Tori Amos yelled at me once.

I admit, it was partially my fault. I should have known better than to try to interview one of my favorite artists. I rarely get starstruck, but there are a few musicians, writers and directors that, I have discovered, can reduce me to a muddle-minded mess. Amos is one. I have been a bedazzled fan of her work since first hearing Little Earthquakes in 1992, still one of my top 10 favorite records of all time. Her passion and musicality still manages to trip the emotional switches that have long since dulled on the edges of decades of lousy pop cultural drivel.

So I should have realized that I’d have no intellectual questions to ask, no probing insights to glean. I really should have known that I’d just come off as another nervous fan, another drooling sensitive-male idiot. It’s kind of ironic, then, that Amos’ tirade was sparked by a question many, many journalists had apparently asked her: Why, Tori, did you not join up with the then-flowering Lilith Fair tour? He response was easy and obvious: I’m doing my own tour, she said, and I didn’t want to open up for Sarah McLachlan.

Fair enough. But then she decided to take out on me dozens of bad interviews in which that question had arisen. Two thoughts ran through my head during the ensuing six minutes. First, and most prominently, was this one: “This is probably my only conversation ever with Tori Amos, and she’s yelling at me.” That turned me several shades of pale, so much so that I barely recognized the second thought: “Man, she seems defensive.”

I admit that I had hoped for some behind-the-scenes disagreement between Amos and McLachlan, since both seem to come from different places where gender emphasis is concerned. McLachlan’s a pretty good singer that was elevated into some symbol of womanhood, all the while spouting lines like “Your love is better than ice cream.” She’s a pop songstress who used her brief stardom as a platform to open doors for other pop songstresses, and there’s nothing inherently wrong with that, but Amos is, effortlessly, a living example of talent and passion making gender barriers irrelevant, and I thought she may have some insights on a tour that celebrated those barriers.

Her defensive reaction was interesting, in a shriveled pride sort of way, and I later thought that perhaps she considered herself better than anything the Lilith Fair was offering, and not in need of the tour’s help in any way. If so, she was right, even if she didn’t want to say so. This interview happened right after from the choirgirl hotel was released in 1998, an album that I hoped would be a minor hiccup in her career. Her three prior albums certainly put to shame the entire output of the Lilith participants, and she certainly couldn’t stick with choirgirl‘s simple, stupid songs and lifeless arrangements forever, could she?

I tell you this story partially as full disclosure. There is some tendency on the part of rabid fans of any artist to attribute a bad review to some personal vendetta on the part of the reviewer. Readers of the story I wrote for Face Magazine may remember that yes, Amos and I have talked, and no, it didn’t go especially well, and they may be tempted to put two and two together. Anyone who’s remained a faithful reader since then will tell you, however, that I’ve given the sad, slow decline of Tori Amos every chance to recapture past glories. I even graded last year’s cover album, Strange Little Girls, and 1999’s contract-swallowing To Venus and Back on a curve, forgiving ill-advised moments on both.

The free ride stops here, however.

I had hoped, what with the live album and the covers album back to back, that Amos was just unhappy with Atlantic Records, and once she fulfilled her contract and made the switch to Epic, she’d release the masterpiece she’d been secretly working on for three years. Alas, the just-released Scarlet’s Walk is terrible, easily the most boring and dead-sounding thing she’s ever signed her name to. (And I’m including Y Kant Tori Read, in case you were wondering.)

Amos’ first record for Epic is epic indeed: a so-called “sonic novel” that covers 18 tracks in 74 minutes. All of her albums are tied together conceptually, so it should be no surprise that Scarlet’s Walk is meant to tell a story – that of paper-thin Amos alter-ego Scarlet, and her walk across America. With this device, Amos hoped to put together a post-9/11 search for the heart of these United States, reflected in the wayward characters Scarlet meets. The limited edition packaging even comes with a map, some Polaroids and some stickers to mark your own journey, I guess.

Amos obviously put a lot of thought into the concept and the trappings, but it’s too bad she didn’t lavish some of that attention on the songs themselves. If, in fact, she rejected the Lilith Fair for offering little more than radio-ready fluff disguised as a battle cry, then it’s sadly ironic that “A Sorta Fairytale,” the lead single from Walk, sounds so much like third-rate Sarah McLachlan. It’s slick, simplistic and utterly boring. And it’s one of this album’s good songs.

Out of 18 songs, there are only three that I love, and a couple more that I like. Of those, none even comes close to “Silent All These Years,” for instance, or “Maryanne,” or even “Baker Baker.” Even her b-sides from that period (“Sugar,” “Flying Dutchman” and “Upside Down,” just to name three) wipe the floor with anything here. Imagine an entire album of “Past the Mission” arranged for elevators, and you have some idea of how snooze-worthy this thing is. It’s the first Tori album I nearly gave up on halfway through.

