It’s been about a week now since U2’s new single, “Get On Your Boots,” was released. And it’s taken me this long to conclude that I really don’t like it.

The song is the first taste of the new record, called No Line on the Horizon. I’ve been unaccountably excited about this album for a while now – I liked the last two U2 offerings quite a bit, pulsing as they did with the blood of a revitalized band, but this one seemed from the start like a new beast. The last few years have felt like U2 proving themselves again, after their flirtations with irony and trashy pop in the ‘90s, and now that they have, they’re free to stretch out and try some new things. What would this venerated band come up with?

Well, “Get On Your Boots” sounds like “Vertigo” as remixed by Depeche Mode. Really. It explodes to life on Larry Mullen’s drums, but the riff sounds like “rawk mode” U2 on autopilot, and the “sexy boots, get on your boots” refrain is just silly. I admire the chorus more than like it – it doesn’t exactly stick in your head. Sonically, it’s kind of awesome, especially the drum break section, but as a song, the whole thing just sits there. It doesn’t exactly bode well.

But then, I’ve hated most of U2’s singles, and enjoyed the albums anyway. I am still looking forward to No Line on the Horizon, even with song titles like “I’ll Go Crazy If I Don’t Go Crazy Tonight” and “Fez – Being Born.” It’s out March 3, but you can hear “Get On Your Boots” for free here.

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I am not sure how to review Merriweather Post Pavilion.

Let me clarify that. I know how to do it – I’ve heard these 11 songs a few times now, I’ve formulated some thoughts about them, and I can easily just type those thoughts down. What I mean is, I’m not sure how to review this without sounding like I’m just adding to the deafening chorus of hype. Ordinarily, I don’t care, but in this case, the thought has me all but paralyzed.

Merriweather, the ninth album from Baltimore’s Animal Collective, has been praised up and down by pretty much everybody. I almost feel bad for the band – this album has been caught up in a hypestorm they had nothing to do with. Chicago’s own Greg Kot called it 2009’s first great album, and several critics have suggested that you won’t hear anything better this year. (Seriously, guys, it’s January. Calm down.) It is clearly the new year’s first Big Deal.

So here is my dilemma. Is this album as good as everyone says it is? Of course not. But it is very, very good, and under normal circumstances, I’d be happy to list off all the things I like about it, all the reasons I expect to keep coming back to it over the next few months. This is the first Animal Collective album I have liked, let alone liked this much, and it deserves all the positive things I’m going to say about it. Unfortunately, I’m feeling this bizarre need to temper my enthusiasm, to let you, dear reader, know that while I like Merriweather Post Pavilion, I don’t think it’s the second coming of Pet Sounds or anything.

You may laugh at the old-guy analogy, but if there’s one touchstone that keeps coming up throughout Merriweather, it’s Brian Wilson. Like every Animal Collective record, this one is drenched in reverb, coated in odd effects, and endlessly sonically manipulated. But at its core, this is sunshine pop – exuberant, tuneful, floating on lush harmonies, just happy to be alive. It’s California pop refracted through a broken, fucked-up prism.

This is not a million miles from the material Animal Collective has given us before, so why does this one work so well? A couple of reasons. First, they reined in their tendency to smear everything they do with ugly noise. There’s still plenty of digital slop on this album, but it’s all useful noise, if that makes any sense. Every element of this album adds to the overall feeling – the droning keyboards, the tape effects, the unutterably bizarre sounds, they all serve to propel this collection down the trippiest of tunnels. Honestly, this is quite the studio production – it will strike your ear as massive and occasionally dissonant, but never cluttered or murky. Well, except when it’s murky on purpose.

The big reason, though, is the songs. These are the most melodic, most – dare I say it – accessible songs of the band’s career. They are tightly arranged, even danceable things, and the choruses bring Brian Wilson to mind more than once. Just about everything is sung in harmony, and when the trio lays on the soaring vocals, it’s pretty magical. Collective member Panda Bear approached this kind of thing on his solo album, Person Pitch, but he wrote drones instead of songs. These, these are songs. You could play “Summertime Clothes” with just an acoustic guitar, and it would still be a good song.

