By the time you read this, I will have participated in my first panel discussion as a semi-professional music writer.

My friend Benjie Hughes runs a full-service recording studio in Aurora and plays in a band himself. But that’s not enough for Mr. Hughes – he’s taken it upon himself to bring the entire music-making and music-loving community together, in a spirit of community and cooperation, through a number of terrific regular events. And one of them, he calls The Guild – it’s a monthly meeting of those in the biz, comparing notes and talking music.

I’ve only been able to make a couple of these meetings, but they’re always a blast. I sometimes feel like the odd man out – I love music, but I haven’t made my own music in a long time, and I never got paid for it. Likewise, I was the only one on the panel Monday night who doesn’t currently get paid to write about music. I just do it ‘cause I love it, and I’d probably do it anyway.

Through the power of time travel, I am writing this before appearing on Monday’s panel, so I can’t possibly tell you how it went yet. (Update: I thought it went very well. Time travel is awesome!) But if you’re coming to this column for the first time thanks to that discussion, thank you, and welcome. This one’s gonna be a bit random – we’re still waiting for the big spring releases to start coming down the pike – but hopefully not a waste of your time. Come on back. We’ll be here every week.

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I’ve spent the week listening to two records, over and over.

The first of them isn’t out yet, but after years of secrecy, it leaked to an Australian music service last week, and you know, game over. Of course, I’m talking about U2’s No Line on the Horizon. I’ve heard it six times now, and it remains one of the long-running band’s most confounding records for me in this early going – I’m not sure what I think of it from day to day.

My first reaction was almost roundly negative. No Line is a departure from the last two U2 records, 2000’s All That You Can’t Leave Behind and 2004’s How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb. Those albums found the quartet regaining its snarl, its scrappy fire, after a decade of wandering the ironic-pop wilderness. More than that, though, they captured Bono and the boys in a journeyman period, writing the kind of tight, well-crafted pop songs only seasoned professionals can put together. More conservative records? Probably, but they were solid and consistent ones, for the first time in ages.

No Line on the Horizon brings back the sonic experimentation of their Achtung Baby period, but too often marries it to weak, half-formed song ideas. On first listen, my heart sank over and over – the title track has a thick sound but a thin skeleton and almost no chorus, “Moment of Surrender” nearly kills the album dead with seven minutes of go-nowhere repetition, and I still don’t quite know what they were going for on the meandering, half-chanted “Unknown Caller.” I’ve heard “Get On Your Boots” 20 times, and I still don’t like it, but I was surprised what a jolt of energy it delivers to this languid affair. “White as Snow” is very pretty, but takes its central melody directly from “O Come, O Come Emanuel.” I just sighed loudly again and again, thinking, “This is it? Five years, and this is what you’ve got?”

There were highlights, even on that first listen, most notably track two, “Magnificent,” which lives up to its title. Has there ever been a band able to get the most out of a single repeated lick like this one can? “Magnificent” only has the one, but it’s pretty amazing. I also quite liked “Stand Up Comedy” and “Breathe,” two of the more straightforward numbers, and closer “Cedars of Lebanon” is stark, off-kilter and unnerving – it’s taken me some time to realize that it’s exactly right.

The rest is still a struggle, but it’s growing on me. I realize I’m bringing a lot to this album, including a strong desire to like it – U2 has been one of the most important bands of my life, and they’ve been on such a roll lately, I’d hate to watch them flame out with an overthought, underwritten misfire. At some point, though, I may just have to accept that’s what they’ve delivered. No Line is a big, sweeping experience, but inside, it feels oddly empty.

And of course, good ol’ David Fricke gave it five stars…

Anyway, the listening continues. Full review to come after the album’s official release on March 3.

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But I said I’ve been listening to two records, and the other one was a surprise. It’s the 20th anniversary reissue of Paul’s Boutique, by the Beastie Boys, and can I just talk for a minute about how freaking awesome this album is?

Embarrassingly enough, my first Beastie experiences came from my sister, who played Licensed to Ill again and again when we were kids. I was 12, and she was nine, and why my mother let her even have that tape, I don’t know. I was morally opposed to it while mom and dad were around, but secretly enamored with it when they weren’t. I remember joining a few of my friends at summer camp one year in a terrible parody version of “Fight for Your Right,” championing our rights as kids to stay home if we wanted to. I was a nerdy child.

Paul’s Boutique came out when I was 15, and I bought it on cassette. Solid black plastic tape, old-school Capitol Records logo, lyrics printed as one long paragraph, black on sea green, with drawings of fish as decoration. And a panoramic cover photo that just kept folding out and out and out. I didn’t even know what cool was at that age, but Paul’s Boutique was cool.

Here’s the thing, though. Listening to this and Licensed to Ill back to back, it’s hard to imagine now, but everyone – everyone – was disappointed in Paul’s Boutique when it came out. I swear, we were. It’s like we all said, “You know, this insanely clever pop-cultural blender of a head trip of an album is okay, but I’d rather hear ‘Brass Monkey’ again. Where is this album’s ‘Girls’?” That’s just insane. But true story, kids, the album was dead on arrival, and the Beasties written off as a novelty band that just couldn’t keep the joke going.

What the hell were we thinking? Paul’s Boutique is a massive step up in every single way from the frat-boy idiocy of Ill. In fact, even now, there are few albums that sound as cool as this one does. Just about every second of the music has been sampled from other sources, cut and spliced and re-edited into new shapes – Paul’s Boutique joins the first three De La Soul albums as the best arguments ever put forward for sampling as an art form. Classic rock sits alongside Motown soul and jazz and a hundred other things. Lines from other songs and movies are inserted to complete jokes, or finish up rhymes. Years before Quentin Tarantino made his first movie, the Dust Brothers and the Beasties made something in his style, raiding 40 years of pop culture to make something out of time.

