I just tried red licorice soda. You know, for the hell of it.

It’s terrible. Been rinsing the taste out of my mouth for about 20 minutes now, and it’s not going away. I do things like this all the time. I have a natural and inescapable curiosity for anything that seems, by all outward appearances, as if the experience of it would be horrible. Particularly beverages – I’ve tried practically every flavor of beverage, no matter how putrid, including that grandpappy of all bad sodas, Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray. It’s celery flavored, in case you didn’t know.

It’s a disease. I can’t help it. When I heard that one of the tie-ins from the second Harry Potter movie was honest-to-God Every Flavor Jellybeans, including those that apparently taste like snot and bile, I was instantly filled with a desire to run out and buy them. So far, only the prohibitive cost has prevented me from doing so. My problem is that I’m constantly asking how bad something like snot-flavored jellybeans could possibly be, and then really wanting to know the answer.

Naturally, this is the kind of impulse that leads to buying Limp Bizkit albums. I got a lot of emails (quite a bit more than usual) questioning my sanity in forking over 10 bucks for Results May Vary, some noting that just being in proximity to that disc could likely give me a nasty infection of some sort. A few wondered if I was not, in fact, sick, either physically or mentally. While this won’t ease anyone’s mind about my mental health, I just wanted to point out that my buying albums I know will be bad, specifically to find out just how bad they are, is nothing new.

Case in point. A couple of years ago, I saw VH-1’s Behind the Music episode on Styx. When they got to Kilroy Was Here, the band’s infamous 1982 album that included “Mr. Roboto,” the producers made a point to edit together a succession of experts who all agreed that this was the worst album ever made. At that time, I had never heard Kilroy, having never been much of a Styx fan. But rather than thank my lucky stars that I’d been spared the worst album ever made, I immediately ran out and bought it. Because I had to hear it. How bad could it be?

And lo, it was very, very bad. Certainly in the running for the worst album I’ve ever heard. I remain glad, however, that I had the experience of torturing myself with it, because now I know exactly how bad it is, and my overpowering curiosity is sated. Don’t worry – I’m not tempted by 99 percent of the bad music I hear, because most of what people call bad is really just inoffensively boring to me. For me to want to hear a bad record, it has to have a reputation of being actively, painfully, laughably bad. I mean, the artist in question has to move heaven and earth to make every note worse than the last, to make an epic work of awfulness. Then I’m in.

I know. I need serious help. You’ll be glad to know, though, that this week I’m tired of talking about bad music. There’s been so much good stuff lately that I haven’t reviewed yet, and I hope to play catch-up this time. (I keep hearing Henry Rollins’ voice, yelling at me: “Review or don’t, but you can’t catch up!”) Looking back on 2003 thus far, it’s been surprisingly excellent in terms of new music, and with buzz-heavy records by Travis, Meshell Ndegeocello, Basement Jaxx and Ryan Adams coming to round the year off, I think it’s time to get cracking on the good stuff. Don’t you?

* * * * *

The best word to describe the new Rufus Wainwright album, Want One, is “fabulous.” And I don’t just mean fabulous the way music critics might say it, but fabulous the way Bryan Katt’s character from Jeffrey might. Or Sean Hayes’ Jack from Will and Grace.

You have to go back to early Queen albums like Sheer Heart Attack to find one this opulent and melodramatic. This record is full to bursting with strings, horns, pianos, banjos, layers of guitars and oceans of swooping backing vocals. It’s difficult, on first few listens, to get beyond just how huge this album is, how ornately decorated. This is exactly the sort of acceleration one expected in the wake of Wainwright’s delightful sophomore effort, Poses, and it’s just the sort of production that could easily slip from tonal coloring into excessive mess. Want One is practically an advertisement for how to do this kind of album right.

Step one, of course, is to write good songs on which to hang the production, and as usual, Wainwright has excelled in that department. There are 14 songs on Want One, and each one is a stunner, a marvel of craftsmanship. Wainwright takes equally from Broadway, the Beatles, and his father, folk singer Loudon Wainwright III. The result is songs that feel like classics, show tunes with unbeatable pop melodies and an epic sensibility, but which retain a grounded and human heart. Each of these songs would remain fascinating even if stripped of everything but piano or acoustic guitar. (In fact, “Pretty Things” is performed with just piano and voice, and is gorgeous.) Any list of the year’s best compositions would be dominated by this record.

And yet, each was written with an ear towards the massive production Wainwright loves. Take “Oh What a World,” the opening track. It wafts in on a choir of humming voices, which gives way to bleating tuba. As the song progresses, a full orchestra enters, swirling about the melody and occasionally blaring out lines from Ravel’s “Bolero.” At the center of all of this is Wainwright’s lovely voice, singing something worthy of London’s West End theatrical district. It’s huge and soaring, and one can scarcely imagine the track having the same impact without the production.

Or take “Beautiful Child,” a layered masterpiece that heralds the album’s final stretch. It’s all guitars and dazzling percussion for its first minute or so, but then the horn sections come in, augmenting the invigorating melody, and then – and then! – the backing vocals lift off, surrounding the action like a swarm of bees. And they’re all Wainwright, multi-tracked what sounds like dozens of times. When, at a crucial moment, all the instruments drop out except the acoustic guitar and the army of Rufus clones wailing away in the background, it’s a moment of genuine drama, and you don’t get those very often in pop music.

No two songs here sound alike, which could have been a detriment, but each is so well crafted, and the album as a whole sounds designed to fit together. This album, for all its sprawl, flows better than either of Wainwright’s previous efforts, and it’s his diversity that does the trick. A grand pop number like “I Don’t Know What It Is” segues into a (relatively) subdued electric piano piece like “Vicious World,” which then blends into an electric guitar stomper like “Movies Of Myself.” With “Go Or Go Ahead” he’s composed a real rock epic, one that breaks the six-minute mark, and he’s followed it up with a two-minute harp-driven ditty (“Vibrate”) and a jazz-pop shuffle (“14th Street”). And it all flows.

What links these songs is Wainwright’s voice, which he has developed over time from a pinched, nasal whine into an instrument of startling power. He wields it well on Want One, infusing his dramatic melodies with a stratospheric grace. He has the control of a classically trained tenor – check the ascending and descending melodies in fantastic closer “Dinner at Eight” for evidence. He stretches sometimes here – he almost, but not quite, pulls off the 16-second note in “Vibrate,” and “Harvester of Hearts” teeters in and out of his range – but he has a voice like no one else on the pop scene these days.

Want One is just about an hour long, and way too short – which makes sense, considering it’s one half of the double album Wainwright recorded. Want Two is scheduled for early next year, following the recent trend of halving lengthy works for easier public consumption. (See Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill or Ryan Adams’ Love Is Hell – now broken into two EPs – for further examples.) I say hell with anyone who couldn’t sit through two hours of this wonderful stuff. Whether Want Two will measure up to the standard of Want One is anyone’s guess. (It reportedly contains the “weird stuff,” like a nine-minute song and a Latin number, which, with Wainwright, could mean one with a Latin beat or one whose lyrics are in Latin. Or both.) My bet, based on his track record, is that it will.

But for now, we only have part one, and if the other reviews this time seem less considered than this one, it’s only because Want One has taken control of my stereo and will not relinquish it. It is, no question, one of the very best albums of the year – it’s battling Bruce Cockburn in my mind for the top spot, and often winning. It was obvious from his debut that Rufus Wainwright would one day make a great album, and if you thought he’d done it with Poses, wait until you hear this.

* * * * *

There’s an old adage that says that an artist has a lifetime to write his or her first album, and then just a few years at most to write a second one. That’s why the second album is considered to be so important – it’s proof that a particular artist can strike twice, that he or she is not just a one-trick pony, a one-hit wonder. When an artist fails, for whatever reason, to meet expectations on the second album, there’s an industry term for it. You may have heard it before, and it’s a term no artist likes to see in the same sentence with his or her name, and I’m about to do it twice.

John Mayer, meet the Sophomore Slump. Sophomore Slump, this is John Mayer.

Okay, it’s not that bad, but Mayer’s recently released Heavier Things is a bit of a letdown. Mayer, as you all know, burst onto the scene with Room for Squares, propelled by a first single called “No Such Thing.” It’s the kind of song that can only be written by someone under 25, with all of life unfolding ahead, and I’m glad Mayer captured that song when he could. It’s an infectious folk-pop anthem, and astoundingly, Room for Squares lived up to it. The album was full of equally memorable songs like “Why Georgia” and “3×5,” led by Mayer’s fleet-fingered acoustic guitar and warm voice. It’s not an album designed to change the world, but it stands as a pretty impressive debut.

There’s a particular skill that those hoping for a long recording career need to master fairly early on, and that’s the ability to write memorable songs quickly. Mayer’s not quite there, unfortunately, and about half of Heavier Things is given over to tunes without, well, tunes. If, after one time through, you can hum “New Deep,” or “Split Screen Sadness,” or “Home Life,” you’re a better John Mayer fan than I am. That there are only 10 songs, and of those five or so don’t stick in the brain like just about every song on the debut did, speaks of a creative crisis in the studio.

That crisis extends to the sound as well. Where Room for Squares practically leapt from the speakers with enthusiasm, Heavier Things is smoothed out and ready for adult contemporary radio. Mayer promised a more guitar-heavy work this time, and it’s a shame that he didn’t deliver – only a few songs contain guitar solos, and most rest on pleasantly strummed acoustics. There’s nothing here that would be out of place on a John Waite album, for example, and that’s depressing.

There are bright spots. The single, “Bigger Than My Body,” is impressive, even if it does try to capture the same emotions as “No Such Thing” with lesser results. The pseudo-bluesy “Come Back to Bed” is a highlight, with one of the aforementioned guitar solos. “Daughters” is a small gem, despite treacly lyrics. And closer “Wheel” hits all the right notes. Mayer’s lyrics, too, remain insightful, full of lines like this one from “Split Screen Sadness”: “I can’t wait to figure out what’s wrong with me, so I can say this is the way I used to be.”

Still, it’s unfortunate that such a talented new songwriter has made such an uninspired album. It’s nice, it’s a pleasant listen, but it takes a step back from his opening salvo. It’s good that the sophomore slump is out of the way, though. The proof of John Mayer’s artistic merit will likely lie with his third effort, and I hope he takes his time and makes it something special.

* * * * *

Forthwith, proof that I can relate anything to the Beatles.

The lads from Liverpool, whether they knew it or not, laid the blueprint for most successful and ambitious acts’ careers. Take this, for example: after perfecting their orchestral pop-rock on Revolver and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, the group felt emboldened to be artistically excessive. Hence, the messy, sprawling, self-titled white album, an elaborate and disjointed affair that takes more than 90 minutes to cram in all its ideas. The white album has very little filler, but the band defiantly refused to link the 30 songs they had written, and they all just come fast and furious, one after another, seemingly at random.

It’s the kind of album that only bands who have already made their masterpiece could create. And time after time, the pattern re-emerges. After a band makes its strongest single statement, you can bet they will return, after an extended studio stay, with a huge, unedited thud of a record that mimics the white album’s structure. Led Zeppelin did it, releasing Physical Graffiti after Houses of the Holy. Guns ‘n’ Roses famously created the gi-normous Use Your Illusion albums after Appetite for Destruction. Even Ani DiFranco came out with Up Up Up Up Up Up after the unqualified success of Little Plastic Castle. Prince has done it, like, five times. And how about Radiohead’s two follow-ups to OK Computer?

So when Georgia-based rap duo OutKast made the best and furthest-reaching album of their career in 2000 with Stankonia, itself a marvel of production and precision, there was no doubt that their next outing would be a massive, excessive thing. But few could have predicted what they actually did – the two members of OutKast, Antwan “Big Boi” Patton and Andre “3000” Benjamin, separated and recorded two distinct solo albums, with the intention of releasing them together as the fifth OutKast album. It goes by two names, Speakerboxxx and The Love Below, and all together it’s more than two hours long.

The secret to OutKast has always been the duo’s dance of influences – Big Boi is the hip hop guy, and Andre is the soul crooner, most of the time, and when they bring both to bear, as they did on their smash single “Ms. Jackson,” the results are often extraordinary. One would be forgiven for thinking that separating those influences, compartmentalizing them, would leave them with two inferior records. It’s striking, then, just how impressive this set is, and while I won’t say that it might have been better if they had chosen to integrate these 39 tracks, what’s here is the most eccentric, ambitious hip-hop soul album in ages.

