We’ve got a lot of catching up to do:

Ladies…

I often bemoan the sad state of gender inequality represented here at tm3am, but I’m not sure what to do about it.

Some of my favorite artists are women – Aimee Mann, Tori Amos (who will always have a spot on this list, no matter how much she sucks lately), Ani Difranco, Kate Bush, PJ Harvey (sometimes), and on and on. Yet the disparity is evident, and I don’t think it’s entirely my fault. Women are just not afforded the same opportunities as men in the music business – not just at the signing stage, although labels take on many more male artists than female ones, but also at later phases, when men are allowed to dive into artistic risks while women are often nudged into sexpot pop singer roles to appease the bean counters.

There are exceptions, but for every Eleanor Friedberger (strange and wonderful from the outset, and showing no signs of compromising), there’s a Liz Phair, a formerly daring artist streamlined by the mass machine into fitting one of their pre-arranged roles for women. Granted, no one forced Phair to write and sing teen-pop radio hits, although a distressing enough number of women fall into that trap (*cough* Jewel *cough*) that it seems like a trend, and it fits with the labels’ attempt to confuse promiscuity with empowerment on a mass cultural scale so that they can sell sex and make it seem like they’re selling freedom and individuality.

I can name 25 male artists off the top of my head who have followed an artistic muse album after album, refusing to pander or write for the masses, but I can only name a couple of women who have done the same thing, and I think label influence has to be at least part of the cause. The aforementioned Difranco is one of the most self-determined artists, male or female, in the world, and it can’t be coincidence that she’s been on her own label for her whole career. Historically, it’s taken some measure of self-releasing, or labels committed to seeing women as artists instead of as sex objects who sing, to really level the playing field.

A good example is Neko Case, best known as one of the New Pornographers, but an accomplished solo artist in her own right. For her whole career, she’s been supported by little labels like Bloodshot and Anti, and she’s quietly built up a body of work that rivals that of her more famous contemporaries. Her fourth solo album, Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, is another good one – short, mostly acoustic, delightfully rendered country-pop of the highest order.

Case’s voice is, of course, the main selling point. It’s strong without being overpowering, effortlessly gliding over the music and tying it together. But, as Imogen Heap said recently, people don’t really think of women as producers and players, only singers, which is a shame – Case co-produced Fox Confessor, wrote or co-wrote every song (except the one traditional tune, “John Saw That Number,” which she arranged), and played guitar or piano on every track. And Heap’s right – if Case were male, I wouldn’t even feel the need to point any of that out.

While I always like Case better when she’s with the Pornographers, she’s crafted a gem here. “Star Witness” is a standout, a moody waltz with chiming clean guitar accents and a backing vocal performance to die for, as well as a great piano outro by The Band’s Garth Hudson. It slips into the minor-key delight “Hold On Hold On,” and then the brief yet striking “A Widow’s Toast,” on which Case spins a traditional-sounding chant over gorgeous echoed guitars.

The record never falters, and its 35 minutes are up very quickly. Case surrounded herself with great collaborators here too, including the members of Calexico, the Sadies and Howie Gelb, though she is absolutely the star of the show. Final track “The Needle Has Landed” is a perfect summation – co-written with the Sadies, the song is every bit as modern as it is drawn from a deep well of classic country and pop influences, and the cello arrangement is awesome. Neko Case has made another winner here, and aside from its brevity, there’s nothing at all wrong with it.

Faring nearly as well is Jenny Lewis, who, like Case, is taking a break from her time in a popular indie band. In Lewis’ case, it’s Rilo Kiley, a group that has grown more and more shiny, in a pop sense, as they’ve gone along. For her solo debut, Rabbit Fur Coat, Lewis made the wise choice to strip it all back and return to the early Kiley sound, all acoustic guitars and harmonies. And on this record, those harmonies are provided by bluegrass singers the Watson Twins, adding just that much more cred.

But not much more – this isn’t a country record, it’s a sweet pop outing that’s reminiscent, oddly enough, of Neko Case. Lewis’ clear voice isn’t quite the powerful instrument Case’s is, but she still carries this album winningly, She also takes greater pains than Case does to ground her album in a traditional sound. “Happy” could be an old Patsy Cline number, so convincing is its torchy balladry, and the title track is an old-fashioned story-song, “Coal Miner’s Daughter” style. There’s a refreshing intimacy to the album that’s like an antidote to more recent Kiley.

Like Case, Lewis includes one cover, but it’s a surprising one – “Handle With Care,” the 1988 hit by the Traveling Wilburys. The Wilburys were a supergroup that included Bob Dylan, Roy Orbison, George Harrison, Tom Petty and Jeff Lynne, so for her take, Lewis assembled a little supergroup of her own, trading verses with Bright Eyes’ Conor Oberst and Death Cab for Cutie’s Ben Gibbard. I’m surprised this hasn’t received more press – Lewis doesn’t even make a big deal of it in the liner notes, and the familiar voices are a neat surprise.

But as with Case, this is Lewis’ show, and Rabbit Fur Coat shows a deep love of folk and country history. She’s on Oberst’s label, Team Love, which bodes well for her solo career – if there’s anyone who knows what it means to develop at one’s own pace, it’s Oberst. Nothing here is going to push music forward, but the album is a sweet look back, and if Lewis can bring some of the starker, more haunting moments of Rabbit Fur Coat back with her to Rilo Kiley, it could only be a good thing.

Sometimes, though, stripping down the sound is not the best idea, as Beth Orton shows us on her new Comfort of Strangers. Orton has long been a favorite of mine – her second album, Central Reservation, made my top five for 1999, and her debut, Trailer Park, is one of the coolest messy, unfocused records I own. She seemed to be on a roll, and I sincerely hoped that Daybreaker, her 2002 album, was just a slight misstep. But now it seems to have been the penny that derailed the train.

Don’t get me wrong – I like Comfort of Strangers, somewhat. There are some good ideas here, but they’re clipped and truncated far too often. The album is 14 short songs, mostly little acoustic-and-piano rambles, and while some shine (“Safe in Your Arms,” “Feral”), others just sound unfinished. The record was produced by Jim O’Rourke, formerly of Sonic Youth and currently of Jeff Tweedy’s other band, Loose Fur, and you’d think he would infuse some life into the proceedings. But no.

Here’s the issue – Orton has an incredible voice, when she’s allowed to stretch out and use it. She’s never been a complex songwriter, but she’s always infused her ditties with emotion, utilizing that lovely voice to captivate and enthrall. There’s pretty much none of that here – every song is over too quickly for that, and the production captures Orton’s worst Rickie-Lee-Jones-esque qualities. It’s like Trey Anastasio’s last album – streamlined to the point of suffocation, and containing very little of what makes Orton a musician worth hearing.

And maybe I have to alter my view when it comes to labels and artists, because I doubt highly that a company like Astralwerks would ask Orton to make an album like this one. Comfort of Strangers is probably exactly what she wants, which is unfortunate. The bits of it that stand out contain glimmers of the haunting, moving music of which she is capable, and I hope she realizes it soon and gets back to doing what she does best. This album reminds me of latter-day Tori Amos, and like Tori, Beth Orton is one of the most affecting female musicians on the planet, when she allows herself to be.

…and Gentlemen

Kurt Heasley was the second musician I ever interviewed. It did not go well.

I was brand new at Face Magazine, with absolutely zero journalism training, hired on the strength of my music reviews and my apparently rare decision to show up every day for my three-month internship. My first feature interview was with a guy who ran a tiny record label in Portland, and I think he was so grateful for the attention that he let my obvious nervousness and incredibly awful questions (“How do you want to be remembered after you die?”) slide.

