If all goes to plan, in a couple of weeks you’ll be able to hear a new podcast starring Derek Wright and yours truly at Derek’s site: www.linernotesmagazine.com. It’s the third time Derek has invited me to be a part of his regular podcast, and though I’m writing this before recording the thing, I feel it’s safe to say I expect another sharp and fun debate.

Preparing for these podcasts is an intensive thing, particularly with my work schedule. Derek will usually tell me a week or two in advance which albums he wants to review, and since he’s interested in a lot of music that usually passes me by, I have to scramble, familiarizing myself with bands I’ve never heard of and music I’ve never encountered. This time was easier, since I’d previously bought four of the six albums we talked about, but these songs are the only ones I’ve been thinking about for some time now.

Hence, I’m giving you a sneak peek this time out. Below you will find reviews of three of the six albums Derek and I plan to talk about. I’m using the column this week as a way to organize my thoughts, and come up with coherent things to say about each of these albums. If I ramble a little this time out, that’s why – I have yet to form a solid opinion about any of these records, and I’m hoping to firm those opinions up by the time I’m done here.

The podcast is scheduled to hit Derek’s site on September 9. Check it out when it’s available. In the meantime, he has plenty of solo podcasts and writings to keep you interested and entertained.

* * * * *

First up is Brendan Benson, back with his fourth solo album, My Old, Familiar Friend.

You might be saying to yourself that Benson’s name sounds familiar. In addition to being a swell songwriter and artist in his own right, Benson has recently achieved some measure of fame as a member of the Raconteurs, with Jack White. Of course, everyone who works with Jack White becomes famous, but I can’t blame Benson for feeling like it’s a double-edged sword – the man deserves acclaim all on his own, and the Raconteurs’ two albums have outsold Benson’s solo records by a factor of four to one.

Friend is Benson’s first album since forming the Raconteurs, and he was quoted saying he wanted it to stand on its own merits, which is why he rejected the idea of a front-cover sticker pointing out his more famous association. Well, it looks like ATO Records won that battle, ‘cause my copy of Friend was adorned with such a sticker. While I understand how Benson feels, I’m not upset about it, because anything that gets more people to discover Benson’s brand of blissful guitar-pop is a good thing in my book.

That said, this is not Benson’s best album. (It’s hard to beat the Jason Falkner collaborations of the first two records.) But it is on par with 2005’s The Alternative to Love, and that’s definitely a high standard. It’s an album on which Benson’s gift for melody never (well, rarely) fails him, and his way with a great guitar line and a vocal hook is on ample display. If you’re a Raconteurs fan coming to Benson’s solo work for the first time, you won’t be disappointed in this.

Friend kicks off with one of its best tracks, “A Whole Lot Better.” Using Ben Folds’ rhythm section (bassist Jared Reynolds and drummer Lindsey Jamieson), Benson lays down a shimmying guitar riff with some cheesy-awesome organ on top, and spins a tale of indecision and love. The song’s narrator feels “a whole lot better when you’re not around” at song’s beginning, and changes his mind by song’s end. “I fell in love with you, and out of love with you, and back in love with you all in the same day,” Benson sings, in one of the song’s more hummable moments. This tune is a pure pop masterpiece.

“Eyes on the Horizon” is even better. Benson lays on the harmonies and electric piano for a song that’s part Todd Rundgren, part Roger Manning, with a sweet chorus and a theremin-fueled bridge. After that, the record cools off for a few slabs of ‘70s pop balladry. “Garbage Day” is based around the kind of silly-yet-satisfying line you might come up with at three in the morning, all bleary-eyed: “If she throws her heart away, I’ll be there on garbage day.” But it works, because the song is so sweet, Motown strings and all.

Benson falls down on “Feel Like Taking You Home,” an overly repetitive burst of paranoia and libido. But he quickly regains his footing, and brings the amped-up guitars for the album’s second half. After the delicate “You Make a Fool Out of Me,” the record explodes – “Poised and Ready” rocks like a house on fire, and both “Don’t Wanna Talk” and “Misery” rank with Benson’s best, and sound the most like his first two albums. These more upbeat tunes don’t have the complexity of the album’s first half, but their sheer energy carries them.

Only “Lesson Learned” drops the tempo, but album closer “Borrow” picks it right back up. In a way, My Old, Familiar Friend is like two little albums in one, the first a chamber-pop studio extravaganza and the second a more live-sounding rock record. But they’re both great, and as a whole, Friend holds up very well. I’m still not sure why Jack White picked him to collaborate with, but as long as Benson keeps putting out solo material this good, I’m glad he’s got that Raconteurs spotlight shining on him.

* * * * *

Fair warning: I’m going to discuss Patrick Wolf’s new album The Bachelor now, and I may end up overusing the word “ridiculous.” But it’s the most fitting word I can think of. The Bachelor is the most ridiculous album of 2009. It’s also pretty awesome, if you can stifle your giggles long enough to appreciate what Wolf’s done here.

Let’s back up. Wolf is an English songwriter too idiosyncratic to be in a band. He’s had three previous albums, each one different from the last. His third, The Magic Position, struck a more pop vein, with hints of disco and techno swirled in there as well. It was the first one I heard, and probably swayed my opinion of his more oblique earlier works. Wolf has always had a touch of the dramatic about him, like Bowie with the heart of a theater kid. (His voice is reminiscent of Bowie’s as well.)

Last year, he announced plans for a double album called Battle, and joined up with Bandstocks to help fund it. Bandstocks works on the Marillion method – fans can contribute $20 towards the production of the album, and get their names listed in the liner notes. After the relatively high profile The Magic Position afforded him, fans lined up. But then Wolf decided to split the double record in two, releasing The Bachelor this year and The Conqueror next.

Listening to part one, it’s clear that Wolf felt liberated and emboldened by the ample recording budget his fans gave him. He used it to turn out something that goes so far beyond anything he’s ever done that it’s… well, ridiculous.

The Bachelor is a collection of hero’s-journey ballads, all of them Extremely Serious, in the same way that Duran Duran’s “The Chauffeur” was serious. Wolf lavishes string sections and gospel choirs and woodwinds and pianos and crazy-awesome production on these songs, and then, as if they’re not melodramatic enough, he sings them as if he’s performing in Cats, betraying no sense that he knows this thing is nuts. Oh, and amidst all that, there’s actress Tilda Swinton, giving us occasional monologues as The Voice of Hope. Seriously. Oh, so seriously.

