2008 has been a surprising year. From Brian Wilson’s unlikely triumph with That Lucky Old Sun, to Metallica’s screaming comeback Death Magnetic, to Portishead’s left-field Third and Ben Folds’ first disappointment, Way to Normal, this year’s been hard to predict. Hell, Keane even went all ‘80s on us, and still blew me away.

But perhaps the biggest surprise of my year has been just how much I like 4:13 Dream, the new album from the Cure.

I was all set to hate this thing. I’d been steeling myself up for it for months. I felt pretty certain that this record was going to be awful, given Robert Smith’s recent track record, and unlike normal people, I couldn’t just not buy it. I had to hear it for myself, and own it, and file it with my collection, so I could point it out to people and say, “And here’s another terrible late-period Cure album.”

Now, it’s no exaggeration to say that without the Cure to get me through some rough patches in high school, I probably wouldn’t be here. While I like their poppier material well enough, like the upbeat stuff on Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me, it’s the dark corners of their catalog, like Pornography and Disintegration, that I love most. No one does romantic depression like Robert Smith, and there have been plenty of times when I’ve agreed with the South Park kids, who once proclaimed, “Disintegration is the best album ever!”

But after that masterpiece, it’s been one downward spiral after another. Wish was decent enough, but Wild Mood Swings made me want to die, and not in that good Cure-like way. Bloodflowers ended the trilogy of Pornography and Disintegration with a resigned whimper, and 2004’s self-titled effort was the absolute nadir, a tuneless, screeching caterwaul that droned on and on, endless and without destination. It was an album that had next to nothing in common with the Cure that I’ve loved since junior high.

Fast-forward to 2008. The Cure’s 13th album was originally intended as a double, a mixture of pop tracks and dark epics, but of course, the record company intervened, and Smith cut it up into two releases. As soon as he announced that the first of these would be the “pop” record, I sighed and hung my head. Here comes another Wild Mood Swings, I thought to myself. I will just have to grit my teeth and bear it, hoping that the “dark” record is better.

Miracle of miracles, though, 4:13 Dream is my favorite Cure disc since Wish, 16 years ago.

Okay, let’s say this right off the bat – this is definitely the pop album. It opens with the same sprinkle of chimes that kicked off “Pictures of You,” and leadoff track “Underneath the Stars” is a glorious six-minute downer, doused in reverb and echo. But don’t believe it, because from there, this album is all upbeat melodic rock songs. If you heard the four singles, released one a month in anticipation of this album, you know what I mean – they are punchy, short, romantic and tuneful, and they set the tone.

Thankfully, these aren’t the fluffy ditties that so plagued Wild Mood Swings. These songs are sharp, tight, and full of melody. “The Only One” is the closest to hit-single territory, with its “Oh, I love what you do to my head” refrain. But listen to it – Smith has pared the band down to a quartet, and they sound like the Cure again. The guitar chimes and rings, instead of just spitting noise. Smith’s voice is back on form, putting the imitators to shame once again. This song could fit on Kiss Me without any trouble.

And it just gets better from there. Every time you think this album’s about to go off the rails – the laughable “You have what I want” intro to “The Real Snow White,” for example – Smith saves it with his best songwriting in ages. “The Reasons Why” opens with a classic Cure line – “I won’t try to bring you down about my suicide” – but it doesn’t rest on it. The chorus is mesmerizing, Smith reaching for higher and higher notes, and the guitar is so Cure, it’s like a warm blanket.

I ended up liking every song here, even ones like “Switch” and “This. Here and Now. With You” that start off wobbling. The album crashes to a close with “It’s Over,” the loudest thing here, but even that doesn’t collapse into the formless noise of the self-titled album – it’s controlled chaos. None of this is Happy Pills Robert Smith. It’s all dark, somewhat sinister pop music, and it’s worth noting that the Cure started out with material much like this, before diving into much murkier waters.

4:13 Dream effectively halts the backslide the Cure has been on for more than a decade, and finds the band reinvigorated. Listening to this, I feel 16 years old again, and I envy the younger generation – this is an album that will make kids fall in love with the Cure, just like I did when I was their age. 4:13 Dream is, quite simply, the best thing the Cure has done since I was in high school, and I’m amazed and thrilled that Smith and his band pulled it off. Now I’m even more excited for the “dark” album. Bring it on, boys.

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On the other hand, there is The Cosmos Rocks, by Queen and Paul Rodgers.

I’m going to try not to swear while writing this review, but it will be hard. Queen was another of my favorite bands growing up. Freddie Mercury was my musical idol – he was a fantastic piano player, and he could sing anything. Literally, anything. Queen was one of the most diverse bands of their time, tackling big ol’ rock songs alongside orchestrated balladry, opera, folk music, sea shanties, blues, synth-pop, Elvis tributes, Middle Eastern music and even white-boy rap. Everything they did was produced with such an over-the-top flair that it nearly masked the sheer musicality of their work. Queen songs are hard to play – I stumped a guy at a piano bar once by requesting “Killer Queen.”

When Mercury died in 1992, I was a senior in high school. It was a tough moment for 17-year-old me: Mercury was not only the first major rock star to succumb to AIDS at an early age, he was the first musician in my personal pantheon to pass on during my lifetime. I wrote an epic tribute song, I cried my little eyes out. I can laugh about my reaction now, but his music meant a lot to me, and I felt his loss. Queen managed one more album, mainly recorded while Mercury was alive, and it was good – Made in Heaven capped off the catalog pretty well, I thought, and the band did Mercury proud by finishing it off gracefully.

And then… well. Brian May and Roger Taylor hooked up with former Free and Bad Company vocalist Paul Rodgers, and took a greatest hits show out on the road. I can only guess at their reasons for doing this, but it smells of money. Worse, though, they called the act Queen and Paul Rodgers, despite the fact that only one-half of Queen was present. (God bless John Deacon for having no part of this fiasco.) Inevitably, this lineup has made a studio album – perhaps the tax bills are due, or something – and again, they’ve used the Queen name to try to sell it.

Let’s get this out of the way. This album is pretty bad, but I wouldn’t mind it as much if they hadn’t used the Queen name. Any combination of May, Rodgers and Taylor would do for me. If they’d come up with another name for the band, that would have been fine too. But calling it Queen without Mercury is just crass, and it strikes me as wrong. I’m uncomfortable even owning this disc – I feel like Freddie’s watching me, disapprovingly. This just isn’t Queen, and it shouldn’t be called Queen.

Regardless of what it’s called, The Cosmos Rocks is awful. Brian May is one of my favorite guitarists, particularly when he layers note after note on top of one another, creating celestial choirs with his six-string. But on his solo albums, May has exhibited a dispiriting tendency towards faceless rock. That tendency is taken to its limit on The Cosmos Rocks, as May tones down his own ambitious side to match the meat-and-potatoes voice of his new frontman.

The result is pretty boring, when it’s not laughably stupid. I really don’t even want to talk about individual songs, because there are two kinds here: tolerable lunkheaded rockers, and unlistenable lunkheaded rockers. You won’t believe “Cosmos Rockin’.” If you thought “Fat Bottomed Girls” was idiotic, then this one slips into Spinal Tap territory. “We got the cosmos rockin’ to the mighty power of rock ‘n’ roll!” Um, okay.

The “mighty power of rock ‘n’ roll” is a recurring theme, but alas, not the only one. Rodgers tries to go deep, singing about the state of the world on such unintentionally hysterical “epics” as “We Believe” and “Say It’s Not True.” The only songs I like here are the tossed-off ditty “Call Me” – that one sounds like Mercury might have had fun with it – and “Through the Night,” the only minor-key “serious” song that works. Everything else is a travesty. Seriously, just read the lyrics to “Warboys.” I rest my case.

Tragically, May turns out some interesting leads here, especially on “Voodoo,” which really sounds like Bad Company. He elevates “C-Lebrity” beyond what it deserves, and adds verve to the irredeemably dumb “Surf’s Up… School’s Out.” Yes, that’s really the title. But this is a record any middling rock band could have made, and it’s quite undeserving of its pedigree. I’ve made it all the way through “Some Things That Glitter” twice now, and had to stifle the gag reflex both times.