Again, with their respective influences, you’d probably guess that Big Boi would make the more traditional of the two discs, and you’d be right, but only because Andre has gone into orbit on his half. On its own, Big Boi’s Speakerboxxx is a consistently enjoyable rap record, full of interesting, innovative production and a touch of southern soul. “Bowtie,” “The Way You Move” and “The Rooster” form an unofficial trilogy of horn-inflected pop, kind of a southern rap manifesto. Patton incorporates gospel on “Church” to surprisingly non-MC Hammer effect. Speakerboxxx weakens as it goes on and Big Boi brings out guest star after guest star, but it never runs out of gas.

And it’s good that Big Boi has made a rap record, because rap is all but absent from The Love Below, Andre’s vast landscape of wacky funk. At 78 minutes, this disc takes up the lion’s share of the set’s running time, and to call it sprawling is definitely an understatement. The whole thing glides on a spiritual-sexual vibe that recalls Minneapolis’ favorite son – this is, in many ways, Andre’s attempt at making a great Prince album.

One of the hallmarks of any Prince album, of course, is inconsistency, and that’s one trait Andre has mimicked perfectly on The Love Below. The album spirals from the perfect, hilarious slam of “Happy Valentine’s Day” to minimal chants like “Behold a Lady” to orchestral interludes like “Pink and Blue.” By the time he gets to an unlisted techno recasting of “My Favorite Things,” there’s little doubt that Andre has just thrown everything against the wall here. That so much of it sticks is impressive, and the sprawl is part of The Love Below‘s charm.

All in all, it’s a nifty concept, but Speakerboxxx and The Love Below would have been better served as one long, integrated whole. The two discs do give insight into the OutKast creative process, however, and put their previous achievements into new lights. (Much like McCartney and Lennon after the white album – it became obvious from that point on who brought what to the table.) The pair insist the two solo albums do not indicate a straining of the seams, and that the next one will be a group effort.

Even McCartney and Lennon split Abbey Road down the middle, though, so it remains to be seen if OutKast remains as unified next time out. This time, they’ve created a remarkable achievement, one that goes beyond just about anyone else doing hip-hop these days. It’s a long trip, and it probably could have been a shorter one, but it’s fascinating.

* * * * *

I am late enough with this column that I have already seen volume one of Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill. It’s a big, dumb, excessive, incredibly cool samurai movie, at least so far, and it’s that last bit I have the most trouble with. Kill Bill, as mentioned earlier, has been cleaved in two by Miramax, and delivered to theaters in installments – one now, one in February. Problem is, there’s no reason for the hack job. Or rather, no artistic reason – I do understand that Miramax will make more money on two films (and likely three DVD releases) than they would have on one, and it’s better for them to have two R-rated films than one long NC-17 one.

But those are money reasons, and have nothing to do with the film itself, which suffers horribly from this wound. The movie is told in traditional Tarantino style, with sections out of order and snippets from past and future scenes cutting in at what seems like random. The chronology always makes sense by the end of his pictures, however – remember how Pulp Fiction looped on itself masterfully. By hacking off the second half, however, we don’t get to see Tarantino’s method, and all we’re left with at the moment is fractured storytelling and what we hope is foreshadowing.

I’m a sucker for lengthy works. I left Kill Bill itching for the second half, which plays right into Miramax’s hands, of course. But I also left believing that watching the second half, after a four-month break, will not be as effective as watching the whole thing all at once. It’s going to lose a lot. I often wonder where our attention span, our patience for longer works, has gone. Was it really only four years ago that Magnolia hit theaters with a 190-minute running time? Imagine if that film had ended right after the game show, and you get the idea here. Kill Bill will just plain work better all at once, all three hours and 20 minutes of it.

We’re seeing it more and more lately – longer works chopped into pieces for easier digestion. I guess my affinity for longer stories came from comic books. It’s not uncommon for a single story to be spread out over dozens of issues – or, in the case of the soon-to-be-completed Cerebus, 300 of them, totaling 6000 pages. It takes a long time to read these works, but it’s always rewarding. Similarly, it takes a time commitment to listen to huge albums, like The Wall or Frank Zappa’s Civilization Phaze III, but the rewards are great.

Of course, I’m the guy who wants to take two weeks off and watch all seven seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in a row, so maybe I’m not the right person to comment. But I respect and admire artists who tackle the long-form work, and I’m always pleasantly surprised when publishing companies back them and release them uncut. Double albums are a particular weakness of mine. Far from being the intimidating slab that record companies believe they are, often a huge double album is my perfect excuse to try a band I’ve been meaning to sample.

Case in point – Over the Rhine. Here’s a band I’ve heard of, heard nothing but good things about, and have even seen play live, but I’ve never bought any of their albums, for no reason I can think of. But when I heard that their seventh, Ohio, would be 95 minutes long and spread out over two discs, I sought it out. I know, it’s insane. But I’m always hoping that longer works like these will be more definitive statements, in a way, than smaller ones. In this case, it’s probably true.

Over the Rhine is a duo, Karen Bergquist and Linford Detwiler, and they write defiantly, deceptively simple songs that draw from traditional heartland musics. The 21 songs on Ohio are stripped to their barest essences, and often contain little more than piano and acoustic guitar behind Bergquist’s rich, lovely voice. This album is all about performance and ambiance, and it’s often painfully, beautifully intimate. It was recorded on an 8-track, which amazes me – nobody records analog anymore, but the full, ringing tones the pair has captured here say to me that more artists should try it. There’s nothing cold about this music.

And I can’t imagine this being trimmed, or worse, cut in half. This is not two albums packaged together, like the OutKast record. Ohio is one complete statement, one in which songs complement and improve each other by proximity. It’s worth every one of the 95 minutes it takes to listen to it. It’s also the kind of simple, direct music that defies explanation – I could tell you that “Ohio” drifts on melancholy piano, or that “Suitcase” is both hummable and emotional, or that hearing Bergquist sing “Changes Come” is a nearly spiritual experience, but the songs are so naked that there’s almost nothing to talk about. This is pure music, and while a mammoth production like Rufus Wainwright’s Want One wouldn’t sound the same without his embellishments, here they would dilute the music’s power.

It shouldn’t have taken seven albums for me to discover a group like this. Ohio is a wonderful album, one whose shape only becomes clear over time. I’m grateful that the band and their label, Back Porch Records, realized that this long record works best in one go. Do yourself a favor – buy Ohio, and do with it what you can’t yet do with Wainwright’s album, or Tarantino’s movie: experience it all at once.

* * * * *

Whew. Next week, I expect to check in with Spock’s Beard and Neal Morse. Thanks for reading this far. I’m going to sleep now.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

When I was 16, 30 was old.

By old, I mean ancient. Decrepit. Ready for death. I was young, modestly talented and ready for anything. I had seen old people, felt the crushing despair of their lock-step lives, and wanted no part of that, thank you very much.

What I couldn’t put my finger on then was that age, in and of itself, didn’t bother me. It was the merciless snuffing out of potential, the conversion of infinite possible paths into one actual and irreversible one, that terrified me. At 16, I could have been anything by the time I hit 30. At 30, I will only be what I am. Depressing, no?

Now, I’m not there yet – still have another nine months or so to go – so I’m not prematurely eulogizing my wasted youth or anything. But I have been feeling old lately, and boxed in by inescapable reality, and all of a sudden 30 doesn’t seem so far away. In fact, I’m starting to see signs, telling me to slow down and prepare to exit. “Miserable Relentless Adulthood, Take Exit 30.” Here’s hoping there’s a slow vehicle lane.

My musical taste is one area about which I expected to retain my youthful outlook forever. “I’ll never be like my parents,” I’d say, “who wouldn’t know Jane’s Addiction from Jane Siberry.” (They wouldn’t. I don’t even need to conduct that experiment.) I expected I would always be like my 16-year-old self, with my thumb on the pulse of What the Kids Are Into These Days. You know the drill. Don’t trust anyone over 30. If it’s too loud, you’re too old. I’d watched too many people latch on to a few artists from their youth and drift away from even trying new music, for fear of melting their fragile eardrums. “Not me,” I’d say. “Melt away, younger generation. Do your worst.”

And it may be that I’ve grown up in ways I never expected, or it may be that the younger generation’s worst is much, much worse than I ever imagined, but it’s starting to happen. I find myself standing in line behind young kids at the record store, kids who are buying Good Charlotte and New Found Glory CDs because MTV told them to, and I find myself wanting to rip the discs from their hands and replace them with records by Bruce Cockburn or Joni Mitchell or Andy Partridge. You know, old people. What’s wrong with me?

Every once in a while, I get the urge to prove to myself that I’m not a hopeless case. That I’m down with the youth. That, if I wanted to and it wouldn’t be unbelievably creepy, I could still hang with the kids and talk music and come off as that Cool Older Guy, not that Pitiful Old Freak. So I break down and give one of the bands all the kids are into a try, hoping to recapture the fleeting traces of my youth. Thankfully, this is a very occasional impulse. Otherwise, I’d end up with many more albums as atrociously bad as Limp Bizkit’s Results May Vary.

Okay, this wasn’t too much of a risk, all things considered. For one, it was only ten bucks (and a ripoff at half the price). For another, I already own all the other Limp Bizkit albums – chalk it up to my completist nature and the fact that they used to be kind of good once. (Same with their mentors, Korn.) And third, I had heard that this was to be a slower, deeper, more mature effort from these guys. Granted, their last album, Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water, sounded like it came from the mind of an autistic second grader, so there was nowhere to go but up, but still.

Sadly, this bizkit is the limpest one yet. I knew, deep down, that it would suck, and that my dreams of becoming 18 again through this music would be shattered. What’s surprising and, yes, hilarious, is the new depths of suckage the boys have plumbed here. Original guitarist Wes Borland has departed this sinking ship, and taken with him all the band’s ideas, such as they were. Without him, sole captain Fred Durst has decided to get deep, to grow feelings, to reach down into his very soul and relate what he’s found there. Turns out, he’s found 15 very bad songs. Thanks, Fred.

The other band members try their very best, sadly. New guitarist Mike Smith, from defunct band Snot, plays competently and adds a few Dave Navarro-like textures to these slow plods. A few of the melodies are sort of pleasant. Snoop Dogg comes in to rap on one utterly out of place track designed for TRL, and he does an okay job. Drummer John Otto and DJ Lethal are all but invisible, which is nice. In fact, there’s only one thing that drags this album from forgettable trifle to putrid pile of ridicule-worthy slop, and that’s Fred Durst.

Most of Results May Vary sounds like someone took the very worst songs from all three Staind albums, strung them together, erased Aaron Lewis’ voice and lyrics, and replaced them with those of a brain-damaged monkey. Without Borland to keep him in some kind of check, Durst is free to trample all over this record, and he does, gleefully. He’s bad enough on the heavier tracks, where he can shamelessly ape the Beastie Boys, as he does on “Gimme the Mic,” and hide behind the song’s momentum. It’s when things slow down that results start to vary, wildly.

More than half of this album is given over to the newly emotional Bizkit sound – acoustic guitars, moaning melodies, and lyrics about childhood and relationship trauma. Thing is, it’s tough to make an emotional record without any, y’know, emotions. The simple truth is that Durst’s life before Limp Bizkit was pretty average, and his life since then has been positively charmed. He has no pain to draw from. He has no exceptional stories to relate. He’s a reality television contestant – a shameless self-promoter who believes we’re interested in all aspects of his boring, self-centered life. It’s little wonder that he’s shown grabbing his crotch in the liner pictures – his lyrics here are perhaps the most masturbatory I’ve ever seen.

Want some examples? There are countless. Here’s one from “Underneath the Gun”: “Stress is tremendous and pressure is endless, no one on this planet like me to be friends with.” How about this howler from “Build a Bridge”: “Build a bridge, make a path, overlook the aftermath, make my tears be your bath.” Here’s a bit about the above-mentioned endless pressure, from “Let Me Down”: “Rumors are tumors of the sick and mainly useless, when you come to me with these things it’s the shit that I can’t deal with.” Or how about this, from “The Only One,” in which Fred lays out his attractive principles: “If the vibe’s good, go to first base… I ain’t looking to screw till the vibe’s right.” Later he explains to his lady love that if they’re not meant to be, he has “no need to knock another home run out.” And they say romance is dead.

Anyway, this goes on for nearly an hour until Durst gets to his cardinal sin – a terrible cover of the Who’s “Behind Blue Eyes.” It’s okay to mess with his own songs, but when he runs roughshod all over a lovely tune like this one, it’s unforgivable. The worst part comes halfway through, when Durst discovers that Pete Townshend (whose name he misspelled in the credits, by the way) has somehow forgotten to include the name of Durst’s band in his lyrics. To rectify this, he programs a Speak and Spell to repeat this line: “Discover L-I-M-P. Say it.” Seriously. All over Pete’s song.

