I just heard about Dave Rankin.

I’m sure most of you reading this didn’t know Dave Rankin. Hell, I didn’t know Dave very well. I talked to him roughly a dozen times, and I interviewed him once for Face Magazine, but that was about it. Dave was the drummer for 6gig, one of the best bands in New England, and he made two records with them: the justifiably lauded Tincan Experiment and the reportedly superior Mind Over Mind, which comes out next month. He was a fixture of the Portland music scene, and a well-respected musician and human being.

According to his obituary, Dave died suddenly at his home on Monday. He was only 31.

As I said, I didn’t know Dave very well, but he made enough of an impression on me that I remember him fondly and vividly. Here are some things I remember about him:

He was as nice and welcoming a guy as you’d ever like to meet. He was a funny, funny man, one of those people who could read the phone book out loud and make it endlessly entertaining. Dave had one of those incredibly expressive faces that added a whole new level of wit to whatever he was saying.

And he was one hell of a drummer. Just monstrous. Log onto www.mp3.com/6gig and listen to “Hit the Ground” (which also appears on the soundtrack to National Lampoon’s Van Wilder) to see what I mean. 6gig’s sound tends towards the melodic side of the heavy music spectrum, which is a good thing, but Rankin’s drumming anchored them with a muscular and propulsive bedrock. He kept the rest of the band grounded so that they could soar fearlessly.

As I get older, I find reminders of my own mortality swarming about me every day, and this was another. I have a difficult time thinking of 16 as middle-aged, but every time someone approximately my age passes, I can’t help but wonder about how most of us watch our days go by, sure that there will be another and another. We should figure out how to make them all count, because 31 is just too young to run out of them.

Dave’s family has requested that any donations in his name be made to the Camden Rockport Animal Rescue League, at P.O. Box 707, Rockport, ME, 04856.

To find out more about Dave’s band, log onto www.6gig.com.

* * * * *

This is my 75th column, and I was going to celebrate it here, but I just don’t feel like dancing, even metaphorically, right now. This column was also supposed to contain a review of Eminem’s latest, but including that now seems tasteless. Next week, then. For now, take that extra time you were going to spend reading a thousand of my words, and go outside for a few minutes, breathe the air, and then call someone close to you and tell them you love them.

Life’s too goddamn short.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

For various reasons, I’ve been needing some reassurance lately that my analytical nature hasn’t completely overridden my ability to react emotionally to stirring works of art. Star Wars helped a bit, but I was too personally invested in the saga to really take my giddiness as any sort of sign. A few people have told me lately that I think too much, that I need to feel more when it comes to music and art in general, and so I’ve been waiting and looking for something that can provoke a completely emotional response in me, just to prove to myself that it can still happen.

And then this morning, I saw the season finale of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (a friend tapes it for me when I can’t make the original airdates), and wept like a two year old girl. Just cried, uncontrollably, for something like 10 minutes. And I think about it now, hours later, and I realize that it’s just a television show, and that there are countless silly and illogical things about it, and it still gets me. God, was that terrific.

And God, do I feel silly typing it as the lead-in for this series of analytical reviews of recent CDs, but you know what? The fact that I can still feel something as distant as a TV show so deeply means to me that anything and everything artistic should be able to make that same connection, and the fact that most of it doesn’t is not my fault. That moment of release, where your whole being is enveloped in its reaction to someone else’s expression, is what all of this analysis is about. Nearly everything I see and hear fails to make that leap, and all of this sound and fury I pump into reviewing these things is geared towards finding out why. When art hits the mark with me, I know it, and when it doesn’t, I wonder.

Here are a few more wonderings:

* * * * *

If you ever need proof that popularity is not based on merit, you need only look at the career of Neil Finn.

Here’s a guy who can justifiably be classed as one of the greatest living songwriters. He’s fronted a pair of great bands – first, the raucous and witty Split Enz, and then Crowded House, one of the finest pop ensembles since those four lads from Liverpool. There are four Crowded House albums, and every one of ’em is a masterpiece. Finn has gone on to a successful post-CH career across the pond (he’s a New Zealand native), first with his brother Tim in the Finn Brothers and then on his own with Try Whistling This, a twisty and complex pop album that signaled the end of his American record contract.

