Muse

The first thing one notices upon hearing this English trio’s third album is how much it owes to Radiohead: the melodies, derived from minor and diminished chords; and the histrionic vocals, with that trademark “Mum, I’ve been zigged to the eyebrows from this new combo of meds for three days, scribbling gibberish in the margins of my Sylvia Plath anthologies” patina. But underneath, this is merely the latest iteration of English ruffled-shirt rock, the kind made by lads who hide their massive collections of Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals under the bed before they invite you over for tea, the kind for whom Freddie Mercury is God, and Brian May is his distorted-guitar messenger. It isn’t bad, mind you; “Time Is Running Out” rocks, and “Hysteria” is a fine ballad. But original this most assuredly is not.