Those who wrote off My Chemical Romance as a footnote to the emo zeitgeist can choke on their mascara wands as the New Jersey act breaks new ground on its third album. Instead of ignoring its faddy image, the act meets it head-on with the grandiose track "Welcome to the Black Parade," which is a mini-suite of styles and sounds reminiscent of Green Day's "Jesus of Suburbia." Wailing guitars, building background choruses and emoting singer Gerard Way's voice meld into an aural bliss that positions the quartet as a bonafide alt-pop juggernaut. The secret to The Black Parade is the increased focus on rock structures ("This is How I Disappear" and "House of Wolves"), which invariably legitimizes the band's existence and future. John Benson i>
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Various Artists
Marie Antoinette (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)
Polydor
Sounds like: Music for when you're out of Quaaludes
Short take: Sexy and gloomy fun
Francis Ford Coppola's use of The Doors' "The End" in his epic Apocalypse Now is legendary. His screenwriter/director daughter Sofia does him proud in capturing the intended cinematic mood with Marie Antoinette's perfect mix of classic tracks. This double-disc soundtrack brilliantly depicts the upper- crust life of the late 18th century with emotionally excessive and indulgent early New Wave tunes. (Adam & the Ants, The Cure and Bow Wow Wow are obvious selections.) Sofia really hits her mark in the middle of the first disc, with The Strokes' "What Ever Happened," The Radio Dept.'s "Pulling Our Weight" and New Order's "Ceremony" capturing rainy-day disillusionment and creating a fragile universe you could really lose your head over. John Benson
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Lady Sovereign
Public Warning
Def Jam
Sounds like: Jean Grae, minus the talent
Short take: A crime against grime
There are few things less essential than Lady Sovereign, a purely grating provocateur with less than one iota of actual ability. Fresh out of the Brit-rap scene, which values being British over being good, she hips and flops over a stumbling grime dubstep, not understanding that grime is, at best, also obnoxious. She's Dizzy without the Rascal. Sov sullies one electro-elastic beat after another on Public Warning, her lyrics those of a cheeky seventh-grader, her attitude as standard as it gets, and not a flow to speak of. It's not a question of loving or hating her; there's nothing subjective about a black hole of talent. Matt Martin