Finn’s follow-up to Try Whistling This is called One Nil, or at least it was when it came out last year in Europe and Australia. Nettwerk Records picked up both that album and a live record called 7 Worlds Collide and brought them to these shores, but One Nil (out this week here) didn’t survive intact. Two tracks have been dropped from the original, two more added and the running order has been completely reworked. The album has also been inexplicably retitled One All, ostensibly because Americans wouldn’t be familiar with the term “nil.” Never mind that the American translation would be more accurately One Zero…

Anyway, forget all that, because the album is right up there with the best stuff Finn has released, no matter what it’s called. Like Try Whistling This, the new album takes some time to sink in. These are not the immediate, direct pop songs of the Crowded House era. Finn has matured, and his four-minute marvels have matured along with him. Each song slowly unfolds and reveals hidden depths. There are no hit singles here, but there are 12 dreamy and ultimately fulfilling journeys that lead down unexpected paths.

Three of the best songs appeared previously on 7 Worlds Collide, and the new arrangements take some getting used to. The soaring “Anytime,” an atmospheric affair live, is here propelled by strong backbeats and ornate piano fills. I’m glad I have both versions, as the live one suits the song better, even though the album rendition fits in with the record’s overall tone. “Turn and Run” is just as magnificent in its studio incarnation as in its live one, but opener “The Climber” suffers a bit from a minimalist arrangement.

No such comparisons can drag down the other nine tracks, however, and all are, if not home runs, then solid triples. “Driving Me Mad” is built around one of Finn’s best hooks, “Last to Know” meanders pleasantly until it settles on a monster of a bridge, “Wherever You Are” floats by like a soft breeze, and “Human Kindness” is simply this album’s trickiest and most invigorating moment. The U.S. version concludes with the European single, the rollicking “Rest of the Day Off,” and the elegiac “Into the Sunset,” a sweet farewell.

The biggest problem with One All is that it’s over rather quickly. There’s no sense of grandeur or importance in these songs. Rather, it’s a subdued and subtle affair that demands attention to its sublime details. This is an album that grows more affecting with repeated listens, which is a sure sign that it won’t win back the acclaim that Finn received for the first Crowded House album. And the artist likely has no hopes that it will, since One All is less an event, and more just another great Neil Finn album. He’s stopped chasing fame and just settled into the role of one of the best and least assuming singer/songwriters in the world, and it’s a role that suits him well.

* * * * *

I paid $16 for the new Weezer CD, Maladroit. I wasn’t too surprised to find out that the 13-track CD clocks in at only 32 minutes, but come on, that’s 50 cents a minute. My phone bill is 40 cents a minute better than that.

I wouldn’t gripe so much, but Maladroit is not quite the one-two punch I was expecting after last year’s similarly brief Weezer (a.k.a The Green Album). That album was perfect – 10 simple, short songs that left you wanting more. Maladroit, on the other hand, might be the most sprawling and inconsistent 32-minute record ever made. In a way, it resembles 1992’s Pinkerton, which head nerd Rivers Cuomo has all but disowned. It covers a lot of similar ground.

For instance, there is deadpan emo sendup “Death and Destruction,” which takes a stab at a genre Weezer helped to create with Pinkerton. The entirety of the lyrics read: “I can’t say that you love me, so I cry and I’m hurting, and every time that I call you, you find some way to ditch me, so I learn to turn and look the other way.” “Slob” sees the return of Cuomo’s angsty voice, a la “No Other One,” and bemoans the life of a put-upon layabout. Both these songs are slow meanders, as is “Space Rock,” although that one’s just a mess.

Elsewhere, though, Weezer really strut their stuff effectively. The opening trilogy (if three songs adding up to six minutes can be called a trilogy) is classic stuff, including the single “Dope Nose,” with its straight-faced dumb-rock riff. “Slave” might be the finest two-minute slab of pop-punk these boys have come up with yet, and closer “December” is quite lovely. “Burndt Jamb” takes the place of “Island in the Sun” this time, but is less catchy.

