Archive for the 'Columns' Category

No, we don’t care about the young folks talkin’ bout the nu-rave

As I’ve made blatantly clear, I find the indie rock scene’s sudden fascination with rave culture and everything hoovers-and-horns related to be both highly amusing and a tad annoying, if only because of the number of kids on their way to Foo Fighter shows who used to turn their noses up at the same stuff they’re now going out to dance to on Friday nights.

I just now happened across an article, detailing the *gasp, shock and awe* massive number of police raids and shut-down parties this year at the beardrock-and-beerswill fest that is South By Southwest, located at Austinist:

We might have been two of the biggest events to be shut down, but we weren’t the only ones. Parties in conference rooms, outdoor venues, established party spaces and downtown clubs were all affected. The Fire Inspector had direct orders to shut these parties down, not for safety issues, but for non-compliance to a mystery ordinance. Visitors from all over the world who descend upon Austin every year for the music festival were left wondering, what is going on?

Oh, NO WAY! You’re saying that, at times, county, city and state officials can be total ass-fucks in regards to allowing gatherings of people who are listening to music in a live format, either via DJ or band performing, to enjoy said music, drink and dance, regardless of the number of hoops jumped through to ensure said gathering of people follows every possible rule? Why could that be, do you think? They suspect drugs but don’t have any proof? They really hate that the youth get to party and they don’t? Any or all of the above, or other pieces of illogic?

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No. Freaking. Way. Cut it out quit it. You’re pulling my leg. What. A. Travesty.

(yawn.)

Easy there, Jimmy CoolJeans. Before you get all Swayze and try to change the small town via dancing, realize: all of this has been done, this fight has already been fought, and lost/won/lost again. See, there was this little bill called the RAVE act, and it…

Oh, never mind. You’re gonna buy your $10 PBR-tini and listen to DFA Remixes of “Young Folks” while wiki-ing to find out who those “Daft Punk” folks are, anyway, so those of us who’ve done this already-the locked-down water spigots in bathrooms, the dehydration, the imposition on our legal rights by officers of the law who asserted we were breaking legal boundaries by the simple act of dancing (which is something that’s been happening since before Larry Levan was born-we’ll just sit down, shut up, and nod our heads quietly while you lament the fact that you didn’t get to set the world record for most Silversun Pickups shows attended in one day because some clothing store forgot to pay off their resident rent-a-cop. I mean, after all, ravers were amusing at best, annoyingly whiny when busted at worst, right? And that music, god, that music was all annoying and blaring and technoelectronica, yeah? Yeah…

It was once written that those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. I don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound like I can dance to it, so I’m not interested.

!!!: Me and Giuliani Down By The Schoolyard

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I mean, people always ask me “what’s so fuckin’ great about dancin?” Yeah, well, how the fuck should I know, even I can barely understand it…





I’m Installing Updates; You Get Music.

Well, as was pointed out to me, the tracks I posted yesterday didn’t work (fixed now). See I apparently uploaded them to the server that hosts the software I was working on, and not to the ResServer…. whoops. Here are those 2 tracks again, for reference:

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The Bloody Beetroots - Rotten Pick 2007MySpace

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Leopold Gregori - RenaissanceMySpace

Also, Like Whoa! (previously mentioned in our LJ) has a new track posted on their MySpace: Space Disco 2007 (Don’t have a raw mp3 atm, sorry!) its a blippy, grungy, turns-into-melodic-8bit synthfest. They also recently remixed Nicky Van She vs Dangerous Dan’s Around The World Remake/Cover and its top-notch as well.

Give both a listen and show them some love like whoa.. they’re totally going to blow up if they continue this pace for a full album.

