When I was younger, I believed in God without question.

Life was as my parents and church leaders told me it was, and I had no reason to doubt it. These were simpler times, and I had a simpler faith to match. I wasn’t even aware at the time that there were different Christian denominations. I remember meeting my first Catholic, at a youth group retreat. We approached her with the timid fascination usually reserved for lions at the zoo. She was Like Us, but Not Like Us, if that makes sense – she lived in a different world, and I was happy in mine.

But then a funny thing happened. I started asking questions, and the answers I got back stopped satisfying me. With pointed queries about specific Bible passages – did Noah actually get all those animals onto the Ark? How? Did Jonah really spend three days alive in the belly of a whale? Again, how? – I danced around the big one at the heart of every doubt: is any of this real, or are we just telling each other stories?

Now I’m not sure what to tell people when they ask me about my own faith. I haven’t been to Sunday morning church (except to cover certain services) in more than 15 years. If I’m honest, I don’t believe in the majority of the Bible – most of it strikes me as metaphor, the rest as political more than spiritual. And yet, I still believe in something bigger, something greater than all of us. Call it God, if you like, but I firmly believe when we try to mold that something bigger into our own image, we lose sight of it.

I feel like my doubt has led me to something stronger, something more real. But I’ve been thinking a lot about faith recently, for a number of reasons, not the least of which is my current fascination with David Bazan’s album Curse Your Branches. It’s been described (by virtually everyone who’s reviewed it) as Bazan’s break-up album with God, and I can’t think of a better, more succinct description. It is also one of the most emotionally devastating pieces of work I’ve heard this year.

Bazan is best known as the man behind Pedro the Lion. For years, he wrote some of the most eloquent Christian music you’ll ever hear, particularly on It’s Hard to Find a Friend. But over time, as Pedro’s music got better and harsher, Bazan started spinning morality tales dripping with doubt. He told of a world that just didn’t match up with the happy stories he got growing up, and I could relate. It’s an age-old question – if God is so good, why is life so hard? Why do people die of cancer? Why is one person allowed to ruin the lives of many? Why, if everything is mapped out by some divine creator, do things happen the way they do?

Bazan was once Christianity’s indie darling, a superstar of the Cornerstone Festival set. But Bazan has grown more and more disillusioned with Christianity, and where he was once content to spin stories about that loss of faith, on Curse Your Branches, he tackles it head-on. Bazan describes himself as an agnostic now, but he wrestles with the same doubts and challenges to God that many Christian artists do. Some are simplistic, taking issue with specific points in the Bible, but many are serious questions of theology, honest outpourings of betrayal and rage.

The first track, “Hard to Be,” deals with both kinds. The song is Bazan’s excoriation of the doctrine of original sin, which he believes many use to excuse their behavior. In the second verse, he takes on the story of the garden of Eden, found in Genesis: “Wait just a minute, you expect me to believe that all this misbehaving came from one enchanted tree, and helpless to fight it, we should all be satisfied with this mystical explanation for why the living die, and why it’s hard to be a decent human being…”

The literal detail is easily dismissed – it’s a story, meant to illustrate a point. But Bazan’s problem is deeper. It’s not hard, he says, to be a decent human being, but original sin lets us off the hook – we don’t have to take responsibility for our own depravity. It’s just the way we were made. The last verse finds Bazan talking about his family, who offer “no congratulations” for his newfound beliefs. Some of them, in fact, are “already praying to intercede for me, because it’s hard to be a decent human being.”

But it is hard, as Bazan himself points out in the following songs. He’s struggled with alcoholism for some time – in 2005, he was booted from Cornerstone for being drunk, according to published reports – and “Please Baby Please” is one of the most harrowing and clear-eyed songs about that particular addiction I’ve ever heard. Over a jangly rhythm, Bazan recounts discussions with his wife about his drinking, and then, in the terrifying final verse, imagines passing that trait on to his daughter – “Sunrise at the county lockup, now our baby’s 23, she was out late drinking, killed a mother of three…”

Most of this record is given over to Bazan’s angry punch-ups with God, and it’s the kind of album that could only be made by someone who once fervently, unquestioningly believed. “When We Fell” is a simple rocker with a complex set of questions at its center, all of which boil down to this: is creation a setup? Did God make us this way, knowing we would fail him, and we would ruin what he’s given us? “If you knew what would happen, and you made us just the same, then you, my lord, can take the blame,” he sings at the song’s end, but it’s the accusation in the middle that hits hardest: “Did you push us when we fell?”

It’s actually an amazing question, one theologians have been wrestling with for centuries. “In Stitches,” the last song, contains another. Bazan brings up Job, who, in the Old Testament book that bears his name, was the subject of a bet between God and Satan. God took everything away from Job, then tested him to see if he’d remain faithful. Job did, but then had the temerity to ask God why these things were done to him.

Here’s Bazan: “When Job asked you the question, you responded, ‘Who are you to challenge your creator?’ Well, if that one part is true, it makes you sound defensive, like you had not thought it through enough to have an answer, like you might have bit off more than you could chew.”

And there’s the heart of Curse Your Branches: Bazan is saying he doesn’t know if God exists, but if he does, and he’s like the Bible depicts him, then he’s not worth liking, let alone worshipping. Bazan castigates God for bullying his mother with “fear of damnation” in “When We Fell,” and in the title track, he posits that all fallen leaves should curse their branches “for not letting them decide where they should fall, and not letting them refuse to fall at all.”

All of this can sound like a theology course, but it doesn’t come off that way at all, because Bazan makes everything intensely personal. This is a real struggle for him. On “In Stitches,” he admits that all of his drinking is to drive God from his mind, and says he still can hear his voice in his head. His solution, in the upbeat “Bearing Witness,” is to “let go of what you know and honor what exists,” by which he means his family and the world around him. But it’s clearly tearing him up inside, to no longer believe in this thing that once defined him.

