As a writer, I love a good gimmick.

You have no idea how much I struggle, staring at a blank page, trying desperately to find something to say about 10 or 12 good songs on a shiny plastic disc. There are only so many ways to praise your average good-to-great album, and only slightly more ways to pan your average mediocre-to-bad album. But give me an in – a good story, an interesting hook to hang a review on – and I’m a happy man. Sufjan Stevens is making an album for each of the 50 states? Fantastic. My first three paragraphs are already written.

Ah, but here’s the rub: as a music fan, I couldn’t care less about the gimmicks. All I need to be happy is that aforementioned 10 or 12 good songs on a shiny plastic disc. Your gimmick might get me to buy your record, but without musical substance, that’s all it is – an empty sales tactic. I don’t have time for those.

Ideally, I’m looking for the best of both worlds. The gimmicks I’m happiest with end up etched into the DNA of the recordings themselves. I love it when artists come up with interesting and unique ways to do something, and then turn out a record that couldn’t have come about any other way. Just last year, Tod Ashley of Firewater created one – his The Golden Hour was assembled piece by piece as Ashley made his way through the Middle East, recording local musicians one at a time. The result was stunning, a one-world statement that wouldn’t have been as potent without its gimmicky origins.

The test for me is this: in five years, will I be pulling out your novel-for-now project to listen to as music? It’s impossible to tell right away, but I have two contestants this week that I think will fit that bill, two albums that are undoubtedly gimmicky, but also superb musical endeavors, ones that could not have been created any other way.

First is Ben Folds, who is no stranger to gimmicks. This is the guy, after all, who covered “Bitches Ain’t Shit” as a piano ballad, and who made an entire album with William Shatner. If you’re familiar with Folds, you know the geeky excitement he feels over projects like these, and you can just imagine how pumped he was to put together his latest, Ben Folds Presents University A Cappella.

The concept’s in the title, but here it is anyway: rather than compile a greatest hits collection, Folds sought out college a cappella groups to perform their versions of his songs, and traveled to their schools to record them on their home turf. Right now you’re either shaking your head or you’re grinning widely, depending on whether you’ve ever sat in the audience and been dazzled by one of these a cappella collectives. I love this music – the arrangements, the performances, the inventive ways the singers come up with to emulate the original records. And it’s obvious Folds loves it too.

Better than that, though, University A Cappella gives these singers the chance to be on a Ben Folds album, and have their voices heard around the world. That’s just neat. Folds waded through dozens of audition tapes and, in the end, selected 14 college groups from across the country. He leads it off with two from his native North Carolina, but includes contributions from Ohio, Georgia, Louisiana, California, Illinois, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, Colorado and a bunch of others.

And man, these performances are wonderful. I’m biased, of course, but one of my favorites is “Magic,” by the University of Chicago’s Voices in Your Head. While I like the song well enough on The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner, I think I like this version more – the bass singers approximate the tympani hits while the harmonies just soar. It’s heartrending. I’m also quite fond of the Washington University Mosaic Whispers’ take on “Still Fighting It.” Individual singers are not credited, but the lead male voice on this one is extraordinary.

Washington University (in St. Louis) also provides the closing track, performed by that school’s Amateurs. It’s an amazing version of “The Luckiest,” perhaps Folds’ prettiest song – the piano-and-strings version on Rockin’ the Suburbs sends chills anyway, but the gentle backing voices swelling and subsiding here are almost impossibly gorgeous. Of course, a cappella groups can rock, too – check out the University of Rochester Midnight Ramblers’ version of “Army,” with its full-on brass solos done entirely in voice. I’m also extremely impressed with the complex arrangement of “You Don’t Know Me,” by the University of Georgia group With Someone Else’s Money.

As much as I love this stuff, you can imagine just how many shades of pale white the executives at Epic Records must have turned when Folds pitched this idea. As a sales booster, the record company forced Folds to contribute two tracks himself, and as much as he says he didn’t want to outshine the college groups, his tunes are highlights. He reinvents “Boxing,” the pretty closing track from the first Ben Folds Five album, giving it a cheesy/brilliant middle section, and his take on “Effington” absolutely slams. I prefer this version by far to the one on Way to Normal – there’s something every few seconds that cracks me up. (And the opening and closing vocals by his kids, Gracie and Louis, are adorable.) It’s the best thing here by a country mile.

But Ben’s brilliance shouldn’t detract from the sterling arrangements and performances elsewhere on University A Cappella. This is such a great idea, and the groups highlighted here have made the most of their spotlight moments. (One more highlight? The smooth-jazz overtones of “Selfless, Cold and Composed” are beautifully accented by the Sacramento State Jazz Singers.) Yeah, it’s gimmicky, but it’s also wonderful, something I’ll be listening to for years to come.

As novel as Folds’ project is, British Sea Power have outdone it. It’s strange for me to type that sentence, because they’re not one of my favorite bands – their three albums have steadily improved on one another, but they’re still an unimaginative three-chord drama-rock band, one you can imagine forming over a shared love of U2 while in the pub one day. Their sound has grown bigger with each record, although their songwriting has struggled to keep pace. They unironically titled their third album Do You Like Rock Music?, so you kind of know what you’re getting.

