I’ve been doing a lot of reporting recently that (coincidentally or not, depending on your view of things) has dealt with the collision of faith and commerce.

And it’s got me thinking about it.

Professionalism keeps me from being too specific about things here, but the clash between honest expression and exploitative marketing, especially when it comes to matters of faith, has been illuminated on a couple of occasions for me this past week. I expounded at length on the subject in my Cornerstone column last July, and it just keeps cropping up, especially considering that some of my favorite artists are consigned to the aptly nicknamed Christian music ghetto.

People get all twitchy when I mention Christian music, expecting that I’m going to start handing out copies of the Watchtower and smack them over the head with the King James Bible. It’s a tiresome, yet perfectly understandable attitude, and it’s mostly Nashville’s fault – most of what gets bandied about under the term Christian is target-marketed crap, assembly-line garbage that meets a certain corporate Jesus-per-minute quota. It’s wretched stuff, soulless and useless, and it does more to turn people away from whatever message it’s so relentlessly selling.

I’m honestly not religious at all, and I am no more interested in that kind of music than I am in the so-called mainstream equivalents, the likes of Jessica Simpson and most rap, which just as cynically appeals to a pre-selected market solely to make oodles of cash. Thing is, to me, music is not a tool, or a means, or a method – it is the goal, the end, the thing all of this should be about. To use it as a means of selling anything, be it beer or cigarettes or Jesus or Satan or anything else, is just repulsive to me.

And the Christian music industry is guilty as hell of this. The worst part is that young musicians who snap at the chance to sign with a Christian label are often forever branded with that stigma, and consigned to the Jesus-music racks at Sam Goody. Just look at artists like Mike Roe – one of the best guitar players you’ll ever hear, prolific and proficient in a number of styles, and an honest and heartbreaking songwriter. But he’s relegated now to playing Cornerstone and churches and that’s it, because of his lengthy history (and friction-filled relationship) with the Christian music industry.

Guys like Roe and Terry Taylor worked hard to change that industry from within, infusing their work with honesty and humor and artistry, but it didn’t work – Nashville now pumps out the same crap it always has, servicing the Family Christian Bookstores and the faithful who line up for “safe” product. And Taylor, Roe and his ilk have been abandoned, left to start their own labels and take to the internet just to pay their rent.

For the life of me, I don’t know why anyone interested in making genuine art would sign with a Nashville Christian label.

And apparently, the guys in Mute Math agree with me.

Last year, I saw Mute Math play at Cornerstone, and it was a revelation – here is a band doing something no one else is doing, and even if there were others playing in this style, they’d still be the best there is at it. How depressing, then, to find out that they were signed to Word Records, and that their debut EP, Reset, failed to capture the extraordinary sound this New Orleans foursome created on stage. Reset isn’t bad, really, but the inclusion of the sappy ballad “It’s OK” and the overall glossy sound served to obscure what makes this band special.

But hang on. Their self-titled full-length, out last month, corrects all of the mistakes of the EP. It’s fully formed, the sound is amazing, there isn’t one embarrassing moment on it, and it’s refreshingly sap-free. Oh, and it’s not on Word Records – it’s self-released, on the band’s own Teleprompt, and you can only get it from them here.

Wanna know why? Well, it turns out that Mute Math has sued Warner Bros. and Word for trying to force them into the Christian market. According to a statement by lead singer Paul Meany, the dispute is over “how Mute Math should sound and be marketed,” and that Word Records is “the last place in the world [he] ever wanted Mute Math to end up.”

Here’s my favorite sentence from his statement: “There was no way I could bear the thought of seeing the new album stamped with the ‘W’ and confined to being promoted in a manner I consider nauseating.”

That’s respect. Respect for the art, respect for the music. Rather than watch this collection of songs they labored on be tampered with to meet some Christian corporate idea of sellable, and then see it consigned to rot in select stores and cutout bins at festivals, the band took it back, and they’re bringing it to the fans, one at a time. They’re on what they call the Album Release Tour now, setting up little CD parties in every city they hit. As Meany said, they’d rather do it this way, getting their music out on their own terms, than be labeled and sold as something they’re not.

I just think that’s beautiful, and even if I hadn’t been excited to hear the record before, the lengths the band has gone to protect it would have had me jumping out of my skin to get a copy.

I’ve absorbed Mute Math about 15 times now, and I honestly think it’s the best thing I’ve heard so far this year (sorry, Belle and Sebastian), and I will be surprised if this isn’t standing as one of the 10 best albums of 2005 in 10 months. Bold statement? Sure. Here’s another one – if I could buy copies of this CD for everyone I know, I would do it. Obviously, I can’t, but I will try the next best thing, which is convincing you all to give this band a shot.