Trashing Tori makes me unbelievably depressed, so I’ll try to focus on the positive. “Carbon” is wonderful, a swirling vortex of notes and melody that slips into odd times at odd moments. The hook line (“Keep your eyes on her horizon”) is the best thing about all of Walk‘s 74 minutes. The seven-minute “I Can’t See New York” is heartbreaking, and dynamically arranged. The chorus parts find Amos desperately pleading over solo piano, a sound I’d almost forgotten could thrill me this much. And closer “Gold Dust” is lovely, a throwback to the “classic” Amos sound of piano, voice and strings.

In the second tier are “Fairytale,” which admittedly grows more pleasant with each listen; “Taxi Ride,” the likely next single; and “Sweet Sangria,” which starts out like most of the others with a limp bass-and-drums groove but launches into surprisingly melodic terrain. It shouldn’t be surprising, though – Amos is better than the other dozen songs here, most of which string the same chords together in the same ways. I barely stayed awake through “Don’t Make Me Come to Vegas,” and can’t quite distinguish it from “Strange,” “Crazy,” “Pancake,” or numerous others.

All the elements are there for a slam dunk, and that’s what makes Scarlet’s Walk so frustrating. Amos is back on piano for almost every track, which I’ve been clamoring for since choirgirl. She’s got a concept rich with possibilities, and complete creative freedom. And I hate that she’s used that freedom to sand all the rough edges off and turn in something barely competent, simple and slick. Sure, she’s playing piano again, but we never get to hear just how good she is. She seems to have forgotten how to write a song like “Yes, Anastasia,” with sections and changes and drama.

Her concept also lends itself to the multicolored emotions that used to be her trademark. America in the past year has been a harrowing experience, a healing process that deserves emotional exploration. Alas, since her first three albums, Amos has rejected the immediate, honest approach that made the listener feel like an integral part of her process. The seething pain of Little Earthquakes, the budding joy of Under the Pink, the unrestrained fury of Boys for Pele – absent any of these, Scarlet’s Walk is distant and disposable.

The saddest thing about Scarlet’s Walk is how forgettable it is. Like her character, she seems to meander about this album with no clear sense of direction, and no melodic or lyrical focus. Rather than searching aimlessly for the heart of America, Amos sounds like she needs to look inward for the heart of her own talent. She may be playing displaced characters here, but Amos herself sounds depressingly scattered and lost.

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I can’t let this column go by without mentioning Jam Master Jay.

The Run-DMC DJ was gunned down early Halloween morning, the latest victim of an increasingly violent rap culture. The ironies abound here – Run-DMC was instrumental in bringing hip-hop to the masses, allowing it to become the all-pervasive juggernaut it now is. The seminal trio believed in the joyous expression rap could be, the positive influence it could bring to young black people. In recent years, the members of Run-DMC expressed regret at the twisted and violent thing their child has become. In a sense, the murder of Jay feels like rap’s final, absolute rejection of its parents’ values, and that’s a sad thing.

Next week, any one of a number of intriguing possibilities.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So I thought I’d say goodbye to the Black Crowes this week.

I get derisive snorts and chuckles whenever I say this, but there’s no doubt in my mind that for the past decade, there hasn’t been a better rock ‘n’ roll band in the world than the Crowes. Most every other band that claimed rock roots tempered those with some “new” sound, some culturally relevant depression or some studio trip-hoppery to keep the kids happy. While an argument can certainly be made for music’s need to progress, there was always something refreshing about the fact that none of the Crowes seem aware that the ’80s and ’90s have happened.

The band, led by brothers Chris and Rich Robinson, made six loud, sloppy albums of varying quality, but not one of them could be considered anything but rock ‘n’ roll. Occasionally they gave in to their psychedelic tendencies, most notably on Three Snakes and One Charm, but there was always enough gut-powered rock to successfully defend the title the Rolling Stones have been abusing for 30-some years: Best Rock ‘n’ Roll Band in the World. Bar fucking none.

I’m not up on the circumstances surrounding the band’s split, mostly because that sort of thing depresses me greatly. Whenever personal differences supersede artistic brotherhood, literally in this case, it reminds me that all art, no matter how divine in origin, has to be filtered through flimsy, fallible, petty, pathetic flesh and blood before it can be realized. The best artists make me forget that the dilution process is occurring at all.

