After scoring serious exposure on the soundtrack to “Grey’s Anatomy” back in 2005, The Fray has since captivated a large fanbase with their repertoire of piano-laden pop-rock tunes. On their self-titled second album, the alternative quartet adopts the same approach resulting in a sound and style nearly identical to their debut set, “How to Save a Life.” With a more upbeat melody than much of their previous work, “The Syndicate” doesn’t dazzle but fits well as an opener. Many of the remaining tracks, however, exhibit the band’s unwillingness to step away from predictable, underwhelming lyrics and presentation. After listening to the album’s radio-friendly first single “You Found Me,” it can be hard to distinguish one song from the next.

A careful listen reveals a slight attempt by the group to be less soft on this record; the result is a mix of hits and misses. “Ungodly Hour” creates a more intimate sound by using less production than most songs in the album but, like a few others, seems to carry on just a little too long. Still, the soft instrumentation gives frontman Isaac Slade the opportunity to serve up a rich vocal performance. In contrast, heavy percussion and a grittier guitar presence takes a rare precedence over the piano in “We Build Then Break.” Here and elsewhere, Slade gives a rather strong delivery, but occasionally falls into a phlegm-filled whine that can detract from his otherwise appealing vocals. While it is refreshing to hear the band experimenting, albeit sparingly, with its sound, it is the glaring mimicry of their first album that makes this sophomore effort seem considerably bland. Nevertheless, the traces of musical maturation “The Fray” sporadically unveils bode well for their future material.

“Why can’t we all just be honest?” A simple and straightforward question contemptuous British pop singer Lily Allen asked and looked to answer on her sophomore album, “It’s Not Me, It’s You.” Notorious for her brusque lyrics and vapory lilts, Allen returns to spread more British humor with glares of brash commentary on celebrity falsities and drug-poppers, amidst relationship quips. With sugary confections, she can politely tell you to fuck off, as in her song, “Fuck You” — another middle finger, or figurative “shoe,” thrown at Bush’s face.

Though the new album gives cheating boyfriends and raunchy, lewd cities from her previous album,
“Alright, Still,” a backseat to her addictive pop songs, the cynical yet inquisitive tempest is always present. Her first single, “The Fear,” points to a light and quirky pop ditty filled with Hollywood scrutiny and drawbacks of distorted perceptions. “I am a weapon of massive consumption / It’s not my fault, it’s how I’m programmed to function.”

Allen bashfully pipes and coos on each track, complimented with daring, foul-mouthed lyricism and new instrumentation, thanks to producer and member of The Bird and the Bee, Greg Kurstin. Kurstin reinvents Allen’s sound with bright, organic melodies (“22,” “Who’d Have Known”), curvy, rapid beats (“Everyone’s At It,” “Back To The Start”) and short, accordion snaps (“Never Gonna Happen”), with less variety and experimentation of other genres. In the midst of her media blunders and personal tragedy, a miscarriage. Allen completes an electro-pop album with modern twists and attentive instruction. Always the outspoken songstress, Allen’s album allows her to pack lasting provocations dripping with charm and smiles that carry more venom than candy.

Sometimes things break down. People don’t get along — they misread motives, make poor assumptions, etc. Sometimes people just don’t like you for, apparently, no reason at all. It’s probably your haircut. Or the fact that you wear sunglasses at night and make wild claims that your dad invented Toaster Strudel. Maybe you wear shorts that leave your whole ass hanging out when you ride the stationary bike at the Rec Center, leaving the poor sod behind you to marvel at the daunting implications — physics-wise — that your ass-jiggling entails while pondering the largest possible distance that can lie between “self” and “awareness” (I mean, really?). Or maybe you make grammatical mistakes at the beginning of paragraphs. Whatevs.

Irregardless, when confronted with such a situation, unless you’re a proponent of some sort of “American Beauty”-meets-“Rambo” vigilantism, you have to get on with whatever you were doing in the first place. For the most part, in a small town like Williamsburg, you will see these people again. And again. And sometimes even again.

The funny thing is that most people don’t do that. Real life adults — sometimes smart and respectable adults — oftentimes act in ways that would earn a fair amount of corner-watching, had your first grade teacher caught you in flagrante so many years ago. When you see this from the outside, you just want to shake those people and tell them to get along. Sometimes that works (see: Obama vis a vis Democrats and Republicans. I hope.), sometimes it doesn’t (see: Israel-Palestine).

In the case of 711 Richmond Rd., I have sympathy for both the residents and the Iago-sounding professor. (And no, you can’t escape this issue, even if you turn to the Variety section. Tune in next week when The Flat Hat blames men’s basketball’s loss at James Madison University on the three-person rule.) People want to live their own lives — something Americans generally support for their fellow citizens, so long as it doesn’t interfere with their own individual ability to do so. This is why we have all kinds of neat things like laws that say you have to pick up your dog’s poop and that prohibit other things like public masturbation. In this case, however, the actions of both parties are kind of understandable — even if the professor’s actions have a certain “Scooby Doo”-villain ring to them. The students wanted to party; the professor wanted to sleep. Ok, fine. There should probably be some sort of compromise there, law-wise. But do we have that? No, instead we have the three-person rule. A broken system fostered this broken relationship.

We know that the rule exists nowadays to keep the College of William and Mary party scene (oxymoron?) out of the surrounding neighborhoods. We know this because Clyde Haulman accused students of vomiting on bushes, having sex on cars, killing neighborhood animals, and all sorts of things so vile that I hesitate to mention them in a public forum. This makes the current law the equivalent to your girlfriend telling you to “please put the toilet seat down” when she really wants you to cancel your subscription to Playboy, book Valentine’s Day reservations and get a god damn haircut already. One thing has nothing to do with the other. And there’s still no promise that you’ll remember to put the toilet seat down.