So, the sound. Imagine if the Police, circa Zenyatta Mondatta, decided to make Kid A. That doesn’t quite sum it up, but it comes close – this is a dense, dazzling record, full of electronics and trippy beats (mostly played on real drums), but with insanely catchy songs, great riffs, and soaring vocals. It is 13 tracks – nine songs, four interludes – that play like one massive, beautiful whole. The sound is often unearthly, full of electronic pianos and backwards tones and treated guitars, but the songs are beautifully realized and grounded. And Paul Meany often sounds just like Sting – Police-era Sting, not solo-era, rapping-in-French Sting.

The album opens with its most typical song, fittingly called “Typical,” all crashing guitars and shouted chorus lines, but one song later, Mute Math takes flight. “Chaos” is incredible, jagged and kinetic, like a long-lost 1980s classic re-recorded in the rings of Saturn. “Noticed” is just as cool, with a great chorus and some Stewart Copeland-esque hi-hat work. Really, these two songs would be enough to convince me to buy the record for twice what I paid, and lo and behold, you can hear them both on their MySpace site.

But they’re not done. Mute Math dives into spacier waters from here on, the band couching their fantastic melodies in more ambient sounds. “Stare At the Sun” is a superb examination of doubt, set to an otherworldly waltz right out of the second half of OK Computer. It leads into “Obsolete,” the longest of the interludes, taking the sound and the beat to more alien places. “Break the Same” is the most singable seven-minute song you’re likely to hear, and “You Are Mine” comes closest to ballad territory, but deftly avoids it with its gorgeous production.

They saved the best for last – “Stall Out” is where William Orbit meets Brian Wilson, in a way. It’s seven minutes of glorious atmosphere swirling around a stratospheric melody. The final minutes repeat the line “We are still far from over,” and I only hope it’s the truth, because this is one fantastic album. Every few seconds of it holds something new – it’s as layered and meticulous as Dark Side of the Moon, yet as accessible and tuneful as a U2 record.

I just will not accept that only a few hundred people will get to hear this. It’s been a while since I’ve been faced with something this excellent, this instantly likeable, and this depressingly obscure. This is music to be shared and reveled in, music to be played before 50,000 people, not 50. If you’re worried about the Christian content, well, remember – it apparently wasn’t “Christian enough” for Word Records, and if you bought How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb and were okay with it, this is even less evangelical. It’s just honest, searching, wonderful work, and I recommend it unreservedly to absolutely everyone.

It will cost you nothing to check Mute Math out. If you like what’s there, you will like the rest. You have nothing to lose, and perhaps a new favorite band to gain.

* * * * *

And speaking of great bands that the Christian industry doesn’t know what to do with, there’s the Violet Burning.

A full disclosure up front – I interviewed Michael Pritzl, the leader and visionary of the Violet Burning, for HM Magazine last month. I’ve also had their new album, Drop-Dead, for more than two months now, and I’m so glad I can finally talk about it. I just wanted to mention that now, before anyone accuses me of bias, and say that I jumped at the chance to interview Pritzl and hear the album early because I’m a fan, and I came out the other side of all that still a fan. This review would be the same had I never spoken word one to the man.

I got the chance to meet Pritzl after TVB’s fantastic show at the Warehouse in Aurora last week. A grand total of about 30 people showed up, and the sound problems were numerous, but Pritzl and his band still played like they had sold out Wembley. That’s just what he does – you will not find a more emotionally invested singer, player or artist anywhere. Pritzl has been giving all of himself to his music for more than 15 years, before audiences large and small, and he’s never less than entrancing to watch and listen to.

TVB’s sound has adapted over the years, going from the worshipful rock of the early records, to the dreamy expanses of the self-titled album, to the trashy glam of much of Demonstrates Plastic and Elastic. But in 2003, Pritzl threw the biggest curve ball of them all – This Is the Moment, a compressed, glossy album of mainstream Christian pop. I damned it with faint praise at the time, saying that I hoped such a blatant stab at radio play worked for both Pritzl and his label, tiny Northern Records.

I mostly said that because, while worship music has been a big part of what Pritzl does for his entire career, Moment seemed almost a forsaking of his sound. Come to find out that this is a perfect example of that faith-art-commerce thing: Moment was the album Northern asked for, designed to help them sell it to Christian outlets, and Pritzl gave it to them in the spirit of cooperation. When it didn’t set the gospel charts on fire, Northern decided to let him make the album he wanted to make as a follow-up.

Hence, Drop-Dead, a classic and welcome return to the expansive, glorious sound of TVB. The Cure and U2 influences are in full flower here, and the production is huge and dynamic. A voice like Pritzl’s, aching and emotional, sounds best over a bottomless pool of sonic depth, and that’s what you get here. Opener “Humm” states that case brilliantly – a bed of synth bass and chiming guitars surround him as he sings, “Hold me now, I think I’m breaking” over and over. It’s graceful and beautiful, and everything I’d hoped.

But wait, because the album starts rocking with the next track. “All I Want” is a chart-topping hit in a perfect world, a nimbly melodic anthem, and Pritzl hasn’t turned in a trashy rocker like “Do You Love Me” since “Berlin Kitty.” There is a definite new wave element to virtually everything here – keyboards color every track, and drummer Jason Lord Mize plays along with a drum machine more often than not. It’s most obvious on “Rewind,” a clever dance track that throbs and pulses, the backing vocalists delivering the coup de grace with their “no, don’t stop, rewind.” It’s great fun.