Despite its apparent thematic thread, this album is all over the place, both musically and lyrically. (It also suffers from lousy mastering, with gaps appearing where segues should be, which doesn’t help.) “Hard Times” is a goth-rock gallop, Wolf pulling a convincing Brian Ferry while violins poke through the electronic noise. The title track is an Irish lament, a duet with fiddler Eliza Carthy, while “The Vulture” pulls in club guru Alec Empire for an ‘80s-style four-on-the-floor stomp.

Through all of this, the trick is to keep from laughing. This is clearly a very personal record for Wolf, and he’s given it his all. When he screams “WAKE UP!” on “Count of Casualty,” he means it – the song is an emotional rail against war and unnecessary death. So even though your first instinct will be to chuckle, hold that in. Likewise the industrial inanity of “Battle,” with its chugging guitars and idiotic lyrics: “Battle the conservative, battle for your, battle the homophobe, but battle without war,” Wolf spits, as backing vocalists repeat the song’s title behind him. You may not be able to contain your giggles at this one, but as it’s sequenced near the end, you should be okay.

The Bachelor does contain its share of unintentionally funny moments (“Your appetiiiiite, so dangeroooous”), but also plenty of true beauty. “Damaris” feels like a love story starring a god, and it starts small, but builds in intensity, until a choir is urging you to “rise up, rise up.” It’s pretty, in an ‘80s sci-fi soundtrack kind of way. “Who Will” is practically a hymn, sung with restraint over a hushed organ. And “Blackdown” is one of those center-stage-with-the-spotlight-on piano ballads, complete with solo dance section, and it leads into the glorious “The Sun is Often Out.” That one’s all strings, choir and Patrick, and it’s genuinely moving.

That is, if you’re willing to scale these dramatic heights with him. I can’t help but wonder what the people who paid in advance for this insane flight of fancy think of it, particularly if they came aboard with The Magic Position. More than any album this year, The Bachelor requires you to buy into its grand conceits. If you don’t, you probably won’t make it all the way through these 53 minutes, and I’d be willing to bet The Conqueror will be just as difficult for you. But nutty as it is, The Bachelor is a compelling and individualistic journey from a guy who will, hopefully, never realize how completely ridiculous he is.

* * * * *

I have saved the best for last.

I will admit it: I bought Hospice, the debut album from the Antlers, because Pitchfork told me to. Their review promised me chiming guitars and anthemic songs that reach for the rafters, and I can never get too many of those. Plus, I loved the simple, iconic cover art. I paid my money and I took my chance.

But what I got was far beyond anything I could have expected.

The Antlers is the vehicle for singer/songwriter Peter Silberman, and Hospice began life as a solo project. In a way, it still sounds like one. This is one of the most emotionally devastating records I’ve heard in years, a single-minded exploration of one person’s slow, agonizing death, and its effect on Silberman. Whether anything on Hospice is true is beside the point. It feels true, even if what we’re listening to is a sonic novel.

And it is a novel, in that the entire thing holds together as one piece of music, reaching toward one goal. Pitchfork was wrong – there are very few chiming guitars here, and only one song (“Sylvia”) that aims for the sky. Most of Hospice is simple and sad and pretty, with reverent pianos and gently plucked acoustic guitars making up much of the sound. Silberman’s voice has hints of Jeff Buckley, in its seemingly endless reach, but he uses it most often to quietly observe, not hammer everything home.

Hospice displays an unwavering commitment to telling its story, even if that means including long stretches of quivering mood music. There will be a tendency among some to skip this and head for the “real” songs, but those people will be missing out – Hospice works best, and in fact only works at all, as a 51-minute piece. In its construction, it reminds me of Marillion’s Brave, with everything flowing into everything else, heading for an inevitable, sad and yet uplifting conclusion.

Hospice starts with a prelude, a slow piano crawl over wavering noise, and it sets the tone. The accompanying text gives you the background: our narrator is a hospital worker, and a woman named Sylvia has been sent there to die. She has a terminal disease, and as our narrator meets her in the second track, “Kettering,” he is told there is no saving her. In the song that shares her name, the only obvious single here, Silberling pleads with Sylvia to “let me do my job” as he tries to check her temperature. And in the final verse, he confides that at night, when Sylvia is sleeping, he talks to her, telling her everything about his life.

The seven-minute “Atrophy” is next, and this is the one most will skip. I think it’s amazing. The first three minutes are a quiet, harrowing confessional, Silberman concluding, “I’d happily take all those bullets inside you and put them inside of myself.” Then the music turns to clouds, symbolizing the sound of Sylvia’s body deteriorating. The song ends with a dark acoustic coda, Silberman whispering, “Someone, oh anyone, tell me how to stop this, she’s screaming, expiring, and I’m her only witness…”

“Bear” is the light between poles of darkness, a tale of Sylvia’s childhood set to bouncing guitars and pianos. But when Sylvia finally speaks, on the terrifying “Thirteen,” it’s not of better days. “Pull me out, pull me out, can’t you stop all this from happening,” she pleads, and guest Sharon Van Etten’s voice is chilling. Sylvia dies in “Two,” which is subtitled, “I Would Have Saved Her If I Could.” It’s a nimble acoustic piece in which our narrator admits relief amidst the sadness.

These songs, it must be said, are not extraordinary things on their own. They are merely competently constructed – “Two” is very simple, repeating its one melody line again and again for five minutes. But it’s the narrative force that makes them undeniable. The flood of words that makes up “Two” perfectly mirrors the rush of thoughts and emotions it describes, and it’s perfect in its place on the album. Its successor, “Shiva,” is delicate and dark, its lyrics fully exploring the fantasy of “Atrophy,” Silberman taking Sylvia’s place in the hospital. By itself, it is slight and forgettable. In its place on Hospice, it is amazing.

The album’s centerpiece is near its end – the eight-minute “Wake,” in which our narrator decides it is still worth letting people in. He may be damaged by Sylvia’s death, and he is still haunted by it, but he won’t let it rule him. “Some patients can’t be saved, but that burden’s not on you,” Silberman sings, then launches into a repeated refrain: “Don’t let anyone tell you you deserve that.” The song begins quietly, but ends majestically.

But the album doesn’t end there. “Epilogue” is a sparse acoustic piece, set to the tune of “Bear,” our narrator remembering Sylvia in his nightmares. He wakes up, imagining he is still in the hospital, sharing Sylvia’s bed as she sleeps, and it terrifies him. In fact, the last line of the lyric sheet is, “I’m too terrified to speak.” I was initially put off by the last song, coming on the heels of the transcendental “Wake,” but I have come to love it. It’s like the final seconds of The Graduate, when the camera holds for too long on our characters as they turn from joy to fear and uncertainty. Epiphanies and breakthroughs don’t last forever, and our narrator will forever be haunted by his experience.