I have never been interested in Christian music for its own sake, any more than I am interested in Satanic music for its own sake. What I am interested in is people – artists who filter the world through their own experiences, and write about it honestly. That’s why I like Christian artists like Terry Taylor, and Mike Roe, and the Choir. They write about the world and their own personal faiths the way they see them, with no cheerleading or pat, simple answers.

And that’s why I like David Bazan, who has always done the same thing. Curse Your Branches is a particularly difficult album for me, not because of any faith I have held on to, or lost, but because Bazan’s loss of faith hurts him so very much. He is angry, he feels betrayed, he is drinking to forget. Like all separations that mean anything, this one is painful and impossibly difficult, and Bazan makes you feel his anguish, his confusion and loss, with every elegant and well-chosen word.

The music on this record is typically simple, but the production is nice and dense, and the focus is on the voice and lyrics, where it ought to be. What’s surprising, if you’ve never heard David Bazan before, is how happy the music often seems, especially on heartbreakers like “Please Baby Please” and “When We Fell.” The joyous epiphany of “Bearing Witness” is the only one that deserves its almost jolly musical backing. Bazan does mirror the agony of the lyrics here and there, especially on “Hard to Be” and “In Stitches,” but for the most part, his dramatically different perspective hasn’t altered what he does musically.

Still, Curse Your Branches is a very difficult listen, especially if you’ve been following David Bazan’s career from the beginning. I think it’s a brilliant, honest, brave album, but it’s tough. I’ve been through many of the same struggles Bazan voices on this album, and in many ways, I’m still going through them. But in my head, they were never this elegant or this painful. I’m paraphrasing one of my favorite television shows, but Curse Your Branches is so beautiful it hurts to listen to.

Some of Bazan’s old-school fans might be turned off by the forthright, searching material on this album. But I’m reminded of this year’s Cornerstone festival. Organizers invited Bazan back for the first time since 2005, knowing full well the content of this new album, and he played to a packed house at the Gallery Stage. By the end, some audience members were reduced to tears, and festival heads said they were gratified to see such a moment happen at this festival – doubt, pain and unbelief are part of the experience, they said. It’s as if they were acknowledging that David Bazan may be done with God, but God isn’t done with David Bazan.

As for me, I keep returning to one passage here, in the title track: “Why are some hell bent on there being an answer, while some are quite content to answer, ‘I don’t know.’” Bazan seems to be in the second category, and I’m right there with him. I don’t know. That’s why this searing, probing album is so fascinating to me. Bazan is not asking new questions, but they are, and have always been, questions worth asking. And when I asked them, I always appreciated the people who told me, “I don’t know.” Likewise, I have always understood when that answer leads to loss of faith, and have always been impressed when it doesn’t, when one can look at the world with open eyes and still believe in something beyond it.

So yes, Curse Your Branches is David Bazan’s break-up album with God. And it’s brilliant. And it hurts. And I hope he keeps chronicling these struggles with the unflinching honesty he’s shown here. And I hope one day, he finds peace.

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You may not have noticed, but it’s been an incredible three months for new music. Below you will find the Third Quarter Report, essentially what my top 10 list would look like were I forced to put it out there now. As you’ll see, everything but the top four has been eliminated. Music since June has been that good.

I even have three more honorable mentions, not counting the ones that made June’s list, which included Animal Collective, Duncan Sheik, Tinted Windows, Loney Dear, British Sea Power, Richard Swift and The Bird and the Bee. Killer albums all, but no longer on this list. Add three more honorables to the pile: Owl City’s Ocean Eyes, Muse’s The Resistance, and the Black Crowes’ Before the Frost. Of course, everything could change in the next few months, but at present, none of those albums are on the list.

Here are the ones that made it, as of now. The Third Quarter Report:

10. The Dead Weather, Horehound.
9. Mutemath, Armistice.
8. David Bazan, Curse Your Branches.
7. Imogen Heap, Ellipse.
6. David Mead, Almost and Always.
5. Bat for Lashes, Two Suns.
4. The Antlers, Hospice.
3. Green Day, 21st Century Breakdown.
2. Quiet Company, Everyone You Love Will Be Happy Soon.
1. The Decemberists, The Hazards of Love.

Yep, Colin Meloy and his merry band are still holding on. And yes, three of the top four albums are cohesive concept records. Weird year.

Next week, lots of options, including 7 Worlds Collide, Alice in Chains and Hope Sandoval. And now that I’ve placed it in the top 10 list, I should probably review Imogen Heap’s album, yeah? 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.

So Tori Amos is putting out a Christmas album this year. Really. If you needed any more proof that her career as an important and influential artist is over, well, there you are.

I’m a little distracted this week, so bear with me. It’s becoming more and more likely that the Chicago Sun-Times (and all its subsidiary papers) will be going away for good very soon, and that means I’ll be out of a job. It’s complicated, but it’s down to a potential buyer wanting the unions to strip away most of their hard-fought protections, and the unions not being willing to do so. We’ll know in a week whether one side or the other blinks, but I’m not counting on it.

So finances might be a little tight in the coming weeks and months, and this column may be affected by that. I know I promised a whole slew of reviews this time out, but I’m going to try to spread out my backlog a little. Two reviews this week, one next, probably a Dear Dave Mustaine letter after that, and then we’ll see where we are.

This week, I have two bands who have taken exact opposite paths with their new album – one’s gone little, one’s gone big.

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Pearl Jam started their career as one of the biggest bands in the world. Since then, they’ve been moving heaven and earth to get smaller.