And I know I’m getting old when I’m upset that this version of “Behind Blue Eyes” is likely the only one most purchasers of Results May Vary have ever heard. In fact, given that Durst is three years older than I am, I’m starting to believe that my musical taste skews towards my elders. A good case in point is Elvis Costello, who’s pushing 50. He has a new album out too, his 20th, and it’s as far from the inane, shallow rantings of Fred Durst as one could hope to get.

But here’s the thing that scares me about my own maturing taste – I didn’t like When I Was Cruel, Costello’s raving rock record of last year. Too spastic, too repetitive, too long, and too much of a strain on Costello’s aging voice. It doesn’t make me feel any younger to report that I love North, his first solo foray into orchestral balladry. This album wafts in on beautiful strings, drifts along on subtly played piano and lilting vocals, pauses occasionally for flugelhorn solos, and strolls back out again in 41 minutes. No crashing guitars, no thundering drums, no spitting, no bile-drenched lyrics. Rarely has a long-term popular artist acted his age so completely.

Some might say it’s as if Costello has nothing left to prove, but that’s not completely true. In essence, North represents an effort to prove his worth in more challenging arenas than rock. Costello builds on his collaborations with the Brodsky Quartet and Burt Bacharach here, but this is the first time he’s flown solo, arranging and conducting all the orchestrations. Given that, this is a supremely confident record, full of twisting lines and curves, powerful in its surprising complexity.

North works as a concept piece, neatly divided in half. The first set of songs concern the aftermath of a dissolved relationship, the second the intoxicating flush of a new romance. You don’t need to know that his marriage to long-time songwriting partner Cait O’Riordan recently ended, or that he’s fallen for jazz singer Diana Krall since then, to feel how personal these songs are. You can hear it in his voice, in fine form here and none the worse for wear after screaming his way through Cruel and the subsequent tour. North is one of his finest vocal performances, warm and rich and melodic.

While all the songs here are accomplished, Costello heralds the more upbeat second half with one of his best songs, the delightful “Still.” It effortlessly captures the thrill of new love, that sweetly rushing sensation that all but defies gravity: “Now you speak my name and set my pulse to race, sometimes words may tumble out but can’t eclipse the feeling when you press your fingers to my lips.” If, with North, Costello wanted to prove to himself he could write timeless standards, then “Still” is the best evidence of his success.

North is the perfect album for those snowy, wintry nights to come. It is arguably Costello’s most beautiful work, and one that could only be accomplished by one with decades of music under his belt. While it’s true that North will likely not appeal to anyone who likes Results May Vary, and comparing the two makes me feel older than I care to continue discussing, the album itself shows that this angry young man has become a graceful elder gent. If anyone has earned the right to sneer at the minimally talented up-and-comers, it’s Elvis Costello, but he doesn’t. By North‘s end, he sounds contented, even happy, and he’s made an album that can only inspire those emotions in any willing to give it a spin. And to those young whippersnappers still more impressed with Durst and his crew, well, I can only smile and say that you’ll grow out of it. Trust me.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I forgot how depressing comic book conventions can be.

Or maybe it’s just that I’m depressed in general these days, and it just bleeds over into anything I do. But I don’t think so. For those of you who don’t already know, my other great passion (besides music) is comic books. There are all kinds of other names for them, mostly hoity-toity attempts at forcing the non-comics-reading world to take comics seriously as a medium – sequential art, for example, or graphic fiction. But nobody knows what you’re talking about when you use terms like those, so I just stick with comics.

And honestly, the word comics carries with it its own set of preconceived ideas, mostly relating directly to either Peanuts or X-Men. There’s more – much, much more – available to the discerning comics reader, especially one willing to part with large sums of money on a regular basis. The books I buy and read, by and large, contain no costumed super-heroes and no funny cartoon people or talking animals. (Okay, there are a few talking animals…) Despite its rich history, comics remains a fairly new medium – the first comic book emerged in the early 1930s – and new boundaries are broken all the time by writers and artists hungry to do something amazing in the field.

This isn’t meant to be a sales pitch for comics, but if you want to read books that will shatter your ideas of what can be done with panels and word balloons, try the works of Scott Morse, Andi Watson, Chester Brown, Neil Gaiman, Will Eisner, Alan Moore or Joe Sacco. Just for starters.

So, obviously, I approach comics as an emerging and exciting art form, just exploding with magic and potential. How utterly depressing, then, to be trapped in a room full of collectors, speculators and super-hero fans bartering over the price of old Avengers and Batman books. The Baltimore Comic-Con opened its doors on Saturday, on schedule despite the flooding Hurricane Isabel left in her wake, and welcomed what could have been dozens of area comics fans. The convention itself took place in the Baltimore Convention Center – or, rather, a tiny part of a smaller annex of the Baltimore Convention Center. And it was very, very small.

This despite the presence of one of comics’ biggest stars, Jim Lee. Lee rocketed to fame while working on X-Men (what else), but in 1992 he turned independent, starting (with six popular friends) Image Comics, one of the biggest market forces of the ’90s. Lee left Image in the latter half of the decade, taking his established (and largely terrific) Wildstorm line with him. Projects under his umbrella now include Wildcats 3.0, a textured and engrossing look at corporate warfare; Stormwatch, a superbly written (by Micah Ian Wright) post-modern military book; and Alan Moore’s entire line of America’s Best Comics. (Really, that’s the line’s name.) As part of that line, Wildstorm publishes Promethea, one of the finest and most genre-destroying books on the market.

But Lee couldn’t really draw the crowds, it seemed. Waiting lines to meet not only him, but other impressive writers and artists (George Perez, Ron Marz, Mike Avon Oeming) were much smaller than I remember from my earlier convention-going days, and the poor folks in Artists’ Alley didn’t seem to get much attention at all. Artists’ Alley, by the way, is where convention organizers stick all the unsuccessful and independent publishers, who tend to look at potential customers with desperation in their eyes. “Please buy our book,” they all seem to silently plead. “We don’t have enough money to get home.”

There were some bright spots of my convention experience. I hooked up with Jimmy Gownley again – he was one of my frequent con buddies, back when I wrote Tapestry and he did Shades of Gray. He’s a swell artist, an extremely nice guy, and he’s got a new all-ages book called Amelia Rules that’s doing quite well for him. (Take a look at www.ameliarules.com.) He and his wife Karen are also getting ready for the imminent arrival of not one, but two kids – twin daughters. Catching up with Jimmy was the highlight of the day for me.

And standing like an oasis amidst the crap was the Top Shelf Comix booth, manned by publisher Chris Staros. A better publishing company you will not find anywhere – Top Shelf is committed to expanding the medium and giving it the respect it deserves. Just this year, they’ve published two of my favorite graphic novels – Scott Morse’s The Barefoot Serpent, and Craig Thompson’s mammoth Blankets. Staros is a hell of a guy as well, and he’s got lots of great projects lined up for next year. Check out his wares at www.topshelfcomix.com.

Thankfully, my love of comics allows me to overlook a lot of its less savory aspects. But seriously, I’ve never encountered an art form or an industry that needs a dose of inviting self-respect more than comics. I’ve been reading these things since I was nine years old, and the Baltimore Comic-Con even put me off a bit. I can hardly imagine the effect such a desperate, insular event might have on newcomers, perhaps those who had just seen X-Men 2 and thought they’d give comics a try. Like science fiction and Japanese animation, comics seem to work better if you get into them on your own, because when they become communal experiences, they start to get a little terrifying and sad, even for longtime fans like me.

* * * * *

Once again, it seems, my favorite record of the year is going to be ineligible for the Top 10 List. But here, let me tell you all about it anyway.

But first, let me tell you about this book I just finished reading.

Nick Hornby, writer of High Fidelity and About a Boy, among others, crafted an autobiography of sorts in the early ’90s called Fever Pitch. This book details his obsession with British football, and with the Highbury football team called Arsenal in particular. Hornby is an obsessive fan – he has, numerous times, passed on social occasions like weddings to attend football games, he’s gone to the field with broken bones and other injuries that would keep saner men home, and he remembers the date, score and scorers of virtually every game he’s ever attended. In this book, Hornby lovingly captures what it means to passionately care about something, almost to the exclusion of all else.

Needless to say, I found myself identifying with him often, just as I had throughout High Fidelity. Substitute music or comics for football, and more often than not, Hornby could be describing me. That he so nimbly depicted my own obsessions while discussing a subject I had not the least interest in stands as a testament to both the book and the odd universality of these all-consuming passions.

At one point near the book’s conclusion, Arsenal wins its first championship in 18 years, an event for which Hornby had been waiting half his life. He spares nothing in describing it as the single best moment of his life, which he understands many people would find pathetic beyond words. But it started me thinking about how many of the best moments of my life are related directly to music – a certain concert, for example, or the first time I heard a certain album that imprinted itself on my soul.

Most people I know don’t experience music the way I do, and don’t think of it as anything higher than background music for their own lives. I’ve always felt bad for those people, in the same way I’m sure they feel bad for me. While I can’t see the thrill in parenthood or marriage or parties or most of the things people plan their lives around, those people can’t lose themselves, find themselves and fill themselves up with music. I can’t imagine a day without it, and I can’t imagine a day when I’ll stop loving and needing it as much as I do, and I dream of being able to communicate that love and need to people in a way that makes them understand, and I know I’ll never find the words.

I buy an insane amount of music on a regular basis, more than any one person should have time to listen to. The reason I keep buying records is the same reason Nick Hornby keeps going to football matches – we’re both hoping for the win. I have had a mere handful of musical experiences so spiritual, so fulfilling that for a time, in a sense, they become me, and that feeling is so inexplicably wonderful that I would (and do) gladly buy hundreds of mediocre-to-very-good albums in the hope of finding that one perfect gateway to the infinite.

It’s been years since I’ve felt that, and I’ve bought hundreds of albums in the interim – I’m well over a hundred just in 2003 so far. Most of them pass by without making much impression. Several give me what the characters on Buffy the Vampire Slayer would call “a happy.” Some move me, and a few of those that do move me to tears. And a very few enrich me beyond price, and those easily make up for the hundreds that don’t.

Jeff Buckley’s Live at Sin-e is one of those.

By now most people are familiar with the tragic tale of Jeff Buckley. He made one album – the phenomenal, incredible Grace. While working on his second, he took a dip in the Mississippi River and never came up. The words “gone too soon” have rarely been more apt – Jeff Buckley was gifted with an exquisitely beautiful voice, a genuine talent for songwriting and a singer’s soul. If music is a conduit between singer and listener, then Buckley’s music made singer and listener indistinguishable. Buckley was his songs, and while you’re listening to them, you are his songs, too. He makes you live them – it’s impossible to hear Buckley’s voice and not be drawn in completely.

Since his death, we’ve been granted several more visits with Buckley – a two-disc collection of the skeletal outlines he was working on at the time of his drowning, a reissue of all of his singles and EPs, and a raucous, powerful live album. And now we have the final missing piece, as far as I know. Before Grace, Buckley released a four-song EP called Live at Sin-e, a document that has just been re-released in an expanded version. And when I say expanded, I mean it – Live at Sin-e is now two and a half hours long, and comes complete with a live DVD as well. It’s 150 minutes of Jeff Buckley and his guitar, and nothing else, and it’s positively mesmerizing.

This set was recorded in 1993 at the New York club that gave Buckley his start. (It’s pronounced “shin-ay.”) And perhaps it’s that distinction that sets this apart from his other posthumous albums, but this is the first one that doesn’t make me boundlessly sad. These are not artifacts from his last days or recordings from his final tour – when Buckley wrote and played these songs, his best days were still ahead of him, and it’s that sense of potential that helps make Live at Sin-e a joyous listen.

Well, that and the sheer power of these performances. This set is the clearest examination yet of that voice, that superhuman, impossibly gorgeous voice. Here it is largely unadorned, forced by necessity to stand on its own and communicate everything by itself, and this context allows us to marvel at it from every angle, and it’s still not enough to understand it. One thing becomes crystal clear by set’s end, if it wasn’t clear already – Buckley wielded that voice with perfect precision and control, and with it, he could do anything. Absolutely anything.

