I’m feeling terrible today – I worked another hell week, slamming together a couple of major stories, and I slept most of the day away. But I have some really good music to talk about, so I’m trying to imagine myself as a marathon runner, one with just enough energy to sprint over the finish line before collapsing in a puddle of my own sweat. Let’s see how I do.

A quick note before we launch in: Interpol released this week the details of their third album, Our Love to Admire, out July 10. I’m not the biggest fan of this band, although I do like them, but I wanted to mention them because nestled among the track list for Our Love is my favorite song title of the year so far: “There’s No I in Threesome.” That’s just great.

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The new Bright Eyes album, Cassadaga, sports a cover gimmick the likes of which I’ve never seen. The front and back covers look like the snowy pattern of gray you get when your television reception goes out, until you move the included Spectral Decoder over it. The Spectral Decoder is a slip of plastic that filters light in a certain way, causing the true cover design to appear.

It’s interesting, even if it requires you to jump through a few hoops, but what’s ironic about it is that this design adorns the most straightforward and immediate Bright Eyes record yet. It’s also the best Bright Eyes record yet, another terrific gem of a disc in a year positively overflowing with them.

Conor Oberst gets a lot of shit in this column, largely for being pretentious and precious. His early work suffers from a drought of melody, and a threadbare production sense – often, it’s just Oberst and his guitar, yelping out songs that are as thin melodically as they are bloated lyrically. For many, I know, I just described the attraction of Bright Eyes, and as Oberst has moved his musical project further down an epic folk-rock path, some fans have fled, searching for the emotional directness that they believe his later work is missing.

I’m not one of those people. Lifted was the first Bright Eyes album I could stand, and I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning was the first one I could listen to repeatedly all the way through. So naturally, I think the massive sound and dramatic songwriting of Cassadaga is an improvement – in fact, I think it’s an arrival. Conor’s got a solid band behind him this time, and he pulls in numerous guest stars to play numerous instruments, including percussion sections, woodwinds, choirs, and strings. It’s the sound of Oberst leaving his teenage folk trappings behind him, and man, the sound is sweet.

Cassadaga is named after a town in Florida, which seems to exist solely to house the Cassadaga Spiritualist Camp, and is known unofficially as the “psychic capital of the world.” As you might expect, Oberst’s lyrics this time are concerned with finding the truth, and with seeing through the sparkle of religious chicanery. “Four Winds,” the first single, is the one to mention Cassadaga by name, and it contains this telling line: “The Bible is blind, the Torah is deaf, the Qur’an is mute, if you burned them all together you’d get close to the truth…”

Elsewhere, Oberst is “looking for that blindfold faith, lighting candles to a cynical saint,” and later he muses, “From the madness of the governments to the vengeance of the sea, everything is eclipsed by the shape of destiny.” By the end, though, he’s certain that “everything, it must belong somewhere,” and he concludes the album with three dots, continuing his quest: “I took off my shoes and walked into the woods, I felt lost and found with every step I took.”

That all sounds very Bright Eyes, although I’ll say it’s Oberst’s most complete lyrical work, largely free of the cringe-worthy metaphors he’s used in the past. But trust me, when you put this CD in and press play, you’ll think you’ve bought the wrong album by mistake. Opener “Clairaudients (Kill or Be Killed)” starts with more than a minute of orchestral sound collage. It slowly transforms into one of the most oddly beautiful things Oberst has written – the orchestra sticks around, taking this mid-tempo, pedal-steel-inflected ballad into orbit, while spacey narration continues in the background. It’s awesome, and very un-Bright Eyes.

“Four Winds” is more familiar, like Ryan Adams by way of Omaha, and it sets the tone for the rest of the album. The chorus is so catchy that you probably won’t notice references to the Great Satan and the Whore of Babylon. “Four Winds” takes a couple of shots at warfare in general (“Your class, your caste, your country, sect, your name or your tribe, there are people always dying trying to keep them alive…”), its alt-country groove boosted by some sweet violin playing by Anton Patzner. This, like much of Cassadaga, is I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning times ten, and it seems Oberst has found his sound.

It takes a lot, for example, to turn a simple chord progression into a timeless standard, but Oberst comes awful close with “If the Brakeman Turns My Way,” a song Bob Dylan would probably be proud to have written. He gets even closer with “Make a Plan to Love Me,” an old-time torch song recorded with strings and spectral backing vocals by Rachel Yamagata. It’s gorgeous.

Best of all, though, may be “Middleman,” a fiddle-soaked minor-key western ballad about those gray areas in between things. It gains force as it goes along, adding layers of sound (including another spooky narration), and on an album bursting with songs about wandering the road, this is the most striking and memorable. Oberst’s voice, so grating when left to fill in the spaces around an acoustic guitar, is magnificent here, its trademark quiver propped up by oceans of production.

Some may balk at just how polished and full this record is, but to me, this is what Bright Eyes has been working towards for years. “Cleanse Song” would be an average acoustic piece if not for the rolling percussion at its edges, or the woodwinds painting its walls. “No One Would Riot for Less” is the quietest thing here, but it would be so much less than it is without the otherworldly backing vocals and the delicately arranged strings. Oberst has always been an ambitious songwriter and record maker, but Cassadaga marks the first time that his reach doesn’t outstrip his grasp – the songs are simple and lovely, and the production takes them to new heights.