But from what I can gather, it was an inevitably bad one. The brothers Robinson have never really gotten along, even though any idiot could hear that their chemistry and fire fueled the spitting attitude of their music. Nevertheless, critical mass was reached sometime shortly after the release of their swan song, the muddy, imperfectly perfect Lions. And while a reconciliation – or even a sellout reunion tour sponsored by a beer company – is never out of the question, the coffin has been nailed shut for now with the release of Chris Robinson’s solo debut, New Earth Mud.

I know that the Crowes followed the ’70s rock handbook pretty closely, and I never had a problem with that. I just wish that Robinson hadn’t adhered to the cliche quite so completely by first marrying a beautiful actress (Kate Hudson) and then releasing a goopy, sappy soft-rock solo album all about her. New Earth Mud is almost entirely acoustic, and dripping with true love and commitment and puppies and flowers and all the stuff you would expect never to find on a Crowes album.

Okay, it’s not that bad, but the complete lack of anything resembling, you know, rock ‘n’ roll is somewhat depressing. The singing Robinson was obviously the driving force behind the band’s quieter moments, but his brother usually added a necessary edge that’s completely missing here. Any album that opens with a song called “Safe in the Arms of Love” should send a red flag, for starters, and that song is one of two that raises the tempo past first gear.

None of which is inherently bad, of course. Robinson still has that distinctive, growl-and-whine voice, proof that he’s a born rock star. He sings his little ass off here, no doubt, and even his voice is so 1970s that if you didn’t know better, you’d swear New Earth Mud was vintage. Everything that made ’70s soft southern rock what it was is here, for better or worse. Songs like “Barefoot By the Cherry Tree” and “Could You Really Love Me?” are exactly as you imagine they are. And yes, there is a song called “Katie Dear,” and it’s at least as sappy as you expect. (He rhymes “Katie dear” with “don’t fear,” to give you some indication.)

In fact, you have to wait for track 10, “Ride,” to hear something that couldn’t be described as drowsy. The song is a funkified romp that, unfortunately, sets most of the rest of the album into sharp relief. Robinson has surprisingly squirreled his strongest material away at the end of the album. Closing tracks “Better Than the Sun” and “She’s On Her Way,” while still slower than molasses running uphill, are engaging songs, unlike much of New Earth Mud. It’s not all bad, but when the album is over, you’ll likely think to yourself that it was pretty and nice, and I never thought I’d be able to describe a Robinson project in those terms.

The contrast wouldn’t be so great if the other Robinson hadn’t recently produced a massive, sloppy slab of live Crowes with which you can contrast Chris’ effort. Typically titled The Black Crowes Live, this two-disc affair (recorded on their final tour and released in August) confirms that even right up until the end, these guys were the real deal. Just listen to the Robinsons play off of each other on “Sometimes Salvation,” Chris rubbing his vocal chords raw just to outdo the punch of Rich’s guitar. The whole band cranks here, and it’s interesting to hear the older material played with the same fuzzy, buzzing noise that covers the Lions tracks.

The strongest moments, of course, come when the band locks onto a powerhouse rock ‘n’ roll groove, and the best of those appear at the beginning and end of the album. They open with “Midnight From the Inside Out,” move through “Sting Me” and on to rarity “Thick ‘n’ Thin.” That’s a one-two-three punch that’s only surpassed by the album’s closing stretch of rockin’ goodness. Just try to find any modern band that can slam through a set-closing selection like “Twice As Hard,” “Lickin’,” “Soul Singing,” “Hard to Handle” and “Remedy” with this much stunning power.

It may be true that you can’t kill rock ‘n’ roll, but the loss of the Black Crowes is like giving it a sucking chest wound. For 10 years, they captured the spirit of rock better than any other band on the planet. It’s a shame to see such a thing come to an end, and doubly shameful to hear where Chris Robinson has decided to go, but at least we can pull out our old Crowes CDs and pretend we know how our parents feel when they dig out their old LPs.

One last toast, then, to the Best Rock ‘n’ Roll Band in the World.

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Next week, Tori. In keeping with tradition, the single is a boring piece of radio-ready fluff. Hopefully, tradition holds and the album is much better than the song. We shall see. Still working on those promised submissions, but it’s starting to look like I may not get to them before the end of the year.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

If I weren’t already considering completely revising my rules for the Year-End Top 10 List, this week’s first entry would have started me thinking about it.

Some people have suggested that instead of having an increasingly complicated series of regulations and criteria, I should just make a list of my favorite CDs in a given year, be they studio, live, best-of, singles, whatever. I’m still rejecting the idea, because I think some structure is a good thing, and I also don’t want to start viewing my list the same way I view the Grammys. Still, if I were to adopt such a freeform policy, I could include Ben Folds Live, without a doubt the CD I’ve flat-out enjoyed the most in 2002 thus far.