Elsewhere, the album takes on more serious overtones. “More” is pure Cure, especially the extended intro with its echo-laden clean guitar lines. The final two tracks are grand and sweeping, separated from the rest of the record in a way by the brief drone “Trans.” “The Ends Begin” is dynamic, the intense arrangement backing out several times to focus on Pritzl’s aching voice. And “One Thousand Years” couldn’t have been anything but the closer, its U2-esque grandeur leading to a stirring refrain: “Yeah, you’re my heart, you’re my home…”

Many have mistaken Drop-Dead for an angry record, because of the title, but notice the hyphen – it’s meant as an adjective, not as an exhortation. The lyrics are basic, universal, and endlessly romantic. This is an album about love, and about yearning. (Fittingly, it was released on Valentine’s Day…) It is, as Pritzl says, all romance and tragedy, with frequent looks skyward, pleading for grace.

Truly, it’s all good – this is the most consistent Violet Burning album since Plastic and Elastic. But you don’t have to take my word for it. Pritzl has such faith in this material that he’s letting you hear the whole thing – just launch the ecard and listen. Again, it costs you nothing to check it out. If you ever liked the Violet Burning, this record will thrill you. If you’ve never tried the Violet Burning, this is a great first taste. This is another album that very few people will get to hear, which is a shame. Pritzl is a powerful artist, both live and on record, and Drop-Dead is one of his best.

* * * * *

Next week, a look at the recent spate of live albums with string sections. And perhaps the week after that, I’ll finally review that Beth Orton album. I’m taking over a much more work-intensive beat at the newspaper on Monday, which will give me even less time to devote to this column, unfortunately. But I have no plans to abandon it, and I’ll do the best I can to not miss a week. Wish me luck.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Things I am looking forward to, February 2006 edition:

Last year, I pronounced Mute Math the discovery of my Cornerstone Festival trip. Their live show was amazing, and while their debut EP, Reset, didn’t quite capture it, I could see and hear that these guys have something.

Well, now I’ve heard a few tracks off of their self-titled full-length (and you can, too), which slipped out last month without my noticing it, and all the excitement of that first show is back. It sounds superb, and “Chaos” and “Noticed” have quickly become two of my favorite songs of the year. Imagine if the Police were still playing, but instead of the glossy pop direction they took on Synchronicity, they stuck to the progressive nature of Zenyatta Mondatta and pushed it forward. That’s what you have here – 10 different musical styles sitting next to each other and working together in the service of some great songs.

The album is only available from the band right now, for reasons that I’ll get into once I review it. It’s on the way to me, and I haven’t been this psyched to get something in the mail since… well, Tuesday, when this week’s review subject showed up.

Anyway, in between playing the Mute Math tracks over and over, I’m also anticipating new records and box sets from… geez, loads of people. The year is officially in full swing. Next week, new stuff from the Lilys, Teddy Thompson, Ray Davies and the Eels (a live album with a string section), and the week after that, there’s Elvis Costello (continuing the live-album-with-strings theme) and Rhett Miller.

But beyond the immediate horizon, there are some things set for this year that have me counting the days. (I am not an addict, I can quit any time I want…) For instance, Michael Roe is right now recording the follow-up to Say Your Prayers, his intimate acoustic album from four years ago. I loved Prayers almost more than any other project by this prolific and astounding guitarist – it will make you weep, it’s so lovely. Hopefully the sequel will be just as good, but even if it isn’t, it’s always a joy to hear Roe in any setting.

Speaking of sequels, I am simultaneously awaiting and dreading Operation: Mindcrime II from Queensryche, one of the most important bands of my teen years. The band sounded revitalized on Tribe, their last record, and if they can carry that over, this will hopefully be a worthy second chapter. On the other hand, the first record is pretty much perfect, as far as metal-rock operas go, and a poor sequel can only diminish it. The addition of Ronnie James Dio as the voice of Dr. X doesn’t bode all that well, and the songs I’ve heard have been average, but with a project like this, it’s the cumulative effect of the music and the story. I am taking it way too seriously – I feel like I’m 16 again, poring over the lyrics to the original Mindcrime, looking for clues. It will be worth my $15 to recapture that, I think.

On the subject of quitting while you’re ahead, though, there’s Grandaddy, whose Just Like the Fambly Cat is rumored to be their swan song. It’s apparently really long, and thoroughly produced – huge and epic. I love huge and epic, and as sad as I am to see such a great band throwing in the towel, I’m fascinated by any band’s final album, especially if they’re aware of their fate while recording. What does the specter of finality do to the process of creation? In Grandaddy’s case, we’ll find out on May 9.