But their new venture, Man of Aran, simply blew me away, and I’m stunned that such a project has sprung from this band. Here’s the high concept: Man of Aran is a 1934 silent film by Robert Flaherty, the man who made Nanook of the North. It depicts 19th-century life on a craggy Irish island, and the daily trials of a family making their home there. The members of British Sea Power stumbled on a copy of this film, and they’ve written an entirely new score for it. The Man of Aran package includes the score on CD, and a DVD with the film and new score matched up.

Let’s start with the movie – it’s awesome. It’s not a documentary, but it looks like one, and the shoot was obviously quite dangerous, with actors climbing up rocky surfaces and braving raging waves and really battling giant fish. The images captured here are amazing, and Flaherty drives home the emotional bonds between the three characters as well – there’s an extended sequence near the end in which the father rows his tiny boat through choppy seas, trying to get home, while the mother and son run along the coastline, concerned for his safety. The final scenes of all three walking back towards home are lovely.

As good as the film is, it’s improved immeasurably by British Sea Power’s new score. In truth, it’s not a million miles away from the music they’ve always made – it’s repetitive, deriving its impact from dramatic crescendos and breakdowns – but the band has never wielded this kind of force before. On its own, the score is by turns the prettiest and most powerful music the band has ever made, but paired with the movie, the effect is extraordinary.

The early shots of the family getting ready for its day, and of the mother gathering seaweed for her garden (since there is no soil on Aran), are paired with lovely piano-and-texture pieces that remind me of Sigur Ros, and a heartrending cover of old folk tune “Come Wander With Me.” “Boy Vertiginous” accompanies shots of the young son climbing the rocks to fish, and is merely a prelude to the most impressive section of both movie and score, the nearly 12-minute “Spearing the Sunfish.” While the father and his fellow villagers wrestle with a massive fish, hoping to kill it for food and oil, the band erupts, firing bursts of electric guitar noise over a thumping percussion backdrop. It builds and builds to almost unbearable levels, and finally collapses in a heap.

The final third of the film is more sedate, and the music matches it. The father’s treacherous trek home is accompanied by the 11-minute “It Comes Back Again,” and the music is reassuring and hopeful, a nice counterpoint to the nervous energy of the footage. The film-ending reunion is scored with closing track “No Man is an Archipelago,” a reworking of Rock Music track “The Great Skua.” (Two other old BSP songs have been repurposed here as well.) It’s the perfect closer, triumphant and nostalgic at once – you feel the relief and joy as the father comes ashore, and as the three of them make their way towards the horizon. The final choral swells are just gorgeous, as all is right in this battered, difficult world.

If you’d told me last year that one of my favorite projects of 2009 would come from British Sea Power, I might have choked on my own laughter. But here it is – Man of Aran is an unqualified success, a fantastic idea executed brilliantly. Is it a gimmick? Sure, but it’s also a work of art, a cross-generational collaboration that yields astounding results. It’s also the sound of a band discovering its own power, and finding unexpected inspiration in something more than seven decades old. That’s kind of beautiful, if you think about it. Whatever you call it, Man of Aran is one of 2009’s best things, and for me will likely be as timeless as the rocks of Aran itself.

Next week, examining critical acclaim with Grizzly Bear and the Dirty Projectors.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Ever-Expanding Empire

As promised, this week’s column is brought to you by the letter E. I have probably taken the concept too far, but I’ll let you be the judge.

So I’ve been keeping this under wraps for a bit while I get my footing, but I’ve taken a few steps towards tm3am’s inevitable world domination. The biggest deal is tm3am.blogspot.com, a regularly-updated blog that I hope will serve as a supplement and a companion to this column.

I have so much music coming at me on a regular basis that it’s almost impossible to keep up. That’s where the blog will come in – I plan to post first-listen reactions to new albums, music news I find interesting, and an occasional look at the albums that shaped me. Don’t worry, this doesn’t mean the end of the column – rather, I hope the two outlets will intertwine nicely, with the quick-hit stuff on the blog and the more considered reviews here.

Also, I’ve decided to accept comments on the blog, something I’ve resisted when it comes to the column. I want tm3am to be just my voice, but on the blog, I’m hoping to spark some interesting conversations. I’ve met some smart, opinionated people during my nearly nine years working on this column, and I hope to hear from you. There will be a post on the blog each time a column is uploaded in this space, so feel free to comment over there on what you read here.

The other step I’ve taken is to join Twitter. I haven’t used it much yet, because I haven’t quite figured out how to differentiate my Twitter presence from my Facebook and blog entities, but feel free to follow me anyway, if you like. I’m at www.twitter.com/tm3am. Today, social media, tomorrow the world!

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Expecting Excellence

If there’s one album this summer I’m breathlessly awaiting, it’s Armistice, the sophomore effort from New Orleans quartet Mute Math. Their 2006 debut was pretty much perfect, a mix of Radiohead and the Police (among other things), and was packed full of terrific songs. I still can’t get enough of it, particularly “Chaos,” “Noticed” and the sublime “You Are Mine.”

The band has taken its sweet time on the follow-up, and apparently they trashed everything and started over at least once. But now it’s done, and it’s out on August 18. If you go here, you can hear the first track on the record, “The Nerve.” It’s a blazingly fast drum-and-bass assault with an explosive one-note chorus that slams through everything it has in less than three minutes. It sounds absolutely nothing like Mute Math.

