Franz Ferdinand has panache. That word is applicable to very few bands these days, especially when most hide behind bandwagon-esque trends and slacker cool. It takes a rare class of insight, personality, and cleverness to attain such a descriptor, but Franz Ferdinand exploits it freely. Disjointed dance rock has never sounded so good. If The Rapture had half this much character, it might be more than a passing fad. Mark my words, Franz Ferdinand will not be a flash in the pan. This album is busting at the seams with melodrama. Blockheaded rock jocks will find it a tad too light in its loafers to pump a fist to, but the smarter half of the male species will admire the decadence, the cynicism, and the wit and still feel man enough to admit it. With lyrical flamboyance on par with Stephin Merritt and guitar shards that Gang of Four would be proud of, Franz Ferdinand rips through its stunning debut with a confident swagger, unmatched by a decade worth of Britpop wannabes.