![]() Maybe five of its 48 minutes wouldn’t get the band insta-booed off an Ozzfest stage. With nothing to lose, the multi-multi-multi-platinum angst kings sink their distortion pedals into a tender oblivion, embracing the pulseless Vocoder syrup of Imogen Heap, the cuddly heavenward synths of Yeasayer, the post-apocalyptic stutter-hop of El-P, the head rush of Ibiza house. The fourth album from former rap-rock bloodletters Linkin Park is 2010’s best avant-rock nuclear-anxiety concept record: a postmodern, perfectly Pitchfork-ian opus that will never earn a single Pitchfork pixel.
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