Alas, as you can tell by the title, it’s a live album, and hence ineligible under the current rules. Ben Folds Live (a witty play on his old band’s name) documents his recent Ben Folds and a Piano tour across the U.S., which featured (that’s right) just Ben Folds and his Baldwin, not so much playing songs from his four-album catalog as reinventing them.

And here’s why I’m struggling with the fact that as it stands, I’ll have to exclude this puppy in December. Throughout Ben Folds Live, Folds displays ample creativity and ingenuity, coming up with astonishingly inventive ways to compensate for the lack of bass and drums. For much of the material from the Five’s albums, Folds plays all three parts, jamming Robert Sledge’s bass lines with his left hand while keeping Darren Jessee’s drum beats with both feet and a microphone. The solo piano arrangements of these songs took more skill than many artists bring to their original studio material.

What’s more, this album may be the best single piece of evidence in existence that Ben Folds is an absolute genius songwriter and player. We’ll take the former first: Ben Folds Live samples liberally from all three of the Five’s albums (Ben Folds Five, Whatever and Ever Amen and The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner) and his solo debut from last year, Rockin’ the Suburbs. When stacked all in a row like this, they’re a catalog of some of the best pop songs of the last 10 years. They even stand up nicely to a classic like Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer,” which Folds faithfully covers.

Folds has long been a sterling example of pop done right, and his work stands in stark contrast to the melodically deficient crap that’s been clogging the airwaves for decades. The creeping dominion of hip hop and rap has convinced a dishearteningly vast majority of today’s musicians that you don’t need to actually know how to write a song to make a record. The true test, in my humble opinion, of any pop song’s melodic worth is if it can stand up to a complete undressing – does it work on just one instrument, like an acoustic guitar? Or, say, a piano?

And yeah, mammoth constructions like “Narcolepsy” and “The Last Polka” are loaded with studio trickery in their respective album versions, but they hold up here remarkably well. Opener “One Angry Dwarf and 200 Solemn Faces” remains the joyride it’s always been, and even a relative trifle like “Jane” sounds like a classic here. He enlists the audience to provide a buoyant impression of the horn section in “Army,” complete with both saxophone and trumpet parts. Folds even debuts some tunes here, most notably the lovely “Silver Street” and hilarious b-side “One Down,” which will stick in your head forever.

Songs aside, Ben Folds Live is worth picking up just to hear the man play. Folds has a style that combines the vigorous energy of Jerry Lee Lewis with the technique of Brad Mehldau and the soul of Billy Joel, and the resulting mix is beautiful when needed, and louder than hell when necessary. Tracks like “Zak and Sara” and “The Last Polka” are flawless melodic workouts, and through it all Folds’ voice is in fine form as well.

The jaw-dropper here comes near the end, when Folds tackles his early classic “Philosophy.” The song is a propulsive masterpiece, and this arrangement suffers not at all for lack of accompaniment. Midway through, it sounds like Folds pulls out a third arm to accomplish some of his dazzling solo lines, and he even breaks it down to include a lightning-fast rendition of Dick Dale’s “Misirlou.” If not for the filmed performance of this arrangement on the accompanying DVD, I’d think it was impossible for one man to play it.

I could go on and on, but I’ll spare you. Pieces of this album were recorded at the Vic Theatre in Chicago, back in March (including extemporaneous highlight “Rock This Bitch,” about which I will say nothing) – a show I nearly attended. I bailed because of work, but listening to this disc and watching the performances on the DVD, I’ve decided there’s no way I’m going to miss his repeat performance next month. Seriously, if you’ve ever liked pop music of any stripe, then you will like this. Ben Folds represents the undying beauty of the well-written, well-played pop song better than anyone of his generation, and Ben Folds Live is more fun than you can have for $15 anywhere else.

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Enough about shows I didn’t see.

Last month I caught the Lost Dogs in a little church in Long Grove, IL, on their “True Alternative” tour, and it was a delight. The tour is structured like four shows in one – each of the three Dogs plays a set, and then all three hit the stage for a full Lost Dogs show. All told, it clocked in at more than three hours of acoustic merriment.

The Dogs, as I’ve mentioned before, are Terry Taylor of Daniel Amos, Derri Daugherty of the Choir and Michael Roe of the 77s. Each of these guys is worth seeing on their own, as they’re all good songwriters and singers, and each has a back catalog of dozens of great tunes from their respective bands. Together, though, they play off of each other hilariously – Terry the cranky genius, Mike the disgruntled rock star and Derri the shy wallflower, sending good-natured barbs back and forth like water balloons. And their singing voices blend beautifully as well.