If all this seems too depressing for you, I can understand that. If someone had suggested to me that perhaps I would like to spend 51 minutes listening to a story about someone dying painfully, I probably would feel the same way. But Hospice is just breathtaking stuff, a sad and spectacular novel in song that remains riveting from first note to last. The first time through, I was stunned, and the second, I was moved to tears.

In a way, I hope the Antlers never make another album, because this singular achievement feels like a one-off, not a debut. I’m not sure I’ve heard anything this heartfelt and emotionally devastating in quite some time. I bought Hospice expecting to like it and file it away, but I can’t stop listening to it. It may not be one of the best albums of the year, but it is certainly one of the most moving. And in many ways, that’s much more important.

* * * * *

Next week, some Owl City, some David Mead, and maybe some Mew. Don’t forget to check out Derek Wright’s website. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com, and follow me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

The Internet makes me laugh.

If you woke up Monday morning and were disappointed to discover Radiohead had not self-released an EP called Wall of Ice, you’re not alone. Lots of people were expecting it to happen, despite the fact that it doesn’t exist, it never existed, and Radiohead never promised anything of the sort.

How did this happen? Therein lies a tale, of the cautionary kind.

Sometime last week, a new Radiohead song appeared on a message board. No fanfare, nothing. Many assumed it had been leaked, although we don’t know that. What we do know is this: the song is called “These Are My Twisted Words,” and data with the file included Monday’s date (8/17/09) and the phrase “Wall of Ice.” We also know this: Thom Yorke made a statement in the last few weeks that his band will not be recording or releasing any albums anytime soon. They’re not interested in the album format, he said.

All right, so that’s all we know. But within a day, online speculation had reached a fever pitch. Some took Yorke’s statement to the press and extrapolated that Radiohead would be releasing EPs. Then someone else speculated that Wall of Ice would be the name of the EP that Radiohead would release. Then someone else took the ball and ran with it, saying Radiohead would likely be putting out a digital EP called Wall of Ice on Monday, August 17. Someone else noticed that www.wallofice.com directed visitors to Radiohead’s online store. It was all happening.

You see how this snowballed? By Friday, it was an accepted fact online that a new Radiohead EP called Wall of Ice would be coming out Monday. I even saw one online pundit who stated unequivocally that the EP would contain four tracks. Really.

So Monday rolled around, and Radiohead did only what they seemed to say they would do: they made “These Are My Twisted Words” available for free download. That’s it. No EP. But online speculation had reached such a whirling height that some were actually let down by the band’s “failure” to deliver Wall of Ice. What should have been a celebratory moment, the release of a new Radiohead song, turned into a disappointing situation thanks to Internet guesswork and hysteria.

There’s still no proof that Radiohead didn’t engineer this whole thing just to make a point. Either way, the point has been made. One thing no one seems to be pointing out is that www.wallofice.com now leads to a strongly-worded admonishment against online speculation. “Don’t publish bullshit only to get hits on your webpage,” it reads. “Don’t create your own stories after reading one post on a message board. Get your facts straight.”

Amen.

Of course, the big question is, how is the song? Well, you can hear it for yourself at www.radiohead.com. It’s another formless web of guitars that meanders around for five minutes, never landing on any sort of melody. It’s not particularly good, has nothing on the songs on In Rainbows, but is certainly better than, say, “Pulk/Pull Revolving Doors.” If that’s any kind of recommendation.

* * * * *

So. Let’s talk Mutemath.

There have been bigger, more important albums in 2009. There are bigger, more important albums still to come. But there are none I’ve been anticipating more than Armistice, the second album from Louisiana’s Mutemath. There’s a certain mixture of dread and out-of-my-skin excitement that happens when a band I love follows up an album I adore. It’s not so much a question of whether the new album will be as good as the old one, but whether it will mean as much to me.

I discovered Mutemath on my last day at Cornerstone 2005. They were, in fact, the last show I saw, and my traveling companion Chris Callaway tried to convince me not to go. I almost missed out, and I would have considered that tragic, since Mutemath live blew me away. Their sound is very much indebted to the Police – Paul Meany’s voice, Darren King’s drumming, a fondness for dub-style basslines – but updated and refined. On stage, they are madmen, kind of an acrobatic musical carnival.

That said, they’re a very serious band, tackling big themes and big ideas. Their self-titled debut, released in 2006, was pretty much perfect. The songs were huge and memorable (particularly the one-two punch of “Chaos” and “Noticed”), and in his lyrics, Meany took on the big questions – “Stare at the Sun” is about looking for faith and not seeing it, “Chaos” is about holding on to something bigger as the world crumbles around you. Their sound, equally fueled by razor-sharp guitars and an array of synths, and held together by King’s dazzling hi-hat, was like nothing I had heard in years. And with each listen, the album grew and grew.

I ended up calling it the third-best album of the year, behind Keane’s amazing Under the Iron Sea and Joanna Newsom’s inhumanly enchanting Ys. But truth be told, I still listen to it more than either of those. I hold the self-titled album (the original issue, mind you) in such high regard that I don’t know if the band could ever have equaled it in my estimation.

But of course, they had to follow it up. They just took their sweet time doing so. My sense of dread mounted as I read reports of studio in-fighting, of scrapping whole sessions, of multiple producers. I heard new songs played live, and didn’t like them. I started to worry. Did Mutemath pour everything they had into a perfect first album, leaving nothing for the second? Just how disappointing would this be? I started counting the days until August 18, like a condemned man.

I’ve listened to Armistice three times now. That’s the minimum I think this record will take to sink in. The first time, you’ll be comparing it to the debut, and counting the ways it falls short. The songs aren’t as powerful or as serious, the running times are shorter, and the album is diverse to the point of randomness, in contrast to the first one, which played like a single piece of music. You’ll be reading the lyric sheet, too, which will only be a distraction.

The second time, you’ll start to hear things. Little bass figures, tiny countermelodies, Darren King’s indomitable drumming. You’ll notice that a song like “Odds,” which you dismissed at first as a three-minute trifle, is suddenly compelling. You’ll hear the Mutemath-ness in seemingly incongruent tunes like the jazz-ballad “Pins and Needles.” Songs like “Electrify” and “Backfire” will come to life for you. The album will still sound like a collection of songs, as opposed to a singular statement, but you’ll start to care less and less.

