Some of you may have noticed my interest waning a little bit.

Yeah, I know you’ve noticed. Some of you have told me so. You’ve said that you can tell when I’m just going through the motions on this column, and it shows in my writing when I’m not overly thrilled about the prospect of hammering one of these babies out. (Suddenly, my mind is filled with ghastly images of someone taking a hammer to a baby – sorry, won’t use that phrase again.) And yes, I will admit to it, but I’d like to point out there are some very good reasons for this.

One of them is my lousy working situation, which will all be sorted out in three weeks when I leave for the east coast. My life is in a strange limbo land right now, complicated by my full-to-bursting work schedule. (At least I’m doing something I enjoy… oh, wait, I’m totally not.) Expect a brighter, sunnier me come mid-December.

Or at least, come January, because another factor contributing to my growing apathy is the fact that 2002 has pretty well sucked for music and for art in general. Much as this may surprise some folks, I don’t like trashing records in this column, especially records by artists I’ve formerly enjoyed. See the most recent Tori Amos review for a clear example. I love music, so naturally I want to like everything I hear. I never understood those reviewers who seem to want to despise every song that comes across their desks. Why would you even want to discuss music if you hate it so much?

I’d much prefer being able to mercilessly thrash terrible albums than what I’ve had to do throughout this year – wade through and formulate thoughts on dozens of records that haven’t moved me in the slightest. Most of what I heard in 2002 left me with an overwhelming sense of… whatever. I want my music to affect me, to nudge its way into my life and redefine everything else around it. My Top 10 List, which is only three columns away, has a bunch of good records on it, but very few great ones, and I’m trying to be excited about it, but it’s no use.

And when my life is devoid of great new music, it’s almost paralyzing. It’s an empty, deadening feeling that is only partially assuaged by digging out great old records and remembering the first time I heard them. I remember spinning the self-titled Ben Folds Five album for the first time, for instance, and jumping all over the room by the time “Jackson Cannery” was done. Or my first bone-chilling run through Tori’s Little Earthquakes, or the Choir’s Circle Slide, or even Duncan Sheik’s Phantom Moon. Little has moved me like this during the past year.

Just to illustrate, I have four full-sized reviews this time of albums that have left me with little or no real feeling towards them. They’re all good albums, and they all make me smile, but none made me dance around the room like the spazzy white guy I am, arms flailing about my air guitar. Likewise, none (well, maybe one) compelled me to sit in silent astonishment while waves of gorgeous sound broke over me. At the end of my first play-through of each of these, I noted that I liked what I’d heard, and then promptly moved on to something else.

And that’s just not what music ought to do. Great music ought to completely change your life, imprint itself upon your experiences, dig in to your central nervous system and not let go. At the very least, great music ought to fill you with the desire to hear it again, right away. As I type this, I’m on my third-ever run through of these albums, and rather than sitting back and letting the response flow through me in words, I’m brainstorming frantically for interesting things to say.

Let’s see how well I do.

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Whatever else you can say about Audioslave, it’s comforting to note that there’s no way their music could be as bad as their name.

I mean, come on. What the hell does that even mean?

It’s even more disconcerting a moniker when you realize that between them, the four members of Audioslave have released 11 albums, most of them hits. The name doesn’t bode well for a combination of musicians that’s already being met with cynicism and skepticism. You see, the interesting thing about Audioslave, besides which mentally delayed third grader gave them their name, is that the group itself just shouldn’t work.

Audioslave is the much-touted “supergroup” that mixes three parts Rage Against the Machine and one part Soundgarden. Ignoring for the moment the ideological differences between the two, one could charitably describe their approaches to music as polar opposites. Sure, they both worked within the same framework of guitars-bass-drums, but Soundgarden was all about the melody, even when it came to tricky guitar and bass countermelodies, and Rage was always about the rhythm.

So why would the three musical members of Rage (guitarist Tom Morello, bassist Tim Commerford and drummer Brad Wilk) think they could replace their lead rapper Zach de la Rocha with Soundgarden’s Chris Cornell? I mean, Cornell’s solo album, the poor-selling yet beautiful Euphoria Morning, was easily the most melodic, acoustic thing to ever come out of Seattle, and it even made some concessions to lite-FM radio. You know, radio? Remember de la Rocha’s thoughts on radio? “Fuck it, turn it off,” if I recall correctly.

To make a hip-hop analogy, which the Rage boys might appreciate, Audioslave on paper sounds very much like booting Chuck D. from Public Enemy and replacing him with Rob Base. It shouldn’t work. It should me more oil and water than chocolate and peanut butter. What a surprise, then, that it does work, and occasionally it works very well.