For instance. Here he covers Van Morrison, Ray Charles, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen, among others, and he completely reinvents each song, often stretching his versions to 10 or more blissful minutes. He unquestionably owns every song by the time he’s through. One of the album’s highlights is a stunning, soaring rendition of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s “Yeh Jo Halka Halka Saroor Hai,” and he twists and wraps that voice around every alien syllable with stunning ease. He segues effortlessly from Led Zeppelin’s “Night Flight,” a version that outdoes the rock gods with just one six-string, into Nina Simone’s glorious “If You Knew.” And at one point, he perfectly mimics Miles Davis’ 1970s fusion sound with just his guitar, using his voice as Miles’ trumpet, piercing the din.

Buckley’s control is so perfect that he’s able to lose himself in the material, the way that only accomplished players and singers can. He scats his way through a 10-minute read of Van Morrison’s “The Way Young Lovers Do” that’s simply breathtaking, and his 12-minute rendition of the traditional “Dink’s Song” bursts skyward on pure feeling. Far from the minimalism one might expect from a solo show, Live at Sin-e is invigorating, and often positively exhausting.

It’s also incandescent. There isn’t a minute of this recording that doesn’t feel like it descended from some more perfect place. It’s difficult to believe that all of this music came from one person in one place, even if you watch the DVD, and it’s even more difficult to believe that this person is gone. It’s no exaggeration to say that music has often saved my life, and also no exaggeration to say that this year especially it needs saving. It’s also dreadfully ironic that Buckley’s incredible gifts couldn’t save his own.

But the bottom line here is this. If music is my life, as Nick Hornby suggests that football is his, then the stunning, indescribably beautiful music on Live at Sin-e is one of the reasons why. This is the type of album, the type of experience, that I wait and hope for, that I drag myself through endless days in search of. Put simply, it’s a record worth living to hear, and I’m glad beyond my ability to communicate that I lived to hear it.

I’m sure most would consider that a strange and sad statement, and maybe it is, but to me, it’s the most uplifting sentence I’ve typed all year. I can’t understand indifference towards this music any more than I can understand the senseless death of its author, even though the reality of both is inescapable. My fondest wish for those I would love to love better is that they could listen to something like Live at Sin-e and hear it the way I do, and take from it all the wonder and joy it brings me. In lieu of that, however, all I can say is that this little live album (and several others like it through the years) has made my life better, in ways that nothing else but music can. This is what it’s all about.

* * * * *

Next week, why two of my recent purchases make me feel really, really old.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I know, I know, I’m terribly late again. But this time I have a good excuse.

Her name is Isabel.

I live 20 miles north of Baltimore, right on the Chesapeake Bay, and for the last week or so, this whole area has gone hurricane crazy. People have been buying water by the 10-gallon package, sandbagging their doors and making sure everything they owned and wanted to keep was elevated four feet off the ground. I watched all this activity with amusement – something about the way I’m wired makes it difficult for me to be frightened of anything named Isabel. Now if it had been called Hurricane Asskicker, that would be a different story, but Isabel? Ooh, I’m so scared.

Well, she showed me. Isabel whacked our area pretty badly, even though she shifted course mid-week and decided not to come up the bay after all. Really, it could have been a lot worse – Isabel was rated a Category Five hurricane before she hit land, with winds approaching 160 miles per hour. By the time she reached North Carolina and started inland, she had been downgraded to a Category Two. And considering that, I don’t think I ever want to see a Category Five.

Isabel hit Maryland at about 6 p.m. on Thursday, and even though we only caught the outer edge of her swirling vortex of death, we got slammed. Baltimore’s inner harbor is entirely flooded, huge trees were ripped from the ground and flung onto roads and power lines, and many folks found pieces of their houses missing come Friday morning. Our city lost power at about midnight, and it stayed off all through Friday and Saturday morning.

We were lucky. We have an enormous dead tree in our backyard, which we’ve been trying to have removed for months. I really don’t know what kept that sucker upright, but it’s a good thing, because had it come down, it would have landed square on our house. As it is, rotted limbs were torn off and scattered across our lawn (or rather, “lawn”), and it’s a wonder no one was hurt.

I’ve been rethinking my journalism ambitions recently, and one image from the hurricane’s assault has remained with me as an example of the sort of thing I don’t ever want to do. Before the power cut out on Thursday, I was watching our local news, and they cut to one of those maniacs that do on-location reports from storm zones. This guy was a mess – tattered and windblown, and crouching behind a stone wall. “Right now I’m in a protected area,” he said reassuringly.

Then – and here’s the stupid part – he looked square at the camera and said this: “Watch what happens when I step out of the protected area and into the winds.” And the idiot did it, and was promptly blown over. And I realized that he was probably all tattered and windblown because he’d practiced that routine before the cameras rolled. Dumbass.

Anyway, I made it through all right, and thanks to those who have expressed concern for my well-being. At about 10 this morning, Baltimore Gas and Electric said “let there be light,” and there was light, and it was good. I got my registration straightened out, which left me with more money than I expected, so I’m able to get this month’s deluge of new releases, including new ones from Seal, John Mayer, Outkast, A Perfect Circle, Elvis Costello, Rufus Wainwright, Dave Matthews, Neal Morse, South, The Mavericks, Lyle Lovett, Sting, and, yes, Iron Maiden. All of which means that I’m practically drowning in column topics now, and even though it’s a lovely Saturday and the Baltimore Comic-Con is happening right now, if I don’t get this Sloan review out of the way, I may not get to it.

So here goes.

* * * * *

In order to really appreciate the new Sloan album, Action Pact, you have to listen to it while you’re driving.

Seriously. Try listening to it at home, as background for whatever you’re doing, and then try cranking it up in the car as you’re zipping past old people on the highway. It’s a completely different experience, and one that vastly improves what’s actually a backwards step for the band. As any fan of the Canadian quartet knows, Sloan changes sound every album, which partially accounts for their lack of popularity in the United States. This is the first time, however, that the sound of the new one has been a direct reaction to the sound of the previous one, and they may have stepped just a little far in one direction.

Sloan’s last album, 2001’s extraordinary Pretty Together, found them layering on the production techniques like never before. They wrote it largely as a unit, and labored over every second of the sound until it shone. Pretty Together practically glittered, especially “The Other Man,” their best shot at a chart smash in many a moon. (It didn’t work.) Still, after such an intensive process, I can certainly understand the impulse to make a simple, raw rock record immediately thereafter.

Hence Action Pact, on which Sloan has decided that they actually want to be AC/DC. It’s filled with dumb rock riffs and fist-pumping choruses, like a Kiss album made by collegiate nerds. It’s stunningly derivative, and stunningly brief, almost like it’s not really an official release. Previous Sloan albums have managed a deft balance between idiotic-yet-fun rock and textured pop, but this one tosses that balance away in favor of rocking out for 35 minutes or so. There are no ballads, there are only two mid-tempo numbers, and for the most part, the only instruments here are guitars, bass and drums.

There’s one other important thing missing as well – the sense of band democracy the foursome has fostered all along. Every previous album has provided equal time to Sloan’s four singer/songwriters – guitarists Jay Ferguson and Patrick Pentland, bassist Chris Murphy and drummer Andrew Scott. Action Pact, however, is dominated by Murphy and Pentland – they get five songs each, and Ferguson gets the remaining two. Scott’s voice is completely absent, and without his twisty epics to round it out, the album feels like it’s lost a limb.

What’s here, though, is certainly fun. Opener “Gimme That” announces its presence straight away, with a full twin-guitar assault topped by Murphy’s nearly wordless melody. Pentland’s “Live On” uses the same four chords, but makes room for some big, dumb solos as well. In fact, nearly everything here has been through the Dumb-O-Tron – Murphy’s “Ready For You,” for example, is built on one admittedly cool riff, and includes lines like, “My life is so lonesome, now I know you exist, we could talk on the phone some, but I’d rather we kissed…” Slap that song onto the playlist of any ’70s rock station and no one would know it was recorded this year.

Some tunes on Action Pact remind me more of Dokken and ’80s Kiss than the ’60s and ’70s influences for which Sloan are known. “Backstabbin'” made me check to see that it wasn’t a Gene Simmons or Judas Priest cover (it isn’t), and “Who Loves Life More” starts out with a riff George Lynch could have written. If One Chord to Another aped the ’60s and Between the Bridges trotted out the ’70s, then it seems like they’re on a progression, and before long they’ll be back to the mid-’90s wall of guitars that permeated their debut, Smeared. God, let’s hope not…

Amidst all the moronic rock cliches on this album, though, there are many moments that keep it sparkling: Ferguson’s wonderful ascending guitar lick on “False Alarm,” for example, or the backing vocals on “Reach Out,” or even the whole of “The Rest of My Life,” as feel-good a single as they’ve ever released. This is not an album meant for analysis or critical review, however. It’s supposed to be a stupid rock album, cut from the same cloth as Hotter Than Hell or Electric Warrior. When you’re sitting and trying to figure it out, it’s impossibly knuckleheaded and more than a bit silly. But when you’re driving at 90 miles per hour, shaking your fist and shouting along, it’s the best rock and roll record to come out this year.

* * * * *

Next week, some new stuff, plus notes from the Comic-Con.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

There’s been so much death this week that it almost seems crass to discuss anything else.

So I won’t.

Two weeks ago, I prematurely eulogized Warren Zevon, on the occasion of the release of his final album, The Wind. Zevon died in his sleep at age 56 on Sunday night, but not before he capped off a reckless and exhilarating career with a terrific, graceful goodbye in song. I know I didn’t know the man, but his passing has oddly affected me – Zevon’s songs were always little windows into his (often very black) heart, like letters from a crotchety, cynical friend. I’ll miss reading them.

But at least Zevon lived long enough to see not only the births of his twin grandchildren, but the widespread critical acclaim afforded The Wind. Better than that, he got to crack the Top 20 sales chart one last time – the first time, in fact, in more than 20 years that he had done so. It’s like thousands of people all got together with the goal of making sure that Zevon knew how many people loved and appreciated his work.

Mid-week, of course, we had the second anniversary of September 11, and while I’m still waiting for that considered artistic response I predicted two years ago from our most insightful musicians, the day still rang with resonance. I chose, in what’s becoming a tradition, to re-read my September 11 benefit comics – two volumes, published by a host of companies all working together for no money, with all proceeds going to a fund to help the families of victims. It’s striking how angry and powerful some of those stories are, and how deeply felt the work is as a whole. Immersing myself in them again only added to the hopeful gloom of the week.

Then there’s John Ritter, who died suddenly today. (I’m writing this on Friday the 12th, regardless of the date up top.) While everyone is mentioning his work on Three’s Company and Eight Simple Rules, I’m remembering Ritter another way: I will always respect him for sending himself up so completely on Buffy the Vampire Slayer in the show’s second season. The episode itself (“Ted”) was pretty bad, but Ritter was terrific, spoofing his too-perfect TV dad persona, and the cast couldn’t say enough nice things about him. That was apparently the case wherever Ritter went – along with Fred Rogers, we’ve lost two of TV’s genuinely nice guys this year, and it’s a shame.

And then there’s Johnny Cash.

Cash died at age 71 last night, mere months after the passing of his wife, June Carter Cash. Many people are going to try to eulogize Cash in the next few days, and I’m interested to see them try it. I don’t think it can be done. I refuse to believe that anyone can sum up what Johnny Cash meant, embodied and symbolized about music, faith, honor and dignity in words. He transcended genres, labels and boundaries simply by being Johnny Cash, and his music is timeless and immortal. Thankfully, there’s a lot of it as well, and more on the way – at least six CDs worth of recordings he made with Rick Rubin prior to his death. There will never be another like him. Ever.

At least once a year, I find myself writing one of these short columns on the ridiculous brevity of life, and I never regret doing it. Seriously, folks, take some time out this week to enjoy the moments of your life as they pass. Go outside, sit in the sunshine, play, frolic, dance, sing, whatever. I mean it. Go. You’ll thank yourself later. I’ve said it before, and will likely say it again: life’s too goddamn short.

Next week, that Sloan album. Now, seriously, go.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Gonna be a short one this time. I’m exhausted from work – we initiated our “5-S” program this week. Oh, let me tell you about that.

First, you should know that 5-S is just another way of emulating the Japanese method of production. We’ve been doing that for a while now in the manufacturing world: rather than actually make better parts, which the Japanese seem to do with ease, we focus on the minutia of Japanese workplace culture. Hence, the 5-S program, which takes five Japanese words, loosely translates them into five English words that start with S, and calls it a way of life. The words are shine, sort, select, something, and, um, something else. I don’t know the words because they don’t mean anything.