The third time, you’ll be under its spell. Armistice is a very different kind of Mutemath album. It’s sharper, it’s a little more surface-level, and it’s surprisingly varied. There is nothing here with the immediate shock and awe of “Chaos” and “Noticed.” Opener “The Nerve” still hasn’t clicked with me, with its single-note chorus and less-than-stellar lyrics. Some of the band’s decisions will seem strange at first, like the title track, a slice of horn-driven soul that ends with screeching strings. But give it a few spins, and it (mostly) all works.

I was initially surprised how little of this record sounds like Mutemath. Now I can’t imagine thinking that way. On third listen, this all feels like Mutemath to me, albeit a new-model version of the band. The essentials are there in every song. “Backfire,” one of several to come alive for me on repeat spins, is startlingly minimal. King holds it all together, but Greg Hill’s guitar is almost nonexistent, while Meany’s synth bass rattles and hums, leaving holes in its wake. The melody is bare-bones, and as the song progresses, it almost seems to be made of nothing. This is a huge departure from the everything-all-the-time sound of the debut.

That sound is certainly here, though. Just check out “Spotlight,” which you may know from the Twilight soundtrack. This is Mutemath, all blistering hi-hat, kinetic bass, killer melody and enormous sonic weight. Just try not to love this song. You’ll get similar vibes from “Electrify,” a killer song that is unabashedly about sex, and features some of King’s best, most exhausting drumming. You’ll also dance to “Goodbye,” a surprisingly ‘80s pop confection that will get lodged in your skull. In a good way, of course.

But it’s the songs that sound nothing like you’d expect that thrill me. “Pins and Needles” finds King delicately brushing his drums while Meany croons over processed electric piano, some of it recorded backwards. This one takes some time to sink in, but the subtle melody is just incredible. “I’m growing fond of broken people,” Meany sings, “as I see that I am one of them.” Listen to the chord changes under his “I’m one of them.” They’re unexpected, and terrific. Nothing about this song grabs you immediately, but after a few listens, everything about it does.

“Clipping” is a minor masterpiece, opening with fuzzy, distorted synth, but slowly blossoming into a beautiful, dark ballad. The chorus shines, and the processed strings are breathtaking, especially after everything else drops away in the middle eight. “I don’t know who to trust anymore, I don’t know what I want anymore,” Meany sings, and even if you don’t share his existential despair, you’ll be singing along.

“Odds” seems like an interlude at first, caught between two more immediate songs. I’m not sure which of the other three is singing it, but it’s not Meany, and the song is slight – it’s just electric piano and drums, for much of it. But listen to it unfold, layer by layer, and by the last chorus, you’ll be mesmerized. Similarly, “Lost Year” seems to take the place of “You Are Mine” as the ballad of the bunch, and I was initially underwhelmed by it. But after a couple of listens, the gorgeous strings and subtle melody took hold. This song is the emotional heart of Armistice, examining a broken relationship with defeated grace. “If there was something that could have saved us, we’d have found it by now,” Meany laments. It’s just lovely.

And then there is “Burden,” the nine-minute finale. It’s the only song on Armistice that significantly breaks four minutes, the one song on which the band’s vaunted musical experimentalism is given free rein. And oddly, it’s one of the least successful. The song runs out of steam quickly, and as it slides into an unrelated second half and an unnecessary drum coda, I can’t help but think that the album would have been better without it. I’m sure this will be impressive live, but on record, and particularly as the final track, it’s cluttered and overly long.

And it exemplifies my biggest problem with Armistice, still. It just doesn’t hang together very well. One by one, these songs are terrific, and the production is top-notch throughout. But the self-titled debut took you by the hand and led you from one song to another, using segues and interludes, and the music itself was of a piece. Here, you can tell Mutemath is changing, transitioning into something else before your ears, and the result, despite the sharper songs and briefer running times, is messy and unfocused. Perhaps in time I will grow to understand how it all works as a whole, but as of now, I’m not feeling it.

Armistice is at once a more streamlined and more difficult album. As such, I remain conflicted on it. Its pleasures are very different than that of the first album, and yet, every song sounds like Mutemath to me now. It’s just a completely different Mutemath, if that makes sense. But that’s okay, because I like this band too.

But do I like them as much? Not yet. Armistice is an excellent little record, for the most part, but had it come out first, I don’t think I would be the Mutemath fan I am. It feels like a troubled effort, like 12 songs that refused to be born easily. Mutemath felt effortless, this feels labored. It reveals itself slowly, but doesn’t coalesce, and it’s never quite as magical as the first album was. There are songs here that will blow you away, but as a whole, Armistice is a lesser work.

Can I forgive that? Sure. Mutemath is a restless and creative band, and their album is similarly restless and creative. Next time, I hope the sessions aren’t as fraught, and the evolution not as strained. Mutemath is becoming something else, and when they get there, the results will be spectacular. Armistice is merely a postcard from a way station, a stop along the path. Even so, it’s pretty great stuff, and a worthy follow-up, if not quite an unqualified success.

I plan to keep on listening, and in the end, that’s all I can ask for – an album I want to play over and over. What I’m feeling isn’t disappointment. It’s more akin to meeting someone again after many years, and finding out the ways both of you have changed. That’s a process that takes some time, and I expect I’ll keep finding things to love about Armistice in the weeks and months to come. The hope is that I like where they’ve been enough to stick around and find out where they’re going.

Next week, catching up a little bit, with Owl City, Patrick Wolf and Brendan Benson. After that, we’ve got new ones from David Mead, Mew, Arctic Monkeys, the Black Crowes, David Bazan, Yo La Tengo, Phish, Muse, the Elms, and many, many more. Not to mention a certain box set of remasters out on September 9. Stay tuned, it’s going to be a busy fall.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

My friend and fellow music writer Derek Wright had an interesting observation about Lollapalooza. He believes no one actually has a good time there.

It’s hard to argue with him. The things I enjoyed about my first Lollapalooza experience – the chance to see so many bands play so many different types of music, and the opportunity to discover new acts every day – would have been much better without some of the more difficult aspects of this (or any, really) massive festival. In the end, while I loved seeing this much live music over so short a span, I don’t think I will do Lollapalooza again.

But that’s it for the bitching, because I really did enjoy my time there, all in all. I am still sunburned, and somewhat woozy, and my feet have not completely recovered. I spent roughly 30 hours in Grant Park last weekend, and after a while, it started to feel like my life had always been this. I get up, I shower and change, and I go stand outside and listen to bands play. It was equally amazing and mind-numbing.