The solution? Probably some sort of compromise that addresses the actual issues involved. What would that look like? I don’t know; maybe strict enforcement of the noise ordinances after 1 a.m., the creation of a special student housing zone in the city or a new sex-on- cars division in the City of Williamsburg police department. (Do I smell a new “Law & Order?”). I do know that the only way to solve a problem is to be honest about what it actually is. Even if that means coming to the painful realization that your shorts from high school don’t fit anymore.

__Brad Clark is a Confusion Corner columnist. He still blames Jewel for costing him the race.__

Valentine’s Day is coming up and I suppose that means, as the sex columnist, I’m required to speak to it in some way. This day is meant to celebrate committed relationships, but instead I’ve decided to address those who find themselves unable to stay committed — a Valentine’s Day column about cheating. This topic may be a bit of a downer, but I think it fits for this week since only people in exclusive relationships have the burden of dealing with cheating.

Before we dive head first into this topic, let’s review what cheating is. Some people have a very strict definition: Fantasizing about someone else or flirting with a potential mate is off-limits. This is a bit harsh, considering 81 percent of women and 86 percent of men admit routinely flirting with the opposite sex. Others define cheating as engaging in sexual activity. This definition can be as stringent as to include kissing or as loose as to be okay with everything up to sex. Some people are okay with physical contact, but draw the line at emotional connection — the fuck- but-don’t-love approach.

Almost everyone, when polled, will answer that cheating (whatever the definition) is wrong. However, these same people will hesitate when asked if they would forgive someone who cheated on them or if they have ever cheated themselves. This is an interesting dichotomy.

People have very strong moral inclinations against adultery, but a great many of them are willing to accept it. Why is that? Perhaps it’s because cheating is common in our sexual society.

Statistics to bolster this point are hard to come by. Pollers have to rely on the honesty of their subjects and since cheating has such a large stigma, people often lie. The Associated Press says that 22 percent of men and 14 percent of women have admitted to extramarital relations. However, the Journal of Couple & Relationship Therapy suggests that these numbers are completely off, and that the truth is that 50 to 60 percent of married men and 45 to 55 percent of married women have cheated.

Cheating is American sexual culture’s dirty little secret. We like to pretend it’s not happening and ignore it until we’re forced to face it. We love to take the moral highground and act shocked, awed and indignant when we find out someone has cheated. But it’s all a facade. People in loving relationships consider cheating all the time. And it’s not a black-and-white situation. There are good — or at least understandable — reasons to cheat.

Obviously, the best solution if you want to cheat is to break up with your significant other first. But this doesn’t happen all the time. People like to have their cake and eat it too. Or they just don’t put any thought into what they’re doing — maybe they drunkenly impale themselves on the nearest penis. Regardless of the reason, or how well or poorly, the cheater handles the situation, sex happens.

So how can a relationship move on after this kind of incident? As with all things sexual, the solution must be catered to the specific circumstances. There’s a huge difference between an inebriated embrace that goes a little too far and seeing someone else on a regular basis. Yet the underlying problem remains the same: loss of trust. Jealousy is a difficult emotion to control even when there is no evidence of cheating. Bring an actual incident into the picture and you’ve got a potentially unhealthy situation on your hands.

I think that cheating is not as big of a deal as we make it out to be. It is a largely unaddressed issue in our sexual lives. Most people feel very strongly about it, but their opinions may not have solid footing. With cheating as prevalent as it is, is it really practical to take a hard line on it? I am not implying that just because it’s prevalent we should accept it as good, but I think that it’s something we need to talk more about and hide less.

I speak from the perspective of someone who has never cheated nor ever been cheated on. But, theoretically, I believe that cheaters can still be good and faithful partners in the future. Look at it this way: No one likes the idea of dog poop on his or her carpet, but if you’re buying a puppy, you can expect to have a little present in the living room every once in a while. If we take this attitude toward cheating — that it is a forgivable, if undesirable, element in many relationships — maybe we can condition ourselves to maintain trust, even if there are one or two digressions.

__Maya Horowitz is The Flat Hat sex columnist. She hopes her readers aren’t two-timing her.__

**Martini mania**
In the most boring news of the week, there will be a “Sex and the City” sequel. Shocking, we’re sure. Gawker reports that all four money-hungry aging hags — who spent six seasons on HBO and then reunited to squeal for another 145 minutes — have plans to ply another $152 million plus from the hands of movie-goers the world over. Just think: That’s $10 less to spend on cosmopolitans and Manolo Blahniks. Ohmigod, shoes. Yawn.

**Nobody’s perfect**
Among the seven things we hate about you? Racism. According to Reuters, photos of the teen pop sensation “making slant-eye poses” surfaced on the internet. Presumably during a G.N.O. (Girl’s Night Out), Miley and her friends — including an Asian friend — did a photoshoot in which they engaged in the offensive poses. The Disney starlet seems to be trying especially hard to break out of her cookie-cutter image. Maybe she’ll get the chance to start all over.

**Who’s that girl?**
Look who’s in the spotlight now: Madonna’s daughter Lourdes has been developing into quite the young lady. According to OK!, the pop icon is jealous of her daughter’s emerging beauty and has told her not to express herself. Only recently was little L finally allowed to wax her formerly Frida-esque eyebrows. Sounds like someone’s crossing the borderline, but we’re sure the little angel will live to tell. We have some advice for Madge: Mama, don’t preach.

**My baby**
The only thing that ebbs and flows more than Oprah’s weight is Britney Spears’s reputation. Currently on an upward trend, Brit wants to maintain that. Life & Style reports that she’s currently making arrangements with former husband Kevin Federline for the pair’s kids to visit her during her upcoming tour. A source says the pop princess is worried canceling the tour at this point would make her look unstable. Because that’s never happened before.