I mean, leave aside ass-kickers like “Shake Your Rump” and “Hey Ladies” for the moment, have you heard “Egg Man”? A vandalism party in three minutes, the song is simply dizzying – just try to spot all the samples. If you need a cheat sheet, go here. They sample Public Enemy, Curtis Mayfield, Tower of Power, Cheech and Chong, and the scores to Cape Fear and Psycho, all in the same song. Later they hit Loggins and Messina, the Eagles, the Beatles, a million different movies, Johnny Cash, and every great funk drum beat ever. It’s seamless and brilliant – these are new songs, not stolen hooks.

But that’s not all. The Beasties discovered their a-game on Paul’s Boutique, perfecting their old-school absurdism style of lyric writing. These white guys have, like, no flow at all, but it doesn’t matter – they are brilliant at what they do. Here’s just a sampling of amazing lines, all taken from just the first song, “Shake Your Rump”:

“So like a pimp I’m pimpin, got a boat to eat shrimp in, nothing wrong with my leg, just B-Boy limping…”

“Got arrested at Mardi Gras for jumping on a float, my man MCA’s got a beard like a billy goat…”

“Like Sam the butcher bringing Alice the meat, like Fred Flintstone driving around with bald feet…”

“Running from the law, the press and the parents, ‘Is your name Michael Diamond?’ ‘Nah, mine’s Clarence…’”

And of course, “I got the peg leg at the end of my stump, shake your rump…”

They mean nothing. They are awesome. The whole record’s full of them. In many ways, the Beasties never got this good at this kind of thing again – later records brought in funk instrumentals, punk interludes and a social conscience, leaving less room for this kind of inspired lunacy. At track 13 on this album is perhaps the greatest Beastie song of them all, “Shadrach,” in which these Jewish boys co-opt the names of three friends of Daniel in the Old Testament, and then declare they “got more stories than J.D. got Salinger,” all over samples from “Hot and Nasty” and “Loose Booty.” It’s stunning, even 20 years later.

Paul’s Boutique isn’t perfect – it does end with the still-baffling, 12-minute mish-mash “B-Boy Bouillabaisse,” after all – but it is pretty close, and if you haven’t heard it, you really should. A 20-year anniversary edition of this thing certainly makes me feel old, but the joyous, endlessly inventive music it contains makes me feel young again. I love this album.

* * * * *

And so we wait for the good stuff, but believe me, it’s coming. March, all by itself, is going to set me back about $500, but it’s going to be worth it. Here’s a look at what’s coming:

On March 3, we get new ones from Neko Case, Soundtrack of Our Lives, Robert Pollard’s new band Boston Spaceships, Revolting Cocks, Buddy and Julie Miller, and some little band called U2. (I think they could be big one day. Keep your eye on ‘em.) The next week, look out for Chris Cornell, Cursive, and a reissue of Beth Orton’s still-awesome Trailer Park.

March 17 sees only former Early November frontman Ace Enders’ solo album, When I Hit the Ground, released under the name Ace Enders and a Million Different People. But March 24 hits us with the new Decemberists, Hazards of Love; the new Indigo Girls, Poseidon and the Bitter Bug; new things from Mastodon, Pet Shop Boys, KMFDM and MxPx; deluxe reissues of the first three Radiohead albums and the first Pearl Jam disc; and the first new album from Marillion guitarist Steve Rothery’s side band, The Wishing Tree, in more than 10 years. Whew! Damn.

The last week of the month will brings us the long-awaited second collaboration between PJ Harvey and John Parish, the we-promise-this-time last offering from Ministry (called Adios, because that worked so well for KMFDM), and new things from Bruce Cockburn, Peter Bjorn and John, and Gavin DeGraw. Oh, and Queensryche’s new album, a so-earnest-it’s-probably-awful concept record called American Soldier.

April! We have new records on the way from Doves, Bob Mould, The Hold Steady (their first live document), Fastball, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Depeche Mode, Jars of Clay, Great Northern, and Heaven and Hell, the Dio-era Black Sabbath under their new name. Oh, and Ben Folds will release his University A Cappella project – it’s a collection of renditions of his songs by college a cappella acts. His maddest idea yet? Maybe so…

You already know Green Day’s 21st Century Breakdown is slated for May 5, but you may not know that May will also bring us new Isis, the solo debut from Grandaddy’s Jason Lytle, a two-disc rarities collection from Iron and Wine, and, at the furthest point on my release calendar right now, Veckatimest, the third record from Grizzly Bear. Look back at that list. As spring seasons go, that ain’t bad.

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A couple of random (well, more random) notes before signing off.

I was about 75 percent on my Oscar picks, as it turns out. I was pulling for Mickey Rourke, since I don’t think the Academy is going to have the chance to honor him again for a performance like this. But I wouldn’t have missed Sean Penn’s “you commie homo-loving sons-o-guns” speech. Penelope Cruz surprised me, but I suppose Viola Davis needs a more substantial role to catch the voters’ attention. And it was Kate Winslet’s year, and I feel dumb for not realizing that.

But hooray for Slumdog Millionaire, the little film that could. I think this movie tapped into the cultural zeitgeist in a way no one was prepared for – when Danny Boyle was shooting his Mumbai fairy tale, he couldn’t have known that the U.S. economic situation would soon make the story of a hard-luck kid getting everything he wants seem relevant. But also, there’s a verve, an energy to this movie that none of the other nominees had. It’s joyous, alive filmmaking at its best, and I’m glad to see it honored.

So last week, I took shots at the premiere episode of Dollhouse, so it’s only fair that I mention the second, which was a marked improvement. It still wasn’t particularly engaging, but it was tense, and layered, and made me care a little bit more. It’s telling that this episode did not come from creator Joss Whedon, but from Stephen DeKnight, one of the brightest lights of Whedon’s Angel writing staff. Maybe some of the writers care about this show more than Whedon does, and can ignite his creative spark. We’ll see.

