I’m coughing my wet lungs up right now, so I’m going to try to keep this one brief. But considering I’m going to be talking about the best album I’ve heard in months, it’s going to be hard.

I’ve been a fan of Joe Jackson’s work for as long as I can remember. When I was eight years old, he made his masterpiece, Night and Day, and I can remember hearing “Steppin’ Out” and “Breaking Us in Two” on the radio as a young kid. I actually remember seeing the video for “Steppin’ Out” on MTV in the ‘80s – for a very brief period, it was everywhere.

Of course, as a young pianist, I was drawn to Jackson’s playing. (But then, I liked Yanni too, so what the hell did I know.) Amazingly, though, I’ve stuck with Joe Jackson, and my appreciation for his music has grown with me. Many years after I first heard his songs, I learned the historical context – Jackson was one of the progenitors of British new wave in the late ‘70s, along with folks like Elvis Costello and Paul Weller. His first three albums are still considered among the best of the angular, punky pop of the time – so much so that many people just can’t get beyond them.

Okay, Look Sharp is a terrific album, no question. Jackson’s debut was out-of-the-box electric, and spawned the hits “Is She Really Going Out with Him” and “Sunday Papers.” And the next two records, I’m the Man and Beat Crazy, were also swell. Jackson had made his name as a tie-wearing, sneering, sarcastic pop songwriter with a cynical take on relationships, and it worked. But he wasn’t satisfied.

I have probably said this every time I’ve talked about Joe Jackson, but he is one of a triumvirate of late-‘70s British songwriters who evolved into three of the most diverse and accomplished recording artists of my lifetime. It’s Jackson, Elvis Costello and Andy Partridge of XTC, and while each of them are brilliant pop songsmiths, they’ve all explored different musical colors. Costello is infamous for his moves into jazz and orchestral music, while Partridge has guided XTC through “orchoustic” chamber-pop.

Jackson, however, has probably stepped the farthest off the beaten path. His fourth album was called Jumpin’ Jive, and was a collection of big-band Cab Calloway covers, and his fifth, the aforementioned Night and Day, dispensed with guitars entirely and incorporated world music influences. From there, all bets were off as he dabbled in orchestral music (Will Power), small-ensemble instrumental pieces (Night Music), rock operas (Heaven and Hell), and even a bizarre symphony (Symphony No. 1) for acoustic and electric instruments.

But he never left his pop music roots behind. In between the above experiments, he made superb pop records like Big World and Laughter and Lust, glittering collections that show off just how good Jackson is with a melody and a quip. And recently, after the mediocre Night and Day II in 2001 (sequels are never a good idea), he’s been self-consciously reviving that side of his musical personality.

Three years ago, he reunited the Joe Jackson Band, the quartet that made those first three revered albums, and produced Volume 4. It was very good – the most energetic and spunky Joe Jackson album in a decade or more, although it fell short of being a full-blown revelation. But it turns out, that was just the start of the revival.

Jackson’s 16th album, out this week, is called Rain. And this one’s the revelation.

It’s another stylistic left turn – Jackson has ditched the guitars again, but retained his long-time rhythm section, drummer Dave Houghton and incredible bassist Graham Maby. The result shows why Ben Folds is such a Joe Jackson disciple – this is a piano trio album of near-perfect (and sometimes absolutely perfect) pop songs. Ten of them, in and out in 47 minutes, no dead spots, no holes. Rain is an old-time pop album that takes its melodic responsibility seriously, and delivers in spades.

I do have some problems with it. For one, Jackson isn’t Ben Folds – he was obviously classically trained, and his piano playing is sometimes more sedate than it ought to be. I wanted to hear him let loose with a ripping solo, but then I remembered Jackson has never really played like that. He’s got precision, but he doesn’t have an improviser’s soul. Also, Jackson unveils his falsetto more than once here, and while it works sometimes, it’s shaky in others.

But that’s it. From the first notes of “The Invisible Man,” Jackson is in top form. While the repeated four-chord verses are a little simple, check out the Partridge-esque vocal melody. Then hang on as Jackson dives into an intricate piano bridge and a superb harmony-laden chorus. The song is a wry, autobiographical look at a diminishing pop star – “Hey, can you hear me now as I fade away and lose my ground,” Jackson sings at the beginning, before embracing the freedom his anonymity offers: “You can’t stop the invisible man…”

Rain is an even mix of rockers and ballads, as we used to say in the ‘80s. The slower ones include “Too Tough,” a simple crawl with a singable chorus, and “Wasted Time,” a soulful Todd Rundgren-esque weeper with some of the strongest falsetto work here. But the up-tempo ones carry the day, including the blistering “Citizen Sane” and the bass-driven “King Pleasure Time.” Graham Maby really shines on the latter track, making it plain why Jackson has retained his services for 30 years.