Armed with a boost of false confidence, I marched into my second interview with head held high. I would be in control of this one, I would ask probing questions, I would get the Whole Scoop. The band was the Lilys, and my one-on-one would be with their leader and only mainstay, Heasley, a very tall, very wild-eyed man with flailing limbs and an energy level that would tire out even the hardiest Olympic athletes. He was also bugfuck insane, and believe me, I wasn’t in control of this interview for a second.

Among the first things Heasley did upon sitting down with me was to eat my tape recorder. Not entirely, and he didn’t swallow it, but he did stick nearly the whole thing in his mouth. His answers to my queries were all over the map – hell, off the map – and I was so stunned by the whole thing that I couldn’t even converse with the guy. At one point, he accused me of selling my list of interview questions for crack, so befuddled was I throughout the whole process. I got pretty much no usable stuff – I was surprised to learn that the things I liked about the band’s ‘60s-inspired Better Can’t Make Your Life Better album were improvised solutions to financial problems, and at the time I couldn’t think of how to write that story effectively.

Which is a shame, since I now realize I had Heasley in his prime. After Better in 1996, he made one more pop masterpiece, The 3-Way, in 1999, and then started to lose focus. The latest Lilys album, Everything Wrong is Imaginary, is a far cry from the excellence of previous releases, a mish-mash of grooves and noise that ends up going nowhere.

There’s a reason for that – the album was reportedly recorded mainly on the cheap, at home, when Heasley’s personal life kept him from diving in to a long production schedule. He recorded his own guitar and vocal tracks at his house, and studio musicians filled in the rest later, under the direction of Michael Musmanno. And if you think that style of recording would result in a thrown-together album with no clear vision or direction, well, you’re right. There are good moments – “Still in All the Glitter” is trippy, and the instrumental title track has a good melody – but they’re drowned in meandering half-songs that stretch even this 38-minute disc to unbearable lengths.

I have very little idea what personal problems kept Heasley from devoting his full energy to this record, but it represents a downward slide from even his last couple, which have been pretty lacking. Heasley’s voice is strained, when the poor mix doesn’t drown it out, and his songwriting has never been more lax. It’s a shame – I certainly hope everything works out for him, and soon, because he’s so much better than this album would lead you to believe. Thanks to our brief encounter in 1996, I’ll always have a soft spot for Heasley, and I wish him well.

I’ve done probably hundreds of interviews since then, and I’d like to think I’ve gotten a bit better at it. Case in point – I had the opportunity last month to talk with Greg Boerner (pronounced Burner), a Georgia native who moved to Illinois a few years ago. Boerner just self-released his third CD, World So Blue, and since quite a lot of the album was inspired by his recent divorce, our features editor thought that would be a neat story. Especially since I got to talk to his ex-wife, too, and get her thoughts.

But even if you’re not enthralled by real-life tales of lost love, Boerner’s music is worth checking out, especially if you’re into folk and blues traditions. His songs are uncomplicated in the best way, especially a romp like “Heaven Bound,” and his acoustic guitar playing is deft and skillful. His best quality is his deep, soulful voice, but here he’s surrounded it with his most complete production. Boerner still plays most of the instruments himself, as he did on his comparatively stark earlier records, but World So Blue adds percussion, electric guitars, horns, and a host of other colors. You’d never know it’s a DIY effort, so clear and well-balanced is the sound, but the elaborate measures don’t detract from the core – acoustic-based songs, played and sung well.

Boerner stretches out here, too, incorporating a Tom Waits influence on “Don’t Wake Me From This Dream,” perhaps his finest song. It fits in well with the more melancholy tone of this record, which, considering its subject matter, is not surprising. The title song is a mid-tempo lament, a plea for a second chance, on which Boerner provides subtle mouth percussion, and “This Love,” another minor-key favorite, takes an old blues trope and makes it new – “One thing’s for certain, there’s two things I know, this love will kill me, and I can’t let it go…”

Both Boerner’s lyrics and music are simple and accessible – sometimes too simple for my taste – and fans of singer-songwriters like John Hiatt and Steve Earle (in acoustic mode) should find much to like here. The two things I admire most about World So Blue are the sense of diversity – there’s gospel, Louisiana shuffle, country-folk and pop mixed in with Boerner’s traditional blues and roots music – and the sonic texture. The whole thing is sequenced well, and lest you think it’s all lovelorn moping, it concludes with two breezy, upbeat numbers that leave you wanting more.

World So Blue is an interesting homemade document, and Boerner is obviously a talented guy with quite a good voice. Nothing here is going to change the world, but Boerner’s not trying to be innovative, just enjoyable. If you like straightforward songs about love and life, drawn from a perspective of deep respect for classic American music of all stripes, then this is for you. I’d also recommend Wishing Well, Boerner’s second record, which is more blues-based, and sounds more like his live show.

Check Boerner’s work out here.

Another guy who makes simplicity work for him is Teddy Thompson. The first thing people will want to tell you about Teddy is that he’s the son of Richard and Linda Thompson, and that his parents both appear on his second record, Separate Ways. They’ll want you to know this because it makes it easier to dismiss him as a child of privilege, handed a record contract because mommy and daddy pulled some strings. And I want you to know it because these people are wrong – Teddy Thompson is his own guy, and his music stands on his own.

Separate Ways sounds a bit like Rufus Wainwright trying his hand at country-folk. Thompson’s voice is just as even and ethereal as Wainwright’s, but with a slight twang that belies his British roots, and his songs are little ditties produced like art objects. The first single, “Everybody Move It,” is a fine example of the tone – the party-anthem lyrics could fit an AC/DC song (“Bump and grind, have a good time, free yourself and lose your mind”), but the music is mournful, almost tragic, as if the singer were already thinking about the consequences.

“I Should Get Up” is an apathy anthem, set to a mid-tempo country beat, and in a way, the same character reappears in “I Wish It Was Over,” a song about not having the willpower to end a bad relationship. Thompson lets out some of his darker side on “Think Again” and the backhanded “That’s Enough Out of You,” and what’s fascinating about them is how half-hearted they sound, as if he lacks the energy to be as mean as he wishes he could be. The classic here is the title track, in which Thompson leaves the terms of a breakup to his partner. Separate Ways, as a whole, is about drifting through life, and it’s a better portrait of disaffectedness than a hundred records with hipper pedigrees.

As an extra treat, the album ends with an unlisted cover of the Everly Brothers’ “Take a Message to Mary,” performed as a magical duet between Teddy and his mom, Linda. In the wake of the sparkling music that precedes it, this feels more like a celebration of Thompson’s talents than a refutation of them – yes, he comes from a semi-famous family of musicians, but his work is dynamic enough to deserve attention for its own sake. Separate Ways is a very good sophomore album from a songwriter on the verge, and I expect great things in the future.

We Are Floating in Space

As if this weren’t long and late enough already, I thought I’d debut a new regular feature this week. Just like the folks who handicap the Oscars eight months early, I draft and revise my top 10 list again and again as the year progresses. Some have asked me just how seriously I take the list, and just how much thought I put into it, and I can tell you – way more than I should, on both counts.

So for those who have asked for a glimpse into my process, I thought I’d try something akin to quarterly reports this year – I’ll publish a draft of my top 10 list once every three months, so you can see how it progresses as new albums are released and old ones are bumped up or down. I fully understand how self-indulgent this is, and if you don’t care, I don’t blame you. But for those who do, here’s what my top 10 list for the first quarter of 2005 looks like:

#10: Prince – 3121
#9: Duncan Sheik – White Limousine
#8: Ester Drang – Rocinate
#7: Teddy Thompson – Separate Ways
#6: Neko Case – Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
#5: The Violet Burning – Drop-Dead
#4: The Alarm – Under Attack
#3: Ross Rice – Dwight
#2: Belle and Sebastian – The Life Pursuit
#1: Mute Math

The final list will, hopefully, look nothing like this. Upcoming records I expect will shake this up tremendously: Bitter Tea, by the Fiery Furnaces; You in Reverse, by Built to Spill; Mr. Lemons, by Glen Phillips; Foundation Sounds, by Eric Matthews; Permafrost, by Bill Mallonee; and Just Like the Fambly Cat, by Grandaddy. And I’m hoping the Flaming Lips, Ministry, Tool and Paul Simon surprise me. (Simon’s album is even called Surprise, so that’s a good sign…)

Anyway, expect a second-quarter report at the end of June.