I wouldn’t want to say Weezer rushed this album out, considering the five-year delay between their second and third records, but when you can seriously imagine 10 minutes being cut from a 32-minute album, some more work may have been beneficial. Maladroit is harsher in tone than their last effort as well, and the walls of guitar tend to grate after a while. It’s an overall less likable effort, which may have been the point, as Cuomo only seems happy when he’s miserable in some way. If history is any indication, Maladroit will be coolly received, and Cuomo will collapse back into another five years of self-loathing before re-emerging with something worth listening to more than twice.

* * * * *

Moby titled his new album 18 because there are 18 songs on it.

That’s the level of creativity and inspiration you can expect from this new effort by the unlikeliest pop star in the history of unlikely pop stars. Moby started as a revered techno DJ, creating his own spins on the James Bond theme and music from Twin Peaks. He also dabbled in ambient soundscapes which were miles behind similar work by Aphex Twin, to name one. Later, he made a great album in Everything is Wrong, one that expanded the boundaries of techno to include rock and ambient trance, and followed it up with an utter disaster of a guitar noise album called Animal Rights before stumbling ass-backwards into a successful mix with Play.

“Successful” may be putting it mildly – Play stayed on the charts for two years, yielded four or five hit singles, and songs from it will likely keep appearing in commercials and on movie soundtracks until the earth grinds to a halt and turns to dust. It’s hard to gripe about that, though, because Play is a spectacular album, messy and inconsistent and spiritual and full of grace. On Play, Moby married old blues and gospel recordings to his trademark synthscapes, and the result was breathtakingly fresh. Looking back on his career, though, one thing seemed certain: Moby was completely unpredictable.

Well, scratch that theory. 18 has the dubious distinction of being the first Moby album that sounds almost exactly like its immediate predecessor. We’ve all heard “We Are All Made of Stars,” the limp single, and while it may seem to signal a departure from Play, the next track dispels that handily. “In This World” sets a wailing gospel vocal over a beat and a synth backdrop, as does “In My Heart,” “One of These Mornings,” “The Rafters” and “I’m Not Worried at All,” to name a few. Moby takes a few turns at vocals, just like last time, on “Signs of Love” and “Extreme Ways,” and invites a few female singers to step up to the mic, just like last time, on “At Least We Tried” and “Great Escape.” The music is all depressingly similar to Play‘s mix of ambient synths and trippy beats, and even a collaboration with Sinead O’Connor (“Harbour”) fails to breathe any originality into the mix.

Which shouldn’t hurt this album’s popularity at all. Often people are upset when an artist follows a successful release with a clone, but in this case it should suit Moby’s newfound legion of fans just fine. When the Play formula works, it really works, and even though the immediate effect of most of this album is diminished due to its familiarity, the basic appeal of Play is present throughout. For my money, the best of the lot is “Fireworks,” which captures the fragility of Play‘s quietest moments. For a guy who’s been pretty resolute in his artistry for more than a decade, though, 18 is disappointingly safe. If the next one is called 18 Again, I ain’t buying it.

* * * * *

I was surprised when Mark Eitzel announced that his fifth album would be called Music for Courage and Confidence, because those words seem incongruous with his gorgeously sad catalog. Eitzel has always made lullabyes for the timid and the weary, the sad sacks who seem to live under a black cloud. He has an uncanny knack for bringing out the most depressing interpretation of any lyric and melody, even a romp like “Proclaim Your Joy” on his last album, the terrific The Invisible Man.

The mystery of the title became a lot clearer when I found out that Music for Courage and Confidence would be a covers album. It also seemed a good way to test the above theory, to see if Eitzel’s downhearted treatments of others’ songs would convey the same sense of hopelessness as his original works. Surprise, they do, and they do it beautifully.

Unlike a lot of covers albums, Courage and Confidence benefits from Eitzel’s choice of material. He croons some old standards, like Bill Withers’ inexhaustible “Ain’t No Sunshine,” but also graces some unique choices, like Anne Murray’s “Snowbird,” which opens the album, and Kris Kristofferson’s lovely “Help Me Make It Through the Night.” Eitzel somehow turns “I Only Have Eyes for You” into a lonely lament. He strums his world-weary way through Phil Ochs’ anthem to resignation, “Rehearsals for Retirement,” and closes with a terrific rendition of “I’ll Be Seeing You.” The album, no surprise, sticks to low-key arrangements and melancholy moods throughout, but there is one exception: the pulsing take on Curtis Mayfield’s “Move On Up.”