</hacks>





Comparing bellyaches

I’ve found the insane fervor resulting from the “we sound like Midwest burgers and flannel flapping in the summer breeze” music created by Modest Mouse to always be a bit overblown. Up to and including Everywhere and His Nasty Parlour Tricks, Isaac Brock and the Thrift Store Fatties did their down-tuned stumbling dustbowl indie rock thing-and, boring as it may have been, that ambling, pathetically lethargic (pathargic?) sound and Brock’s bid for Captain Screamy McHistrionic with his nasal, belching whine defined a time and a place in music-back when the shirts and jeans weren’t distressed as much as old and cheaply made. I saw them play live in the Criminal Records parking lot in 2001, and it was then that I witnessed what I’ve come to call “the lisp heard ‘round the world”. Upon seeing singer Isaac Brock hiss and spit both his lyrics and his saliva halfway ‘cross the pavement (not to be confused with the time Brock spit on Stephen Malkmus), I’ve been unable to ever again listen to a single Modest Mouse song without hearing that damn lisp. Once you’re made aware of it, it, to out-of-context quote Jonathan Lethem, becomes akin to monster eyes-blown up out of proportion.

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It was Good News For People Who Love Bland Food, or whatever the hell that album with THAT song (the one that Placeholder used to sing as “ALL RIGHT ALL READY”) was, that they began slipping from their “stand up straight” method of rocking and started making the most basic, banal sort of dancerock possible. It seemed funny how the fat kids at the lunch table suddenly wanted to play MisShapes, but the world bought it…mostly.

C’mon, admit it-“Float On” is obnoxious like a baby with a loose bladder.

Now, hot on the battered-and-breaded heels of their first pale, hairy toe into the waters of making “music the kids actually like”, Modest Mouse release We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank, their first album having accepted former Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr into their fold. Some assjocks even went so far as to re-name the band “Modest Marr”-the titular use of which simply proves one’s inability to function in society. One listen to the album, which leaves behind Good News’ few-and-far-between moments of simple, plaintive storytelling in favor of Brock trying to twist and shout like a cheeseburger surprise was at stake (or at steak), and sounding all the worse for it. Other than that voice, there’s nothing even remotely recognizable about the Modest Mouse combination now, and it’s a shame-imagine Marr’s now-legendary way of finding unknown gaps and filling them with razor-sharp light and sound would have sounded on, oh, Lonesome Crowded West. Instead, he’s stuck saddling up to this album that wouldn’t have worked three years ago, and doesn’t work now. Simply by basing the album around the sound of the first single, “Dashboard”, it appears as if Modest Mouse has never heard of Marr’s other band(s), or any other little bands like, oh, say, Blondie. The addition of Shins singer James Mercer only helps to spread the cheese on the milquetoast, and the album’s closer, “Invisible”, would be better off as just that. As it stands, it’s an insulting bit of Tylenol PM to wash the whole mess down.

It’s no wonder, then, that Isaac Brock went bear-shit crazy and did his best Live Action Role Play of Iggy Pop (+4 Bloodlust, -10billion HP) the other night in South Dakota, slashing the hell out of himself either in attempt to prove that he can be as cool as Matt Bellamy from Muse or, as is more probable, in a valiant if ill-fated effort to end his own boredom.

From Pitchfork:

According to reader Joshua Cole, after deliberately bonking his head, Brock “then walked back to his amp, grabbed a pocket knife, and cut a 12 inch cut across his chest. His assistant had to grab the knife and stop him. He was bleeding the rest of the concert, and later fell off the stage into the barrier before singing in the crowd.”

Let’s go back to a time when Modest Mouse made something amazing

Modest Mouse: Trailer Trash

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In retrospect, even Brock’s vocal nuances shine like a diamond on this, from 1997’s Lonesome Crowded West. “Trailer Trash” epitomizes what Modest Mouse did so well in that once-upon-a-time: turning tumbleweed landscapes and trips to the Save-A-Lot into brilliant tales of heartache and ennui, and crafting from white trash a White Trashe Aesthetic that very nearly made trailer parks the coolest place to originate from. “Eatin’ thnowflakth with plathtic forkth” never sounded so beautifully, brilliantly, grotesquely endearing.

I remain hopeful that Marr will steer the Mouse where it needs to go-because, at this point, the title “We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank” is an unfortunate foreshadow of the band’s utter lack of creativity. It’s difficult not to listen to older Modest Mouse and then newer, back-to-back, and get a look of disappoint, disdain and distaste on one’s face while muttering “THIS is your direction? Really? Providing the soundtrack to a Ford commercial for American Idols?”

To paraphrase Morrissey himself, “that scene is dead, boys.”





