Their first two discs, 2004’s Funeral and its 2007 sequel, Neon Bible, peaked with songs about scared kids hiding from their parents. In “Rebellion (Lies)” and “No Cars Go,” the kids hide by escaping into dreams and sharing guilty secrets with one another. But on The Suburbs, they open up to see family life from the parents’ perspective – a much harder trick. “I want a daughter while I’m still young,” Win Butler sings on the magnificent opening theme, “The Suburbs.” “I wanna hold her hand/And show her some beauty/Before this damage is done.”

To read the complete review and hear album samples visit ROLLING STONE

Twelve years ago, Blur frontman Damon Albarn and Tank Girl creator Jamie Hewlett formed Gorillaz — a ”virtual band” whose animated avatars and woozy beats pastiche seemed custom-fit for a dawning era of smartphones, iPods, and other Jetson-y gizmos. ”I’m useless, but not for long/The future is comin’ on,” Albarn drawled on their first single, the dubby alt-chart hit ”Clint Eastwood.”

He was right: Gorillaz’ self-titled debut sold 
almost 2 million copies in the U.S. and made them stars, albeit in physical absentia (even in live performances, they are hidden behind 
 giant cartoon projections). A half decade after their last release, 2005’s multiplatinum sophomore outing Demon Days, the band has returned, once again gilding their four-character core with a delightfully random roster of guest stars: Snoop Dogg, legendary soul smoothie Bobby Womack, Lou Reed, and the Clash’s Mick Jones among them.

To hear some new tunes visit MYSPACE

To read the complete review visit ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY

To hear some new tunes visit MYSPACE

To read the complete review visit ROLLING STONE

In 1994, Jared Leto gave us a TV hunk for the ages: the mute and brooding Jordan Catalano, from My So-Called Life. Unfortunately, Catalano wouldn’t waste an “uhh…whatever” on the hammy, bombastic third disc from Leto’s band, Thirty Seconds to Mars (with Leto’s brother, Shannon, on drums). The signposts here are Pink Floyd, INXS and Nickelback. Leto bellows things like “Where is your God?” over and over as industrial atmospherics and choirs of fans (invited to studio “summits” by the band) hammer home a theme of fortitude in the face of societal trauma (or something). We can all feel as one in coming together to ignore his message of hope.

To read the complete article visit ROLLING STONE

Let’s just get this out of the way, shall we? About 99 per cent of pop is drudging twuntery assembled by blank-eyed robots who are unjustly rewarded with mountains of cash, while all my favourite bands languish and die in places like Tacoma, Washington. As someone who believes hardcore punk to be mankind’s highest artform, Lady GaGa is the antithesis of my fucking soul: she eats diamonds marinated in the tears of seraphim, I eat week-old misery on toast. I’d despise her… but she is that remaining one per cent.

It’s because she’s baffling.  ‘The Fame Monster’, being eight new tunes welded to last year’s ‘The Fame’ (where most pop muppets would tack on a tossed-off remix or two, La Gaga delves into her paranoid soul and constructs a thematic collection around new demons that have invaded her life – monsters representing her fear of, among others, sex, death, loneliness and alcohol) is as pristine as you’d expect, but has a sub-zero core of isolation and fear. In the same way as Radiohead battle computers and learn new instruments to hew their sculptures while Fuck Buttons and HEALTH discover new sonic languages, she uses pop, its producers and masks and all its artifice, as her tool of self-expression.

To hear some new tunes visit MYSPACE

To read the complete review visit NME

Hot-shot resumes aside, the three heavy hitters in Them Crooked Vultures have a taste for the strange. Guitarist Josh Homme (Queens of the Stone Age) indulges his weirder impulses in his long-running “Desert Sessions” ensembles. Drummer Dave Grohl (Foo Fighters, Nirvana) instigated the excellent heavy-metal detour Probot. And bassist John Paul Jones (Led Zeppelin) has collaborated with genuine subversives from Diamanda Galas to the Butthole Surfers. Together in Them Crooked Vultures, the three settle not for bland détente but for something a bit more out there.

The arrangements are laced with twists in tempo and mood. Nasty riffs and sticky melodies are everywhere, buttered over by the androgynous harmonies that have made Homme a hard-rock anti-hero, but verse-chorus arrangements hold little interest. Instead, there are fascinating digressions, packed with surprises.

To hear some new tunes visit MYSPACE

To read the complete review visit CHICAGO TRIBUNE

To see footage from the Boston show visit us at YOUTUBE