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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I had a frustrating week.

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

See you in line Tuesday morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

Next up, a long one featuring many diverse musics.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

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

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

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

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

Ah, who needs to eat, right?

* * * * *

I’m not sure how I became a Ween fan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

See you in line Tuesday morning.