I’ve been trying to like this for days now. I have grown to appreciate what’s there – the production is amazing, the energy is palpable, the drums (the drums!) are fantastic. This will probably kill live. But as the first taste of an album one of my favorite new bands has been toiling over for years, I have to say, it’s not much of a song. Hopefully this is just an opening salvo, and the memorable pop songs kick in later. But nestled at track four on Armistice is the band’s contribution to the Twilight soundtrack, “Spotlight,” which is in much the same vein – fast, loud, melody-deficient. So we’ll see if this is just the new Mute Math sound.

I’m still excited about this album, but now I think I’m expecting something completely different from what I thought I’d be getting. August 18 cannot come quickly enough – I can’t wait to see how “The Nerve” fits in with whatever else they’ve come up with.

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Enjoying Eels Effortlessly

I cannot explain just why I like the Eels.

I’ve never been able to. I remember buying their second album (and first out-and-out masterpiece), Electro-Shock Blues, and being so conflicted over it that I played it for my friend Chris. He liked it, and didn’t understand why I was struggling, but the answer is simple: while the band is more than the sum of its parts, none of its parts thrill me in the slightest. So I can’t figure out just why I like the result so much.

Eels leader Mark Oliver Everett, known simply as E, writes very simple little songs. His melodies are basic, although he stumbles over a good hook now and then. His lyrics are at best trite and at worst atrocious. His voice is limited and ragged, his playing is rudimentary, and his albums are (mostly) short and slight. If it sounds like I’m being mean here, remember that I really like this band, and E in particular. I know all these drawbacks are true, and yet I keep listening, and I keep enjoying.

It’s been four years since E delivered his second out-and-out masterpiece, the two-CD Blinking Lights and Other Revelations. Everett’s music is always better when he digs deep, and talks about his childhood and family struggles. Blinking Lights was all about this, in some cases directly addressing his brilliant yet emotionally cold father, and over 93 minutes worked through pain to come out on the other side, full of hope. That album joined Electro-Shock to form the twin pillars of E’s catalog – the rest of his work is enjoyable and random, but sits a few levels down.

That’s where his new one, Hombre Lobo: 12 Songs of Desire, fits in. On this record, Everett is back to writing fun pop-rock and sweet ballads in equal measure, and expressing his joy and heartbreak in simple terms. E promises a lot with his long, shaggy beard – that and the record’s title make you think he’s going to some Howlin’ Wolf places, and a couple of the songs are louder and bluesier than the Eels have been before. “Tremendous Dynamite” and “Fresh Blood,” in particular, are built on piercing electric guitars and levels-in-the-red distorted vocals.

But most of Hombre Lobo just sounds like the Eels. “That Look You Give That Guy” is a delightful little pop number about jealousy, “In My Dreams” is a simple, circular ballad of imaginary contentment, and “My Timing is Off” is a sad-sack Everett special, buoyed by a Byrds-style guitar strum and melody. I’m particularly fond of the ‘80s reggae feel of “Beginner’s Luck” and the naked, live vibe of closing love song “Ordinary Man.” But despite some sloppier production and a few more incendiary moments, this is just another Eels album.

And you know what? I like it just as much as I’ve ever liked Everett’s work. Granted, it all works better if you don’t read the lyric sheet. Here’s a sample of the pedestrian rhymes that pepper this record, from “The Longing”: “The longing is a pain, a heavy pressure on my chest, it rarely leaves, and my day becomes a quest, to try not to think about her, and all that she brings, forget about her magic, all the beautiful things…” Yes, that’s a real verse, not something I borrowed from a fourth-grade poetry class.

But I can’t explain it. I really like Hombre Lobo – I’ve played it probably 30 times since buying it, and while it’s unspooling, the trite elements just fade into the background. Eels music is like baking something delicious from very basic ingredients. I can’t point to one thing I like about this album in isolation, but when mixed all together, the resulting concoction is thoroughly enjoyable. If you ever liked the Eels, you’ll like this.

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Elvis’ Elegant Experiments

Here is what I don’t understand about Elvis Costello’s critics.

If you look at the last 10 Costello albums, only two of them – 2002’s When I Was Cruel and last year’s Momofuku – would qualify as rock and roll records. Open that up to his last 15 albums, and you get two more, 1994’s Brutal Youth and 1996’s All This Useless Beauty, and some argue that Beauty isn’t a rock album either. Just in the last 10 years, Costello has given us a full-length ballet, a record of orchestrated ballads, a jazz album, a country-rock weeper, and a stunning New Orleans funk collaboration with Allen Toussaint. He’s a jack of all trades, a versatile and restless performer who refuses to be pigeonholed.

So why do some critics insist on demeaning these efforts as “genre exercises?” The jazz, orchestral and soul albums aren’t detours, they’re essential parts of his artistic makeup. I understand, these critics want Costello to write My Aim is True and Armed Forces again, perhaps not realizing that his earliest works were the only ones on which he was pigeonholed. At the time, he was writing unreleased gems like the country-fied “Stranger in the House,” and angling to work with Johnny Cash. I don’t quite get why some want to shove him back into a box he worked so hard to get out of.

All of which brings us to another of these “genre exercises,” Secret, Profane and Sugarcane. Fresh off the barnburning Momofuku, Costello has teamed with T-Bone Burnett for the first time since the great King of America in 1986. The pair assembled a group of superb bluegrass players, and they’ve turned out a down-home delight. This is one of Costello’s earthiest records, and Burnett’s production is brilliant as usual – this may as well have been recorded standing in a circle around one microphone, so authentic is the mood.