The sad truth is that if The Cosmos Rocks didn’t have the word Queen on the cover, I wouldn’t have bought it, and neither would most people. Using the name is just a money-grabbing gambit, and a shameful one. But it wouldn’t have stung quite as badly if the album itself had lived up to the legacy. It’s impossible without Mercury, of course, but May, Rodgers and Taylor could have tried harder than this. The Cosmos Rocks does very little to justify its own existence, and it just sits there like a tapeworm, eating away at the Queen legacy bit by bit.

Ah, fuck not swearing. This album is fucking terrible.

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And right in the middle, there’s Ryan Adams.

Once the unpredictable bad boy of modern country-rock, Adams has lately settled down into a mid-life, mid-tempo groove. His new band, the Cardinals, is fantastic, but with them, Adams seems more reserved, more constrained than ever before. His last full-lengther, Easy Tiger, was mellow and simple. It contained the same Ryan Adams flair for sweet melodies and pedal-steel weepers, but it felt slight, like it was knocked out in a weekend.

Now here’s Cardinology, another 12-song album with the Cardinals, and I feel exactly the same way about this one. It’s a dozen pretty good songs on a slab of plastic, lasting a grand total of 40 minutes, and it feels like Adams just had these tunes lying around, and booked two or three days of studio time to kick them out. There’s nothing bad on Cardinology, but there’s nothing particularly good on it, either.

The first half, in fact, is almost boring. I like the immediate shock of “Magick,” and the Morrissey imitation Adams whips out on “Cobwebs,” but I don’t even remember “Go Easy,” and I find the lazy lope of “Let Us Down Easy” a bit too simple. Adams’ voice is in fine form, and the band sounds fantastic as usual, particularly guitarist Neal Casal. But it feels rote, like I’ve heard it all before.

The second half is much better. “Crossed Out Name” is a naked, acoustic plea with a great melody, and it’s just right at 2:44. “Natural Ghost” is a perfect Cardinals track, all steel guitars and harmonies, while “Sink Ships” is my favorite thing here, an airy folk song that taps into the best qualities of Adams’ writing. Closer “Stop” is a piano-vocal piece full of emotion, and it ends the album on a downbeat, but perfect note. The other instruments on “Stop” are so subtle that you barely notice them.

Still, very few of these songs are up to the standard Adams set on Cold Roses and Jacksonville City Nights, and the whole thing plays like a minor entry in his catalog – just another Ryan Adams album. I’m not sure what he needs to do to shake things up. In fact, I’m not sure he really needs to do anything. Adams seems content to keep on ambling down this road, and I can’t say I’d mind hearing an album like this once a year from him. But Adams albums used to be events – remember the flap over Love is Hell? I doubt Cardinology will spark the same discussions that Gold and Heartbreaker did. It’s just not as big a deal.

Adams seems settled, almost happy on this album, and while that’s not a bad thing, it isn’t quite as interesting. Cardinology is 12 pretty good songs, played well by a terrific band. And that’s all. If that’s all you need, you’ll love it. Me, I’m hoping he does something unexpected next time out. Cardinology isn’t bad, but it doesn’t quite satisfy.

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Next week, Travis, Of Montreal and Snow Patrol, I think.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

A shout-out to start us off – congratulations to Chris L’Etoile, one of my oldest friends, on the birth of his second child, Caleb. Chris and his gal Jamie live in faraway Alberta, Canada, so I’ve missed seeing their first son, Jeremiah, grow up – he’s nearly four now. Chris sent a picture of Jeremiah holding newborn Caleb in his lap, and I would post it here, but it far exceeds the legal limit of adorable in this state. Congrats, Chris and Jamie. I hope I get to meet the new little one soon.

So I had this whole column planned out – I was going to try another experiment in concise writing, whipping through four or five reviews as quickly as I could. But then my friendly postman delivered my deluxe edition of Marillion’s Happiness is the Road this week, and that plan flew out the window. Of course, we’re in the middle of the Autumn avalanche – there’s so much new music coming out that I just can’t get to it all, or cover it in the depth that I would like, and devoting this week’s missive to Happiness will just put me farther behind.

So I did both columns. The other is listed on the archive page, and examines new ones from the Dears, Copeland, Ray LaMontagne and Shearwater, as well as the physical release of Bloc Party’s Intimacy. This one, though… this one is all Happiness. It deserves the space. I hope you think so too.

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True story: I hated Marillion’s Brave the first time I heard it.

It struck me as too simple and too meandering. Honestly, I just didn’t hear any great songs – Marillion music is ordinarily immediate for me, and only grows deeper from there, because they write fantastic songs. They are equally adept at the three-minute pop ditty and the 15-minute multi-part epic, but I didn’t hear them doing either one very well on Brave. The worst offender was “Goodbye to All That,” which, I thought, wasted 12 minutes on formless atmosphere, something I’ve chastised bands like Radiohead for doing. I didn’t get this album at all on first listen.

But I kept at it. And slowly, Brave took shape for me. Now I consider it one of the band’s finest records, a seamless 70-minute outpouring of beauty, anger and despair. There is so much emotion hidden in the corners of this album that I feel ridiculous for not having heard it immediately. But that’s the trick – Brave is not an album you hear as much as one you feel. And it needs time to penetrate, to reveal its secrets.

I tell you all this because I went through something similar with Happiness is the Road, Marillion’s just-released 15th album, and I suppose I should have sensed history about ready to repeat.

I’ve been waiting for Happiness for about a year now. Long-time readers will know that I consider Marillion one of the best bands in the world. They started in the early ‘80s as pretty typical prog-rockers, aping an early Genesis sound, but they set themselves apart by singing about some truly emo things – mainly, original singer Fish’s broken heart and alcohol addiction. It was huge, massive music, but still intensely personal.

Marillion didn’t really find its identity until Steve Hogarth arrived in 1988, taking over for Fish. Hogarth has a high, strong, soaring voice, and he uses it like another instrument, another way of bringing the listener in. With Hogarth at the helm, the band has gone from strength to strength – the timid first steps of Seasons End, the brilliance of Brave, the aching beauty of Afraid of Sunlight, and more recently, the explosive power of Anoraknophobia and the all-encompassing career summation of Marbles. There have been some lesser lights, like last year’s half-baked Somewhere Else, but every one of the band’s 11 albums with Hogarth is worth hearing.

Marillion has also embraced the Internet like few bands have, using it to build and maintain a massive worldwide fanbase. They’ve figured out a way to exist independently, just them and their fans, and they engender a loyalty that a lot of musicians would kill for. The last few album releases (excepting Somewhere Else) have been financed through a pre-order system – fans like me pony up our money in advance, before the record button is pressed even once, and it’s through our faith in the band that they can pay for recording, mixing, mastering, artwork, duplication, distribution and marketing, all on their own.

The upshot of this is Marillion is free to make any music they want, and for a band like this, that’s better than any reward the major labels could offer. They’re only beholden to us, their biggest fans, and while we’re a notoriously picky bunch, Marillion has formed magic from the air so many times by now that I, for one, am always excited to hear what they come up with.

I will admit, though, to a bit of hesitation this time. I waited months to send in my $60 for the album 15 pre-order, partially because I was so disappointed with Somewhere Else. It’s grown on me since I first heard it, but after the amazing Marbles, it kind of sits there, an average Marillion album. And then there were the plans for this new one – two discs, made up mostly of songs that didn’t make the cut on Marbles and Somewhere Else. I expected an overlong clearing house, a White Album-style mess.

But I ponied up anyway. And I did what every Marillion fan has somehow gotten used to doing. I waited.

Then, about a month ago, the band did something brilliant. They made the entirety of Happiness is the Road, the new double album, available for free download. It was a gift to those of us who pre-ordered, and it came with a mission – seed every torrent and download site with a particular version of this album, one that would redirect those who downloaded it to marillion.com. We can’t stop illegal file sharing, the band said, but we can at least try to tap into that market, and get the downloaders on our side.