I had planned to see 21 shows over the weekend, but I quickly found that my initial schedule was impossible. I wasn’t quite prepared for the length of Grant Park, or just how crowded it would be, which made traversing back and forth a lengthy and patience-testing experience. I ended up just picking spots and staying there, which led to some interesting shows I hadn’t planned on seeing. It also meant I missed a few acts I wanted to see. I hear TV on the Radio’s set was transformative, for instance, and might have given me that long-sought way in to enjoying them.

What follows is an expanded and smoothed-out version of my daily diary entries at tm3am.blogspot.com over the weekend. Hopefully you’ll forgive me for posting the same material twice in different forms, but this was the most important musical event of my week (or month), and I feel it deserves its own permanent column entry. If you disagree, I’m sorry, but I’ll be back to reviewing new music in seven days.

Special thanks to Jody Bane, who made my weekend possible by securing a hotel room a few blocks from the park. I wouldn’t have been able to afford it otherwise, so I truly appreciate that. And thanks to all the people who hung out with me at Lolla: Jeni LoDolce, Tony Martin, Derek Wright, Amy Simpson, Lis Martin, Alex Kilpatrick, and Lacy Weathersbee. I feel like we all went to boot camp together. Thanks for everything.

* * * * *

Day One: Friday, August 7

Day One was cold, wet, rainy and miserable. It was also fantastic.

I started it off by nearly missing my train. I’d decided that I would travel light – I had a hotel room for the first two nights, thanks to my friend Jody, but whatever I needed for the weekend I would have to carry with me on Sunday. Clothes, toiletries, sunscreen, and that was it. And I decided to walk everywhere, which led to me severely underestimating the amount of time it would take to get from one place to another. Like, for instance, my house and the train station.

Luckily, I made it, just as the raindrops started falling. Of all the contingencies I’d considered for my Lollapalooza weekend, “What if it rains?” just wasn’t one of them. I was in jeans and a t-shirt, my standard summer uniform. (A side note: I discovered when packing for Lolla that I don’t have any summer clothes that make me look like a grown-up. It’s all t-shirts with band logos on them. I look 17, or worse, homeless.)

I spent Day One with my friends Jeni and Tony, and we stuck to my previously posted schedule, pretty much. My first observation about Lollapalooza? There are a lot of people there. I mean, a lot. The three of us got separated in the rush of the crowd more than once, and by the end of the day, I gave up fighting to get nearer to the stage. Also, the kid at the gate attached my “do not remove upon pain of death” Official Bracelet very loosely to my arm, and it was almost torn off by flailing limbs next to me several times.

Here’s another one: there just isn’t enough time to see every band I want to see. My Friday schedule was packed solid, no breaks, from 2 p.m. to 10 p.m. The thing is, I had to leave some concerts early to get to the next show on my list, or risk being stuck at the back of the crowd. While I didn’t skip anybody (except Andrew Bird), I did miss the last 15 minutes or so of nearly every set I attended.

We started with New Jersey’s Gaslight Anthem, who sparked through a strong set of their Springsteen-meets-Social-Distortion pop-punk. Their new album, The ’59 Sound, is very good. It’s also just about 30 minutes long, which, as it turns out, is the perfect length – the band played for about 50 minutes on stage, which was 20 minutes too long for me. Their songs do tend to sound the same after a while.

But I was more interested in figuring out just how my rainy Friday would go, and whether I’d catch pneumonia just standing out there. After the show, I bought a hat, to keep the raindrops off my glasses. I was soaked through by 2:30, and shivering the rest of the day. But after a while, I didn’t even notice.

We spent the rest of the day, with one exception, at the north end of the park, so I quickly got an opportunity to make The Walk. Grant Park doesn’t seem that large when you’re looking at it on a map, but with the sheer number of people crammed into its gates last weekend, traversing from one end to the other turned out to be a 20-minute affair. In my head, I was already restructuring my Saturday schedule, which would have found me making The Walk five times. No way.

So, to the north end. Bon Iver’s set was hushed, as you might expect – his For Emma, Forever Ago is a one-man show, mostly acoustic, and though leader Justin Vernon had some help on stage, the sound was essentially minimal. And it didn’t really work as outdoor festival music, although the rain added to the atmosphere. I enjoyed seeing Vernon, but I’d like to see him again, in a smaller room.

Ben Folds… well. Despite having seen Folds about six times already, I was excited to catch his early afternoon set. But it was the worst, most awkward show I’ve ever seen from him. He focused on material from last year’s lame Way to Normal, mixing in his cover of “Bitches Ain’t Shit” for bad measure, and the set had no pace and no heart. Folds and his band looked bored, even while pulling off the complex runs in “Dr. Yang.” He did give us “Army,” and that’s all right, but my heart sank at the dreary, forced “fun” of the rest of the selections.

Fleet Foxes were excellent, of course. They come off as a ramshackle bunch of laid-back hippies just goofing around, but when they launch into those spectral harmonies, it’s just magical. They’re another band I would like to see in a smaller room, since their quieter moments got lost in the crowd noise. Of course, I left early to get a spot for the Decemberists show, and missed my favorite Fleet Foxes song, “Mykonos.” Typical.

But that’s okay, because the Decemberists delivered my favorite show of the day. They pulled off a complete reading of my favorite album of 2009 so far, The Hazards of Love. It’s essentially an hour-long song, and they played it as such, with all segues intact. The most surreal moment came when the entire crowd, thousands of people, sang along to “The Rake’s Song,” a tune about a guy who kills off his children one by one. As the guy next to me said, “It’s the darkest song I’ve ever heard, but I’ll dance to it.”

By this time, as Galactus might say, the hunger was upon us, so we skipped Andrew Bird and ate some five-dollar burgers. (That’s a good burger. I don’t know if it’s worth five dollars, but it’s pretty fucking good.) Then came decision time. Lollapalooza makes you choose between headliners each night, and since they’re separated by The Walk, there’s no way to catch both. (At least, not if you want to get close enough to see anything.)

Friday night’s headliners were Kings of Leon and Depeche Mode. Two bands I’m not in love with. I decided to go wherever my concert companions wanted to, and Jeni was out-of-her-mind excited about seeing Depeche Mode. So we did, and I braced myself for a long set of boredom.

But you know what? The Mode was awesome. They played a lot of new stuff from Sounds of the Universe at the beginning, but soon they were crashing through old classics, and I forgot just how much I like some of these songs. “I Feel You” was amazing, “Policy of Truth” knocked me out, and “Enjoy the Silence” was the highlight of the set. The final encore was “Personal Jesus,” of course, and the crowd ate it up. Fantastic show, slotting right behind the Decemberists for best of the day. I am still surprised at how damn much I enjoyed it.