But wait, it gets weirder. Some years ago, Costello wrote an opera about Hans Christian Anderson, called The Secret Songs. That beast has never seen the light of day, but Costello has arranged some of its songs for this ensemble, and while the result is jarring at first, this drumless band manages to roll with the complex pieces marvelously. The first of these, “She Handed Me a Mirror,” comes off like a particularly well-written old-time ballad, and by the end, I can barely imagine this played any other way.

Still, the best things here are the more straightforward ones. “Sulphur to Sugarcane” is just awesome, a lengthy tale of depravity and temptation that is, to borrow a Costello phrase, almost blues. “My All Time Doll” would probably work well with thumping drums and electric guitars, but its slinky groove works very well in this setting. And an unexpected highlight is “Complicated Shadows,” originally released on Beauty – this song has never sounded better, stripped of its rock production.

If Secret, Profane and Sugarcane is a genre exercise, it’s a successful one. But to me, it’s just further proof of what Costello does – he writes songs, and finds interesting groups of musicians to play them with. A lot of this record shouldn’t work, but it does, and I’m constantly amazed at how many different styles of music Costello can adapt his unmistakable, meaty voice to fit. If you’re still longing for another This Year’s Model while listening to this, you’ll probably miss its many charms. This is just another great little Elvis Costello album in a career filled with them.

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Ex-Every-man Enders Entertains, Exasperates

I am a sucker for ambition.

Give me a two-CD (or even better, a three-CD) album, and I’ll check it out without hesitation. Later this year, I’m going to pick up Oneida’s Rated O, a triple-album that serves as part two of a triptych, even though I’ve never really heard the band at all. My favorite Frank Zappa albums are the ones on which he stretches out his conceptual ideas over two or three hours. I love concept records, I love rock operas, I love lengthy experiments – there’s just something about hanging over the edge and betting on your own vision that inspires me.

So when Arthur “Ace” Enders led his post-punk band The Early November through a three-CD musical novel in 2006 with The Mother, The Mechanic and the Path, I was so there. The concept borrowed from Rashomon – the same events, viewed through three different lenses, representing three members of a dysfunctional family – and the execution was fantastic. The 22 songs that made up The Mechanic and The Mother were all well-written and engaging, and the 50-minute radio play that was The Path was one of the most original pieces of the year. It’s not bragging if you can do it, and Enders did it.

It probably should be no surprise that this monster was the final album from The Early November. After the band collapsed in a heap, it took some time for Enders to dig himself out. But now he’s back with his solo debut, When I Hit the Ground, released under the name Ace Enders and a Million Different People. And while I like this disc well enough, Enders has reined in every ounce of ambition he once had, concentrating on glossy, melodic rock tunes.

There’s nothing particularly wrong with glossy, melodic rock tunes, of course. “Reaction” is a singalong winner, “The Only Thing I Have” would make for a good single, and with “Sweeter Light,” he’s written one of my favorite Ace Enders songs. Much of this album slows things down – three of the last four tracks are varying shades of epic balladry, and they’re all good songs. Enders’ voice has improved immeasurably for this record – gone are the shakier moments that used to plague Early November albums, and he’s emerged as a fine, strong frontman.

No, there’s nothing wrong with this album, but there’s nothing that distinguishes it from a million others just like it. Though catchy, the songs are all pretty simple, and the production is big and radio-ready. This is obviously a bid for wider popularity – one song is actually called “Take the Money and Run” – and it’s no accident Enders is on tour with the All-American Rejects right now. I wish him luck, because when he’s giving himself free rein, he’s a very good songwriter, and I feel like this album just doesn’t capture all the sides of him.

But that’s fine. Enders is only 27, and hopefully has dozens more albums in him. If he wants to make an undeniably fun, hummable little disc like this one, and then bankroll some more ambitious projects later, that’s entirely up to him. And he didn’t phone it in on When I Hit the Ground – this record is enjoyable, if slight and unoriginal, and it sounds great. I miss the creativity that leaped off previous Enders discs, but this is a fine modern rock album, and hopefully will find its way onto radio playlists and into CD players across the country.

But next time, Enders, I’m expecting more. I know you have it in you.

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Exit, Everyone

Next week, a look at two of the coolest gimmicks I’ve seen in quite some time. After that, new things from Dream Theater, the Mars Volta, Moby, Wilco, and Jack White’s new band The Dead Weather. Don’t forget to drop by the tm3am blog and leave me a comment or two about this column. Thanks for reading.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Before you ask, no, 35 doesn’t feel any different than 34.

Thanks to everyone who sent birthday wishes. I had seven people sing to me, which is a new record. You’re all wonderful people, and I’m so blessed to have you in my life.

So it’ll be a quick one this week, with only one record to discuss. The list of upcoming awesomeness is pretty immense, though. Just in the next two months, new ones are on the way from Sonic Youth, Dredg, Devin Townsend, Street Sweeper Social Club (Tom Morello’s new project), Dream Theater, The Mars Volta, Bjork, Spinal Tap (really!), Moby, Wilco, Son Volt, Oneida, The Dead Weather (Jack White’s new thing), Fiery Furnaces, Riceboy Sleeps (Jonsi from Sigur Ros), and a two-disc rarities thing from Starflyer 59. Yeesh. So there will be no break.

