I love Flashioning Backward through UI’s archives. One never knows what one will find; it’s like the haunted house version of Googling. Today, we’ve lucked into The Last Shadow Puppets’ box. Let’s see what gilded, stylish paths these nice boys lead us down.

Appropriately, the Last Shadow Puppets seem to enjoy Flashioning Backward themselves: Their aesthetic is early ’60s era Beatles floppy (but not yet scandalous) ’dos, velvet and pop-art-era smart suit silhouettes. Somehow, they maintain enough retro-mod stylistic tension to prevent themselves from looking like sad also-rans in desperate need of an E! Entertainment style intervention.

Their “spellbindingly elegant pop songs” on The Age of Understatement seem like the product of a full-time, totally cohesive, decades long effort, despite the fact that it’s really just a side project between Arctic Monkeys frontman Alex Turner and The Rascals’ Miles Kane. While many expected the album to be a one-time, beautifully warbled swan song, rumor has it they’re working on a new album. I just hope they employ the same brilliant writing techniques.

Below, see how these non-ironically retro (but totally modern) gentleman managed to produce their last album…while skating downhill. You know, as one does!

Here we are again with our special helmets strapped under our chins and our fancy silver space suits. Ready to zing back through time into UI’s archives to see what ancient creaking box of treats lies in wait for our delectation? Today we’re sampling the Lelia Broussard, Southern Belle by way of Philly, who regularly graces NYC with her presence and lilting, soulful voice.

And quite the spicy concoction of flavor-flave our friend Lelia turns out to be.

She belts out soul and jazz but isn’t afraid to throw in a little pop and–gasp–hip hop.  Somehow this potentially hot and juicy mess ends up being a melancholic meditation; a mature assimilation of styles that’s both soothing and jarring at the same time. Lelia doesn’t exactly look the part of a postmod-lounge lizard, though. She is the picture of corn-fed innocence: one cute blond pile of puppy-dog eyes, perfectly frayed jeans and sweet girly tanktops she acquired at Gap sales circa 1998 and farm-girl “aw, shucks” charm framed in her mom’s Talbots castoffs.

But take another look at Strawberry Shortcake: Methinks she’s harboring an inner black-clad, whisky-swilling, heart-breaking, moody, slip-dress wearin’ vixen with whom you’d cross swords only at great personal peril. (It’s always the innocent looking ones you have to watch out for–in a good way).

Like many of the complicated “creative geniuses” influenced by everyone from Al Green to Harry Conick Junior, (think Aretha Franklin, Babs, Liza), she’s a lady, she’s a dame, she’s a walking contradiction–just check out her bitchfest about Uncle Junior and Co., below. (One would think miss thing would be rather laid-back on the guido/B&T tip, but bitch isn’t holding punches, no matter what NYCers think of the residents of Philly–our, ahem, sixth borough.

Let’s throw on our favorite skins and prepare our weekly quest for answers to the most pressing existential sartorial queries. Per usual, we’re rifling through our treasure trove of interviews to Flashion Backward and fish out a vintage gem–the better to explore the strange vortex in which fashion and musicians meet. Today we’re going into hibernation with Bear Hands.

Wesleyan College alums–notorious for their outré fashion sense, oh so zany leftward political leanings and bizarre penchant for cranking out ridiculously talented and wildly successful indie bands (see: MGMT, Amazing Baby)–have surely added Bear Hands to their roster of famous grads for their semi-annual donation drive.

Like their Wesleyan cohorts, Bear Hands seemed to profit from blossoming in relative isolation away from the self-consciously hip land in which they eventually landed–NYC. Their early ability to sort out their sound without subjecting themselves to the cacophony of aggressive attempts at unique avant-garde tonal poems that all end up sounding pretty much the same (which all too often passes for a music scene in my dear city) ultimately produced an album that sounds “splashing” “in the way a sort-of ethnic Talking Heads meeting an unusually relaxed Velvet Underground might sound. The voice is defiantly American, the backing defiantly invigorating.”

Bear Hands’ tambourine and cymbal accented music is as unpredictable, delicious and refreshing as their fashion sense is not. But who cares if they wear standard issue vintage wear, cigarette pants and mildly puffy jackets? While their hats, bad surfer hair and tongue-in-cheek attempts at looking “eccentric” fall as flat as a B note, in their case, I’m giving ‘em a pass.

Substance over style, is after all, the name of their well-played game. Below, check out their educational rant against Rock Band.

Time to sweat to the oldies and dance through UI’s archives with your friends at Flashion Backward to see what ancient creaking box of treats lies in wait for our greedy, pawing, spandex-wearin’ pleasure. Today we’re dancing it out with Astrid Williamson, who always has something interesting and piquant to say.

In addition to all of the opinionatin’ this Shetland-born lass stays busy with her solo work, experimental band The Bilderberg Groop and collaborations with bands like Oskar.

She cranks out pensive lyrics a la Sinead O’Connor like “Please forgive my pursuit of you/But I have to get to the root of you;” Williamson can be a quiet, persistent, querulous presence that haunts the dustiest corners of your subconscious–something fans find endearing (though critics have been less effusive).