I wouldn’t even know where to go to seed these files to sharing sites, so I didn’t do any of that. But I did download the album, hands trembling, heart pounding. 110 minutes of new Marillion music. I couldn’t breathe. I pressed play. I listened.

I hated it.

Formless, poorly-produced mush, I said. Nothing stands out from the murk, I said. These songs are among the weakest the band has ever foisted on us. This is the first Marillion album I hate. There is nothing here for me at all. What a crushing disappointment. I put the album away for a couple of days, unable to believe how much I didn’t like it.

You know where this is headed, right? I kept listening, and within a week, Happiness is the Road had blossomed into something beautiful. It’s so rich, powerful, emotional and grand that I don’t know how I missed all of its virtues the first time through. Even in low-quality mp3 format, these songs pulse with life, and the real deal, the actual CDs… wow. This is, musically, thematically, sonically and emotionally, one of Marillion’s finest hours.

Happiness is the Road is really two albums, called Essence and The Hard Shoulder. Disc one is a conceptual journey, a cohesive 50-minute suite. Disc two is all the songs that didn’t fit the concept. Far from being a clearing house, Happiness is two distinct pieces of music with no filler tracks, two solid albums each with its own character. They are sold separately, and the sumptuous deluxe edition packages each disc in its own hardcover book, then houses them in a slipcase. It’s clearly not a double album, but you’d be forgiven for treating it like one.

Taken as a whole, Happiness is the Road is one of the least immediate collections Marillion has ever made. The quintet has stripped back everything that has come to identify their sound – Steve Rothery’s soaring guitar is muted throughout, Steve Hogarth spends much of the album singing quietly or reaching for a wavery falsetto instead of belting the songs out. There is no 15-minute epic – the longest song is 10 minutes, but most are around four. If you’re looking for the prog-rock of old (or even of Marbles), you won’t find it here.

This music needs time to burrow under your skin, but once it’s there, you’ll hear new things every time you listen. Songs that seemed flat and stagnant at first will reveal hidden melodies. On repeated listens, you’ll especially grow to admire Pete Trewavas’ extraordinary bass playing, and Ian Mosley’s deceptive, almost jazz-like drumming. It takes some time, but it’s worth it.

I’m on listen number 48 or so, and here’s what I’m hearing now.

Essence is the most consistently fragile and beautiful album Marillion has ever made. I was initially disappointed on a song-by-song basis, but it’s the cumulative effect that packs the punch. It opens with “Dreamy Street,” a minute-long piano-vocal intro that finds Hogarth stumbling around for a metaphor. He finds one on “This Train is My Life,” and if there’s any song here that exemplifies What Marillion Does, it’s this one. Every element is here – Rothery’s understated guitars, Mark Kelly’s chiming keyboard bells, a spine-tingling melody from Hogarth, and a hairs-on-the-back-of-the-neck moment. (“Take my hand, squeeze it tight…”)

From there, though, little else sounds like Marillion. “Essence” is a glorious mini-epic, starting softly but building and building to an orchestrated finale. “Wrapped Up in Time” moves from synth segue to chorus-less piano ballad, which slips perfectly into “Liquidity,” a brief instrumental. And “Nothing Fills the Hole” sustains the placid mood, even while paying homage to Motown. (Seriously.) But for the majority of its running time, Essence is about setting an atmosphere and building it up.

The band kicks in on “Woke Up,” a mid-tempo guitar-rocker, but even that song is restrained, part of the crescendo. “Trap the Spark” is gorgeous, Hogarth’s falsetto melody dripping with feeling, and “State of Mind” kicks things up a gear, ending with an almost gospel-style, joyous refrain. But the whole thing is prelude to “Happiness is the Road,” a 10-minute excursion that begins like a hymn and ends like an anthem. The chorus is very simple – just the title, repeated in an ascending pattern – but it took a while to realize that it’s the first thing on this album Hogarth really sings with all he has. It’s an amazing moment.

Lyrically, Essence is about appreciating every moment. It was inspired by Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now, which is about letting go of both the past and the future. Hogarth spends the first half of the album watching time go by, and the second half (after “Woke Up”) catching every moment like fireflies. You can’t trap the spark, he says, you have to enjoy it while it’s here. Or, put another way, “Happiness ain’t at the end of the road, happiness is the road.”

The music fits this progression perfectly. “Wrapped Up in Time,” for example, is almost mournful, Hogarth using starlight as a metaphor for echoes of things long extinct, while Kelly’s piano rings out behind him. Even the structures of the songs fit the theme – there’s very little musical repetition here. Each part of “Essence” happens only once, and the chorus of “Nothing Fills the Hole” is only sung one time. But when the album explodes lyrically, the music matches – “Happiness” is massive, its slight reggae inflection belying the layers and layers of sound atop it. It all leads to the chorus, as monolithic a Marillion moment as there has ever been.

Yeah, I like Essence. But what of its twin, The Hard Shoulder?

This one’s a little more difficult, simply because there’s no concept – this is just an album of nine songs, so each one has to stand or fall on its own. Thankfully, after a few listens, they stand just fine. The sequence of The Hard Shoulder baffles me – it starts with its three most impenetrable songs, each more than six minutes long, and it shuffles the melodic pop singles to the end. If you bought this for “Whatever is Wrong With You,” Marillion’s punchiest single since “You’re Gone,” you have to wade through six less punchy tracks to get to it.

“Thunder Fly” starts off like a barnburner, Rothery turning in his most rollicking guitar riff to this point, but it slowly unfolds into a more complex rock epic. Here, finally, are the soaring solos – the lengthy one that ends “Thunder Fly” is the best on Happiness – but they’re more restrained than, say, the ones on “Neverland.”

I have struggled the most with “The Man From the Planet Marzipan,” which sounds like a novelty tune from the title, but ends up a seven-minute prog-rock extravaganza. The 3-D production is amazing here – every element is separated and distinct, and it’s like flying through an asteroid belt. The song is strikingly complex, even for Marillion, and I think I have it mapped out in my head now, but I hear new things each time. Hogarth shines here, especially when he wails, “There’s so much that I can’t take in…” I have almost no idea what this song is about, however.

And then there is “Asylum Satellite #1,” a nine-minute sci-fi monster that imagines a world in which the crazy people are sent into orbit for life. This is a difficult beast to tame, as it has no chorus, and is propelled by one of Trewavas’ trickiest bass parts. But when Hogarth sings “we can see the madness perfectly from here,” it lifts off – the rest is all instrumental, Rothery making his magic over a dense keyboard and bass bed. The little coda is wonderful, too.

“Older Than Me” is a charming ballad, all bells and voice, all about loving an older woman. It’s so slight it nearly gets lost, but it’s gorgeous, and it contains my favorite line on the album: “We’ll be over the hill and far away,” sung in a lovely falsetto with a choir of angels backing it up. “Throw Me Out” is the only song here that directly references Hogarth’s recent divorce, and the tune has a Crowded House feel, shuffling along until the clarinets come in. And “Half the World” is a delightful, mid-tempo pop song with a sweet chorus.

The final three songs rock harder than anything else on Happiness, and it’s puzzling to me why they were relegated to the end. “Whatever is Wrong With You” remains a winner, even with an extra minute added. Rothery cranks up the amps, and delivers his most striking solo – it sounds like it was pieced together from a much longer recording, jumping from tone to tone. The song is a celebration of oddness – “whatever is wrong with you is so right for me” – and it deserves to be a hit.

It segues smartly into “Especially True,” a song about embracing America. It’s a surprising lyric, especially after “The Last Century for Man” on Somewhere Else, but the sometimes sinister music betrays the hidden fangs. It all leads up to “Real Tears for Sale,” a seven-minute excursion that is part classic rock, part Celtic ambience. It’s the hardest-hitting thing here, a song reportedly inspired by Sinead O’Connor that lashes out at those who would sell real emotions to the masses. “Even whores don’t kiss with tongues,” Hogarth sings, “nevertheless I do believe you cried real tears…” I like this song, but it’s a surprisingly bitter note to end this album on. Musically speaking, though, it had to be the finale.