But perhaps the most surprising, and oddly the most effective, choice here is Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me,” here transformed into a plaintive plea. Herein lies the genius of Mark Eitzel – he can make even a fluffy pop trifle into a deeply emotional affair. Music for Courage and Confidence is another swell project from Eitzel, the patron saint of sad-eyed depressives everywhere. His gift for heartbreak is so great that he can find it in even the unlikeliest of places.

* * * * *

Next week, that sarcastic genius, Eminem. Betcha can’t wait.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I have seen Star Wars: Episode II – Attack of the Clones twice now, and by the time many of you read this, I’ll likely have sat through it a third.

I’m of two minds about this installment, and I thought I’d let them both speak.

First, 27-year-old me:

Despite some truly horrible dialogue, Attack of the Clones transcends its title and takes its place as a very good installment in the Star Wars saga. The inevitable plot is moved forward a great deal, but not in a dry, exposition-heavy manner, as in Episode I. This film is paced perfectly, and features surprises, discoveries, and a superb concluding sequence that keeps building upon itself until its finale, the coolest lightsaber battle in the series thus far. Those that strayed after Episode I will be very happy with this one, and the perpetually faithful (like myself) will be rewarded with an engaging, eye-popping adventure flick in tune with the spirit of the original trilogy.

And now, eight-year-old me:

YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAHHH!! OH MY GOD! THAT WAS SOOOOO COOOOOOOL!!! WHEN THE CLONES ATTACKED THE DROIDS, IT WAS AWESOME!!! AND YODA – HOLY GOD, YODA!!! WHAT AN AWESOME MOVIE!!! THIS IS THE BEST STAR WARS EVER!!! THIS IS THE BEST MOVIE EVER!!!

I have been wary of letting my inner eight-year-old out for this flick, lest he have his childlike sense of wonder stamped on by a mediocre Star Wars film. This is not a mediocre Star Wars film, and lately I’ve been less able to keep my giddy excitement in check. George Lucas, beyond all expectation, got it just about right this time. Sure, there are problems, but they’re the same problems that crop up all throughout the original trilogy, most notably in Return of the Jedi, and you don’t hear people griping too much about those. Attack of the Clones (nope, not even warming up to that title a little bit) captures most everything that was stirring and engaging about the latter three episodes, and gives you a lot more to look at and marvel over.

I attended a midnight screening on Thursday morning (technically), and my audience was utterly bowled over by this movie. I lost count of the number of times we broke into applause. If nothing else, I came away elated that other people apparently feel the same tingle at the traditional opening sequence. They applauded when the 20th Century Fox logo morphed into the Lucasfilm logo, they applauded at the appearance of “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away,” and they broke into hoots and hollers when the fanfare kicked in and the opening crawl began. Just that sequence of events is all it takes to send me back to my wide-eyed childhood.

And the movie didn’t disappoint from there. It opens with a bang, and leads shortly thereafter into a high-speed chase through a crowded city skyline, and then we’re off on what’s likely the most exciting ride Lucas has ever offered us. As I mentioned, the pacing for this film is perfect. I don’t know if it was Lucas or his co-writer Jonathan Hale who suggested having Obi-Wan discover the plot in pieces, rather than having it explained up front, but that decision made all the difference. The first half of Clones plays like an episode of Law and Order, with an investigation leading to revelation upon revelation.

There’s also a love story between Anakin Skywalker and Padme Amidala, and this is, to put it mildly, less successful. The dialogue is wretched, the acting is stiff, and the outcome feels rudely forced. The thing is, the outcome of this relationship is just as inevitable as the rest of the plot, but these sequences feel as though the actors know this, and are just marching in bored lockstep until they get there. Neither Hayden Christensen (quite good in most of the film) nor Natalie Portman (quite good in other films) is helped by the mind-numbingly dumb sentences they have to utter, and it’s obvious that neither of them are convinced by their words. This love story is an important part of the whole saga, and it should have resonated with wonder and tragedy. Even James Cameron did a better job with young lovers in Titanic, and that’s saying something.

