" and "bone-white clay." Even as her backing singers whisper veiled threats and unnerving sounds emanate from a crackling old radio, she remains confident. Her warmth mixes well with the dark moans and brooding strings to create of mix of the beautiful and the dark.

For the video, director Alicia J. Rose cuts a strong slice of classic American Gothic to tell the dark tale of a woman (played by Gibson) who's either going mad or seeing ghosts. It feels strongly like the Coen brothers' version of True Grit — elegant, well-structured, and replete in Western imagery. Like the song itself, Gibson stands as the warmth in the video's cold world — her red dress brightening up the blacks and greys around her. It's a treat for the eyes even as the images send a slight chill climb up your spine.

"La Grande" director Rose described to us how the video's setting inspired the story:

I wanted to make a video for "La Grande" that was both spectral and romantic, with a Hitchcockian otherworldly feel. When I first listened to the track, I instinctively felt the story of lost spirits caught in a forgotten place. When I asked Laura what her inspiration was behind the song, and she told me she wrote it during a stay in the newly reopened — almost 200-year-old — Hot Lake Hotel in La Grande, Oregon, I started doing research about the place and fell madly in love. It's a hidden but sprawling old hotel with a steam-billowing 208-degree natural hot lake on the property. The opportunity to shoot the entire video there went far beyond kismet — it had never been captured on film — so the place itself as well as its history served as powerful characters in our story.

Laura Gibson told us through email of her experience visiting and then filming in the Hot Lake Hotel:

I first learned of the hotel while researching historic train wrecks in Oregon (apparently, years ago in the early days of the railroad, there was a train wreck right in front of the hotel). Most of the imagery I used in the song came from that trip. The hotel was being restored at the time, so I wasn't able to stay there. I was struck by all of the different incarnations it's had over the years, as a Native American healing place, a hospital, a sanitarium, and after it was abandoned — a recognized ghost hunting landmark and a high school party spot, and eventually a hotel.

While brainstorming ideas for the video, I told Alicia about my visit to the Hot Lake Hotel and it's importance in that song — and the concept arose naturally from our discussion. I told her I'd love something that looked like a 1950's/1960's Hitchcock film.

We were so lucky to film there at the Hot lake Hotel! The owners were kind enough to let us take over the third floor for two days. We had about twenty people in the cast and crew, and spent that night between shooting running through the halls, listening to the loud howling wind, peeking into corners, searching for ghosts. It was the night of the lunar eclipse, when the moon was glowing red. I did not see a single ghost.

Alicia did a beautiful job. I like to think it turned out as a cross between Mary Poppins and The Shining.

Oh! My nephew Asher is the little boy! The kids were such pros.

It's no surprise that New York's Callers and New Jersey's Delicate Steve would fit together like guitars and bass. Both bands make inventive music that can seem precise yet enjoyably ramshackle at the same time. A new single pairs Delicate Steve's rainbow-tinged guitars with Callers' nimble instrumentation. It's called Further Out/Perfect Pairs and we are happy to have a preview for your listening pleasure.

The story of "Further Out" is both a meditation on the cyclical nature of life and a story of hotel occupants happily watching their time quickly pass away. I can't get the beginning of the chorus out of my mind. Callers' singer Sarah Lucas saying that she's "Got a grasp of the whole/a particular order." In a sense those two lines could sum up the entirety of the song. Every small piece fits inside its own precise spot in the melody, creating a pulsing rhythm that grabs the listener and never lets go. The mix of skittering drums, buzzy guitars and Lucas' quick vocals create an electrifying two-step.

Delicate Steve's Steve Marion described to us how the two bands decided to collaborate together.