The Hard Shoulder doesn’t cohere nearly as well as Essence, but it isn’t supposed to. As a set of songs, it works well – just on its own, it’s a fine rebound from Somewhere Else, and it continues to reveal its riches with each play. Paired with Essence, though, it is one-half of an exceptionally strong release for a band in its third decade. Only time will tell if Happiness is the Road takes its place next to Brave, Afraid of Sunlight and Marbles in the pantheon – if it does, it will be the first one not produced by Dave Meegan to do so, and Mike Hunter should take a bow for his fantastic work on this record.

I have talked to numerous others who had the same immediate negative reaction to Happiness, and all I can say is, stick with it. There’s more here than you can take in at first. It’s taken me some time to come to grips with it, but Happiness is the Road has taken root, and it just keeps growing in stature. It’s a bold choice to release something that demands repeated listens, demands much more attention than most are willing to give a piece of music these days.

Stay with it, though, and Happiness will transform before your ears into something amazing. It’s hard to believe this is album 15 – Marillion is at the top of their game here, turning out some of the most creative and beautiful music they’ve ever made. And they did it their way, no compromises.

As a final note, the band outdid themselves with the deluxe packaging this time. Artist Antonio Seijas provided hundreds of eerie, jaw-dropping images, and the covers of the books and the slipcase are embossed. It’s a hefty thing, but it’s incredible. And, of course, they included the names of everyone who pre-ordered. You’d think the thrill of finding your name in a list like that would wear off, but it doesn’t.

You can order the deluxe Happiness at www.marillion.com. Needless to say, I recommend it highly.

Next week, the Cure, Ryan Adams, Of Montreal, and maybe Queen and Paul Rodgers.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So much music! Let’s go!

First off, I assume you’ve all heard “Chinese Democracy,” the honest-to-Christ first real single from the mythical Guns n’ Roses album of the same name? If not, go here. I kind of like it. It’s very mid-‘90s industrial in tone, but I think Axl may have waited just long enough – the sound of 1997 is charmingly retro now. And I love the intro, with that cloud-clearing guitar that signals the song proper. As my first Axl-approved taste of Democracy, I have to say, it ain’t bad.

This is my second column of this week, because I’m just drowning in new tunes. The first one is a long ramble on Marillion’s brilliant 15th album, Happiness is the Road. If you don’t feel like wading through my pulse-pounding prose, here’s the summary: it’s two discs, one a conceptual journey and one a bunch of songs. The first one is beautiful and simple, the second difficult and complex. Put them together, you have a near-masterpiece. Buy it here.

For this column, I’m going to try that “being concise” thing again. I have five CDs to get through, and I hope I can do it without breaking 3,000 words. Then again, have you seen my Marillion review? Concise and I don’t get along that well. Anyway, here goes.

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Physical Intimacy

About two months ago, I reviewed what I thought was Bloc Party’s third album, Intimacy. The band had made the 10-song set available as a download through their website, in advance of its Oct. 28 release date. At the time, it was one of the quickest studio-to-customer turnarounds I’d seen, and I remarked then that a modest, 45-minute, 10-song affair felt to me like an Internet-only release.

Well, the physical version of Intimacy hit my mailbox this week, and as it turns out, it contains four more songs than the digital release – one of them, “Talons,” is integrated into the album itself at track nine, and the others are tacked on as bonus cuts. Although what separates them from the “real” songs isn’t quite clear – it isn’t quality, that’s for sure. The bonus tracks are just as good as anything on the record proper, especially the semi-acoustic “Letter to My Son” and the blistering “Flux.”

How about “Talons”? It’s good too – it kind of bridges the gap between the guitar-heavy rock songs and the electro-dance rave-ups that populate this disc, and Kele Okereke has rarely sounded more like Robert Smith. “Talons” goes some way toward balancing out what I still consider an uneven effort, one that seems in search of a direction.

But in the two months since I first heard it, Intimacy has grown on me tremendously. I’m still turned off by the jump-cut seizures of “Ares” and “Mercury,” but experiments like “Zephyrus” and “Ion Square” have improved with time, and I still can’t say enough good things about the slower tracks, like “Biko” and “Signs.” This is the most urgent-sounding Bloc Party album, and I can forgive it for being a little scattered – it’s like a cat darting from shiny thing to shiny thing, eyes wide, ready to pounce. Hopefully Bloc Party’s fourth effort will be more focused, but Intimacy has intensity and curiosity on its side.

Needless to say, I recommend the physical release over the digital one. Plus, with the CD, you get the arresting cover image, one of my favorites of the year.

* * * * *

Our Dear Dead Dears

As I understand it, Missiles, the fourth album from Canadian drama-rockers The Dears, pretty much broke up the band.

This isn’t the first time, either. The center of the band is, was, and always will be Murray Lightburn, who, with his wife/keyboardist Natalia Yanchak, sets the tone for every Dears project. They are known for long, slow, serious songs, drowned in orchestration and buoyed by Lightburn’s strong, even voice. But two years ago, on Gang of Losers, they stripped back and turned in shorter, louder songs that didn’t fit quite as well.

Missiles is a return to form, one of the finest Dears albums. Its creation was apparently marked by so much tension that of the six-piece lineup that made Losers, only Lightburn and Yanchak remain. I’m not sure if the resulting record was worth the loss, but it’s very good. You know you’re in for classic Dears when you hear the opener, the seven-minute “Disclaimer.” It starts with an extended intro, all oscillating guitars and saxophones, before picking up steam. Well, relatively speaking – this album rarely rises above a slow boil, and it’s perfect that way.

Lightburn goes all Thom Yorke on the eight-minute “Lights Off,” which is, in a way, his “Paranoid Android.” Over sweet strings and plaintive acoustic guitar, heading off into strange and wonderful chords, he sings, “Turn out the lights, just hold me tight, sleep through the night, could you, with me?” The song concludes with a two-and-a-half-minute guitar solo that is more Lindsey Buckingham than David Gilmour, but it works.

The album continues in a similar vein – “Demons” is hummable and string-laden, while the title song is hushed and offbeat. But it’s on closer “Saviour” that Lightburn’s vision for the band comes through the loudest. Here is an 11-minute, paper-thin monster – it starts with organ and sparse electronic drums, but slowly (verrrry slowly), Lightburn adds instruments, including a brass band and a choir. It never changes tempo, it’s basically a dirge, but listening to the whole thing is mesmerizing.

Out of turbulent times comes great art, and this may be my favorite Dears album. Reportedly, Lightburn and Yanchak have put a new, seven-piece lineup together, and I’m interested to hear how the new Dears compare with the old Dears. But even without that backstory, Missiles is a fine, ambitious, self-serious, dramatic record that may be the best thing the band has ever done.

* * * * *

Let the Sunshine In

The year is 2005. I’m at the Cornerstone Festival in Bushnell, Illinois, watching the Violet Burning play an amazing set, and highly anticipating the next act on the Gallery Stage: the Choir, one of my favorite bands ever. They play once in a blue moon, so I wasn’t going to miss this chance to see them. But many of the younger people I was next to did – they got up and left after TVB, headed off to see this band called Copeland.

I ended up cursing the festival organizers for slotting the two shows at the same time, denying younger fans the chance to see a legendary band they might just fall in love with. I think I even ended up cursing Copeland for their strange hold over the Cornerstone youth. But it was that juxtaposition that forced me to hear Copeland for the first time – I had to know what band was worth missing the Choir.

I’m still glad I saw the Choir, of course. But in the years since that Cornerstone performance, Copeland has evolved into a very interesting band. Their early work was loud but melodic, still fitting the mold of indie-rock. On 2006’s Eat, Sleep, Repeat, however, they stripped all that away, and turned into an airy dream-pop band. I didn’t know quite what to make of it at first, but now I consider Repeat to be a minor masterpiece.

The hits keep on coming with You Are My Sunshine, Copeland’s fourth album. Ignore the lazy title – it has no bearing on the record at all, surprisingly. This is the album on which the band finishes smoothing off all its rough edges – every song is clean, atmospheric and dreamy. Singer Aaron Marsh has never sounded better. His voice is high, almost feminine, and it rises above the cloud cover his band lays down, turning every melody into something beautiful.