Of course, they never strip things down that far. Or at all, really. Merriweather Post Pavilion maintains a consistent tone throughout, and that tone is huge. Occasionally, you can hear a piano (as on the very Beach Boys “Guys Eyes”) or an acoustic guitar anchoring things, but most of this record is both submerged in and enveloped by pure, beautiful sound. Keyboards, effects, strange bits, samples, loops, drones, and general weirdness abound, and the vocals, intertwining and spinning skyward, fill in all of the nooks and crannies left. It is one of the strangest-sounding records I’ve heard in a while, and yet, it all works.

Are there problems with it? Of course. Some of the songs in the second half drag a little – the buzzing drone in “Lion in a Coma” doesn’t do the threadbare melody any favors, and “No More Runnin’” doesn’t seem to know where it’s going for the majority of its running time. But these minor issues are easily forgiven when the band can come up with something as consistently thrilling as the closing track, “Brother Sport.” It’s like a campfire round in South Africa, backed by a chorus of computers, percussion pounding as the voices climb higher and higher. It’s simply splendid.

You see where I’m struggling, though? I like Merriweather Post Pavilion a lot, but everything I’ve said here sounds like that tsunami of hype swirling ever closer. I want to reach the people who, like me, are naturally averse to that kind of noise – who don’t, as the man once said, believe the hype. I want to reach those people and get them to try this record, not because I think it’s the Best Album Ever, but because it’s actually a unique and interesting disc.

Hype has a way of turning people off, and Merriweather Post Pavilion is good enough that it would be a shame to oversell it. That ship has probably sailed, but it’s worth a try anyway. This is a very good album that should be given a chance to breathe and connect with people. Ignore the noise, tune out the buzz, and just listen.

* * * * *

I somehow missed Bon Iver’s terrific debut, For Emma, Forever Ago last year.

It’s not that strange for me to miss something, but this record was such a conversation piece for so many months, and on so many people’s best-of lists, that I feel pretty dumb for not having picked it up sooner. It’s everything people say it is – a gorgeous, snow-capped paean to loneliness and despair that somehow avoids every cliché it should fall into.

By now you probably know the story, but here’s a recap in case, like me, you missed out on this. Songwriter Justin Vernon saw his band and his relationship evaporate, and came down with some kind of liver disease at the same time. Broken, he moved into his father’s cabin in Wisconsin, and spent the next few months alone, writing and recording songs. He called his new project Bon Iver, a bastardization of a French phrase meaning “good winter.”

The resulting album was For Emma, performed entirely by Vernon. While this is a sparse collection of folk songs, it’s not some bare-bones affair – Vernon overdubbed himself a hundred different times, giving his little tunes a vast, yet intimate scope. The record bleeds heartbreak, but it never sounds mopey or contrived. It just sounds real.

Almost from the moment For Emma came out, though, people have been asking The Question. For artists with any ambition at all, there’s only one: “What’s next?” But for Vernon, The Question takes on new meaning – without For Emma’s backstory and legend, would another Bon Iver album connect the same way with people?

He’s gone some distance towards answering The Question with a new Bon Iver EP, Blood Bank, out last week. The good news is, these are new songs, mostly divorced from the For Emma project. The bad news is, there are only four of them, and one of them comes from the Emma sessions. This is a step forward for Vernon, but not a big one – he still needs that proper follow-up.

But for now, this is what’s next, and it’s very good. The title track is first, and this is the one that hails from the previous album sessions. As you might expect, it retains the same sound – strummed acoustics, oceans of harmonies, lyrics about devotion and loss. One gets the sense that this is Vernon holding his audience’s hand, leading them away from For Emma and into new worlds.

And from there, Vernon does start exploring. “Beach Baby” is the kind of unadorned acoustic piece he’s largely stayed away from, but the results are so pretty, it makes you wonder why. Vernon’s voice is high and fragile here, a singular instrument. “Babys” is a complete turnaround, comprised of mantra-like pianos tumbling into one another while the stacked harmonies carry it forward. Halfway through the vocals encounter a deep valley of nothing, and it’s a breathtaking moment.

