Given the plethora of washed up ’80s rockers still lingering long past their best-before dates, skepticism about Tom Petty’s latest album leading up to its release (his first since 2002’s The Last DJ) might have been understandable. Thankfully, Petty’s music has always had a classic (though distinctive) sound to begin with, and with Highway Companion he strikes the proper balance between preserving that sound and exploring new musical territory.

The classic Tom Petty sound is never more apparent than on the opening track, "Saving Grace." Commercial rock stations still overplaying the bejesus out of "Free-Fallin’" and "Running Down a Dream" will likely latch onto this catchy, hard-driving number if any, though it’s not necessarily representative of the entire work–there are also the gentle, heartbreaking ballads ("Square One" and "Damaged by Love")

But as the album’s title suggests, the road seems to be Petty’s primary muse here. Not surprisingly, then, the driving-inspired tracks ("Down South," "Turn This Car Around," and "Night Driver") are the best of the bunch, and make for great driving music indeed.

Comets on Fire
Avatar
(Sub Pop)
***1/2

Comets On Fire had proven to be one of the more interesting bands of the last few years, if only because they were so good at doing something that seemed so obsolete.

Extended Hawkwind-styled space jams led the listener through fields of dual guitar solos and monster riff psychedelics. And somehow amidst all of this, Comets On Fire still managed to sound contemporary.

Avatar is strikingly different, only in that the band has toned things down a bit. Their approach has been adapted to allow for some introspective, brooding pop moments, and at first listen it is unexpected, though not unwelcome. As the album progresses it’s clear that Comets have lost none of their grandiose tendencies, though they have tempered them with compelling vocal work and inventive keyboard and organ lines. The songs tend to build, as opposed to overwhelming the listener with sheets of raw power.

There are still walls of noise to be found on Avatar; they’re just tempered with lulls that ultimately make them more effective.

THE SUBMARINES
Declare A New State!
(Nettwerk)
**

There are stories about "meeting cute," but here we see the re-emergence of "reuniting cute"–breaking up and getting back together, adorably. Not since Peaches & Herb’s embarrassingly horny ’70s hit has music paid much attention to the happy ending. Rockers, popsters, and even metalheads are generally more into maintaining a perpetual state of longing-but-not-getting horniness, or getting-but-not-from-my-baby horniness.

L.A. musicians/longtime lovers Blake Hazard and John Dragonetti split up, wrote woeful songs about it, figured they should record them together as a relationship coda, and fell back in love in the process. All together now: "aaaaawwwwwwwww."

Here’s the problem: total lack of horny and any passionate sentiment. Not a soul-bending, knee-shaking moment. Sure, it’s pleasant, jangle-accented light pop with lots of harmonies and melody and boy-girl vocals, but it’s total audio wallpaper. Maybe it’s because Hazard sings like a minor priestess in the Temple of Aguilera, or because the sentiments are lifted from greeting cards, or because the meteorological-laden lyrics are preposterously close to Dr. Phil-ville, but this is savage dullness that bleeds the joy out of the world.

THE MARS VOLTA
Amputechture
(Universal)
*1/2

When will bands learn? A suitcase bursting with effects pedals does not usually instantly equate life-altering songwriting–nor does a falsetto, nor do those little Dolce & Gabbana leather jackets with the weird vertical collars.

The Mars Volta have purchased all of these things apparently, and they seem to be operating under some false pretense that these commodities are really going to make them a better band.

After you view the already overtly pretentious cover art, the wank-prog-male-superiority-schnobster fest that is Amputechture takes over you unwillingly, and in some vain attempt at emulating Plant and Page, Volta’s Bixler and Rodriguez-Lopez crash and burn like a horde of hyenas in a sack race.

Yes, there is the 10-minute long "opus" (the nearly unpronounceable "Tetragrammaton") and the unnecessarily epic "album opener" ("Vicarious Atonement") but in the end, the only image the over-the-top "poetic" lyrics can conjure up is of a vintage jacket-clad Jack Black in High Fidelity, laughing his ass off to music like this.

The Thermals
The Body, the Blood, the Machine
(Sub Pop)
****1/2

Well thank God everything is turning out okay for volatile indie-rockers The Thermals.

In spite of some genuinely catchy and distinctive moments, their output to date had not attracted much attention from anyone.

That’s when God stepped in, inspiring them with an utterly heretical work of art for this full-throated skewering of His followers and the nation that acts as His chief sponsor in the world of men. Their God may be the most powerful, but like the song goes, "Power Doesn’t Run on Nothing."

The people of whom the Thermals speak of, without ever naming them, are all superstitious imbeciles who can only do as they are told, and the Thermals have the pounding guitars, crashing cymbals and, catchy hooks to prove it.

Behold! He practically turned ‘em into Hüsker Dü.

And to complete His work, He transforms singer Hutch Harris’s raving wail, quite miraculously, from listening impediment to integral part of the whole.

Start praying for the rock opera today!