Sunshine finally finds a proper home for “Chin Up,” a wonderful song that first appeared on the band’s b-sides collection, Dressed Up and In Line. Here, it is a string-fueled waltz, but it still pivots on the great line “you break your neck to keep your chin up.” It’s far from the best song, though. First single “The Grey Man” is immediately memorable, as is the great “To Be Happy Now,” the most energetic thing here. The ascending melody of “On the Safest Ledge” will stay with you, as will Rae Cassidy’s guest vocal turn on the fragile “The Day I Lost My Voice (The Suitcase Song).”

Every song here is terrific, even the 10-minute closer “Not So Tough Found Out” – that one’s very similar in structure to the Dears’ “Saviour.” But my favorite moment of Sunshine may be the smallest one. “Strange and Unprepared” is just Marsh and an electric piano, but when he sings “now we’ll always never know,” it’s heartbreaking. Copeland never leaves the realm of pop-rock, but their music is so light and lovely you’ll feel like you’re levitating. This is their best album, and I’m very much looking forward to tracking their evolution further, and seeing them live, as long as the Choir isn’t playing at the same time.

* * * * *

The Cult of Ray

I admit I was surprised to learn that Ray LaMontagne is from Maine. Apparently he still lives there, in Farmington. I keep telling people that Maine has a rich and diverse music scene, but nobody believes me. I think LaMontagne is one of the best arguments I could make for the artistic validity of Vacationland, as the license plates call it.

Who is Ray LaMontagne? He’s a husky-voiced singer, a songwriter who draws from a deep well of traditions, and a record maker like few others these days. Every LaMontagne album sounds vintage, like a collection of old standards. His second, Till the Sun Turns Black, opened with “Be Here Now,” six of the most beautiful minutes of 2006 – simple acoustic guitars, otherworldly strings, and LaMontagne’s moving voice. You must hear it, and the rest of the album, if you haven’t.

His third, Gossip in the Grain, starts very differently. “You Are the Best Thing” is pure Motown soul, complete with crisp horns and a trio of female backing vocalists. This is LaMontagne letting loose, and his voice takes on something of a Joe Cocker feel. But he’s back to classic balladry on the next couple of tracks, particularly the timeless “Let It Be Me.” I’ve always thought he was at his best when accompanied by little more than guitars and violins, and he proves me right again on “Sarah” and the devastating “Winter Birds.”

If you can imagine it, “Meg White” is a serious romantic paean to the White Stripes’ drummer, performed without a stitch of irony. “Meg White, I saw you on the big screen, Old Jack was keen, but you stole the scene…” The song starts with a lick from the Stripes’ version of “Conquest,” and features a particularly Meg White drum beat. It’s great.

But nothing will prepare you for “Henry Nearly Killed Me (It’s a Shame),” an explosive blues shuffle. LaMontagne goes all out vocally on this one, and you wonder if he’ll be able to do it live. Naturally, he slows it right down for the captivating title track that ends the record. It’s 45 minutes, in and out, but Gossip in the Grain is remarkably diverse, further proving Ray LaMontagne’s singular talent. I haven’t heard a record quite like it this year.

* * * * *

Shear Beauty

I’ve been doing this column for eight years now. During much of that time, one of my most faithful correspondents has been Lucas Beeley. I haven’t always been as faithful in return – anyone who knows me knows it often takes a long time for me to reply to emails – but I’ve always appreciated his ear, his taste and his willingness to share his recommendations. He and I agree on Fleet Foxes this year. He knows what he’s talking about.

So when he sent me an instant message a couple of weeks ago, chastising me for not including Shearwater’s new album Rook in my top 10 list, I knew I had to hear it. One problem – I’d honestly never heard of Shearwater before. Turns out, it started as a side project for Will Sheff and Jonathan Meiburg of Okkervil River. That band, you may remember, made my 2007 top 10 list with their wonderful The Stage Names.

That’s a good pedigree. Armed with that info and Beeley’s recommendation, I picked up Rook. And man, am I glad I did.

Rook is quiet, stately, artfully arranged, and just gorgeous. In Okkervil River, Meiburg is relegated to piano and organ parts, overshadowed completely by the unkempt genius of Sheff. Who knew he had such a striking voice, or such a gift for off-kilter, folksy melodies? Rook opens with a piano-vocal lullabye called “On the Death of the Waters” that sets the tone – Meiburg’s voice soars, and the whole thing is so hushed and lovely that when the electric guitars crash in halfway through, it’s genuinely startling.

Things slowly build from there, with the magnificent “Home Life” truly picking up the momentum. It’s a seven-minute epic folk tune, arranged with strings and woodwinds, and it features a melody that wouldn’t be out of place on an old Richard Thompson record. It’s just fantastic, and unlike anything else I’ve heard this year.

Even when Meiburg kicks up the tempo with electric guitars on the brief “Century Eyes,” the effect is still unique – like the Decemberists and Woven Hand jamming. One song later, he’s singing another breathtaking melody over gently picked guitar and light piano on the aptly titled “I Was a Cloud.” “The Snow Leopard” is striking, with a strident melody that once again brings Woven Hand to mind. And then the album ends as it began, with the quiet piano-and-strings number “The Hunter’s Star.”

As usual, Beeley is right – this album is great, and is a candidate for the top 10 list. It feels like a consistent suite, like it should only be played in order live. I am dumbfounded that I never heard Shearwater before this, but I’m certainly going to seek out their other records now. Special thanks to Lucas Beeley for another strong suggestion.

* * * * *

Next week, the Cure, Ryan Adams, Of Montreal… there’s just so much!

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So I once made this joke that we would see real Chinese democracy before we would see the long-delayed fifth Guns ‘n’ Roses album, Chinese Democracy.

Well, the Chinese are still stubbornly Communist, so I may have to eat my words. For weeks now, I’ve been hearing louder-than-usual rumblings that Chinese Democracy, after more than a dozen years, is actually going to surface next month. There have been at least half a dozen “confirmed” release dates for this thing, each one scrapped as Axl Rose continues to “tweak” his “masterpiece,” but I’m starting to believe that Sunday, November 23 is actually the date.

Why do I think so? Look. Billboard has announced the release date. So has Rolling Stone. The record is supposed to be an exclusive with Best Buy, oddly limiting its potential audience, and that store has released not only the track list, but the cover art. (Note that link lists November 25 as the release date. I guess nothing’s a sure bet…)

And of course, back in June, nine tracks leaked to the Web, and I swear, they sounded finished to me. But what do I know. Apparently Axl thought they were near enough to complete to sue the guy who leaked them, so… Still, Mr. Rose and company have been decidedly quiet through this storm of publicity.

Yes, according to Best Buy, the cover picture is a bicycle with a huge basket leaning against a spray-painted wall. It seems a surprisingly subdued image for such an operatic, over-the-top production like Democracy, which reportedly cost more than $13 million to finally finish up. But lo and behold, it’s another sign that this may be legit – Rose apparently has been talking about this cover concept since 2002. The picture was apparently snapped in China, so it’s, like, symbolic or something. But it looks like the real deal.

I’m not really sure how to feel about this. For about 10 years after Use Your Illusion in 1991, I eagerly anticipated a new Guns ‘n’ Roses album. Their debut, 1987’s Appetite for Destruction, is still one of the best rock ‘n’ roll albums ever made, and the Illusion records (twin releases totaling about 150 minutes of music) were underrated and ambitious.

But in the intervening 17 years (!), Axl Rose has become the last Gunner standing, and Chinese Democracy clearly spiraled out of his control. The resulting record sounds to me like a disastrous explosion of ego, overcooked and half-baked, if you get my meaning. It’s strange to see this project actually quantified down to 14 tracks and a cover, and I will definitely buy it if it comes out. But I think it’s going to be awful, quite frankly.

On the bright side, though, if this thing actually comes out, we all get free Dr. Pepper. So that’s something.

* * * * *

It’s no secret that I love British trio Keane.

