Review of two new releases   The Intima No Lullaby for Sleep Zum Of related interest: Unwound high-school thespians And they're not kidding. This seven-track treat on San Fran's Zum will not lull you to slumber, oh no. Villainous and unsettling, this brief record is the perfect soundtrack for both unearthing dormant psychological traumas and having a sexy affair you know you'll regret. Strangely, though, there's also a sort of inner peace residing deep within the chaotic turmoil: The songs glide between calm and storm, violinist Nora providing the needling chords and melodic sails that guide the trip through urgent bass, syncopated drums and gnashing guitar. The vocals are minimalist and usually a little annoying, but they still somehow manage to be endearing. Such is the mystery of The Intima. The band exposes the seldom-seen good side of Olympia indie rock, often overshadowed by obnoxious scenester crap. Note to drama-kids-turned-punk-rockers: This album is worth buying solely for the third track, "Under the Cement, Sediment," which accosts you like an indie-mime trying to break out of a very small box collaged with political 'zine pages while he nervously eyes a bomb that has three seconds left before it blows. Seyta Selter     Eleventh Dream Day Stalled Parade Thrill Jockey Also Try: Rick Rizzo and Tara Key's Dark Edson Tiger, Sleepyhead, Yo La Tengo Here's the story: Chicago's Eleventh Dream Day's first recordings appear in '87, followed by an Atlantic contract. The corporate marriage dissolves in the early '90s, and the wandering eyes of band members settle on pastures less rocky. Rick Rizzo stretches his limbs with the likes of Edith Frost, Red Red Meat and Antietam's Tara Key; Janet Beveridge immerses herself in Freakwater; Douglas McCombs crawls inside the shell of Tortoise. Despite successes with these new ensembles, Eleventh Dream Day remains an occasional spigot for pure rock and roll. And that brings us to Stalled Parade, the first album since 1997's Eighth, marking time in sound and blur, song and thought, a "studio" recording without the awkward fumblings of "studio project." On the title-track opener, Rizzo's trademarked sketched-out guitar clears the cobwebs for a flood of sound, harmony and lyrics about drowning. Then the band bursts out of the sullied water and into "Ice Storm," with pounding drums and the reckless abandon of high speeds on cold-slicked roads. The record hits all the hallmarks of great rock and roll--driving music, true grit, lurching tempos--and dodges the sicknesses of "post"-prefixes, electronica and string sections. The last cut's chorus gives a nod to the past and a claim to the now: "It's way too early on a Sunday morning/ Way too early to join the fight/ Way too early on a Sunday morning/ But it's not too late for a Saturday night." Stalled Parade holds no promises for tomorrow but makes a guarantee for today. J. David Suntan