I read an article in Spin Magazine this week…

And here I need to stop and clarify, in case anyone gets the hilariously mistaken idea that I am a regular reader of Spin Magazine. Despite often hysterical contributions from Dave Eggers, Spin remains a pretty excremental rag, full of trend-hopping and style-over-substance “journalism.” In the very issue I read, in fact, they call the Hives the “best live band ON THE PLANET.” I have decided that calling anything the “best (blank) ON THE PLANET” will now be my favorite hyperbole – “Damn, Dr. Scholl’s makes the best foot odor removers ON THE PLANET,” or, “John Paul II is just the best Pope ON THE PLANET!”

Hyperbole is fine once in a while (see my Black Crowes articles for my own “best (blank) in the world” statements), but every other issue these guys seem to crown something else the best whatever. In this month’s issue they also counted down the 50 best frontmen OF ALL TIME, and wasn’t the guy from the Hives (Howlin’ Spinnin’ Fuckin’ Almquist, or something like that) on the list? Why yes, I think he was. In 10 years, when no one remembers who these pukes are, and Spin is still (shudder) doing these lists, I wonder if we’ll see Almquist’s name? I doubt it.

So anyway.

I read an article in Spin Magazine this week about the sad dearth of long, multi-part songs these days, and I actually couldn’t agree more. My favorite song of the year so far is 18 minutes long, and my second-favorite is 12. (“Ocean Cloud” and “Neverland,” both by Marillion, in case you were wondering.) Long-form composition seems to be a lost art. In decades past, the biggest bands in the world (the Beatles, Led Zeppelin) took their status as an opportunity to stretch musically, crafting songs far longer than the established radio system of the day would dictate (“Hey Jude” and “A Day in the Life,” “Dazed and Confused” and “Kashmir”).

These days the biggest bands in the world are so terrified of losing their spot at the top that they timidly churn out same-sounding stuff year after year. There’s no sense of adventure, no danger, no heart-stopping, floor-dropping-out-beneath-you feeling of unpredictability. The last extremely popular band to try vertigo as a modus operandi was Radiohead, and we all saw what happened to them. It’s a shame that their post-OK Computer output has been all but artistically bankrupt, because the rise and fall of what was once the best band ON THE PLANET certainly gives those looking to stay uber-rich and famous pause.

That’s why the flavors of the moment are going to keep giving the people what they want. You will never see a Franz Ferdinand song that doesn’t sound exactly like what they’re doing now. Ambition, however, is just like anything else – it’s there, you just have to look for it. The problem with our pals at Spin is that when they say there aren’t any ambitious epics being made anymore, what they mean is that there aren’t any being made by the “cool” bands the trends have dictated they embrace.

There’s actually a very good example to be found in the pages of that very magazine – in the reviews page, you’ll see the latest by the Fiery Furnaces, Blueberry Boat, slated for being “a joyless slog through mossy folk tedium.” It’s mystifying – I can understand a mag like Spin not reviewing the polished likes of Marillion and Neal Morse, but the Furnaces have scrappy indie cred to sloppy up their ambition. And despite (for me it’s a despite) a four-track mentality and a garage-band aesthetic, the Furnaces have made the most giddily eccentric tower of musical surprises you’re likely to hear this year.

The Fiery Furnaces are Matthew and Eleanor Friedberger, a sibling combo from Illinois. Their debut, Gallowsbirds Bark, is an oddly unimpressive chunk of lo-fi blues drivel, but there are some nifty moments. There’s nothing, though, that even hints at the expansive reach of Blueberry Boat. Imagine if Yes had leapt forward to Close to the Edge immediately following their blues-rock debut, without the intermediate steps of The Yes Album and Fragile, and you get an idea of how disorienting and surprising this album is.

Apologies for the prog-rock analogy, but it’s apt. Blueberry Boat is stuffed to the gills with lengthy suites, synthesizer lines and tricky time changes – it’s only a few flute solos and some lyrics about wizards away from classic prog. The record’s 13 tracks clock in at more than 76 minutes, nearly twice the length of Gallowsbirds, and there are four songs that snuggle up to the 10-minute mark. It’s a time-consuming journey, but it’s never boring thanks to the Friedbergers’ everything-and-the-kitchen-sink-and-what-the-hell-throw-in-the-whole-kitchen-too approach.