On the airwaves and in the flesh, Williamson possesses the enviable uber casual style, blond charm, fearless embrace of quirk and moody introspection most women strive for, but few achieve. Oh, and unparalleled psychological acuity too. I would hate her it weren’t for that damn, unassuming charm–pox and curses!

Below, check out her tips for spotting a loser lover.

Get out your Barcalounger. It’s time to lay back and flip through UI’s archives with your friends at Flashion Backward to see what ancient creaking box of treats lies in wait for our greedy pawing pleasure. Today we’re chatting with the boys from The Kooks, who we hope divulge a few tasty tidbits about their innermost thoughts, dreams and fears.

We have our work cut out for us: The indie poppers from Brighton are straight-up post punkers with a dash of ’60s Britpop and ska–not exactly the share-with-the-group types. Appropriately for our purposes, however, they decided to form a band on whim while on a shopping trip as students together at the Brighton Institute of Modern Music.

Wham, bam, demo ma’am and they were overnight sensations, covering The Strokes’ songs, scoring gigs galore and almost immediately getting signed to Virgin records. Before your eyes start bleeding and the projectile vomiting sets in, consider this: These guys are the real deal.

Between their catfights with Razorlight (RL claims that the Kooks are big crybaby copycats) and Arctic Monkeys (the Kooks’ lead singer Luke Pritchard karate kicked AM’s lead singer Alex Turner in the face, as one does, when he allegedly “pulled the leads out of [his] guitar pedals” while they were on stage together), their overly styled hair, overly edited boring-ass prototypical hipster wardrobes and fussy scarves (not to mention their misunderstood artiste pose), it’s hard to turn down the static and listen to what counts: their music.

Which, incidentally, is, “An almost-perfect blend of ’60s-style Britpop, ’90s-style Britpop, and the post-punk of the new millennium, Inside In/Inside Out is the rare debut that features not only the kind of exuberance/naiveté that only bunch of nineteen-year-olds could produce, but also the thoughtful consistency characteristic of seasoned professionals.”

And maybe their misunderstood, angry young man thang is more than just a pose. Below, check out their beer-sipping, scowly, gramps-style take on how kids these days just don’t appreciate their b-sides. Aw.

Let’s sit back and throw this mamma jamma into reverse. It’s time for a lil motor trip down memory lane with Flashion Backward. Let’s wander through UI’s archives and see what ancient creaking box of treats lies in wait for our greedy pawing pleasure. Today we’re chatting with the boys from The Matches, who we hope divulge a few tasty tidbits about their innermost thoughts, dreams and fears.

While they recently announced a (hopefully not permanent) hiatus from togetherness, The Matches have come a looooong ass way together, evolving from a high school ska band in the late ’90s to pop-punksters influenced by Elvis Costello and Joe Jackson, to heavily produced experimental alterna-arena-ready-rock.

And according to my findings, their dresser drawers appear to be as hectically–and gorgeously–strewn with a potpourri of styles that should stank like, say, a paté au boeuf sammie with melted Cheez Whiz, chitlin gravy, minced and fried anchovies, topped with Jiffy PB & Concord grape jelly on a hoagie roll with Sriracha sauce.

But they somehow manage to strap on easy-breezy old school So-Cal skater style, naughty Romantic Dandy/haute Baudelaire on smack flair-wear and “We Come From France!” clueless alien gear and still look like men you’d like to bring home and introduce to the toys you keep under your bed for special occasions.

Juggling their peripatetic permutations through a wild, zany and zaftig land of fully fleshed-out music and style is a feat in and of itself, and yet The Matches still find time to debate the relative merits of being a Michael Bolton fan vs. a Dixie Chicks fan vs. a Shania Twain fan. Check out their rigorous examination of the various grades of humiliation involved in being such fans, below.

Aw, snap. It’s time for a leisurely stroll down memory lane with Flashion Backward. Let’s wander through UI’s archives and see what ancient creaking box of treats lies in wait for our greedy pawing pleasure. Today we’re chatting with Amy Ray, a woman for whom self-expression and tellin’ it like it is is more than a way of life–it is her life.

As 50 percent of the now-legendary folk-singing, guitar-strumming, artsy, vaguely fartsy Indigo Girls, Amy Ray has always managed to distinguish herself through solo albums (which are increasingly getting a more positive critical reception after years of eye-rolls), a record label, collaborations with punky The Butchies and hardcore political and social activism.

And while Amy Ray is probably not going to make any fashion’s designer wet dream must-dress list for the Grammys (or any public events for that matter), that’s kinda the point. She straps on blazers, sensible shoes and trousers that look like they’d be abfab for shoveling shit if need be. Instead of fussing over aesthetics, she gets down to the nitty gritty of life and attempts to make this world a better place, God bless her.

Someone’s gotta do it. (I’m too busy shopping). Below, check out Ray’s mellow, restrained, but resolute diatribe on censorship, hypocrisy and the continuing struggle of being a gay performer in the U.S. of A.