The Lost Dogs have long been on a quest to capture the spiritual roots of American music, blending country, folk and gospel in an earthy stew. That quest was only enhanced by their dear, departed member, the late, great Gene Eugene, who had a voice that could make angels weep. Gene, of unearthly awesome band Adam Again, made four superb albums with the Dogs, and arguably the finest of those is The Green Room Serenade, Part One, a 70-minute tour de force anchored by Eugene’s best contributions.

The band never got around to making Part Two, but the latest tour is accompanied by a new live CD called The Green Room Serenade, Part Tour, which documents a full band show from 1996. And if nothing else, the album is worth getting just for one more visit with the amazing Gene Eugene. His rendition of “The Last Temptation of Angus Shane” will bring tears, and if that doesn’t, then hearing him sing “Jimmy” undoubtedly will. Time all but stops for those two minutes.

The other three Dogs shine here as well. Part Tour really emphasizes the band’s diversity, sliding effortlessly from the gospel-folk of “Breathe Deep” to the rollicking bluegrass of “Bad Indigestion” to the perfect pop of “No Ship Coming In.” Three covers finish the album off: Eugene takes lead on Leonard Cohen’s “If It Be Your Will,” and the three remaining Dogs harmonize wonderfully on new studio versions of the Beach Boys’ “With Me Tonight” and Bob Dylan’s “Lord, Protect My Child.”

For a side project that was only meant as a lark, the Lost Dogs have amassed quite the catalog of great songs. As a sampler of that catalog, Part Tour is a great place to start if you’ve never heard of them. The trio has just completed a new album, which the record label is really hoping they don’t call Nazarene Crying Towel, and the songs they played from it at the Long Grove show were swell, if more gospel-oriented than they’ve been in the past.

Once you get into the Dogs, you’re going to want to check out everything from the members’ “real” bands as well. I especially recommend the Choir, one of the best bands to ever walk the earth. And I guarantee you, when Part Tour was recorded in 1996, Choir singer Derri Daugherty was already hard at work on his solo album, which he still hasn’t finished.

He has, however, released a five-song sampler of that upcoming release, descriptively titled A Few Unfinished Songs. It’s a testament to how much I love Derri that I paid $12 for these 14 minutes of music, and I feel like I got a deal. Daugherty sings like no one else, and he plays guitar like he’s sculpting magic in the air. These songs are all short and sweet, and especially wonderful are opener “All the World to Me” and “Logical Conclusion,” one of the best pop songs of the year. Don’t give up, Derri – a few more songs like these and you’ve got one marvelous album on your hands.

The Green Room Serenade, Part Tour and A Few Unfinished Songs are exclusive releases from Lo-Fidelity Records, which I think is basically just Jeffrey K. and his wife in their apartment. If you support him, he’ll be able to finance more releases like this, so go to www.lo-fidelity.com and buy, buy, buy. And then go to www.danielamos.com, www.thechoir.net, www.77s.com and www.thelostdogs.com and buy, buy, buy some more. It’s all good.

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Next time, some submissions from folks I’ve never met.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’ve been feeling a bit low lately.

My apologies to all those folks whose calls and e-mails I haven’t responded to – I appreciate the good wishes, and I will get back to all of you, I swear. It’s just that I’ve been in a funk since the new editorial mandate, and coupled with the fact that writing shorter pieces about stupid things paradoxically takes longer for me than writing miniature novels on important issues, I haven’t been in much of a companionship mood. A public apology, then, to the people in my life who have proven again and again that they will do anything to stay there. Your patience and friendship is appreciated.

So, guess what I did?

Give up?

I did what all Americans do when they get down in the dumps – I spent a shit-ton of money. Long story short, my piece of shit Saturn had begun making this hellish whining noise whenever I pushed it above 50 miles per hour. I marshaled every ounce of mechanical aptitude that I possess and proclaimed the noise “not good.” Hence, I drove onto the Ford lot near my house, and in about an hour, I became the proud owner of a 2002 Focus, which many, many people have told me since was one of the worst choices I could have made.

But hell, it runs, it runs well, and I got one of those 72,000-mile warranties, so I think it’s all good. Plus, it’s blue and shiny and roomy and it still has that great new car smell. And I’ll be paying for it until I’m 33. But whatever. For at least a little while, I can pull myself out of my depression by saying, either to myself or out loud, “I bought a new car.” That’s worth it.

Okay, this column is starting to read like one of those annoying blog things that have infected the ‘net as of late, and I have a whole stack of CDs ready for review. Music! Music! Go Go Go!

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Here’s what I don’t understand about Beck.