If it’s possible to love a band too much, then for me that band is Keane. (Along with a few others, of course.) Both of their first two albums – the grand Hopes and Fears and the grander Under the Iron Sea – are etched onto my mental retina. They write exactly the kind of big-hearted, confidently melodic pop music that I respond to most strongly, and I would have been perfectly happy if they’d continued down the same path forever, building on their Britpop sound again and again.

But the guys in Keane are clearly smarter than me. They know change is inevitable, and stagnation means death. And so their third album, Perfect Symmetry, is a radical departure from the first two – at least, upon first glance. And I admit, they had me worried.

About two months ago, the band released the first taste of Perfect Symmetry – the leadoff track, “Spiralling.” Now, I should point out that Keane has, to this point, been a pretty serious band. The songs on Hopes and Fears are earnest, full of wide open spaces, and Iron Sea added orchestration and a deep cover of darkness. Both albums tackled big themes with big songs, and as much as I love them, I wouldn’t recommend them for your next party mix.

So when I tell you that when I pushed play on “Spiralling” for the first time, my jaw dropped, I’m telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth. After a clip-clop percussion intro, the song proper starts with an exultant “Woo!” and a synth line right out of the Thompson Twins. It’s a full-on ‘80s throwback, Tim Rice-Oxley embracing the cheesiness of his keyboards, and singer Tom Chaplin even turning in a spoken word section. (“Did you want to be an icon? Did you want to be president?”)

It’s stunning. Beyond just the boldness of this direction, “Spiralling” is a great, great song. And it effectively sets the tone for Symmetry, a record drenched in that ‘80s pop sound. Everything you thought was Keane is effectively shuffled offstage to make room for a newly found sense of disposable fun. Hell, they’ve even done away with the whole guitar-less thing: Chaplin picks up a six-string, and though it’s most noticeable on the dance-pop tunes, it gets play on some of the slower epics too.

In short, this is a near-complete reinvention. Even “Spiralling” didn’t prepare me for the sprightly opening of “Better Than This,” with its David Bowie-in-a-thin-tie keyboards and handclaps. And all of “You Haven’t Told Me Anything” is a shocker, falling more in line with the Smiths than the current wave of Britpop. Chaplin, perhaps the best pure pop singer on the planet right now, unveils a slippery falsetto here that’s damn surprising at first, too.

I wouldn’t be surprised if your initial reaction is to wonder just what the hell happened to the dramatic pop trio you love. But keep listening, because while the surface has changed, everything essential about Keane is still here.

First and foremost, there are the songs. Keane songs are tight, unfailingly inventive melodic beasts, without an ounce of fat on them, and every one of Symmetry’s 11 numbers keeps that streak going. It’s most obvious on the more traditionally Keane-like tunes (“The Lovers Are Losing,” “Again and Again”), but just listen to the dynamic chorus of “You Haven’t Told Me Anything” and try not to sing along. I’ve said since the beginning that I’m waiting for Keane to write a song I don’t like, and I’m still waiting.

This album is a rocket, rushing by in a burst of melody, wrapping up in a tidy yet giddy 50:44, and it’s perfectly sequenced – a deep and moody epic like “Playing Along” is followed up with a bit of David Byrne-style funkery like “Pretend That You’re Alone,” and nothing outstays its welcome. Closer “Love is the End” is a classic Keane ballad – it starts small, it tickles you with its terrific melody, and it explodes into grand orchestration by the end. It’s the perfect finish, the longest thing here at 5:38, and it leaves me wanting more right away.

Next, there’s Chaplin. This guy is incredible. The vocal parts on Symmetry demand more of him than ever before, and he delivers. Just try singing along with the chorus of “Love is the End” and tell me how you do. “Better Than This” requires him to shoot up into falsetto at a moment’s notice, and he pulls it off. Even a seemingly simple tune like “You Don’t See Me” stands or falls on Chaplin’s voice, and he nails the “shining so bright” section at the end of the bridge. He’s at the top of his game, and if you came to Keane for his dazzling voice, you won’t be disappointed.

Everything the too-cool-for-school crowd hates about Keane is here, too, thank God. The lyrics are still wide-eyed and emotionally direct, the big themes still on the menu. The title track is almost a hippie manifesto, “Playing Along” is about the distractions that keep us from being engaged in the world, and “Spiralling” contains this little observation: “When we fall in love, we’re just falling in love with ourselves.”

Keane will never be cool. Hell, they’ve even missed the ‘80s revival bandwagon by a few years. But to my mind, no other modern band has incorporated these Reagan-era influences as earnestly and thoroughly as Keane. They will never be trendy, but they will always be honest – this is the music they make, regardless of how ridiculous it seems to those who won’t embrace it. There is nothing cool about Perfect Symmetry, but you can’t make this kind of album without jumping in, fully committed, and they have.

After a few listens, Perfect Symmetry just becomes another great Keane album. I quickly stopped fretting about what they’d taken away, and started loving what they’ve added – a loose sense of fun, a slinky soul that I didn’t even realize was missing. It may not be their best (but then again, it may be), but it is the one I’m most enjoying right now. It’s an absolute delight, from front to back.

What can I say? I love this band. While the dark Under the Iron Sea was a portrait of tension – I even thought it may be their last as a unit – Perfect Symmetry is a celebration, a sign that Keane is moving full speed ahead, looking back to the future. Long may they dream big, with their hearts firmly on their sleeves.

Next week, Copeland, Ray LaMontagne, and perhaps a few others. Oh, and there’s Happiness is the Road, which is reportedly winging its way to me across the ocean as we speak.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So here’s how good I think the new Keane album, Perfect Symmetry, is.

It doesn’t come out until Tuesday the 14th, but earlier this week, the band kindly made the entire thing available on last.fm for free streaming. Unfortunately, the tracks are all interrupted by “bonus commentary” from the band members halfway through. You’d think it would be one-listen-and-done for me, considering how annoying it is to be grooving along to one of the new songs and have to stop to hear Tim Rice-Oxley babble on about how “different” it all is.

But you’d be wrong. I’ve listened to Perfect Symmetry online probably eight times since Monday, and I’m not tired of it yet. Rice-Oxley’s right, it’s a different kind of Keane album – more fun, more kitschy, less dramatic – but I love it. I absolutely love it. I’ll get you a full review next week, but until then, if you’re not put off by British men nattering on in the middle of each tune, I’d recommend listening to it here.

And if you haven’t heard leadoff track “Spiralling” yet, get ready for your jaw to drop. I’m not surprised much by pop music anymore, but Keane have made something unexpected, and unexpectedly great.

Luckily, I did find some time this week (in between airings of Perfect Symmetry) to listen to four new records. They’re all varying shades of very good. I’m telling you this upfront because I’m trying to be more concise in my writing, and while I hope these shorter reviews will get the point across just as well as the longer ones, I’m hedging my bets. These are all very good CDs, and you should buy them all. Go! Your master commands it!

* * * * *

The best Oasis album in more than 10 years opens with Noel Gallagher’s best single in at least that long. By the end of the snarling “Bag It Up,” if you were ever a fan, you’ll be one again.

I’ll admit that I didn’t go into Dig Out Your Soul, the seventh Oasis album, expecting a whole lot. Quite frankly, the Gallagher Brothers and their semi-anonymous cohorts have been floundering since their fourth, Standing on the Shoulder of Giants, in 2000. (Uncharitably, you could say that every album since (What’s the Story) Morning Glory has missed the mark in some way.)

Also, there’s just the fact that Oasis has become a big joke. Their “better than the Beatles” schtick has always been laughable, but lately, Noel and Liam Gallagher have become known more for their public personas than their music. It’s gotten so bad that a video of Noel getting bum-rushed off the stage a month or two ago became the new “Danzig gets decked” YouTube sensation. And believe me, if you’re trying to avoid becoming ridiculous, Glenn Danzig is not someone you want to be compared with.

But a funny thing happened while Oasis was out of the spotlight. The Gallaghers solidified their lineup, made a couple of workmanlike pop records, and learned how to really write songs again. And now, the payoff: Dig Out Your Soul is a psychedelic rock album that justifies the band’s continued existence, and then some. It is a smart, confident record, and if it doesn’t quite measure up melodically to their early work, it makes up for that in energy and style.