Best of all, there’s no weak moment, no self-indulgent, artsy roadblock in the way here. For the first time, I don’t want to skip a second of a Bright Eyes album – even the lesser moments, like “Soul Singer in a Session Band,” are well crafted and enjoyable, and the highlights, like Hassan Lemtouni’s contributions to the extended coda of “Coat Check Dream Song,” are wonderful.

Cassadaga ends with one of its prettiest songs, “Lime Tree,” which opens with one of Oberst’s most haunting couplets: “I keep floating down the river but the ocean never comes, and since the operation I heard you’re breathing just for one…” If not for the strings, this would be the barest song on the record, with just Oberst, his guitar, and his backing vocal quartet. But like a bookend to “Clairaudients,” “Lime Tree” makes full use of the orchestra. This is an old-time Bright Eyes song, and in the past, it would have been recorded with one mic, Oberst cutting his vocal cords and letting them bleed. But even Fevers and Mirrors-era fans will have to admit how lovely it is like this, still subtle but much richer.

It’s taken nearly 10 years and eight albums, but Bright Eyes has finally impressed the hell out of me. Cassadaga is the first of Conor Oberst’s records that I can unreservedly recommend, and the first time that I think he deserves some of the salivating hype he gets. Hopefully, he’ll stay on this road, and not listen to the backlash that will undoubtedly ensue. Oberst may have traded in some raw intensity here, but he’s been repaid twenty-fold with his most developed and complete album yet. It’s fantastic.

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The other three I have for you this time are not as good as the Bright Eyes, but they’re still worth checking out. First up is Jonatha Brooke, who for years was the more talented half of the Story, and since then has taken her solo career by the horns. Brooke is one of many artists these days who turned a bad major label experience (MCA released 10 Cent Wings, her masterpiece to that point, and then ignored it, letting it die a quick death) into a step towards independence. She owns her own record label, Bad Dog, and her new one, Careful What You Wish For, is her third self-released studio album.

It also makes up for the spotty showing of her last one, Back in the Circus. That album included some of Brooke’s best songs, mired in electronic experiments and ill-advised covers. Careful is a pure Brooke record, 11 original songs of good-to-great quality, and crisp, clear production. In fact, this is the crispest, clearest production she’s ever had, courtesy of Bob Clearmountain – it’s a Big Damn Pop Album, with one radio single after another.

If you think of pop as a four-letter word, you won’t dig this, but if you like big choruses and sweet guitars and tasteful arrangements, Careful is a feast for the ears. It’s the kind of album Shawn Colvin wishes she could make, veering from the acoustic-based folk-pop of “Baby Wait” to the heavy crunch of “Forgiven” to the Beatlesque turnarounds of the title song with ease. Even the song in French (“Je N’Peaux Pas te Plaire”) is delightful.

As usual, Brooke throws in one minor-key curveball, and this time it’s “Prodigal Daughter,” a tale of no forgiveness sung over a haunting electric guitar bed. But despite some tinges of sadness, this all goes down smooth, an enjoyable collection of tunes that further solidifies Brooke’s reputation. She includes a duet with former Hooter Eric Bazilian (author of Joan Osborne’s hit “One of Us,” believe it or not), and shares the stage with former boy banders JC Chasez and Nick Lachey, with no ill effects. In fact, they sound great.

The album ends with a brief acoustic piece called “Never Too Late for Love,” Brooke sounding to these ears like she’s happy with her life and her lot. And she should be – Careful What You Wish For is a sweet record, one of the best she’s made, and she did it on her own terms.

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Less contented, of course, is Tom Morello, who made his name with Rage Against the Machine and Audioslave. Morello’s never been a happy kind of guy – Rage was one of the most politically charged (and politically active) bands in recent memory, taking on cause after cause, and putting their time and money where their mouths were. Audioslave was more of a straight-up rock band, but Morello never lost his political edge, and it’s here in full force on his new solo project, the Nightwatchman.

Morello also has a well-deserved reputation as one of the most inventive guitar players around. Even in the context of Audioslave’s Zeppelin-style rock, his solo spots sounded like anything but guitar solos, and in Rage, he was practically an army of unusual, yet astonishing tones. (Perhaps their best moment is still their cover of “Street Fighting Man,” in which the three musicians made their organic instruments sound uncannily like a programmed rhythm section.)

If you’re picking up Morello’s debut as the Nightwatchman, One Man Revolution, and hoping for more out-there guitar heroics, you’ll be sadly disappointed. Morello’s working in a much older tradition here – Revolution is a collection of protest songs, in the vein of Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger, performed the way that Leonard Cohen might do them. Acoustic guitars reign here, and the focus is on Morello’s low, low voice and his sharp, sharp lyrics.

Sharpest, perhaps, is “Maximum Firepower,” which contains the album’s mission statement: “Don’t be surprised if the sermon on the mount next time is delivered in a little coffeehouse, ‘cause somebody here’s gotta let ‘em know, I doubt it’s me, but here I go…” You likely know what to expect from songs with titles like “Let Freedom Ring” and “Battle Hymns,” and the staunch picket line anthem “Union Song” isn’t much of a shock from Morello either. His social conscience has always been informed by the likes of Billy Bragg and Guthrie, and here it’s at its most explicit.