But thankfully, you can just ignore those scenes, as they only make up about 15 minutes of the film. Clones is two hours and 20 minutes long, but it moves like lightning, and before you know it, you’re plunged into the final act, the greatest Jedi battle ever staged. Even though you know, because you’ve seen Episodes IV-VI, that Anakin and Obi-Wan get out alive, you’re still caught up in the excitement. Clones, droids, lightsabers, treachery, thrilling chases, and a definitive Jedi moment for Samuel L. Jackson’s Mace Windu all lead up to what might be the coolest thing ever to grace a Star Wars movie.

Ah, Yoda. My screening audience broke into applause three times during Yoda’s brief scene, and even if the rest of the movie had sucked, this would have been worth it. We’ve heard for three movies now what a great Jedi master Yoda is, and I, for one, have wondered how that can be possible – he’s two feet tall, for Christ’s sake. I’m telling you, he goes all Crouching Yoda, Hidden Jedi on us, and damn. That’s all I have to say – damn.

Here’s the best recommendation I can make to those who left the fold after Episode I. When I came out of The Phantom Menace, I probably felt like you did. While the movie was fun, I had the sinking sensation that maybe Lucas had lost it. Maybe the new trilogy wouldn’t link up with the original one as well as it could have, and perhaps Lucas’ filmmaking skills had atrophied beyond repair. Worst of all, I thought that maybe the new trilogy would accomplish nothing more than to sully the original one.

I came out of Clones thinking we’re gonna be just fine. This movie has convinced me that Lucas knows exactly what he’s doing, and has all along. Harry Knowles was right – Clones makes The Phantom Menace a better movie. It’s all coming together now.

So, to sum up my thoughts on the future, here again is 27-year-old me:

All the elements are firmly in place for a rousing and heartbreaking finale in Episode III. Specifically, the final shots of Episode II bring the full reality of the situation home. Clones manages the neat trick of being fun and foreboding at the same time, making you cheer for all the wrong things and drop jaw in astonishment when you realize it. The shadow of the Empire is nearly upon us, and Episode III could be the best of the lot.

And finally, eight-year-old me:

EPISODE III IS GONNA ROCK!!! WOO-HOO!!!!

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I am officially in full geek Star Wars mode.

I’m typing this while watching The Phantom Menace on Fox, and I have my ticket to go see Attack of the Clones in less than a week. I even bought a box of Star Wars – Episode II cereal, which contains marshmallows in shapes that, I guess, are vaguely reminiscent of Yoda, R2-D2 and a Stormtrooper, and also contains absolutely no nutritional value. But I ate it anyway, which is kind of a metaphor for my entire Star Wars experience. Despite all my ramblings about character, motivation, symbolism and whatnot in the movies I enjoy, I am so fucking psyched right now to see this big-budget, swashbuckling eye candy adventure flick.

Review forthcoming next week.

* * * * *

The appeal of Tom Waits is difficult, if not impossible, to explain if you’ve never immersed yourself in his work, but I thought of an illustration that might work.

You know that scene in the movie musicals that happens after the two leads have each had a number of solos, and have done the love duet, and they walk off the frame and the camera slowly pans down to a dirty, disheveled, lovesick drunk who begins to croak a sad, heartbreaking waltz under a grimy streetlight? Well, that guy is Tom Waits. He has a knack for those broken-souled numbers that creep under your skin, and he has a voice that makes your skin creep.

That voice is perhaps the element of Waits’ work that takes the most getting used to. Calling it gravelly would be putting it charitably – Waits sounds like he’s been gargling battery acid for 40 years, and he makes Joe Cocker sound like Sarah McLachlan. But even more than Bob Dylan, who has a similar tone, Waits infuses his sandpaper baritone with palpable emotion, making the listener feel more than you’d think possible. He’s like a Broadway virtuoso from Bizarro World.

A good primer for the odd sensibility of Waits would be his two new albums, Alice and Blood Money, out this week. One is a lovely, orchestrated affair, the other a bitter, dark and jazzy missive from the seedy side of town. Together they offer a nice overview of the different styles Waits has been proffering for 30 years or so.