Next week, there’s a job for you in the system, boy, with nothing to sign…

See you in line Tuesday morning.

It’s my sister Emily’s birthday this week. She’s 29.

This seems impossible to me, because if she’s 29, then I’m almost 32, and that’s… wrong. It has to be. I spend a lot of digital ink here bitching about how old I am, and I won’t do that again, but seriously. My little sister is 29? What the hell?

I don’t feel to bad about it, though, because I know age means nothing. It’s all attitude. And like a musical miracle, just when I’m feeling down about my advancing years, here come a couple of actual old people, partying like it’s 1982. Granted, neither of this week’s contestants are as old as David Gilmour and Ray Davies (and thank God neither of them sound as old as Gilmour), but still, we’re not talking young, fresh fellows here. And yet, if you didn’t know it, you’d never guess.

Start with Mike Peters, all of 47 years old. I can’t overstate just how important Peters’ band, the Alarm, was to my formative years. Some people glommed onto U2’s The Unforgettable Fire and The Joshua Tree around the same time, but I identified more with the expressive anthems of Eye of the Hurricane and Strength. I can’t tell you why, but the Alarm moved me more.

I’m beginning to think that it may be because I sensed the absolute earnestness and strong integrity of the band’s leader. Peters gets compared to Bono all the time, but while the erstwhile Paul Hewson hides behind a fake name, wraparound sunglasses and an undeniable messiah complex, as well as heaping tons of irony, Peters has never been anything but straightforward. The Alarm, during their time, wrote nothing but anthems, every song reaching for the brass ring, every song a showstopper. And it’s become obvious to me in the intervening years that Peters believes every word of them, and that lends them power.

Put simply, I don’t trust Bono, but I believe in Mike Peters.

I do realize that I just spent three paragraphs propagating the Alarm-U2 comparison, which has always been an unfair one. The Alarm lived in U2’s shadow, especially after touring with them in 1987, but since the ‘80s, Peters has stayed the course and turned out one great record after another, while U2 has gone astray (for 10 years!) and come back again. In terms of consistency, there is no contest. And in terms of personal importance to my life, there is again no doubt – the Alarm is one of my very favorite bands, and Peters one of my heroes.

In recent years, Peters has resurrected the Alarm name, despite the fact that three-fourths of the band are gone. His new band, including guitarist James Stevenson, ex-Cult bassist Craig Adams and Stiff Little Fingers drummer Steve Grantley, is all wrapped up with his old one, and has as much of their blessing as Peters could expect. And he certainly isn’t doing the name wrong – in 2003, the Alarm released In the Poppy Fields, a five-CD, 54-song opus that contained nary a weak moment.

They even hoodwinked the music industry, releasing the first single from the album under the name The Poppy Fields and hiring teenagers to fill in on the video, to prove a point about image and popularity. It worked – the song, “45 RPM,” hit big in Britain, and the music press fell all over themselves praising it before discovering its true authors. It was the most revealing scam I can remember, and slightly out of character for the ever-honest Peters, who quickly revealed the truth.

Life seemed good for Peters, until December of last year. While working on the follow-up to Poppy Fields, he was diagnosed with chronic lymphocytic leukemia, a form of cancer. His prognosis is favorable, but since this is his second bout with cancer, the outcome is never certain.

But here’s why Peters is my hero – he gets hit with cancer, and it barely even slows the man down. Since the diagnosis, Peters finished Under Attack, the second album by the new Alarm. He booked an extensive tour on two continents, and shot videos for every song on the record (included on a bonus DVD). And now he’s out promoting it, and playing his heart out every night, as is his custom. I have missed several opportunities to see the Alarm live, but I’m going to try not to miss this one.

Part of my determination here is that Under Attack is absolutely awesome. I paid import price for it (it doesn’t come out here until May 30) because it’s the Alarm, and I couldn’t wait for it. It was worth every penny, the most furious and committed album Peters has made in many years. For all its sprawl and stylistic breadth, In the Poppy Fields now stands as the timid first step of this new incarnation. Under Attack makes it sound like a James Taylor album, so wonderfully loud and bracing is this new music.

Under Attack kicks off with “Superchannel,” the first single, currently doing gangbusters across the pond. It’s an explosive way to start, a caustic indictment of modern culture with a great hook. From there, the record never falters – it’s one anthem after another, each one immensely singable and uplifting. Peters sings semi-trite lines like “Everyone is someone to somebody” and “You only get one life” from the heart, elevating them from cliches to truisms to rallying cries. And pretty much every song contains at least one “Whoa-oh,” an Alarm tradition that still never fails to make me smile.

Under Attack contains four songs from the full Poppy Fields (the album was released commercially with only 12 of its tracks), and they’re completely different. Especially re-worked is the great “Rain Down,” an acoustic ballad on Poppy Fields that bursts forth here as a jagged rocker with a terrific arrangement. Also fantastic is the new “Be Still,” faster and louder and more stirring than the original take.

But it’s the new songs that shine. “Without a Fight” is a perfect Alarm anthem, its title preceded by “I’m never giving up,” and it takes on new meaning in the context of Peters’ medical condition. “It’s Alright/It’s OK” should be a hit – in fact, each of the first six songs could be hits, I think, and they ought to be. The album gets deeper and more minor-key after that, reaching its volcanic apex with “Something’s Got to Give,” which could be this band’s “Bullet the Blue Sky.”

But thankfully, it ends on a perfectly positive note with “This Is the Way We Are,” another in a series of semi-acoustic epics like “Spirit of ‘76” and “The Drunk and the Disorderly.” This one will stay with you, a decidedly Alarm-ish sendoff that feels absolutely right. And that’s the best part of Under Attack, to me – even though the amps are cranked for this one, and the punk influences are more evident, all of these songs sound like the Alarm to me, and like classic Alarm at that. You can’t ask for anything more than that. Even though Peters still hedges a bit by adding the date next to the band name – this one’s billed to the Alarm MMVI – I have no problem thinking of this as the next Alarm record, and a damn good one at that.

And I hope the relentless positivity, the all-out go-for-brokeness of this album is a good sign, both for the Alarm and for Peters in his fight with cancer. It would be more than a shame to lose a musician this passionate, this committed, this important, especially since he’s as good now as he’s ever been. Under Attack makes me feel 16 again, ready to take on the world, and to say that it’s a feeling I need right now would be an understatement. So thanks, Mike, and here’s to your health and a long life.

* * * * *

It seems weird to switch gears like this, to go from talking about a guy with not one trace of artifice to a guy who spent most of a decade using an unpronounceable symbol for his name. But if we’re talking about ‘80s artists experiencing a renaissance in the Aughts, well, we have to mention Prince, don’t we?

Prince is 47 as well, and he’s transformed himself in his old age from randy soul-funker to classy master of his craft. In the late ‘90s and early ‘00s, Prince explored jazz and funk like never before, expanding his sound with strange, beautiful records like The Rainbow Children and NEWS. In 2004, though, he staged a massive career comeback, releasing Musicology, his most popular and acclaimed album in many years, and launching an incredibly successful tour.

Musicology was old-school Prince, a timid attempt at commerciality, and it left me sort of cold. I knew what he’d left behind to make this record – most notably his amazing band, the New Power Generation – and I couldn’t jump on the bandwagon. It was a decent, funky, unremarkable Prince album, and while I was glad for his renewed success, since I think he’s a stone genius, I haven’t really played Musicology since it came out.