Smells like mediocrity

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has released their top 200 albums of OMFGALLTIMELIKEWHOA, or whatever it is they’re calling it:

 

the top 10:

 

  1. BEATLES – SGT. PEPPER’S LONELY HEARTS CLUB BAND
    2. PINK FLOYD – DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
    3. MICHAEL JACKSON – THRILLER
    4. LED ZEPPELIN – LED ZEPPELIN IV
    5. U2 – JOSHUA TREE
    6. ROLLING STONES – EXILE ON MAIN STREET
    7. CAROLE KING – TAPESTRY
    8. BOB DYLAN – HIGHWAY ‘61 REVISITED
    9. BEACH BOYS – PET SOUNDS
    10. NIRVANA – NEVERMIND

 

Oh wow, what…a…surpriohscuse me I was yawning and just suddenly passed out from sheer boredom.

 The rest of the list is here-and, yes, that is Avril you see way down the list.





RES <3 FOB 4EV 4 RLY.

It’s a fucking shame, it really is, that one of the most exciting records I’ve heard this year has the sheeny, kiss-off texture of a mall-punk band making good on the hook-laden promise and skinny jeans + haircuts look of their previous releases.

Of course, I’m talking about Fall Out Boy.

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(insert screams of disgust/adoration in registers so high only dogs can hear them….*here*)

2007 will forever go down in the books as the year of “Wentzy makes good” as heartTHROB slash bassist slash songwriter slash self-penile photographer and his band of not-as-hotties, including that poor unfortunate redneck trucker they enlisted to sing Wentz’s tales of hot topic lust, took that so-catchy-it’s-obnoxious Under The Cork Tree potential that catapulted them into the hearts and minds (and made them the friction in the jeans) of every under-18 year old girl in America and polished off those scattered glistening pop gems and crafted them into an entire album’s work of snarky, love-weary, high-calibre tunage with this year’s Infinity On High.

From the album’s opening moment, a call-to-arms from, of all people, H-to-tha-Izzo V-to-tha-Izzay (that’s the anthem getcha damn hands up) Jay-Z, through the stomp-and-stammer gospel beauty of “Hum Hallelujah”, the entirety of Infinity On High just works too damn well. Produced in part by motherfuckin’ BABYFACE, the album is part party jam, party emo-rock high-jump off the speakers, and party…gospel revival.

That’s right: the fat kid in the trucker hat can siiiing, folks. Like a fucking bird.

Despite all lyrics being penned by Pete “frontman-a-licious” Wentz (and his magical lil’ Wentz, no doubt), Patrick “he of the very unfortunate last name” Stump sings in the exact way he commands his audience to on the album’s first single, “This Ain’t A Scene, It’s An Arms Race”: until his lungs give out.

It’s moments like that, and others on the album, where Fall Out Boy slip into complete stadium rock crowd-control mastery that usually doesn’t come until many, many world tours and mounds of drugs later (see: Aerosmith). Like their mates in youth and anthems My Chemical Romance (but with less makeup and plastic inflatable bat toys), the boys of FOB know even on record that they’ll have their swooning fans rocking out with their low-rise jeans out, and this knowledge has given them power. Wentz’s lyrics and throbby, jangly bass lines and Stump’s choirgirl falling face first in the PBR vocals combine and create sort of super-human ability to steal all the good hooks and all the catchy melodies in the world, and deploy them like weapons on a public who was ready to write them off.

(oh yeah, there are a couple other dudes in the band, too…or something)

All in all, it just ain’t fair. It just ain’t fair that in a year with the musical release calander containing so much potential, so much epic beauty and goodness, that the only album to really stick thus far both critically and commercially was put together by a bunch of kids who still make hand-in-armpit fart noises for fun. With their self-referential, self-deprecating lyrical wit, solid musicianship, and sense of grand purpose and being, though, it would seem that Fall Out Boy is the first post-modern pop-punk-emo-rock-whatthefuckever band that can do it, do it well, say it right, and know that what they’ve done is as catch and hyperactive as sugar-coated lickable methpops. Do they DESERVE to be this good? This talented? Do they DESERVE to have Jay-Z on their record? Do they DESERVE to hang out with Pete Wentz every fucking day? The answer to the latter is “god, no, no one should have to”, but the rest are all answered with a stunningly resounding YES.