It’s the sound that could have people scratching their heads. These songs are simple, yet effective, built around folksy strumming with some subtle piano mixed in. It’s a perfect setting for these political poems, although most are not as pointed and specific as you might expect, either. “No One Left” hits hardest, comparing the scenes of devastation at the World Trade Center and the streets of Baghdad. “House Gone Up in Flames” references “Colin Powell’s lies,” but as for direct attacks on the Bush administration, that’s about it.

Instead, Morello paints pictures of the world, using dark colors and harsh brushstrokes. “Can you explain to the mothers and fathers of those who come riding home in coffins in their military clothes,” he asks, expecting no answer. Elsewhere, he stands with a striking union, saying, “As they load the rubber bullets, as they fire another round, I’m heading into the tear gas, dig in, man, hold your ground.” He sets scenes of “broken Starbucks glass” and describes himself as slipping “from shadow to shadow,” seeing “things he should not see.” It’s a bleak and blackened America he describes, and it’s chilling.

Here and there, Morello comes up with a line worthy of his heroes, which is the best thing you could expect from a project like this. My favorite is in “Maximum Firepower,” and it goes like this: “Thought hard about this next line, I’m pretty sure it’s true – if you take a step towards freedom, it’ll take two steps towards you.” One Man Revolution is a successful experiment for Tom Morello, and though I’m not sure who the target audience is, he taps into a deep river of social conscience here, and does it proud.

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A couple of weeks ago, I talked about import CDs, and how I’ve discarded that old rule that kept non-U.S. releases from my top 10 list. You’d think this would have happened by now, but I’ve finally found myself on the other side of that equation – what do I do if I wait for a U.S. release, and the record’s really good?

The album in question is Imaginary Kingdom, the new solo album from Tim Finn. It came out last year across the pond, and finally arrived stateside last week. And it probably won’t make the top 10 list this year, but in 2006, it may have – it’s very good, far beyond most of what Finn has done on his own. Do I revise and reconsider last year’s list, or give it a belated mention this year? I’m not sure.

What I am sure of is how surprisingly excellent Imaginary Kingdom is. Tim Finn has always suffered in the shadow of his genius brother, Neil, and I’ve occasionally taken Neil to task for dragging his croaky-voiced sibling along with him, whether on Crowded House’s third album or on the pair’s two records as the Finn Brothers. Tim’s solo albums have usually been lesser affairs, too, and if he doesn’t find a producer willing to work with his voice, it comes off as sloppy and unkempt.

But not here. Imaginary Kingdom sports the best songs Tim Finn has written on his own, some crystal-clear production from Bobby Huff, great contributions from Fleming and John (where have they been?), and some real, honest-to-God good singing from Finn. The record bounces to life with “Couldn’t Be Done,” a ‘60s-style shimmy with a great little chorus. Better is “Still the Song,” the second tune, which sounds like something Michael Penn might come up with.

I mean no offense to Tim Finn by saying this, but some of these songs are worthy of his brother – that’s a compliment in my book. “Midnight Coma” is a sprightly piece, with a great hook, and “Astounding Moon” is a delight, winsome and magical. “Salt to the Sea” is uncommonly touching, a song of mourning for a fallen friend. And “Horizon” is a superb song of hope.

The album takes an unfortunate downturn from there, mixing in some blue-eyed soul songs that don’t work as well. Finn also includes “Winter Light,” his track for the Chronicles of Narnia movie, and it’s an odd fit, although a decent song. The record rights itself by the end, though, and closer “Unsinkable” is right up there with the best. Even with its few stumbles, Imaginary Kingdom is Tim Finn’s best solo record in many years, and it would have been worth the import price, if I’d paid it last year.

As a quick concluding note, Tim Finn is not part of the upcoming Crowded House reunion – that’s Neil, Nick Seymour and some other collaborators. Their album is called Time on Earth, and will be out on July 10. Well, that’s July 10 here – it’s out on July 2 across the Atlantic. But I think I can wait for that one.

Next week, Tori. Will it impress, or depress?

See you in line Tuesday morning.

The Best Year Ever continues in the coming weeks, with new albums by Tori Amos (it actually sounds… kind of good…), Rush, Bjork, Travis, Wilco, Rufus Wainwright, Richard Thompson, Paul McCartney and Ryan Adams, among others. I have the whole weekend off (a rarity), and it’s about 75 degrees outside. Life is pretty damn good.

So what better time to talk about the end of the world?

Trent Reznor came up with about 10 signs of the apocalypse for his new Nine Inch Nails psychodrama Year Zero, but probably the most convincing one is that he’s finished and released a new album only two years after the last one. This is a guy who notoriously spends half a decade putting together his records, and it hasn’t seemed to matter what they sound like – a retread like 2005’s With Teeth takes him just as long to complete as a double-disc masterpiece like 1999’s The Fragile.

Most of the time, I can see why. Reznor is a one-man band, meticulously constructing Nine Inch Nails songs from the ground up, and he’s always been more sonic architect than pop star. His work is ugly, but precisely so, and his reputation as a fishnet-clad idol for goth teens belies his genuine craftsmanship. Reznor may have popularized industrial music, but he also brought into the field a sense of real songwriting mixed with a genius for pure sound. Countless acts have imitated his work, but few have matched his adventurousness and skill.

Which is why With Teeth was so frustrating. It’s not a bad album, really, but it was the first NIN record to steadfastly refuse to move forward. It was lean, simplistic, and surface-level – essentially, everything you’d think NIN is, if you’ve never explored Reznor’s work. It may have been just the record he needed to make at that time – many balked at the prog-rock overtones and overarching concept of The Fragile, and With Teeth was certainly a reaction to that backlash. But as an NIN album, it’s pretty lame.