So now here’s comeback part two, 3121 (pronounced “thirty-one twenty-one”), and I was expecting more of the same. In a way, I got it, but where Musicology sounded rote, this one sounds inspired. This is a great Prince pop album, and while his flights of fancy are reined in, his melodic sense and gleaming production are at full force. There are 12 songs on this album, and at least eight of them are hits, and better than anything on pop radio at the moment.

Start with the title song, a classic Prince track, with a relentless beat and processed, sped-up vocals. Prince self-harmonizes, but uses variable pitch effects, so it sounds like he’s singing with munchkin and demon versions of himself. He played all the instruments on most of this album, once again forsaking his terrific band, but I don’t miss them as much this time, for some reason. Part of it is the dark, spacious production – it’s as minimalist as his best ‘80s work, and yet as full as it needs to be.

This record is much more varied than Musicology, too, including Latin-tinged balladry (the single “Te Amo Corazon”), guitar rock (“Fury”), and sweet soul-pop (“Beautiful, Loved and Blessed,” a duet with Tamar, his new protégé.) “Lolita” is like stepping in the wayback machine, so ‘80s are its grooves and drum fills. And closer “Get on the Boat” is a jam and a half, a great funk workout with horns by, among others, the awesome Maceo Parker.

For all that, it’s the atmospheric spiritual piece “The Word” that really does it for me here. With a tough beat and an appealingly dark acoustic guitar part, the song expresses Prince’s always-present faith through one of the best melodies on the record. It’s a bit of an island amidst all the love and sex songs – 3121 is Prince’s most sensual album since becoming a Jehovah’s Witness in 2001 – which only adds to its impact. It’s the kind of moment that was sorely lacking on Musicology, and only one of the reasons that this is a superior effort.

If Prince is going to make pop records – and it seems like he is – then I hope he keeps making ones as good as 3121. It’s a varied, versatile album that finds him at the top of his game, and it betrays not one trace of his age. For nearly 30 years, Prince has forged a career path unlike anyone else’s, and he refuses to slip into mediocrity. Credit his restless artistic spirit, and his devotion to his craft, for making even a stab at pop radio like 3121 sound fresh. Forget Musicology – this is the commercial comeback, and a welcome one it is.

Next week, I catch up on a ton of 2006 records, before the spring flood hits on April 4. Operation: Mindcrime II, baby! Really, how bad can it be?

See you in line Tuesday morning.

For all you movie fans, there’s some spoilerific stuff ahead regarding V for Vendetta and Match Point. Just to warn you, if you haven’t seen these movies and want to be surprised. I would also direct your attention to the archive, where you’ll find a second column this week. Thanks. – A.S.

When I reviewed Woody Allen’s Match Point, I compared it to his 1989 film Crimes and Misdemeanors, with which it shares a plot skeleton. In both films, we follow men of privilege as they engage in dangerous affairs, and we watch as the relationships crumble. In both films, the men turn, in desperation, to murder in order to keep their affair quiet. And in both movies, it works – the mistress lies dead, the adulterer (pulling the strings in one film, and pulling the trigger in the other) is free from suspicion, and no one is the wiser.

They’re very similar works, but Allen, in his inimitable way, uses the parallel structures to say two very different things. Crimes and Misdemeanors is about the cruelty of God, the indifference of the almighty to what we do down here. Match Point, on the other hand, is about luck, and about how random our lives really are. The films are both about bad people getting away with bad things, but they are very different at the core – Crimes is theological, probing the question of God’s fairness, while Match Point is nihilistic, beginning with the premise that there is no God, and everything is down to chance.

I get much the same impression from the book and film versions of V for Vendetta. The big screen treatment of Alan Moore and David Lloyd’s gripping graphic novel opens this weekend, and while it shares a basic plot structure and characters with the book, it uses that skeleton to say something utterly different from Moore and Lloyd’s original intent. And it raises the question – if an adaptation revises the point of the source material, so much so that the message is altered completely, is it still an adaptation?

Not that Alan Moore has had any luck in this arena. He’s revered among lovers of comic books (like me) as one of the most thoughtful, skilled, and downright magical writers currently working. In the 1980s, he helped kick open the door to What Comics Can Be with work like Watchmen, Swamp Thing (really), and of course, V for Vendetta. In the 1990s, he focused on deep artistic statements, including his masterpiece, From Hell. And in this decade, he’s worked overtime to return the joy to comics through sweet undertakings like Tom Strong and Top 10, while literally bringing the magic to Promethea, a major, major work.

Comics love Alan Moore. Movies, not so much. The celluloid versions of League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and From Hell were godawful, and what the producers, writers and director of Constantine did to Moore’s bastardly mage (John Constantine is British, nearly 50 and blond, for one) should be a crime. Constantine is a good example, actually – if you’re going to change something so much that it becomes unrecognizable, then why pay good money for the source material?

Moore has never seen Constantine, nor the League movie, nor From Hell. And I think he’s probably a better person for it. He has a standing policy of asking that his name be removed from movies made of his works, and all money due him for such adaptations be distributed among his collaborators, like Lloyd. That’s why, when you see V for Vendetta, you will notice the credit which reads, “Based on the graphic novel illustrated by David Lloyd.”

Moore says he’s not going to watch this one, either, and for the first time, I think that might be a shame. V is the best translation of Moore’s work to the screen thus far, even though it still misses the mark by several miles, and I’d be interested in his take on it, considering that the revisions this time are not plot related, but thematic. In its original form, V for Vendetta was a violent reaction to Margaret Thatcher’s Britain, a call for anarchy in the face of totalitarianism. The book’s assertion was that oppression of the depth and power depicted in its pages could only be dealt with from the top down – remove the boot, and the people can breathe.

The film, however, dispenses with anarchy as a solution, and concentrates much of its efforts on mobilizing the people of its fictional future Britain into toppling the government themselves. This new V is a defense of terrorism against tyranny, like the book, but it is also a rallying cry, a call for the people to unite in revolution. In the book, unity is the last thing on V’s mind – he’s about disorder, disunity, about bringing everything crashing down so it could rise up again.

V is an uncomfortable book – its hero is a masked man who demolishes buildings and kills people for a political ideal, the dictionary definition of a terrorist. V is a faceless icon, anarchy personified, driven by single-minded resolve, and yet his motives are clouded by personal vengeance. It’s never clear whether Moore takes V’s side. He merely presents him, a character that sees himself as the only alternative. The book ends before we see the fruits of the new world V creates, one he himself does not live to experience.

The movie is touchier, mostly because of the current political climate it works so hard to relate itself to. The film’s V, played by Hugo Weaving, still kills people and blows up buildings, but he does so to stir the populace. This V is the self-styled leader of a revolution, mailing out Guy Fawkes masks like the one he wears, encouraging people to follow him. There is a scene in which V takes over the state-controlled airwaves, and in the book, the point was disruption and chaos, but in the movie, the point is to issue a challenge to the citizens – rise up and meet me. And wear your mask.

The film, then, is less explosive, yet somehow more relevant. The book’s solution is a difficult one to grapple with, and those who still believe in the system will find it defeatist and irresponsible. The film’s message, on the other hand, is ever-so-slightly more palatable – give the people a reason to revolt and a symbol to unite behind, and they will replace tyranny with democracy. In the book, the people of Britain are too far gone to revolt, and they must have change thrust upon them if they are to be free. In the movie, all it takes is a couple of explosions and some masks to organize a revolution. It seems too easy.