First, it’s important to note that this is not the Chris Cornell of Euphoria Morning. This is the Chris Cornell of Louder Than Love, and it’s great to hear his full-throated yowl again, especially over music this muscular. The Rage boys are still the Rage boys, but this time out they’ve discovered subtlety and texture instead of just smashing you in the face with a sledgehammer. Audioslave does exactly what I’d hoped it would do – it takes strengths from both its disparate elements. Cornell needed a band this powerful to re-amplify his terrific voice, and the Ragers needed a Beatles nut like Cornell to teach them about melody.

Admittedly, Audioslave doesn’t quite measure up to either Rage or Soundgarden at full throttle, but it sounds like a good first step. The Rage trio is obviously just learning about pop songwriting, which explains semi-banal numbers like “Like a Stone” and “I Am the Highway,” which use chords we’ve all heard in this combination before. Very occasionally, though, the band hits upon something that combines their strengths beautifully, like the closing anthem “The Last Remaining Light.”

The sound takes some getting used to, especially if you’re familiar with Rage’s work. Opener “Cochise” sounds so much like Rage that it’s almost unsettling to hear Cornell actually sing over the riff. To his credit, Cornell is not trying to be de la Rocha – the lyrics on Audioslave are more spiritual than political, especially “Light My Way,” which I hope Cornell won’t mind me calling the most Christian song released into the mainstream since the last U2 album. Cornell is typically vague throughout, but he’s got the soulful rock star thing down pat. Everything he sings sounds deep, even when it’s utter tripe.

Blessedly, Tom Morello is still Tom Morello as well. Easily the most sonically inventive guitar player to emerge in the ’90s, Morello can make his six-string sound like virtually anything. He rarely takes a solo on Audioslave, preferring to fill his sections with bizarre screeches or imitations of slide whistles. When he takes the band along on his rides, it’s impressive, especially when the trio imitates electronic instruments perfectly. Observe “Hypnotize,” one of the best tracks, which sounds so much like Depeche Mode that they could release it to radio under their name and no one would blink. Not that they’d want to do that, of course.

Overall, though, Audioslave is merely a good start, and considering how easy it would be for the members to let their agendas clash, the band may not be around long enough to fulfill its own promise. If they continue in the spirit of musical cooperation that they’ve shown here, however, then I have high hopes for future projects.

But only if they get a new name.

* * * * *

Also in need of a new name is Ours, but really, these guys actually need a complete makeover.

Just look at the front cover of their second album, Precious. It’s a hoary, gothic mix of shadows, angel feathers and pseudo-dangerous-yet-sexy imagery that just looks cheap and artificial. Seriously, you’d think Ours was some Sisters of Mercy-style goth-industrial act, and the cover of their debut, Distorted Lullabies, wasn’t much better. You’d never guess that inside awaited some intelligent, emotional songs written and sung by a true talent.

That talent is named Jimmy Gnecco, and while I guess Ours is technically a band, it’s really a showcase for Gnecco’s songs, guitar and amazing voice. Everyone remembers the first time they heard Jeff Buckley sing, and likewise, everyone who’s experienced it remembers the first time they heard Gnecco sing and thought it was Jeff Buckley. This guy’s pipes are extraordinary, and even if all he offers is a note-perfect Buckley impersonation, that alone takes more talent than is offered by a legion of MTV darlings.

Only thing is, this time out, we know what to expect from Gnecco, and Precious offers us nothing new. The effect is slightly diminished because of this, and because of a few poor numbers at the beginning of the disc. Still, I can’t overestimate the thrill of hearing Gnecco really tear into his high vocal lines – this guy has an incredible range, and impressive lung power behind it. He composes songs like Buckley did as well, making dramatic use of melody and voice. While there’s nothing really original on Precious, there’s nothing here that’s being offered anywhere else at the moment, either.

Once you get past the ill-advised cover of Lou Reed’s “Femme Fatale,” though, the disc just takes off and doesn’t come down until the end. The inarguable highlight is “If Flowers Turn,” but “Disaster In a Halo” comes very close to eclipsing it. Both these songs find Gnecco wrapping his voice around tricky yet hummable melodies, and they both have a sense of dynamic missing from most rock music these days. (In fact, missing from almost everything except Jeff Buckley’s Grace.) Closer “Red Colored Stars” is a sweet farewell, and proof that Precious was rushed together. A few more songs like the three at the end and the disc as a whole might stand up better.