Or rather, I guess, what I don’t understand about the critical reaction to Beck’s career. There’s no doubting that Mr. Hansen is one of our finest musical ironists, able to poke fun at any style by imitating it down to the smallest identifying details. His usual modus operandi, if he can be said to have one, is to maintain a safe ironic distance from whatever style he’s lambasting, while simultaneously immersing himself in the sonic collage he’s crafting. The result is kind of a post-modern nostalgia trip, particularly for fans of funk, soul and old-school hip hop.

But see, here’s what I don’t understand. When Beck puts out a funk-pop album like Odelay or a soul record like Midnite Vultures, critics praise him for his satirical abilities. Hell, even Prince probably laughed at how well Beck aped his sex-charged falsetto on Vultures‘ “Debra,” one of his best tunes. But when Beck turns around and releases something like Mutations, or like his latest, Sea Change, those same critics pile on the platitudes for breaking down that satirical wall and releasing music charged with honesty and sincerity.

If anything, Sea Change is an even more deadpan imitation of Nick Drake than Vultures was of Prince. It’s dark, woozy, depressing music full of atmospheric beauty, sure, but there’s no more evidence of sincerity here than there was on Mellow Gold. In many ways, it’s his finest work of satire yet, devoid of the winking self-consciousness that marked Mutations, and the best evidence of its effectiveness would be the legions of “musicologists” lauding it for its openness.

Sea Change is a stunning update of Drake’s Five Leaves Left sound. You get the acoustic guitar driving all of the songs at a loping pace, the marvelously arranged strings that dance around the melody, the harpsichords and electric pianos that add flavor here and there, and you get Beck himself, singing like he’s already slashed one wrist and is headed for the other. The songs have titles like “Already Dead,” “Lonesome Tears” and “Lost Cause,” and lyrical lines like “Your sorry eyes cut to the bone” and “It feels like I’m watching something die.”

And like all faithful recreations, you’ll respond well to Sea Change if you’re already enamored with the style he’s chosen. I sure am, and whether he intended sincerity or not, Beck has made the best and most beautiful album of his career here, and one of the best of the year. Rib-tickling homage or not, Odelay was a kick-ass funk record, and by the same token, Sea Change is an uncannily gorgeous song cycle. It’s all about the music anyway, and this music is terrific.

A huge portion of the credit undoubtedly must go to Nigel Godrich, who is quickly establishing himself as one of the finest producers on the planet. Godrich produced, among other things, Radiohead’s OK Computer, and Beck’s Mutations. He’s a master of atmosphere, and his deft touch lends an otherworldly quality to these recordings. Without Godrich, the Nick Drake reference wouldn’t be quite so accurate – Sea Change is such an effective portrait of going under that it sounds like it was recorded in the split-second before all the musicians peacefully drowned.

Every song on this album is a wonder, both sonically and musically. The hazy “Round the Bend” is the closest Beck gets to a drone, but every song has at least one killer melody, and the album never blends together into a dismal mess. That would have been so easy with material like this, but Beck and Godrich spread magic over every minute of this album. “Paper Tiger,” for example, is buoyed by insistent, stabbing strings that leave you breathless, and “Sunday Sun” rises on a wave of pianos and guitars that finally crashes at the end, reminiscent of much of Wilco’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

The truly ironic thing would be if Beck’s younger fans, raised on a steady diet of funk-inflected hip-hop, bought Sea Change and hailed it as a new style. Beck is still an imitator, not an innovator, but in this case he’s chosen magnificent source material. In a lot of ways, Beck’s entire career thus far has been an imitation of David Bowie’s, complete with hops from style to style. There’s no evidence that Bowie has deeply felt one word or note of his long career, either, but that doesn’t make his music any less relevant or spectacular. Similarly, whether Beck means it or not, Sea Change is a masterpiece.

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The same might be said of Ryan Adams, who wears his tortured-poet pose like a rumpled shirt. Even his haircut simultaneously cries out for love while warning of abusive tendencies. Whether or not that’s really Adams is irrelevant: the man writes beautiful songs, and if acting like a lovestruck Romeo with a cocaine problem helps him to do that, then pose away, young Adams.

I’m being harsh, I know, but it seems like everything I read about Adams focuses on his image and his loud mouth rather than his undeniable talent. Last year Adams made a record called Gold that covered 76 minutes (plus a bonus disc, cheekily called Side Four) with not one lousy song. Some of them, in fact, were absolutely lovely (“When the Stars Go Blue” and “Wild Flowers,” to name but two), and had I been thinking straight, I’d have included Gold on the Top 10 List for 2001.

While making Gold, so the legend goes, the former Whiskeytowner also slapped together four other full-length albums, some with a band and some without. Since then, Adams has downgraded those recordings to “demo collections,” and has whittled them down to one 13-track compilation, called Demolition. (Never fear, completists: Adams says that if this disc sells well, he’ll put all four albums out in a boxed set by Christmas.)