Basically, 5-S can be boiled down to “clean up your shit.” That’s it. It’s like what your mother used to tell you – put everything back where it goes. Only in the case of a manufacturing plant, we need signs and stencils and arrows and painted circles and stripes and labels to make sure we know a) what everything is and b) where everything goes. 5-S assumes that if you approach a rack filled with supplies, you won’t realize that it’s a supply rack without a large painted sign telling you so. It also assumes that people need painted caution lines to tell them that big (I mean huge) metal obstacles, like cabinets and steel racks, are in their way. Seriously, if you can’t avoid a 15-foot-tall, eight-foot-wide, bright blue metal rack without walking into it, I don’t think a painted yellow line is going to help matters.

So I’ve been painting and moving things and painting some more, just in case we hire a Special Olympics team to staff the plant and give them no training at all. And yes, the past two days have produced no good parts from our plant – something that will no doubt go unrecognized when we end up behind schedule again at the end of the month. But at least we’ll know what and where the trash can is. Not because it’s self-evidently a trash can, mind you, but because we have both a stenciled sign on the floor and a label on the thing itself, both of which read “trash can.”

As you may imagine, dealing with such redundant stupidity is quite tiring. Plus, I’m also in the midst of trying to get my car registered in Maryland, which is much more of a chore than it should be. Because of their asinine regulations, each of which cost money, my cash flow is a little tapped. There’s lots of great new music coming out from the likes of Beth Orton, Seal, John Mayer, Tuatara, A Perfect Circle, David Bowie, KMFDM, Elvis Costello, Rufus Wainwright, Dave Matthews, Neal Morse and OutKast, to name some, and I can’t buy any of it. (Uber-fan Shane Kinney pretty much smacked me over the head the other day with news of the new Iron Maiden, and I can’t buy that for a while, either, but his exuberance was appreciated.)

Which leaves me with only a few scattered things to talk about, and only one I really want to get into. I recently took a trip to Boston, and while I was there, I saw The Battle of Shaker Heights.

Shaker Heights, if you recall, is the film produced by the winners of this year’s Project Greenlight competition. Each year, the PGL team picks a winning screenplay from thousands of entries, and a winning director from considerably fewer entries to direct said script. This year’s winners in the director department just happened to be a couple of guys I’ve met – Kyle Rankin and Efram Potelle, who comprised pretty much the whole independent filmmaking scene in Portland, Maine while I lived there. They also used to write for me, indirectly – Face Magazine printed their movie reviews for a few months before I left, and probably for a while after that.

Because of the personal connection, I watched this year’s Greenlight show avidly. If you’re not familiar with the concept, basically Miramax Films funds the movie, and an HBO documentary team films the process and turns it into a documentary series, airing during the weeks leading up to the film’s release. This means, of course, that HBO gets to pick and choose the moments of reality it wishes to highlight, and it should be no surprise after last year’s Pete Jones debacle that Kyle and Efram came off looking like schmucks for most of the show’s run. Needless to say, they’re not schmucks – the crew of Shaker Heights, for example, reportedly respected the hell out of them, and they took on a cramped, insanely rushed schedule and made every day’s shots.

Regardless, we watched as the directors clashed with the writer (the amazingly irrepressible Erica Beeney) over her role on set. (Here’s a quick clue – on most movie sets, the writer doesn’t have a role at all. They sit home, collect their check and dread the day they get to see what the studio made of their film, and that’s about it.) We cringed as Efram demanded a car. We squirmed as the duo passive-aggressively changed whole scenes without running them past the producers. And we died a little with them when their cut, a more dramatic version than the final one, received abysmal test scores from the first preview audience. That score, in fact, resulted in Miramax marketing execs taking over the film’s direction – the final cut of Shaker Heights is 79 minutes long, with nearly all of its dramatic heart carved out in favor of a madcap comedic pace.

Had I not seen the process, I probably would be less than interested in the film. It’s a sweet coming of age story, and I have a soft spot for those, but this one plays like a quick sketch of one of those films, a flimsy skeleton without much meat. Because I watched the show, though, I know that huge chunks of important character development are missing. The problem with this is that when the big moments arrive at the film’s end, the movie hasn’t earned them, and we don’t connect with them as well as we should.

All the elements of a great ’80s teen comedy are there – so much so, in fact, that I began to imagine John Cusack in place of Shia LaBoeuf in the lead role. No disrespect to Shia – he was wonderful throughout, making his Kelly Ernswiler more believable than, perhaps, the film deserved. Kelly is a misfit with an interesting hobby – he re-enacts World War II battles when he’s not at school. He has a crush on an unattainable girl, completely ignoring the sweet yet plain other girl that secretly adores him. He has out-of-touch parents who don’t support his war games. He gets picked on by a two-dimensional bully, and gets his revenge. See? All the elements.

And yet, Shaker Heights, at least in this cut, plays like the radio edit of a longer and better song. It’s light, it’s funny, it moves, and yet it wafts away before the credits finish rolling. There are moments I love, most thanks to LaBoeuf. (If the HBO show is to be believed, he’s just as warm and funny in person. This kid is going to be a star, like Cusack, and this film is his Better Off Dead.) Those moments barely hang together, though, and one can sense a longer and better version yearning to come out.

Shaker Heights did well in its first week of wider release. It’s on 12 screens in 10 cities, and it pulled in more than $100,000 in three days. Really, that’s not bad. It’s not, however, what Miramax was looking for, and I hope Kyle and Efram aren’t made into the fall guys. Even HBO couldn’t hide the fact that their movie was hijacked by marketing, and while it’s possible that the 79-minute version is better, I somehow doubt it. Hopefully we’ll get to see the directors’ version on the DVD. For now, though, this Shaker Heights isn’t bad. It’s light, funny, and likable. Plus, it ends with “When You’re Falling,” Peter Gabriel’s collaboration with Afro-Celt Sound System, a perfect concluding song.

The problem with Project Greenlight is this – Miramax will probably never get what it wants out of the deal. Think about it. They pick a screenplay from an untested writer, give it to novice directors, budget it at only $1 million, give the team six weeks to throw it all together while being followed by a documentary crew, and then expect a smash hit they can market to America. If they do this 100 times, I’ll be surprised if they even once get the Clerks-style smash hit they’re seeking. Most independent films, even those produced under conditions much more conducive to creativity than these, die on the vine. Of the very few that snare distribution, only a small percentage make their budget back. Yet Miramax expects the Greenlight films to perform like the American Pie movies. Not gonna happen.

It’s much more likely that we’ll keep seeing movies like Shaker Heights – confused little pictures with flashes of brilliance buried within them, made by talented people barely treading water in the silly studio system into which they’ve been thrown. Hopefully this experience won’t derail Kyle and Efram (or Erica Beeney, for that matter). If nothing else, PGL shows us just how difficult it is to make a good movie, under any circumstances. Our intrepid trio plainly demonstrated throughout this season that they all deserve better circumstances than these, and they’re all capable of better than Shaker Heights.

But the movie’s not bad. Really.

On the other side of the coin, I saw American Splendor, the best film of 2003 thus far. It’s the story of comic book author and file clerk Harvey Pekar, who appears in the film as himself, and is played by Paul Giamatti. And he also appears as animated comic book drawings. The structure is a marvel, similar to Adaptation, but it’s the sweetly genuine heart at the film’s center that makes it shine. It’s fantastic.

Hopefully, next week I’ll have some thoughts on the new Sloan album, Action Pact.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I don’t remember the first time I heard a Warren Zevon song.

I’m pretty sure it was “Werewolves of London,” although it might have been “Lawyers, Guns and Money.” Of course, I can’t remember my initial reaction, either, but at present I own several Zevon albums, and can hum about 30 of his songs from memory, so it must have been somewhat favorable. What I’m getting at here is that if asked, I’d never name Warren Zevon as one of my favorite artists, but if I really think about it, the cynical bastard has quietly wormed his way into my subconscious, my CD collection, and my life. And that’s one of the marks, I think, of his art – he sneaks up on you, carefully infiltrating, and it’s only upon reflection that you realize how much you’re going to miss him when he’s gone.

Anyone with even a passing interest in Warren Zevon will know by now that he’ll likely be gone very soon. Zevon was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer last August, and given three months to live. Rather than give up and die quietly, which was never his style (see “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead,” for one), he dedicated what he believed to be his remaining time on earth to completing one final album, one last goodbye. That album is The Wind, and it’s out this week.

Off the top of my head, I can’t think of any other artist who has embarked upon a similar path. Most final albums are posthumous, and usually made up of half-finished recordings interrupted by sudden, intrusive fate. Some, like Morphine’s The Night – completed before leader Mark Sandman suffered a fatal heart attack on stage – are fully formed, yet betray no knowledge of their own finality. Very few artists are afforded the chance to bring things full circle artistically.

I can only think of two, in fact – Frank Zappa and Freddie Mercury – and neither one chose to take the opportunity, as Zevon has, to comment so fully on death’s approach. Zappa, also a victim of cancer, chose to hunker down and complete a series of instrumental works, most notably Civilization Phaze III, that displayed significant advancements in his already prodigious skills. In death, as in life, Zappa chose to keep his privacy sacred. Mercury, similarly, decided to paint on a smile and deny rumors that he was dying of AIDS, right up until one day before his death. He even told more astute listeners so in “The Show Must Go On,” a powerful denial anthem on the last Queen album he completed, Innuendo.

I can think of no artist who has so adamantly and publicly faced death as Warren Zevon has in this past year, and even if The Wind were complete garbage, which it isn’t, he deserves immeasurable respect for deciding and laboring to make it in the first place. VH1 filmed a documentary of the album’s creation, which debuted this week as well, and it plainly showed the physical pain and exhaustion Zevon went through to make sure this album got done – to the point of recording the vocals for the final song at home, because he was too sick to enter a studio. Here’s another way this guy has infiltrated my life – from now on, whenever some Johnny Whitebread rock star bitches and moans about how hard it is to do what he does, I’m likely going to flash on the image of a coughing, shaking Zevon, determined to get the vocals for “Disorder in the House” done right even though he was so doped up on meds that he couldn’t find the beat.

That The Wind concerns death and goodbyes is no surprise. What’s interesting is that writing songs about death, especially his own, is nothing new for Zevon. I’d be hard-pressed to name another songwriter so obsessed with the subject, in fact – Zevon’s catalog contains dozens of ruminations on things falling apart, breaking down, and wrapping up. Just three years ago, in fact, he delivered one of his finest extended meditations on death and dying, an album called Life’ll Kill Ya. From the existential title track to the prayerful “Don’t Let Us Get Sick,” that album exemplified Zevon’s sidelong, wry take on the big dirt nap, and he even capped it off with the best, most direct song about systems failing in old age that I’ve ever heard – “My Shit’s Fucked Up.”

What a difference a death sentence makes, though, because The Wind cuts through all of that irony with a sharp edge. Standing at the abyss has brought out the purity in Warren Zevon, and the 10 new songs here make no bones about their simplicity and candor. Even the cover image is surprisingly direct – just Zevon, staring back at you through ghostly eyes that betray not an ounce of the sardonic wit for which he’s known. The trademark gallows humor is all but absent here, save for the presence of Zevon’s long-time symbol – a skull in sunglasses smoking a cigarette. Given the circumstances, you can’t get more jet-black than that.

Musically, Zevon has chosen to stick mostly with pure American heartland styles – blues, rock, country-folk – that only heighten the impact of the lyrics. Opener “My Dirty Life and Times” (once a contender for the album’s title) sounds like the stuff The Band would jam to in their off hours, a simple three-chord gallop that supports the tale of an outlaw coming to the end of his days. “Who’ll lay me out and ease my worried mind,” he asks, “while I’m winding down my dirty life and times.” Similarly, “Numb as a Statue” leaps forward on Zevon’s pounded piano, spinning the story of a man with no connections: “I may have to beg, borrow or steal some feelings from you, so I can have some feelings too.” Here, as elsewhere, Zevon seems intent on wrapping things up: “Ain’t nothing special when the present meets the past, I’ve always taken care of business, I’ve paid my first and last,” he sings, before exhorting the song’s recipient to “get here before I fall asleep.”

By and large, though, Zevon seems to have foregone the maudlin artist-at-death’s-door route and written himself one last barn-burning party. He invited more than a few friends along – The Wind features contributions from Don Henley, Billy Bob Thornton, Bruce Springsteen, Tommy Shaw, John Waite, David Lindley, Timothy B. Schmidt, the great Ry Cooder, Jackson Browne, Tom Petty, Mike Campbell, Joe Walsh and Emmylou Harris, to name the more marquee-worthy ones. And it’s clear that several of these songs were written just to have a chance to jam out with old friends. This isn’t a bad thing – Springsteen rips and snorts his way through the guitar work on “Disorder in the House,” while Joe Walsh steals the show with his amazing blues six-string on “Rub Me Raw.”