Much as I want to, I can’t fault Gnecco for taking on Buckley’s sound, but the only reason I’ve mentioned it so many times in this review is that the similarities, both in sound and style, are uncanny. Still, this isn’t a skill one can develop overnight, and Gnecco is phenomenally talented. Someday he’ll develop his own style, but for now, I find that I don’t enjoy Ours less because Buckley did it first. These are very good songs, for the most part, and of course there’s that voice. Where Gnecco takes this is up to him – let’s hope that Precious is not a sign of stagnation.

* * * * *

It’s something of an international crime that the Levellers are not more well-known in the States, but what can you do. We Americans hold on to some of our best-kept secrets (Michael Roe, Peter Mulvey, Jonatha Brooke) as well, and it serves as a source of simultaneous frustration and comfort for the small group of fans that know about them.

The last three Levellers albums have been unavailable in the U.S., so the precious few stateside who’ve heard of them probably only know the Waterboys-gone-punk style of their most popular record, Levelling the Land. No doubt, that’s an amazing album, but the Levs have moved on. In 2000, they released their masterpiece, a glittering document of Beatlesque pop and stunning orchestration called Hello Pig. Some liked it, some hated it, but everyone agreed that the band had made great strides away from their fiddle-driven past.

So what do they do for an encore but erase the entire evolution and return to their roots? The recently released Green Blade Rising can best be described as a classic Levellers album – the songs are short, political and loaded with soaring fiddle lines. The whole thing almost sounds like a live recording – gone are the studio tricks of the past few records, and here again is a superb live band just bursting with energy. It’s everything everyone who hated Hello Pig would want.

But dammit, I liked where they were going. Erase-the-slate albums have never sat well with me – see R.E.M.’s Monster, for example – and the rare exception, like U2’s All That You Can’t Leave Behind, is refreshing largely in contrast to the crap that came before, like Zooropa and Pop. I’ve always had a problem with cutting off genuine musical growth at the roots, so to speak, and as much as I like the old Levellers albums, I really like the most recent excursions.

But whatever, you have to take what you’re given. Green Blade Rising is the best possible kind of slate-eraser – one that hearkens back to the old stuff without suffering in comparison. This album could have come out after their debut, A Weapon Called the Word, and fit nicely into the catalog. It contains a nice mix of acoustic and electric guitars, and shows off the classic Levs mix of folk and rock nicely. Best of all for old-time fans, the fiddle is back in force, up front and melodically arranged.

And the songs are pretty good, too. I dare you to get the “ba-ba-ba-ba” opening of “Wild as Angels” out of your head, and ditto for the chorus of “Aspects of Spirit.” Mark Chadwick and Simon Friend trade off on lead vocals, as usual, and Friend’s songs are haunting and subdued, especially the great “Believers.” There are two problems, however: the songs are short and slight, and there’s only 11 of them. Green Blade Rising, the band’s shortest work, clocks in at a featherweight 37 minutes, and it’s over before you know it.

Actually, that’s not true. The band made sure you know it by closing with a stunner called “Wake the World.” The title and lyrics certainly lend themselves to a trademark Levellers rave-up, but the song is performed with a hushed minimalism the band has rarely exhibited. Over little more than a simple bass line and an electric piano, Chadwick’s plaintive lyrics (“When are we going to wake the world?”) take on great depth and power. You keep expecting the song to kick in, and the genius of it is that it never does.

Bands usually only make albums like this one in hopes of recapturing their old audience, but here in the States, that’s not going to be a problem – they never had an audience to begin with. I can’t recommend Green Blade Rising as your first purchase if you’ve never heard this band, but I can’t stress enough how much this band deserves to be heard. I’m in a bit of a bind, because pound for pound, Levelling the Land is a better deal and a better introduction, and Hello Pig is a perfect indication of how much they’ve grown since. You’ve got to get those two first. Support the band by going to www.levellers.co.uk.

Despite the mild disappointment that accompanies it, Green Blade Rising is a fine effort. Its 11 songs contain not a clunker in the bunch, and more than a few sparklers. I just wish they’d quelled whatever impulse it was that influenced them to make their seventh album just like their first. Those that loved their first few records are going to love this one, too, but for those of us that admired them for pushing themselves to evolve will have to wait until album eight, I guess.

* * * * *

Which brings us to Sigur Ros, who have made the oddest and most praiseworthy of these four records. It’s also the most difficult one to intelligently discuss, since the band has effectively dismantled the reviewer’s stock stable of tricks. The band’s second album is untitled, though they swear up and down that it’s not self-titled. Most everyone is latching onto the cover design and calling it ( ). It consists of eight songs with no titles, and the booklet contains exactly one word: sigurros.com, the band’s web address. The songs are not instrumentals, but they may as well be. The band sings in Icelandic, which isn’t exactly true either: they made up their own bastardized version of Icelandic that they call Hopelandic. The only people that understand it are the band members.