Then there’s new things from Built to Spill, the Fiery Furnaces, Eric Matthews, the Elms, Glen Phillips (already?), Ministry, and a double record from the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Plus, I hear there’s going to be a new Hammock album this year, which is always good news. And a new Marillion in 2007. And I just got the four-CD Rarities/Revelations set from art-goth wunderkinds Saviour Machine in the mail – gorgeously packaged, stuffed with more than five hours of rare and re-arranged tracks, and collectible, since there were only 500 made.

Oh, and my health insurance kicks in on April 1, which means I can get a physical for the first time in four years. Everything works if you let it.

* * * * *

It’s always interesting to me when something moves from my “I want it” list to my “I have it, now what do I think of it” list. Especially if it’s something I’ve been waiting for, working over in my mind how it will sound, what it will do to my life once it arrives. The reality is rarely what I expected, and it’s always a process extricating the record itself from my hopes for it. My initial reaction is almost always disappointment (and when it’s not, as with the Choir’s new album, then I know it’s something special), and it usually takes several listens to get over it and just review the album.

To say that I’ve been waiting for Ross Rice’s Dwight is to severely understate the situation. Let me set the scene. Now, I’m not the kind of guy who hangs on to favorites from the past, illogically ranking them above superior artists of today. I like Great White, for example, and I have since high school, but I wouldn’t ever call them a great band like, say, Keane or Muse. However, there are three albums that came out in 1990, when I was 16, that still reside in my all-time pantheon, records I still reach for and hold up as examples of brilliance.

The first is the Choir’s Circle Slide, still their best work.

The second is Bellybutton, by the late, great Jellyfish.

And the third is Human Radio. That this perfect, cynical, melodic work of genius hasn’t launched a thousand cults is just criminal. Ten terrific songs, ones that sound like Mr. Mister playing Beatles songs with violinist Sugar Cane Harris, only a hundred times better than whatever image that poor description may evoke. Between “I Don’t Wanna Know,” “Hole in My Head,” “These Are the Days” and “My First Million,” Ross Rice earned a place in my personal songwriters’ hall of fame.

And then he went away. Human Radio was dropped from Columbia shortly after recording their unreleased, excellent second album, and they broke up. Rice made a solo record called Umpteen in 1997, which I bought with breathless excitement, but it just wasn’t all that great, and I figured that would be the last we’d hear of him. I found the second Human Radio album online, and it’s swell, especially “While You Were Sleeping,” perhaps my favorite of Rice’s songs, period. But the future looked bleak.

Nine years is a long time to wait for something, but now that Rice’s second album, Dwight, is here, I feel like I’ve been hanging on and hoping for it since my early ‘20s. In that time, I got a great job at a magazine, gave it up, flitted around the country for a couple of years, dated some interesting people, watched them leave me, got cheated on, lost everything, and slowly put my life back together. I’m happy now, in a job I love, with great friends – oddly enough, I am in the same position, mentally speaking, that I was last time I heard a new Ross Rice album.

But past the “Hey, how was your decade?” pleasantries, the experience couldn’t be more different. Umpteen started off disappointing, and stayed there, only a couple of songs rising above the overall average. Dwight, on the other hand, underwhelmed me on first listen, but over the last few days it has grown into a near-classic. These are Rice’s best songs since the first Human Radio album, although they sound nothing like that band’s work. This is a whole new thing, a diverse and mature Ross Rice, one that gives every indication that he’s gone through as many changes as a musician in nine years as I have as a listener.

The album title is a nickname – Rice cut his teeth in Memphis, and when he played with bassist Duck Dunn’s band, they would refer to him as “d’white boy,” or “Dwight” for short. It kicks off with “Hard Times for the Revolution,” a modern classic, all spit-shout vocals and buzzing guitar. And it sets the tone – it’s about a guy who has held strong to his rebellious ways while everyone around him has taken “a nice straight job and a nice straight life,” unable to “get off the couch and fight the power.” It’s sarcastic, cynical, and wonderful, and the first thing he’s done since that stands with the best Human Radio songs.

If that were it, I would still be happy, but Rice went and wrote a few more stunners, too. “Blindman” is a slow creep with a soaring chorus, almost King’s X in its grungy prog tone. “Mr. Anti-Sunshine” sounds like the offspring of old Elvis Costello and Del Amitri, if you can picture that. “Words Fail Me” is an update of Human Radio’s “Hole in My Head” lyrically, and a Glen Phillips special musically, an appealing, jangly delight. “…And After All” closes the record proper, a deep ballad with a great string outro.

Rice’s gift for lyrics is in full force here, although not as upfront and witty as it was in the Human Radio days. But lovelorn laments like “Happy?” and “Beautiful Ghost” explore more grown-up territory, which suits me fine these days. Human Radio is a young person’s album, all anger and funny despair, but Rice is older now, and Dwight reaches for more personal and emotional themes. Just check out “Over Arizona,” a tune about getting over your fear of flying to go see the woman you just might love. The music is more subdued and less immediate here, which matches the lyrical tone perfectly – it takes time to sink in.