Their 1991 debut album, Ten, remains their biggest seller. “Alive.” “Even Flow.” “Jeremy.” For a lot of people, these songs are Pearl Jam, and they were written and recorded like stadium anthems, Eddie Vedder and company shooting for the rafters. The band seemed to recoil from its lightning-fast success almost immediately – while 1993’s Vs. followed a similar, if rawer pattern, they quickly started making oblique and difficult records like Vitalogy and No Code.

It’s been a strange thing to witness. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone with the star quality of Vedder work so hard to fade into the background. Since their first two albums, the band has all but refused to write songs with hooks, keeping the “Even Flow” fans at arm’s length. I can barely remember any of Binaural, or Riot Act. They also released 15 million live albums, and worked with Neil Young in an attempt to brand themselves as just another rootsy rock band.

It’s all started to get a bit boring, honestly. Three years ago, Pearl Jam put out a self-titled album with an avocado on the cover, and while it was easily the most energetic, vivacious, alive thing they’d done since the early days, I just wasn’t feeling it. I took the opportunity to write a break-up letter to a band I once loved, and figured I’d put Pearl Jam behind me.

So what brought me back, and convinced me to give them another shot? “The Fixer,” the jubilant not-quite-three-minute first single from album nine, Backspacer. For a band that broke big with songs about bloody teen vengeance and virgin suicides, “The Fixer” is pure joy. It’s got actual hooks, at least relatively speaking – Vedder’s “Yeah yeah yeah” is the closest this band has come to writing a big chorus in a long time, and the cheesy-cool keyboards here and there only add to the dance-dance-revolution that this song represents.

Okay, fine, I’m back in, I said. I’ll give Backspacer a shot. And you know what? I like it. This record, at just under 37 minutes long, feels like the destination point, like Pearl Jam has finally made themselves small enough to be comfortable. Backspacer is out on the band’s own label, Monkeywrench, and available in independent record stores (and one big box, Target). For once, the sales-limiting effects of these exclusive deals seem purposeful – Pearl Jam wants their independent-minded fans to have this one, so they’ve created special packaging just for the mom-and-pop stores.

The record itself is one of the most tightly arranged and focused albums this band has ever made, and at the same time, it’s their most relaxed. Freed from the weight of the world, Pearl Jam sounds content to be just a kickass little rock band. The first four tunes on Backspacer make the case – they’re the most rollicking, good-time songs I’ve heard from them, even with all the drug imagery in “Gonna See My Friend” and “Got Some.” Believe it or not, the boot-stomping “Johnny Guitar” is actually quite funny – it’s about bluesman Johnny “Guitar” Watson and his many girlfriends.

Yes, the band does get serious now and then. “Just Breathe” is an acoustic love lament, augmented by Brendan O’Brien’s strings, and “Unthought Known,” the album’s epic at 4:08, brings in those minor keys and an insistent piano. Vedder once again reaches for the stars with his repeated “nothing left,” but oddly, it doesn’t sound as self-conscious or as reined-in as other recent attempts to go vast. And the blistering “Supersonic,” 2:40 of punky propulsion right after it, takes the hot air right out of the balloon. “Speed of Sound” and “Force of Nature” are both complex mid-tempo pieces, but they work.

The only weird moment is the closer, “The End.” It’s a sad ballad of pleading and resignation, an oddly downbeat conclusion to this bright, life-affirming little record. But Vedder sings the hell out of it, and the subtle strings and horns actually add depth.

I won’t go so far as to say Backspacer is a great record, because it isn’t. But it is the most enjoyable Pearl Jam album in a long time, the one on which our Fabled Five finally grow comfortable in their own skins. For years they’ve insisted that they’re just a little rock band after all, and now that they’ve attained that goal, they sound like free men. That’s a sound worth hearing.

* * * * *

By contrast, Muse started off as an insignificant Radiohead wannabe outfit, but have since done everything in their power to become one of the biggest bands on Earth.

Their 1999 debut, Showbiz, is best forgotten. An amalgam of searing ‘90s alt-guitar and Thom Yorke-isms, the album is neither superb nor dreadful. It just kind of lies there and does nothing. But Muse would soon evolve, finally setting their own template with 2003’s still-amazing Absolution, and breaking it open three years ago with the wildly diverse Black Holes and Revelations. Part Rush, part Queen, part alt-metal, part discoteque, and all completely over the top.

But the past is prologue, and all that is nothing – nothing – compared to the dizzying ambition of The Resistance, the band’s fifth album. You think you’ve heard big from this band before, but this album makes the other four seem simple-minded and earthbound. You think you’ve heard Muse do bombast, but compared to The Resistance, everything else has been restrained and tasteful. This is the kind of album that would make Freddie Mercury say, “You know, guys, maybe you should dial this back a little.”

Mercury is actually a good touchstone for this record, since Muse takes liberally from both ‘70s operatic Queen, and ‘80s cheeseball disco Queen. But they also run the gamut from Chopin to Timbaland here, from Debussy to Dream Theater. Consider some highlights: “United States of Eurasia” is like Trans-Siberian Orchestra meets A Night at the Opera, and it concludes with a rendering of Chopin’s “Nocturne in E Flat Major” (here called “Collateral Damage”), played over sound effects of jet planes strafing playgrounds. “Unnatural Selection” is seven minutes of high-intensity riffing, but includes an incredibly strange dirty-blues breakdown in the middle.