In order to talk about Demolition, I think we need to clarify the definition of “demo” just a bit. While it’s true that every version of a song prior to the final studio recording technically qualifies as a demo, I remember when demos were sloppy, indistinct things recorded in a garage or a living room. They were first stabs at songs, and gave tremendous insight into the shaping of the final version. These days, any hack with a few bucks can afford either studio time or home recording equipment that delivers digital clarity, and if you’re a rock star like Adams, you can get producers like Ethan Johns to make your demos.

Basically, there’s no reason to call these recordings demos. They’re not even appreciably rawer than much of Gold, so don’t be scared. Demolition is just another Ryan Adams album, and while his batting average isn’t quite what it was on Gold, most of these songs are excellent. Highlights include the fragile “Cry On Demand,” the raucous “Starting to Hurt” and the lovely “Tomorrow,” featuring glorious harmonies by Gillian Welch, but if you like any of Adams’ previous material, you’ll like this.

There are some low lights, however. Most glaringly, if I were U2’s lawyer, I would seriously consider some kind of legal action over “Desire.” Opener “Nuclear” seems to exist simply to prove that Adams knows the correct pronunciation of the word (“new-clear,” not “new-cue-lar”), since it doesn’t sound like he put too much thought into it. And “Tennessee Sucks” is a great name for a song, and should have been more caustic – there are plenty of good reasons to write such a song, trust me. This one, however, is a Van Morrison-esque portrait of lazy summer days, and could take place anywhere.

But the majority of Demolition upholds Adams’ reputation as a purveyor of fresh-sounding traditionalism, a country-tinged folk-rocker that won’t make you wince at that description. He exists in a strange middle ground between Dylan, Springsteen and Steve Earle, and so far, he’s walked that tightrope well. But beyond all the pithy analyses, and even beyond his sensitive-danger-boy image, Adams is just a guy who writes good songs and sings them well. There are a whole bunch of those good songs on Demolition, all sung well, and anything else you need to enjoy it is your problem.

Oh, and just for the record, Tennessee does, indeed, suck.

* * * * *

One of my two favorite guitarists, Michael Roe, put out three albums this year so far, not counting the new Lost Dogs live album, so I wasn’t even waiting for something from my other fave, Mark Knopfler. But here it is – the former Dire Straits leader’s third solo album, called The Ragpicker’s Dream. And if you’re put off by that title, you shouldn’t buy it.

While both Beck and Ryan Adams specialize in updates of more traditional sounds, Knopfler wanted the real deal, and so Ragpicker’s is mostly a down-home country-fied folk shuffle. It’s also almost entirely acoustic, which is fine, but Knopfler has an electric guitar tone that can’t be beat, and it’s kind of a shame that it appears so infrequently here.

Quibble, quibble. Never mind what isn’t here, what’s here is a fun diversion, if nothing special. For Knopfler fans, here’s the best way to describe it: about 10 years ago, Knopfler formed a side band called the Notting Hillbillies. They put out one record, the joyous, back-woods Missing, Presumed Having a Good Time. This album sounds like that one.

You’ll know Knopfler isn’t taking himself too seriously by the first track, a pseudo-Irish lilt called “Why Aye Man” that also contains the best electric guitar lick on the record. Most of the rest consists of late-’50s and early-’60s inspired acoustic romps, with the occasional stomp thrown in (“Coyote,” “You Don’t Know You’re Born”). It’s fun, but it’s not nearly as engrossing or impressive as Sailing to Philadelphia, or any of Knopfler’s work with Dire Straits.

Still, though, it has more than its share of delights, especially early highlight “Hill Farmer’s Blues,” which drifts into the stratosphere on lovely sustained guitar lines. “Devil Baby” is a beautiful song marred by cheesy hee-haw lyrics, which actually could describe roughly half of these tunes. “A Place Where We Used to Live” is a low, rumbling soft jazz number suffused with nearly imperceptible menace. The aforementioned “Coyote” is, by Knopfler standards, a bone-crusher.

And if you stop the disc before you hit the title track, at number 10, you’ll spare yourself the album’s quick decline into silly, trite guff. “Old Pigweed” isn’t even worth discussing, so obliterated is it by the lyrics. So we won’t. I’ll simply leave it by saying that on the final tracks, Knopfler crosses the line from fun novelty, like “Quality Shoe,” into ridiculous embarrassment.