On first listen, Blueberry Boat sounds, to put it kindly, chaotic. The Furnaces burn through ideas so quickly here that it seems like they’re trying to squeeze three albums’ worth into 76 minutes. Opener “Quay Cur” includes four or five distinct movements in a very quick 10 and a half minutes, and makes use of drum computers, pianos, static, tape manipulation, all manner of guitars and a bizarre, staccato vocal melody from Eleanor Friedberger. It’s one of the craziest, most fascinating songs of the year, and it’s just the opening act.

One could be forgiven for expecting the loopy, expansive vision to falter now and then over Blueberry Boat’s running time, but it doesn’t. Even Gallowsbirds-style songs like “Straight Street” and “My Dog Was Lost But Now He’s Found” fit in well, providing simple bridges between the more experimental moments. The album retains its off-kilter, slightly off-key tone throughout, but the Furnaces manage moments of beauty amidst the insanity, particularly at the end of “1917” and on the title track. The arrangements are all over the map – instruments will appear for four measures, then disappear, and the percussion is constantly shifting.

The lyrics are similarly restless, and often sound made up on the spot. Some are elliptical, but most are stream-of-consciousness, as in the strange romantic conversation at the end of “Chief Inspector Blancheflower.” The title track is a pirate story, and “Spaniolated” is the nonsensical tale of an 18-year-old research engineer who is kidnapped and drugged while walking home from TCBY. (It concludes with the repeated line, “The pain in Spain falls mainly on me.”) While much of the wordplay is fun, it’s obvious that the Furnaces have much more to say musically than they do lyrically.

Despite all the exciting ideas and skillful arrangements, the Furnaces seem to have thrown this record together in the studio, perhaps in their haste to get all these thoughts down before new ones took their places in their brains. They miss the beat a few times too often for my taste, and I can’t help thinking what these manic geniuses could do with some real money and production technique. Of course, that way lies professionalism and polish, two things anathema to the indie rock ethos – I can imagine this band’s fans crying sellout should they ever create anything with the edges smoothed off.

Even though this album is too disjointed to consider it completely successful, the Furnaces have defiantly established themselves as a band unlike any other. Reportedly the group’s live shows are just as restless as the records, with songs appended to other songs and arrangements completely reinvented, Frank Zappa style. Blueberry Boat is the kind of crossroads that bands usually come to after five or six increasingly expansive albums – their choices seem to be to either re-focus and create something concise, or go all-out and make three-hour collections that few will buy.

Or, knowing them, they’ll do something else entirely, something unexpected and thrilling. I would bet money, though, that we will someday see an out-and-out masterpiece from the Fiery Furnaces.

No, if I’m going to use the word “masterpiece,” I’m going to use it for an album that rings by particular chime from beginning to end, one that achieves the full potential of an artist. We’ve actually seen more than the usual share of masterpieces this year, and now we can add one more – the spectacular second album by the Polyphonic Spree, Together We’re Heavy.

The Spree is the brainchild of former Tripping Daisy frontman Tim DeLaughter, conceived as the only band big enough to give him the sound he heard in his head. The Spree is, at last count, a 22-member ensemble that hits like an orchestra and caresses like a Beatlesque rock band. Their vibe is relentlessly positive, but their intense instrumentation affords them the dynamic range to make even the most treacly sentiments resonate.

DeLaughter’s project first appeared last year, with an album presumptuously titled The Beginning Stages of the Polyphonic Spree. Despite its pompous arrival, the record turned out to be a half-assed EP with a 36-minute monotone drone appended to the end. While some of the songs were interesting, most were little more than endlessly repetitive choruses played with brassy oomph. The Spree’s first outing just didn’t live up to the hype, but with Together We’re Heavy here to provide contrast, it was obviously a glorified demo.

Heavy is the real thing. This is the full flower, an album that utilizes the orchestral instruments as more than volume providers. You can hear the difference even from the first song, “A Long Day Continues/We Sound Amazed.” This eight-minute stunner glides in softly, then explodes with a memorable motif, slipping into a heartbreaking piano-led melody and a surging chorus. Halfway through, the song evaporates, finally coalescing again into a thudding, constantly building coda. This is what an idea like the Polyphonic Spree should sound like, and I’m glad it finally does.

And to follow up “We Sound Amazed” with an absolutely euphoric pop song like “Hold Me Now” is just blissful. Here the Beatles are most prominently referenced, but very few artists are producing full-on orchestral pomp-pop like this anymore, and it’s a style that radiates joy. Not everything here is so utterly sunny – “One Man Show” is deep, dark and textured, and the massive “When the Fool Becomes a King” gets downright scary – but there hasn’t been a celebration of the pure delight of making huge, jubilant, dramatic pop music like this in some time. Together We’re Heavy sounds like the clouds parting around a shaft of brilliant light in a dream, and the muted closing title track sounds like gently waking up.