Then there is “I Belong to You,” which starts like a bit of Supertramp piano-pop, with a spongy synth bass beneath, but quickly gets more epic, with a wordless operatic hook. But wait, because the opera’s just starting – the song morphs into an incredible take on a number from Samson and Delilah, sung entirely in French. Matt Bellamy’s inhuman pipes have rarely sounded better, and when the band kicks in, it’s like something off of a Therion album. The opera continues for another two minutes or so, and then the Supertramp groove kicks back in, and there’s a bass clarinet solo. Really. A bass clarinet solo.

Oh, and did I mention that this record ends with a three-part, 12-minute suite, all about mankind leaving Earth to populate the universe? And that it’s performed with a full orchestra? If not for Patrick Wolf’s The Bachelor, this would easily be the most bugfuck insane album of 2009.

But does it rock? Yes, yes it does. Opener “Uprising” is one giant fist-pumping anthem (“They will not control us, we will be victorious…”), with minimal guitars – the synthesizer rules the day here, sounding like something Geddy Lee might have used on Signals. The song’s full of “COME ON!” and “HEY!” exclamations, and while it doesn’t sound much like revolution, it’s pretty great stuff. The title track is even better, evolving from a moody beats-and-piano motif to a stunning, full-blooded rocker. “Love is our resistance,” Bellamy cries, and the song matches his grandeur note for note. And listen to bassist Chris Wolstenholme here. He’s amazing.

None of that will prepare you for “Undisclosed Desires,” a club-ready sex romp with a pizzicato backbeat. Or for “Guiding Light,” a huge (HUGE) victory march that occasionally reminds me of U2 meeting up with Queen’s score for Flash Gordon. Just dig the pure Brian May-ness of that unabashed guitar solo. Things get a little more Muse-like on “Unnatural Selection” and “MK Ultra,” but even here, the band throws in some surprises – that blues break in the former, and the awe-inspiring keyboard runs in the latter.

And of course, there is “Exogenesis,” the three-part symphony. I know what you’re thinking. How pretentious could this get? But believe it or not, it is (relatively speaking) subdued. The entire piece is held together by Bellamy’s lovely classical piano, and the strings are there for atmosphere, not saccharine or pomp. Each part builds up slowly around a motif, and while the band is present, they’re generally in the background. There are virtually no big moments, no fiery explosions – it is as subtle as a 12-minute piece about space travel can be. And there is no grand finale, either. The piece drifts out, as it drifted in, which makes for an off-kilter conclusion.

If I have any complaint about The Resistance, it’s the same one I had about Black Holes – these songs don’t seem to cohabit the same universe, never mind the same record. Song by song, Muse is more confident and assured than ever, but taken as a 54-minute whole, The Resistance feels confused and scattered. Next time out, I think Muse should concentrate on thematic unity, which should be easy, because “double-disc concept album” is the next logical cliché on their list.

The scattershot nature of this record is the only thing wrong with it, however. The three guys in Muse have widened their reach to an amazing degree, but they’ve proven they can handle anything they envision. There are head-scratching moments on The Resistance, especially the one sung in French, but there are no bad ones, and Bellamy and company never fall on their faces.

The album is a massive, batshit-crazy piece of work, and it stands alone, grand champion in a field of one. I don’t know any other band trying the same things on the same scale as Muse right now, and there’s a level of commitment to their insane craft here that’s simply breathtaking. The Resistance is a genuine triumph of vision and determination, and though its creators must be nuts, the sweep and scope of this thing leaves you with no choice but to surrender to it. It is, in the original sense of the word, awesome.

* * * * *

Next week, David Bazan. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent Twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

“The Beatles are generally seen as the single most important rock band of all time, because they wrote all the best songs. Since both of these suppositions are true, the Beatles are rated properly by everyone.” – Chuck Klosterman.

I know, I promised you other reviews this week. But there’s nothing I want to talk about as much as the Beatles right now. In fact, I’ve been talking about almost nothing but the Beatles for a week, driving friends and co-workers insane. I’ve always been a little obsessed with the Fab Four, but for the last seven days, as I’ve been immersing myself in the new remasters, I’ve been all but single-minded. My Facebook status read simply “BEATLES!” for two days, as I posted thoughts on the remasters in the comment fields.

It’s a sickness. But it’s not like I’m obsessed with Blink-182 or anything. It’s the frigging Beatles, the best band ever.

So okay, I’m not going to be able to write about the Beatles without slipping into hyperbole like that, so you’ll have to bear with me. I honestly do agree with Chuck Klosterman – the Beatles are the most important band of all time, because they wrote all the best songs. It’s been said the lads from Liverpool wrote 90 percent of all possible pop songs, and everyone else has been working on the other 10 percent ever since. Including the four of them, who were never as good apart as they were together.

I am a connoisseur of songwriting. I’ve heard hundreds of thousands of songs, from the sublime to the ridiculous. Most of them just disappear into the ether five seconds after they’re finished. A very small number of them work their way into my brain, and an even smaller number stick with me for years. Even my favorite songwriters have only produced, at best, a dozen songs I have treasured for decades.

The Beatles? I can name 25 perfect songs off the top of my head, and if you give me a minute, I’ll add 25 or so more. I heard my first Beatles album, the absolutely flawless Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, at age 15. (It was 20 years ago today…) I can recite the entire thing from memory now – every lyric, every melody. In many ways, Sgt. Pepper launched me on the musically obsessive path I’ve been on ever since. Every time I listen to a new album, I’m hoping against hope that it thrills me the way Sgt. Pepper did when I was 15.

I don’t really know what to say when people tell me they don’t like the Beatles. Intellectually, I understand it. For a band touted as the most important ever, they’re really silly. The first half of their catalog is clichéd love songs, the second half batshit nonsense. I get it. But emotionally, I don’t understand at all. I don’t know how anyone can hear “A Day in the Life,” or “And I Love Her,” or “Strawberry Fields Forever,” or “Got to Get You Into My Life” and not fall immediately in love. I simply can’t wrap my brain around that.

