Having shared bills with 2001 darlings White Stripes and the Strokes, it"s not shocking that the Yeah Yeah Yeahs also are wrapped in a sticky film of hype. They tackle it explicitly when indispensable singer Karen O croons, "It"s our time to be hated / So glad that we made it" (the conceit plays to a tune vaguely reminiscent of "Crimson and Clover"). To be safe, the YYYs are calling themselves sellouts before they sell out--but for this trio of rock & roll revivalists, sounding good enough to be popular is their only crime. Attacking with a snottiness sorely needed these days, they confront the critical types as (jealous) "punk kids" anyway. With a sexy yet imperfect swagger, they come on like calculating outsiders bent on forcing their way in. As an antidote to the glossy/rough New Yorkerism presented by the Strokes, the YYYs serve up dirtier yet sublime grit, in five tunes about bad sex, "art stars" and "mystery boys" who will "be your toys." Careening drums pop into synch with sparse, metallic punk guitar, and none of O"s "yeah"s and "baby"s are wasted or otherwise lost in the band"s econo-power style: surprisingly loud, though bassless, and carved with abandon from "60s garage, the playfulness of X-Ray Spex, the sparseness of the Delta 5, and the shambolic thrash of the Fall. --Cyndi Elliott