This is another one of those cases in which words fail me. I can tell you that the Spree’s sound is huge and powerful and joyous and layered and deep, but the words mean nothing when compared to the music. Even if you heard the first album, trust me, you don’t know what to expect from this one. I don’t know what else to say that wouldn’t be hyperbole, except this: with Together We’re Heavy, the Polyphonic Spree has become the best 22-member orchestral sunshine pop band ON THE PLANET.

I can’t fail to give props to my faithful correspondent and friend Erin Kennedy, who first recommended the Fiery Furnaces to me. Erin’s musical taste is even more varied than mine, I think – she appreciates everything from the Velvet Underground to Simon and Garfunkel to Ani DiFranco – and she knew the Furnaces were worth listening to before I did. Plus, she’s a born writer, and her emails (roughly 10 dozen so far…) are always fun to read. So thanks, E. Hope you like Blueberry Boat as much as I do, ’cause I might not have heard it at all without your suggestion.

Next week, Bill Mallonee.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Sweet, sweet internet!

It’s amazing to me that eight or nine years ago, I only had the most basic understanding of just what the hell this thing called “internet” was. I would have laughed at my future self for the shaky withdrawal symptoms I’ve undergone in the past two weeks. Ten days without the internet and I feel like I’ve lost a limb. It’s unreal.

For those of you interested in the minutia of my life, I have moved again, this time across town to a cozy little third-floor apartment. As moves go, this one was pretty painless, except for one significant snag – getting my slam-bang high speed internet hooked up. The first guy Comcast sent over told me my brand new computer’s brand new access card was broken. The fine folks at Dell assured me that it was not, so Comcast sent another chap over, and this one laughed at the stupidity of the first guy and had me rolling inside of an hour.

It could have been much worse, but I swear, those ten days were oddly awful. Confined to the account I have at work, I could receive emails, but could only reply to them in terse sentences, lest the watchdogs sniff out my “personal use of the company resources.” I missed more than a week of Sluggy Freelance, Newsarama, Pitchfork and all the other sites that have become like daily friends. I almost felt like, given a few more days of disconnection, I could join healthy society, maybe go for a walk or have a picnic or something.

Thank God Comcast came through in time.

On the archive page, you will find the column that was ready to go last week, before the Great Disconnect. It discusses my thoughts on new albums by the Cure and Phish, and also the bizarre reign of Ken Jennings, Jeopardy champ. Since I wrote that one, Jennings has broken every record the game show has ever recorded, and he massacred his opponents in the season finale, ensuring his return in the fall. And he’s become just a little bit smug and annoying, too, but he’s still fun to watch.

So it’s a short one this week, which is fitting, since it’s a short record I have to review. We’ll be back on track with longer columns and more in-depth analysis next time. Thanks for your patience, and for worrying about me, if you did. This is my first column from the new place, and my new office has a bright window and a pretty nice view, and I think it will be a creative space for me. Let’s see if I’m right.

* * * * *

I’m not going to make the same argument I always make in regards to They Might Be Giants.

I know, I know, every time I mention John and John and the Band of Dans, I find myself defending them against charges of nonsensical novelty. And really, we should be past that by now. They Might Be Giants have been making witty, clever, melodically satisfying pop music for nearly 20 years now, and if people still think of them as a Bob Rivers or Weird Al style comedy act, well, tough. They’re missing out.

But we know, don’t we, that TMBG is one of the most inventive pop bands on the market, and that time after time, album after album, they deliver the goods. Case in point – The Spine, the just-released tenth album from Johns Linnell and Flansburgh, a brief yet sublime platter that is perhaps the group’s best album since John Henry. It’s weird, it’s wonderful, and yes, it’s wacky, but it’s also superbly written and surprisingly rockin’.

This record had a couple of strikes against it from the outset for me. First, it’s short – only 36 minutes, the latest in a string of tiny releases from TMBG. Second, two of its 16 songs were released earlier this year, on the EP Indestructible Object, a decision that is even stranger when you consider that seven unreleased songs from the same sessions have been shuffled onto another EP, The Spine Surfs Alone. It seems as though the whole lot would have made one swell 26-song record, instead of spreading the songs out and bilking us for extra cash.