This is not to mention what I have on tap for the next couple of weeks. Next week’s column will be brought to you by the letter E, and the week after that will feature two of the weirdest, most fascinating gimmick albums I’ve seen in ages. Really looking forward to writing that one.

This week, though, the most important album Dave Matthews has ever made.

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It’s not tragedy that defines you, it’s how you react to it. It’s true in life, and it’s true in music.

For instance, when John Bonham died in 1980, that was the end for Led Zeppelin. Plant, Page and Jones knew full well that the magic came from the alchemy of all four members, and without Bonham, it wouldn’t be the same. The Who trundled on for a couple more (sub-par) albums after Keith Moon died in 1978, but eventually came to the same conclusion. And when Freddie Mercury succumbed to an AIDS-related illness in 1992, Queen came to an end. (I know both the Who and Queen subsequently regrouped, but the pale imitations they’ve churned out only prove that they were right to disband in the first place.)

But for some, continuing on is the right choice. When Ian Curtis killed himself in 1980, the remaining members of Joy Division formed New Order, and went on to make some amazing music. The specter of Curtis hung over their first few efforts, but in time, they forged a worthwhile new identity. Likewise, when Bill Berry suffered a brain aneurysm in 1995 and left R.E.M. two years later, the band continued, and though it’s been a rocky road, they made their best album in more than a decade last year (Accelerate), and seem to be taking new directions.

You can’t plan for it. You can only adapt and react. And it’s always fascinating to me to see just how long-running bands adapt and react to accidents of fate. Some will collapse, but some will continue, and that next album, that next tour, will define who they are. For most bands, the post-tragedy album is the most significant moment of their careers.

Which brings us to Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King.

It’s been about a year since LeRoi Moore, saxophone master for the Dave Matthews Band, died from injuries he suffered in an ATV accident. His death was sudden and unexpected – Moore’s accident happened in June of 2008, and left him with broken ribs and a punctured lung, but he was released from the hospital after a couple of days. Complications found him back in the hospital in mid-July, and he died in August. The band kept touring while Moore was recovering, with Flecktones sax man Jeff Coffin sitting in, and actually played a show the night of Moore’s death, delivering a tribute to him from the stage.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. He was the saxophone player. It’s not like John Bonham’s death, or Freddie Mercury’s. And to that I say, you don’t know the Dave Matthews Band. It may be named after the guitarist and singer, but every single member of that band is vital to their sound. Moore wrote songs, arranged them, and added to the intangible, indefinable brew the band concocted. DMB has an unfortunate and mostly undeserved reputation as a hippy-dippy pop act, but in reality, they’re a jazz band with a pop singer. Now, imagine losing the sax player from a jazz band. That’s how big a deal this is.

The question is a valid one: we still have Dave Matthews, and he still has a band, but do we still have the Dave Matthews Band? It’s a question the remaining members have obviously struggled with. But in the end, they’ve decided to continue, at least for now. Moore had completed some sessions for the band’s seventh studio record before his accident, and Matthews and company have decided to complete the album as a tribute to him. They even named it after him – GrooGrux was Moore’s nickname amongst his bandmates.

If you’re expecting a sappy-yet-moving eulogy in musical form, you’re in for a surprise. Matthews and the band chose a different route – they paid respects to Moore by playing their asses off. In many ways (some of them disappointing), Big Whiskey is a typical latter-day Dave Matthews Band album, but it has a phenomenal energy to it, a life pulsing through its veins. It’s easily the best DMB album in more than a decade, if only because it jumps out of the speakers at you instead of lying there flat.

That’s not the only difference. The band hired Rob Cavallo, producer of Green Day’s American Idiot, to helm this one, and he in turn convinced Matthews to crank up the amps. Much of Big Whiskey is saturated big-riff electric guitar, something of a new sound for DMB, and the whole thing is glossy and shiny. This is also the first studio album with Coffin on sax, although some of the lines are obviously Moore, and the first since Before These Crowded Streets in 1998 to feature Tim Reynolds on guitar.

The result is, well, huge. DMB has always had a surprisingly dense sound, but Big Whiskey is the loudest record they’ve made, and their most confident work since Streets. It opens with the only overt tribute to Moore, a saxophone solo called “Grux,” but then slams into the horn-driven “Shake Me Like a Monkey,” and all pretense of a grief-driven album is out the window. “Monkey” is about sex leading to deeper love, and it rocks pretty convincingly. The horns are cheesy, but Matthews locks into a guitar groove, and his rhythm section responds with some of their most awesome studio work ever.

I just want to take a moment here to praise Carter Beauford, one of the best drummers in the business. It hasn’t been quite as apparent on the studio albums lately, but Beauford is heart-stoppingly good, and Big Whiskey finally gives him a chance to shine. Listen to the first single, “Funny the Way It Is” – it’s a decent song, with a nice surprise in the middle, but Beauford just owns this number. He never just drums, he composes these little percussion symphonies under the songs – mute everything else but him, and Big Whiskey would still be a satisfying experience.

The songs are the strongest in ages here, too. “Lying in the Hands of God” – one of several songs that don’t specifically mention Moore, but sound awash in his spirit – is one of the prettiest things the band has written. “Why I Am” does specifically mention Moore (“Still here dancing with the GrooGrux king”), and elevates its simple riff with some superb time changes. “Spaceman” and “Alligator Pie” make room for some nice banjo parts, and while “Time Bomb” starts off slow, with an acoustic guitar and saxophones, it positively erupts halfway through. You’ve never heard Matthews give it his all like he does here.