Like all the best parties, though, this one is tinged with melancholy. Throughout The Wind, Zevon refers to his disease metaphorically as the blues, and describes his body as a house being swallowed by the earth, or as a prison holding a condemned spirit. (That song, “Prison Grove,” is a deep and beautiful highlight.) He also sprinkles sad goodbyes throughout, like “El Amor de Mi Vida,” written for an old flame. Trust Zevon to write a song called “She’s Too Good For Me” and turn it upon himself – the repeated hook line is “I’m not good enough for her,” and it sounds like coming to terms. Most touching because of its naked fragility, “Please Stay” finds Zevon asking his current love, “Will you stay with me to the end, when there’s nothing left but you and me and the wind?”

This context is perhaps the only one that can justify another cover of Bob Dylan’s “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.” This has to be one of the most recorded songs in history, and the thing is, each new version plays like an ad for the original. No one interprets this song, they simply recite it, as if admitting that Dylan happened upon the perfect arrangement right off the bat. This version is no exception, though Zevon does bring a wellspring of emotion out through his cracked, wavering voice. That voice is in slipshod form throughout, by the way – a necessary consequence of the circumstances under which this record was recorded. It’s amazing how much you’re willing to forgive, and how thoroughly you’re pulling for Warren from the start, however.

Those looking for a glimpse into the heart of darkness will not find it here. It’s as if the finality of his own death has tossed aside his tolerance for bitter humor, and left him with a purity of vision he’s never shown us before. Nowhere is this more evident or touching than on the final track, “Keep Me In Your Heart.” In many ways, it’s the only song here to directly reference Zevon’s illness – it’s a last, loving goodbye that deftly avoids sentimentality. What else would you expect from Warren Zevon, anyway? With this song, he goes out exactly as he’s lived – with touching, simple honesty. And in his entire catalog, no song has moved me like this one:

“Shadows are falling and I’m running out of breath,
Keep me in your heart for a while
If I leave you it doesn’t mean I love you any less,
Keep me in your heart for a while

When you get up in the morning and you see that crazy sun
Keep me in your heart for a while
There’s a train leaving nightly called when all is said and done
Keep me in your heart for a while…”

I’m especially fond of that “for a while” – Zevon has never expected to be held up and canonized, and has never fought for the kind of fame and respect his contemporaries have. All along, he’s been a quiet voice off to the side, and that he’s engendered that respect from his peers and his many admirers seems to surprise him. He’s always been the voice of the emotionally crippled, the under-confident, the cynical misfit, and the best he feels he can hope for is that sweet, finite “for a while.” It’s like he’ll never know or believe what his work has meant to people.

Warren Zevon is still alive as of this writing, much to the puzzlement and joy of both his doctors and himself. He lived to see his final album released to rave reviews, and to see his first grandchildren born – twins. In a recent appearance on David Letterman’s show, he was asked if he now knows and understands any great truths about life and death that others not in his position may not. His reply: “How important it is to enjoy every sandwich.” The Wind is poignant, powerful and, at the last, devastating, but it’s also surprisingly, incredibly celebratory, a look back on a life worth living. We don’t deserve this record – it’s a gift, and a mighty generous one at that, a reminder to enjoy every day, every minute, every sandwich.

From all of us fans, Warren – thank you, and farewell. We’ll keep you in our hearts for a while.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I had a frustrating week.

I got into it with a girl at work. Twice. And by “got into it,” I mean full-out yelling matches, complete with flailing hand gestures and (on her part) the brandishing of weapons. It’s my fault – I have a personality flaw that makes it virtually impossible for me to let small-minded, bigoted hatred just roll off my back, even when it’s not aimed at me. The first fight centered around my suggestion that perhaps gay people aren’t soulless, evil things that will burn in hell for all eternity. She didn’t take that well – “It’s wrong! God says it’s wrong! And they die of AIDS, you know!” The second argument erupted over her insistence on calling a visiting Chrysler exec who just happened to be Indian a “fucking dothead.”

I’ve honestly never encountered this level of irrational, bile-spitting hatred before. But I know what I’m going to say next time. This girl has a 10-year-old son, so next time she spouts off about how the “fucking a-rabs” get all the good jobs, I’m going to quietly ask, “Did Social Services take your kid away yet?” When she responds with confusion, I’ll sarcastically point out that all single mothers are lazy welfare recipients who don’t deserve to be parents, sluts who got themselves knocked up and now expect the state to pay for them. “Didn’t you know that? Everyone knows that,” I’ll say, hopefully proving my point – that prejudice of any stripe is ill-informed, stupid and useless.

* * * * *

Several previous columns have been all about artists using the internet to connect with fans in new ways, and looking back, I can’t believe I haven’t mentioned Ben Folds yet.

Regular readers undoubtedly know how much I revere Folds by now. Suffice it to say that I think he’s the new savior of pop music, one of the best songwriters we have. He came out of nowhere (well, North Carolina) in the mid-’90s with a fully formed sound – jaw-dropping piano-pounding technique, classic melodic songcraft, and a penchant for glorious harmonies. With the Ben Folds Five (drummer Darren Jessee and bassist Robert Sledge, which, yes, adds up to three) he made a trilogy of superb pop records, and scored a huge, unlikely hit with “Brick,” a song about a couple struggling with the decision to have an abortion.

He split from the Five three years ago, and then made an album called Rockin’ the Suburbs that sounds pretty much the same. That’s not a complaint – Folds’ music is filled to overflowing with all the qualities most sorely missing from that of his modern counterparts, including the knack for sketching detailed characters and telling moving stories in his lyrics. Folds remembers when Elton John was good, when literate pop music ruled the airwaves, and he wears his influences like a badge.

So it’s gratifying that an artist so steeped in decades gone by has embraced the ‘net so completely. Folds is currently recording his second solo album with John Mark Painter (of Fleming and John, and where the hell is their new album?), but while he’s doing that, he’s also decided to make a trilogy of EPs, all new recordings that will only be available online and at gigs. Here’s part of his statement on these recordings: “Quietly releasing my music as EP’s allow me to get it out there as I finish it. With a minimum of hype. It’s for people who buy my music anyway. It won’t be sold in the big-ass chains, because that puts the price up and starts the big-ass machinery – press, radio etc. Then I have to pose naked at the piano, and really, I’m not a piece of meat, you know.”

Folds clearly has his eye on the time when the big-ass machinery will be unnecessary, when an artist is able to sustain a career and a livelihood merely by maintaining contact with fans through alternative means. This is most definitely the trial run, a chance to see if record company distribution and promotion can be bypassed. As such, it’s right in line with the revolutionary steps being taken by the likes of Mike Peters and Marillion. Folds knows the revolution will not be available in chain stores.

But enough about the format, what about the music? The first in the series, Speed Graphic, has now arrived, and you’d be forgiven for expecting a project like this to sound tossed-off and slight. You’d be wrong. These five songs are as fully realized and beautifully performed as any on his previous albums, despite having been recorded in a week and mixed in an afternoon. Speed Graphic kicks off with a nifty cover of the Cure’s “In Between Days,” Folds’ piano masterfully aping Robert Smith’s glossy guitar lines. Hearing this song in a much different context highlights what a pure pop joy it is, with Folds finding the exuberance bubbling beneath the surface.

According to Folds, the rest of Speed Graphic consists of older, unrecorded gems, with the exception of the heartbreaking “Give Judy My Notice,” written specifically for this EP. That song exemplifies what’s great about Ben Folds – even his unabashedly emotional pieces are intelligently crafted, and this one is wrapped in a melody that sends goose bumps. There’s simply no way to remain unmoved by this song. In a close second, however, is “Wandering,” a “lost” collaboration with Darren Jessee that concludes the EP on a graceful bed of harmonies.

Sandwiched between the tearjerkers is a pair of footstompers that showcase Folds’ Tin Pan Alley style piano work. “Dog,” especially, crashes in on a super-cool riff that surges forward relentlessly. All told, there’s not a single weak moment here. It’s uncertain how many of these things are left – Speed Graphic is a small, one-time pressing that comes in a fairly nondescript cardboard sleeve, belying the quality of the music within. Needless to say, I suggest you all get yourselves over to www.benfolds.com and pick one up. Should the record company machine grind to a halt in the next few years, it’s comforting to know that at least Ben Folds won’t go away with it.

* * * * *

From classic, organic pop to that which leaps ahead of its time at lightspeed. There’s no question that Brian Transeau, better known simply as BT, is one of the most intriguing artists to arise from the techno landscape. His debut album, Ima, stretched to more than two hours of blissful trance, including a 45-minute remix of the entire album seamlessly integrated into the whole. It also featured a collaboration with Tori Amos that, sadly, stands head and shoulders above most of her recent output.

But nothing prepared BT’s fans for Movement in Still Life, his 2000 album that beautifully blended techno, trance, pop and rap into a new hybrid. The standout track, “Never Gonna Come Back Down,” featured wondrously nonsensical vocals from Soul Coughing’s M. Doughty, who should really do a whole album of surging techno tunes. What some may have missed is Transeau’s own vocal debut, on “Shame” – he has a pleasant, surprisingly emotional voice that compliments his warm, fluttering arrangements well.

And just as Movement seemed to come out of nowhere, so does BT’s new one, Emotional Technology. Simply put, this is an unabashed pop record. Transeau has made the often disastrous decision to step out from behind the mixing board and reinvent himself as a lead vocalist on nearly every track. All the songs (save the quick instrumental opening) have vocals, and most have deep, penetrating melodies. This is a project quite unlike any I’ve heard – it’s not arranged like a techno record, with endless stretches of beats and loops bookended by vocals, but neither is it a pop album with techno flourishes, like Madonna’s recent work. This is something new.

First off, Transeau has not abandoned his twittering, hyperkinetic production technique in the slightest. Emotional Technology may, in fact, be his most ear-catching record yet, flitting as it does from explosive beat-heavy choruses to lovely ambient passages and back again. The whole thing is exquisitely crafted, and like all his works, it flows together seamlessly. Transeau is not afraid of guitars, both acoustic and electric, and in fact plays most of them himself. He breaks a hundred silly rules at once in order to arrive at his sound, and God bless him for doing so in a field of music where every little variation in technique seems to garner its own sub-genre.

But these songs have verses, and choruses, and bridges, and breakdowns. These are pop songs, absolutely, even when they’re not arranged as such. “Paris,” for example, begins with two minutes of crazy beats interspersed with scatting and spoken word by reggae man Hutchy, then morphs into a techno-acoustic dance tune with a killer, hummable chorus, sung by Transeau. The real advantage of Transeau’s production decision here is drama – these songs move, collide and explode in ways that make most “dramatic” radio pop sound like Barry Manilow.

More surprising is the parade of guest vocalists here. Guru lends his rap skills to “Knowledge of Self,” one of the weaker tracks, while Rose McGowan – that’s right, the former Mrs. Marilyn Manson – sings the verses on “Somnambulist.” Cellist and vocalist Caroline Lavelle (she’s worked with Radiohead, Peter Gabriel and Massive Attack, among many others) takes “The Great Escape” to stunning new heights, both vocally and musically. Her cello breakdown in the middle section stands as the most sonically delightful moment of the album.

And then there’s JC Chasez, whose appearance makes Emotional Technology easily the best project to ever feature a member of ‘NSync. To both of their credits, Chasez is not here to add star power to a potential hit machine. Rather, he sings “The Force of Gravity,” an eight-minute trance-ambient pop song that ebbs and flows in ways that would drive any radio station program director insane. The chorus, which doesn’t appear until nearly four minutes in, is huge and powerful, dripping with resonance. Those adjectives, by the way, would never be used to describe Chasez’ main gig, so good on him for doing this.

The big prize, though, goes to Transeau himself, who concludes Emotional Technology with his best and most human vocal, on “The Only Constant is Change.” It’s almost his motto – who knows where Transeau will go from here, but this striking, warm album feels like a destination point for him. He proves here that machines don’t have to be cold, emotions don’t have to be sappy and simpering, and humanity doesn’t have to be a liability, as many techno artists apparently believe. Transeau is in a class by himself with this record, his personal best work and one of the best of the year overall.

* * * * *

Of course, the problem with reinventing yourself all the time is that after a while, only the diehards care anymore. Statistically, there are very few of us willing to follow an artist from style to style over decades of recorded work – most are comfortable taking the one or two songs they first fell in love with and leaving the artist behind. Nothing alienates an audience quicker than not giving them what they want, and if you don’t believe me, just ask Prince.