Believe me, I hate writing this as much as you, the intelligent reader, listening to your leak of the new Wilco or your super-deluxe limited edition disc of some backpackhop co-sponsored by Adult McSwimDonalds, hate reading it, but facts are facts: Fall Out Boy have created a fucking GOOD album, start to finish. And it’s unfortunate that it’s taking something like these kids to shake shake shake the scene (excuse me, arms race) into having a good time again-but there it is. We’re in Fall Out Boy’s hands now, and god bless our black hearts and save our souls-with these kids in control, this ain’t a scene, this is genocide.

Fall Out Boy ft Jay-Z: Thriller

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The opening song off of Infinity On High, and the first realization that the boys FallOut are up to something-Jay-Z turns in a few verses that crackle with more energy than his own recent phoned-in stuff, and that, in and of itself, should say all it needs to. This ain’t your sister’s Fall Out Boy any longer.

Fall Out Boy: This Ain’t A Scene, It’s An Arms Race (Kanye West remix)

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Further proof of the clout these kids are getting, Fall Out Boy gets handled into a bit of a stomper by he-who-is-the-postmodern-rapper Kanye West himself as he takes cracks on both the boys and himself.

The “This Ain’t A Scene” video-utter brilliance. The lead-in, the disgust at “Dance Dance”, every bit of this makes the video that much better-especially the hip-hop folk watching Stump as he does his thing. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again, as it’s the running industry mantra regarding this whole Fall Out Boy 07 thing:

this should not be this good.

Buy Infinity On High





Trashscapes of the past, Invasion of the future

It got frustrating, nay, tiring, attempting to write any review whatsoever of Ellen Allien and Apparat’s amazing Orchestra Of Bubbles album last year-it seemed that the rock kids were climbing out of the woodworked rafters to heap praise upon “techno electronica”, or whatever name they deemed fitting at the moment that didn’t involve invoking Warp records, the word “grime” or the phrase “IDM”. The warm, melodic, vocal-heavy sound that Ellen has, via her Bpitch Control label, been creating, crafting and releasing, is a huge contradiction to what the Blood Brothers-and-vegan-tattoos beard-rock set had been conjuring in their heads as “rave-worthy electronic music”. As soon as they discovered last year’s Bubbles, Ellen’s collaboration with former beau and Shitkatapult honcho Sascha “Apparat” Ring, and one of the top 10 albums of 2006, as a highly listenable piece of work, suddenly everyone, from the dude at the Starbucks to plumber Bob, wants a piece of the Allien.

To reiterate and simplify, it became frustrating to, in a sense, lose the mystery and the magic of Ellen to the grabbing hands grabbing all they could (all for themselves, after all)-many of these were the verysame electronic nay-sayers who claimed the music had no life, had no breath, had no heart and soul. These rock kids jumping wholesale on the “tech train” were the ones who, as I’ve been quoted as saying in far too many drunken bitch (or is it bpitch?) fits now, claim their favorite song is “Daft Punk Is Playing At My House” but wouldn’t know if Daft Punk WAS playing at their house (and wouldn’t dance if Bangalter was there or not). Bpitch Control is the label that, a half-decade or more ago, brought me back to dance music when I wanted to abandon what had become a Tiesto-and-tapas genre. As such, it came hard, the ever-ubiquitous nature of the VeganForkGum Ellen Allien “we dunno what this is, but we know we may possibly like it we think” update in the music realm, having listened to and loved the cold, starkness of “Stadtkind” in a way that was near-lifesaving, and having had the transcendant moments of Ellen’s breakthrough “Berlinette” cascade into that split-second of time-stop that happened the first time I heard the end of Ellen’s remix of Covenant’s “Bullet”, when, after all bass and mids are cut, she slams 110% back into the song and orchestrates a death-defyin, heart-stopping climax and rides the song to the end. For a moment last year, I was even waiting for CocaineBlunts to start keeping track of every time she drank a beer. Thankfully for my soul, that didn’t happen.