If Mark Knopfler made albums more quickly, I wouldn’t mind an occasional backyard hootenanny like The Ragpicker’s Dream, but he doesn’t. It took two years to bring us this one, even though more than half of it sounds like it was recorded in an afternoon. It gets by on his distinctive voice and guitar style, which few can even imitate, let alone duplicate. It’s entirely possible that this album will grow on me before year’s end, but right now I’m on my fifth trip through, and it still hasn’t grabbed me. It’s too bad, because when Knopfler’s on, he’s a treasure.

* * * * *

I was going to review Ben Folds today too, but I think that’s enough words for one week, don’t you? Coming up, craploads more music, and the deluge doesn’t stop anytime soon, either. I think I’m going to take a nap now.

But first, I might drive around the block a few times in my brand-freakin’-new car.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’m a little bit distracted this week.

As anyone who works at a newspaper, magazine or any other publication can tell you, there’s a near-constant war between the editorial and advertising departments. The ad department is all about the money – as they should be, really, but what often irks the editorial department is that they can’t understand why we would, for example, talk badly about a potential advertiser, even if they’re breaking the law and we have the scoop. Ad people don’t read the editorial pages, and vice versa, of course, but it’s a bone of contention among editorial people, because how can you sell the paper on its merits if you don’t know what those merits are?

The sad reality that few editorial people realize is the shit they write means nothing at all. It’s the circulation numbers that sell the paper, and as long as we don’t praise Osama Bin Ladin on page one, it doesn’t matter what we fill the space around the ads with. The flip side, unfortunately, is that editorial content is the first thing blamed when the ad sales slip. Since the two departments have little to nothing to do with each other, blaming one for the other’s lack of success seems out of touch with reality. But it happens all the time.

At my newspaper of employment, word has come down from the top that editorial must change to bring in more advertising. Our owner, who’s like four hundred years old, is trying to force a symbiotic relationship upon the two departments. The thinking goes like this: If potential advertisers see their kids’ pictures in the paper, or they see that we lavished whole columns on their church social or picnic or whatever, then they’re more likely to buy ad space in the paper.

Henceforth, we editorial types are now going to be running around town covering every dumb shit event, no matter how insignificant. We are to ignore larger issues, to the point of not covering county and state government. Our focus is to be what editors the country over derisively refer to as “chicken dinner content.” It’s lots of pictures, fewer words, and whole herds of smiling kids.

My contention is that you don’t need journalists for that kind of work. Anyone can write advertorial pieces, and anyone can cover the latest Lions Club cookout in 15 inches. I’ve always felt that the skills I’ve been honing should be used in service of larger issues, like governmental mismanagement and corporate crime. This may sound helplessly naive, but I still feel that the press should be using its power for good, and that includes exerting the power of the common man on those in control, to make sure they do what’s right.

And honestly, I’m not running for office here. I just don’t know what greater good I can do covering vacation bible schools, or community craft fairs. The shame of it is, I was starting to get a nice foothold in the crazy little town I cover, and I had people calling me with tips and information because they know I’ll dig around and find the answers. What am I supposed to say now? “Sorry, but my boss says I can’t write about this unless there are cute kids involved?”

Our paper is a weekly, which means we can’t compete with the daily papers when it comes to breaking stories. All we have to offer is depth, which we had been doing really well. The average story in a daily paper is around 15 to 20 inches. Our average is 30 to 35, and I’ve even gone to 50. In order to provide the depth necessary to outdo the daily papers on the same stories, we need that extra space. But now we’ve been told that our stories must also be no longer than 20 inches.

But that’s not all. We’re not even trying to compete in that arena anymore. Our publisher actually seems excited about this idea – we’re going to be the paper that covers all the crappy things the daily papers don’t want to. Never mind that the dailies don’t want to waste the space on these stories because they’re just not that important, and they make for boring reading. Our publisher actually used the phrase “podunk local newspaper” without a trace of irony, as if it were a good thing, a noble aspiration.

Now, I ask you, who with any ounce of journalistic training and experience is going to want to commit 60 hours a week busting his or her ass for a “podunk local newspaper,” especially one that doesn’t even try to rise above that distinction?

Well, not our associate editor, that’s for sure.

I’ve mentioned this guy before. He’s 20 pounds of asshole in a 10 pound bag, most times, but I’ve actually learned quite a bit from him in the past few months about the law, and about tracking down a story. When this guy, who’s a grizzled, hardened journalist of old, heard about these changes, he quickly resigned in protest. His last day is next Friday.

As many times as I’ve wished this guy would be fired, I’d never imagined that he’d willingly leave honorably, and that I’d respect him for it.

And now I’m wondering who’s going to be next, and if it’s going to be me.

Back to the music next week, I swear, with Beck, Ryan Adams, Mark Knopfler and Ben Folds. Seriously. I wouldn’t lie to you.

See you in line Tuesday morning.