But then we might have ended up with another Mink Car, and although I love that album, it does suffer from a slapdash, mix CD quality that prevents it from gelling. The Spine is its polar opposite, a record that glides from one end to the other, gently pulling you along and never stopping short. You can zip through The Spine twice before you even notice, so well-sequenced is it, and there isn’t a song here you’ll want to skip. It’s exactly long enough, with exactly the right songs in all the right places.

And really, that’s all that’s been missing from TMBG records since the aforementioned John Henry. The songs have maintained their high standard, but they’ve been all over the map. On The Spine, they all seem to come from the same place, and it sounds like a fun place to be from. The Band of Dans (who have sullied their name by replacing Drummer Dan with some guy named Marty) is in full effect, Flansburgh rips it up on guitar like he hasn’t done in years, and Linnell’s melodies shift and spin in perfectly off directions. This record is an intelligent, nerdy, rip-snorting hoot.

Highlights are beside the point, but some standouts include the Vocoder-fueled “Bastard Wants to Hit Me,” the loopy “Thunderbird” (which includes a classic inversion of a famous lyric, “We’ll have fun fun fun until T-Bird takes her daddy away”), and the brassy jaunt “Museum of Idiots.” Both the moody “Memo to Human Resources” and the delightful “Au Contraire” (the EP tracks) fit in here like they belong. The guitar lick on “Broke in Two” is a winner, and the early Elvis Costello vibe of “It’s Kickin’ In” is perfect. The album begins with a funny riddle (“Experimental Film,” about spinning art out of ambition and little else) and ends with a sad one (“I Can’t Hide From My Mind,” in which Linnell threatens himself – “I have my house surrounded, I know I’m in there, and don’t make me come in and get me…”).

There’s just too much goodness here to expound upon succinctly, and I know how you all hate it when I gush. The Spine is TMBG’s first serious contender for the Year-End Top 10 List in nearly a decade, because it synthesizes everything great about them into one quick and dirty package. The quirk remains, the sweet songcraft still shines, but the focus is back, and that makes all the difference. Buy this album, see Gigantic (the documentary on John and John) and you’ll know why this band has been around since 1986 and is still going strong.

And for the record, they are so not a novelty band.

* * * * *

Next week, a few surprises that have ranked among the best records of the year. Coming soon, new ones from the Finn Brothers, the Robinson brothers (Chris and Rich of the Black Crowes), Bjork, Matthew Sweet and Tears for Fears.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Like a good chunk of the American population, I have been watching Jeopardy lately.

I have come to the conclusion that either a) this game is rigged, Ralph Fiennes in Quiz Show style, or b) Ken Jennings, software engineer from Salt Lake City, Utah, knows damn near everything. He’s become cockier as the show has gone on, though, and he’s made a couple of mistakes, which means that either he’s a very good actor, or the show is genuine. My bet is that Jennings’ brain is a storehouse of random knowledge – he seems to know quite a lot about an impressively broad range of subjects. Anyway, it’s been fun watching him, and I can’t wait to see how he eventually loses.

I have also been checking out VH1’s I Love the ‘90s this week, which is equal parts funny and sad. I’m big on recapturing lost youth, and on not growing up to any irreparable degree, so watching VH1’s panel of culture assayers explore and demolish years I vividly remember living through is an odd experience. It’s strange to think of 1994 as 10 years ago – I was a sophomore in college, and Pearl Jam was the biggest band on earth. This show is about how stupid pop culture is, and how much we adore it anyway, and in that it’s a smashing success. It just makes me feel old.

But maybe it’s not wise to revisit the past. Maybe one should grow up and leave childhood things behind. And maybe one should know when something, even something treasured, has run its course and should be gently laid to rest. Especially if, you know, you’ve already told everyone you’re going to stop reliving your glory years.

Tops on the list of people who should have stuck to that resolution is Robert Smith. Now, I believe I have mentioned my enduring love for the Cure, perhaps the most important band of my teen years. Disintegration remains in my pantheon, due in no small part to the bond I developed with it as a moody and suicidal teenager. Smith’s tortured, adolescent poetry spoke to my 15-year-old self like just about nothing before it had. I do, truth be told, know how teenaged fans of the new gloom-rock bands feel when they say they see themselves clearly in the lyrics.

There’s a difference, though – the Cure was good. Albums like Disintegration and Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me and The Head on the Door are still far better than the ones they’ve inspired from lesser bands. Smith’s textured guitar playing and mournful wailing remain unmatched in the underwhelming wilderness of gothic rock. Smith and company reached such a plateau with Disintegration in 1989, in fact, that it was supposed to be the Cure’s last.