The problem is, the framework of V for Vendetta, the novel, is predicated on that original premise. Pieces of it now sit uncomfortably on screen with the new agenda, and some elements now tie in a little too neatly. Nowhere is the clash more evident than in the relationship between V and Evey, the heart of both the book and the movie. The film is pretty pat – V finds a young, strong, capable woman and opens her eyes to the world, all the while (gag reflex imminent) falling in love with her.

But in the book, the relationship is deeper and trickier, and ultimately more satisfying. Evey, at the start, is a 16-year-old girl, lost and alone. V finds her, and rescues her, but the trust she develops for him is all a product of manipulation. Evey is a microcosm of the people, trusting and helpless, and V of the government, controlling her with a smile. V then puts Evey through the most unimaginable torture, and teaches her self-reliance, and it’s the microcosm all over again. V plans to put the people of Britain through the wringer, upending their lives, and when they emerge, they will be individually strong and responsible, so much so that government will be unnecessary.

None of this is in the film, and yet the methods remain the same, so now the prison torture sequences and the incredibly well-filmed Valerie scenes ring somewhat hollow. Evey, as played by Natalie Portman, didn’t need such extreme measures – she was three-quarters of the way there on her own, before even meeting V. And the end result is not a thorough reinvention of what she is, as it was in the book, but merely a shift in her political thinking.

All well and good, for what it is. The film also takes more steps than the book does to humanize V, sometimes to the point of silliness, and spends a lot of time justifying his actions. For those seeking good guys winning out over bad guys, these little revisions should help. But the book does no such things – V is iconic, not human, and his actions are justified because he says so. It’s a more difficult work to pin down and simply enjoy, and it cuts deeper and hits harder. The film has the skin of an Alan Moore work, but not the soul of one.

So the question, then: is this a genuine adaptation of V for Vendetta? It’s certainly more of one than League of Extraordinary Stupidity, but in the end, I have to say no. Alan Moore is a master of theme, of spinning a statement through story, and if that statement is changed, even though the story (by and large) isn’t, then the work has not been captured.

My bet is that Moore’s work never will be adapted fairly – he’s such a complex writer, and his comics utilize the medium so perfectly that even a faithful translation would lose the spirit of them. V for Vendetta is a step in the right direction – at least this one’s set in the proper country – but it still sidesteps Moore’s intent, and mischaracterizes his story. It’s smarter than the average popcorn movie, but its ambitions end there, whereas Moore’s are limitless.

There’s a legend about Raymond Chandler – when someone asked how he could stand what Hollywood has done to his books, the author pointed at his collection of his own works and said, “Hollywood hasn’t done anything to my books. They’re right there on the shelf.” I think that’s a healthy attitude. If you catch V for Vendetta at your local multiplex, and see within it a glimmer of something deeper and more interesting, I’d urge you to seek out Moore and Lloyd’s book. It’s always in print from DC/Vertigo, and should be at your local bookstore.

One more thing, because I’m sure I’ll get emails about this if I don’t mention it – my recommendation of Alan Moore’s books does not equate to an endorsement of their messages, whatever you may find them to be. That’s especially true if you read V for Vendetta as an argument in defense of terrorism, which is easy to do. I’m only advocating reading a book that will challenge your ideas and make you think. I’m not advocating dressing up in a mask and blowing up the houses of Parliament. Dig?

All right, then.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Some thoughts on first impressions:

A first single is, traditionally, meant to give some small taste of a forthcoming record, and to entice listeners to pick up the disc when it comes out. Sometimes it’s representative, though, and sometimes it’s not. Now, I haven’t been swayed one way or another by a first single in many, many years – I’m so addicted to music that I usually just buy and experience the whole album, sound unheard. But even I can’t resist that first sample, especially for records I’m looking forward to.

A slew of first singles have hit the airwaves and the web recently, and almost universally, they have me anticipating their respective albums more than I already was. Here’s one you have to check out: “Going Against Your Mind,” the nine-minute opening track from Built to Spill’s You in Reverse, out April 11. “Conventional Wisdom” is also available there, and it rocks, too, but “Going” is pure BTS, and perhaps the most enjoyable two-chord song I have heard in years. After a couple of good-but-not-great albums, I’m excited to hear Built to Spill sounding like their old selves again.

Also surprisingly good is “I’m American,” the first tune to hit from Queensryche’s Operation: Mindcrime II. I am dreading the April 4 release of this album, but the song is old-school ‘Ryche, down to the double-time metal break in the middle, and while my sense of impending disaster isn’t completely abated, it is eased a bit. Sequels always suck, but this could defy the odds.

Less exciting is “World Wide Suicide,” the boring new Pearl Jam song. The problem with Pearl Jam is that they always sound like Pearl Jam, and they haven’t shaken up their style since No Code, 10 years ago. Hopefully this song isn’t a fair representation of their self-titled album, out May 2, because it could fit snugly on Riot Act, or Yield, or any other of the forgettable records they’ve made since their heyday. Consistency is one thing, but with this song – their first in three years – Pearl Jam sounds stuck in a rut.

* * * * *

First impressions are, of course, easily influenced by hype, one of my favorite pet subjects. It’s one that keeps coming up, though, thanks to the British press and their tendency to crown any young band with a few chops and an attitude the Best Band Ever in the History of the Fucking Universe. I just can’t stand that sort of thing, and I wish I were less annoyed and turned off by it. I missed out on the Franz Ferdinand Bandwagon, for example, and probably undervalued their debut album, because I was so repulsed by the hype that buzzed around them like bees.

So here’s my New Year’s resolution in effect again. I promised myself that the next time NME and the other Brit mags fell all over themselves praising some baby band as the second coming, I’d ignore the hype and pick up the record, and judge for myself. Well, that time has come – if you’re even the slightest bit tuned in to the Grand Rock ‘n’ Roll Machine, you’ve heard of the Arctic Monkeys. Even their stupid name can’t hold this band back.

For years, it was the thing to crown some band the New Radiohead, and then the New Coldplay. Now, apparently, the times have shifted again – the Arctic Monkeys are the new Franz Ferdinand, according to Brits in the Know, a pedigree that evidently is supposed to mean something besides coattail-riding. The two bands even share a label – Domino – and I can’t see the New Franz thing as anything but cynical marketing in action, and another example of Frank Zappa’s theory of death by nostalgia.

But anyway.

I deliberately heard nothing from the Monkeys’ intensely praised debut, Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not, before buying it. (I think the title’s a little ironic, considering that all I’ve heard people saying is that the band is brilliant, fantastic, superb, etc. Too bad that’s what they’re not, then.) It was easy enough, not living in Britain, to avoid “I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor” and “The View From the Afternoon” in heavy rotation, and approach this thing fresh.

And you know what? I like it.

Understand, there’s a world of difference between “I like it” and “This will change music forever, and add meaning to my miserable life.” But this record has a relentless, stomping sense of fun, especially in its first half, that is undeniable. The New Franz moniker is accurate, in a sense – the styles are similar, and the angular chops of guitarist Jamie Cook are very reminiscent of Ferdinand. But Cook also takes from the Clash and the Jam, and the Monkeys in general have a more street-level, less theatrical feel than Alex Kapranos’ bunch.

The real difference, however, is in the voice. The Monkeys are also led by an Alex, this one named Turner, while Kapranos indulges the preening art-rock quality in his vocals, Turner has an appealingly brash, sneering, everyman tone to his singing, one part Liam Gallagher and one part Johnny Rotten. He’s the most enjoyable part of the mix, especially considering the jovial, sarcastic nature of the lyrics. What else would you expect from a song called “You Probably Couldn’t See For the Lights But You Were Staring Straight At Me” but sarcasm, and Turner sells it.