The first half is good, but peters out a little with “The Uptown Train,” a too-tasteful jazz-pop tune with a Steely Dan lilt. But the second half is flawless. The aptly titled “Solo (So Low)” is just Jackson and his piano, and it sounds like a classical aria, a lament fit for a royal audience. And then the man swings and hits three home runs in a row to bring things home.

“Rush Across the Road” may very well be the sweetest song in this grouchy cynic’s entire repertoire. The melody is lovely, and the lyrics even lovelier – the entire song takes place in the second before the singer decides to pursue the girl of his dreams on the street. Everything about this song works, from the key change in the chorus, to the bit where Maby’s bass takes the melody, to the wonderful instrumental coda. It’s simply great.

“Good Bad Boy” is the most rock-and-roll song here, and the one on which Jackson comes closest to wild abandon. It’s also an intricate composition in its own right, and it rocks without needing guitars. And “A Place in the Rain” is perfect, a fine waltz about leaving all the accepted things behind. “It’s amazing what crazy can do when every good citizen’s sane,” Jackson sings. “When Heaven’s a desert, we’ll go to our place in the rain…” The record ends with about a minute of rain sounds, lulling you to sleep.

As you might imagine from a guy with a 30-year recording career, Joe Jackson’s discography has its ups and downs. But Rain is a highlight, a top-of-his-game piano pop album from a genuine master. When an artist gets to Jackson’s advanced age – he’s 53 – it gets tempting to offer back-handed compliments, comparing his latest work only to his recent ones. (Cassandra’s Dream, for example, is good late-period Woody Allen.) But Rain would stand out even if he’d recorded it 25 years ago. These are great songs, and their author sounds reborn through them.

With Elvis Costello off writing operas and Andy Partridge practically missing in action, someone needs to keep the art and craft of literate pop alive. Joe Jackson does that and more with Rain, his best in ages, and the first truly great record of the year.

* * * * *

There is no more divisive figure in Doctor Who fandom than the late John Nathan-Turner.

Troll the Who message boards for any length of time, and you’ll see JN-T (as he’s known) blamed for everything that went wrong from 1980, when he took over as producer, to 1989, when the show was canceled. Nathan-Turner is on the hook for the scripts, the acting, the sets, the lighting, the music, the costumes, everything. Some people even blame him for global warming and the economic recession.

And Nathan-Turner isn’t even around to defend himself against these charges – he died of liver failure in May of 2002. Again and again in DVD commentaries and documentaries, folks like former Script Editor Eric Saward light into Nathan-Turner, with no voice of dissent. He’s the easy scapegoat.

That’s not to say he’s not responsible for a lot of things that went wrong with late-period Who. Nathan-Turner’s a guy who worked his way up through the ranks of the show, starting as a member of the ground crew in 1969. He became a production unit manager, and then finally a producer for Tom Baker’s final season as the Doctor. And unlike most producers, he didn’t just run with the ball, he changed the game completely right out of the gate.

Nathan-Turner was always a visible producer, known for his trademark Hawaiian shirts and his love of public discourse. When I was watching the show on PBS as a kid, I think I knew three or four names from the creative and production crew, and John Nathan-Turner was one of them. I’d never heard of Phillip Hinchcliffe or Robert Holmes or any of the other leading lights of the stories I loved, but I knew who JN-T was, and I vividly remember him enumerating the changes he made to the program in a documentary that PBS showed one pledge drive week.

It was these changes that pulled the rug out from under fans, and he made them all for his first story, 1980’s The Leisure Hive. First off, he changed the title music and graphics – gone were the classic Delia Derbyshire theme and the swirling tunnel effect of Baker’s golden years, and here were an exploding starfield and a souped-up electronic version of the theme by Peter Howell. The opening titles had evolved through the years, but this was the first time they completely changed, without warning.

Second, Nathan-Turner fired Dudley Simpson, the man who had provided the show with its incidental music for more than a decade. Simpson had scored 61 Who stories, counting the incomplete Shada, and he liked to work with a small ensemble of acoustic musicians. But Nathan-Turner envisioned a more “modern” feel for the music, so he enlisted the BBC Radiophonic Workshop to synthesizer it up.