“Mr. Anti-Sunshine” even seems to take aim at his former self, the bitter, conquering swagger replaced with a weary knowledge and, oddly, more hopeful demeanor. “Where is all your talent now, but just a seedling, a spark, half forgotten until now?” he asks, before repeatedly chastising, “You got messed up like it was something to believe in.”

And fittingly, Dwight concludes with a sweet little coda called “I Just Wanna Hang With My Baby.” I initially rejected this song, with its falsetto soul and Prince-like instrumentation, but like the rest of the record, it’s grown on me, and now I try to sing along when it comes on, reaching for those high notes. The song is happy, calm and settled, and hopefully its author is, too. Every time I hear new stuff from Ross Rice, I feel like it will be the last hello and goodbye. But while Umpteen would have left me hanging, unfulfilled, Dwight leaves me contented. If this is the last chapter, it’s a good one, one that will let me close the book in peace.

But I hope it isn’t the last chapter. Rice remains one of my favorite songwriters, and his voice hasn’t lost a note, and his knack for catchy, memorable tunes is obviously still with him. Even if it takes nine more years, I want more Ross Rice albums, dammit. It’s sad that so few people know of his work, because in my world, he’s written five or six of my favorite songs, and one or two of my favorite albums. I suppose I should be content with that, but I’m not as grown-up as Rice is, apparently, because I still want more.

In the meantime, we have Dwight, and you can get it here. While you’re there, download the second Human Radio album, particularly “While You Were Sleeping” and “15 Million Worlds Apart.” It’s free, and you won’t regret it. Special thanks again to Dr. Tony Shore for giving me the heads-up on this.

Next week, hopefully a few things, but definitely Beth Orton.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

The race for the best album of 2006 is officially on.

Now, to be sure, there are some hefty competitors throwing down within the next few months. No less than Ray Davies of the Kinks makes his solo debut on February 21, and new records are expected from the likes of Matthew Sweet, Eric Matthews, the Elms, Grandaddy, the Lilys, and Michael Roe. Plus there’s a special bonus contender, and I’ll get more into that later, and next week.

But for now, the field is wide open, the title for the taking. And Belle and Sebastian have taken it.

I am, admittedly, late to the party on this band. I jumped aboard in 2000, with Fold Your Hands Child, You Walk Like a Peasant, and found it pleasant, if unremarkable. There’s such a cult, such a legend around this band, and I didn’t get it. Further exploration only confused me more – If You’re Feeling Sinister, one of those records around which the word “masterpiece” floats like a cloud, left me somewhat cold. They were nice songs, but nothing to get worked up over.

And I’m afraid I have concluded that I just disagree with the cult. Part of it must be that I wasn’t there at the beginning – I didn’t track down and trade bootleg cassettes of Tigermilk before it was released in the U.S. I didn’t spend college nights dissecting the stories and images on Sinister. I don’t have any particular attachment to the early albums, which makes it easier, I’ll grant, for me to disregard them. I’m not, of course – I like the first four records, especially The Boy With the Arab Strap, but they don’t sound like my life, which seems to be the separation point.

Another disagreement: many seem to think that Belle and Sebastian (named after a French television show) have been on a downward slide since Sinister, with some suggesting that the later albums are almost parodies of the early ones. I’m not hearing it. In fact, I think they’ve been getting better and better, expanding on the simple folk-pop of the first two records. Stuart Murdoch, the band’s visionary, has even learned to sing, something he hadn’t quite perfected on his first few tries.

Even so, I had written them off – the best record of theirs I had heard was Peasant, and it still didn’t thrill me. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I missed Dear Catastrophe Waitress, their 2003 transformation, and I’m indebted to Matt DeFour for bringing me back. What I expected would be just another Belle and Sebastian album was, in fact, a huge upheaval in the sound. Stuart Murdoch took over, bringing with him a huge eraser and some fascinating influences.

What emerged was not so much a reinvention as a revelation – a melodic monster of a pop record. The opener, “Step Inside My Office, Baby,” was the most complete and electrifying song Murdoch had written, all bright and beautiful, and the album followed suit. Now, I will grant you, quite a bit of my love for this record comes from Murdoch’s musical choices closely mirroring my own preferences – he had to pick a direction, and he picked ‘60s pop, one of the keys to my heart. But a lot of bands try to do ‘60s pop, and they discover that it ain’t easy. B&S pulled it off winningly.

Their sixth full-length, The Life Pursuit, follows the same Sloan-esque path, but if Waitress was their One Chord to Another, this is their Navy Blues. It’s somehow stripped down and yet bigger-sounding, and the songs are more rock-oriented and less immediate. In essence, though, this album is the final nail in the coffin of the band’s old sound. There’s nothing about a song like “White Collar Boy” that you could describe as twee, one of the most commonly used adjectives in early reviews. “The Blues are Still Blue” sounds so much like the Steve Miller Band, in fact, that I can imagine fans of Sinister shivering in disgust.

