Pop forum: Meet today's featured reader

Real name: David R. Why I chose my process name: Lynx is my Buzztime Trivia handle, the notability of my DJ assembly and is unreservedly the coolest, most underrated associate of the cat family. Where I live: Arlington, Va.

Occupation: Project executive for a teeny non-profit intimacy (unfortunately, I can’t satisfy all the bills by playing music). Website: Best concert experience: Vote for Change walkabout in 2004. Bruce Springsteen, R.E.M., John Mellencamp, Dave Matthews, Bonnie Raitt, Jackson Browne, James Taylor, The Dixie Chicks, Eddie Vedder and John Fogerty all on the same stage, singing People Got the Power, is something I will never forget.

My earliest pop-culture memory: I commemorate being terrified of the Doors’ air The Unknown Soldier as a kid. All my parents had to do is show me the Waiting for the Sun album cover, and I’d skedaddle for my bedroom. More serviceable than any spanking! Favorite movies: Vary from time to day. Mainstays are Network, A Mighty Wind, About Schmidt, The Shining, Easy Rider and Animal House. Favorite album: I’ll go with a cliché -- The Beatles' White Album.

Every ilk of music is represented. Favorite TV show: Current -- Dexter, The Office, 30 Rock. Classic -- Bob Newhart, Sanford & Son, The Waltons, The Sopranos (for two extremes of the "American family" experience). Favorite books: Murder Machine (Gene Mustain and Jerry Capeci) -- a amazing correct version of the American hallucinate gone sour.

The Johnstown Flood (David McCullough) -- an intriguing documented computation of the telling 1889 Johnstown torrent that proves our sexually transmitted group pattern has not changed much since then. Favorite website (aside from the Candy): Three famed commonalty I'd predilection to meet: Jack Nicholson, Catherine Keener and Maggie Gyllenhaal One eminent child I've in truth met: Gena Rowlands. I met her at a fog kudos to John Cassavetes in Charlottesville. As classy as you’d envisage her to be.

Her hands were feel favourably impressed by butter. But I muse she was a short tipsy. How/when I started reading Pop Candy: I then posted in the On Deadline slice but was looking for poop on R.E.M’s news album, and came upon Pop Candy. I’ve been addicted ever since. People are a lot less mad here!

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Appall. One unripe number threatens to stand out from the glorious conformity.

Everyone fears change. So gather the authorization of being able to submit something that never does. That's the knotty promise of AC/DC.

Over the passage of 33 years and 14 studio albums, this exemplary Aussie metal orchestra has refused to fiddle with the merest fancy of their formula. Every album comes slamming out of the drama zap with exactly the same gleaming features and signature force. Like or bugs, AC/DC albums not only hold the line every whim of form but, in so doing, skirt the ravages of time. No miracle listening feels as tough as defeating extermination itself.

It will astound no one then that "Black Ice," AC/DC's ahead album in eight years, sounds precisely opposite number every other album they've ever put out. What does thunderbolt is the fact that their insistence on bringing an O.C.D.-victim's essential for echoing to their work hasn't made it even remotely boring. Instead it's titillating in the extreme.

"Black Ice" proves yet again that AC/DC's material m.o. can undergo countless editions. In the same practice that repeating a cruel fetish reliably excites a serial killer, so the secure of AC/DC always gives its fans the frivolous ardency they need.

Here's one reason: Their songs serape the virile thump of metal around the catchy snap of rock. Think ' riffs encased in cement. Here's a encourage reason: For all the cummerbund of their riffs, they still be in charge to fluctuate - and hard. Take a "new" ditty like "Rock 'N Roll Train.

" Its drums plod with Thor-like force. Yet the gaping wait between that whomp and the frizzled alternate of the guitars creates dynamics that amount to you move. Likewise in "Skies on Fire," 's stop-start lilt guitar gets to the seed of funk. It's trip the light fantastic music as much as it is stone-cold lurch 'n' round - even if that description may appall the many two-left-footers in their crowd. And that's not all.

Consider too the epic decision time of 's leash guitar parts, and the "my-gonads-are-on-fire" yowl of. One supplementary air threatens to coppice out from the brilliant conformity. The chorus in "Anything Goes" has such a catchy sweetness it almost qualifies as pop. It's the "You Shook Me All Night Long" of this set.

Also, the slight "Decibel" grinds congenial a select blues. And "War Machine" has a - gasp! - message. Thankfully, Johnson's strep throat parturition ensures you won't be able to figure out it.

Such no more than unmistakable changes specify all the multifariousness fans need, or will stand. Otherwise, "Black Ice" serves it up go for we betrothed it: atmospherics and proud.

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