So given that Reznor worked for five years on that record, I didn’t have high hopes for what sounded like a rushed follow-up. Reznor said he completed Year Zero quickly, in a flash of inspiration, and its birth was preceded by a slouching toward Bethlehem the likes of which I’ve never seen. Songs were leaked by placing USB drives in bathrooms at shows, an intricate lattice of websites was designed to lay out the world in which the album’s story takes place, and the URLs of those sites were cleverly hidden in teaser trailers and the like.

The marketing campaign has been extraordinary, and naturally, my worry was that much of the two years separating With Teeth and Year Zero was spent writing and creating this interactive element, with not much spent on the album itself. The idea is neat – the album takes place in a dystopian future ruled over by the U.S. Bureau of Morality, and while much of the record is devoted to deconstructing the steps America took towards this future, there is also The Presence, apparently a giant hand that comes down from the sky at random intervals to snatch people up. Naturally, Reznor uses this framework to rail against the current political and religious power structures, and the weak response of the people.

But is the album any good? Can it be, given how quickly this anal-retentive perfectionist constructed it?

In a word, hell yeah. Year Zero is a return to form for Reznor, a noisy, teetering structure built with human bones and clanging gears, a monstrosity that can stand proudly with his best work. The songs, while not quite up to the twitching, odd-tempo heights of The Downward Spiral, are mostly knockouts, and of a piece with one another, pulling you gently through the creepy concept. And Reznor has never wielded noise as an instrument quite as well as he does here – gone are the standard buzzsaw guitars of With Teeth, and in their place is wave after wave of reality-folding, brain-distorting, spindled and mutilated cacophony.

Also, this may be the sexiest album about the end of the world ever made. Many of these songs are set to sinewy, mid-tempo beats that will likely find their way to the seedier strip clubs before long, and Reznor never lets his voice slip into the throaty metal-shout he’s built his career on – his vocals are low-key and elastic for most of the album. When he does need to explode here, he does it with vocal layering, pumping up the sound with an army of himself.

Year Zero starts weakly, with an uninspiring instrumental called “Hyperpower!” (really) and a simple ditty titled “The Beginning of the End.” But once you hit the lead single, “Survivalism,” we’re off and running. The beats are a whirlwind, and Reznor’s concept is in full swing early: “I got my propaganda, I got revisionism, I got my violence in high-def ultra-realism…” It’s the most cathartic piece on the record, and it’s sequenced third.

Most of the songs that follow are slower and creepier. “The Good Soldier” is a standout, taken from the point of view of one of the government’s nameless enforcers. “I am trying to believe,” he moans, over one of Reznor’s deft touches – a small synth ray of light that breaks through the din. “Me, I’m Not” is the second cousin of “The Wretched,” off of The Fragile, with its insistent bass throb and noisy sideshows that never fully distract from the main trip.

Take one guess who “Capital G” is addressed to. Over a slinky, near-blues beat, Reznor does in fact take aim at our commander in chief, but his real target is those who voted for him (twice), and would do so again: “Well I used to stand for something, now I’m on my hands and knees, traded in my god for this one, he signs his name with a capital G…” “God Given” contains one of many heart-stopping moments on this album – the clattering bedlam disappears, leaving nothing but a hi-hat and Reznor’s whisper: “I would never tell you anything that wasn’t absolutely true, that didn’t come right from his mouth…”

Year Zero is, for all its futuristic trappings, a warning against tolerating tyrants, whether they come from the political or religious systems around us. As such, it’s nothing you’ve never heard before, and it’s littered with cliches, just like all of Reznor’s work. But this time, I’m able to roll with it a lot more. I felt the same way about Spiral and Fragile, two albums that spun tales instead of relying on autobiographical whining. There’s little here that breaks new ground lyrically for Reznor, but I’m enjoying these words a lot more than his last set.

But no one listens to NIN for the words, and it’s the sonic architecture I want to dance about here. The final third of the album is extraordinary, even for Reznor – “The Greater Good” sets the stage, with its whispered vocals and scratchy bass, before “The Great Destroyer” sets the formula on fire. It sounds like a standard verse-chorus song for a while, albeit a terrific one, until the harmonies take over on the title phrase, like an instantaneous sunrise. From there, it’s a descent through a twisted metal sculpture of noise, so close that it sounds like it could prick your skin.

“Another Version of the Truth” is an instrumental, the next step forward from “A Warm Place,” and it ends with two minutes of sweet minor-key piano. But it ain’t over yet – “In This Twilight” is one of Reznor’s best songs, with a sucker-punch melody that hits the stratosphere. “All the black is really white, if you believe it,” he sings, either a final capitulation to brainwashing or an anthem of hope. (As an interesting side note, the compact disc itself has a thermal label. It’s black when you put it in your CD player, but when you’re finished playing it and you take it out, it will have changed color – by the end of the album, all the black is really white.)

“Zero Sum” is a fine conclusion, a mostly spoken summation of where we are: “In our hearts we knew better, and we told ourselves it didn’t matter, and we chose to continue, and none of that matters anymore in our hour of twilight…” Again, depressing or hopeful? I can’t tell, and the music doesn’t help – it’s simultaneously bright and dark. The album ends with a minute of mournful piano, which could be a funeral march or a segue into the next phase. (And yes, there is a second chapter to Year Zero, which Reznor promises will be out next year.)