Alice opens with the title track, which tells you all you need to know about Alice and her effect on Waits’ character. (I should, of course, mention that Waits albums are often little plays, and that’s especially true here, because both albums were composed to accompany stage shows.) Over a slow, shimmering jazz background, Waits asks, “How does the ocean rock the boat? How did the razor find my throat?” At the song’s conclusion, he sinks into blissful futility: “But I must be insane, to go skating on your name, and by tracing it twice, I fell through the ice…”

The album continues in a heartsick vein, Waits’ glowering voice contrasted with glorious string arrangements and gentle harmony. “Flower’s Grave” twists cliches on their ears: “As one rose dies, another blooms, it’s always been that way…but no one puts flowers on a flower’s grave.” “Watch Her Disappear” begins with the line, “Last night I dreamed that I was dreaming of you…,” and it weaves a hallucinogenic tale of desperation. “Poor Edward” introduces us to a man who kills himself to escape the voice of the other face on the back of his head (really), and “Table Top Joe” spins a yarn about a torso-less piano player (again, really).

Lest you start thinking that Alice is loopy and strange, it’s actually quite traditionally beautiful. Unlikely as it may seem, Waits’ voice delivers on the beauty of the songs by dredging up their inner pain. The album is a slice of off-kilter, soul-stirring melancholy, and the odder it is, the more touching it becomes. Alice is sorrow-drowning music set to moonlit walks along grimy streets.

Should you take a detour down one of the alleys on those grimy streets, you might end up in the part of town described on Blood Money, which by its nature is a less enjoyable album, but a more fascinating one. The titles tell the tale: “Misery is the River of the World,” “Everything Goes to Hell,” “God’s Away on Business,” “The Part You Throw Away,” and on and on. Blood Money is harsh, jagged and raw.

It’s also one of Waits’ most jazz-oriented recordings, and it finds him in full growl mode more often than not. He sounds here like a deranged carnival barker, welcoming you to the freak show outside your window. “All the good in the world you can put inside a thimble, and still have room for you and me,” he spits on “Misery is the River of the World,” over a propulsive bass and clarinet backing. Later he opines, “If there’s one thing you can say about mankind, it’s that there’s nothing kind about man,” which sort of sums up the 12 tales of venom and vice that follow.

And as such, it’s a less affecting work than Alice. Where that album couched its misery in equal amounts of sweetness, Blood Money goes for the jugular, and after a while the gloomy jazz stylings start to blend together. There are some standouts here, especially “Lullaby” and infidelity tale “Another Man’s Vine,” but overall Blood Money takes a few more listens to sort out in your mind. Both of these albums are worth the time they take, however, because you’ll never find another singer-songwriter as idiosyncratic, yet emotionally resonant, as Tom Waits.

Next week, probably Moby, though the single hasn’t grown on me. It’s got a cool video, though…

Oh, and Star Wars. Whoo-hoo!

See you in line Tuesday morning.

This didn’t fit last week, what with my single-minded analysis of Wilco’s new album, but I need to mention it this week.

I am always, at least in some way, affected when musicians and artists I admired in my youth pass on, and even though it would be difficult to categorize Layne Staley in that way, his band Alice in Chains is forever tied to a certain period in my life. While I had been turned on to them by my long-lost buddy Steve Pelland (Hey, Pell, if you’re reading this…) in 1991, the band’s superb 1992 album Dirt was the soundtrack to my first two years of college. More specifically, it’s permanently tied in my mind to an overnight trip to Boston, an impromptu voyage involving four people I’d never met before. We drove two and a half hours down, spent roughly 20 minutes there, and drove two and a half hours back in time for class the following morning, and we blasted Dirt most of the way there and back.

Besides the nostalgia trip, though, it remains a fact that Dirt is a stupendous disc. Seriously. Go dig it out from that box in the garage labeled “grunge,” and check it out again. Almost every song is in an odd time signature, it’s filled with inventive and foreboding melodies, and it features those super-cool harmonies (!) between Staley and Jerry Cantrell. It’s also a tough listen, laden as it is with tales of addiction and pain. Staley’s death from a heroin overdose last month only makes it more painful. Sure, Alice in Chains made other good albums, but they never surpassed Dirt, and if the entire Seattle grunge movement had been thrust upon us only to unleash that one album, it would have been worth it.

* * * * *

The first song on Elvis Costello’s new album, When I Was Cruel, is called “45,” and in a particularly Costello lyrical twist, the title works three ways, referring to a year, an age and a recording format. It’s almost his autobiography, tracing a music lover through boyhood to middle age, and all by itself, it raises just about every one of the album’s shortcomings.