The Artist Formerly Known as an International Superstar made his name with minimalist pop-funk in the ’80s, but even then, his restless nature manifested itself. Why else would he follow his biggest smash, Purple Rain, with the ’60s-inflected hippie-pop of Around the World in a Day? Why else would he come off of Sign O’ the Times and make the intricate, funky, audence-eroding (if he had released it in 1988 as planned) Black Album? Prince has always taken the path of most resistance, especially musically, and it seems we’re heading into an era in which that’s never been more true.

In the years since his abortive comeback record Rave Un2 the Joy Fantastic, Prince has taken the reins of his career completely and is letting the muse guide him where it may. He assembled the best band he’s ever had for his Jehovah’s Witness concept album The Rainbow Children, one of his finest works, despite the silly narration. He then took that band on tour and documented it with a three-CD set called One Nite Alone… Live. Rather than use this set as a way to bring old fans back into the fold, however, he relegated pretty much all the hits to a piano-vocal medley on disc two and gave the rest over to some amazing (repeat: amazing) funk jams and throwdowns.

And now he’s followed up those projects with his most idiosyncratic release ever. That’s right – ever. It’s called News, and it’s an hour of instrumental jams with his excellent band, divided into four pieces, each named after one of the points of the compass. (“North,” “East,” “West,” “South” – News, get it?) I feel sorry for anyone picking this up because they used to like “Raspberry Beret” – this album is loose, bizarre and a little bit impenetrable if you haven’t been following Prince’s recent work. Hell, even if you have, this album is something else.

While Prince and the band have been engaging in thudding, neck-breaking funk in concert, the jams on News are breezier and slighter. Each builds and progresses slowly, leaving room for thematic development amongst the solos. “East,” for example, cascades from a nearly chaotic guitar-sitar duet into a series of tasty guitar and piano licks, and then devolves into airy bass over marching-beat drums. It’s obvious these are not true improvs – the songs are composed, however loosely, much like Miles Davis’ 1970s work. Prince clearly enjoys his role as bandleader, a shift he’s been working towards since forming this group.

And did I mention the band? Prince has never had a more talented group at his disposal. The core of the ensemble is undeniably drummer John Blackwell, who amazed on The Rainbow Children and hasn’t stopped since. He’s seriously everything that anyone could want anchoring a rhythm section. At least half this band’s funk is attributable to him. Bassist Rhonda Smith is right there with him, telepathically linked – just check them out jamming beneath Renato Neto’s great piano work and Eric Leeds’ dynamic sax solo on “West.” And of course, there’s the man himself, directing the festivities with his guitar. Prince has always been underrated as a guitarist, and here he smokes like Hendrix’s much funkier younger brother.

Still, I can’t help but wonder who Prince imagines is the audience for this record. The diehards will, of course, pick it up, but they already got their copies months ago through the NPG Music Club. Those into the funk would be better off trying One Nite Alone, or even the Black Album, as News shies away from the truly energetic skull-smackers on those discs. News is a grower, and while it’s certainly worth picking up, it’s not the best place for a new fan to begin, or a lapsed fan to return. Prince is branching out in new directions, and he doesn’t care if he leaves everyone behind. That’s perhaps not the safest attitude for a formerly famous musician, but it speaks volumes about his value as an artist, and about why he’s always been worth following.

* * * * *

Saving the best for last once again, but staying on the topic of personal reinvention, we have the inimitable Mark Eitzel, also known as the saddest man in rock. The former American Music Club singer has been undergoing a fascinating identity crisis lately, producing first the Pro-Tools ambient computer-pop of The Invisible Man and then the keyboard-populated covers album Music for Courage and Confidence. Covers albums often give you a good sense of where an artist’s head is during the sessions, and Eitzel paid tribute to Bill Withers, Phil Ochs and Boy George – a sure sign of a guy who doesn’t quite know who he is anymore.

The crisis proceeds apace on The Ugly American, an album that probably wouldn’t exist under normal conditions. To which I say, thank God for identity issues. The title is a reference to a song on 60 Watt Silver Lining, but also a commentary on the album’s production. Eitzel recently visited Athens, and while he was there, he hit it off with some of the locals and booked a few sessions with them. The result is this head-clearing collection of older Eitzel songs given a complete reconstruction. The surprise is that the songs, with no exceptions, sound reborn, as does Eitzel himself, who turns in his best vocal performance since leaving AMC. It’s shocking, but what appears on the surface to be a throwaway project between albums turns out to be Eitzel’s most rewarding solo record to date.

Half the tracks are American Music Club numbers, and even if you’re still in love with the originals, you’ll be impressed with these new arrangements. The Greek musicians clearly love these songs, and their delicate flourishes are perfectly timed and modulated. Manolis Karantinis elevates “Nightwatchman” with his rolling mandolin, supporting Kiriakos Gouventas’ lovely violin work. Manos Ahalinopoulos impresses throughout with his pipes and clarinet lines. The tones are undoubtedly Mediterranean, but there’s enough guitar, both acoustic and electric, to ground these arrangements.

Of particular interest to Eitzel fans, however, will be the inclusion of three gorgeous rarities. Why he has never recorded “Jenny” formally (it appeared on Songs of Love Live) is a mystery – it’s glorious here, deep and melancholy. “Take Courage,” also from Songs of Love, rises and falls on Karantinis’ mandolin, and it’s sprightly and upbeat here. Best of all, though, is a powerful rendering of “What Good is Love,” which has only ever appeared on Lover’s Leap USA, only sold at gigs until its one printing of 500 ran out. This is one of Eitzel’s best songs, and the Greek band finds the song’s depressing heart and squeezes gently. It’s good to have a full studio version of this, and especially one this magical.

Eitzel has, naturally, removed himself from the running for the Top 10 List here – the only song that hasn’t appeared before is a cover of bandleader Manolis Famellos’ “Love’s Humming.” It’s depressing, more so than his sad voice and lyrics, because The Ugly American is a shoo-in. It’s delicate and beautiful, a genuine treasure masquerading as a toss-off. Just dig the Cretan lyra on “Will You Find Me,” with an arrangement that knocks the socks off the one on AMC’s Mercury. Ironic, too, because Eitzel seems to have been asking himself that very question for years now, and with this album, he sounds like he’s found the answer.

* * * * *

Next week, we say goodbye to Warren Zevon, whose final album, The Wind, hits stores. Not sure I’m quite ready for that yet. We’ll see.

Just want to put one more plug in – I picked up the DVD of Michael Moore’s Bowling for Columbine this week, and it hasn’t lost an ounce of its power. As I said before, every American should watch this film. It’s sharp, insightful, harrowing and powerful. Highly recommended.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

The power’s out on much of the east coast as I write this. Strangely enough, some people have even begun blaming Gray Davis.

From the “Why Does Life Have to Be So Complicated Dept.”: On their sloppy, overly long album Pork Soda, Primus included a little ditty called “DMV,” the lyrics of which included lines like “Been to hell, I spell it, spell it DMV, and if I had my druthers I’d screw a chimpanzee.” I didn’t know what they meant then, but I do now. I’ve just recently discovered that I’ve moved to the state with the single most difficult motor vehicle registration laws in the whole country. This isn’t just my opinion, either – qualified professionals from my insurance company have confirmed my assessment. Maryland’s DMV is the most insane, inane, maddening, labyrinthine clusterfuck in the grand ol’ USA. Lucky me.

Registering my car in Maryland requires a lengthy (like, months long) process that teeth-gritting rage prohibits me from properly explaining, but I will tell you about trying to get my Maryland driver’s license. This is a trip. In every other state I’ve lived (which includes Massachusetts, Maine, Indiana and Tennessee), obtaining a license is a simple matter of taking a vision test, and then showing the nice people at the DMV one’s old license, one’s birth certificate and one’s proof of residence. Easy.

So I show up at the Maryland DMV, expecting the same treatment. After waiting in the preliminary line (30 minutes to reach the information desk), I’m informed that I have – get this – the wrong birth certificate. Really. The one I have, notarized and sealed by the bureau of records in the county in which I was born, is not good enough. Maryland only accepts birth certificates from the state vital records department – in the case of Massachusetts, in Dorchester. But, good news – I can mail order a birth certificate from the vital records department. For only $50.

In the middle of all this, I learn that the line I’ve just stood in for half an hour isn’t even the real line. Had I been cleared by information, I would have been herded into the actual line. Average waiting time 90 minutes.

Now, here’s the screwed up part. In the absence of a birth certificate, the DMV will also accept a valid passport as identification. I have one of those – my mother has kindly sent it on down. Here’s the thing, though – I realized that I got the passport the same way I expected to get my driver’s license. I showed my old license and my birth certificate. The same birth certificate that’s not acceptable in Maryland. As Johnnie Cochran said on South Park, “That does not make sense. I’m not making any sense.”

Whatever. Further updates will likely follow. That chimpanzee is looking pretty good, though.

* * * * *

You wouldn’t really think it from the outside looking in, but Maine has one of the most vital, diverse and exciting original music scenes you could ask for. During the four years I worked there, the cover of Face Magazine – nearly always reserved for local original acts – featured Mainers working in metal, bluegrass, jazz, country, folk, lounge, rockabilly and ambient noise. Yet the rest of the country has heard only a very few of Maine’s best – Devonsquare, Rustic Overtones, and, um… right. That’s my point. And I doubt if many of you have even heard either of those two bands.

Believe me, it’s not for lack of trying. I can name half a dozen bands that were “on the cusp of stardom” during my time in Portland, and there have undoubtedly been more since. Jeremiah Freed, for example, has snared a recording contract with Republic/Universal, but their competent, crowd-pleasing rock hardly represents the Maine vanguard. Most of the best bands in Maine live hand to mouth and show to show, selling self-released CDs to pay back recording costs, and those lucky enough to get record contracts (Rustic, Colepitz) rarely catch a break.

An excellent case in point is 6gig, a melodic rock quartet who originally formed from the ashes of four of Portland’s better acts. (Ku-Da-Tah, Gouds Thumb, Tripe and the Vampire Lezbos, since you asked.) If ever a band can be said to have taken its hometown by storm, it’s 6gig, and within weeks of unveiling their sound and show, they were local superstars. A few months later, they were signed to Ultimatum Records and were recording their debut, 2000’s Tincan Experiment. It rocked. So they decided to make another one in 2002. They called it Mind Over Mind.

Before it could be released, however, things started falling apart, as they always seem to when a Portland band gets to this level. The band replaced founding drummer Dave Rankin with Jason Stewart last winter, a fact which made the tragedy of Rankin’s death in May of last year no less affecting to the group. Rankin died suddenly at his home at the age of only 31, and the world lost not only a great drummer but a hilarious and sweet guy.

Rankin did, however, complete all the drum tracks on Mind Over Mind before his death, and the rest of the band touted it as a testament to him when discussing its impending release. That was a year ago. It’s still not commercially available. It seems that Ultimatum lost its distribution, and the only way fans can get a copy of the new record is online at www.ultimatummusic.com. Hard to get a nationwide hit that way.

The shame of it all is that Mind Over Mind is superior to Tincan Experiment in every way. (Well, except one, but we’ll get to that.) It was produced by Matt Wallace, who has worked with Faith No More and the Replacements, among others, and he delivers a thick, clear sound that de-emphasizes their modern rock leanings and boosts the melodic elements. First single and leadoff track “Whose Side Are You On” crashes in on Walt Craven’s chiming guitar and strong voice, and when the rest of the band kicks in, it’s pure rock bliss.

Wallace has also helped push Craven to new levels vocally. He’s always been one of the biggest draws of the band, but this time, he’s let the emotional warts show, and it’s often revelatory. The acoustic “Say Goodbye” is driven by Craven’s straining, cracking vocals, and it’s a brave performance. Likewise, the droning, spaced-out “Deadbeat” floats on his nuances. He’s grown immeasurably as a singer since Tincan.

I hope using words like “spaced-out” and “acoustic” doesn’t leave you with the idea that this album doesn’t rock, though. “Just One Tuesday” is a powerhouse, one pummeling riff leading into another before a soaring chorus kicks in. “Start Again” has one of the album’s best hooks, buoyed by the twin guitar interplay of Craven and Steve Marquis and the solid bass of Craig Weaver. Even a twisty little number like “Ghosts in the Room” is propulsive.

And, of course, there’s Rankin. Truth be told, Dave was never a flashy drummer, and he rarely calls attention to himself on Mind. If you’re listening, though, you can hear just how good he was, delivering exactly what the song needed at every turn. He was the foundation, the bedrock – the rest of the band was free to be as melodic as they liked without fear of losing their momentum. That you hardly ever realize he’s there, working for the song, is the greatest testament to his talent.