It wasn’t until the last strains of Martin Gore’s guitar had faded that I realized just how wet and exhausted I was. And we still had to walk a mile to get to the hotel. But it was worth it. In some ways, Friday was the best day, since the cooler air helped my stamina. I certainly was not prepared for the sweltering beatdown the sun would deliver over the next two days.

* * * * *

Day Two: Saturday, August 8

In the immortal words of Danny Glover, I am getting too old for this shit.

Day Two was hot. Very, very, unbelievably hot. That alone would have made for a long slog of an afternoon, but it was also crowded. I am sure you have some idea in your mind what I mean when I say the word “crowded.” Take that, whatever it is, and multiply by 10. There were a few terrifying moments today when I could not move in any direction. I was suffocated by people.

Also, Saturday was the day I truly discovered that my schedule was impossible. I was hoping to walk back and forth, from one end of Grant Park to the other, a couple of times. But each attempt at that on Saturday took about half an hour, just moving with the slow tide of people. In the end, I chucked the schedule and only caught a few shows. But they were (mostly) superb. I started the day alone, but eventually found friends, and met new ones. Of course, they all abandoned me at the end of the day, but we’ll get to that in a minute.

I started Saturday with Thenewno2, the electro-rock outfit fronted by George Harrison’s son, Dhani. The young Harrison looks exactly like his dad during the Hard Day’s Night era, and he took the stage in a pirate hat. They played two long, droning electronic tunes, and then the sequencing computer broke. This was the best possible thing that could have happened. The keyboardist donned a guitar, and the band rocked for the rest of their set. And I mean rocked. Nothing on the album (You Are Here) moves with as much force as the last half of their show did.

Then, on Tony’s recommendation, I saw the Constantines, and they were excellent. Sludgy post-punk with some complex instrumental passages, and enough energy to get me pumped for the rest of the day. They were probably my favorite show, until the headliner. I found that for all three days, the sets at the beginning and those at the end stick out for me. The ones in the middle flew by without sticking, except for Vampire Weekend. But as you’ll see, there were other reasons for that.

I met up with Derek and his girlfriend Amy, and we wandered over to the north end to see Los Campesinos. I ended up feeling bad for the band, because they knocked themselves out to entertain us – Los Campesinos sound like the Arcade Fire scoring a John Hughes movie, all huge orchestration and manic beats, and lead singer Gareth Campesinos (uh huh) was like a madman, yelling and jumping and flailing about. But I was bored. I don’t know why. The songs didn’t grab me, and the set, though energetic, just fell flat for me.

In contrast, Texas songwriter Robert Earl Keen was perhaps the biggest surprise of the day. His low-key country-folk was exactly the tonic I needed, all acoustic guitars and pedal steels with sweet melodies. I was standing in front of three shirtless college kids, obviously drunk, and they started yelling out Keen’s name. “Robert! Roooobeeert!” I felt certain they were making fun of the 53-year-old singer, until they began singing along with his songs. They were fans. I was stunned, and the wide grin didn’t leave my face for half an hour.

I left that show early to get a spot for Arctic Monkeys, who sleepwalked through a set of old and new songs. The third Monkeys album, Humbug, hits at the end of the month, and the songs they played from it were slower and more stoner-rock than the hyperactive British craziness of their first two albums. But that’s okay, I was barely paying attention by that point.

I skipped TV on the Radio to get to the south side for Animal Collective. I wish I hadn’t. Animal Collective was bad. I’m not sure why I even thought that show would be good. I love the new album, Merriweather Post Pavilion, but have hated everything else the band has done. This was an hour of drum loops and formless noise, with moaning on top of it. I tried to like it, I really did. But there’s only so much amorphous repetition I can take, and the moments of melody were few and far between. Had I been on some form of controlled substance, I might have liked this better.

For me, the biggest dilemma of the day was the headliner. Did I want to see the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, or Tool? They could not be more different, and yet, they each feed a unique part of my musical personality. In the end, unlike every other person there I knew, I picked Tool, for a number of reasons. First, I was already on the south end of the park, and didn’t want to make The Walk again. Second, the Yeahs were the replacement band for the Beastie Boys, and are, I suspect, not quite ready for the big stage. (Post-show reports bore that out.)

But most importantly, I fucking love Tool. And they did not disappoint. They were amazing. Tool uses the classic minimalist lineup (guitar, bass, drums, vocals), but they compose these astonishing mini-symphonies, full of shifting time signatures and difficult, yet pummeling, instrumental work. I don’t know how they kept them all straight live, but they did, and they were astoundingly good. They closed with “Vicarious,” from the latest album, 10,000 Days, and the energy of that performance kept me wired on the long walk back to my hotel.

Once again, the fading strains of the headliner gave way to the realization of just how tired I was. My ankles were screaming at me, my clothes were soaked through with sweat, and I honestly considered bailing out on Sunday, since the weather forecasters were predicting hundred-degree heat. I collapsed into bed, exhausted but happy.

* * * * *

Day Three: Sunday, August 9

Day Three was just plain weird.

First of all, while there were a lot of people at Lollapalooza on Saturday, there were just too damn many people there on Sunday. Perhaps that’s my impression, colored by exhaustion, but I felt suffocated all day. I remember arriving at noon, and looking through the gate at the earliest show of the day, and seeing hundreds upon hundreds of people already there.

Sunday also vaulted past 100 degrees, which didn’t help. I spent something like $15 on water, in one day, and I brought in a one-liter bottle to boot. I used super-SPF sunscreen, and the back of my neck is still sunburned. The performers were commenting on the heat all day as well. I could try to tell you how hot it was, but I don’t think I’d be able to adequately convey it. It was bloody hot.

Despite all that, the day started out rather well. Ra Ra Riot kicked things off with a driving set of indie pop fueled by violin and cello. I like their sound so much, I just wish they would write some compelling songs to go with it. But live, it worked just fine. Plus, on the way over to that show, I caught a few songs from Los Angeles band Carney, and they were swell – fine, fun pop. I’ll be buying their album.

Bat for Lashes was magnificent. Part Siouxie, part Bjork, all Kate Bush, Natasha Khan danced through a set full of magical songs. She played piano and autoharp, and was backed by a three-piece band that brought the songs on Two Suns, her extraordinary new album, to life. She closed with “Daniel,” and I’ve heard six versions of this song now, none of them the same. Great, great show, despite the eight-foot-tall basketball player who decided to stand in front of me.