The first is that, unlike Costello’s beloved 45 RPM records (and yes, I do remember them), the compact disc can hold more than an hour of music. This alone has contributed more to the surplus of uneven-at-best albums coming out these days. Costello came up during a time when vinyl was still the dominant format, and a single album usually ran between 30 and 40 minutes. This holds true for Costello’s first batch of angry, loud records, to which everything he’s done since has been compared.

Of course, the vinyl format didn’t really allow for too much filler, especially for a prolific and consistent songwriter like Costello. This Year’s Model, a picture-perfect album, is barely done kicking your ass and slapping your face before it’s over. Double albums, which Costello has never produced, were often criticized for being bloated and saddled with inferior tracks written to fill space. Fast forward 20 years, and now consider this: Led Zeppelin’s double album Physical Graffiti, which could definitely use a bit of a trim, would only need to cut three minutes to fit on one CD.

That’s the music biz now – an average album is more than an hour long, and you have to hit 90 minutes or so to qualify for double album status. That’s a lot of music, and it’s no wonder that a larger percentage of it is sub-par. Take any 65-minute album you own and cut your least favorite tracks off of it, and see if you don’t come up with a tight, solid 30-to-40-minute disc that surpasses the original in all but length.

Or, to bring this ramble back to the point, take Elvis Costello’s When I Was Cruel and start chopping. There is a really good 40-minute album hiding in this hour-and-change, and finding it is surprisingly easy, considering how good this guy’s songs usually are. The bloat even extends to certain songs. The title track weighs in at more than seven minutes, and its monotonous beat gets old after three or four. “Alibi” would be a classic, if it weren’t so long and repetitive that you’ll think you accidentally hit the repeat button around minute four.

Which is a shame, because when Costello’s on, he’s amazing. The aforementioned “45” is a perfect example of why other songwriters adore this guy. The gloriously mean “Tear Off Your Own Head (It’s a Doll Revolution)” could have fit well on 1995’s Brutal Youth, his last original rock record. Most impressively, the Dylan-esque “Episode of Blonde” includes all the venom and spite you’d expect with a title like that. It’s a scattershot rail against stupidity of all kinds, with Costello spitting out classic lines like these: “She had the attention span of warm cellophane,” “She was a cute little ruin that he pulled out of the rubble, now they are both living in a soft soap bubble,” and my favorite, “So an artist drags a toothbrush across the first thing he sees, and names the painting ‘Christ’s Last Exit into Purgatory.'”

Nothing wrong with all that, but then there is the rest of the album, which ranges from merely good to achingly average, and the problem appears to be at least partially psychological. It’s been seven years since Costello has rocked out, and he’s pushing 50. He’s spent the intervening years making lovely chamber pop with the likes of Burt Bacharach, not exactly the most graceless of public agings. There’s a lot riding on this album for him, and it often feels like he’s working overtime to prove he hasn’t turned into Mick Jagger. Unfortunately, that often translates into cacophony for its own sake, with clanging drums, wailing guitars and not much melody.

And then there’s Costello’s voice, always a take it or leave it proposition, and never more so than here. He’s written several songs here that he can’t sing, and he gamely tries anyway, with mixed results. “Tart,” for example, is a lovely ballad, one of the best songs on the album, until the band kicks in halfway through and Costello reaches unsuccessfully for notes he hasn’t been able to hit in many years. He screams his way through punk rave-up “Dissolve,” which must have been first take, and he strains audibly on “15 Petals.” While it’s great to hear Costello refuse to lay down and be Elton John, it’s sometimes a bit of a chore to sit through.

And in the end, that’s what “45” is about, and that’s the paradox it raises. “It creeps up on you without a warning,” he sings of his age, and there’s a huge gap between wanting to recapture your youth and being physically able to. Critics are knocking themselves out to praise this disc, and they’re probably reacting more to Costello’s ambition than the music. In its best moments, When I Was Cruel ably displays that he can still write a biting rock song. Overall, however, it’s a pale shadow of the man’s glory days, a merely decent album that will only remind you of when he was great.

See you in line Tuesday morning.