So here I am, with no production credits to point out, no lyrics to analyze, and no easy way to get a handle on critiquing this work. The band obviously wants the focus on the music, not the packaging, but most reviewers I’ve checked out since buying this have focused on the fact that the band has not made it easy for them. (You know, like I’m doing now.) The choice is simple: we can talk about the bizarre choices the band made regarding song and album titles, or we can talk about the music.

The music is unlike anything you have ever heard, unless you bought Sigur Ros’ debut album. The songs are very long – none shorter than six minutes, some longer than 10, and adding up to 72 minutes all together. The album is really one shifting, beautiful song, though, and it ebbs and flows through a series of immaculately produced dirges that sound like transmissions from another world. Pianos, finely textured guitars and strange, alien voices weave together to make what could possibly be described as music in its purest form.

I say you’ve never heard anything like it, but chances are good that you’ve actually heard Sigur Ros before, because waiting at track four like a sweet surprise is the beautiful music Cameron Crowe used for the rooftop scene at the end of Vanilla Sky. That track is perhaps the most structured of the eight, and it effectively signals a transformation in the album-length song – from here on, what had previously been lighter-than-air dirges turn into increasingly more propulsive atmospheres. The sense of menace gets turned up through the powerful last track, until it sounds like someone has dumped poison into a formerly placid lake, and it’s killing everything slowly.

Of course, “slowly” is the key word here. ( ) (or whatever you want to call it, I’m sure the band doesn’t care) stays within a funereal tempo throughout, and as much as I’ve always wished a band would make an album like this, I find myself drifting by the end. The problem, I think, is that this album is a pure musical experience, and we’re all trained by years of exposure to pop radio to look for the hooks. In a culture whose motto is “don’t bore us, get to the chorus,” an album which contains no choruses at all is a bold move. It’s odd, though, that music so colorful can seem so monochromatic after more than an hour of it.

Still, if you can manage to not be intimidated by it, Sigur Ros’ new album offers an experience unlike any I’m currently aware of. This is music that bypasses all the usual ways of appreciating, and aims for a deeper level of emotional impact. And often, it hits the mark, especially on the fourth and eighth tracks. Sigur Ros is trying to achieve a certain celestial beauty, and while they may not quite get there with these lengthy soundscapes, they get high marks for even attempting a sound this unique and alien. I recommend turning off your lights and playing it at high volume, and then letting the sound linger in the air for a while when it’s over. It’s almost like coming out of sensory deprivation, fresh and alive.

* * * * *

As I mentioned, the Year-End Top 10 List is only three columns away. I’ll be filling the space in between with thoughts on local band the Bedheads, the final George Harrison album and the first studio disc from the reunited Phish. Happy Thanksgiving, all.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

For those of you keeping track, this is my 100th column. If Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. were a television show, it would be in syndication already.

So before going on, I’d like to take a moment to do something I really ought to do more often, and that’s thank all of you faithful readers who’ve supported this endeavor. I’d never do this if it weren’t fun, but there have been a few times over the last few months that wrapping my addled brain around the first sentence of whatever column I’ve decided to bang out in a given week has been a chore, and times when there are a million-and-a-half things I’d rather be doing than this time-sucking monstrosity, and the thought that hundreds of you out there actually read this thing has served as invaluable motivation.

So whether you’re in this for the music reviews and couldn’t care less about me, or you read the first two paragraphs hoping to grab a few insights into my life and skip all the artsy musical crap, I really appreciate it. I hope you’ll all be here for column 200, 500, 1,000 and beyond.

* * * * *

I am not a fan of television.

Actually, I need to rephrase that. Television is nothing more than a broadcast medium for filmed entertainment, and as such, it’s silly to blame the messenger for the often brain-sucking, pitiful and downright insulting quality of the message. The 90-10 rule applies to TV programming like it does to music and everything else: 90 percent of everything is crap.

When it comes to television, the remaining 10 percent breaks down like this: There are decent shows that exist within a proven framework, great shows that invert and subvert that framework, and excellent shows that create their own worlds whole cloth, shows that stick out amidst the vast wasteland of vapidity because they offer an experience like nothing else.

And then there is My So-Called Life.