Credit must go to the producers the band has chosen for their one-two punch. Waitress was sculpted by Trevor Horn, perhaps best known for Yes’ 90125 and Seal’s first two albums, and for Pursuit, the band worked with Tony Hoffer, the man behind Supergrass’ phenomenal Life on Other Planets, among other retro-cool records of note. Hoffer’s sound here is pure 1960s, but less glossy than Horn’s work. The embellishments are just as numerous here – there are horns, clarinets, bassoons, and oceans of backing vocals – but they’re not as up-front and ear-grabbing. It takes a few listens to really hear everything that’s going on in this record.

Like Sloan’s stuff, this album sounds to me like the band built a time machine and slipped back a few decades. It’s an old-time, well-crafted pop album, the kind that makes me want to turn it over after six songs. This record is absolutely in sides, as well – side one, which ends with “Sukie in the Graveyard,” is the more straightforward half, the more rock ‘n’ roll stuff, whereas side two finds Murdoch stretching out a bit to incorporate sunshine pop and bouncy funk. “We Are the Sleepyheads” makes even me want to dance, and trust me, I should never dance. But just try to stay still while this kinetic gem is playing, the backing vocals echoing off the walls. There’s even a couple of searing guitar solos in it.

As much as I appreciate and love the energy on this record, it’s the slower, more thoughtful ones that move me this time. “Dress Up in You” might be the prettiest thing in Murdoch’s catalog, despite the tenderly delivered vulgarities, and the trumpet solo is right out of Burt Bacharach’s handbook. “Song for Sunshine” has overtones of Marvin Gaye and Stevie Wonder, until it blossoms into a glorious chorus. And the album ends gracefully with “Mornington Crescent,” an acoustic piece that is the closest this album comes to the band’s wistful folk of old.

Many will say that I have no right to call The Life Pursuit a great Belle and Sebastian album. They may be right, and I won’t deny that my perspective is not as nuanced as those who were there from the start. Those same people have been decrying the later albums as empty, and I think what they mean is that they don’t mean to them what Sinister does. I know that feeling, and I can relate. I can only like what I like, though, and the songwriting and production of The Life Pursuit sounds miles, light years ahead of the group’s humble origins to me.

Hopefully the cult will come around, because I doubt they’re going back to four-tracks and furtive secrets, and The Life Pursuit is a great record. Like I said, the race is on, and it is incredibly early, but for right now, Belle and Sebastian have the album of the year.

* * * * *

Next week, I hope, a special treat. I am once again indebted to Dr. Tony Shore (which means I’m gonna have to link him again) for giving me the heads-up on this.

Once upon a time, there was a band called Human Radio. They made an incredible debut, a perfect progressive pop masterpiece, in 1990. They made a terrific follow-up the next year that was never released. And then they went away. Singer/songwriter Ross Rice made a decent solo album in 1997, but aside from that, nothing. Still, I scour the internet constantly for news about Rice, because those two Human Radio albums are enough to put him in my pantheon of pop songwriters.

How I missed the release of Ross’ second album, Dwight, is beyond me, but Dr. Shore has kindly filled me in with a typically ecstatic review. The disc is on its way to me, and if it’s half as good as Tony says it is, then I can’t wait. These are the moments I live for.

Next week, obviously, Ross Rice, if it gets here in time. If not, there’s always Beth Orton’s great new one, Comfort of Strangers, to discuss.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I love it when my favorites get recognized.

Some people hate that – they want to keep their little secrets to themselves, fearful of too many bandwagon-jumpers. I’m not one of those people. I want everyone to like what I like, by force if necessary. I’m like a pusher who never charges after that first free taste. Just about everyone who knows me (and doesn’t object for moral reasons) has received a mix CD at one point, and been annoyed by my near-constant request (nay, demand) for thoughts and opinions and affirmations on the selections.

So it’s with great joy that I greet any news of wider exposure for my personal pantheon of artists. To wit: News came this week that Noah Baumbach, the writer/director of perhaps my favorite film ever, the non-Will Ferrell Kicking and Screaming, shall now forever be known as Academy Award Nominee Noah Baumbach. Yep, his The Squid and the Whale picked up an Oscar nod for Best Original Screenplay, and I apologize to my co-workers, who had to deal with my spontaneous squeal of delight when I found out.

Baumbach won’t win, of course, but in his case, it truly is an honor to be nominated. Squid is an intimate, harsh little film that seems to be connecting with audiences not because of star power or marketing budgets, but the honesty with which it was rendered. It’s a tough movie, one that makes you feel its pain. It is Baumbach’s most accomplished effort, and although K&S still means more to me, it was definitely the rough draft for much of Squid.

So I’m glad he’s sitting pretty with his nomination. I hope this means two things will happen. First, that Baumbach will get more work, and get to make more films. He’s already working with Wes Anderson on an adaptation of Roald Dahl’s The Fantastic Mr. Fox, and while I think they make a good team, I want more Noah Baumbach films.