Also thankfully for my soul, my need to escape being, at my base, an electronic music journalist (in a rock world that had suddenly decided to do a 180 spin and embrace anything that sounded like what I’d listened to at 16) wasn’t a detraction from the effect Orchestra Of Bubbles had on me; if anything, I took my love for Ellen underground. She’s only been booked in Atlanta once, on the ill-fated tour that found her trapped at the Canadian border of the U.S., unable to enter due to Bush regulations (I think he just had an extreme fear of her last name-he had just recently started watching the X-Files at the time), and so not getting to experience the BPC sound in a live environment left me with nothing but her sound, the last few notes of “Bubbles”, her voice “like an echo in the woods”, in my headphones.

However, as I tune myself back in to the mechanorganic machine of hype that is the daily music blog grind, I’m finding a lack of anyone talking about Ellen’s recent projects, or what she’s doing with Bpitch Control. She’s slipped off the hype-dar, and thus irrevelant.

Fuck that. It’s time to turn this over to someone with an emotion invested in this stuff, with a love for the sound.

Consider this my own personal coming-from-a-place-of-adoration Catching Up With Ellen Allien.

Bpitch IS, hands down, the greatest electronic label in existence today-it sounds immediately familiar and yet like nothing else-with a warmth and accessability lost on stuff like Traum, M_nus and other labels that fit the “German Techno” stereotype (and stereo boredom) and yet without the dumbed-down crap-for-the-kids watertripe of, say, the current output of ‘Ed Banger. Ellen never jumped on the dance rock scene-nor did she have a need, as her dance shit just flat-out rocks, and harder than anything Justice can do. (Just check the video for Trashscapes)

To show what’s been going on in her little corner of Berlin, Ellen recently did a mix for XLR8R Magazine with a handful of top-grade BPC tunes and a few exclusives.

Ellen Allien: No Snow In Berlin-A BPC label mix

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(Tracklist available at XLR8R)
Even in promotional “no one’s gonna hear this, really” mix-form, Ellen gives it her all-I really adore the way “No Snow In Brooklyn” starts off in a melancholy, somber mood and slowly picks up steam, but never really leaves a grey, bleak, wintery level.


To give a visual to the sound, Ellen’s also been tapped to host the latest issue of DVD-Mag Time Out, as a guide through Berlin.

Watch for more on this when it hits the Resonator Mag office-we’re anxiously awaiting.

Late last year, Ellen teamed up with Matt Dear, under his technofuckery guise of Audion, for a split 12’. Entitled “Just A Man/Just A Woman”, each took a side to craft a track of their own and remix the other’s work.

Ellen Allien: Just A Woman

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Ellen’s own “Just A Woman” is a subdued, highly intellectual piece of mood-tech, the sort of dark piece of overcast machine rattle that she perfected on Thrills.

Audion: Just A Man(Ellen Allien remix)

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It’s her reworking of the Audion track that’s the standout of the entire record. Showing off those ghetto leanings that we last heard in the Chronic-esque string workings throughout her last solo album (why, oh why, can’t we get her to do an album with T.I. and therefore take up a few-month residency in the ATL?), she chops and screws Dear Matthew’s piece of floor funk into a slow-and-low cruising jam. Germans on Gin and Juice, this one is.

Also out late last year was the long-overdue album of reworkings of tracks by Paul Kalkbrenner, whose “Der Berserker” will long stand as one of the most standout tracks ever to be released on BPC.

Paul Kalkbrenner: Queer Fellow (Ellen Allien & Apparat remix)

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Ellen and SaschApparat turned Kalkbrenner’s “Queer Fellow” into an reverberated echo, the sound of a stormy morning’s heavy clouds-there’s a hard and held hand on the bass here, and it makes the song all the better for it.

And, finally, the proof of the true conquering, genre-busting and wall-breaking Ellen’s sound has done. As a part of the re-release of Beck’s “The Information”, Ellen’s been tapped to remix “Cellphone’s Dead”.