I already mentioned “Bag It Up,” which rocks like nobody’s business. The first batch of songs, through single “The Shock of the Lightning,” play up Oasis as ‘60s-inspired rock band, but the rest of Soul delves into the Beatles’ drug years – it is the trippiest material the band has given us. “Falling Down” is like something George Harrison might have written on his sitar, and Liam’s “I’m Outta Time” is a great Lennon-style ballad.

As they have on the last couple of records, the Gallaghers let new members Gem and Andy Bell contribute to the songwriting here. They get one song each, and even amidst Noel’s best selection of tunes in a decade, those songs stand up. Gem’s “To Be Where There’s Life” is another Eastern-flavored meditation, while Bell’s “The Nature of Reality” is a psych-blues shuffle. The record ends with Liam’s meandering, strange “Soldier On,” and at a compact 45 minutes, the whole thing is just ambitious enough.

Is Dig Out Your Soul a renaissance, a return of a mighty band to fighting trim? Not really. Too many of these songs rattle around looking for choruses, and the overall feel is more sedate than it should be. But from Oasis, a band that better critics than me had written off completely, it’s a pleasant surprise. Hopefully it signals an upswing for a band that has clearly learned that you must scale the mountain before you plant the flag.

* * * * *

Ani Difranco has been around so long now that it’s hard to know what to say about her that hasn’t been said.

That makes reviewing a new record particularly tough. Everything that was true about Difranco last year is still true – she’s still the Little Folksinger That Could, making her own records her own way and touring the hell out of them on her own dime. She’s still fiercely political, still admirably ready to stand up for what she believes. She remains an idiosyncratic, talented songwriter with a supernatural gift for poetry.

And she’s still one of the only artists on the planet that assures you, album after album, that you’re getting the real, unfiltered her. No one tells Ani what to do, and no one ever has. And all of this has certainly been said before, but it’s all worth repeating.

But none of it tells you a thing about Red Letter Year, her 17th studio creation. It’s the fourth installment in her latest direction – short, concise, consistent statements, in contrast to the sprawling records she made in the 1990s. This one clocks in at 47:04, but 6:26 of that is taken up by a horn-driven instrumental jam at the end. The actual songs here are modest – many hover around the three-minute mark. But the sound is wide and vast.

Red Letter Year feels like a culmination of sorts, or at least a penultimate step. It takes in all of Difranco’s musical directions, ending up with a folk-jazz electro-pop goulash with a dollop of funk (“Emancipated Minor”) on the side. It’s miles from the bare acoustic confessions she used to write, but for Ani these days, it just sounds natural. Her band, including longtime bassist Todd Sickafoose and drummer Allison Miller, is tight and expansive, following her down every strange jazz-chord detour she takes.

Lyrically, Difranco is in a different place. Her last record, 2006’s wonderful Reprieve, lamented the devastation in New Orleans, and Difranco returns to that setting for the title track. She takes a couple of political shots, and on “The Atom” she argues passionately against nuclear anything – bombs, energy, anything. But her heart just isn’t in the biting stuff this time. This album is about joy. It’s her obligatory new motherhood record – her first daughter was born last year – and she smiles through most of it, addressing many of the lyrics directly to her baby girl.

Red Letter Year is, in the end, just another Ani Difranco album – different from all the rest, but full of the same fierce honesty and musical adventurousness she’s always had in ample supply. This one’s a little fuller, a little more fun, a lot more sonically immediate, but it’s still an Ani album – dazzlingly creative, intelligent and absorbing. May she never stop making them, never stop chronicling her life year by year, song by song.

* * * * *

If we’re talking about maintaining a fiercely independent career for decades, then we have to bring up Todd Rundgren.

Here’s a guy who has always blazed his own trail, even when it’s been detrimental to his career. For nearly 40 years, he has produced (and, for the most part, completely performed) his own records, slipping blithely from Beatle-pop to Hendrix-rock to progressive suites to novelty songs to synth-pop to Motown soul and back. He once made an album using nothing but the sound of his own voice, and he followed that up with a live-in-the-studio massive pop excursion featuring dozens of musicians. And just for fun, he fronted a side band called Utopia that played nothing but space-rock jams… at least, at first.

The Rundgren catalog is immense, diverse, brilliant and odd. And his fourth decade as a recording artist has been no exception. His last album, 2004’s Liars, was an amazing bit of synthetic soul, performed with nothing but keyboards and vocals. Despite its false-face veneer, the album contained some genuine emotion – mostly rage.

Now, four years later, here’s the about-face. It’s called Arena, and it’s a big, dramatic, guitar-heavy stage play of a record. I honestly don’t remember the last time Rundgren whipped out the six-string this much on an album – every song is loaded with searing, blistering, wonderful guitar work. The drums and other instruments are still electronic, but the screaming guitar here makes the whole thing sound live and organic.

As always, Rundgren has delivered a set of monstrous songs here – poppy, bluesy, soulful, melodic towers of song. Opener “Mad” starts with a circular clean guitar figure, but soon finds Rundgren screaming over thick, distorted rawk noise. Throughout Arena, he balances his more melodic tendencies with his newfound love of the loud. “Bardo” is a long, languorous blues with some fantastic soloing, while “Courage” is a groovy acoustic piece. First single “Mountaintop” is a crunching rocker with a great chorus.

But for much of this album, he’s parodying the worst excesses of rock and roll, and all the macho war mongering that often goes along with it. “Mercenary” and “Gun” are back to back here, and they find peacenik Rundgren playing a Blackwater employee and a young gangbanger, respectively. It’s all irony, but Todd plays it straight. You can tell he’s kidding, though, when he gets to “Strike,” a fiery cock-rock anthem on which Todd unveils a shrieking falsetto to scream, “Strike while the iron is hot!” It’s hilarious.

When he’s serious, though, Arena is marvelous. Rundgren’s powerful, dramatic, soulful voice is in top form here, and he’s given himself chance after chance to stretch out. Dig “Panic,” with its Devo-on-speed beats and lightning-fast chorus. But also check out “Afraid” – Rundgren uses that song’s simple framework to its utmost, singing his little heart out.

It’s been too long since Todd Rundgren has graced us with a new record. I never really know what to expect, but Todd rarely disappoints. Arena is another in a long line of records no other artist would ever make, so thank God Rundgren is still making them. I’m sure in four years or so, he’ll come out with another one, and it will be nothing like this one, but it will be just as good.

* * * * *

Matt Hales performs and records under the name Aqualung. There’s no point getting upset about it or trying to change it at this point. He’s just going to keep on calling himself Aqualung, and we’re going to have to deal with it.

The name, and its Jethro Tull associations, wouldn’t bother me so much if Hales weren’t an extraordinary pop songwriter. I can’t prove that calling himself Aqualung has hurt his chances over on this side of the pond, but I bet it hasn’t helped draw in the audience that would appreciate – nay, love – Hales’ brand of emotional, grand piano-pop.

The last Aqualung album, last year’s Memory Man, is an absolute masterpiece. It hit #3 on my top 10 list last year, for good reason – every second of it is gorgeous. It’s what I call a Very Big Small – the sound is intense, vast, like clouds rushing along an endless skyline, but the songs are, at heart, tiny things with fragile beating hearts. Memory Man sported at least five of the year’s most beautiful moments, and several of its most beautiful songs.

Words and Music, the follow-up, isn’t Memory Man’s equal. But then, it isn’t supposed to be. Where that album was a consistent suite, this is a collection of songs – some new, some old, and one cover. Where the last record was a dynamic production with electronic beats and strings and synths, this one is more simple and organic. It’s like a breather before jumping into another massive project, and as such, it works.

I don’t want to give the impression that Words and Music sounds thrown together, because it doesn’t. About half of these songs are re-recorded oldies, some from his first two albums, which were only released in the U.K. He covers “Slip Sliding Away,” Paul Simon’s classic tune, and makes it his own. And the rest of the tunes are new. But this is remarkably consistent from first note to last. Hales plays piano on every song, and his voice is as naked and unadorned as it has ever been – just listen to the gorgeous “Good Goodnight,” as lovely a ballad as Hales has ever written.