So what’s the problem? This is another Dave Matthews Band album that doesn’t play to the group’s big strength – its instrumental interplay. It was obviously constructed piece by labor-intensive piece in the studio, and while it’s lively in a way DMB records haven’t been in years, it still never takes flight. In fact, the thudding electric guitar on nearly every song keeps it earthbound and dirty. The last two songs are the most disappointing for me. “Baby Blue” is gorgeous, but is just Matthews on guitar, backed by a string section. It’s not really a Dave Matthews Band song at all. And “You and Me” is a fine little pop song, but the drums are programmed. That’s like using synth strings when you have Yo Yo Ma.

This is not a new problem. DMB’s first three albums were wonderful examples of capturing a band’s live sound in the studio. Before These Crowded Streets, especially, is a fantastic ride, songs extending to seven and eight minutes as the band explores their corners. Then, in 2000, the band fired producer Steve Lillywhite, scrapping months of fruitful sessions, and Matthews took the reins, making Everyday with Glen Ballard. (Yes, the Alanis guy.) It was slick, it was studio-polished, and it wasn’t the Dave Matthews Band.

Since then, every album has been varying shades of the same thing. 2005’s Stand Up was the nadir, but the band has been uninspired in the studio for this entire decade. Big Whiskey goes some distance toward correcting this – “Alligator Pie,” for instance, makes the best use of violinist Boyd Tinsley in a long, long time – but not far enough. The best DMB experience is still the live one.

But Big Whiskey is definitely the band’s finest studio album since Streets, bar none. I’m impressed each time through with the consistency of the songwriting, and with the variety of tones on display. But more than that, Matthews and the band sound reinvigorated, alive and at fighting weight. Perhaps it was the shared desire to make an album worthy of bearing Moore’s nickname on the cover. If so, the struggle was worth it, and the grief has resulted in a winner.

Matthews has said he doesn’t know exactly where the band will go next, now that Big Whiskey is done and out. Maybe they will go nowhere, and quietly disintegrate in the coming months. If so, this album would serve as a fine finale. The last song, “You and Me,” revolves around the line “We can do anything, you and me together,” and it’s a hopeful, beautiful way to go out. If this is the last DMB album, it’s a very good one, and they should be proud. If it isn’t, it points to some new directions, and revives their studio career nicely. Together, they can do anything, and for the first time in a long while, it sounds like the Dave Matthews Band believes this again. That’s all you can ask for, and I’ll bet all LeRoi Moore would have wanted.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So lately I’ve become addicted to Breakfast at Sulimay’s.

If you haven’t seen this little Internet sensation, here’s the concept: three Philadelphia senior citizens get together at their favorite diner once a week and review new tracks by modern musical artists. Last time, they talked about metal band Mastodon and electro-poppers The Juan McLean. It’s a lot funnier and a lot less “get off my lawn” than you’re expecting – thoughtful Joe offers up some cogent musical criticism at times, while regular-guy Bill and salty Ann trade wisecracks.

My favorite bits so far have involved Ann’s love of metal – she headbangs her way through the Sepultura review, and complains that Mastodon’s “Oblivion” is just too soft. I also like watching Bill’s face whenever a rap song starts up. I know what’s coming, but it’s always hilarious. I’d never say that the Sulimay’s trio is offering insightful commentary, but they’re a lot of fun to watch.

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About 15 years ago, I started reading a comic called Preacher. It was written by British upstart Garth Ennis and drawn by Steve Dillon, fresh off their successful run on Hellblazer. (Starring the real John Constantine. The one who lives in London and looks nothing like Keanu Reeves.) Preacher was the story of Jesse Custer, a priest on a literal search for God, and the trail of corpses he leaves in his wake.

It was, at the time, more shocking than anything I’d ever read. One of the main characters was a teenager named Arseface – he’d tried to kill himself with a shotgun, emulating Kurt Cobain, but ended up surviving, his face a twisted ruin. And Arseface was played for laughs. It also featured sadomasochistic serial killers, child rapists, an inbred descendant of Jesus, and in later issues, a guy who has sex with raw meat. It was kind of awesome, especially for a 19-year-old.

Fast forward to 2009, and Preacher seems oddly tame. Garth Ennis has gone on to write blistering runs on a few great comics, and he’s about halfway through his current opus, The Boys. But where Preacher balanced its sadism with real character moments and a sense of hope, The Boys is just pure nihilism. It’s about a team of people who kill superheroes for fun and profit, and every issue, there’s a new attempt at dropping your jaw, whether it be through sex or violence. In just about every way, The Boys ups the ante from Preacher, and yet I find myself less engaged with it. All the swearing and masochism leaves me bored, to tell you the truth.

I think that’s a sign of just how desensitized we’ve become as a culture. Preacher drew protests in its day, people complaining that the content was just too shocking. While DC Comics did drop The Boys, forcing Ennis and artist Darrick Robertson to take it to Dynamite Entertainment with issue seven, there hasn’t been a single peep about it since. (Issue 30 just came out.) In every conceivable way, The Boys is more depraved, more corrosive than Preacher, but no one seems to care. Its lurid sexuality and ultraviolence have been met with yawns across the board.