Next week, a look at Steven Wilson’s Insurgentes. And maybe that Colin Baker column. We’ll see. For now, I’m going to listen to No Line on the Horizon again and try to like it more. Thanks for reading.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So Joss Whedon has a new television show. Um, yay.

That’s about all the enthusiasm I can muster after watching the premiere of Dollhouse last week. I know, it’s just the first episode, and it’s Whedon, so I’m going to give it another chance. (As many chances, in fact, as Fox will allow me to give it. My money’s on four.) But speaking as someone who has loved virtually every one of the man’s projects, I have to say, I’m just not feeling this one yet.

Dollhouse is a very good idea for a show that, somehow, just didn’t turn into a very good show. Star Eliza Dushku plays Echo, one of several “actives” who work for this strange corporation. The company rents out these actives to whomever can pay for them, and imprints new personalities each time, turning them into whatever the client wants or needs. And when the mission is over, the actives return to the Dollhouse, their carefully-controlled home base, to have their memories wiped.

Presumably, the show will be about Echo rediscovering who she is, which would make for great drama… if Whedon and Dushku can get me to care about their main character. The first episode just kind of unfolded on screen without any emotional impact, like a standard Fox sci-fi show. The seeds are there, but they haven’t blossomed yet. And I wonder just how long Fox will let this expensive-looking show go on before they do. I found the debut episode half-hearted – I wasn’t drawn into Echo’s world as much as I expected to be, and though the sci-fi trappings are neat, the characters didn’t resonate.

In a recent interview in Rolling Stone, Whedon discussed his future in show business. He claims Dollhouse is his last TV show – he prefers the model he pioneered last year with Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog, an Internet-only event that was written, produced and promoted Whedon’s way. Dr. Horrible made him tons of money, and was an artistically satisfying endeavor. Dollhouse, on the other hand, sounds like it was hell to get off the ground, and will probably be shitcanned in a few weeks. He talks as though Dollhouse is already dead to him, and that comes through on screen, unfortunately.

But I will keep watching. If Dollhouse had been created by anyone but Whedon, I’d probably have given up already, but I can imagine just how good this concept could be, if its creator is allowed to explore it. If he wants to, I hope he gets the chance. If he’s already moved on, then I hope Fox grants this show a quick death.

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I’m usually pretty good at figuring out why I like something.

It’s part of the reason I started doing this music critic thing. Even as a teenager, I was picking apart my own reactions to things, analyzing why certain songs hit me and others didn’t. I can tell you just what it is about OK Computer that I love (complex song structures, alien production that complements the music, gorgeous melodies topped off by Thom Yorke’s plaintive voice and paranoid lyrics), and what it is about Kid A I can’t stand (virtually no songs at all, production that aims for interesting but hits annoying, Yorke yelping like an unrestrained hyena).

What I’m trying to say is, I am rarely at a loss to defend my tastes. I can make good cases for even the strangest stuff I enjoy, like Jandek and Joy Electric. But every once in a while, I will tap into something that I can’t explain, something roundly rejected as empty and worthless. I will find myself loving this music that, under normal circumstances, I would toss aside, and I will be unable to put up a good defense, even to myself.

This is where I am right now with The Fray. I should hate this. I hate things that are exactly like this. But I have been unable to stop listening to their second album. I’ve had since February 3 to figure out why I like this stuff, but I can’t. I reservedly liked this Denver band’s debut album, How to Save a Life, but the flaws were obvious to me too. That’s not happening this time – I just really like this self-titled effort. The band has amplified what they’ve done before, and smoothed out the rough spots. It just really works for me.

If I break this music down to its basic elements, it falls apart. The songs are moderately melodic affairs, the ballads sappy and the mid-tempo tunes merely adequate. (Those are your two options here – walking and crawling.) The lyrics are cliched, both in their depression and their hopefulness. Isaac Slade’s voice sounds like a grown-up version of his namesake’s in Hanson, and his piano playing is decent, but nothing extraordinary. The production here is full, but bland and commercial. Every song sounds like it was polished up with hundred-dollar bills. There is nothing about it I should like.

But the opening piano chords of “Syndicate” get me every time. The song has an intriguing three-into-four time signature, but I’m not even listening to that. I’m just drawn in, singing along with the chorus and humming the opening motif every time it comes around. “Absolute” is even better, the double-time drums on the verses providing the album its quickest pulse. And by the time the piano breakdown segues into the chorus, I’m sold.

I know, I should be ashamed. If I really think about it, I can’t imagine why I like “You Found Me,” the single that’s cropped up in ads for Lost all month. It’s musically boring, lyrically trite – especially the stabs at profundity, like “I found God on the corner of First and Amistad” – and spit-shined in the studio to be as inoffensive as possible. But Lord help me, I do like it. It sounds like the kind of song I would have tried to write in 11th grade, all big piano chords in familiar patterns. It has nothing to recommend it, but I sing along with it every time anyway.

I’ve been trying to justify the weird crush I have on this album by pointing out the things it does right. And there are some – “Enough for Now” has a nice melody, the whole of “We Build Then We Break” seems to turn the amps up (at least to five or six), and the second half of “Say When” is a mantra-like crescendo that packs a velvety punch. You know what? I’m listening to “Say When” right now, and though it never jumps out of the speakers and commands your attention, it’s a good little song. It is. Honest.

Why must this be such a struggle? Why can’t I just like what I like? Is it because I’m worried about my credibility? I know people who would rather jump in front of a moving train than admit to liking something like The Fray. Why is that? Is it because the band has sold millions of records? Is it because the music sounds at least partially designed to sell millions of records? How is that different than music that is designed to garner indie credibility? Is writing a likeable piano-pop song less of a laudable ambition than composing a lo-fi garage-folk epic?