Here was a show so far ahead of its time that the network didn’t have the slightest idea how to market it, a show so emotionally rich and resonant that it defied pat categories, a show so bewilderingly close to perfect that it was canceled after 19 episodes. Here was a show that single-handedly created its own genre – the serious teen drama – and simultaneously obliterated it, knocking down walls that other shows didn’t even know existed.

Like most trailblazing works of art, My So-Called Life left in its wake a series of embarrassingly inferior and depressingly more successful knockoffs (Party of Five, Dawson’s Creek) that took the most superficial elements of genius and pretended to be the real deal. What these shows missed entirely was that My So-Called Life, despite its title, wasn’t just a show about teenagers and their lives.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, it certainly was about Angela Chase, Rayanne Graff, Brian Krakow, Jordan Catalano and Rickie Vasquez, and all their adolescent orbits around each other. But it was also about Patty and Graham Chase, two of the most fully realized TV parents ever created, and their slowly dissolving relationship. It was also about every supporting player, even the guest stars, all of whom got to inhabit characters of breadth and scope.

And all of those characters were treated lovingly and brilliantly by one of the most talented creative teams ever to grace the small screen. All the episodes were well done, but when creator Winnie Holzman wrote the script and Scott Winant directed, the show created its own spellbinding atmosphere. The magic of the show lay in its ability to blend multiple points of view behind a theme, and Winant’s signature stylistic fingerprint – the moving-camera fade between rooms and perspectives, which he likely taught the makers of ER and American Beauty, among others – accomplished this with emotion and beauty. Aided, naturally, by the sublime music of W.G. “Snuffy” Walden.

And we can’t forget the actors, none of which have gone on to do work of this caliber in anything else. Most of the attention is lavished on the extraordinary Claire Danes, but her performance is matched and buoyed by literally everyone else on screen. I’ve always been particularly impressed with A.J. Langer’s Rayanne, and the way she manages to hide so much pain behind her explosive sparkle, but every actor does brave work, and they’re all safe in the hands of the creative team. It’s a special kind of magic when all the elements work, and it happens so rarely that whenever it does, you have to cherish it.

I know, I’m gushing, but I just received my complete My So-Called Life DVD set in the mail, and it’s like visiting with an old friend. It’s somehow sweeter, watching these discs and knowing that they were never supposed to happen, and that they do because of a few fans with an abiding love for these characters and this story. MSCL was, as I mentioned, canceled after 19 episodes due to low ratings, but slowly built up a dedicated fan base. MTV picked up the show and had a ratings smash with it, and the VHS sets sold surprisingly well. The road seemed to be paved for a complete DVD release, but no one wanted to pick up the ball and run with it.

Until my hero, Jason Rosenfeld.

I love this guy. As an employee at BMG Special Products, he sought out the fanbase at mscl.com, and laid the groundwork. After leaving BMG, he started his own company, Dry Grass Partners, and shopped the idea around, finally landing a deal with Another Universe. And then he shepherded the set towards reality, dealing with fan concerns daily and never faltering as Another Universe’s whole infrastructure seemed to collapse.

And boy, did it collapse. We were all asked to pay full price ($100) back in February, with no firm release date. And then the overcharges started, and some people were screwed to the tune of $300, with no DVD set. And then the lies started coming down from AU CEO Ross Rojek, lies about bonus material (which has yet to materialize) and exclusivity. That last one still stings – the set was promised as an exclusive, made to fan order, and as I speak, copies of it are sitting on the shelves of Best Buy, going for around 50 bucks.

But at every turn, there was Rosenfeld, posting on the message board and making sure we knew the truth, most of which directly contradicted Rojek’s statements. Jason has endured threats and suspicion, and has effectively removed himself from official dealings with the project, but there he still is, calling people and pressuring AU to refund all the overcharges. I’m one of the lucky ones – I was never overcharged, and I got my set, unlike some of the other people on the board – and I still say everyone who ordered this set owes Jason a round of drinks and a heartfelt thank you.

There’s no review here, because if you’ve ever seen the show, you don’t need me to tell you how amazing it is, and if you haven’t, nothing I can say will encapsulate it. Part of what I love about My So-Called Life is its ability to recall for me a particular period in my life, and I’m unable to overcome my heavy bias and see it apart from that. All I know is that this show makes me laugh, cry and feel more than any other piece of television I’ve ever encountered, and to have the whole run on DVD is somehow magical and otherworldly.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, Roger Rees is just about to throw all the literary magazine assignments out the window, and I don’t want to miss it. Next week, a big one, I promise, with a bunch of reviews.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I remember when a new Pearl Jam album was an event.

