Chris Carrabba (or Christopher Ender Carrabba, as he's now calling himself) specializes in emo at its most over-the-top -- call it "extremo." His tunes start innocently enough, with polite strumming and earnest lyrics (I'd be so pleased to see you/Out of the classroom/Wearing the smile that I'll bring you) that step unironically into the awkwardly fitting shoes of his growing-pained teenage fanbase. Then come the emotional outbursts, during which he pummels his acoustic strings and draws words such as "waiting" into ten-syllable marathons. By the time his pity parties and heartfelt love letters reach their off-key climaxes, both fans and skeptics will be screaming "turn it off!" with the former overcome by his harrowing depictions of intense sorrow and blinding infatuation and the latter merely seeking an escape from the tortured-soul poetry, therapy-spawned primal screams and sob-garbled whines. I'm waiting ... for you to notice me, Carrabba wails with insecure concern, but he needn't worry. Love him or loathe him, an artist that can inspire these reactions is impossible to ignore.