Third, JN-T changed Tom Baker’s whole appearance. He convinced his sometimes insufferable leading man to wear makeup for the first time, and the painted-on look is jarring. Also, he updated the Doctor’s costume – and from here on out, the Doc doesn’t wear clothes, he wears a costume – by giving him a maroon coat and a shirt with question marks on the lapels. The question marks would stay until the end of the classic series, and would be most irritating during the Sylvester McCoy years, when the Doc wore a pullover with the offending punctuation all over it, and carried an umbrella in the shape of – you guessed it – a question mark.

Oh, and fourth, he decided to kill K-9, the robotic dog that had accompanied the Doctor for four years. I stated in an earlier column that Elisabeth Sladen’s Sarah Jane Smith was the longest-serving companion, but not so. Not if you count the several models of K-9, who appeared in 22 stories from 1977 to 1981. Nathan-Turner’s attempt to do away with the robot dog in The Leisure Hive was unsuccessful, but four stories later, the dog was written out of the classic series for good.

So anyway, this is what viewers of Doctor Who got when they tuned in on August 30, 1980 to watch The Leisure Hive, the start of the show’s 18th season.

First came the exploding starfield with the pulsing new theme music. It’s actually pretty cool, with the stars slowly forming Tom Baker’s face before dissipating, but it must have been a genuine shock. Then came That Tracking Shot – director Lovett Bickford chose to open his tale with a two-minute pan across Brighton Beach, with fluttery synth music playing in the background. Seriously, this goes on forever.

Then we see Tom Baker’s new costume, and we get the assassination of K-9 – the robot dog stupidly chases a beach ball into the ocean and shorts out. Seriously. And this is played for full drama, with slo-mo running after the dog, and a funereal shot at the end. All the while, the new music makes its presence felt, plastic and goopy and seemingly random. You get used to it, but it’s a shock at first.

New theme. New music. New costume. Strange direction. The apparent death of K-9. And The Leisure Hive was just getting warmed up.

Actually, that’s not true. The story is awful, and isn’t helped at all by the plastic production. It’s about a tourist attraction on an otherwise unlivable planet, and a hostile business takeover, and a machine that can rip people apart, and a whole bunch of terrible computer graphics. The cheesy effects (quite fine for the time, I’m sure) seem to be the raison d’etre for this story. There certainly isn’t a lot of story here – the episodes are a paltry 18 to 20 minutes long each. (Standard Who runs about 25 minutes.)

The one triumph of production is the Doctor’s makeup. Tom Baker has to age about 50 years (human time) in this story, and the long beard and wrinkles look pretty good. They’re offset by the ridiculous monster, which looks like something your mom might have sewn for you to wear on Halloween.

Yeah, The Leisure Hive is terrible. It’s actually pretty close to unwatchable, and while the season (and JN-T’s reign) gets better, it was a disastrous start for the longest-serving producer in the show’s history. Nathan-Turner’s tenure spanned four Doctors, and gave us some of the silliest-looking monsters and effects the show had ever seen. But, to be fair, it also gave us some real gems, stories like Kinda and Revelation of the Daleks and The Curse of Fenric that would never have happened in earlier, safer eras. Nathan-Turner went out on a limb a lot, and sometimes the limb broke, but sometimes the risks yielded surprising rewards.

Just not in The Leisure Hive. Hack. Ptoo. We shall speak of it no more.

* * * * *

Yeah, I kept it short… Next week, the new Nada Surf album, Lucky, which you can hear right now in its entirety here. And also, a look at the last Tom Baker Doctor Who stories, and the first Peter Davison.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

When I was 14 years old, my family adopted a cat named Pebbles.

Her mother’s name was Marblehead, so calling her Pebbles just seemed to make sense. She was a rambunctious little kitten, the runt of her litter, with black, brown and white fur, and I fell in love with her immediately. Which was weird, because only a week earlier, I had been arguing passionately against getting a cat at all.

I had a bunch of primitive recording equipment set up in our basement, you see, with cables and wires and tape everywhere, and I was certain – certain – that any cat we brought into our home would chew through those wires and cables, and piss all over those carefully labeled tapes. The cat, I thought, would be the ruination of my budding recording career, always underfoot, spoiling important sessions, meowing during vocal takes.

Yeah, I was an idiot. Pebbles was a great cat, and my recording career went along its natural course. Many years later, in fact, I named my little record label after her – Pebbles the Cat Records.

As the years went by, we all marveled at how well Pebbles was holding up. She turned 19 last May, and seemed as healthy as a kitten. According to a handy chart I just found on the Internet, that made her 92 in human years, with no end in sight. I saw Pebbsy at Christmastime, and she was as affectionate and wonderful as ever.