Sure, it was during the whole Seattle craze, when any band with a bad attitude and a penchant for flannel could somehow galvanize a nation of malcontents, but really, are things much different now? We’ve got scores of “sensitive” nu-metal bands all complaining about their white suburban upbringings over poorly played guitars that sound a lot like Stone Gossard’s on Ten, and if Staind and Puddle of Mudd aren’t Seattle-style grunge acts, I’ll eat the remaining original members of Mudhoney. These guys learned everything they know from the Seattle boys, who learned everything they know from Neil Young, on and on, forever and ever, amen. The world really hasn’t changed so much.

And neither has Pearl Jam, really. I recall when their second album, Vs., was released in 1993. Man, everybody had to have this thing. The record store half a mile from my college campus held a midnight sale, and everyone from my dorm went and got in line. I mean everyone. I knew several people in several other states at the time, and most of them attended Pearl Jam record release parties at people’s houses or in dorm rooms. One girl I knew was so taken with soon-to-be-smash-hit “Daughter” that she went around one such party saying nothing but the chorus lyrics. “Don’t call me daughter,” she’d say to total strangers, and then turn her back, declaring, “Not fair to!”

Had I wanted to attempt such an experiment at the time, I doubt I could have found very many people who hadn’t heard at least some of Vs. one or two days after it came out. The same with Vitalogy, but on a slightly smaller scale, since the Seattle scene was slowly slipping southward, sucked somewhere by a sea of some more superfluous s-words. (Can you tell I’m sick today? My non-drowsy antihistamine isn’t so non-drowsy, I’ve discovered…) Once Saint Cobain ventilated his head, it was all downhill for the flannel set.

And it’s true that most of those bands have long since meandered off into the sunset, one way or another – Layne Staley’s death, Soundgarden’s split – but Pearl Jam soldiers on, and with each new record, I find it more bizarre that we ever lumped them into the same pot with their Washington State brethren. After the mostly successful detours of Vitalogy and No Code, Pearl Jam decided to get back in the business of being a great live band, and their recent albums have all sounded like their first two, to a degree. The brand-new Riot Act, out this week, is no exception – like its two predecessors, Yield and Binaural, it’s just another Pearl Jam album.

Which means that it will probably be moderately successful, selling to a small yet dedicated band of faithful, and that’s about it. What some people call finding your sound, others call getting stuck in a rut, and Eddie Vedder’s boys have been digging their own rut since Yield. The focus these days is on a tight live sound, and hence the studio projects have a live feel – few additional instruments, sloppy production and no stylistic deviations. If you feel like you’ve heard Riot Act before, well, that’s because you have. Same stuff, different packages.

And really, that’s not a bad thing by itself. I just wish they weren’t quite so defiant about making music just for themselves. The songs on Riot Act have gotten more complex and, as is so often the case, less memorable at the same time. If you’re not paying attention, the whole thing will glide by you without anything sticking. Like Binaural, this album sounds like it was recorded in a weekend, with fab guitarists Gossard and Mike McCready smashing into each other and Vedder mumbling his way through the proceedings as if on four bottles of Ny-Quil. Never has such a memorable frontman gone to such lengths to be forgettable.

Given a few listens, the songs start to grow on you, and you can see the logic behind stompers like “Cropduster.” Riot Act is unsurprisingly devoid of the big choruses that marked the band’s early years, and it takes some time to seep in. Standouts include “Love Boat Captain,” with some of the sappiest lyrics to ever drip from Vedder’s pen, and the terrific “You Are,” with its menacing, propulsive beat. Also nifty are the double-time “Green Disease” and the elegant closer, “All or None.”

There are some missteps, as well, most notably the spoken extended mixed metaphor that is “Bushleaguer.” “Thumbing My Way” is merely nice, and not even close to the heights Pearl Jam are capable of in an acoustic setting. And “Arc,” likely named after their hero Neil Young’s document of noise, is just that – a document of noise. Its inclusion only adds credence to my “done in a weekend” theory.

Unfortunately, while this album ably shows off the powerhouse live act Pearl Jam has become, it does nothing to distinguish itself from its immediate predecessors. Many disliked No Code, but even they have to admit it bore scant resemblance to the albums that came before and after, and that means the band was taking chances, accepting risks and leading us on a trip to an unknown destination. Since then they’ve been treading the same old ground. Take this for what it’s worth, but Riot Act, for all its good qualities, is just another Pearl Jam album. No more, no less.