Concepts and fifth-grade-level lyrics aside, though, Year Zero is a Reznorian masterwork, a great new record that once again establishes him as one of our finest musical engineers. This is music built from schematics and blueprints, sure, but Reznor infuses it with life and personality, which sets him apart (and accounts for his commercial success). Year Zero is, in the end, a story of people raging against a machine, and don’t think for a second that just because the music is electronic, that Trent’s heart is with that machine. It’s a darkly human piece of work, and the best thing he’s done this decade.

Next week, we catch up with a bunch of minor new releases, clearing the way for Tori, Bjork and Rufus in the coming weeks. As an aisde, I’m gratified and surprised that my praise of Silverchair’s Young Modern last week wasn’t met with as many guffaws as I’d expected – in fact, some closet Silverchair fans came out of the woodwork to agree with me about Daniel Johns’ songwriting skill. If you haven’t heard Young Modern yet, the whole thing is still up for free streaming here. Record of the year so far, I’m telling you.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I had a great trip back east, thanks for asking.

I got to catch up with some friends I haven’t seen in a while, and I got to see a kickass, hilarious movie (Grindhouse) with my best friends in the world. But the highlight of the weekend may have been getting to meet Nolan Jeffrey Maxwell, son of Jeff and Melissa. Nolan is three weeks old now, and cute as a button, and just seeing Jeff and Melis around their kid is quite beautiful in itself, so aglow are they in the awe of new parenthood.

Our municipal election is on April 17 here, so I’ve been really busy since getting back on Monday. But don’t worry, faithful readers, I’ve found time for you too. This week, I thought I’d talk about something that wouldn’t ever have been a topic of this column just three years ago: import CDs.

I used to have this rule that no albums that were not readily available in the United States were ineligible for my top 10 list. It took way too long to realize that this rule was silly. The original idea struck me during my Face Magazine days, when my circulation was only a few thousand. I figured that it would do my readers no good to recommend an album they couldn’t easily buy. Of course, back then, I had only the barest idea of this thing called “the internet,” and how easy it would soon become to get anything and everything you could want, musically speaking.

Without the internet, for example, I probably couldn’t be a Marillion fan.

Here’s a band that has used the internet like few others. As a Marillion fan, I get constant updates on the status of new projects emailed to me, and easy access to all the information I could want at marillion.com. Plus, I get a lively and entertaining message board, and a website-only club that sees a full recorded concert winding its way into my mailbox four times a year. I have roughly 75 Marillion CDs now, thanks to their self-funded and self-operated label, Racket Records, perhaps the best-run internet-based label I’ve ever encountered.

None of that would mean anything if the music were crap, but there’s nothing crap about what this band does. In 24 years, they’ve never made an album I dislike. Marillion is a British band, and I have to pay import prices for their work – between $25 and $30 each, including shipping, on average. And I gladly keep paying it, because their music is like magic to me. I know very few bands that have managed to deliver so consistently for so long, in so many different styles – Marillion covers a sonic range equivalent to that of four or five other bands put together.

Marillion is also a band that gets no respect. In the U.K., they’re best known for a 1985 hit called “Kayleigh,” a sappy yet memorable ballad they penned with their former singer, a guy called Fish. Steve Hogarth has been the singer since 1989, but in the land of the Brits, the number one question the band still gets is, “Where’s Fish?” And that’s the good news – they’re virtually unknown on this side of the Atlantic, despite a massive catalog of brilliant music.

Three years ago, the band released Marbles, which may well be the best album they’ve ever made. In 100 minutes, they summed up everything that’s always been great about them. Marbles included the best four-minute pop singles they’d written in ages, including “You’re Gone” and “Don’t Hurt Yourself,” but it also proudly featured three huge epics, each more than 10 minutes long (with the amazing “Ocean Cloud” clocking in at 17:57), and each earning every second of that time.

The release of Marbles was an event. The band spent two full years on it, giving the fans updates all the while, and they funded it through pre-orders, so we all felt like part of the process. The limited edition is a gorgeous hardbound book, with the names of each financial contributor listed in its pages, and when it started landing on people’s doorsteps, the excitement was palpable. And it wasn’t over – the band asked its fans to buy the “You’re Gone” single when it came out, and between us, we gave Marillion their first top 10 single since 1987.

In contrast, the release this month of their 14th album, Somewhere Else, has been pretty quiet. There were no pre-orders this time. The album is half as long as Marbles, and it comes in a regular jewel case. There’s no real sense of excitement this time out, or at least, none that can compare with the Marbles campaign. This time, it’s not about us, it’s about the band and what they’ve come up with.

And sadly, what they’ve come up with is just not that great.

Don’t get me wrong. Somewhere Else is a pretty good album, by just about any other band’s standards. But in the shadow of Marbles, it just doesn’t hold up. This album most resembles Marillion’s late-‘90s trilogy of This Strange Engine, Radiation and Marillion.com, and after the phenomenal leaps forward the band made on its last two albums, this backslide is unfortunate.

Somewhere Else is an album of halves. It is one-half of a double record – album 15, still untitled, was recorded at the same time, and will be out next year. Several of its songs are broken up into halves. And it is also half-excellent, and half, well, not. In fact, some of it sounds half-finished.