And then there is “Woods,” which will shock you like nothing else here. It’s a four-line poem, repeated over and over, entirely a capella – Vernon starts off warping his voice through a vocoder, Kanye style, and then adds layer after layer of that voice, through half a dozen different effects. The result is mesmerizing and unforgettable – it sounds so thoroughly wrong that it’s exactly right, and it’s as haunting as anything he’s made, if not more.

There isn’t quite enough music here to determine just what kind of artist Justin Vernon is going to be, now that he’s past his For Emma stage. But the risks he takes, especially on the last two tracks, bode well for the future. I’m more curious than ever to hear the next Bon Iver album, but the baby step forward that is Blood Bank will do for now.

* * * * *

And now, the first installment of a new semi-regular feature called Stuff I Missed.

There’s a lot of music out there – dozens of albums come out each week. And while I try to hear as much as time and finances will allow, sometimes, well… I miss stuff. So here’s where I try to catch up, reviewing the records from years past that I just didn’t hear in time.

The first Stuff I Missed is dedicated to Dr. Tony Shore, one of my most faithful friends and musical compatriots. Tony runs ObviousPop, a blog-slash-podcast all about new pop music. He loves big choruses, sweeping backing vocals, and (yes, I will say the word) quirky production. If you like the Beatles, Jellyfish, Ben Folds or They Might Be Giants, you’ll find a lot to love on Tony’s site. I’ve known him long enough to know not only what he likes, but that I will most often like the same things, so I rarely regret taking one of Dr. Shore’s recommendations.

If you click over to his site, you’ll notice he’s listed his favorite albums of 2008 over on the left hand side. And you’ll see a strange choice at number one – an unknown band from Ann Arbor, Michigan called Tally Hall. Who the hell are Tally Hall?

For some reason, I took way too long answering that question for myself. Who are Tally Hall? One of the oddest, funniest pop bands to come along in ages. If you remember Moxy Fruvous, you’ve got the idea – they’re five guys who sing like a barbershop quartet, but play a hundred different kinds of pop music, mostly with wry, ironic smiles on their faces.

Yes, Tally Hall is a gimmick band – they wear matching white shirts with individually-colored ties, and refer to each other by those colors. (“Green’s got keys,” for instance, or “Give Blue the bass.”) And yes, the title of their debut album is seriously Marvin’s Marvelous Mechanical Museum. And you really have to see the detailed cartoon artwork that graces their cover. They’ve made it a little too easy to dismiss them as a joke band, a novelty act.

But man, these boys can play. And sing! I could tell just from the first few moments of breathtaking harmony on opening track “Good Day” why Dr. Shore loves this band. The song starts as a simple piano number, but quickly blossoms into a massive pop wonderama. It’s deceptive – the theatrical aspects overshadow the strong melody at first, but given time, you can hear just how well-written this song is.

No one song is big enough to hold Tally Hall, though. Their album is bursting at the seams with variety, like an old-school Queen record, and while that naturally leads to a lack of consistency, the trade-off is a wild ride of a listening experience. The ground drops away beneath your feet again and again on Marvin, and by the end, you’ll scarcely believe this is all the work of the same five guys.

They follow “Good Day” with “Greener,” a Barenaked Ladies-style pop-rocker that could almost be described as normal, but one track later, they hit you with their tongue-in-cheek ode to themselves, “Welcome to Tally Hall.” If the rest of the album weren’t so strong, this song would fall flat on its face – it’s a mock rap over lounge-style pianos that really reminds me of Fruvous. I’m especially fond of the verse rapped in an awful British accent: “I might rap like an English chap, take you by the knickers and I’ll bum your slap!” I bet this is a riot live.

But, you see? They make it easy to dismiss them, when the next few tracks show undeniably why they should not be dismissed. “Taken For a Ride” is like the welcome return of the Buggles, until the crazy horns come in, and the band breaks down into a Polyphonic Spree-style sunshine chorus. “The Bidding” is a brief but memorable flirtation with dub-style funk, while “Be Born” is an unironic folk ballad with a sweet refrain.