So there was really no question I would drop $200 on the brand-new remasters of the Beatles catalog, out last Wednesday. I first bought these albums on cassette, then on the iffy 1987 CDs, so this is the third time I’ve plunked down my cash for these songs. But let me tell you, I don’t regret it for a second. Everything you have heard about these new editions is true, and then some. The sound quality is so fantastic that it’s like hearing them for the first time.

I know what you’re thinking. There’s no way that’s true. But I promise you it is. I have heard these albums, minimum, 60 times each over the last 20 years, and in the past seven days, I’ve discovered so many things about them that I’ve never heard before. These remasters have done the impossible – they have deepened my appreciation for a catalog I already considered the best in popular music.

Let’s start with the basics. The catalog has been re-released in two spiffy box sets, one for the stereo mixes and one for the mono ones. I bought the stereo one, but I’m probably going to shell out for the mono box at some point. The outer box is beautiful and understated – it’s solid black, with “The Beatles” in white lettering and the Apple Corps logo. The individual packages are lovely. They’re glossy sleeves with thick booklets. The photos are terrific, and the liner notes are informative without being sycophantic – no mean feat with this band.

The box also contains a DVD with 13 mini-documentaries, tracing the evolution of the band album by album. You don’t need me to go into that evolution here, I’m sure. The transformation from Liverpool rock combo to international sensation to studio innovators to squabbling druggies to solo artists is an oft-told story, and if you’ve forgotten it, you can just play the new Beatles Rock Band game for a refresher course. But it’s worth noting that said transformation took place over only seven years.

And in that time, they made 13 albums and a host of singles, most of which did not appear on their proper records. In seven years, the Beatles composed close to 90 songs, many of them among the best ever written. And now, those songs sound better than they ever have.

I’m going to go album by album in a minute, just sharing my reflections as I listened again for the first time. But I hope these new remasters, in addition to introducing the Beatles to younger generations, also set right a couple of other things. Here are some lessons you can learn from this new, scrubbed-up take on the Beatles:

1. Ringo is a good drummer. Really, he is. One of the key elements of the new remasters is a focus on the drums and percussion, cleanly separated out for the first time. You can appreciate all the little touches Ringo brings to each song – you can clearly hear his hi-hat work now, for instance – and the overriding impression is of a good drummer working in the best interests of the songs. He shows off when he has to, but holds back when it suits what the band is doing.

2. Paul McCartney is one of the best bass players who ever lived. Damn, there’s that hyperbole again. But it’s true. You can have an enjoyable experience with these new remasters just by listening to what Paul is doing. Even on the early, simpler stuff, McCartney is just awesome, and when the songs get more complex, he truly shines. The new versions clean up the sound to such a degree that I’m hearing bass runs I’ve never heard before. McCartney showed whole generations of bass players how to do this right, how to add to the song inventively without derailing it.

3. George Martin was unquestionably the fifth Beatle. When I first heard Love, Martin’s remix of the Beatles catalog for Cirque du Soleil, I was half-certain he’d tampered with the original masters, adding parts that weren’t there originally. He hadn’t. The Beatles worked on four-tracks and, near the end, eight-tracks – there’s better recording equipment than that on my computer, and it came standard from the factory. Given that, Martin’s production work is astonishing. There’s so much depth to these recordings, and it was all there in the ‘60s. His arrangements are breathtaking, still, and his work is so detailed that it holds up next to records from the last five years. And now you can really hear it.

Okay, album by album. You don’t need me to tell you whether to buy these things – they’re the frigging Beatles, and smarter men than I have spent thousands upon thousands of words on these records. So I’m just going to share my impressions, listening one at a time.

Please Please Me

The Fab Four’s debut album was recorded in one day, which still amazes me. In many ways, they never replicated the live-sounding energy of this album, and Ringo in particular stands out here. Please Please Me contains eight originals and six covers, and it’s immediately apparent that Lennon and McCartney are already outwriting their influences. “I Saw Her Standing There,” “Love Me Do,” “Do You Want to Know a Secret” and the title track are all perfect little pop songs, much better than the likes of “Chains” and “Boys,” which the band covers. It’s absolutely clear why they were so immensely popular.

Two things struck me upon cueing up “I Saw Her Standing There.” The first was that I have never heard this song with such clarity before. The guitars ring, the drums shimmy, and everything’s in perfect balance. The second was the weird stereo mix. In 1963, stereo was brand new, and very few people made use of it. The mono mix of this album (and the next five or so) is considered the definitive, and the stereo mix an afterthought – all the instruments are in the left channel, and the vocals in the right, and that’s it. Hearing the first two albums this way convinced me to buy the mono box, especially since “Love Me Do” and “P.S. I Love You” are here in mono, and they sound terrific.

I love Please Please Me. It’s 30 minutes of effervescent pop, performed with nothing but guitars, bass and drums – it’s like the Beatles as teenage garage band. Fun, fun, fun.

With the Beatles

Essentially the same album, With the Beatles is a repeat of a winning formula – eight originals, six covers. But the originals are getting better. The album opens with “It Won’t Be Long,” a clarion cry if ever there was one, and continues with “All I’ve Got to Do” and “All My Loving,” a pair of perfect pop tunes. And George Harrison gets his first writing credit, on the grumpy “Don’t Bother Me.”

The improved songwriting just makes the covers sound worse, although the band once again does a great job slamming through them. They do give a hint of Lennon and McCartney’s roots – Lennon shouts his way through “Money (That’s What I Want),” while McCartney gives a wistful reading of “Till There Was You,” from The Music Man. This record, again, suffers from the weird stereo separation, but I got used to it, especially since the instruments are so crisp and clear. And the vocals! You can hear individual inflections in the harmonies now – I can pick out John and Paul and George easily. It’s like being in the room with them.