Beck: Cellphone’s Dead (Ellen Allien remix)

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Full disclosure: I know it’s completely taboo to participate in the music industry circus and not lavish praise on every single move Beck makes, but I don’t- for the simple reason that I feel he just makes too many. I barely had time to get over “Midnight Vultures” when I had to pay attention to “Sea Change” and was caught unawares with “Guero”, and so I didn’t hear a single thing from “The Information”.

With that being said, four words on Ellen’s Beck re-rub:

This. Is. Just. Awesome.

Gorgeous, lush, a bit hallucinogenic, with a droning bassline that has a hypnotic pull down and under. There’s the bare minimum use of Beck’s voice, but what is there is used to perfection, and the few breaks of hollow, tinny snare behind him add a feel of emptiness, loss and confusion.

If I had to pinpoint, to press a label to, to define, Ellen’s true genius, the reason why her stuff from Braincandy sounds so utterly, astoundingly different from anything on Orchestra Of Bubbles, and yet has strinkingly common threads, it would be this imbuing of Rock songwriting emotive aesthetic with a powerful, ass-and-heart shaking electronic wizardry (not to mention a sheen of cool). She did it on the “Bullet” remix, she does it with her own stuff, she did it on the tour with Apparat, and she’s doing it again here-bringing the rockers and the ravers together.

In a way, it’s a true testament to my music snobbery and elitism-my inability to be glad the kids who like the Foo Fighters are now listening to German Techno. At the same time, though, Ellen’s been sowing the seeds of a common ground since the very beginng-her early 12” “Breakfast On Rocks” goes from a low-end tonepoem to a flat-out Metal jam depending upon the speed at which it’s played, and she’s always carried herself with an air of (cult of) personality shirked by other dance producers. It’s as much her music as her persona that makes her so damn addictive.

The sheer amount of work she’s done, tracks she’s given the magic breath of life to, makes it vital, exciting, and not a little daunting to keep on top of her sound-a sound that keeps ringing as achingly, impossibly fresh and amazingly powerful, and a sound that continues to be the textbook definition of what IS good electronic music. To ignore even a breath from Ellen is a mistake.





(Don’t tell)Mama, we just gotta swing.

I’ve been pondering attending the recently-announced upcoming Atlanta My Chem/Muse “The ZOMFGBLACKPARADEBIGOLGUITARSANDPROGROCKWHOOO” tour…and how could one resist? Slashing, swirling guitar and operatic, over-the-top theatrics…and the potential for plastic, inflatable vampire bats? Muse’s new-found obnoxious desire to be STYXRUSH? The on-stage set-pieces and setup, which promise to “bring The Black Parade to life” (so, uh…giant, life-size cutouts of Freddie Mercury and Andrew Lloyd Webber?)

As such, something came to mind this morning when I saw pictures of My Chemical Romance at Nassau Coliseum:

+

=

Throw in a little bit of Eddie Izzard, and you’ve enough to make the Hot Topic kids cry into their lipstick-rimmed Cinn-a-bon Smoothies.

“Release the bats”? Naw, naw-release the YUM!

Or…release the JAZZ HANDS:

My Chemical Romance ft Liza Minnelli: Mama

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The Black Parade is, really and truly, a fantastic record, and one of the best things to be released in 2006-it’s big, epic, and so over-the-top emotional that it borders on obscene Meat Loaf scene stealing-exactly what the hyperserious GothMoRock scene needs (besides, we can’t all be Bright Eyes). I’ve said that before. I also jumped on the first single as being My Chem’s first tap-shoe into the ring of a big-ass theatrical production (coo this in a Bjork voice: it’s a muuuussiiiicaaaal), and “Mama”, featuring Liza “Lucille 2″ , cements that-the jaunty, rollicking circus-metal of the song becomes a ghostly curtain-call of a power ballad towards the end.

This is the sound of My Chem now-less concerned with saving your life than giving their regards to Broadway and being remembered to Herald Square. Hopefully, the surprisingly well-received nouveau-song-and-dance act means it’s only a matter of time until Gerard and co. come to their senses and do what they obviously long to do, and soundtrack a full-on stage spectacular. The drama kids will never hurt you, after all.

Craft a gaudy, flashy name for the My Chemical Romance JazzTap Review Extravaganza, and leave it in the comments. Best one wins a promo cd from some label we probably don’t listen to ever.