And speaking of, there’s the second thing – I want Kicking and Screaming on DVD. I would even accept a straight transfer with no extras, just to have the movie in its original form (the only copies that exist are pan-and-scan VHS). It’s an 11-year-old film at this point, there would be no additional production costs, and get this, DVD makers – you can splash “From the Oscar-Nominated Creator of The Squid and the Whale” right across the front cover. What would be the downside? Honestly, there’s no excuse now. Let’s get this done, people.

Otherwise, the Oscar nominations were pretty predictable, much like, I expect, the actual awards. It’s gay cowboys all the way this year – Brokeback Mountain is the only one of the five Best Picture nominees I still haven’t seen, but I plan on rectifying that shortly, since it’s a near-guaranteed winner. I had a discussion with a co-worker this week about the Best Picture nominees, and how it’s the most politically charged slate of films either of us could remember. In addition to the this-won’t-play-in-the-red-states Brokeback, there’s Crash, Good Night and Good Luck, and Munich, all films with serious, controversial and relevant themes. When your least political movie is Capote, then you’ve got a thoughtful, divisive and aware set of statements to choose from. And I couldn’t be happier – not a King Kong or a Cinderella Man in the bunch.

Plus, Jon Stewart is hosting, just to add to the political bent of this year’s awards.

Anyway, official predictions, for those who care.

Philip Seymour Hoffman owns the Best Actor award, and if he doesn’t win, it’s just down to ignorance of the film. Heath Ledger could get it as part of a Brokeback sweep, but I think Hoffman deserves it, and I think everyone knows it.

I’m going to vote for Reese Witherspoon for Best Actress, because I think the voters will want to give Walk the Line something. It was a well-received film, and Witherspoon was very good as June Carter Cash, except when she was singing. Felicity Huffman probably deserves it, but like most of the Academy, I haven’t seen Transamerica yet.

I think Paul Giamatti might get Best Supporting Actor, as penance for his double-snub of the last two years. (American Splendor and Sideways, two riveting performances that were completely overlooked.) If not, count on Jake Gyllenhaal to ride the Brokeback train to victory.

Best Supporting Actress is pretty wide open, but the most buzz seems to surround Rachel Weisz in The Constant Gardner. I would love to see Catherine Keener get this – she is always awesome, and her turn as Harper Lee in Capote was typically terrific. But I think Hoffman’s absurdly good performance in that movie may overshadow any other element that deserves notice, unfortunately. And there’s always Michelle Williams, earning raves and possibly participating in a Brokeback sweep. So no prediction here, but I’m leaning towards Weisz.

Ang Lee will win Best Director. The Academy loves him, and he rebounded nicely from the disaster that was Hulk. Once again, Spielberg will be left out in the cold, despite making one of his finest films with the stunning Munich. I have been assured that Brokeback Mountain is beautifully shot and directed, which, considering Lee’s track record, I do not doubt for a second.

I was originally told that March of the Penguins was ineligible for Best Documentary, since the filmmakers did some digital tweaking. I’m happy to see I was wrong – I don’t think I saw a better, more lovely movie all year, to tell you the truth. And it will win.

Brokeback Mountain wins for Best Adapted Screenplay, no question. Although Capote and Munich should give it a run for its money, and I’m glad to see them both represented.

Best Original Screenplay is a different story, and more complicated. I’d love to see Noah Baumbach win, but I think we can safely count him out. Woody Allen is here because he’s Woody Allen, not because he has a chance, sadly. Syriana was a mess, and I wish Stephen Gaghan had been given an extra 45 minutes of screen time to flesh it out. Good Night and Good Luck is perfectly paced, but half of it is old footage, and it was more a matter of assembly than writing. That leaves Paul Haggis for Crash, and it would be deserving, although he won last year, too. We also have five films here that won’t win anything else, so it might be down to which one has the most admirers, in which case Good Night will probably take it.

I know that’s not a real prediction, but I’m completely unsure in that category, and I hope to be surprised.

Oh, and Brokeback wins Best Picture, without much of a fight. And then I spend the next two months yelling at people for blaming the “gay agenda” and the “liberals” for the triumph of what is, no doubt, a deserving and lovingly made film. Really looking forward to that.

* * * * *

Full disclosure, before we get going: the subject of this week’s review, Richard Julian, reads my column. Or at least, I think he does – I send it to him every week, and he hasn’t asked me to stop. But what he does with it once it lands in his inbox is up to him. I just wanted to mention that, and reassure anyone who thinks that I’m doing publicity for a subscriber – I honestly like Julian’s work, and would recommend it even if he had never written me.

My history with Julian’s music is a series of accidents. When I wrote for Face Magazine, I received literally hundreds of free discs a month, and nearly all of them were crap. Major labels, minor labels, local guys – Sturgeon’s Law applied to all of them, except more so. I liked maybe one out of every hundred I heard, and I can barely remember the names of most of the artists trying and failing to catch my ear.

