Franz Ferdinand

I cannot emphasize the importance of Franz Ferdinand enough. The Scottish rock band’s influence on today’s music scene, currently saturated with arty dance/rock crossover acts, is undeniably huge. They showed you could hit number one in the charts but lose none of your cool. You could write songs about girls and going out and yet still spark with creativity and intellect. However, by album number three you could tell they were itching for a bit of a policy tweak.

Tonight kicks off with the laconic Talking Heads shuffle of “Ulysses.” The hooks are strong as ever, but the overall impression is that we’re facing a leaner, meaner Franz Ferdinand. It also provides an introduction to the band’s favorite new toy: glitchy, dirty synths. On “No You Girls” things really get interesting. Slinkier than a Bond girl in evening wear with singer Alex Kapranos archly intoning “kiss me” over entwining taut guitars, this is bringing sexy back. Meanwhile, “What She Came For” could be the theme tune to an old spy movie, messing expertly with loud-quiet dynamics. However, the most striking moments come when the band throw themselves completely out of their comfort zone. “Live Alone” is a dizzying head rush of swirling electronics and afro-beat rhythms, changing musical direction at the drop of a hat but never losing its flow, while “Lucid Dreams” is an eight-minute epic full of sonic twists and turns and culminates like the end of New Order’s “Blue Monday” being fed through a blender.

Of course, the album isn’t perfect. “Twilight Omens” never really gets going and “Send Him Away” falls decidedly flat. “Turn It On” and “Bite Hard” are also very Franz by numbers. But still, those are some numbers. If you’re going to be formulaic then you might as well do it with the musical equivalent of Pythagoras’ Theorem.

Overall, it’s a strong performance, delivering a knock-out blow to all those who thought Franz Ferdinand were just one-trick ponies. Fun, sexy, creative and intelligent – it’s good to have them back.

American national pride is at its highest in years, and the rest of the world is just happy it’s now OK to like the USA again. So, in this time of boundless pro-US optimism, the only thing missing is a Bruce Springsteen album. And what the world needs, The Boss must provide.

There is really no way Bruce Springsteen could improve on his brand of stadium-sized, adrenaline-pumping, blue-collar rock. Therefore, the overall attitude is: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, just give ‘em more. There’s no time wasted and he immediately knuckles down to business, opening with eight-minute western epic “Outlaw Pete.” The title track though, “Working On A Dream,” is the first truly fist-in-the-air, goose-bump inducing moment. From then on, the monumental, heart-on-sleeve anthems just keep coming thick and fast. “Queen of the Supermarket” provides the obligatory girl-next-door ballad, “Good Eye” the countrified rocker and “Tomorrow Never Knows” the sweet, upbeat little ditty. And as for heart-tuggers guaranteed to leave grown men up and down the United States in tears? Well there’s “Last Carnival” and the gentle, widescreen acoustics of “The Wrestler.”

There are no surprises, and if you never liked Bruce Springsteen in the first place then there is nothing for you here. There isn’t anything quite as good as last album’s “Radio Nowhere,” but still, it’s a consistent record. A strong reminder from The Boss that, at 60, he’s still very much got it. And now he even has an excuse to take the back catalog out on the road. Things are looking up, America

Someone turn off the time machine. All the recent synth-pop duos and electro-leaning solo artists with ridiculous monikers are starting to make me believe we’ve been catapulted back to the ‘80s. White Lies are doing nothing to banish this notion. Their majestic, melancholic anthems fill the Echo and the Bunnymen / Teardrop Explodes niche nicely. But are they special enough to be judged on their own terms? Or is To Lose My Life just an unnecessary addition to the doom rock legacy?

Well, they’re not legitimately damaged like Joy Division, and thus, sadly, aren’t as fascinating. Singer Harry McVeigh doesn’t yet have the strength of character or the flair to pull off the melodrama like Ian MacCulloch, which means his continuous morbidity does get annoying after a while. Indeed, “Nothing To Give” is painful. Moreover, the band is lacking in the Scott Walker-like fervor for musical inventiveness that made Echo and the Bunnymen so special. Instead, every note they play is aimed squarely at stadiums the world over. Ultimately, White Lies are closer to The Killers than Teardrop Explodes. Opener “Death” comes with a climax the size of Jupiter, while “Unfinished Business” has an uplifting pop professionalism about it. The highlight though is the title track, “To Lose My Life.” Strutting its doom-glam stuff with impeccable ease, this is where White Lies finally reach the dizzying heights of grandiose power they’re constantly straining for.

For an album claiming to be made with the dark side in mind, it’s surprisingly shiny. Time will tell if White Lies are good enough to shake off the ‘80s miserablist comparisons. If not, they have enough tunes fit for the musical super league to console themselves. They aren’t bringing anything new to the table, but they do sound like they could be big. Coldplay had better watch their backs. et

Five Songs About People

The highlight of Stainless Style, a concept album concerning the life of infamous car designer John DeLorean, this is a sultry, catlike piece of glittering electronica about actress Raquel Welch, with whom DeLorean allegedly had an affair.

A slice of raw, hard hitting punk with the lyrics about the renowned apartheid-era photographer who committed suicide, written by rhythm guitarist Richey Edwards shortly before he went missing in 1995.

One story goes that, to create one of the most iconic song openings of all time, songwriter Pete Townsend simply entered Meher Baba’s (Indian mystic and spiritual master) birthday into the synthesizer. Shiver-inducingly good, powerfully anthemic live; whatever it’s actually about, we’re very thankful it exists.

Punk icon Patti Smith is always at her best when observing others. Here, she conjures a hypnotic web of star spangled imagery to evocatively portray her relationship with her younger sister.

Employing Phil Spector wall of sound tactics and drenched in glistening layers of feedback, this is more beautifully uplifting than a song about a social worker has any right to be. Interestingly, the real Geraldine is now the band’s T-shirt seller at gigs.