With the Beatles is not a complete success, but it’s about as much fun as its predecessor, and even with Martin playing piano here and there, it still sounds live and raw.

A Hard Day’s Night

Their first perfect album, and not coincidentally, the first one that’s entirely made up of Lennon-McCartney originals. The Beatles were the first boy band, no question, and their early songs are all fizzy love ditties. But they are absolutely perfect fizzy love ditties, and they never got better or more consistent in the early days than this. That ringing Rickenbacker chord that announces the title track, the rollicking “Can’t Buy Me Love,” the secret-agent-man minor-key wonder “Things We Said Today,” the gorgeous “If I Fell,” the singalong “Any Time at All”… the hits just keep on coming on this one.

And I’m so glad to have A Hard Day’s Night in this pristine new version. The stereo mix is wonderful – they’re recording on four-track now, and taking the time to mix for real. The first track in this set to make me sit back in open-mouthed wonder was “And I Love Her.” You can hear the frets buzzing on Paul’s acoustic, you can hear Ringo’s wood block high and clear above everything, and Paul’s voice is warm and close. You have to hear this. And while you’re at it, dig the rest of A Hard Day’s Night, one of the best pure pop albums ever recorded.

Beatles for Sale

A letdown in a way, the Beatles’ fourth album finds them returning to the half-covers format, but if Parlophone Records wanted to keep selling them as a rock band, well, they needed them to do songs like “Kansas City/Hey Hey Hey Hey” and “Rock and Roll Music.” Because the originals on this record are mostly slower, acoustic things that betray a darkness beneath the skin.

Lennon’s opening trilogy sets the tone: “No Reply,” “I’m a Loser,” and the ultimate picking-up-chicks-at-a-funeral song “Baby’s in Black.” The great “Eight Days a Week” and “What You’re Doing” are pretty much the only shafts of light here. Now, it’s not Smiths dark or anything – these are still fizzy love ditties, after all – but the specter of Bob Dylan is certainly present. I found myself liking Beatles for Sale this time a lot more than I remembered, and the quieter ones, like McCartney’s “I’ll Follow the Sun,” sound incredible now.

Help!

The soundtrack to the Beatles’ second movie, Help! is the last of their “cute” period, and it adds another 12 glittering little pop gems to their vast catalog of love songs. They don’t sound out of ideas, though – rather, this is one of the best of the early records, thanks to wonders like Lennon’s “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away” and McCartney’s “I’ve Just Seen a Face.” If not for the two covers, this might have been a contender for A Hard Day’s Night’s crown.

As it is, it’s merely awesome, not perfect. And it contains one of the most beloved songs in pop history, “Yesterday.” You’ve never heard it like this – the clarity will blow your mind. The acoustic guitar sounds right there, Paul’s voice is remarkably close and clear, and Martin’s string arrangement – the first on a Beatles album – will take your breath away. Seriously, it’s like McCartney and a string quartet set up shop in your house and played the song just for you.

Help! is one “Act Naturally” and one “Dizzy Miss Lizzy” away from pop perfection. I think the early Beatles records get a bad rap, simply because they’re compared with what came after. But I dare you to find better pure pop songs than the ones on these first five albums. The Beatles went more interesting places, but they were never this much fun again.

Rubber Soul

The very template of the transitional album, Rubber Soul found the Beatles shifting from their mop-top pop days into something more sophisticated and original. At the time, I’m sure, fans and critics expected the Beatles could never get better than this, but this was merely the first step on a much more interesting path. Still, it’s an amazing record, and it’s here that the Fab Four’s collaboration with George Martin really gains steam. And in these new versions, you can really hear how detailed and intricate the production is.

The Beatles did a bunch of things they’d never done before on Rubber Soul. Here’s Lennon’s strange folk fantasia “Norwegian Wood,” and his dark ballad “Nowhere Man,” two songs with druggy imagery that offered hints of what was to come. Here’s McCartney’s gorgeous high-school-French ditty “Michelle,” and his piano-driven rock-star giggle “Drive My Car.” These are songs with more mature outlooks, more interesting subjects. They’re also melodically awesome.

As I said, it’s transitional – later Beatles albums wouldn’t include semi-stumbles like “The Word,” and the queasy murder-pop of “Run For Your Life” is just here for shock value. But you can hear in every note of this thing just how wide the Beatles’ ambitions were starting to grow. The remaster uncovers things I’d never heard before – the quick harmonic at the end of Harrison’s solo in “Nowhere Man,” for instance – and adds new depth to songs I thought I knew by heart.

Revolver

Now, this? This is the shit.

I wouldn’t quibble with anyone who considered Revolver the best Beatles album. (I disagree, as you’ll see in a moment, but not by much.) Listening to this new version, I’m astounded that this album was recorded on four-track tape. I had a four-track recorder as a teenager, and I’m reasonably certain I couldn’t have made it do all the tricks Martin coaxes out of it here. But it’s the Beatles themselves who stepped up with 14 of their best and most striking songs here, blowing everything that came before out of the water.

Just take “Eleanor Rigby,” a strings-and-voice lament for a lonely, forgotten woman. The remaster brings the grittiness of the string quartet to the fore, and it’s even more haunting than it’s ever been. Elsewhere, McCartney turns in his finest ballad with “Here, There and Everywhere,” and one of his most exuberant anthems with “Got to Get You Into My Life.”