Some critics say there’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure. If it makes you happy, you should enjoy it guilt-free. But I don’t think they mean it. I think these people ultimately want you to enjoy whatever you want, as long as you show the proper amount of penance for it. I’ve dutifully done this – I have no idea why I like The Fray, and it weighs on me. “Where the Story Ends” is barely even a song, it’s so simple and slight, but I’m nodding my head as it plays. “Never Say Never” is just sappy, but when Slade repeats “don’t let me go” again and again in its final minute, I’m taken by it.

The problem, of course, is not with the music. The Fray does what they do very well, and they do it better on this album than they have before. The template is basically unchanged from the first record, but the sound is bigger, the songs tighter, the overall feel more complete. This is what they do, and expecting them to do anything else is silly. You like it or you don’t.

I wish I could just like it. Everything in me is yearning to simply embrace it, but I’m not built that way. If I can’t figure out what there is to embrace, and why I’m embracing it, I can’t seem to let go and do it. Rolling Stone panned this album. Rolling Stone, a mag that gives a minimum of three stars to anything, can’t find much to like here. I’m left wondering if it’s me, if my taste has taken a critical blow.

But no. The Fray is an earnest album of mid-range piano pop, not the end of civilization as we know it. Though I can already feel the scorn coming my way from some of my more indie-friendly correspondents, I have enjoyed this record each time I’ve played it, and I don’t see that dissipating any time soon. It is a pleasure, and I am guilty of it. I know why I shouldn’t like it, and I know why many, many others have dismissed it. Thankfully, none of that seems to be stopping me. I keep playing it, and I keep on liking it, and each time, I find myself worrying about it less and just enjoying it more.

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And now for another installment of Stuff I Missed. This week, another record I heard courtesy of Dr. Tony Shore, one I really should have reviewed last week while talking about one-man bands. It’s called Free at Last, and it’s by a guy named Josh Fix.

And it’s a huge, unabashed pop record, performed with astonishing skill. Like Roger Manning, whose new album I reviewed last week, Josh Fix is steeped in ‘60s and ‘70s rock traditions. This means his songs are massive constructions, packed with layers of instruments and vocals. It’s the kind of thing people who don’t like Queen would call over the top. I love Queen, so I call it sonically dazzling.

Aside from a few drum beats here and there, Fix plays and sings everything on this album, and when you hear it, you’ll understand what a feat that is. He’s overdubbed himself again and again, and yet the final product sounds like he assembled the greatest sugar-coated pop band you’ve ever heard. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say there are very few musicians around today who could have made Free at Last this way.

The album kicks off with “Don’t Call Me in the Morning,” which Dr. Shore rightly called one of the best songs of 2008. I’ll retroactively do the same – this song is fantastic. You get a brief overture, verses performed on piano and bass, and then an explosion of vocals over a purely Freddie Mercury bridge. And then that chorus… so sweet. The whole thing is produced in 3-D full color, like an unreleased Jellyfish tune. This is one of the finest pop gems in recent years.

The record never gets quite as good again, but it never gets bad, either – it’s like the difference between A Night at the Opera and News of the World. Both classics, but one’s a bit more classic, if you know what I mean. Anyway, “Jethro” is a nice piano-driven piece that reminds me of The Band, “Whiskey and Speed” is an unlikely (yet terrific) six-minute epic, “The Water in My Brain” (Queen reference!) is a slower, moodier delight, and closer “I Thought About It First” has shades of Kevin Gilbert hiding in its rock-god melancholy.

The whole thing is pretty much super. You don’t hear albums like Free at Last too often, simply because the skill it takes to make something like this is rare. I don’t know where Josh Fix came from, but damn, I’m glad he’s here, and I’m excited to see where he goes. If you’d like to hear Free at Last, the whole thing is streaming here. At the very least, listen to “Don’t Call Me in the Morning” – it’s the first thing that plays when you click on the site. I am ashamed to have missed something this good. Tony Shore has earned his keep once again.

Next week, we’ll still be waiting for the good stuff – the deluge starts in earnest on March 3. I may take the opportunity to ramble about Colin Baker’s run on Doctor Who. Just to warn you.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So right up front this week, I want to revise one of my Oscar picks.

Initially, I scoffed at the idea of Viola Davis getting a Best Supporting Actress nomination for 10 minutes of screen time. How good could she possibly be, I figured. It takes more than one 10-minute scene to cement a character and a performance.

That was before I saw Doubt.

Now, I think that if Davis doesn’t win this thing, that some injustice against God and man will have been done. Yes, she’s in one scene. It is the single best scene in an otherwise decent movie, and Davis, in that 10 minutes, becomes the heart, soul and center of Doubt. She shares that scene with Meryl Streep, and not only holds her own, but blows her fellow actress off the screen. Seriously. In a movie with Streep, Philip Seymour Hoffman and the great Amy Adams, Davis’ brave, heart-wrenching performance steals the show. She deserves this award.

I initially picked Taraji P. Henson, and while I liked her work, I am more than happy to present a slate of predictions freshly scrubbed clean of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Let’s all pretend it never happened.

Thank you for your kind indulgence. Your regularly scheduled music column resumes below.

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I’ve always been interested in one-man bands.

That’s partially, I think, because I am one – my hard drive is littered with songs I constructed from the ground up, playing every instrument. I’ve been doing things that way since I was a teenager. I would spend long hours in the basement, hunched over a four-track recorder, trying to get a bass line to match the piano part I’d already laid down, or stacking vocal harmonies atop one another. It was a lot of work, and the finished products usually sucked, so I can only imagine just how difficult a good one-man project must be.