Pebbles the cat died on Sunday, at 19 years and nearly six months. She’d had a series of small strokes, and lost the use of her back legs (and, by the end, one front one). This was all within a week’s time. She was helpless, and probably in a lot of pain, so the vet agreed that the best thing to do was put her to sleep. I wasn’t there for any of this, sadly. But on the bright side, I never had to see her at less than full health.

Nearly 20 years. That’s a long time for a cat. I’ll miss her.

* * * * *

The big news out of Hollywood this week is, of course, the death of Heath Ledger. I don’t have a lot to say about that – I liked him in Brokeback Mountain, and I’m looking forward to seeing him in The Dark Knight. Interestingly, Ledger was filming Terry Gilliam’s new movie, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, when he died. Man, Gilliam’s just cursed, isn’t he? Anyway, Ledger was a good actor just coming into his own, and it’s a shame to see him die so young.

The other big news, of course, is the Oscar nominations, and there are a few surprises this year. For a movie that came and went without much hoopla, Michael Clayton did very well. And while I’m not surprised at all that There Will Be Blood and No Country for Old Men will be duking it out for the most honors, I’m beyond pleased to see a strong showing for Juno, one of my favorites of the year.

I’m not sure which of the two front-runners I like more. Both are mesmerizing, difficult efforts with dark overtones. Both have endings that have left audiences confounded, but which made me love the films more. Both movies have as a central message that the world is beyond redemption, a theme I respond well to. And both are anchored by devastating performances – Javier Bardem in No Country, as the ruthless Anton Chigurh, and Daniel Day-Lewis in Blood, as the ever-descending Daniel Plainview.

Both movies were justly rewarded with best picture nods, and with nominations in acting, writing and directing categories. For me, it’s a toss-up, I think – both films are astounding works of art. Of course, my heart lies with smaller, quirkier fare like Juno and Waitress, but I won’t be disappointed no matter which of the frontrunners wins.

Other things I was pleased to see: Persepolis snuck into the animated feature category, and while I haven’t seen the film, I love the books. Jason Reitman got a nod for directing Juno, which brought a smile to my face. Michael Moore has some real competition in the documentary this year with No End in Sight, an actual scholarly examination of the Iraq War. And Brad Bird’s brilliant Pixar film, Ratatouille, was honored several times, most notably with an original screenplay nod.

I do have one major quibble, though, and that’s the fact that Jonny Greenwood’s incredible score for There Will Be Blood is ineligible for the nomination. Apparently, his score uses some elements of prior pieces Greenwood had written – it’s all original, but some passages are not new. I bent this very rule to award Brian Wilson’s SMiLE the best album of 2005, so I don’t know why the Academy can’t do the same. But even so, I would highly recommend picking up the score on CD. It’s amazing stuff.

I’m not even going to predict this year. The race is so wide open in so many different categories that I don’t know where to start. Well, Day-Lewis is a shoo-in for best actor, and Bardem should win supporting actor. (Thankfully, they’re not going up against each other – it’s a win-win for both actors.) But other than that, I have no idea. All I know is I have a bunch of movies to see, and about a month to see them.

* * * * *

I’m wary of progeny albums.

Despite popular belief, musical talent is not hereditary. You need look no further than the Zappa family. Dweezil is a pretty good guitarist, but isn’t a patch on his father, and has spent most of his career imitating Frank’s sound. Ahmet can sing, but that’s about it. And as for Moon and Diva, well, if you can’t say anything nice…

The record industry loves a good father-son story, no matter the musical content. Sometimes they luck out, as they did with Julian Lennon – the guy’s a good musician, and his last album, Photograph Smile, was excellent. And sometimes they strike out, as they did with Sean Lennon. Two albums in, and he’s becoming the poster child for misplaced nepotism.

So it’s with trepidation that I approach any record by the child of an artist I admire. The question I’m constantly asking myself is, would I buy this if not for the familial connection? Here’s a f’rinstance: Liam Finn. He’s the son of Neil Finn, one of my favorite songwriters and the man behind Crowded House and Split Enz. The elder Finn’s melodic gift is a rare one, and even though it’s not fair to compare the son with the father, you can see my hesitation.

Gladly, Liam Finn’s debut album, I’ll Be Lightning, is very good. And it’s very good on its own terms – there’s very little of Neil Finn here, aside from a definite focus on melody and songcraft. Liam’s sound is much more scrappy, with traces of Elliott Smith here and there. The younger Finn’s voice is lighter and more supple than his father’s, and his songs float in the air a bit more. A song like “Remember When” is a solid melodic effort, though, and “Second Chance” makes an indie-pop racket light years removed from Neil’s more sedate work with Crowded House.