But this is John Lennon’s album, and he does nothing less here than turn popular music on its ear. “I’m Only Sleeping.” “She Said She Said.” And the granddaddy of them all, closer “Tomorrow Never Knows.” I can’t imagine what it must have been like to hear “Tomorrow” in 1966. It’s a psychedelic nightmare full of backwards instruments and odd noises, over a pulsing, relentless beat. This new, cleaned-up version is even scarier, sounds floating in and out of the din like ghosts. It’s just awesome.

I can’t fail to mention George Harrison’s contributions too, particularly the rocking “Taxman” and “Love You To,” the first flowering of his fascination with Indian music. Revolver still holds up as one of the most creative and fascinating albums ever made, and one of the best.

Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band

I mean, really. What can I say? This is the album I still name as the best one I’ve ever heard. A concept album that allowed the Beatles to step out of their own skins and pretend to be a different band altogether, Sgt. Pepper is the apex of their most creative period. It’s also the one with all the best songs on it, in my opinion – Lennon’s hallucinatory “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds,” McCartney’s superb “Getting Better” and “Fixing a Hole,” Harrison’s amazing “Within You Without You,” and of course, the best of them all, my favorite Beatles song, “A Day in the Life.”

This new remaster brings that song to new (ahem) life, particularly in the twin orchestral crescendos. What was once sonic mush now sounds like what it is: a real orchestra playing chaotically ascending runs. You can hear what individual instruments are doing, which is just breathtaking. In my last listen through, I pinpointed the French horns. It’s unbelievable. That same sonic care has been lavished on this whole record. I said before I have this one memorized, but there are things I’ve never really heard before. The bass part at the beginning of “Lucy in the Sky,” for example, never stood out to me like it does now.

Sgt. Pepper is my favorite Beatles record because it’s the first one that treats the album as a long-form work of art on its own. This one was meant to be heard front to back, and now you can hear how carefully thought-out the segues are. Even this record’s worst song, “Good Morning Good Morning,” is a pop masterpiece. It’s been 20 years for me, and I still can’t get over how good it is, and now, how good it sounds.

Magical Mystery Tour

This is the one America got right. For most of the Beatles’ career, their U.S. label, Capitol, had been screwing with the running orders of their albums, rearranging them into completely different forms. There was never actually a Beatles album called Yesterday… And Today, nor one called Beatles ’65 – they were both Capitol creations. In the U.K., Magical Mystery Tour was a six-song EP, released in tandem with the TV special of the same name. But in the U.S., those six songs were placed on side one, and the second side filled out with the non-album singles and b-sides from 1967. Turns out, that was a perfect move, and the band has adopted that format as the “official” Magical Mystery Tour.

It helps that the singles were amazing: “Hello Goodbye,” “Strawberry Fields Forever” and “All You Need is Love.” “Fields” was a double-A-side with “Penny Lane,” and “Love” was backed with “Baby You’re a Rich Man.” Five fantastic songs. And the EP itself ain’t bad either, containing “The Fool on the Hill,” “Your Mother Should Know” and “I Am the Walrus.” Sheesh, huh? Too bad it contains one of the band’s few bad songs, “Blue Jay Way.” Otherwise, this one’s perfect.

And the sound! These songs are among the Beatles’ most psychedelic, and the swirling oceans of sound have never been more unnerving and beautiful. “Strawberry Fields” in particular benefits, and had the song been released in such a clear version in 1967, we’d never have had the “I buried Paul” controversy. (Lennon clearly says “cranberry sauce” near the end of the song.) “All You Need is Love” is remarkable, the wash of orchestral instruments now all separated out and sounding fantastic. This album is a fine companion piece to Sgt. Pepper, and almost as good. I’ve severely revised my opinion of it upward thanks to this new version.

The Beatles

Ah, the White Album. Here’s some heresy for you – I think the White Album is a mess. There are some brilliant pieces sprinkled throughout these 92 minutes, but there are some genuinely awful songs on here too, as if the Beatles wanted to simultaneously propagate and dispel their own myth. The good outweighs the bad, but nothing holds together – this is a sprawling and sloppy effort, the kind of album that can only be made by superstars surrounded by yes men.

It’s also off-the-wall diverse. You get blues and country pastiches, orchestrated Baroque pieces, Tin Pan Alley piano-bangers, 40-second interludes, folk songs, and in “Helter Skelter,” a bit of proto-metal. The whole thing ends with the apocalypse: an eight-minute tape-loop nightmare called “Revolution 9,” and then “Good Night,” a sweet lullaby for the end of the world. I would trim about 12 of these 30 tracks, but then, the White Album wouldn’t have the insane, multiple-personality character it does. It’s an album unlike any other they made.

And it sounds brilliant, even throwaways like “Why Don’t We Do It in the Road” immeasurably improved. You can hear the full jazz arrangement of “Honey Pie” clearly now. You can hear how much Harrison’s acoustic guitar means to “Piggies.” You can hear McCartney’s fingers slipping up and down the frets on “Blackbird.” And the minor-key soundscape coda of “Long Long Long” sounds incredible. And of course, “Revolution 9” is stunning, sounding even more hellish. (That’s a good thing.) This will never be my favorite Beatles album, but if you ever wanted to hear the best band in the world splintering before your ears, well, now you can hear it in crystal clarity.

Yellow Submarine

If there’s one to skip, it’s this one. Yellow Submarine was the soundtrack to the animated film of the same name, and just as the band had little to do with the movie, they slapped the soundtrack together as an afterthought. Here are “Yellow Submarine” and “All You Need is Love” again, matched with four leftovers from 1967 and 1968. The second side is George Martin’s orchestral score for the film, and it’s nice, in a kitschy way, but not essential stuff.