It’s not that I don’t like interplay between musicians, or live improvisation and collaboration. I do. But there’s something fascinating to me about solo artists who take the word “solo” literally, like Todd Rundgren and Prince. For one thing, the singular vision of the artist remains undiluted – whether you like Something/Anything or not, it’s exactly what Rundgren wanted it to be. And likewise, there’s nowhere else to point the finger of blame – if you hate Rockin’ the Suburbs, it’s all Ben Folds’ fault, since he played (nearly) every instrument.

I like the idea of listening to a single visionary realize every element of a song, but I can understand why some don’t – music often thrives on creative collaboration, on talented players sparking off of one another. Paul McCartney (who will sometimes play every instrument on his albums) has never approached the heights of the Beatles in his solo career. Still, I admire people who will hunker down and do the work themselves, and take full responsibility for the results.

One of those people is Roger Joseph Manning Jr., but of course, I knew of him when he was just Roger Manning. In the early ‘90s, Manning was the keyboard genius in Jellyfish, still one of the finest power pop bands to ever walk the earth. Over two extraordinary (and extraordinarily detailed) albums, Jellyfish brought back the ‘70s Queen sound – oceans of harmonies, dozens of brilliantly arranged instruments – and married it to some of the greatest pop songs you’ll ever hear.

Since Jellyfish broke up in 1994, Manning has worked with Beck, Imperial Drag and the Moog Cookbook, but it took more than 10 years for him to release his amazing solo debut, The Land of Pure Imagination. A complete solo project, that album found him returning to the dizzying pop of Jellyfish, with indelible melodies rendered in candy-coated harmonies over intricate arrangements. But you could still feel that Manning was getting the hang of this one-man thing – the sound was a little thin in places, especially compared with the dense beauty of Jellyfish’s records.

Well, he’s got it now. Catnip Dynamite, Manning’s second solo album, is a massive whirlygig of sound, a fantastic journey through 11 big, big pop songs. Once again, he played every instrument (except for some pedal steel on one song), and I can only imagine how long it must have taken him to put this thing together. Just the harmonies alone would make Brian Wilson smile (pun absolutely intended), Manning’s voice overdubbed dozens of times on each track. The drums are often programmed, but just as often not, and the stacks of instruments on each song would make Axl Rose cry.

Overproduced? Not hardly. Catnip Dynamite is a throwback to a time when artists cared deeply about every element of their music, etching sonic details into every corner. It’s a headphone album, but it’s also tons of fun – Manning was always Jellyfish’s sense of humor, and that comes out more than once on this record. Take the first single, “Down in Front” – it’s a huge boogie-based pop tune, drowned in harmonies, made for dancing, and it’s honestly about people who stand up in front of you at movie theaters. It’s silly, but it’s awesome.

So is “Love’s Never Half as Good,” the second song – Manning establishes pretty early that he’s not taking things all that seriously here, and he drives it home with an out-of-nowhere Vegas-style spoken word section. (“Now, I know there’s plenty of you out there who know exactly what I’m talking about, so if you can dig it, I want you to put your hands together right now and sing along!”) But the song! The song is wonderful, a Rundgren-esque piano ballad complete with acoustic bass thumps, tympani rolls, and (again) some fantastic backing vocals. I haven’t heard a song like this in at least 10 years. It’s just beautiful.

Manning doesn’t always hit the mark, especially in the sillier first half. “My Girl” is just too sunny and plastic to work – most of this song is programmed, and it sounds a bit too Casiotone to soar, despite the vocals. And the production on “Haunted Henry,” the tale of a scary old war veteran and his haunted house, takes its camp-spookiness a tad too far. (The song itself, however, is strong.)

But more often than not, Manning’s complex, immaculately-produced pop makes its own case, particularly when things turn serious in the second half. “The Turnstile at Heaven’s Gate” is a wonder, all ‘70s prog on harpsichords and nasty guitars. But it’s the eight-minute “Survival Machine” that takes the prize – it’s the prettiest, creepiest song here, slowly unfolding over a delicate harpsichord motif to tell the story of the Manhattan Project and its aftermath. When the organs come in, it’s almost a religious experience. And “Living in End Times” is the sprightliest song about the book of Revelations I’ve ever heard.

Of course, Manning can’t help but end on a goofy note. “Drive-Thru Girl” is a faux-live singalong that’s just right. You may chuckle at lines like “I’m placing my order with you,” but believe me, you’ll be humming them for days. It’s pure Roger Manning – a brilliant pop song that pokes fun at itself, and makes you laugh along. When “Drive-Thru Girl” ends, all is right with the world.

Catnip Dynamite is certainly not for everyone. Like a lot of one-man projects, there’s a canned quality to some of it, and Manning’s willingness to be almost ludicrously silly at times may turn some off. But in Manning’s world, music can be smart and fun at the same time, and should be. Catnip Dynamite is a bigger, better, stranger album than Manning’s solo debut, and while it may take a few listens to grasp the full-color world Manning’s building here, it’s worth it.

(Catnip Dynamite came out in Japan last year, but the U.S. release, out last week, includes three bonus live tracks, including a stunning 11-minute version of Elton John’s “Love Lies Bleeding.” It does, however, lop off one song, “American Affluenza” – I imagine Oglio Records didn’t want to offend Americans with it, but I wish they’d let us decide for ourselves.)

A more consistent one-man project is Loney, Dear, whose fifth album, Dear John, hit stores last month. Loney, Dear is the work of Swedish wunderkind Emil Svanangen, who struck gold two years ago when Sub Pop gave his fourth album, Loney, Noir, a wide release. I heard it by accident – my local record store got a promo copy, and one of the counter jockeys randomly played it one night. And everyone in the store stopped what they were doing and crowded around, listening.