And on it goes. There are silly novelty tracks like the ukelele-fueled “Banana Man” and the creepy-yet-so-very-funny “Two Wuv,” a love letter to the Olsen Twins. (Both of them. At once.) But then there are genuinely terrific pop songs like “Just Apathy” and the kind-of-astonishing “Spring and a Storm.” And then there are seriously clever ditties like “Haiku,” in which every verse is an attempt at… you guessed it. But the song is about the songwriter’s inability to write a haiku for the woman he loves – despite nearly managing it in every single verse, he finally settles on “Lah dah dee diddum, Lah dah dah dum doo ditto, Dum doo lah de doh.”

The members of Tally Hall shoot themselves in the foot as often as they hit the target, but the result is a crazy patchwork of pop goodness – it’s not a masterpiece, but it is a lot of fun, and it’s crafted with great skill. I’m interested to see where they go from here, and whether they can balance out their silly and serious tendencies. I’m glad I finally heard this, and although it wouldn’t have made my top 10 list, I can see why it made Tony Shore’s. Thanks for the recommendation, Doc.

Next week, Duncan Sheik and Franz Ferdinand. Hey, for all you potheads out there, this is column number 420! Sweet! Or something.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Whose House?

When I initially wrote this column a few days ago, I kicked it off with a snarling diatribe about George W. Bush. We bid goodbye to King Bush II this week, and I originally was going to use this opportunity to point out, in exhaustive detail, just why I consider him the worst president of my lifetime.

But then I saw Barack Obama’s inauguration speech, and that all seems pointless and churlish now.

I spent much of Tuesday talking with local people who trekked to Washington, hoping to join in the national celebration. And I can tell you, many of them were taken aback a little by the speech itself. For them, it was three days of euphoria followed by 20 minutes of sobering, yet hopeful reality. Rather than use his inaugural address as a capstone to his historic election, Obama chose to talk about just how difficult the next four years are going to be, and how he expects each of us to dig in and do our part to remake America.

As one man I talked to put it, he talked about the state of the country, not the mood of the crowd. It was a bold and difficult choice, and I applaud it.

Obama’s right, America’s in a terrible state right now. Our economy’s in shambles, jobs are evaporating, foreign oil suppliers have us by the throat, and we’re arguably less safe now than we were on September 11, 2001. I don’t know why Obama wants this job, but he has it now, and he’s going to need all the help he can get to turn this ship around. And he knows it.

It would have been easy for him to do what I did initially, and point fingers of blame. Much of the mess we’re in is George Bush’s fault, but I think Obama tried to tell the nation that we’re well past that now. This isn’t the time for recriminations, or for keeping people out. It’s a time for extending a hand, for building the future together. I hope the strong yet welcoming way Obama chose his words Tuesday is a sign of things to come.

Here’s to the next four years.

* * * * *

Broken Home

Well, it’s been an eventful week here. In addition to scrambling around trying to cover the inauguration of a former senator from my adopted home state, I’ve had to deal with a burst water pipe in my basement. Luckily, the explosion and subsequent rush of water was loud enough that it was caught pretty early, but there’s still damage to the ceiling and north wall of the basement, and a lot of it is going to have to come down.

The plumber thought he had a quick fix for the problem. You see, the burst pipe is one that never gets used – it leads to an outside spigot for a hose. So we figured we could just install a cutoff valve into that pipe, close it off, and not worry about it for a while. It was only after the plumber had finished up with the valve and turned the water on to test it that we discovered he’d cut off the wrong pipe. It was an honest mistake, and I still don’t see how the pipe he needed could have been any other than the one he chose, but unfortunately, once he’d started testing it, water cascaded through the burst pipe once again, sopping the insulation and running down the wall.

In the end, I watched helplessly as the plumber cut a hole in the ceiling to find and fix the leak. The drywall was soaked, as was the carpet. You probably know me well enough to know I own a lot of easily damaged stuff, so I was furtively boxing things up and carting them out of the basement. Nothing was destroyed, thankfully, even when water started pouring out of the smoke detector, dangerously close to my DVD shelf.