Thus would begin a pattern – every time the Cure would release an album, Smith would call it their final one. Post-Disintegration, the ride has been… somewhat bumpier than before, to put it diplomatically. 1992’s Wish saddled its more epic tracks with half an hour of silly fluff, and 1996’s Wild Mood Swings gushed such effervescent drool that it was almost unlistenable. There were some good songs, but they were muffled and shoved into a corner by the endless loony party that poured out of Smith’s head.

And then came Bloodflowers in 2000. Billed as the final part of a trilogy that also included the Cure’s two best albums (Pornography and Disintegration), the album hearkened back to the wondrous Cure of old. Calling it the concluding chapter of a trilogy invites comparison to the first two installments, of course, but Bloodflowers lived up. Naturally, Smith announced it as the end, the last Cure album, but this time, it felt like he meant it. His playing and singing certainly added to that impression – the explosive climax of Bloodflowers sounds like Smith playing the last music he will ever play.

And I admit, listening to Bloodflowers I felt 15 again. No, that’s not quite right – I felt like a 26-year-old looking back fondly on 15, regardless of how miserable that time actually was. That album synthesized the essence of the Cure into a symphony of resignation and loss, and served as a perfect capper to the band’s career. It redeemed the two preceding albums all by itself, and it would have been an elegant, magnificent bow-out.

But dammit, Smith was lying again. Four years after the fourth or fifth final farewell, here comes the Cure, with a self-titled album and a host of new band members. This time, they’re aiming for a revival, looking to capitalize on the interest bands like Interpol have sent their way. So what did they do? They hooked up with Ross Robinson, the producer behind Korn and At the Drive-In, and they turned up the amps. And they had a toddler draw the album cover.

And they wrote a bunch of really crappy songs.

Robinson happily did not transform the Cure into Korn, but make no mistake, this is the heaviest-sounding Cure album ever. Problem is, they seem satisfied with heavy. Most of these 11 songs are dirges, with two or three notes repeated endlessly, and just about none of the haunting, enchanting guitar of old. Smith just made pretty noise come out of his amp and called it good. Opener “Lost” begins with Smith moaning “I can’t find myself,” and the repetitive three-chord mess that follows backs his statement up. He sounds lost, and his band is just wandering around, looking for a reason to still exist.

Robinson’s great triumph and tragedy on this record is Smith himself. His vocals are mixed loud, clear and center, and Smith howls and screeches and yelps and sometimes even sings with a passion he hasn’t shown in years. He was obviously encouraged to let it all hang out here, but what hangs out is often embarrassing. Occasionally, he turns in a performance that defines him, like the one on “Labyrinth,” but more often than not, he sounds like a Saturday Night Live parody of Robert Smith. The most egregious is “Us or Them,” which finds Smith trying to sell the line “I don’t want you anywhere near me” and ending up sounding like some kind of mental defective.

The Cure is not a complete disaster, like Wild Mood Swings was. “Before Three” is a winner, with its ascending melody, and “Taking Off” is one of the few songs here that does, even though it ends with perhaps the most cringe-worthy vocal warble here. “Anniversary” is also a deep and textured piece, even though it’s not quite as deep or textured as the classic sound it emulates. But for every moment of clarity, there’s at least one blinding display of bad judgment. The album concludes with its worst idea, a 10-minute snoozer called “The Promise” that trudges on under oppressive waves of distortion and Smith’s unhinged caterwauling.

Between self-titling the record, enlisting Robinson and bringing the loud, it’s evident that the Cure is trying to sound young and modern here. This album is the antithesis of Bloodflowers – where that album portrayed an aging Smith finally accepting that his life will never be what it could have been, The Cure shows off a still-aging Smith turning his back on those graceful conclusions, and lunging for a brass ring that is out of his reach. Unsurprisingly, this is the first Cure album in 15 years that has not been touted as the band’s finale.