I was going to avoid the Airborne Toxic Event, so unimpressed was I with the songs I’ve heard. I’m so glad I showed up for their set, though, because they rocked. They closed with a 10-minute version of “Innocence” that was simply superb. Like Bruce Springsteen (and the Gaslight Anthem), TATE plays simple, inspiring rock music that works much better on the stage. Still, I’ll probably be buying this album now too.

Later, I hooked back up with Lis Martin and her sister Alex, and we fake-fought about Nirvana’s place in the music world. All was well. And then, during Vampire Weekend’s set, I had a panic attack.

I was looking forward to this band’s show all (ahem) weekend. Their self-titled debut was one of my favorite records of last year, and their unique blend of Afro-pop and college rock works on many levels. Unfortunately, one of those levels is “drunken party music.” My friends wanted to be closer to the action, and despite my hatred of crowds, I went along. Before I knew it, we were enclosed, and couldn’t leave if we wanted to.

And then a group of drunken college kids pushed their way through to stand in front of us, and as the band launched into “A-Punk,” they began shoving each other into the people around them. Including us. That, coupled with the heat and the crowd, proved too much, and I fled, taking refuge near the exit while my heart raced and I hyperventilated. It was not my finest moment.

The guard by the gate was something else. I was told that the gate, through which I had exited both of the last two nights, was not an approved way out during the day. So I collapsed by the gate, breathing quickly, trying to slow my heart, and the guard yelled at me to get out of the festival, and to not come back. I argued, explaining what had happened and my reaction to it, and he calmed down. But he was seemingly unable to communicate very well – instead of explaining calmly that the gate was intended as a media entrance only, he barked at people. “Not an exit! Please go away!” I watched him physically maul one woman who tried to get out through the gate. It was crazy.

Still, I enjoyed Vampire Weekend. They played a bunch of new songs, and while they sound superficially similar to the old stuff, I could tell they’re stretching out, becoming more ambitious. I did listen to the last half of their set from the steps by the exit, my head in my hands, though, so you may not want to listen to me.

I recovered in time for the three sets at the end of the night, on the north stage. It took me forever to find my friends again, but as they were determined to see the Killers at the end of the night, we parted company once again. I trundled down to the north side, listening to the strains of “Sweet Jane” as Lou Reed kicked off his set, 20 minutes late.

Now, I don’t like Lou Reed. I can’t believe it took sitting through half his ass-aching set Sunday night to remember that, but it’s true. I know why the man’s a legend, and I understand his importance, but he’s an awful musician, and just a complete douchebag. Despite the late start, he played his whole hour set anyway, which would have been forgivable if he’d been playing songs, but his band spent most of their last 20 minutes spewing forth squalling feedback over a keyboard loop. And then they launched into “Walk on the Wild Side.” As I remarked to the man next to me, Reed is on Heroin Standard Time, so the show could have gone on indefinitely.

Meanwhile, Band of Horses stood by the side of the stage, waiting for Reed to finish torturing our ears. The crowd grew restless, and started chanting “Fuck Lou Reed,” but he pressed on. So Band of Horses started 20 minutes late as well. I quite enjoyed their set, though, especially the grand “No One’s Gonna Love You,” an ethereally beautiful piece. Hearing it live was wonderful.

Then something strange happened. Band of Horses, quite rightly, decided to play their entire set as well, planning to conclude 20 minutes late. Unfortunately, noise ordinances keep Lollapalooza from continuing past 10 p.m. So the reunited Jane’s Addiction decided to take the headlining stage on time, launching into “Up the Beach”… while Band of Horses continued to play on the stage directly facing them.

That’s right, for 20 minutes, we got two bands playing at full volume atop one another, like two stereos blaring simultaneously. It was, to say the least, odd. Most people were just bewildered, but neither band backed down, so all we could do was wait for Band of Horses to finish their set. Now, here’s the thing with me and Jane’s Addiction – I’ve been waiting to see them live for 20 years. It’s been 18 since all four original members shared the stage. I’ve been breathlessly awaiting this show for months.

And the first few songs were just ruined.

Now, my very favorite Jane’s song is the mammoth “Three Days.” I knew I’d have to leave early to catch my train, but I’ve been saying to myself, “As long as I see “Three Days” live, I’ll be okay.” Well, they launched into it as their third song, while Band of Horses was still playing. And I shook my head in dismay. But “Three Days” is 10 minutes long, and it simply outlasted its competition. I got to hear all the good parts, and then another hour of Jane’s besides, including my other favorite, “Then She Did.” Jane’s was extraordinary, playing like they hadn’t been away for even a day. It was a terrific capper.

Yes, I did have to leave early, during “Summertime Rolls.” I missed Joe Perry’s cameo on “Jane Says,” and I didn’t get to hear “Stop.” But I didn’t care that much. “Summertime Rolls” was a great song to go out on, long and languid and nostalgic, and as I exited the park for the final time, I thought back over the weekend. While a lot of it felt like watching live music in a pressure cooker, I did actually enjoy myself. It was a tremendous commitment, and an exhausting ordeal, but it was also a fine, fun time.

* * * * *

Next week, Mutemath. The releases are coming thick and fast over the next few weeks, so watch both here and at tm3am.blogspot.com as I try to keep up. Follow me on Twitter at www.teitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So of course, the Fiery Furnaces waited until I was finished with my review of their new album last week before making what I believe is the weirdest announcement of their career.

Yes, weirder than that “Democ-Rock” thing they tried, where they posted insane descriptions of what the next Furnaces album might sound like, and asked fans to vote for their favorite. And yes, weirder than their plan to release twin solo projects this year, each a song-for-song cover/deconstruction of the band’s new record, I’m Going Away. You ready for this?

The next Fiery Furnaces album will be a silent record. Really.

It’s apparently a protest – “Since bands can no longer sell audio,” the press release reads, “FF refuse to provide it.” It’s not clear whether they believe that file-sharing has killed the notion of selling recorded music, but the concept of their silent album is actually pretty cool. They’ve written a bunch of songs, and they will release them as sheet music. Then, they will help arrange concerts, at which local musicians will play the songs on Silent Record any way they wish. It sounds to me like a new way of getting their songs out there, and engaging their audience at the same time.

Of course, as soon as these concerts start happening, bootleg recordings of them will no doubt surface, feeding the very file-sharing networks the band is opposing. But the idea is interesting. Another potential hitch: Matthew Friedberger’s songs are notoriously difficult to play. Will these makeshift bands get the songs right? Will that matter? No word on whether we’ll ever get a “definitive” recording of the songs on Silent Record (or even if such a concept applies in this case).

Naturally, there’s also no word on whether this will actually happen. But of all the crazy ideas the Furnaces have had, I like this one the best.