The whole record is warm and inviting, even when it turns Supertramp on “Mr. Universe.” For all of Memory Man’s expanse, the qualities I loved most about it are all here – lovely melodies, sung and played beautifully. Just listen to “Everything Changed,” one of the older songs, and be swept away by the intertwining vocals. Or revel in the British pop grandeur of “When I Finally Get My Own Place,” which starts off achingly normal and becomes achingly wonderful.

Hales saves his best – or at least his most moving – for last. “Arrivals” begins with a string overture, but soars from there on nothing but piano and voice. “Send me, send me over the ocean to find you,” Hales sings, and my heart hurts. It’s a gloriously sad conclusion to this sweet little album, and by the time it ends, I’m certain: if Words and Music is a stopgap, then it beats out many artists’ real records. Matt Hales is so very good at this sort of thing – too good to call himself Aqualung – and this album, which looks backwards and forwards while celebrating the now, is simply superb.

* * * * *

That’s it for this week. Next week, Keane, and maybe Copeland too.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I really hate having to do this.

Writing negative reviews, especially when it comes to my favorite artists, is always a little uncomfortable for me. It’s like having to tell a loved one they have a drinking problem. I feel like I have to be absolutely sure about it – do I really dislike this record, or was I just having a bad day? Did I wake up too late, skip my morning run, and sleepwalk through my first listen? I have to be sure. I have to listen again and again, in optimum conditions, picking apart my own reactions before putting pen to paper. (Or typing out on a screen… you get me, right?)

It’s one thing to come up with a negative review of a band I don’t really like, such as Weezer. I mean, their last album was so insanely bad that to praise it, even a little, would be dishonest. But it’s a special kind of pain for me when I have to attack artists I genuinely love. When an album I’ve spent months looking forward to just doesn’t cut it – in fact, when it’s borderline horrible – I’m not just disappointed, I’m crushed.

And I just have to grit my teeth and tell it like it is.

I’ve known for a while that I would have to do this. Even before laying down my cash for Way to Normal, Ben Folds’ third solo album, I had come to the conclusion that something vital was missing. Ben Folds first captured my ear 13 years ago, with his first smart, smarmy album with the Five, and he hasn’t made a bad record since. He has an uncanny knack for balancing his fratboy side with his inner storyteller, making snotty piano-pop gems that tap into a deep current of emotion.

On his last record, 2005’s Songs for Silverman, Folds upset that balance a bit, but the result was his most mature and beautiful album, full of first-person observations and gorgeous melodies. (And it contained “Gracie,” the sweetest and most genuine father-daughter song I’ve ever heard.) I suppose I should have expected a swing of the pendulum back the other way, but I didn’t think it would swing back this much, especially given Folds’ recent divorce.

Way to Normal is a fun little trifle of an album. Or at least, that’s probably what Folds thinks it is. Many of these songs remind me of the extemporaneous jams he makes up in concert, songs about the town he’s in or a funny sign he saw on the way to the venue. Ben Folds the storyteller is almost completely absent. Ben Folds the social critic is here, sporadically, but his wit has been blunted. The majority of the running time has been given over to Ben Folds the foul-mouthed buffoon, and while that guy’s fun in limited doses – his cover of “Bitches Ain’t Shit,” for example – 40 minutes of him gets wearying.

Way to Normal’s first track, “Hiroshima,” lays down a lame “Bennie and the Jets” pastiche while Folds describes falling off the stage and smacking his head before a concert. It’s almost symbolic – the rest of the record plays like the work of a man with brain damage. The songs are short and stupid and surface-level. “Errant Dog,” “Brainwascht,” “Bitch Went Nuts,” “The Frown Song”… these are all well below Folds’ usual standard, musically and lyrically.

There are a few I like. “Cologne” is a sweetly sad tale of separation, with a nice melody, but it’s marred by a dated verse about Lisa Nowak, the astronaut who drove cross-country to kill her boyfriend. (Really, in the middle of this lovely song, Folds sings, “Says here an astronaut put on a pair of diapers and drove 18 hours…”) First single “You Don’t Know Me,” a duet with Regina Spektor, is jaunty and memorable, and closer “Kylie From Connecticut” is the closest this album comes to a classic Folds story-song.

Everything else is just… slight. “Dr. Yang” is fun, and contains a lightning-fast piano solo, while “The Frown Song” has a groovy chorus, despite stupid lyrics about “fucking a guru.” And “Effington” makes the most of its one-note joke – “Effington might be a wonderful effing place” – with the album’s best chorus. But most of these songs just sound easy, tossed off instead of lived-in. His targets are easy, his insults lame, his insights absent.

“Bitch Went Nuts,” for example, has an interesting premise. Ask women why relationships fail, says a man with an exaggerated Asian accent in the intro, and they will give you a hundred different reasons. Ask men, and they will all give you the title phrase. But the song is lousy – “The bitch went nuts, she stabbed my basketball, and the speakers to my stereo…” It contains none of the anger and pathos of “Song for the Dumped,” and its chorus, during which old girlfriends line up at his door with pitchforks and “scores and scores to settle,” is painfully unmemorable.

The shame is that Way to Normal may be Folds’ best-sounding album. You might expect a collection of thrown-together ditties like this to have that ragged, old Ben Folds Five sound to it, but you’d be wrong. This is a gleaming pop record, with some nice steps forward for Folds the producer. “You Don’t Know Me” has a terrific string arrangement, intro “Before Cologne” makes use of scraping piano strings for color, and “Free Coffee” sounds like it’s performed largely on a John Cage-style prepared piano. Everything sounds great, which is why it’s almost tragic when the songs fall flat.

Way to Normal (a reference to Normal, Illinois, by the way) is the first Ben Folds album that has left me indifferent. It doesn’t move me emotionally, it doesn’t knock me out musically. It just kind of starts, and then ends. I don’t think it’s just me, either – I’ve gone back and listened to other dumb-ditty Ben Folds songs, like “Dumped” and “Julianne” and “Uncle Walter.” They have wit and verve. The songs on Way to Normal sound like the cast-offs that landed on Naked Baby Photos.

It really does pain me to write this. Ben Folds has written a good half-dozen of my favorite songs of the last decade, but nothing on Way to Normal comes close. I hope this is just a blip, a series of bad days, a lapse in judgment, a dry spell. The album is kind of fun, no doubt, but it’s like having a master chef serve you a cheeseburger. You know he can do better, that he’s slumming it, and all you can do is hope he’ll dig deeper next time.

* * * * *

Okay, time for the third quarter report. A couple of things. First, this year has been pretty amazing so far. You’ll notice number one hasn’t changed since June, but there are plenty of third-quarter releases in the list this time, all wonderful discs deserving of your attention.

Second, I have decided not to include Marillion’s Happiness is the Road yet, even though I’ve heard it a few dozen times and I’m pretty sure it would rank highly. The official release date is October 20, so it’s technically a fourth-quarter album, and besides, I haven’t even heard the real thing yet, just low-quality downloaded tracks. Expect a review when this thing lands in my mailbox, and count on seeing it in the final list in December.

And now, the Third Quarter Report. If I had to make my top 10 list right now, here’s what it would look like:

10. Death Cab for Cutie, Narrow Stairs.
9. Sigur Ros, Med Sud I EyrumVid Spilum Endlaust.
8. Coldplay, Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends.
7. Amanda Palmer, Who Killed Amanda Palmer.
6. Vampire Weekend.
5. The Feeling, Join With Us.
4. Bryan Scary and the Shredding Tears, Flight of the Knife.
3. Brian Wilson, That Lucky Old Sun.
2. Aimee Mann, @#%&*! Smilers.
1. Fleet Foxes.

Honorable mentions go to Conor Oberst, Randy Newman, R.E.M., Lindsey Buckingham, Counting Crows and Joe Jackson. Expect the list to change in the coming months, of course, but even if I were forced to end the year now and post this as the final draft, I’d be pretty happy. There are some amazing records on there.

Next week, Ani Difranco, Todd Rundgren, and maybe Oasis.

See you in line Tuesday morning.