Svanangen makes what can best be described as intense delicate music. The songs on Loney, Noir all started with soft acoustic guitars and slowly built up, layer upon layer of instruments filling it out, until by the end the songs burst with life. Svanangen’s high, strong voice is a key selling point too, and he harmonizes with himself beautifully. Loney, Noir is a quietly detailed record of lush pop songs, here and gone in half an hour. It was one of my favorite records of 2007.

But it wasn’t noir, not by any stretch. No, that description more aptly fits Dear John, a darker and fuller album that gives more, but leaves you wanting just the same. You can hear the difference immediately. “Airport Surroundings” kicks things off with a striking electronic beat and a minor-key melody that sounds like streetlights zipping by on a darkened road. The acoustic instruments are gone, replaced by keyboards and whirring beats, but they fit Svanangen’s vocals, especially in the wordless refrain, beautifully.

“Everything Turns to You” is even more of a change-up, setting a spooky melody to subtle yet lightning-fast beats and creepy synthesizer lines. The tension builds up over three minutes until, like most Loney, Dear songs, it ends abruptly. I didn’t mind as much when the music was cathartic, but these songs are taut and pulse-quickening, with no release. We’re in more familiar territory with ballad “I Was Only Going Out” and “Harsh Words,” but “Under a Silent Sea” puts us right back into the darkness. That one is particularly creepy, Svanangen doubling his vocal line through a tone box over a pulsing bass line. When this song blossoms partway through, it’s something to behold.

Throughout, most of the instrumentation is electronic, which seems an easier choice for a one-man band like this one. But it leaves me with the sense that Svanangen just didn’t work as hard on Dear John as he has in the past – that’s probably not true, and the album does open up new worlds of sound for him, but the perception is unavoidable. My favorite moment on this album is the one that breaks his solo album ethos – Andrew Bird adds delicate, gorgeous violin to the brief “I Got Lost.”

Give Dear John time, though, and it reveals its dark beauty. At its heart, this is still Loney, Dear, and though he’s surrounded by (and often submerged under) new sounds, the songs are still little wonders. Dig “Distant Lights” – it’s marked by a thumping bass beat and droning keyboards, but the melody is tight and Svanangen’s backing vocals are lovely as ever. (Of course, then the synth choir comes in…) There’s nothing wrong with this album, it just gives off a completely different feel than the earlier Loney, Dear records, and that can take some getting used to.

But that’s part of the thrill of a one-man project. If Svanangen wants to completely shift gears, he can, and no one can stop him. I applaud him for taking steps in a new direction, even if the resulting album doesn’t thrill me like his last one did. I’m sure, given repeated listens, I will find much to love about this record – it’s already sinking in, in fact. The closing title track is as beautiful a song as Svanangen has written, proof that he’s still the same man under it all. If it takes a little longer to find him under Dear John’s stormy clouds, well, so be it. I will press play again and again.

Next week… well, I’m not sure. I have several options. Tune in seven days from now to find out which one I picked.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I can’t tell you how glad I am that Duncan Sheik isn’t trying to be a pop star anymore.

He was always uncomfortable in the role. His only pop hits came early in his career, and can be found on his self-titled debut, by far the weakest of his efforts. “Barely Breathing” is a fine song, as is “She Runs Away,” but in the spookier, sparser moments of that album, you could hear Sheik reaching for something deeper.

Ten years later, he seems confident, collected, easy in his own skin. And I think it’s partially because he’s not trying to fit anyone’s mold for him any longer. The last flash of pop star Duncan came on 2002’s Daylight, the flip side of his masterpiece, the previous year’s Phantom Moon. On that record, Sheik compressed his layered compositions into three-minute pop songs (and one glorious two-minute love letter, “For You”), in a bid for radio play and higher sales. He got neither, and since then, he’s graciously waved goodbye to that scene.

If not for that pesky second hit, most would consider Sheik a one-hit wonder. But that doesn’t take into account the Tony awards he won for his score to Spring Awakening – if you follow musical theater, that one was kind of a big deal. What the pop charts didn’t want, Broadway has embraced, and Sheik hasn’t had to change a thing about his sound. He just writes the same kind of haunting folk-pop he always has – it’s too complex and low-key for radio, but it works just fine on the stage.

That’s not to say Sheik has abandoned his recording career, but now he’s merging it with his theatrical ambitions, and the results are superb. His sixth album, Whisper House, consists of Sheik’s full-band versions of 10 songs from a musical set to hit the stage later this year. But don’t fret – there’s no Gilbert and Sullivan-style set pieces here. If not for the lyrical nods to the overarching story, you wouldn’t know this is anything other than the next Duncan Sheik record. And it’s his best and strongest set of songs since Phantom Moon – bleak, wintry and oh so pretty.

The story: Whisper House is about a young boy whose father is killed in World War II. He goes to live with a relative in an old lighthouse, and soon finds out that a band (literally) of ghosts lives there too. The ghosts sing him stories about life’s unremitting darkness, and fill the boy with fear – so much so that he turns in the lighthouse’s keeper, Yasuhiro, as a Japanese spy. He has no evidence for this, just irrational fear, and the story is about how he deals with what he’s done.

See? Dark. And the songs fit the mood perfectly. I’d like to say that the narrative doesn’t matter to the music, but that’s not the case – these songs tell the story, and don’t make much sense without it. For instance, you won’t get the morbid joke behind opener “It’s Better to Be Dead” unless you know that it’s sung by the ghosts haunting the lighthouse. Similarly, “The Tale of Solomon Snell” seems to come out of nowhere, unless you realize it’s one of the stories the ghosts tell young Christopher – the story of a man buried alive.

As those who heard Spring Awakening know, the theater has not altered Sheik’s basic alchemy – you can still expect slowly-unfolding songs, lovely textured guitar, a smattering of other instruments (the muted trumpets in “Solomon Snell” are great), and Sheik’s even tenor above it all. On his first few efforts, Sheik’s thin voice was his biggest weakness, but he’s learned to wield it since then, and some of his best vocals ever are on Whisper House. On this album, he’s enlisted his longtime touring partner, Holly Brook, to sing the female parts, and their voices intertwine beautifully – check “Earthbound Starlight,” or Brook’s spotlight number, “And Now We Sing.”