* * * * *

A friend and I were talking about the Dead Weather last week, and he asked an interesting question: does Jack White hold the record right now for the musician leading the most current bands? He’s masterminding three – the White Stripes, the Raconteurs and the Dead Weather – and he treats all of them like his main gig. It’s an interesting question – I could think of a few, like Tim Kasher (Cursive, The Good Life) and Alex Turner (Arctic Monkeys, The Last Shadow Puppets) juggling two, but none taking on three at once.

A day or so later, it hit me: Jason Martin.

Not only is Martin the singer/songwriter/leading light behind the long-running Starflyer 59 (15 years and counting), he juggles a number of other going concerns. He writes and plays all the instruments for Bon Voyage, with his wife Julie – their third album Lies, out last year, was very good. He works with his brother Ronnie in The Brothers Martin, though time will tell if that’s more than a side project.

And he’s (somewhat secretly) a main member of Neon Horse, an anonymous rock band that reared its head last year. Like Gorillaz, the members of Neon Horse hide behind cartoon analogues, in this case looking like the cast of Deadwood done up animation style. In reality, it’s a collaboration between Martin and Mark Salomon of Stavesacre, whose voice is simply unmistakable. Their sound is junkyard ‘80s, with sloppy kickass guitars and plastic synths backing up Salomon’s affected howl. Their self-titled debut was 30 minutes of high-speed awesome, Martin stretching out on guitar in ways I’d never really heard before.

The second Neon Horse album is pretty much the same, but this one has a much cooler title: Haunted Horse: Songs of Love, Defiance and Delusion. It is, once again, 30 minutes of non-stop rock, although this one is even more ‘80s – the synths are more prominent, the melodies more Devo. But the attitude remains the same. Under his Norman Horse persona, Salomon whoops and snarls all over these songs. He’s much more restrained and precise in Stavesacre, but here, he’s like a madman. The first four songs on this album rush by in 10 minutes, Salomon a whirling dervish atop the din.

Martin has experimented with jagged guitar lines in Starflyer, but I’ve never heard him play like he does in Neon Horse. Loud, angular, just ripping – check out “Follow the Man,” the riff-heavy explosion at track four. The main guitar line is pure trash-rock, the chorus is awesome, and the Jim Morrison-style breakdown section is well-placed. “Yer Busy Little Beehive” drives forward on Martin’s synths, while “Strange Town” combines his strengths, the propulsive guitar riffs augmented by droning keys. But there’s nothing clinical about this music – it’s all just full-on fun.

Lyrically, Neon Horse is very worried about you. “Strange Town” is similar to Poison’s “Fallen Angel,” and a million songs of its ilk – it’s about lost innocence, about “shadows grow(ing) under street lights in a strange town.” “Follow the Man” finds Salomon pleading for a prostitute’s salvation, and “Chain Gang Bang Bang” follows a line of miserable souls off a cliff. The whole album balances the seamy, dirty music Neon Horse makes with a fatherly, almost spiritual sensibility. (Except “Cell-o-Phone.” That one’s about an annoying person who calls too much.)

But if you’re not looking for the shafts of light, you’ll never notice them. Haunted Horse is a sleazeball rock record with a pure heart, and if you think they can’t do both, you haven’t heard it. Neon Horse is like the logical extreme of Starflyer’s New Wave material, and at the same time, it’s like nothing Jason Martin’s ever done. It’s sexy-cool-fun, and just long enough at half an hour. Long may this Horse ride.

What of Martin’s main gig, you ask? Don’t worry, you can get double your Martin fix this week, in the form of Starflyer 59’s two-disc collection Ghosts of the Past. These 100 minutes serve as a victory lap and an anniversary celebration, collecting all of the non-album tracks from the last five years. But it’s not just an odds-and-sods compilation, bringing together as it does all of the A- and B-sides from last year’s Ghosts of the Future 7-inch series.

Ghosts of the Future was a 10-record set recorded and released during the run-up to Starflyer’s 11th album, Dial M. The A-sides were demo versions of the 10 songs that appeared on that album, while the B-sides were all exclusive new tunes and covers. The 20 tunes are arranged in order, each B-side following its A-side, so it’s like listening to the box set in sequence. The whole thing is an ‘80s-inspired festival of reverbed guitar and wondrous melodies.

The demos are stripped-down, of course, but they sound complete to my ears, and some of these arrangements beat out the more colorful ones on Dial M. Ghosts of the Past kicks off with “Automatic,” here just bass, drums and violin, and the bare-bones arrangement adds immeasurable atmosphere. The focus is on Martin’s low-key, low-register voice, which sounds as great as ever. “Concentrate” is much less propulsive here, more keyboard-driven, and I think this version is the equal of that on Dial M.

It’s the B-sides, though, that make this an essential purchase. Martin pairs “Minor Keys,” which references the Smiths, with a subdued cover of “Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want.” He backs “Easy” with “Spooky,” a dark and lovely instrumental. The acoustic version of “Mr. Martin” is a lot closer to what made the record, while the electrified version here is revelatory. Martin covers Bread’s “Guitar Man,” then teams up with David Bazan for “Broken Arm,” a song that makes me want to hear more from this unlikely team-up.

The second disc of Ghosts is more spotty, bringing together B-sides from Starflyer’s three recent EPs. These are definitely second-tier Martin songs, for the most part, although instrumental “White Fog” is a standout. But the three tunes from last year’s Minor Keys EP are terrific – acoustic takes on two Dial M songs, followed by a majestic cover of the Church’s “Under the Milky Way.”

The whole thing is rounded off with “Magic,” a bonus track from the vinyl version of Dial M. Easily the best thing on disc two, “Magic” probably should have made the album proper, but it ties things up nicely here. “Sometimes the magic works, sometimes it don’t,” Martin sings, over a breezy acoustic strum and a galloping drum beat. The magic works far more often than it doesn’t on Ghosts of the Past – it’s not only a collection of missing pieces for the Starflyer fan, it’s a fine overview of where Martin’s been over the past half-decade. If this is your first Starflyer 59 album, you’ll want to hear more. What else can you ask for?

As always, Jason Martin’s music is out on Tooth and Nail Records, and their commitment to his work is commendable. Both Jason and his brother Ronnie, who is Joy Electric, have been on Tooth and Nail since the early ‘90s, and they’re both prolific, low-selling artists with small yet dedicated followings. I’m always grateful to T&N for allowing both Martins to flourish creatively for as long as they have. I, for one, have enjoyed every minute of it.

This weekend, I’m at Lollapalooza, and next week, you can read all about it. Watch this space. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.