The crisis is over, but now I’m left with the cleanup. My father is suggesting the two of us could fix this ourselves, an idea I am so far rejecting. (He actually said one of those “famous last words” phrases: “It will be easy.” That’s almost as bad as, “What could possibly go wrong?”) I’ll keep you posted.

All of this reminds me of a story that I’m sure I’ve told everyone I know, but have never related in this column. About five years ago, I lived in Maryland, just outside Baltimore. In two years there, I was totally unable to find work as a writer, so I was stuck taking temporary (and then, permanent) menial labor jobs to make money. I signed up through Manpower, the temp service, and one of the first people they put me in touch with was a guy who owned a drywalling business. I helped him for exactly one day, holding up heavy sheets of drywall while he stapled them in, and I hated every second of it.

About two hours into our task, this guy, apparently noticing that I have no affinity for hands-on work, asked me what I normally do. I told him I was a writer, looking for work at a newspaper. A strange smile crept over his face, and he walked up to me and said this:

“Son, I’m going to teach you how to hang drywall today. And when I’m done, you’ll never have to write for a living again.”

I’ve laughed about that for years, but now, as the journalism industry crashes around my ears and my sopping basement needs a full overhaul, I kind of wish I’d paid more attention.

* * * * *

So Many Doogie Howser Jokes

While I was away, the BBC cast the eleventh Doctor.

(Yes, it’s my first Doctor Who reference of 2009, but don’t worry, it’ll be a quick one. Although I do have a full-length column on the tenure of Colin Baker brewing, just to warn you. You know what? Hell with that. I’m not even going to warn you. I’m just going to drop it on you when you least expect it.)

Anyway, the new guy is Matt Smith. He’s 26 years old, he’s been in a grand total of 15 hours of television, and he looks kind of like the Frankenstein Monster’s emo grandson. Okay, that’s mean, but he is much less traditionally handsome than David Tennant, who will bid goodbye to the role at the end of 2009. And in the clips I’ve seen of Smith in action, he doesn’t exactly leap off the screen. But apparently Smith’s unique interpretation of the Doctor impressed new producer Steven Moffatt.

As I haven’t seen that interpretation yet, I’ll reserve judgment. But I liked the idea of an older Doctor, and this young’un has me a little concerned. Funny fact – he’s the first Doctor younger than the show itself. (The original series ran for 26 seasons, and the new series for four so far – put ‘em together and you get 30 years.) I do trust Moffatt – he hasn’t let me down yet, and his most recent two-parter, Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead, is his strongest, so with him at the helm, I have high hopes for Season 31. As for Smith, we’ll see…

Part of my concern is that Season 30 was the best since the show returned in 2005. Departing producer/head writer Russell T. Davies penned three superb episodes and one smash-bang two-part season finale, and then got out of the way as his team came up trumps again and again. In particular, Gareth Roberts impressed with his Agatha Christie comedy The Unicorn and the Wasp, and James Moran made a splashy Who debut with The Fires of Pompeii. (Okay, I teared up a bit at the end of that one. Leave me alone.) I also enjoyed this year’s Christmas special, The Next Doctor. If Davies can keep this up through the remaining four specials this year, he’ll go out on a high note.

And then he’ll hand the keys over to the boy genius and his scruffy kid Doctor. Should be interesting, to say the least.

* * * * *

People I Know

If you don’t have a local record store, you really should get one.

In addition to getting, like, every CD you could ever want all in one place, you also get a music-friendly atmosphere. You get the opportunity to meet fascinating people with different musical tastes, and they will turn you on to things you’ve never heard before.

Case in point: Andrew Lanthrum. I met this soft-spoken, wild-bearded chap while he worked behind the counter at my local record store, and he would indulge me endlessly with conversations and arguments about new (and old) music. Andrew and his brother Nate were in a popular semi-punk band called Troubled Hubble – Andrew plays bass, Nate plays drums – and though I wasn’t a huge fan of that particular outfit, they’re both terrific players.