Unlike Franz, too, the Monkeys realize that their one trick can get wearying over the course of a whole album, so they’ve varied the pace here and there. “Riot Van” is a tender piece about being rousted by the cops, while closer “A Certain Romance” is a ska-inflected mid-tempo epic. But for the most part, the band sticks to tight corners, fast beats and shouted choruses, and they’re right – it does get tiring. Whatever People Say I Am is only 41 minutes long, but it’s about all I need, and it doesn’t leave me wanting more.

Still, I think the band is on a decent track. They do have miles to go before they deserve the hype, and I wish the music industry was willing to let them mature a little before shoving them down our throats. In five or six albums, the Arctic Monkeys will probably be terrific, but given the hyperbole surrounding this frenetic debut, there really isn’t anywhere for the critical acclaim to go. This is live-in-the-moment music for a live-in-the-moment world, and it never reaches deeper nor promises a continuing journey.

And maybe it’s just that I’m older now. When I was 17, I would have responded to this, but I need a wider perspective these days, something that convinces me that I should remember the band’s name (no matter how stupid it is) because they’ll be around 15 years from now. There’s none of that here. Whatever People Say I Am is a fun little bottle rocket of a record, and I admit that hearing Turner shout the chorus to “Perhaps Vampires is a Bit Strong But…” is thrilling, but I know that next year will provide a similar set of thrills from an entirely new band just like this one.

Which brings us back to hype, and my biggest problem with it. The Arctic Monkeys are a blast, and they show some potential in their hooks and humor, but they will never get any better if the world keeps telling them they’re brilliant now. So seriously, world, stop it! Turner and his boys have so far to go, but they’ll never take one step if they feel they don’t have to. This album is at best a C+, but if everyone tells them a C+ is good enough, then we’re in for carbon copies of this record the next few times out, and a slow fade to an episode of Where Are They Now. Is that what you want?

The question the Arctic Monkeys ought to be asking themselves is, can we do better than this? Where can we go now? What can we explore? How much more interesting can we make our sound? The question I’m asking myself, as I do with every new band that’s hyped to the skies, is, will they? Is the band worth following, and investing time in, or are they headed nowhere? Nothing on their debut makes me think they’re in it for the long haul, but you never know. Perhaps they’ll surprise me. Perhaps ephemeral, trendy and disposable is just what I say they are, and that’s in fact what they’re not.

We’ll see.

Next week, speaking of longevity, there’s a new Alarm album.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I spend a ridiculous amount of time worrying about being old.

I know I’m not – at 31, I’m no young’un, but I’m not ready for the retirement home just yet. But I worry about it. I work in an office full of young people, all dreamy-eyed and ready to take on the world, and pretty much every day, I’m reminded that I used to feel that way. I feel ancient, dust and bones.

So it’s good to remember that there actually are old people in the world, and they think I’m barely out of the womb. Take, for example, David Gilmour, who just turned 52 last week. Gilmour is best known as the guitar player for Pink Floyd, a band who put out perhaps their most acclaimed album (Dark Side of the Moon) before I was born, and did what I consider their best work while I was learning to read and finger-paint.

By the time I was 10, it was all over for the Floyd – their visionary, Roger Waters, had departed for a bizarre solo career, and Gilmour had taken the reins. He led the remaining band through a couple of pale imitations of Floyd albums, including the first one I ever heard, A Momentary Lapse of Reason, which came out when I was 13. I’m ashamed to admit it, but my teenage self thought Gilmour a genius and Waters a hack because the former could sing on key and jam out a 10-minute solo.

It took a while, but I came around.

Put next to works like Animals and The Wall, those last two Floyd albums are comparatively lifeless, especially The Division Bell. Neither one pushes beyond the “Comfortably Numb” template – slow songs, full of spacey keyboards, Gilmour’s serviceable voice getting out of the way of his guitar more often than not. It’s a wonder that Bell took seven years to make, but you could chalk that up to the difficulty involved in getting the remaining trio (including drummer Nick Mason and keyboardist Richard Wright) together to record it.

But there’s no excusing the 12-year delay between Bell and On an Island, Gilmour’s new solo album. For one thing, even though it’s billed as a solo record, it sounds exactly the same as recent vintage Floyd, if not a little more laconic. The songs are all slow – and not even slow burners or slow builders, but just slow – and Gilmour’s guitar rules the day, taking long expanses of sound to say very little. If you liked the last two Floyd albums, you will like this. There’s almost nothing to distinguish them.

The physical sound of On an Island is as glorious as anything Gilmour has done. In their day, Pink Floyd broke new ground in sound design, and really opened up what you could do with standard stereo. Records like Dark Side presented an almost unheard-of depth of field, which works even if you’re not stoned, and it was this kind of restless experimentation that made even their early stuff shine. Somewhere in the ‘80s, though, Gilmour settled on a sound, and this is it – thick, rich, deep and clear, but front-and-center. The mystery Floyd wove so well is gone, and in its place are synth washes.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but these are lazy, contented synth washes. On an Island wafts in like a summer breeze, and occasionally whips up into an actual wind, but not often enough to notice. It’s an old guy’s record, no doubt about it – the title song is the soundtrack to a walk on the beach, and the whole album (save “Take a Breath,” which we’ll get to in a second) sounds like one of those new age discs with the pictures of sunsets on the covers, the ones you find in the nature stores.

The best word, in fact, for this is “soothing.” It’s the sound of fading out gracefully, of dying in your bed at 98, surrounded by family. It’s nice and all – practically every song has an orchestral backing, and some of the arrangements are sweet – but it all drifts by. The first time I listened to it, I didn’t know when it was over – I only realized it minutes later. The sound here is just a few steps above silence, which may have been the intention, but it doesn’t make me want to listen to it again.

That’s not to say that none of it is effective. The closest this record comes to rocking is the mid-tempo, occasionally silly “Take a Breath,” which incorporates actual rhythm guitar crunch. That one is over way too quickly, but thankfully “This Heaven” is only two tracks away, with its slinky acoustic riff. I like the half-melodies in “A Pocketful of Stones,” the best of the eight (!) ballad-things. The rest of it blends together, a long sustained note with an echo-laden guitar solo over it, interrupted occasionally by a strummed acoustic with an echo-laden guitar solo over it.

The easy blame for this is Gilmour’s age. These are sweet lullabies for the rest home, the work of a guy who is content with his life. I would never even suggest that 52 is old – look at Paul McCartney, making some of his most vital solo music at 63 – but rather that age is a state of mind. Gilmour has decided to be old, and to make happy and pleasant music for those who don’t want to be challenged or moved. It’s wallpaper, background noise, something to put on while ironing, and it’s a shame. With Waters composing operas and Gilmour giving us this ambient nothing of an album after more than a decade, it seems there’s nothing left of the Floyd we knew.

Ray Davies fares better with his first solo work, but mainly because he’s Ray Davies. At 61, he’s a rock and roll legend, the leader and visionary behind the Kinks. In his day, he wrote catchy, complex pop songs like nobody’s business, one after the other in a seemingly unbreakable streak. He dove into conceptual works in the ‘70s, and fell apart completely in the ‘80s, but for a while there, he was almost unbeatable.

So now here’s Other People’s Lives, amazingly his first solo album in 42 years of recording, and the first we’ve heard from him in about a decade. And it’s probably not what you’d expect. It’s a big production, a chamber-rock album with pianos and horns and, occasionally, big guitars. It’s also a collection of sometimes twee pop songs that wipes its arse with most of the Kinks’ ‘80s work, and if it’s not quite a return to form, it is a reminder of his considerable skills.

Other People’s Lives is a darker album than you might think, too, opening with a torrent called “Things are Gonna Change” that puts its narrator through the wringer, ending up on the other side with a defiant “I bloody well will.” Some of it’s a little standard, like the Tom Petty-ish “Run Away From Time,” but for every one of those, there’s a minor-key twist like “Creatures of Little Faith.” Davies stumbles on an amateur clod like “Is There Life After Breakfast,” but shines one track later on the shuffling “The Getaway.”

