By Tanya Kassabian

Standing in line, hearing the first chord of the guitar and being able to see the sweat on Jimmy's face, drinking a cold beer, does it get any better than Jimmy Eat World at Metropolis? The sound was perfection; the way it bounced off the walls and resonated perfectly in my ears was incomparable to anything I've ever heard before. Being so close to the band that I could almost touch made this concert even more amazing than I ever thought it could be. I was so overwhelmed that I actually cried. Jimmy Eat World has been my favorite band for as long as I can remember, but they've never really made it mainstream. Most underground bands perform at Metropolis before they get famous, which grants the audience the chance to see them in the best environment possible; Metropolis. It is the greatest venue for defining an artist's transition from underground to mainstream.

I sit with my notes in an ornately detailed wooden chair. Oddly enough, the expertly carved ivy that I rest my left palm on top of fails to capture any of my prolonged contemplation as it stands in the shadow of the many other exquisite items of furniture, technology, and general intrigue that occupy the vertically endowed living room that I find myself contently admiring. It may also be that this chair is hidden by the literal darkness of a room illuminated modestly by a far from modest dimmer-switch-equipped chandelier. I hold the complacent gaze of a child-sized Virgin Mary statuette lurking in a shadow across the room. I can't help myself from furrowing my brow in disbelief - this is no student home. It is instead the den of Wolfe Belkin, musical wunderkind, industry mogul to-be, and some sort of genius, though he wouldn't say so himself. He's inexplicably cool, in that timeless sort of way, and although this aura and dwelling at first appear to be the product of either his effortless sensibility or a trusty little trust fund, I come to realize that hiding behind my host's superfluously adorned hand-crafted Italian sunglasses is a piercing gaze that reflects the true source of his lair's aforementioned swagger in it's entirety; his brain. Beneath his deceptive air of nonchalance hums a relentlessly contemplative mind, because ultimately, Wolfe Belkin is one strange mother-fucker.

By: Meghan M.D.

The concert led with a darkened Bell Center and screams of anticipation.  While the guitarists punched holes through a wall that separated them from the excited audience, the lead singer bored one through that same wall with a laser cutter, expelling a glowing red light. This was it. It was about to begin. The minute he sang, I don't think anyone could help but notice the LED light was in his mouth! The drums exploded, ringing out like hammers. This was the beginning of a spectacle Montrealers had been awaiting for the better part of a decade.

After a ten-year absence from Canada, fans were beginning to wonder whether Rammstein would ever cater to North American again. The last time they were in this region was during the Mutter tour in 2001. However, December 9th of 2010 changed everything. They came back from their hibernation, rocked North America and are planning to do so again on May 1st, 2012. The German sextet is back and better than ever!

Upon entering the home of 17-year-old Brandon Mignacca, one of the first things you're likely to notice is the soothing sound of classical piano, serenading you as you approach the music room in which he spends hours a day practicing. That is, unless he's out unleashing a sonic hurricane with his band, Chair Warriors.