If you want a sense of just how good they are, check out their new band. First off, they’ve picked one of the five or six best band names I’ve ever heard: Kid, You’ll Move Mountains, referencing my hero and yours, Dr. Seuss. And second, this new group’s sound is wider, more expansive, more gosh-darn epic than anything Hubble did. Their debut album, Loomings, is pretty great, an atmospheric rock record with a genuine sense of drama about it, and some top-notch production.

That last is the most impressive to me, since this disc wasn’t recorded in a studio. Andrew and Radiohead-loving guitarist Corey Wills put it together at home, but you’d never know it – Loomings sounds like the band spent thousands of dollars on it. The drums are crisp, the instruments are all clean and clear, and there’s a real sense of space between them – quite often, the rhythm section is pounding away while Wills and guitarist/singer Jim Hanke are weaving gorgeous yet unrelated lines on top, and pianist/singer Nina Lanthrum is adding glistening accents, and you can hear every note. Nothing is muddy, nothing sounds recorded on the cheap.

You can hear what they’re aiming for in the first moments of “Inside Voice.” It crashes to life with a genuinely anthemic set of chords and a piano melody, before everything goes away except a strummed guitar and Hanke’s voice. Seconds later, that voice intertwines with Nina Lanthrum’s, and when the whole band comes back in, the effect is somehow fuller and more majestic. This is a big sound, but the band is never afraid to take you behind the curtain and show you how it’s constructed. And it’s often jarring when they choose to simply rock, as they do at the beginning of “Volts.”

My favorite here also has my favorite title: “I’m a Song From the Sixties.” It opens with a neat syncopated section, with some elastic bass work, and then evolves quickly into a memorable anthem with some Jonny Greenwood-style guitar and impassioned vocals from Hanke. But it keeps building from there, through an awesome stop-time section, a floor-dropping-away breakdown, and a brief but massive finale. This one’s terrific.

Few songs on Loomings can match up – the band seems more about the sound they make than the songs they write, which is a slight problem for a melody addict like me. “West,” for example, reminds me of Natalie Merchant’s three-chord compositions, and “No Applause” doesn’t really kick in until the riveting finale. But for every songwriting moment that fails to capture me, there’s a sonic one that does the trick. And I dare you not to sing along with the piano-fueled finale of “An Open Letter to Wherever You’re From”: “Midnight, my house, last one out of the city burn it down…”

Yeah, some of these Kids are acquaintances of mine, but I’d like this record just as much if I’d stumbled on it randomly. Loomings is the first new album I bought in 2009, and hopefully it will set the tone for the 12 months to follow. Hear and buy Kid, You’ll Move Mountains here. And for another, more effusive take on Loomings, check out another acquaintance of mine, Derek Wright. His writing and podcasts can be found here.

* * * * *

Next week, the first flood begins. We’ll talk about Animal Collective, Coconut Records, Bon Iver and Fiction Family, most likely. Or, I might hit you with a Doctor Who column. You’ll never know!

See you in line Tuesday morning.

You know what sucks? Not running for three weeks, and then running again. It’s so tempting to just say the hell with it, but I persevere.

But absence has only made the heart grow fonder when it comes to writing this column. Hey, everyone, I’m back! Did you miss me? (Say yes, or my fragile ego will implode. Go on, say it. I’m waiting. SAY YOU MISSED ME!) I took my longest paid vacation ever this year – three solid weeks, which I spent mostly on the east coast. I saw people I hadn’t seen in a while, and a couple people I hadn’t seen in almost a decade. I ate all the time, and gained about six pounds. Hence, the running.

While I enjoyed the rest and relaxation, part of my brain has just been itching to get back into it. This column kicks off year nine of my online experiment. Hard to believe I was 26 when I started this thing, but here I am, staring over the precipice at 35, still cranking it out. Why do I do it? Well, to be honest, I’d probably be writing my thoughts on new music down every week anyway, so I may as well put them out there for everyone to see.