At its best, Sheik’s music drops the temperature of whatever room you play it in. Whisper House is a sad, even tragic story, and by the end, the music is almost majestically bleak. “Play Your Part” is about immutable destiny – all the world’s a stage, and you can’t improvise. “How It Feels” is perhaps the album’s most fragile song, our ghostly hosts sounding almost sympathetic until the chorus: “You’ll learn how it feels, hearts break and never heal…”

And “I Don’t Believe in You” gets the Justin Currie Award for Most Hopeless Lyric. The song is a rising storm, as the spectral chorus lays it on the line – life is not worth living, the world is not worth saving. “There’s nothing you can do, and we don’t believe in you…” Strangely enough, this is my favorite song on the album, and it contains a striking extended guitar solo from Gerry Leonard – he’s relegated to textures and accents on the rest of the album, but he gets the spotlight here, and he brings out the harshness of the song wonderfully.

In the end, aside from its theatrical roots and narrative drive, Whisper House is a Duncan Sheik album, and a very good one. If you’ve missed the evolution of Sheik the songwriter and record-maker over the past 10 years, it might surprise you, but if you’ve been following along, rest assured this is another dark and dignified piece of work. Sheik’s songs creep up on you, and only take hold over time, but with Whisper House, he’s delivered his most consistently affecting music since Phantom Moon. As the last song says, Duncan, take a bow.

* * * * *

I hear you, though. It’s February, the snow is on the ground, temperatures are low, and that post-Christmas blues just keeps hanging around. Acoustic folk-pop albums about nihilistic ghosts are all well and good, but you want something fun, something that can help you with the mid-winter doldrums. And I have just the thing.

It’s been four years since Scottish wunderkinds Franz Ferdinand released an album. That’s plenty of time to completely reinvent yourself, and re-emerge with a new image, a new sound and a new shot at some kind of artistic respectability. Franz Ferdinand have done none of that. Their third album, Tonight: Franz Ferdinand, is every bit the fun rump-shaker their first two were, if not more. If you liked them before, you will like them again. And if you didn’t, well, they work harder this time to grab your ear.

I have mentioned my Third Album Theory before – it’s the junior effort, more than the sophomore one, that cements a band’s vision. Bands have their entire lives to write their debut, and only a few months (usually) to create the follow-up, which is why most second albums are slapped-together, ramshackle affairs. The smart bands save some of their material for the second album, but that ordinarily means record #2 is exactly the same as record #1. (That’s exactly what happened with Franz Ferdinand’s sophomore album, You Could Have It So Much Better, a clone of their self-titled debut.)

Ah, but the third album, that’s the one to watch. Bands usually have time to craft that third record, and the whirlwind of those first couple of record-tour-record-tour cycles is behind them. The third album, in most cases, is where the ambitions come out, and it most often points towards future directions. The things that haven’t changed by the third album are the things the band wants to keep.

With that in mind, here’s what hasn’t changed on Tonight: Franz Ferdinand. The songs are still jaunty dance-rockers, and they still sound like Morrissey’s disco band. The impressive, creative guitar lines are still here. Alex Kapranos still sounds like the biggest asshole you’ve ever met, particularly on tunes like “Bite Hard” and “What She Came For,” and though I’m certain it’s all an act, I still want to punch him. And Franz still work overtime to pack as much fun into 42 minutes as they can.

Here’s what’s different, and why Tonight is my favorite of the three. While Franz has always been (and still is) a rock band playing dance music, on this album they’ve amped up the keyboard quotient – most of these songs have cheesy-awesome synth parts that just knock them through the roof. Check out “Twilight Omens” – yes, the hook is the fantabulous guitar riff on the choruses, but try to imagine it without the burbling synth orchestra that fills the nooks and crannies. It’s sweet.

The Franzers make a much more concerted push for the dance floor on this album. Dig “No You Girls,” perhaps my favorite thing here – the drum part is almost mechanical, and every element of this tune, from the ‘70s porn bass line and guitar accents in the verse to the elegantly arranged (and totally awesome) chorus, is designed to get your ass moving. It’s just wonderful, and I can’t understand why this isn’t the first single, instead of blasé opening track “Ulysses.”

But they also pack this album full of little surprises. The first one comes at track four – “Send Him Away” is a lighter-than-air waltz that sounds a lot like the Doors to my ears. (Plus, real handclaps!) Otherwise standard sex-rocker “What She Came For” concludes with a levels-in-the-red punk rock jam that comes out of nowhere. (And might damage your speakers, if you’re not ready for it.) And “Lucid Dreams” starts out like any one of these songs, but evolves into an eight-minute synthesizers-and-drums workout – it’s like its own extended dance remix.

And then there is “Katherine Kiss Me,” the gentle acoustic closer, which finds Kapranos’ arrogant mask slipping a little bit. It’s every bit the come-on that most of these songs are, but it recasts the lyrics to “No You Girls” in a gentler light. Seldom has the dichotomy of the wild night and the morning after been rendered so literally. The song is actually emotional in its delivery, so very close to truth that it makes the rest of this album feel like a glittering lie. Which, of course, it is, but it’s a damn fun one.

So what have we learned from Franz Ferdinand’s third album? One, these guys actually deserved the hype that flooded around them five years ago. Two, their sound is now pretty well established – they’re not going to start baring their souls over string arrangements or anything. Three, they’re just going to keep getting better at this. The songs and melodies on Tonight: Franz Ferdinand are their strongest ones yet, and the record just keeps throwing them at you, as if they’ll never run out. And four, if you’re looking for the most fun you can have with 45 minutes and a CD player, this is a pretty good bet.