* * * * *

Sick as a really sick dog today, so that’s all from me. I was going to get to both Ours and Sigur Ros, but they’ll have to wait for my head to clear up. Audioslave hits next week as well, and I’ve been hearing good things. (One of those good things was not the single, the asinine “Cochise,” so we’ll see…)

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Just to prove how difficult and painful democracy can sometimes be, I fell down a flight of stairs on Tuesday.

These aren’t just any stairs, either. No, Captain Clutzo only selects the highest quality concrete upon which to injure himself. In my defense, it was raining rather heavily here, and my shoes were wet, and I was kind of in a hurry. As many folks in this fine country can tell you, gravity loves a fat man, and the slightest loss of footing is enough to spill the larger of us into her waiting embrace, which may be the wrong metaphor considering it left me with three large bruises and an irritating and painful stiffness.

But here’s the funny part. Tuesday was actually the second time I have fallen down that same staircase. I was on my way to vote, you see, and my polling center is the Augustana Lutheran Church here in Hobart. Like most churches, Augustana Lutheran celebrates its own magnificence by being huge and full of steep staircases one must ascend or descend to get anywhere within them. I had only been in the building once before – for May’s primary election, when I tumbled down the same set of stairs and came away with similar bruises.

And now the Republicans control Congress. Mock me if you will, but I think my personal pain is merely an omen to the country, a metaphorical sign of national bruises we shall soon bear. And, perhaps, it’s a sign that God just doesn’t want me in a church, or at least a Lutheran church. Both explanations make me feel quite a bit better than the obvious one I’m failing to mention: I am probably the biggest clumsy-ass spaz in the northern hemisphere.

* * * * *

If, like me, you need some perking up after the assorted ouchies of election day, I have just the thing – two examples of pure pop joy. I get taken to task fairly often for liking this sort of thing, mainly because I know a lot of music snobs who equate sweet and happy with commercial and useless. There are people I know that will not listen to an album more than once if it made them smile, as if wallowing in the muck of deep anguish and glowering angst were any more of a valid artistic expression. Jagged little pills are not inherently more artistic than mouth-melting mints. Pop is not a four-letter word, especially if it’s well made and doesn’t insult your intelligence.

Sixpence None the Richer have never insulted my intelligence. Well, there was that one “Kiss Me” song, but who remembers that?

Five years ago, Sixpence released their self-titled album, which many assumed was their first. Actually, it was their third full-length, not counting a nifty EP that directly preceded it, and it showcased a major growth in sound and style, featuring all manner of bizarre instruments, dramatic arrangements and even a song in 11/8 sung in Spanish. It contained exactly one simplistic throwaway, their first, which naturally became their breakout hit.

A bittersweet moment, to be sure, for while I was thrilled to see such a great band get national exposure, I was also sure that most everyone who bought the self-titled album would hate it. Sixpence needed a follow-up album quickly, one that capitalized on the pop style of “Kiss Me” without degenerating into crap. In short, they needed to craft the most intelligent yet accessible pop album on the stands, and they needed to do it in 1999.

Instead, they took four years off. That’s not exactly accurate, of course – the band finished draft one of their follow-up record in ’99, but their label (Steve Taylor’s tiny Squint Entertainment) ran out of money and couldn’t release it. To his credit, Taylor tried everything he could, but financial and legal entanglements kept the new Sixpence out of record stores until last week. Considering Squint was the second label to go belly-up on them, the band was probably not too happy, and when the title of the new album was announced as Divine Discontent, I was not surprised.

What did surprise me was hearing the whole thing at this year’s Cornerstone festival. Sixpence closed the week out with a midnight show made up almost entirely of new songs, and on first listen, they were sweet, light, gorgeous and perfect pop tunes. Despite its title, Divine Discontent is pretty much a bitterness-free zone. It’s also, upon reflection, the sublimely enjoyable, intelligent pop album I mentioned above, and if they had released it three years ago, they’d have been the biggest band on the planet.

Divine Discontent opens with two number one singles, in a perfect world. Actually, the world may well be heading towards perfection, as “Breathe Your Name,” the opening cut, is all over the airwaves. It’s easily one of the great pop songs of our time, effortlessly encapsulating the magic of a well-written melody in a terrific pop arrangement. “Tonight” is every bit as good, if a bit punchier, and should be every bit as popular.

Most of the attention showered on the band has been given to angelic-voiced frontwoman Leigh Nash, as can be seen on the back cover photo, which (unintentionally, I’m sure) resembles the argument-starting t-shirt design from Almost Famous. The secret weapon of this band is musical genius Matt Slocum – he’s the guy slouching off to the right in that photo – and his ear for arrangements that grab you every few seconds. Slocum’s guitar tone is full, rich and captivating, even on something simple like “I’ve Been Waiting,” and when he gets atmospheric on “A Million Parachutes,” it’s breathtaking. Slocum also plays cello and arranges the band’s string parts, most effectively on the lilting “Melody of You.”

