If we were perfect, face it, you'd be a little suspicious. And indeed, the late 2007 opening of this cocktailers' paradise did manage to sneak by us; but a recent life-altering visit made it necessary to correct this tragedy. Enter through a secret, (naturally) boarded-up Wicker Park façade into a film-set-dramatic Victorian gothic space (all lavish curtains and resplendent chandeliers) manned by sexy, tattooed hipsters in vintage evening wear.

In Paris, the answer to every civic problem might actually be: more fashion! Indeed, anchoring the Docks de Paris project revival of a downtrodden Left Bank industrial site along the quai D'Austerlitz, La Cite de la Mode et du Design is set to be the capital's fourth museum dedicated to matters sartorial. As the name indicates, this one will also address a broader spectrum of design, and up the fab factor by incorporating designer boutiques and a chic rooftop restaurant from the people behind Georges, the Pompidou's futuristic eatery in the sky.

Dubai is the UAE's Vegas, a place where petroleum-funded glitz and the slightest hint of self-consciousness ne'er do come within a thousand kilometers of one another. And all those jet-setting glamour-pusses who have been invading its shores obviously need hotels of correspondingly shameless profligacy in which to bed down. The new Intercontinental offers up 500 rooms of incredibly swish luxy along historic Dubai Creek. It's all about the spectacular views and unmatchable service.

Ah yes, the new gilded age. New York now flaunts the sort of wealth disparity that has inspired entire nations to revolt. And if Wall Street is the Versailles of high finance, this is surely its Petit Trianon. Another winner from those purveyors of chic sleeps at Thompson Hotels—led by tastemaker Jason Pomeranc—Gild Hall features such signifiers of the posh life as a private library, champagne bar, Slim Aarons photographs, and sheets with really, really high thread counts.

Darker, rockier, a bit more weird, Accelerate is R.E.M.’s least detached album in years. Michael Stipe sings with passion, and Peter Buck’s authoritative jangle is fully present. R.E.M.’s accelerated vitality seems linked to a rediscovery of their roots. “Living Well’s the Best Revenge” is a Dylan-meets-Clash rocker; the “Sweet Jane” guitar hook on “Supernatural Superserious” reiterates the band’s debt to the Velvet Underground. “I’m Gonna DJ,” meanwhile, retrofits the band’s already apocalyptic 1987 hit “It’s The End of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)” with a frustrated irony reflecting our current societal dystopia. Fine, indeed.

He godfathered the Sex Pistols, partnered with Vivienne Westwood, and got snubbed by Anna Wintour at the Costume Institute Ball on a night he should’ve been knighted. Let's just say, he's earned his right to gripe about a few things in life.

The band’s first album in six years sees the Breeders holding fast to the sound and vision that has been theirs since Safari and Pod. Now, as then, the backbone of Battles is the famous breathy Deal vocal, high, sweet, and little girlish. This is a relief because the songs they sing are fragmented modernist pieces; stories in search of narrative and ending. The most successful track, “German Studies,” is, sadly, in German.

If wimpo rock (i.e. Travis) is dead, this is absolutely one of the bands that assisted in its glorious murder. Blonde bombshell Liela Moss is like Blighty’s own Brigitte Bardot (minus the shite politics), her arousing, husky-voiced sexuality giving the impression she would as soon devour you as seduce you. Her boys back her up with the sort of colossal but intensely visceral riffs worthy of Suede or the Jesus and Mary Chain. “Without joy, joy, joy and the rain/ I could feel forever the same,” Moss howls. Fortunately, this one’s a bloody monsoon.

“What’s the point of doing something/ If you can’t feel the pain?” Jemina Pearl roars in “Super Soaked,” the leadoff track on Get Awkward. Frontwoman Pearl makes you feel the pain, all right: she exudes the feral hardcore charisma of Darby Crash, Exene’s boho intelligence, the shoutalong melodies of Brody Dalle, Bikini Kill’s DIY anger—yet still comes off individual and untainted. When Pearl’s anti-diva expressionism fuses with her band’s hyper art-garage attack, the volatile compound provides extra-lethal teenage kicks.