There are things about this rebirth that I admire, and songs here that I like, but this album’s very existence sullies Bloodflowers, and its content does not justify that. It’s obvious now that Smith is just going to run this train into the ground, and if he ever produces anything as beautiful and heartbreaking as his fabled Trilogy again, I will be stunned. Happy, blissfully happy, yes, but stunned. The Cure is a lousy attempt at updating a sound that didn’t need updating, and a shabby appendix to a terrific final chapter. The album’s finale revolves around the line, “You promised me,” and I can’t help thinking back to 2000, and 1996, and 1992, and 1989, and muttering, “Robert, you promised me…”

* * * * *

Speaking of shabby appendices and broken promises, there is the latest (and reportedly last) Phish album, Undermind, to discuss. Phish will always be to me the sound of freshman year in college. I bought A Picture of Nectar first, was dazzled, and immediately snatched up Junta, Lawn Boy and Rift. Here was a band with serious chops, unbelievable musicianship and a twin sense of fun and adventure. Part Grateful Dead, part Frank Zappa, and part ‘70s prog rock, Phish was one of a kind at the time, and naturally I thought the ride was just beginning.

Rift, of course, was the beginning of the end, but it was a slow, protracted end for a band that should have been mercifully put down years ago. Why do I say this, knowing that legions of Phish-heads will email me with peaceful, loving death threats? Because it’s true – while Phish still put on a great live show in its waning years, the band’s studio output has been in sharp decline since Hoist, and we’ve finally reached the bottom.

Phish is a band that can play rings around just about anyone else on the concert circuit, but for the last 10 years of studio albums, they’ve purposefully decided not to. Bands often do this – they will strip away all the excess, cutting their sound back to the basics so they can recapture the magic and build back up again in a different direction. Phish has just never rebuilt the sound. They started embracing stupefying simplicity on 1994’s Hoist, and just ran with it, writing and playing songs so beneath them that it was laughable.

I thought they had it on Farmhouse, their 2000 album of small yet winning tunes. They finally sounded like they’d accomplished what they were after with the shift toward three-chord funk-rock, and a rebirth seemed around the corner. And then they broke up. Or rather, went on an extended hiatus, but in the music world, it’s almost the same thing. Still and all, going out with Farmhouse wouldn’t have been all that bad.

But no, they had to reunite and foist two lousy records on the public before breaking up again, this time presumably for good. They slammed through 2002’s Round Room in a week, and it sounded like it – uninspired jams sat next to uninspiring banalitites, and it dragged on and on. And now here is Undermind, which recaptures the focus of Farmhouse but does away with anything one might term musically interesting. Honestly, listening to Phish breeze through boring slabs of blah like “Two Versions of Me” is like hearing Zappa’s amazing 1988 band cover the Eagles. It’s a perfect example of wasted talent, and the snoozers come one after another on this sad little disc.

There are two highlights, and they are the only two things worth revisiting on this record. The first is “A Song I Heard the Ocean Sing,” the one nod to the band’s instrumental interplay, but this moody beast is sullied by a chorus that calls to mind Salt n Pepa’s “Whatta Man.” Seriously. And then there’s “Secret Smile,” the best song on the disc, which soars on a sweet string arrangement. Its mournful tone is almost an elegy for the band itself. It would have been a nice way to end the record, but naturally they killed it with the brief and silly “Grind.”

Undermind comes with a short film on DVD that depicts the band running through 30-some takes of “Crowd Control,” one of the simpler songs, and believe it or not, by the 15th take or so, they’re playing it with their eyes closed. Honestly, after only one or two listens, I could play this song with my eyes closed, too. So what’s the point of recording it, then? The songs on Undermind denote a ridiculous lack of effort, both in composition and performance, and they’re a pathetic way for such a great band to leave the stage.

In truth, it seems that Phish has been breaking up for 10 years now. Their albums have grown progressively worse as the members’ solo projects have grown progressively better – Trey Anastasio’s solo band outpaces current Phish by miles, and Page McConnell’s Vida Blue is one hell of a jazz outfit. It’s definitely time to put Phish to bed, and in fact it would have been better all around if they’d realized it during the hiatus. True, we wouldn’t have seen one of the best touring bands on earth make the rounds one last time, but we wouldn’t have had to suffer through Round Room and Undermind, either.

So goodnight, Phish. Ten years ago it might have been sad, but after years of you limping about, coughing and hacking, well, it’s a blessing. Like another recently deceased performer who wasted his talent on material that didn’t deserve him once said, you coulda been a contender.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I was going to write about the Cure this week, but I just saw the Lost Dogs perform an excellent live show, and I just don’t feel like being negative right now.