So what do you do if your entire career so far has been built on shock tactics? How to you stun an unstunnable world? That was the question facing both Eminem and Marilyn Manson as they released their comeback records, one week apart, last month. For Eminem, it’s been five long years since his last album, and even longer since his last good one. And for Manson, well, he hasn’t been culturally relevant at all this decade, and his music has certainly suffered for it – he’s hoping that welcoming bassist Twiggy Ramirez back into the fold will reinvigorate his career.

The similarities don’t end there. Both Eminem and Manson reached their high-water marks amid a firestorm of controversy. The last genuinely shocking moment in music, as far as I’m concerned, was “Stan,” the tour de force single from 2000’s The Marshall Mathers LP. Framed as a letter from an obsessed fan, “Stan” showed that Mathers has a firm grasp on his social responsibility as an artist, and it put the blood-soaked adventures of his slippery alter-ego, Slim Shady, into chilling new perspectives. For his first two albums, Eminem trafficked in complex social satire that blurred lines and pushed buttons, and “Stan” made it clear that it was all on purpose.

Manson’s most popular records form a trilogy – 1996’s Antichrist Superstar, 1998’s Mechanical Animals, and 2000’s Holy Wood. Together they tell the tale of a neglected, hated young man who grew up to become a satanic killer, and finally, to take over the world. It was Alice Cooper’s horror movie imagery mixed with David Bowie’s theatrical fantasy, and it’s little wonder the miserable misfit kids of the time identified with it. It’s been 10 years since Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold shot up Columbine High School, and many pointed fingers at Manson (along with other acts the pair listened to) in the aftermath of the tragedy.

That’s a horrible way to attain cultural relevance, but that’s where Manson (known without the face paint as Brian Warner) found himself. But he took on the criticisms, and used the spotlight as an opportunity to talk about the real causes of violence, for which I applaud him. But I think once Warner showed himself as the intelligent, reasonable guy he is, it became much more difficult for anyone to take his on-stage alter-ego seriously. That, coupled with a steady decline in the quality of his music, led to a decade of wilderness-wandering for Marilyn Manson.

A similar thing happened to Marshall Mathers, who, on 2002’s The Eminem Show, dropped the Slim Shady antics and bared his soul. For the first time, he rapped seriously about his place in pop culture, his relationship with his ex-wife Kim, and his genuine love for his daughter Hailie. It was as if he had stepped away from Slim Shady forever, growing up and facing the world as himself.

All of which made the juvenile, puerile, ridiculously bad Encore, released two years later, all the more unforgivable. Since then, Mathers has been invisible, dropping off the pop cultural radar for five years. Turns out, he’s struggled with drug addiction in that time – he made some music, but scrapped it all after sobering up. But now he’s back with two albums – Relapse, his fifth, is the first of a matched set, and its twin will be out later this year.

The initial similarities between Relapse and The High End of Low, Manson’s seventh, are striking. Addiction is at the center of both – Manson and Eminem both begin their albums hooked on pills and covered in blood. However, while Eminem’s “3 A.M.” is clearly meant as a return to his horror-core play-acting (“Wake up naked at McDonald’s with blood all over me, dead bodies behind the counter, shit, I guess I must have blacked out again…”), Manson’s “Devour” begs to be taken seriously, its slow crawl and oh-so-sinister tone leading to the hook line: “I can’t sleep until I devour you…”

From there, though, Mathers’ album only goes up, while Manson’s goes straight down. The High End of Low is, without a doubt, the worst record he’s ever made – turgid, slow, overlong, and borderline unlistenable in places. Manson’s greatest achievement over the past 10 years is somehow avoiding becoming a Danzig-like parody of himself, but this record comes dangerously close, and does not bode well for the future of this once-frightening songwriter.

Like Mathers, Manson has upped the shock value on his album, which for him means saying “fuck” a lot and pretending that it’s sexy to kill people. The lead single from this record is called “Arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon,” and aside from the title phrase, the chorus features shouts of “Eat! Fuck! Kill!” There’s a song here called “Pretty as a Swastika.” There’s another called “I Want to Kill You Like They Do in the Movies.” There’s a line in “Blank and White” that is basically Manson by numbers: “I want to celebrate, I want to sell you hate, today’s the day you’re gonna fucking die.”

Are you yawning yet? Nothing about this record is even remotely shocking. It’s just tired and weak. Granted, this is the sort of thing Manson’s been doing all along, but it was more digestible when it was accompanied by explosive gothic-industrial music. Not so The High End of Low, which takes the mid-tempo grind of 2007’s Eat Me Drink Me and turns it down a notch or two. Only four of these 15 songs rise above the slow muck. The rest are drowned in melodramatic melancholy, undoubtedly a stab at maturity that doesn’t suit him or his flailing, noteless voice.

The man’s entitled to be depressed and morose, but he does so in such flat, uninspiring ways that the record simply bores. Take “Running to the Edge of the World,” a six-minute acoustic-strum power ballad that could have come from Bret Michaels, if Michaels ever ruminated on the eternal nature of dissatisfaction. That’s followed by “Movies,” the biggest waste of time in Manson’s catalog. It’s nine minutes long, and out of ideas by minute two – the final two-thirds of this song just blunders along, repeating its one slow note as Manson wails about how every time he kills you, he’s really just killing himself. Really.

Buried at track 12 is the one moment of glorious fist-pumping satirical joy here. It’s called “We’re From America,” and while it’s a bit on the nose, it still bites: “We don’t like to kill our unborn, we need them to grow up and fight our wars,” Manson shouts, before proclaiming that America is “where Jesus was born.” The riff is repetitive, but it has an energy everything else here lacks. And three minutes later, it’s over, and Manson ends the album with three more soggy ballads.