His lyrics have deteriorated over time, and I wish someone had advised him against lashing out at the internet on the title track – that’s a sure fire way for a 61-year-old to appear desperately out of touch. But Ray Davies fans won’t be disappointed in this record – spotty as it is, it’s the best thing he’s done in ages, and he certainly doesn’t sound ready for the shuffleboard court here. Listen to the booming backbeat on “Stand Up Comic,” one of the best tracks here, and try to imagine yourself at 61, and tell me if you’ll even want to listen to stuff like this without saying, “Turn that down, kids!” It’s not genius, but it does rock.

Davies even manages to sound as contented as Gilmour without sacrificing energy, or sounding ready for a nap. The closing track is the title number from last year’s EP, Thanksgiving Day, and it sounds just as good here, celebratory and sweet. It seems to me that there are two types of aging musicians – those who slowly fade into irrelevance, and those who keep fighting and pushing themselves, even into their golden years. That second group includes folks like McCartney, and Todd Rundgren, and thankfully, with this record, Ray Davies.

Next week, the mirror image of this week, as I try to jump aboard the Arctic Monkeys bandwagon.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’m not really a betting man.

I don’t play the lottery, I don’t go to the track, and I never put money on sporting events. Luckily, I didn’t inherit the gambling gene from my dad, who signs up for the Mega Millions every week, and has never won a thing. He also bets on the Boston Red Sox to win it all every year, and they’ve only come through for him once in his whole life. I’ve watched this behavior intently over the years, and learned not to emulate it.

No betting for me.

Oh, sure, there’s that weekly poker game with my office-mates, but that’s just fun. It’s a $10 buy-in Texas Hold-‘Em game that’s usually a lot more fun than anything else I might do with that same 10 bucks, so on the risk-reward scale, I can’t really call it gambling so much. Even so, I’ve figured out by this point which of my fellow players poses the biggest threat, and I often back out of games they’re in.

I’m just generally a cautious person. Uncertainty is my natural state. I’m also usually wrong – the last bet I made concerned Harriet Miers, whom I was sure would be confirmed as a Supreme Court justice. Call it an episode of rampant cynicism, one that cost me a whole dime. It’s funny now, but imagine how much funnier it would have been if I’d won…

Anyway, the point of all this is, I have to be pretty damn sure about something to wager anything of value on it. Either that, or exceedingly foolish. I’ll let you be the judge – I’ve just made another bet, and I want you all to be my witnesses.

Okay, you all know that I’m hooked on Lost, and if you didn’t know, now you do. The show has proven frustrating in its second year, and I am more certain than ever that the writers only have the barest of notions regarding how it all wraps up. Episodes this year have played to me like a relay race between the writers, one finishing an episode and handing it off to the next without any real connecting threads or narrative drive. It’s been, in short, disappointing and head-scratching, and I hope I’m wrong, and that the whole thing will pay off in the end, because God knows I’m not going to stop watching.

Fans of the show will know what I mean when I say that I’m like Jack, suspicious and skeptical, and without faith. And my friend Mike Ferrier, he’s Locke – he believes with all his heart that the writers know where they’re going, and that everything means something in the intricate tapestry they’re weaving. He believes all the dangling plot threads and little mysteries are part of a grand plan set forth by J.J. Abrams and Damon Lindelof, and that his faith will be rewarded – there will be nothing left hanging, unexplained, at the show’s conclusion.

He is clearly wrong, which is why I suggested betting on it. But rather than leave what constitutes “completely explained” up to interpretation, we picked one of those little elements. We chose something that I believe will have no logical explanation at all, and which he contends is part of the deftly woven whole. Why else, he says, would it be there, if they couldn’t explain it?

We picked the numbers.

Now, I’m not stupid. I do think there will be some explanation behind Hurley’s magical numbers, the sequence of 4-8-15-16-23-42 that brings all manner of bad luck with it, and apparently keeps the world from blowing up every 108 minutes. But sharp-eyed viewers may have noted that those numbers crop up a lot in the show – on speedometers, on clocks, and in one case, on the jerseys of a soccer team, all lined up. They’re scattered throughout the show like Easter eggs.

So here’s the bet. Mike believes there will be a reason behind the numbers appearing so frequently, often only for seconds when the camera pans by them. I think the inclusion of the numbers is a recurring gag by the writers and directors, one designed for the sole purpose of making the fanbase on the internet explode with nerdy delight, and that the appearance of them on various clocks, calendars, and (especially) soccer jerseys will never be explained at all.

By the final episode, one of us will be right, and one will be wrong.

Here’s the stipulation – the show has to conclude on its own, not be canceled. There must be a proper, planned finale. Abrams, Lindelof and his staff must have every opportunity to write their final chapter, or there’s no point to the bet. But given the ratings thus far, I don’t think that will be much of a problem.

We’ve chosen to bet the final season DVD set. Whoever wins must purchase it for the other, whenever it comes out. And the winner can then bask in the final proof of his superiority, over and over again, and perhaps even force the loser to watch it with him, and point and mock and laugh.

So here it is, in digital semi-permanence – as long as this site is up, the text of the bet will be here for all to see. And that means that as the show spirals into what I believe will be a morass of incomprehensibility, headed towards its unsatisfying and unfulfilling finale, Mike can’t weasel his way out of paying up. I kind of hope I’m wrong about this one, too, because I’d like to enjoy the next however-many years of Lost. But I don’t think I am.

* * * * *

A quick shout-out before we continue.

Longtime readers of this site might know the name Shane Kinney. I met Shane while working at Face Magazine, and he’s a great guy, and an outstanding drummer. He played in a band called Broken Clown for years, and they were an incredibly heavy, slow-moving thunder machine with song titles like “No, I’m Laughing at Your Silly, Bedwetting, Vegetarian Children.” Broken Clown broke up some time ago, and Shane has continued with his comedy career since then, doing very well.

Those same longtime readers may recall a band named 6gig, another Maine conglomerate led by a guy named Walt Craven. I didn’t get to know Walt very well during my time there, but I became a fan of his voice, guitar playing and songwriting. 6gig didn’t last long after the untimely death of their drummer, Dave Rankin – who, incidentally, was one of the nicest guys I met in Portland.

Proof that you can’t keep good musicians down – Kinney and Craven have joined forces, this time with a couple of guys from a Boston band called Chaos Twin, to form Lost on Liftoff. Their four-song EP just came out, and it’s great melodic rock. Craven’s influence is obvious, but the other guys really make themselves known here, too – this is not 6gig redux, it’s brighter and more energetic. This record is all about the songs, and they’re catchy and concise.

You can get the CD at CDBaby (for only four bucks!) here. You can listen to the whole thing, too, and if you come away from it without thinking, “This band should be huge,” I’ll be surprised. Good show, guys.

* * * * *

Is there anything in rock more controversial than the string section?

The uneasy relationship between the rock band and the orchestra goes back to the beginning of popular music. Rock ‘n’ roll, in the 1950s, stripped pop down to its basic elements – a 4/4 beat, some repeated chords, guitars, bass and drums. Before Bill Haley, though, the charts were dominated by show tunes and crooners, backed by orchestras.

Since that schism, just about every important band has tried to bring the two together again, however fleetingly. The Beatles used orchestras extensively, and the Rolling Stones followed suit here and there. In the ‘70s, orchestral arrangements were considered the height of pomposity, reserved for the likes of Yes and the Moody Blues – you won’t hear the Sex Pistols using strings. (But then, you won’t hear the Sex Pistols playing their instruments well, either…)

Punk was the breakaway, the we-mean-it-this-time split point between the guitars and the violins. It’s become the accepted notion since then, in some circles, that using strings means you have Sold Out, and you are now Unbearably Pretentious. These are the same people who believe that if your record sounds like you spent more than three days and $50 on it, it is Not Cool Enough. But I digress. The point is that orchestras are usually associated with prog and/or adult contemporary music, and stepping into such territory is looked on with suspicion.