In contrast to the multi-dimensional sound of Marbles, the band and producer Michael Hunter have gone for a live feel here. You can hear the difference right away on “The Other Half,” a mid-tempo rock opener with a dynamic chorus that will stick in your head. Just when you think you’ve got this song down, the band launches into a jazz break and then guides you through the, um, other half. As Mark Kelly lays down a bed of piano chords, Hogarth shows off one of the best voices in modern music, singing, “The other half cannot be parted from the other half…”

Alas, he’s right, as the album takes a serious downturn from there. Marillion has, for whatever reason, always tried to write hit singles for every album, and the next three songs are Somewhere Else’s radio fare. “See It Like a Baby” has grown on me, and I have come around to liking what’s there, even if I’m still mystified at what isn’t. This song needed a good bridge, not a second looping guitar solo. It’s just not finished. “Thankyou Whoever You Are” is better, a Coldplay impression that unfortunately pours on the power ballad cheese during the chorus. (Those synth strings, so effective on “Fantastic Place,” sound like overkill here.)

And then there is “Most Toys,” a dreadful attempt at rocking out. It’s only two minutes long, but it overstays its welcome, repeating its bumper sticker chorus (“He who dies with the most toys is still dead!”) over and over until you want to punch something. I’m sure that on stage, this will bring the house down, but on record, it’s just embarrassing.

Thankfully, that’s the worst of the lot. From here on, we get the classic Marillion sound, dripping with atmosphere and chock full of nuance. The title song is a near masterpiece, Kelly’s piano leading the way as Hogarth sings delicately about his recent divorce. The lyrics to this song are among Hogarth’s best – he uses metaphor and imagery throughout (“Mr. Taurus ate a thesaurus, made the girls cry and skipped straight to the chorus”), until the end, where he throws it all away and sings directly. “Everyone I love lives somewhere else,” he wails, as Steve Rothery plays some incredible leads – he’s always tasteful and reserved, but a more emotional guitar player you will never hear.

And on it goes, with the band hitting the mark as often as they miss it. “A Voice From the Past” creeps up on you – you think you’re listening to a soft piano piece, but before you know it, you’re in one of the best extended crescendos the band has ever laid down. It is one of two political pieces on the album, and together, they illustrate the inconsistency here – “Voice” is all subtle rage, Hogarth describing the horrors of worldwide poverty as “perfect nonsense to the next generation.” The song leads up to a wonderful line – “I want you to feel someone else’s pain” – and by that point, he’s made you feel it already through his words.

“The Last Century for Man,” on the other hand, is a clunker, a slow blues with a great orchestral buildup by the end that’s simply ruined by Hogarth’s lyrics. All subtlety evaporates as he croaks out lines like “Let’s decide who the terrorists are” and quotes another bumper sticker: “If you’re not outraged, you haven’t been paying attention.” I don’t mind political statements, I just dislike clumsy ones, and it’s a pity because “Last Century” has some superb melodic moments.

But nothing puts the dichotomy of this album into sharp relief like “The Wound,” the other extended song. Its first half is deadly dull, just two chords played over and over, louder and softer, as Hogarth whines about everything he’s done to heal his pain: “I bandaged it, wrapped it, stitched it, tourniqueted it…” Just when you’re about to write the song off, it segues into an absolutely hypnotic second half, all keyboards and drum loops and spectacular imagery. It drifts off without returning to the original theme, leaving two completely unrelated halves to stand or fall on their own.

You’re probably getting the sense that I don’t like this album, and you’re wrong – what’s good here is very, very good. Take “No Such Thing,” the record’s biggest surprise – it’s a mesmerizing mantra-like song reminiscent of Black Sabbath’s “Planet Caravan,” new territory for the band. Hogarth sings through a phaser over Rothery’s delicate and unchanging guitar line while the impeccable rhythm section (bassist Pete Trewavas and drummer Ian Mosley) slowly add layers of sound. It’s great.

And then there’s “Faith,” the closing track. Marillion fans know this song – it’s been kicking around the live set for three years, and it’s shown up on a couple of releases. Here it is in finished form, and it’s beautiful, a much better choice for a single than any of the three pop songs written specifically for that purpose. There’s a new French horn part that adds a touch of grace to the ending, and a new line, probably Hogarth’s best on this album: “If you don’t believe in love, you’d have to make it up.” “Faith” has long been a favorite of mine, and this version is pretty much perfect, a great way to close out the album.

It’s almost enough to make you forget what a patchy work this is. Where Marbles sounded like a fully planned out suite, Somewhere Else is just a clutch of songs, some good and some not so good. And I think I know what part of the problem is. No offense to Michael Hunter, but Marillion needs Dave Meegan behind the boards – taking him away is like parting them from their other half.

If you look at the past 18 years of Marillion albums with Steve Hogarth, the undisputed high points (Brave, Afraid of Sunlight, Marbles) were all produced by Meegan. He’s almost like a sixth member of the band, because I think Marillion needs someone to tell them no, to sift through their ideas and find the best ones. They needed someone this time to say, “You know, guys, ‘See It Like a Baby’ isn’t quite finished here, and while I’m sure ‘Most Toys’ is fun to play, it doesn’t belong on a Marillion album.” The records helmed by Meegan have no half-formed ideas. The records helmed by others are mostly inconsistent. It’s a pattern worth paying attention to.

Of course, just watch – “Most Toys” will be released as a single, and will score the band their first #1 hit since “Kayleigh,” proving once again that I don’t know anything.