The more I listen to I’ll Be Lightning, the more I like it on its own terms. “Fire in Your Belly” is a sweet song, and it’s followed up by the even-sweeter a cappella “Lullaby.” “Wise Man” is a miniature epic, with a swiftly-strummed crescendo chorus and an extended coda. And the delightful Beatle-isms of the title track (with Neil Finn on bass) are a highlight. But it’s the dreamy “Wide Awake on the Voyage Home” that steals the show for me, Liam wearing his Elliott Smith influence on his sleeve.

So, would I buy this even without the Neil Finn collection? I think I would. This is a promising start for Liam Finn, who establishes himself here as a good songwriter in his own right. The sticker on the front of the CD makes no mention of his famous dad, and that’s how it should be – this album is good enough to stand on its own merits. Hell, I’d say it’s even better than that new Crowded House album…

I think I’ll save my examination of John Nathan-Turner and Doctor Who for next week. Also, January 29 marks the first great new music day of the year, or so I expect, with Joe Jackson, the Mars Volta and Chris Walla. Be there.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

There’s nothing I like better than a good curve ball.

Some people like knowing what they’re going to get when they buy a CD (or download an album, as the case may be). I’m not one of those people. I love to be surprised. It’s like with movies or TV shows – there’s nothing worse than sitting there watching, knowing exactly what’s coming. Predictability is the leading cause of death among promising works of art.

As someone who hears a lot of music, most of it depressingly similar, I can tell you that when artists veer off their well-worn paths, it’s kind of thrilling. There’s something to be said for consistency, but if an artist puts out 15 very good albums, one after another, and they’re all basically the same, I find I have nothing to say about any of them after the third. However, if a songwriter takes risks, and drives his train right off a cliff just to see if the wreckage is interesting, I’m there. I’m fascinated.

All this is a way of leading up to the point: Stephin Merritt has just delivered the first great curve ball of 2008. It’s the eighth album by his main band, the Magnetic Fields, and it’s called Distortion – an apt title, if a bit on the nose.

If you know the Magnetic Fields, you likely associate them with a bygone era of pop songwriting. Merritt, the band’s mastermind and sole true member, learned from the best – his songs are usually reminiscent of Cole Porter, George Gershwin, Irving Berlin and the like. Many of his tunes sound lifted from some lost classic stage musical, especially the ones that dot his masterpiece, the three-CD 69 Love Songs. Merritt is among the cleverest lyricists currently working as well, and his turns of phrase are often funny and sad at the same time.

So what to make of Distortion? Well, let’s start by describing it. On the one hand, it’s a typical Magnetic Fields album – the songs are slight yet memorable, the lyrics are witty and wonderful, and the jaunty melodies are sung by a rotating cast of characters, including Merritt himself, with his striking baritone. But there’s one major difference: every inch of this album is covered in sheets of noise. From loud guitars to squalling feedback to electronic frippery, the record is practically drowning in abrasive sounds.

My first impression still stands – this is like My Bloody Valentine doing the Magnetic Fields. The more I listen, the more Jesus and Mary Chain I hear, too. But Distortion represents a huge stylistic shakeup for the ordinarily sedate Merritt. This is not a raw, garage-rock album, like some have suggested. The production was clearly labor-intensive – a lot of work went into making Distortion sound like this, and it’s obviously exactly what Merritt intended.

But does it work? After a few listens, yeah, I think it does. The secret, of course, is that Merritt didn’t sacrifice his melodic songcraft for the sake of the sound. The songs on Distortion could sit on any other Magnetic Fields album, given a thorough scrubbing and sanding. But the production gives them an extra edge, and makes it much harder to dismiss them as 13 more too-clever pop gems from a guy known for them. On first listen, fans of Merritt and his work will probably be repelled by the sea of noise, and if they make it to a second and third, they’ll learn to hear the tunes beneath the feedback. But trust me, by the fifth listen, the noise becomes an indispensable element.