But I remember Richard Julian. His label, the now-defunct Blackbird Records, sent me his self-titled debut, and it was like giving cookie-dough ice cream to a low-sugar diabetic. Snarky, finely wrought, folk-inflected, and full of just great songs, Richard Julian was among my favorite discoveries at Face. One year later, there came Smash Palace, the second record, which was just as good, if not better, and totally different from the debut in all the right ways. Promising career? You betcha.

And then the long silence. By 2001, I had relegated Julian to the ever-growing list of artists I loved, but who just didn’t catch the right breaks.

Turns out, I had underestimated Julian’s tenacity. Another happy accident – I stumbled onto his website just as he was pulling together Good Life, his stripped-down, independently released third effort. And it was so good that I even bent the rules a little and allowed him a spot on the 2002 Top 10 List, arguing that his distribution deal didn’t kick in until ’02, so the album officially appeared in stores during that year, and blah blah bitty blah. Flimsy excuse, but the record deserved its spot, and I regret nothing.

Good Life, swell as it was, had the feeling of a last gasp to it, kind of a kitchen sink, I’ll-never-get-to-do-this-again atmosphere, and the long silence that followed seemed to bear that out. So it was with much rejoicing that I greeted the news that Slow New York, Julian’s fourth record, would be released by EMI/Manhattan. That’s a big deal for a guy who was stuffing envelopes with his indie CD only a few years ago, and a testament to his talent.

One might expect that Julian’s major-label effort would be elaborately produced, like his first couple of records, but Slow New York is just as stripped and intimate as Good Life. It is his most straightforward and acoustic set of songs, clocking in at a scant 41 minutes, and none of the tracks are cluttered – everything here contains as many instruments as it needs, and no more. Four songs were co-produced by Norah Jones, who also offers backing vocals here and there, and a nice quote for the front cover sticker. And this is exactly the kind of record that her fans would probably dig – low-key, occasionally jazzy, and mostly sweet.

That’s not to say it doesn’t pack a punch, but Julian has taken pains here to ease the prickly nature of his past work, perhaps so as not to scare the wider audience a major label will bring, most of whom will think this is his debut. “Love of Mine” slides in on delicate finger-picks, and the record doesn’t pick up speed until the zydeco-influenced “If a Heart Breaks.” There’s a blues in “Cheap Guitar,” a piano-powered jazz number in “A Short Biography,” and a trademark story-song in “End of the Line,” but otherwise, this is the softer side of Richard Julian, traditional and laid-back.

One thing that hasn’t changed at all is his gift for lyrics, his penchant for little snapshots that convey rich emotions. “Love of Mine” sounds like longing, until he concludes, “I need this like I need a hole in my brain, like a downtown track needs an uptown train.” On “Don’t Wait Up,” he declares, “I’m half mad, let’s hope that means I’m half sane,” before telling the object of his affections, “I want your flu, baby, not just your cough.”

Pretty as much of the opening salvo is, Slow New York kicks into gear with “Cheap Guitar,” a rollicking blues that’s every bit as snarky and bleak as Julian’s best work: “Sometimes love is just a rank motel, springs in the mattress are all shot to hell, but it’s late and you’re low on fuel so you might as well…” “A Short Biography” is next, and it’s even cooler, a sidelong glance at his own life that erupts with Dred Scott’s piano work. Best of all, I think, is “End of the Line,” a short story in song form that takes a sarcastic look at customer service, and ends with a gasp-worthy line.

But Slow New York has its share of warm-hearted moments, more than usual for Julian. The title track is lonesome and pleading – “I’ve been up all night having a ball, staring at the view of my brick wall,” Julian sings, before offering, “If you wanna come home like you once said, I’m still on the same side of the bed.” “Photograph” may be his saddest song, and it suits him perfectly, a writer of snapshots reflecting on a single frame from the past. “I prefer the memory to the photograph,” he sings, “one world is round and the other flat.”

Still, I admit a tinge of disappointment with this album – it is comparably straight-ahead, and I miss the eclectic, anything-goes approach of his earlier work. There is no funky “Siberia” here, no explosive “Love is the Only War,” no captivatingly abrasive “Your Friend John,” and nothing as funny as “Florida.” Slow New York is consistent, and consistently good, but it’s streamlined, and has less personality than the earlier records. Where Good Life was like spending a long weekend with Julian, talking late into the night, Slow New York is like a chance meeting and a warm handshake. If it’s your first run-in with him, you’ll be pleased to meet him, and you’ll want to spend more time, but if you know his work, you can tell he’s holding back a little.

But trust me that Julian’s work is worth getting to know, and every album he’s made is worth owning. They are all different, and yet all bound by a common sensibility, one that’s delightfully harsher than most singer-songwriters offer. Slow New York is a good first impression, full of decent songs and produced beautifully, but here’s hoping that next time out, Julian stretches out a bit more, and really lets loose. Consider the new album a gateway drug, and if you dig it, check out the other three here.

Next week, Belle and Sebastian.

See you in line Tuesday morning.