There is just one problem with Mind, and that’s its ending. Perhaps it’s unfair to compare them, but Tincan concluded with a huge, string-laden epic called “Willlie,” a stunner that imploded at its end, leaving only the violins to announce the album’s finale. Mind, unfortunately, just kind of ends with “Squeezed Out Plot,” a rocker no better or worse than most of the album’s tracks. Especially after Craven’s emotional vocals on “Say Goodbye,” it’s a bit of an anticlimax.

But no biggie. Mind Over Mind is a good enough record that 6gig should be selling out arenas and riding its hit singles to fame and more lucrative contracts. It’s got everything radio is looking for, and a few things that radio desperately needs. It’s being treated like a direct-to-video movie, when in fact it should be a huge summer blockbuster. Check them out at www.6gig.com, and help their fortunes turn around.

* * * * *

Maine isn’t all guitars and hooks, however. There are darker, stranger places, teeming with the bizarre and the wholly original. And one of those places houses Cerberus Shoal, masters of the oddly beautiful. If there’s one band I’m most glad to have discovered during my time up north, it’s these guys.

Cerberus Shoal – named after Cerberus, the three-headed dog, not Cerebus, the three-foot-tall aardvark – started as a more layered slowcore band, but quickly grew to epic proportions after joining forces with fellow locals Tarpigh. The six-member incarnation of Cerberus recorded four astonishing albums, most notably the amazing Homb and the delightfully scattered double-disc Mr. Boy Dog. Their sound? Well, words don’t often fail me, but they almost always do when it comes to Cerberus. How about world-music-influenced jazz ambient? Seriously, listen to Homb and tell me how you would describe it. Yeah, I thought so.

Cerberus Shoal’s golden age seemed to come crashing to a halt in 2000 when the three Tarpigh guys left for their own projects. The three remaining Shoalers – guitarist Caleb Mulkerin, bassist Chriss (sic) Sutherland and drummer Tom Rogers – regrouped and welcomed vocalists Erin Davidson and Colleen Kinsella, as well as lyricist Karl Greenwald, to the fold shortly thereafter, and the new Cerberus began the process of finding their new sound.

The results have been less than spectacular, unfortunately. Their debut single, Garden Fly Drip Eye, revealed their new vocal-heavy direction, and it sounded a bit like the B-52s playing carnival music. Subsequently, the band embarked on a series of split CDs with some of their favorite acts, and by and large their contributions have been somewhat lacking. The 18-minute “Ding,” for example, is wonderful for about two minutes, and then becomes dull and repetitive. And “A Man Who Loved Holes” is pretty much unlistenable – they brought the strange, but not the beauty.

So I wasn’t expecting to like Chaiming the Knoblessone, the first full-length from the new lineup. In fact, I’ve been dreading it. Finding out that it contains seven songs that together run 77 minutes – longer, in fact, than the 2CD Mr. Boy Dog – did little to allay my fears. And then North East Indie Records sent it to me, and I knew I’d have to listen to it and probably trash it.

But then a funny thing happened. The album turned out to be marvelous.

The Cerberus Shoal sound is still pretty much indescribable, but now in a completely different way. I’ve discovered that my negative reaction to the new lineup’s first efforts stemmed from the impressive difference in sound from the Homb band’s output. Where the old band was atmospheric and spaced-out, the new group focuses on chops and harmonies, on creating odd-shaped puzzles into which not all the pieces readily fit. They clang, they clatter, they offer up dissonance and bursts of noise and unearthly three-part vocal arrangements that spit and shout and moan.

It’s only on Knoblessone that the breadth of their achievement becomes clear – Cerberus Shoal has completely reinvented itself, and they still sound like no other band on earth. Five of the album’s seven songs blow past 10 minutes, but rather than repeat and build, like Shoal songs in the past have done, these numbers twist and progress and diverge into spectacularly arranged sections. Knoblessone is easily the most musically complex disc to bear the Cerberus Shoal name, and the sound of the recordings (produced by the band and Scott Colburn) is stunningly dense.

Everything here is leaps and bounds ahead of the new lineup’s tentative first steps. The percussive, staccato guitar-bass-drums sections lead into long stretches of beautiful, symphonic dirges. Guitarist Mulkerin is constantly searching for new ways to augment the sound, new corners to explore. The three vocalists have learned how to circle one another, often propelling the songs to new places with soaring, multi-level arrangements. This album proves that they haven’t lost their penchant for the breathtakingly beautiful, but they’ve gained a new sense of humor and a supremely confident swagger.

If you’re going to have three vocalists, it stands to reason that you’re going to need words for them to sing, and I’ve taken lyricist Greenwald to task before for his self-consciously artful nonsense poetry. I was surprised, however, at just how often I was able to roll with Greenwald this time. The singers seem to have fun with his phrases as well – witness their reading of the line “My eyes are like radishes, spicy and cold” on “Sole of Foot of Man.” He still isn’t saying anything that makes immediate sense, but for the first time I get the feeling that there’s more hiding in his lyrics, waiting to be discovered.

While I could do without the intermission (“A Paranoid Home Companion,” the spoken-word tale of a “zek” who leaves “the fold” before he can become an “ex-zek” – get it?), the remainder of Chaiming the Knoblessone is wonderful, miles above anything I had expected. It’s 77 minutes of the strangest, most unpredictable music you’re likely to encounter, assembled with uncompromising artistry and confident grace. It also comes packaged in gorgeous and appropriately bizarre artwork by Kinsella, easily the band’s best-looking presentation to date. This is certainly not for the musically timid, or for those looking for background for their next get-together. I don’t claim to fully understand it, but Chaiming the Knoblessone is a fascinating work worthy of the band’s legacy.

Explore the band at www.cerberusshoal.com. Buy their albums at www.northeastindie.com.

* * * * *

Next up, a long one featuring many diverse musics.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

The fall music lineup keeps filling out nicely. For those of you tired of the endless parade of summer sludge at the multiplex and in the music store, here’s some stuff to look forward to:

Next week Bela Fleck and the Flecktones hit with a three-disc set called Little Worlds. Following that is a six-disc live box set from Todd Rundgren called Can’t Stop Running, which collects his high-priced and hard-to-find import records from the past decade. Plus, new Sloan, but I’ve mentioned that, and it’s only available in Canada at the moment.

On August 26 we have Warren Zevon’s final album, The Wind, and early reports are calling it a typically unsentimental goodbye. Zevon, if you didn’t know, was diagnosed with terminal, inoperable lung cancer last year, and he’s been working on a farewell disc ever since. Should be fascinating and heartbreaking – it’s not often that an artist gets to consciously sculpt a final record. Speaking of finality, as well, Jeff Buckley’s incredible concert document Live at Sin-E gets the deluxe two-disc rerelease treatment on September 2, next to new albums by the Innocence Mission and Beth Orton.

September, in fact, looks like the biggest potential drain on the ol’ wallet in recent memory, with new discs from Seal, John Mayer, Elbow, a double record from OutKast, A Perfect Circle, David Bowie, Elvis Costello, the reunited Living Colour, the new Cerberus Shoal, Dave Matthews, Rufus Wainwright, South, the Mavericks, a double-disc concept piece from Neal Morse, Lyle Lovett, Randy Newman and Sting. Oh, and a three-CD live record from Rush, finally breaking with their four-studio-albums-and-a-live-set tradition.

Ah, who needs to eat, right?

* * * * *

I’m not sure how I became a Ween fan.

They’re not the kind of band to which I traditionally gravitate. In fact, I’d be surprised if anyone can succinctly describe the kind of band they are, which sort of negates the idea of personal categorical taste. Ween does so many different things at such varying degrees of success that it’s difficult, if not impossible, to compare them whole cloth to anyone else. The giant record company machine couldn’t come up with Ween if they tried, but considering the duo’s output so far, they probably wouldn’t want to.

I’d be interested to hear how other people became Ween fans, because this band demands a huge listening range, both musically and emotionally. Hearing the average Ween album (if there is such a beast) back to front is like listening to a mix CD put together by a retarded four-year-old with the best record collection in the world. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to any of it – every few years, Dean and Gene Ween emerge carrying a bunch of songs they wrote, none of which have any connection to each other and all of which can be listened to in any order. Huge stretches of Ween albums, it seems, are designed specifically to provoke the “what the fuck?!?” reflex.

I’m pretty sure I started buying Ween albums partially because I harbored disbelief that a band like this could not only exist, but exist on a major label. Ween started off as a novelty band, and I mean four-track, feedback and drum machines, frat-boy humor novelty band. Like the Beastie Boys, they sucked and they knew it, and they had endless fun with it. But then something strange happened – Ween started to get really, really good. By the time their second Elektra record, Chocolate and Cheese, came out, they were doing seven-minute Spanish cowboy songs and setting them next to danceably sick numbers like “Spinal Meningitis Got Me Down” and “Mister Could You Please Help My Pony.”

They only went up from there. They hired a slew of classic Nashville’s best for 12 Golden Country Greats, a superb mockery that hilariously contained only 10 tunes. They incorporated traditional folk elements and synth-heavy progressive rock on The Mollusk and juxtaposed it with yee-hah shitkickers like “Waving My Dick In the Wind.” They slammed Jimmy Buffett and Steely Dan on White Pepper with equal aplomb, and simultaneously managed their most Beatles-inspired and progressive record yet. It’s no exaggeration to say that Ween is perhaps the only contemporary band that still retains the consistent ability to surprise, album to album and track to track.

And now here’s Quebec, the first Ween album in three years and their debut on Sanctuary Records after a decade on Elektra. Dean and Gene promised a return to the “browner” side of their work with this one, and in a way, they’ve delivered – Quebec is the loosest Ween album in some time. These 15 songs don’t relate to each other in any way, and even the title is disassociated – the album was recorded in New Jersey, and none of the lyrics mention Quebec, or even Canada. But you can’t worry about that if you’re going to enjoy it, and this album is nothing if not enjoyable. Even if you’re in love with album-length through lines and themes, as I am, this one will win you over to its warped, fractured worldview.

Seriously, how many bands open an album sounding just like Motorhead (“It’s Gonna Be a Long Night”) and close it sounding just like Styx (“If You Could Save Yourself You’d Save Us All”)? In between we get spacey drones (“Among His Tribe” and “Captain”), 1920s swing (“Hey There Fancypants”), electronic children’s music (“So Many People in the Neighborhood”), progressive balladry (“The Argus”) and radio-ready guitar rock (“Transdermal Celebration,” which would be a hit if not for those pesky lyrics). Just the soaring guitar solo in that last one is worth the price of the album, by the way.

Quebec leaps styles so nimbly and skewers music in general so savagely that the moments of beauty seem like the strangest bits, but they’re there. Most notable is “I Don’t Want It,” a genuine, sad love song that appears irony-free. Of course, it’s sandwiched between novelty ditty “Chocolate Town” and repetitive annoyance “The Fucked Jam,” which only makes its sentimentality stand out more. That’s not the only moving one, though – “Tried and True,” “Alcan Road,” “The Argus” and “If You Could Save Yourself” play it straight more often than not.

The problem with Quebec is the same problem that’s plagued Ween all along, and in fact it’s apparent that Gene and Dean don’t consider it a problem at all. The pair are so diverse, so tongue-in-cheek that every one of their albums impresses without making any real impact. I’m taken with sections of Quebec, just like I’ve been each time out, but as a whole there are just too many hurdles to jump. Songs like “Zoloft” and the half-menacing, half-sing-song “Happy Colored Marbles” are fun, but don’t stand up to repeat listens. What’s troubling is that Quebec is so disjoined and plays so much like a loose collection of singles that I don’t mind skipping tracks. And perhaps that’s the intention, and I’m just being anal about it.

Yeah. Fuck it. Quebec is a hell of a lot of fun, a bumpy yet thrilling ride, which mixes throwaway crap and well-crafted bliss in nearly equal amounts. If you’ve ever wondered what kind of mix tape Sybil would make, pick up just about any Ween album. The only other bands like them are Ween tribute acts. Even if Quebec weren’t any good, it would still be one of 2003’s notable releases, because you won’t hear another album even sort of like it this year. Thank the Boognish.

* * * * *

The kind folks at North East Indie were good enough to send me the new Cerberus Shoal album, Chaiming the Knobblessone, well in advance of its September 2 release date. Haven’t heard note one of this thing yet, but I hope to combine reviews of it and the new 6gig for a Portland-themed column next time. After that, another big one with thoughts on the new Prince album and a whole bunch more. But now, sleep time.

See you in line Tuesday morning.