I find it difficult to explain what I love about the Lost Dogs, and I think it comes down to history. Part of the thrill of Scenic Routes, the Dogs’ debut, was hearing familiar voices in unfamiliar settings. Here was Derri Daugherty, he of swirl-rock pioneers The Choir, singing the acoustic folk title track with a high, clear tone. Here was Terry Taylor, leader of Beatlesque rockers Daniel Amos, taking on a lovely country ditty like “Amber Waves Goodbye.” Here was Mike Roe, voice and guitar hero of barnburners The 77s, lilting his way atop the acoustic “Smokescreen” and wailing through blues standard “You Gotta Move.”

And most of all, here was Gene Eugene, the big brain and sweet voice behind amazing funk-rock monolith Adam Again, bringing indescribable depth to melancholy ballads “The Fortunate Sons” and “The Last Testament of Angus Shane.” Eugene made just about as many albums with the Dogs as he did with Adam Again before he passed on in 2000, and his Dogs work shows a stunning versatility and range. That’s true for all of the Dogs, though. Here were four guys from four very different bands, none of whom had their roots in traditional American and gospel music, playing sweet folk and rollicking bluegrass and tender singalongs. Familiar voices in unfamiliar settings.

Of course, most people are unfamiliar with any of the Lost Dogs’ work, be it together or with their own bands, so that appeal is all but lost on them. Part of the thrill of watching the remaining trio slide comfortably into a rendition of “Wild Ride” is in knowing just how wild the ride has been. Taylor, all by himself, has taken us through the literate twang-pop of the first Daniel Amos albums through the new wave of the Alarma Chronicles, to the sarcastic fun of the Swirling Eddies, to the graceful variety of his many solo albums, and finally to Daniel Amos’ triumphant 33-song comeback, Mr. Buechner’s Dream, the best rock album nobody heard in 2000.

The other Dogs have had similar journeys, with similarly essential sets of albums to their names. And most of those are out of print (with the exception of the Choir’s oeuvre, which is collected in a lovely box set called Never Say Never) and extremely difficult to find. Taylor has begun re-releasing his work as well – the first Daniel Amos album comes out in a deluxe two-CD edition this month – but not enough of the obscure history of these bands is readily available for anyone not already into the Dogs to really understand what I’m talking about.

The boys themselves have now complicated matters a bit. What was once a side project has in many ways become the main gig for Taylor, Roe and Daugherty, with only occasional trips to the louder styles of their original bands. Problem is, there’s a rich backlog of excellent tunes that longtime fans want to hear done Lost Dogs style. These are songs, however, that the average newbie will not know, and will not be able to find.

The solution is called Mutt, the first in a series of Dogs records that will mine the back catalog of Daniel Amos, the Choir and the 77s. Here are nine songs (three from each member of the band) with rich histories, spanning more than 25 years, stripped to their essences and reinterpreted. To use an obvious analogy, this is the spiritual pop equivalent of the original Traveling Wilburys recording “Like a Rolling Stone,” “I Won’t Back Down,” “Cryin’” and “My Sweet Lord.” In their own way, the Lost Dogs have that kind of musical legacy, even though only a few thousand people have heard their songs.

But what songs they are. Mutt is a fully successful project – the new versions of these songs are beautiful on their own, but if you know the originals, they take on new dimensions. It’s a good album for newbies, and a fascinating document for longtime fans. Six of the nine remakes here (there’s also a brand new song) are all but impossible to find in their original forms, unless you know where to look. As far as most newcomers are concerned (which includes much of the audience at the concert I attended), this is a set of 10 new songs.

But the fun of being a longtime fan lies in contrasting these new takes with old favorites. Mutt opens authoritatively with “If You Want To,” from Daniel Amos’ 1991 album Kalhoun. Gone is the familiar intro, and the song now begins with Mike Roe’s unadorned vocal. Naturally, the biggest change here (and in just about all the new takes) is the reliance on acoustic guitars, a Dogs trademark at this point, and the overall tone is mellow and breezy. “If You Want To” is scrappy and punchy in its original version, but here it glides along with great three-part harmonies and a light, airy feeling.

Taylor sings Roe’s “The Lust, the Flesh, the Eyes and the Pride of Life,” from the 77s’ 1986 self-titled record, and he turns what was a youthful rock song into a world-weary Dylan-esque folk tune. It’s an arrangement that brings out the heartfelt lyrics, about Roe’s self-destructive personality traits, and Taylor’s voice is perfect for it. This one works better for newcomers, though, since “The Lust…” is very well identified with Roe. Hearing someone else sing it is jarring at first, but it works. The same fate befalls “Sunshine Down,” Roe’s personal hymn from Say Your Prayers, sung here by Daugherty. The song is so Mike Roe that it’s difficult to associate it with Derri.