I met Sara through some mutual friends at a Deerhoof concert last year. Soon after that I checked out her band (on Myspace!!) and was really into it. I sent her an idea I had for a song while on tour, then we met for a minute during SXSW, saw each other's bands, and talked about making a song when we were both home from tour. Next we met up at Michael Azerrad's "Our Band Could Be Your Life" concert in NY where our bands were both playing. I had an awesome time in the mosh pit with [Callers' guitarist Ryan Seaton]. Shortly after that, we made "Further Out" collaborating back and forth in our home studios."

You can preorder the Callers & Delicate Steve's Further Out/Perfect Pairs 7" at the Western Vinyl online store.

I love to speak with Leonard
He's a sportsman and a shepherd
He's a lazy bastard
Living in a suit

Those are the words that open the new Leonard Cohen album, Old Ideas, out January 31. The the first studio recording of new songs by Cohen since 2004's Dear Heather, it comes on heels of a massively celebrated tour that marked his return to the stage after more than a decade away. Last Friday, members of the press got a chance to listen to Old Ideas in Cohen's presence. He appeared at Joe's Pub in New York City for a listening party that was followed by a Q&A session moderated by WFUV's Rita Houston. The album doesn't come out until next week, but you can listen to the album now; to complete the experience, we thought we'd ask Rita to fill us in on her conversation with Cohen.

The last time Leonard Cohen came to town, it was for a show at the Beacon Theatre, his first U.S. concert in 15 years. The subsequent tour was a huge success. Did it influence this new album?

"It couldn't not have," Cohen answered. "I was living a kind of hermit's life, for about 10 or 15 years, I didn't know if I'd ever go back on the road, and a certain distance grew ... I think the writing I did took a certain theological or philosophical bent, it became somehow distant from the beating pulse. For financial reasons I was forced to go back on the road, to repair the fortunes of my family and myself, and this was a most fortunate happenstance. I was able to connect with living musicians, and then with living audiences, and yes it did have a great effect, it warmed some part of my heart that had taken on a chill."

Cohen on the new songs, smoking, and Edie Sedgwick's apartment, after the jump.

White Rabbits made me feel unnerved by people brushing their teeth. The Brooklyn band's new video for their single, "Heavy Metal," turns innocuous activity into something that's both sinister and humorous at the same time. The visuals and the song play off each other to make four and a half minutes that will leave you a bundle of nerves or grinning at the oddity of it all.

Over three albums, including the new Milk Famous, White Rabbits has been a band whose straightforward rock hides a lot underneath the surface. "Heavy Metal" is no exception. Guitar squeals come out of nowhere. Strange background scrapes and bangs are hidden quietly inside the mix — slightly rising and falling at odd times. Lead singer Stephen Patterson sings, "Darling, you don't know how," in a falsetto as the keyboards loops and twist back on themselves.

Drawing from sources like The Shining or the Dexter opening, the video for "Heavy Metal," which focuses on a trio with an unknown relationship, transforms everyday tasks into something unnatural. At points the frame seems completely frozen except for slight small movements — making simple actions like applying makeup or drinking coffee off-putting and strange. Smalls bits of the film are paused, rewound and emphasized with odd results. The humorous turn at the ending leaves events as mysterious as they start — the All Songs staff has debated whether the trio have killed themselves or just overcome their agoraphobia and gone outside.

"Heavy Metal" director Andrew Droz Palermo told us the song's instrumentals inspired his vision for the video:

I wanted to highlight the reverse and looping piano work in the track, so the idea of animated .GIFs came to mind, which the band loved. Listening to the track over and over, I began imagining these repetitive domestic tasks that I could freeze, extend, and repeat. By the end of the shoot the three actors were amazing at only moving small portions of their bodies.

In an email, the band told us they loved the match between the song and video:

Andrew is a long-time friend who has always understood our aesthetic and been able to visualize it in a way that really enhances the song. [The video is] purely his own visual interpretation of the song. So it was a thrill to see how perfectly he picked up on the looping piano and the suspicious tone of the lyrics as well as our profound appreciation for smoke bomb baseball.

White Rabbits' Milk Famous will be released on March 6th by TBD Records.