{$The Mars Volta}'s 2003 debut was a dense, experimental run-on sentence of science fiction and musical exploration. But though it ultimately rewarded patience with stretches of unbuckled {\rock & roll} genius, {^De-Loused in the Comatorium} was also a maze-like and obtuse migraine dealer that made people frustrated and crazy. For 2005's {^Frances the Mute}, {$Omar Rodriguez-Lopez} and {$Cedric Bixler-Zavala} worked principally with their touring band, but "joining the band for selected moments" are strings, horns, electronic programming, pals {$Flea} and {$John Frusciante}, and the coqui frogs of Puerto Rico. There are no song breaks, making the track listing more of an outline. But {^Mute}'s printed lyrics are a helpful guide, a map of {$Mars} that's meant to both direct and fascinate. "She was a mink handjob in sarcophagus heels"; "Don't be afraid when all the worms come crawlin out of your head"; "they were scaling through an ice pick of abscess reckoning and when Miranda sang everyone turned away...." -- perhaps the only match for the cerebral weirdness and eventual beauty of {$Mars Volta}'s lyrics is their music itself. The roar of {$Rodriguez-Lopez} and {$Bixler-Zavala}'s {\post-hardcore} past is fully locked away, replaced by an equally powerful flair for expressive percussion, intricate vocal harmonies, and extended solos for electric guitar (as on the initial part of {&"Cygnus...Vismund Cygnus"}). Sure, there are moments on {^Mute} that reach the grandiose heights of heavy music -- {&"L'Via l'Viaquez"}'s ear-splitting changes will blow back your hair. But the same song is sung half in Spanish, half in English, and its flashes of heaviness fall between stretches of Afro-Cuban rhythm. Other portions of {^Frances the Mute} are murky and distant, like {\field recordings} from the ocean floor, while still others shift drastically between brittle acoustics and a stuttering, guitar-led volatility that threatens to crack open the earth. Its constant shifts mean the record is claustrophobic and even dizzying; it demands perseverance. But it's great when a blast of a trumpet cuts through a gloomy moment, and {$Bixler-Zavala}'s vocals are a thread to reality. For example, while his lyrics for {&"Miranda That Ghost Just Isn't Holy Anymore"} and {&"Widow"} are mysterious poems, he sings them with a fervor that's immediately identifiable. That passion is evident throughout {^Frances the Mute}; it's the organic fever that was buried on {^Comatorium}. ~ Johnny Loftus, All Music Guide