I do know that if album 15 is similarly spotty, and I find that the good songs from each album could have been combined into one killer disc, I’m going to be disappointed. When Somewhere Else is good, it’s very good, and it certainly sounds like the band had fun making it. Perhaps I’m expecting too much – they can’t make a Marbles each time out. It’s just hard to hear music you don’t like from one of your favorite bands. I was reserving a space on the top 10 list for Somewhere Else, and its inconsistency is a sad surprise. But I’ll get over it.

Speaking of surprises, though, there’s the album that currently sits at #1 on that list. If you didn’t read last week’s column, prepare to be knocked out of your chair when I tell you what it is: Silverchair’s Young Modern.

If you’re my age, you probably remember Silverchair for their grungy 1995 hit “Tomorrow,” a carbon copy of Pearl Jam’s sound written and recorded when the band members were 15 years old. They’re all in their late 20s now, and it’s almost beyond belief, but leader Daniel Johns has grown into one of the finest songwriters on the planet.

That’s right, on the motherfucking planet.

We got hints of his genius on Diorama, Silverchair’s fourth album from 2002, and even more on his side project with techno producer Paul Mac, The Dissociatives, in 2004. That album made it into my ’04 top 10 list, despite sounding a little bit unfinished in places. I wondered then what a fully produced, completely consistent Daniel Johns album might sound like.

And now I know. Young Modern is absolutely brilliant pop music, front to back. If you remember them, you will not believe that music of this quality could come from Silverchair. And even if you don’t (which may be better, in the long run), you’re in for a delirious ride here. Young Modern never seems to run out of incredible melodies, and its ‘60s and ‘70s informed pop music is infectious and delightful. It’s like getting a new Jellyfish album, and longtime readers know how I feel about Jellyfish. Young Modern fulfills my number one criteria handily. You ready? Here it is:

All. The. Songs. Are. Great.

Every single one. The album opens with what may be the catchiest rock song of this year, “Young Modern Station” – the feedback and moans that start the tune make you think you’re in for the Silverchair of old, but the pounding piano part and stunning falsetto melody dash that notion quickly. The chorus is singable and haunting, and the tune is over before you know it, segueing into the single, “Straight Lines.” It’s a great choice, despite being one of the more melodically simple songs here – the sweet piano figure of the verses leads into a great chorus, and that leads into an even greater bridge. It’s awesome.

It’s also one of the weaker songs here. Starting with track three, the record just gets ridiculously good. “If You Keep Losing Sleep” is a creepy wonderland of sound, and the first instance of Van Dyke Parks’ stunning string arrangements. This is like Danny Elfman scoring Yellow Submarine. It’s absolutely extraordinary. “Reflections of a Sound” is a sweet prelude, in a way, to the album’s centerpiece, the breathtaking “These Thieving Birds” suite. In seven and a half minutes, the band and Parks take you to half a dozen different musical continents, never running out of inspiration. There’s an eight-note descending melody played on bells here that just puts a big dumb grin on my face each time.

Can the rest of the album compete with the suite? It can, and it does. If there’s a sweeter song this year than “Waiting All Day,” I’ll be surprised. “Waiting” is almost a 1950s ballad in 1970s clothes, with a chorus melody that does that thing that great music does to me – it makes me sing along, arms outstretched to the sky. “Mind Reader” is a noisy glam rock song, and nestled between a couple of pop masterworks, it’s a nice break. Johns does his best trash-rock vocals in the chorus (“Don’t know what you want, no I’m not a mind reader, baby!”) before the whole thing disintegrates and the doo-doo backing vocals take over. And is that a Theremin I hear? I think it is.

“Low” takes us into ELO territory, with its Jeff-Lynne-producing-George-Harrison guitar lines and electric piano. But man, that chorus – it’s pure pop beauty. “Insomnia” is even better, coming out of nowhere with its foreboding, angular lead lines and piano pounding. And again, here’s a chorus that just moves mountains.

The record ends way too soon with “All Across the World,” another collaboration with Van Dyke Parks. If you want to learn how to write a melody that is both musically complex and immediately memorable, study this song. It’s nigh-on perfect – there is no chorus, just an unbroken melody line from beginning to end, while the sounds shift, divide and recombine behind Johns’ voice. My only complaint is that it ends at all, but then, that’s what the repeat button is for.

I doubt this album will be a success in America. (It already hit #1 in the band’s home continent of Australia.) It will take a lot to erase the history the name Silverchair brings with it for music fans of a certain age group, and the band certainly isn’t playing in a style that’s burning up the charts. But for those who love well-crafted pop music, you owe it to yourselves to track this album down. I ended up paying an import price of $31 for it, and I don’t regret it for a second. (It’s expected to receive a U.S. release in July, if you can wait that long. I couldn’t.)

After the Dissociatives record, I expected the new Silverchair to be pretty good. I wasn’t expecting this. Young Modern is an absolute modern pop masterpiece, and if you think I’m gushing too much, you probably haven’t heard it. I’ll take the weird looks and derisive sneers to push and defend an album this damn good. I expect that I will be saying the following three sentences quite a lot before the end of the year:

Yes, it’s Silverchair. Yes, it’s brilliant. Go buy it.