Sixpence do make two boneheaded blunders here, which keep the record frustratingly shy of excellent. First, they do another ill-advised cover of a British pop song, in this case Crowded House’s “Don’t Dream It’s Over,” but instead of appending it to the end of the album, they try to incorporate it at track four, and it just doesn’t fit. It doesn’t help that the song, the only one not produced by Slocum and Paul Fox, is gooped up in a sugary Corrs-like arrangement. No amount of cheese can keep “Don’t Dream It’s Over” from being one of the best pop tunes of all time, but this arrangement comes perilously close to ruining it.

The second mistake is less obvious, but more damaging, I think. At their Cornerstone show, Sixpence closed with an amazing, dramatic number called “Dizzy,” full of pianos and cascading guitars that crash into a quiet and beautiful conclusion. Any producer worth his salt would have told the band to end with that one – it’s the perfect album closer, and it’s even better on record than it was live. Unfortunately, they sequenced it third from the end, which has the unfortunate effect of making the final two songs sound like insignificant bonus tracks. When you hear it, you’ll understand – this is such an obvious blunder that I think I’d have noticed even if I hadn’t seen them close with “Dizzy” in concert.

While these errors certainly mar Divine Discontent, they don’t destroy it, and it certainly stands as one of my favorite records of the year so far. If the general public catches up with Sixpence again after five long years, embracing this near-perfect pop confection as it has the single, my long-since-lapsed faith in humanity may be restored. This is almost exactly the album they needed to make, and it’s one of the best examples of pop with a brain, sugar that’s good for you. It’s also surprisingly, overwhelmingly positive – far from discontented, and very nearly divine.

* * * * *

I feel lucky to have discovered this next band, one of the brightest lights of the next generation, in the same year that I also discovered Phantom Planet. Those lamenting the death of the song on radio can rejoice, ’cause as the Who said so many years ago, the kids are alright.

Last year, the Elms appeared with an album fittingly titled Big Surprise. Who could have guessed that four lads from Seymour, Indiana could beat the Brit-Poppers at their own game? Like an American Sloan, the Elms borrowed liberally from a number of sources, mostly ’60s and ’70s British rock, and crafted their own sound, part throwback and part glorious revolution. The songs were the thing, of course, and these songs, all from the brain of singer/guitarist Owen Thomas, were marvelous. When the album cover pictures revealed them to be mere kids, I was… well, surprised.

In less than a year’s time, the Elms have somehow gotten exponentially better. I smelled sophomore slump when they revealed the title of their second album: Truth, Soul, Rock & Roll. I mean, how pompous can one band get? Astoundingly, the album lives up to its title, providing a dozen glittering, perfect reminders of when songwriting skill was a valued commodity. Nearly every song is a classic, a singalong festival that burns itself into your brain.

Seriously, go buy this album (only ten bucks at Best Buy), stick it in and press play. If opener “Speaking in Tongues” doesn’t have you grinning like a three-year-old on a sugar binge and bouncing about the room, I’ll… well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but something embarrassing. If that song doesn’t work for you, try the melodic perfection of “Burn and Shine,” the lighter-worthy “Come to Me” or the chorus of “na-na-nas” that opens “Happiness.”

The Elms have somehow tapped into the primal power of pop, writing songs that fill some inner need that you didn’t even know you had until you hear them. These are songs you’ve heard a million times, and each time is like the first. They’re the future perennial hits of classic rock radio, the songs that grab the torch from every great pop song ever written. Truth, Soul, Rock & Roll breaks exactly no new ground, but it doesn’t have to. It revels in the soaring choruses of yesterday, and the eternal joy of melody and harmony meeting rhythm and taking her out for a dance. It’s one of the most enjoyable albums you’ll hear this year, and it’s hopefully just a taste of things to come from this dynamic young band.

* * * * *

It’s just coincidence that both bands this week have ties to the Christian music industry. Both tackle spirituality in such a way that if you’re not looking for it, you probably won’t find it. This tactic upsets some within the Christian industry, but it suits me just fine – I’m always looking for intelligent spirituality, but I have no qualms playing either of these bands for anyone, even the more militant atheists I know. Like a lot of U2 albums, the spiritual content is there if you want it, but invisible if you don’t.

Next week, some fringe-y stuff like Sigur Ros and Ours, or maybe that new Pearl Jam.

See you in line Tuesday morning.