What of the songs themselves? Distortion opens with a semi-surf-rock instrumental called “Three-Way,” its jaunty melody punctuated by shouts of the title phrase, but it’s with the second track, “California Girls,” that things get rolling. A tale of disgust, envy and revenge, “California Girls” works out some anger issues towards the impossibly beautiful denizens of the left coast, girls who “breathe coke and have affairs.” “Eating non-food keeps them mean,” Shirley Simms sings under a roiling sea of guitars, and in the final verse, she takes her vengeance:

“I have planned my grand attacks
I will stand behind their backs
With my brand-new battle ax
And they will taste my wrath
They will hear me say as the pavement whirls
I hate California girls…”

It’s kind of awesome. The first half stumbles a bit with a series of slow numbers – although there’s nothing wrong with “Old Fools,” “Xavier Says” and “Mr. Mistletoe,” they probably shouldn’t have been sequenced back to back. But with “Drive On Driver,” the album takes flight. It’s a sweet little number about the moment when one realizes one’s been stood up, and Simms sings it beautifully.

I’m very fond of “Too Drunk to Dream,” which begins with a chant: “Sober, life is a prison. Shitfaced, it is a blessing. Sober, nobody wants you. Shitfaced, they’re all undressing…” The song itself is, naturally, about getting too inebriated to think about your lost love, and Merritt really nails the bridge section: “So why do I get plastered, and why am I so lonely? It’s you, you heartless bastard, you’re my one and only…”

But I think I am fondest of “The Nun’s Litany,” a sprightly, filthy song about the things a nun wishes she could do with her life. The list: Playboy bunny, topless waitress, artist’s model, cobra dancer, brothel worker, dominatrix, porno starlet and tattooed lady. The lyrics are a riot, and Simms again delivers a perfect vocal. This song more than any other benefits from the sticky grime Merritt has covered it with, the lovely melody battling it out with the noise like the main character’s sweeter and seedier natures. My favorite bit is when she muses about becoming a porno star, and then quickly adds, “For that I’ll wait ‘til Mama’s dead.”

You may expect this surly little record to end with a burst of guitar fury, but you’d be wrong. “Courtesans” is the prettiest song on the album, sung from the point of view of someone wishing they could flit from one guy to another, instead of “taking love very hard.” It’s sad and funny and desperate and everything that makes a good Magnetic Fields song, and it ends this strange and wonderful little album on a graceful note.

Merritt has certainly taken a risk with this album, and chances are a good chunk of his fanbase will be put off by the gritty surface. But stick with it, dig deeper, and you’ll find a pop album worthy of anything Merritt has done. Distortion is the year’s first pleasant surprise, and may be the year’s first great album. At the very least, we’re off to a promising start.

* * * * *

Longtime readers of this column will know how much I love the work of Douglas Adams.

If all you know of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is the recent movie with Mos Def and Sam Rockwell, you need to read the books. So much of the success of these stories, despite their origins as radio plays, lies in the complexity and wit of Adams’ language. Who else would describe a hovering spacecraft as hanging in the air “in much the way that bricks don’t?”

I’d long known of Adams’ association with Doctor Who, but it wasn’t until I started delving into the old series that I found out the shape of that association. Adams wrote only three stories for the series, two of which were completed. And only one of those bears his name – The Pirate Planet, which I reviewed as part of the Key to Time saga. The Pirate Planet is a splendid idea for a story, massacred by a cheap and ill-conceived production and one incredibly bad acting performance. Adams deserved better.

The next year, Adams took over as script editor on the series, under producer Graham Williams, and the show immediately took on a lighter tone. It’s been years since I’ve seen stories like The Creature from the Pit and The Horns of Nimon, but I remember a few things about them – they were funny, and Tom Baker’s Doctor was even funnier. Season 17 was the height of Baker’s improvisational antics, and it’s not an unfair assessment to say Doctor Who transformed into The Tom Baker Show, for better or worse, under Adams and Wiliams.

Adams wrote two scripts for Season 17: the ill-fated Shada, never completed because of a workers’ strike; and the undisputed highlight of the era, City of Death.

You may be confused to note that City of Death’s script is credited to David Agnew. This is a pseudonym for Adams and Williams, and it’s fairly common knowledge that Williams’ contributions to the final draft amounted to leaving well enough alone for a weekend while Adams hammered the thing out. The finished product, directed beautifully by Michael Hayes, is the closest I’ve seen anyone come to capturing the essence of Douglas Adams on screen.

For one thing, as you might expect, it’s screamingly funny. Tom Baker’s on his game from moment one here, and the script simply crackles. The story is a fairly complex one: Scaroth, the last of an alien race called the Jaggaroth, was caught in an explosion during the early days of Earth’s history, and found himself splintered and scattered throughout time. He decides to use his different identities, sprinkled through human history, in a grand plan to bring himself backwards in time and stop the explosion that fractured him and killed his race.