But hell, everybody seems to be doing it. I’ve always liked string sections – they provide different colors than the usual guitar-buzz gray, and they present an altogether different challenge for the songwriter. Sure, your tune sounds good when four people are banging it out, but how about trying it with 80? Does it still hold up?

Ben Folds is a guy who uses strings all the time, to great effect. Some will point to the arrangements on his later records as proof that he’s over the hill, musically speaking, but even the first Ben Folds Five album contained “Boxing,” a show tune with a string quartet. Folds has a new DVD that contains a concert with the West Australian Symphony Orchestra, and his songs are a perfect fit. Guys like Folds and Rufus Wainwright are making the orchestra cool again.

Which might be why we’ve seen a virtual explosion of new projects with strings attached. First up is the Eels, the collective name for Mark Everett and whoever he brings on stage with him. For Everett, working with strings is definitely not a stretch – some of his best songs have violins and violas on their studio versions. But after last year’s massive Blinking Lights and Other Revelations double album put him firmly in the ambitious-as-hell category, Everett figured he’d drive the point home by touring with a string quartet.

The results can be heard on Eels With Strings: Live at Town Hall, or seen on its accompanying DVD, and it’s just as cozy as you’d expect. For all its sweep, Blinking Lights is a collection of very small, intimate songs, and the arrangements on Live at Town Hall stick to that intimacy. Often it’s just Everett and the quartet, although Chet crashes in on drums once or twice, and the focus is on his ragged, perfectly imperfect voice.

You’d think that the Blinking Lights material would suit the setting best, but you’d be wrong. Eels classics like “My Beloved Monster” and “It’s a Motherfucker” shine here, and Everett even finds a way to incorporate the free-jazz breakdown that always happens during live reads of “Flyswatter.” His choice of covers is interesting, too – Bob Dylan’s “Girl From the North Country” is great here, and Everett breathes new life into the Left Banke’s 1966 hit “Pretty Ballerina.”

The standard Eels limitations are in evidence, too, however. Everett’s songs are nice, but mostly pretty basic, and he chose several sound-alikes for this show. And then there’s his voice, a definite acquired taste. This is not the album from which to acquire it, though – he sounds hoarse and throaty, especially on “Bus Stop Boxer,” and there’s nothing for him to hide behind. You either like his vocals (which I do, for some reason) or you don’t.

Overall, Live at Town Hall is a successful experiment, one that has the air of something special from the first notes. Everett ends with some of Blinking Lights’ most contented material, choosing to bow out with the same finale he gave the album, “Things the Grandchildren Should Know.” On the album, it sounded like a coda, an afterthought, but here, it’s the summation – Everett’s in a good place right now, and it’s likely that his ability to arrange and execute projects like this has added to his joy. Here’s a guy who deserves to be happy, and I’m glad it’s happening for him.

It also seems to be happening for Collective Soul, one of the biggest bands of the ‘90s, although few would likely remember them as such. They managed the neat trick of scoring hit after hit while being essentially faceless, and after a while, all of their stuff just blended together, the product of one big glossy factory.

But a funny thing happened on the way out of Atlantic Records. Collective Soul have found their experimental side, and thanks to a new label (El Music Group), they’ve been exercising it. 2004’s Youth, their first album since leaving the majors, was more glammy and shone a bit brighter than most of its predecessors, and last year’s From the Ground Up reinvented some of their songs in an acoustic setting. And now they’ve taken on the orchestral live album with Home.

You can use strings a number of different ways, of course – in small doses, like a quartet setting, they add texture and intimacy, but in large numbers, strings are most often arranged for maximum power. Metallica’s S&M project proved to many skeptics that an 80-piece orchestra is a heavy, heavy thing, and that’s the effect Ed Roland and company have gone for here. Home was recorded with the Atlanta Symphony Youth Orchestra and the full band, and the new arrangements dart around and fill out the originals, rather than recasting them.

The best things here are the faster ones, like “Precious Declaration,” the strings doubling that killer opening riff, or “Better Now.” Slower songs like “The World I Know,” sweet as they are, already had string arrangements in their studio renditions, for the most part, and these new ones add nothing. I like that they break for “Pretty Donna,” an instrumental from their first album, here given the full orchestral treatment. I don’t like that they felt compelled to include “Shine,” their ubiquitous first hit, and still the worst song Ed Roland has ever written.

The problem with Home is the same one that has plagued Collective Soul from the beginning – their anonymity. After a while, all these songs start to sound the same, like they were spit out of a machine, and the string arrangements, while helpful, don’t relieve the tedium as much as they could. Collective Soul is a workmanlike band, one that doesn’t sit well next to majesty and grandeur, and their songs are just a little too simple for this setting. Only the diehards will love this, and while it would be incorrect to call this a failure, it won’t change anyone’s mind about the band. Orchestra or not, they sound the same.

Which can’t be said for Elvis Costello, the final of our contestants this week. 20 years ago, if you tried to convince Costello fans that one day he would release an album of orchestral jazz with the Metropole Orkest, a 50-piece concert band, they’d have thrown vinyl copies of Get Happy at you. That was when the chamber-pop of Imperial Bedroom was considered a one-off, not a first step toward a second career.

But the angry young man has become quite the composer and arranger in his later years, spinning off of The Juliet Letters (with the Brodsky Quartet, and due for a double-disc reissue later this month) and into collaborations with Burt Bacharach and the London Symphony Orchestra. He’s appeared on Marian McPartland’s Piano Jazz program, and composed a full-length ballet, Il Sogno, released in 2004. Through all that, he’s kept his guitar-rock combo, the Impostors, and continued on two parallel lines.

My Flame Burns Blue, that aforementioned live record, blurs those lines a bit. The Metropole Orkest is a string section and a jazz combo in one, and Costello uses them to tackle not just his more recent ballads, but some of his more famous pop tunes. And they do it brilliantly. My Flame Burns Blue (and don’t think the similarity to My Aim is True, the title of Costello’s 1977 debut, is accidental) serves as a nifty late-career summary, and as a damn fine hour of listening time in its own right.

It opens with “Hora Decubitus,” an old Charles Mingus tune to which Costello has added lyrics. It’s an amazing start, part jazz groove, part pop song, and it leads into “Favourite Hour,” the closing track from 1994’s Brutal Youth, and then into a cover of Dave Bartholomew’s “That’s How You Got Killed Before.” Three songs, three styles, all played beautifully by the Orkest. Costello’s voice is in fine form, spitting venom one second and spinning velvet the next.

For Costello fans, the sweetest moments on this record are the bottom-up reinventions of classics like “Clubland” and “Watching the Detectives.” The latter is aptly described in the liner notes as “in the style of a 1950s television theme.” Also surprising is the Orkest’s read of “Episode of Blonde,” one of the most ragged, Dylan-esque songs on 2002’s When I Was Cruel. Costello still shout-sings it like the Impostors are playing behind him, but the strings and horns give it an entirely new flavor.

And yeah, maybe in this case the strings are a sign of middle age, but to my ears, My Flame Burns Blue rocks more than anything the Eels or Collective Soul have ever done. Costello has learned to make the orchestra work for him, rather than with him, and he doesn’t treat it like a novelty. For the past 10 years or so, he’s fully immersed himself in this style, which allows him to bridge the gap between his chosen genres so nimbly. Like anything else, you only get out what you put in, and Costello has made the effort here to embrace the orchestra, not just utilize it. That makes all the difference.

Next week, hopefully that damn Beth Orton album, and a few other things. Remember to check out Lost on Liftoff.

See you in line Tuesday morning.