Of all the Choir’s songs, I would not have selected “Like a Cloud” for this record. It first appeared on Speckled Bird, the loudest of the Choir’s albums, as a brief moment of beauty amidst the clamor. I’m happy to discover that the Lost Dogs version rescues this sweet love song from obscurity and transforms it into the clearest winner here. The Dogs’ glorious three-part harmonies waft above the web of acoustic and electric guitars, and the extended ending is marvelous. Drummer and producer Steve Hindalong works his magic here on exotic percussion as well.

Many of these songs are not as significantly altered, however. Roe sings Taylor’s “Grace is the Smell of Rain,” from Daniel Amos’ wonderful Motorcycle album, but otherwise the arrangement is similar, if quieter. The Choir’s “To Cover You” is covered note for note here, even down to Daugherty’s lead vocal. And I now have five versions of “Beautiful Scandalous Night,” the most typically Christian song Daugherty and Hindalong have yet written, and none of them are all that different from the others. Hearing Roe sing it here is interesting, though.

There is one song that has been reworked from the ground up, though – “It’s So Sad,” which first appeared on the 77s’ 1982 debut Ping Pong Over the Abyss. What was once a synth-heavy ‘80s pop song is now a screaming rockabilly number, complete with a frantic and amazing electric solo by Roe. Watching him perform this one live on an acoustic is awesome – he never stops moving, yelping or tearing out light-speed guitar lines. Taylor and Daugherty can only stand and stare at him in disbelief.

The show I attended was held at Rock Creek Church in Derwood, Maryland. Rock Creek is just off of a major road that connects with I-95, but MapQuest took me 20 miles off course through the enchanted forest. Seriously, that’s what the road looks like – a heavily wooded path that’s barely large enough to allow two cars to pass unharmed, with insane twists and turns throughout. The church itself is quite nice, and nearly 170 people fit comfortably inside.

In my opinion, that’s a ridiculously low number, considering the sheer quality of the musicians onstage, but for the Dogs at this stage in their career, 170 people in a little church in Maryland is a very good turnout. And the Dogs put on a hell of a show. They have honed their cranky old men act to a Vaudeville sheen, gently pushing the boundaries of what passes for appropriate humor in a church. Roe and Taylor, especially, put on such a display of loving antagonism that newcomers might think they actually disliked each other.

The banter was only half the fun, though. The Dogs ran through nearly every song on Mutt, as well as a nice selection of their older material. The Mutt songs particularly came to life on stage, and I gained a new appreciation for “If You Want To” and the expansive “Like a Cloud.” The Dogs brought Steve Hindalong with them, and he played an impressive array of bizarre percussion instruments in his inimitable animated way. At one point he was shaking what appeared to be a child’s mobile in one hand and a woven straw purse in the other. This guy is so much fun to watch.

The spirit of reinvention that runs through Mutt was in evidence throughout the evening as well. The Lost Dogs are not known for shaking up their repertoire live, but here they debuted what they called a “medley of their hit” that found them opening up their arrangement skills. They also brought a revitalized energy to “Why is the Devil Red,” which just plain rocked. Hindalong especially brought the house down on this one, pounding away on a pair of kettle drums.

They played the one new song on Mutt, “I’m Setting You Free (But I’m Not Letting You Go),” late in the set. It’s a beautiful father-daughter ballad about letting your children grow up while still holding them close, and it joins a legion of Terry Taylor songs about growing older and wiser. The Lost Dogs have found a way to grow old together, both musically and personally, and they’re doing it with grace and a sense of fun. If this group is the final destination for Taylor, Daugherty and Roe, then it’s been a great ride getting here. And if you weren’t there the first time, Mutt and its (hopefully many) sequels will fill you in on what you’ve missed.

I can’t fail to mention Jeffrey K. of Lo-Fidelity Records, without whom Mutt wouldn’t have seen the light of day. Jeffrey puts his heart into everything he releases, and he only would work this hard for bands and artists he loves. You can get Mutt through Jeffrey at his website, and you can listen to clips from every song before you buy. He’s incredibly fast, too – if you’re ordering from within the U.S., you should have your CD in four or five days, tops.

And when you’re done there, keep digging: www.thechoir.net, www.danielamos.com, and www.77s.com. There’s a lot of history there, and it’s all worth tracking down.

Next week, the Cure for sure.

See you in line Tuesday morning.