How does he do this? Well, for one thing, as captain of a guard during Renaissance times, he gets Leonardo Da Vinci to paint a dozen different copies of the Mona Lisa, then hides them for a future self, Count Scarlioni, to find and sell, in order to fund a time machine. (With me so far?) The Doctor and Romana stumble onto this plot, and attempt to thwart it in three different time periods.

Sounds deadly dull, right? Not to worry. City of Death has two things going for it right off the bat. One is the location filming – the story largely takes place in Paris, and the production team makes sure you know it, with lots of sumptuous shots of the Doctor and Romana traipsing through the Parisian streets. Whatever else it may be, City of Death looks beautiful.

The other thing, of course, is Adams’ dialogue. The whole thing is stuffed with one-liners and quips, clever turns of phrase that are pure Adams. Tom Baker shines with this material, especially in a scene early in the second episode in the Count’s drawing room. “What a wonderful butler! He’s so violent!” “You’re a beautiful woman, probably.” Seriously, the whole thing is great, and it culminates in this terrific exchange between the Count and the Countess, regarding the Doctor:

Countess: “I don’t think he’s as stupid as he seems.”
Count: “My dear, nobody could be as stupid as he seems.”

As great as Baker and Lalla Ward are in this story, though, the secret weapon of City of Death is Duggan, played by Tom Chadbon. A stereotypical shoot-first, hard-nosed detective, Duggan is a terrific foil for the Doctor, knocking people out at the most inopportune times and completely failing to understand what’s going on. (One of my favorite parts of the story comes near the end, when the Doctor, Romana and Duggan have traveled back to the dawn of history to stop Scaroth from lifting off in his alien craft. While the two Time Lords discuss their plan, Duggan, obviously six pages behind them, points in astonishment and says, “That’s a spaceship!” It’s perfectly delivered.) While the whole story is great, Duggan just lights up the screen whenever he’s around.

One more Douglas Adams special? Okay, how about this exchange between Duggan and Romana:

Duggan: “You know what I don’t understand?”
Romana: “I expect so.”

So we have a well-plotted story, some splendid acting, a nearly bulletproof script bursting with wit, a couple of very cheesy effects and masks, and on top of all that, a cameo in episode four by John Cleese. Asking for more than that from 1970s Doctor Who seems churlish. This is absolutely one of the best stories in the show’s history, and I’d bet that even if you’ve never seen the series, you’ll like this. If I had to pick just two stories to represent Tom Baker’s mammoth seven-year run, it would be this and The Talons of Weng-Chiang. Sadly, it’s all downhill from here, from what I understand.

Next week, we get into the John Nathan-Turner era of the show. Nathan-Turner had the longest and most maligned tenure of any producer in Doctor Who history, and from what I’ve seen so far, that reputation is mostly deserved. So next week, The Leisure Hive, and the dawn of a brave new world.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

All right. 2008.

Hello again, everyone. Did you miss me? I managed to arrange a lengthy vacation from work this year, and to coincide with that, I decided to take last week off from this column, too. That’ll likely be the only week off I allow myself this year, although now that I’ve typed that sentence, I am sure I’ll live to regret it.

Thanks again to everyone who’s been reading this column for the past seven years. With this installment, I’m beginning my eighth year writing tm3am online, and my 10th full year overall, counting the Face Magazine incarnation.

The first CD (well, cassette, actually) I reviewed under the Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. banner was Genesis’ Calling All Stations, way back in 1997. It was an unpopular start – I liked the album then, and I like it now, despite the accepted “wisdom” that it’s among the band’s worst. I wish they’d gone on with Ray Wilson, as he had a gritty voice that added weight to Tony Banks’ sometimes inscrutable compositions.

But it’s 2008 we want to talk about. This is my annual beginning-of-the-year ramble, since the flood of new music doesn’t really start for a couple of weeks. I have high hopes for 2008, and that’s partially because the lineup so far is less than spectacular.

Wait, what? Let me explain. 2007 came out of the gate like a firecracker, firing off one terrific album after another in the first four months. But after that, it was like the year was spent. A sizable percentage of my top 10 list last year, including my entire top four, came out in the first quarter of the year. (Hell, three of the top four came out in March.) The remaining nine months paled in comparison, and I don’t want to see the same thing happen this year.