The failure of The High End of Low has nothing to do with how “shocking” it all is, or isn’t. It’s just pretty obvious that Manson is tired of his persona. The music just sounds exhausted, the lyrics recycled, the vulgarities rote. On some level, Brian Warner has to know how silly this all is, and how ineffective. He’s a smart guy who has made a dumb, dreary record, and I hope he takes it as a sign that this Marilyn Manson idea has pretty much run its course.

Say what you want about Relapse, but it’s never boring. Eminem didn’t gain his reputation just because of his skin color – he’s a furious, dizzying rapper, and his skills are back in fine form here. When he’s on fire, Mathers can spit a tale like no other, and his gift for internal rhyme structures has rarely been better than it is here. His new lyrics have seemingly energized Dr. Dre, who produces – his beats are frequently amazing on Relapse, a far cry from the mediocrity he turned out on Encore. Five years away has done wonders for both rapper and beatmeister.

With Eminem, it’s never been a question of talent, but of how that talent is used. I’ve dropped this analogy before, but his work reminds me of D.W. Griffith’s 1915 film Birth of a Nation – astonishing skill used in abhorrent ways. Yes, once again Mathers relapses into Slim Shady, and we get several murder fantasies and celebrity slasher flicks set to music. These are the moments when Relapse sounds almost as worn out as Manson’s album – no matter how dazzling the wordplay on “Same Song and Dance,” it’s still a song about brutally murdering Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears. It would be laughable if it weren’t so sad.

But when Mathers drops the act and turns the spotlight on himself, Relapse is riveting. About half of the record concerns Mathers’ drug problems, and just where the hell he’s been for the last half-decade, and these tales are harrowing. On “My Mom,” he aims at a frequent target, his mother Debbie, but draws a straight line between the drugs he was fed as a child and his current addictions. “Insane” is a terrifyingly funny account of the sexual abuse Mathers’ stepfather inflicted upon him, with a third verse delivered almost entirely in a chilling little kid voice.

It’s unfortunate, then, that the album is so inconsistent. “Bagpipes from Baghdad” is not a political statement, but an incongruous attack on Mariah Carey. “Must Be the Ganja” fits in with the drug abuse theme, but is remarkably lame, as is “We Made You,” the token Slim-Shady-hates-celebrities tune. And Eminem doesn’t need guest stars to elevate his material – in fact, they usually bring it down, as both Dre and 50 Cent do on “Crack a Bottle.” These songs only serve to make dynamite numbers like “Medicine Ball” seem more exciting.

Relapse does get a late-album shot in the arm from one of the most honest songs Mathers has ever penned, the downright pretty and inspiring “Beautiful.” The track samples Queen and Paul Rodgers’ version of “Reaching Out,” and finds Mathers in a reflective mood, rapping about his emotional vulnerability. It is here that he confides that he nearly gave up on his talent, so heavy was the weight of his depression over the last five years. This is Marshall Mathers, naked to his soul.

But here’s the thing. The very presence of songs like “Beautiful” and “Déjà Vu” call into question the violent, misogynistic, homophobic fantasies that pepper this album. In fact, they make those fantasies inexcusable. “Stay Wide Awake” is a particularly gruesome tale of rape and murder, including a passage in which Slim Shady forcibly impregnates a woman, watches as she births triplets, and kills the babies with cyanide. This is all delivered with devilish glee, of course, because Shady is “only playin’.”

Now, let’s be clear. None of this is shocking to me. It’s just lamentable. I understand that Slim Shady is a character, the dark side of Mathers’ id. I get it. But the piercing emotional insight of some of Relapse raises the question of why Mathers continues to play him. At one point on the album, Shady is describing a forced home abortion. In another, he’s delivering an entire verse as the late Christopher Reeve, talking through his voice box and challenging Eminem to a breakdancing contest. And seconds later, Mathers is discussing his genuine pain in the most heartfelt way he’s ever attempted.

The inconsistency is more than jarring, it’s sad. For half of this album, we get the real Marshall Mathers, and his work is gripping. But for the other half, we get Slim Shady, relying on the same old celeb-baiting and graphic violence he’s always given us. I would think even Mathers would be tired of his alter-ego by now, and the thinner the joke wears, the more repugnant it becomes. I wish Relapse weren’t such a good record. As it is, it stands as another example of Mathers’ phenomenal talent, and the unfortunate use he’s made of it.

Both of these albums take great pains to shock and disturb, and I expect Eminem’s Relapse 2 will follow the same path. But as society moves on, and it becomes harder and harder to shock us, court jesters like Mathers and Manson will hopefully have no choice but to go the other direction, and offer us real substance. There are moments on Relapse when I hear this happening, when its author is taking the biggest risk of all – being real. And that is more shocking than anything his alter ego (or Brian Warner’s) can devise.

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So I will be 35 on Friday. Not sure yet if I will be writing a column for next week, but I probably will – there’s a lot of good stuff coming out, including Dave Matthews Band’s tribute to the late LeRoi Moore, and new ones from Elvis Costello, the Eels, Sonic Youth, Rhett Miller and Trey Anastasio. Plus there’s that column on awesome gimmicks, coming up very soon.

See you in line Tuesday morning.