Of course, it goes deeper than that for me. I love music – it makes life that much more worth living to me. Part of being an obsessive music fan for me is the constant anticipation. Every month (and often every week), there’s something new I can’t wait to experience. I’m already ticking down the seconds of 2009 – even the first few months are chock full of promise. In keeping with my standard giddy optimism when it comes to all things musical, here are Nine Reasons to Love 2009:

1. Next week.

Usually, it takes a couple of months for a new year to really kick into gear, but 2009’s off to a sprinting start. January 20 sees a whole bunch of stuff. Here’s Carl “I call myself A.C. on my solo records” Newman of the New Pornographers, dropping another dozen pop gems on us. He’s titled his second solo album Get Guilty, and it includes my current pick for song title of the year: “All My Days and All My Days Off.”

Here’s Animal Collective, that loose assemblage of noise-loving experimenters, back with their umpteenth record Merriweather Post Pavilion. This one already has the hipper critics salivating, and although I wasn’t too thrilled with Strawberry Jam, I’m interested to hear it. And here’s Robert Pollard, back with his 9382nd album, The Crawling Distance. Here also is Fiction Family, a collaboration between Jon Foreman of Switchfoot and Sean Watkins of Nickel Creek. I know what you’re thinking, but the single is a swell pop song. Here, listen.

Here is Jason Schwartzman, the erstwhile Max Fischer himself (and former drummer for Phantom Planet), back for a second round under his Coconut Records guise. If you think Schwartzman’s old band has gotten a bit too raw and loud lately, you want this album. It’s called Davy, and the single is called “Microphone.” Check it out here.

But with all that, the disc I’m most interested in is a four-song EP called Blood Bank, by Bon Iver. I was late to this particular party – I only heard the fragile, gorgeous For Emma, Forever Ago in November of last year. I’m hooked now, and it’s partly because of the story behind it – Justin Vernon got dumped, moved into a cabin in the woods, and poured out his pain and loneliness into this sparse, haunting album. Like everyone else, I’m wondering whether Vernon can stand on his own and make compelling music without a film-script backstory to help. Blood Bank should give us some idea.

Yes, that’s all next week. Pretty good start, huh?

2. The week after that.

That’s right, January 27 is just as good – in some ways, even better. Start with Franz Ferdinand, back for a third round of their Morrissey-does-disco guitar-pop. Their new one has the faux-arrogant title Tonight: Franz Ferdinand, and while I’m not thrilled by “Ulysses,” the leadoff track, I am looking forward to this. I’m also anticipating A-Lex, the new Sepultura – it’s a concept album based on A Clockwork Orange, which sounds like it should be shit, but I hold out hope.

Ah, but from there, it just takes off. We get the new Loney, Dear, which you might remember from 2007’s great Loney, Noir – it’s the stage name of Swedish musician Emil Svanangen, and he’s amazing. Expect more ornate midnight-folk-pop, delivered in the highest male voice you could imagine. Of Montreal returns as well with The Jon Brion Remix EP, and hopefully a master like Brion can improve on the sleaze-funk of Skeletal Lamping.

And then there’s Duncan Sheik, one of the most underrated songwriters working right now. Most remember him for “Barely Breathing,” and if you’ve heard of him recently, it’s for his Tony-winning score to Spring Awakening. But I think of him as the man behind Phantom Moon, and Daylight, and the underappreciated White Limousine. His new one, Whisper House, is made up of songs from another theatrical project, all performed by Sheik himself. Expect the prettiest thing you’ve ever heard.

To wrap things up, you can buy Brian Wilson’s That Lucky Old Sun DVD, and watch the man and his incredible band run through a modern pop masterpiece.

3. Lost Season Five.

While wading through the oceans of great music coming this month, take some time out to catch television’s best show as it makes its triumphant return January 21. Season Four was this show’s finest hour so far, rushing headlong into new directions while tying up loose ends – I am more certain than ever that the Lost crew knows exactly where their labyrinthine story is going. This has been a thrilling ride so far, and the second-to-last season looks to be a corker.

I’m trying not to spoil anything for those of you who aren’t hooked yet, but trust me on this – you need to start from the beginning. Rent the first season, block out some time, and prepare to be sucked in.