Which is why I’m happy that the first few months of ’08 seem like they’re going to be good, but not amazing. Still, I’ll be happy when the long year-end drought is over. I’ve bought three CDs so far in 2008, which might seem like a lot for anyone else, but for me, that’s like having only one meal a week. The first one I picked up, of course, was Radiohead’s In Rainbows on January 1 – it came out on December 31 everywhere else, which is why I considered it a 2007 release. The packaging is neat, and includes an element of interactivity, while the album itself sounds better than the download version. If you missed the free download, it’s worth picking up the disc – this is Radiohead’s best album in 10 years, easy.

The second one I bought was Panda Bear’s Person Pitch. I always like to check out the number one choice of the year on Pitchfork, just to see what I’m missing. Some of my friends consider me ahead of the curve when it comes to new music, but I’ve rarely heard the top choices on Pitchfork’s list – they’re at least three curves ahead of me. I also rarely agree with their choices, and this year is no exception.

Panda Bear is a member of Animal Collective, and I didn’t quite love their 2007 album, Strawberry Jam, so I avoided Panda’s solo project. Turns out, his record is better, but only just. His music sounds like electronic nightmares with Brian Wilson harmonies on top of them, but he declined to write any melodies, the defining element of Wilson’s genius. The songs are often very long without earning it, and while I like it as a sonic experiment, Person Pitch fails as an album for me. Sorry, Pitchforkers.

And finally, I picked up my first new album of 2008, Sia’s Some People Have Real Problems. The folks who picked Person Pitch as the best record of 2007 are going to hate me for this, but I liked Sia’s effort better. I first heard the former Zero 7 singer the same way a lot of people did, I imagine – I watched the series finale of Six Feet Under, the last scenes of which were scored to her “Breathe Me.” What a great little song. The album it’s from, Colour the Small One, is nice too.

The new one doesn’t stray too far from that territory. I’ve been calling it a mix of Aimee Mann and Macy Gray, but I don’t want to deter you with that description. Sia has a soulful voice, but she writes slow, lovely, traditional pop ballads with subtle instrumentation. My favorites are first single “Day Too Soon” and “Playground,” and she does a neat cover of the Kinks’ “I Go to Sleep.” 2008 has its first very good album.

And “very good” is about what I expect from virtually everything else I’ve heard about for the year. We start next week with the new Magnetic Fields, called Distortion. I love Shephin Merritt’s work, but he’s promised a shakeup of the Fields sound here – more loud electric guitar, more electronic noise – and I have a feeling this will be a transitional work. The Eels will also release a two-CD set of b-sides and rarities called Useless Trinkets, and while I don’t expect it to live down to its name, I’m not reserving the accolades, either.

January 22 sees new ones from Eric Matthews (The Imagination Stage) and Drive-By Truckers (Brighter Than Creation’s Dark), as well as the U.S. release of I’ll Be Lightning, the debut from Liam Finn, son of Neil. Let’s hope it’s better than his dad’s latest work with Crowded House. I still can’t get all the way through that one without wanting to die.

2008’s first great album may well be Joe Jackson’s Rain, out January 29. He recorded it in a piano-bass-drums trio format, and the songs I’ve heard have been excellent, especially “Invisible Man” and “Rush Across the Road.” Hear for yourself here. Also out that week: the Mars Volta’s follow-up to the ridiculous Amputechture, called The Bedlam in Goliath; Robert Pollard’s 947th album, Superman Was a Rocker; and Death Cab for Cutie guitarist Chris Walla’s solo debut, Field Manual.

February will see new discs from Lenny Kravitz, Bob Mould, Nada Surf (another one I’m expecting great things from – dig the single “See These Bones” here), American Music Club, the great Mike Doughty, the Kinks’ Ray Davies, and Richard Julian. Also, on February 26, the Cowboy Junkies take a second crack at their most popular album with Trinity Revisited – the same songs, the same old church, but 20 years later. Should be interesting.

March brings us Warpaint, the reunion record from the Black Crowes, as well as the new one from the Counting Crows, Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings. And further out in the year, we’ll hear from R.E.M., Moby, the Black Keys, Billy Bragg, and hopefully the 77s. Sometime in the summer or fall, we’ll also get Marillion’s 15th album, a double disc set written and recorded sporadically over six years. Here’s hoping that one, at least, is brilliant.

And that’s all I know so far. See? It’s a pretty good lineup, but nothing extraordinary so far. And that’s the way I like it – 2008 leaves lots of room for surprises and unexpected flashes of excellence. Hope you’re along for the ride.

Next week, the Magnetic Fields and the Eels. And I’ll resume my Doctor Who reviews, much to the chagrin of most of my friends, with the awesome City of Death. Year eight, here we go.

See you in line Tuesday morning.