* * * * *

I can’t believe I’m about to say this, because I’m not at all a fan, but the biggest and most surprising omission from this year’s Oscar nominees is Bruce Springsteen.

The Academy only tapped three nominees for Best Song this year, in a category that ordinarily sports five. That makes the snubbing of Springsteen’s moody “The Wrestler,” written for the film of the same name, even more inexplicable. I’m not going to quibble with the choices that are there. A.R. Rahman’s score for Slumdog Millionaire is fantastic, and “Down to Earth,” written for Wall-E, is typically excellent Peter Gabriel.

But why not Bruce? Especially since he already won the Golden Globe in the same category. Even if he were nominated, I’d still give the Oscar to Rahman’s “Jai Ho,” the musical backdrop to the year’s coolest dance sequence. But hell, Springsteen deserves to be there.

One rant over, another one queued up. I’m doing that thing I do every year now, catching up with all the movies I missed. I’ve seen all five Best Picture nominees (and by extension, the Best Director noms), and most of the nominated acting performances now. And I have to say, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, which leads the field with 13 nods, may well be the worst film of 2008.

Okay, maybe it’s not worse than The Hottie and the Nottie, and it won’t be picking up any Razzies. (Congrats to M. Night Shyamalan, for getting a Worst Director nod two films in a row!) But Button is an even more insidious beast – a terrible, soulless, boring, trite waste of time disguised as an important, insightful work of art. When I first saw this three-hour snooze-fest, it just sort of annoyed me. But now, with all the thunderous acclaim it’s gathered on its race towards Best Picture, it truly pisses me off.

What’s wrong with it? Too many things to mention, honestly. I’ll name a few, though. Aside from aging backwards, nothing interesting happens to Benjamin Button at all over three excruciating hours. He grows up, he fights in a war (for about five minutes), he meets a girl, he likes the girl, they break up, he gets old and dies. That’s it. Button learns nothing from the people around him, is not at all affected by events (such as they are) in his life, and dies the same person he’s always been. He has nothing to teach us.

But director David Fincher (seriously!) believes he does, and he tries to convince us of that by giving every little action or moment INTENSE SIGNIFICANCE. The movie is framed by a sequence that takes place in New Orleans, as Hurricane Katrina bears down on a hospital, and you’d think there would be a reason for bringing up a disaster of this magnitude, but there isn’t. It just Feels Important. It’s a splendidly-shot disguise, a veneer of gravity the threadbare film doesn’t earn.

Brad Pitt, inexplicably nominated for Best Actor, resurrects his performance from Meet Joe Black here. He’s blank-faced and expressionless for most of the film, as life goes on around him, affecting him not at all. By the end of the movie, I felt like Fincher and his team wanted me to really feel something, wanted me to come away with life lessons. But I didn’t find any. I just found a second-rate Forrest Gump knockoff, and I lost three hours I can never get back.

Thankfully, I liked the four other Best Picture nominees, with varying degrees of intensity. I went into The Reader expecting this year’s Atonement, but it’s pretty good. Its uneasy mix of Holocaust drama and soft-core porn never quite coheres, but each half is true to the characters and their experiences, and in the end, the story is one of uncomfortable sadness. (Here’s an interesting bit of trivia – Stephen Daldry has now been nominated for Best Director for all three of the films he’s made. Quite the streak.)

The two biographical pieces, Milk and Frost/Nixon, are excellent. Sean Penn is rightly nominated for his spot-on portrayal of Harvey Milk, San Francisco’s first openly gay city supervisor. The movie is rousing, but never cheesy, and Josh Brolin (also justly nominated) brings assassin Dan White to sympathetic life. Meanwhile, Frank Langella looks nothing like Richard Nixon, but he embodies him in a way no other actor has quite managed. The movie is a delight, a genuinely tense affair, even if you know how it all turns out. My only question is, where’s Michael Sheen’s nomination? He was superb as David Frost, unafraid to show his careless and egotistical side.

But the clear winner for me is Slumdog Millionaire, Danny Boyle’s delirious Bollywood-influenced romp through the streets of Mumbai. Everything – every single little thing – in this movie works, and though it’s a slight fairy tale when slotted next to its competition, its magical qualities set it above the rest. I don’t know where to start with Boyle – he’s never made two films that look and feel alike, and he shoots Slumdog in a kinetic, joyous style that shouts its presence from the mountaintops. In the end, it’s about a kid who goes on a game show to find a girl, but I left Slumdog Millionaire feeling more alive, more in love with movies, than I did after any other film this year.

So that’s the one I want to win. And it has a chance – it did win the Golden Globe, after all. While I think the sweeping sham that is Benjamin Button will probably pull it off, I’m going to go with the audacity of hope (ahem) in calling the Oscars this year. Here are my picks in the major (and some minor)categories:

Best Picture: Slumdog Millionaire
Best Actor: Mickey Rourke
Best Actress: Meryl Streep
Best Supporting Actor: Heath Ledger
Best Supporting Actress: Taraji P. Henson
Best Director: Danny Boyle
Best Original Screenplay: Milk
Best Adapted Screenplay: Slumdog Millionaire
Best Animated Film: Wall-E
Best Documentary: Man on Wire
Best Song: “Jai Ho,” Slumdog Millionaire
Best Score: Slumdog Millionaire

Some of these (Ledger, Wall-E) are no-brainers, but the rest I have obviously weighted in favor of my favorite. I hope I’m not just whistling in the dark, and Oscar night sees a surge of support for the coolest movie the Academy has chosen to nominate this year. (In the absence of The Dark Knight, of course.) I’ll be watching with fingers crossed.

Next week, Roger Manning’s pure pop genius. Yee hah!

See you in line Tuesday morning.