4. Lumpy Money.

I know, I know. I promised a Frank Zappa buyer’s guide years ago, and I still haven’t gotten around to writing it. But the Zappa family has kept on pumping out the posthumous releases, and most of them are fantastic, worthy of the legacy Frank left behind. I’ve just pre-ordered the latest, Lumpy Money – a three-CD audio documentary chronicling the making of 1968’s We’re Only In It for The Money and Lumpy Gravy, two of Zappa’s finest. Unreleased Zappa is always welcome in my house, and this set sounds like the motherlode. Go here.

5. Roger Joseph Manning Jr., Catnip Dynamite.

I’ve been a Roger Manning fan since his time with Jellyfish, and he’s never let me down. His new record, Catnip Dynamite, came out in Japan last year, but it gets its stateside release on February 3. What I’ve heard has been nothing short of amazing – pure pop goodness, fabulous melodies, and production to die for. Manning is one of my heroes – he makes pop records that sound the way I want all pop records to sound. Cannot wait for this.

6. The Lonely Island, Incredibad.

Yes, I’m really looking forward to this. The Lonely Island is Andy Samberg’s comedy team – they do the digital shorts on Saturday Night Live. The album includes the best of these – “Lazy Sunday,” “Dick in a Box,” and the jaw-dropping “Jizz in My Pants.” (Look here, but not at work…) You also get a DVD of the digital shorts, so you won’t need to pick through the SNL DVDs to get them. The funniest album of 2009? We shall see.

7. Watchmen.

Whether this adaptation of one of the best graphic novels ever turns out to be good or godawful, I’m still looking forward to it. I first read Watchmen in college, more than 10 years ago, and it’s captivated me ever since – I just re-read it over Christmas, and saw new things I hadn’t noticed before. It’s an amazingly sophisticated story, one that uses the language of comics like few books before or since. Which makes it nearly impossible to faithfully adapt to the screen.

But I’m encouraged by a lot of what I’ve seen from Zack Snyder’s film. The look is exactly right, the cast of (mostly) unknowns certainly looks the part, and Snyder has managed to get dozens of little details down. The movie runs more than two and a half hours, which is encouraging, and though I’ve heard that the ending has been changed, it sounds like Snyder understands the point behind that ending. The mechanics are not as important as the message, and if that remains, I will be okay with this Watchmen movie.

Of course, I don’t want to just be okay with it, I want to love it. We’ll see on March 6 (hopefully, if Fox and Warner Brothers come to some kind of legal settlement in time).

8. The Decemberists, Hazards of Love.

Okay, I wasn’t that fond of The Crane Wife, the Decemberists’ major label debut. But I’m still breathlessly awaiting this new one, a 17-song rock opera about… well, I don’t know yet. I’m more than willing to go along for the ride – I don’t know another band quite like Colin Meloy’s merry men, equally steeped as they are in centuries-old folk music and indie-pop. I’m always on board for an ambitious, album-length statement, and this one, out March 24, sounds fantastic.

9. U2, No Line on the Horizon.

And finally, the biggest band in the world. Do I really need to tell you this is coming out? (March 3, in case you’re living under a rock.) Many critics disliked the last couple of U2 albums, dismissing them as radio-ready affairs, but to me, they represent both a return to form for this band, and a summation of lessons learned. Two discs of tight, yearning pop songs is probably enough, though – we’re ready for U2’s next step, and this promises to deliver. And even if it doesn’t, the thrill is in the anticipation, isn’t it?

There’s more, of course, including new ones from Neko Case, M. Ward, The Bad Plus, Dan Auerbach (of the Black Keys), Steven Wilson (of Porcupine Tree), the Indigo Girls, PJ Harvey and Ace Enders (of The Early November). And there’s a four-CD, five-DVD box set from Coheed and Cambria aptly titled Neverender, which I will buy despite still (still!) not making it all the way through the multi-disc sets I bought last year.

The aforementioned Frank Zappa was absolutely right, though. Music is the best. Year nine! Here we go.

See you in line Tuesday morning.