SOUNDCHECK

Fall Out Boy


Infinity on High

(3 1/2 stars)

Jung's theory of the collective unconscious may have been onto something. My Chemical Romance's The Black Parade, out of the gate a mere four months ago, scored big with over—the—top theatricals and agitated burlesque strutting. Now emo—pop poster punks Fall Out Boy bring forth funkified throwdown "This Ain't a Scene, It's an Arms Race," and "Thnks Fr Th Mmrs," a feverish, galloping teeth—gnasher of a kiss—off. The pair are easily the strongest tracks on the Chicago quartet's fourth full—length, a measure of some significance for an album practically straining its tight girly—pants' seams with fist—pumping, shoutalong choruses and monster hooks worthy of Saw III.

Whereas Parade danced through the valley of the shadow of death, however, Infinity on High retains all the manic, coyly seductive jubilation of FOB's live shows (one can nearly picture the strategic moments in which Pete Wentz will run his tongue along his bass strings). On the surface, that is. Relentlessly upbeat, pogo—ready rhythms pervade, yet FOB's trademark tongue—in—cheekily twisted lyrics belie scenic flashes of crying on a couch; cuts, X—rays and pills; canaries in coal mines, suns and city lights so luminous they injure. "We're so miserable and stunning," Patrick Stump resounds in "The Carpal Tunnel of Love": "Love songs so genuine and cunning." It might be what he's singing, anyway. In true FOB fashion, Infinity's emotional—snapshot lyrics remain both confoundingly unintelligible and head—scratchingly indecipherable.

Infinity in no way disappoints; it makes a strong bid to upgrade the band from arenas to stadiums ("I'm Like a Lawyer With the Way I'm Always Trying to Get You Off" in particular is an instantly familiar pop—radio contender). Yet it also fails to register the Fall Out Boys as serious artists. It simply is what it is: youthful, fun and anthemic as a senior prom.

Bloc Party


A Weekend in the City

(2 stars)

Calling Bloc Party a walking rock cliché might be putting the cart before the horse but hey, if the shoe fits, they gotta wear it. I mean, I wish I could take that old adage that a band's got a lifetime to write its first album and a few months to follow it up with a grain of salt, and, you know, put a good face on the Brits' second LP, but really, that dog just won't hunt.

Frontman/songwriter Kele Okereke was shooting fish in a barrel the first time out, unloading a bag of tricks he must have been toting around since his salad days: the hyper guitar riff behind "Helicopter," the "I'm on fire" rallying cry of "Banquet," the alternating left/right vocals atop "This Modern Love," the "so fucking useless!" salvo in "Positive Tension." Fans of jittery hooks were pleased as pigs in mud, and Bloc Party, well, the new flavor of the month laughed all the way to the bank. Seriously, those guys had us at hello.

Without rushing to judgment, though, I gotta say A Weekend in the City has a face only a mother could love. Credit the quartet for getting right back on that horse and striking while the iron was hot, but if it looks like a duck and sounds like a duck ...

A coupla tunes do hit pay dirt—snappy single—in—waiting "Hunting For Witches" and moody tension release "Uniform"—but you just can't teach an old dog new tricks, so mostly Weekend plays like the less—interesting, bastard stepchild of Silent Alarm. Yeah, it's the old cautionary tale, the dreaded sophomore slump, though maybe I shouldn't criticize 'til I've walked a mile in Bloc Party's shoes.

Katharine McPhee


Katharine McPhee

(2 stars)

The trouble with the massive popularity of American Idol is that it appeals to such a wide range of people. This isn't a problem for the show, of course, which captivates nearly every demographic of the TV—watching audience. No, the problem arises when AI winners and near—winners head into the recording studio to craft albums to sell to the diverse audience that devotedly watches them every week, and they're no longer able to please all of them.

Katharine McPhee's schizophrenic debut album is what happens when one of them tries. Not that McPhee is aiming to be all things to all people, but she's at least aiming to encompass a good two—thirds of current mainstream pop, and such overreaching doesn't much suit her. McPhee's voice is strong but undistinguished, and needs a solid framework for support if she's going to make any truly memorable music.

Unfortunately, she gets warmed—over Christina— and Beyoncé—style club tunes (including the atrocious ode to sexy shoes, "Open Toes") and treacly Céline—level ballads ("Home," "Ordinary World"), which clash stylistically and sound equally recycled. When she best approximates Christina (or, to be honest, Jessica Simpson) on loose, fun songs like "Love Story" and "Not Ur Girl," it sounds like McPhee could have a future—but only if she first figures out whom she wants to be.