Next week, Year Zero.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I am headed east for Easter, so it’s a really quick one this week. I was originally going to review Silverchair’s amazing Young Modern this time, but I was unable to secure an import copy, and I don’t want to write something based on nothing but MySpace streams. Still, I’ve gotta say this: having the actual CD in hand can only improve my opinion of this album, and I already think it’s the record of the year.

But yeah, I only have one CD to discuss today, and it’s the new Fountains of Wayne.

If I ever need reminding that the Grammy awards mean nothing whatsoever, all I have to do is remember that these Empire Staters won the Best New Artist trophy in 2004 on the back of their third album, Welcome Interstate Managers. The Fountains (songwriters Adam Schlesinger and Chris Collingwood) struck gold with a silly hit single called “Stacy’s Mom,” a guilty-pleasure novelty tune that introduced the world to what fans of the band had known for more than half a decade.

At least, I hope it did, because what those fans know is that “Stacy’s Mom” is not representative of the band’s work, at all. It’s a great song, of course, with its Cars-like rhythms and cheeky lyrics, but the heart of the band could be heard elsewhere on Managers. Fountains of Wayne, more than just about any other band, is able to find the sadness and sweetness in modern life. Their songs are peppered with pop culture references, but rarely in an artificial way – when they mention Christopher Walken in “Hackensack,” for instance, it’s heartbreakingly perfect.

Welcome Interstate Managers made #3 on my top 10 list in 2003, despite four bum tracks at the end, which should tell you how much I love the opening three-fourths of the record. It took the band four years to craft the follow-up, Traffic and Weather, which was okay with me – the last thing I wanted was a rushed, cash-in collection of “Stacy’s Mom” clones. It’s no exaggeration to say that Traffic and Weather topped both my “most anticipated” and “most dreaded” lists for 2007.

The good news is, Traffic and Weather contains not one carbon copy of the band’s big hit. It’s a solid collection of 14 new songs that, on the surface, seems to continue the band’s winning streak. You have to dig a little deeper for the bad news, unfortunately – this album contains very few of the sad, beautiful moments that I love Fountains of Wayne for. If you’re in the market for quirky pop songs with clever lyrics and good storytelling, you’ll get that here. But if you’re looking for anything that approaches the emotional heights of “Valley Winter Song,” you’ll be disappointed.

That disappointment will be mild, though, considering the quality of most of these songs. Traffic opens with the single, “Someone to Love,” which is easily one of the best songs Schlesinger and Collingwood have written. It’s the story of Seth Shapiro and Beth McKenzie, two New Yorkers that seem destined to meet and fall in love… until the knockout punch of the third verse. It’s catchy, it’s hooky, it’s perfectly produced. It’s everything that a good Fountains of Wayne single should be.

The second track, “92 Subaru,” is even better. It’s a send-up of every anthem ever written about a car, with a pumping guitar riff and a superb chorus. (“You better make way ‘cause I’m coming through, in my late ’92 baby blue Subaru…”) “Yolanda Hayes” is a delight, all about meeting the love of your life through the window at the DMV. And the title song imagines two newscasters in love, with one assuring the other, “We belong together like traffic and weather…” That song’s a repetitive dance drone that will stick in your head, despite not being as immaculately crafted as most of the other songs.

And on it goes, Schlesinger and Collingwood spinning out one clever bon mot after another over classic pop melodies. “This Better Be Good” is the tale of a suspicious boyfriend waiting for an explanation from his cheating girl. “Revolving Dora” is a brief, bouncy character study full of nifty details. And the great “New Routine” follows several people as they decide to move to each other’s home towns, looking for fresh experiences.

But amidst all the witty wordplay, the genuine emotion that made Welcome Interstate Managers such an affecting piece of work seems to have been shunted to the side. There are a couple of lovely moments, most notably “Michael and Heather at the Baggage Claim,” a sweet song about a tired couple searching for their luggage after a long flight. Its final verse is so heartwarming (“Michael says, ‘Heather, have you had enough?’ Heather says, ‘Michael, you know that it’s you I love…’”) that I can almost forgive “Strapped for Cash,” the synth-driven drivel that follows.

But wait – the next track is “I-95,” another great ballad, and to these ears the highlight of the album. It details a long-distance romance, and the lengths one will go to maintain it: “It’s a nine-hour drive from me to you south on I-95, and I’ll do it ‘till the day that I die if I need to, just to see you…” This song, more than any other on Traffic and Weather, puts you in a place, introduces you to the people who live there, and makes you feel what they feel. In the verses, the singer describes in detail the items on sale in a roadside gift shop, and rather than an artificial list of cultural touchstones, it ends up as a terrific scene-setter. This is the kind of song Fountains of Wayne does better than any other band, period.

The rest of the album isn’t bad, but it aims low. “Planet of Weed” may be the most dismal thing to ever bear the Fountains name, but otherwise, Traffic and Weather is a perfectly fine collection of smirking pop songs. For the most part, it’s exactly what people who’ve never really investigated the band might assume they’re like.

But for those of us who know what they’re capable of, the album is a mild disappointment. It’s fun, it’s funny, it’s chock full of hooks, and it’ll make you chuckle more than once, but it won’t stay with you. In a year like this one, with so many great albums hitting so early, Traffic and Weather is the first letdown, but don’t let that stop you – think of it as a B-minus on a report card full of As. It’s an acceptable grade, if you ignore the heavy sigh of the teacher who knows her favored student can do better than this.

Next week, Silverchair and Marillion, hopefully.

See you in line Tuesday morning.