The best new song here is “Hey Bulldog,” although “All Together Now” isn’t bad either. But I forgot how interminable “It’s All Too Much” is. Still, the sound quality is fantastic, and even the orchestral stuff on side two has been sharpened and cleaned up. This is such a cash-grab quickie, though, that it hardly even belongs in the official catalog.

Abbey Road

By 1969, the Beatles were pretty much done. Their proposed Get Back album and film project had fallen apart, and at McCartney’s urging, the Fab Four convened one last time at Abbey Road Studios with George Martin, to make one final record. You’d be forgiven for thinking it would be a disaster. Instead, Abbey Road is one of the band’s very finest efforts, a last hurrah of monumental proportions.

The weakest track is Ringo’s “Octopus’ Garden,” which comes to new life here. But that’s it – everything else is wonderful. And even at the end, the Beatles were pushing themselves. Dig Lennon’s “I Want You (She’s So Heavy),” part blues and part progressive rock, with an endless, punishing coda. Dig Harrison’s two gorgeous numbers, “Something” and “Here Comes the Sun.” And just listen to McCartney’s breathtaking vocal on “Oh! Darling,” now crisper and clearer than ever.

And of course, there’s the second side medley, an incredible merging of song fragments into something greater. It may be the apex of the Beatles’ collaborations with Martin, and the final trilogy (“Golden Slumbers,” “Carry That Weight” and “The End”) are superb. Each Beatle gets a solo in “The End,” and the album concludes with the sentiment that defined the ‘60s: “The love you take is equal to the love you make.” (Of course, “Her Majesty” is here to puncture the gravity of it all, but whatever.) Like everything else in the catalog, this has never sounded better, and this most emotional of Beatles moments stands tall.

Let It Be

And so it comes to this. The last Beatles album is actually the remnants from the Get Back sessions, laid down before Abbey Road was recorded. It’s a simple, stripped-down affair, with strings added afterwards on a handful of tracks. It’s nice, for what it is, but it’s more of a coda than a grand finale. Still, there are some superb songs here, including the title track, “Across the Universe,” “Two of Us,” “I’ve Got a Feeling” and the great “Get Back.” That tune fulfills its own mission statement, ending the catalog proper where it began – with shuffling, good-time rock and roll.

I will never love Let It Be the way I love Revolver, or Sgt. Pepper, or Abbey Road. But it’s a fine, fine album, and the remastering truly shows that allowing Phil Spector to fill out some of these tracks was the right decision. The strings on “The Long and Winding Road” have never sounded more rich, and the wonderful oddness of “Across the Universe” cannot be overstated. Still, it’s the fantastic title song I keep returning to – the simplicity of it, the resignation and philosophical good-heartedness, they get me every time. And Harrison’s solo is magnificent.

It’s an undistinguished end to perhaps the finest catalog in popular music, but it’s still a great little rock record, and the new version sounds terrific, like they’re jamming in your garage.

Past Masters

This is the catch-all, the one that rounds up the non-album singles from 1962 to 1970. For those of you who don’t know how the British record industry worked in the 1960s, singles were rarely, if ever, taken from albums. They were released separately, and sometimes concurrently, so often the Beatles’ best songs were only available on these slabs of 45-RPM wax. This seems strange and counter-productive now, but that’s just the way it was.

Hence, Past Masters, containing everything that didn’t make the proper albums. It’s something of an alternate history of the Beatles, starting with their first single (“Love Me Do”) and progressing to their last (“Let It Be”), both presented in alternate versions. Here is the only place you can get “She Loves You,” “From Me To You,” “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” “Day Tripper,” “We Can Work It Out,” “Paperback Writer,” the original “Revolution” and the big one, as far as I’m concerned, “Hey Jude.” So it’s pretty damn important.

And of course, it sounds phenomenal. The first disc has some of the same stereo issues as the first two albums, but when you get into tunes like “I Feel Fine” and the blistering “I’m Down,” well, it’s like they’re brand new tracks. And the second disc is wonderful. You can hear how the bass, piano and guitar in “Lady Madonna” are all playing different things, but all supporting the groove. The separation of instruments on Harrison’s “The Inner Light,” the final part of his Indian trilogy, is amazing. And even lesser tunes like “Old Brown Shoe” and “The Ballad of John and Yoko” are given the showroom shine.

Past Masters ends with arguably the worst Beatles track ever, throwaway b-side “You Know My Name (Look Up the Number),” and even that is vastly improved here. Still, I’m an albums guy, and these songs have always felt disjointed to me, somehow out of context. Some of them are absolutely essential, and should have been on proper albums. But even so, it’s just good to have them all here, remastered and sounding gorgeous.

And that’s the lot. I’ve said this a couple of times already, but they’re the frigging Beatles, the best band in the world. I’m not sure why any fan of pop music wouldn’t already own these, but they are more than worth buying again in these spiffy new versions. They set the template, they wrote the guidebook for generations of musicians who came after them, and in a scant seven years, they crafted a legacy that will probably never be equaled. In many ways, we’re still catching up to them, 40 years after they broke up.

And it’s still all about the songs. I’ve still never heard songs quite like these, and I’ve never heard these songs quite like this. They’re the Beatles, and this is their music. Enough said.

Next week, some of the things I didn’t get to this week. 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.

My friend Tony Shore is shameless.

I’ve known this for quite some time. You know what his favorite album of all time is? 90125, by Yes. And he tells people this. The man has no shame whatsoever.

So I suppose I wasn’t surprised when I logged onto his site this week and saw his Beatles Box Fund post. Yes, Dr. Tony Shore is soliciting donations to help him afford the remastered Beatles albums, out today. If you want to help him buy this very expensive set, you can give him some cash, and in return, he’ll mention your name on the ObviousPopcast, his regular podcast.

As I said, totally shameless. And sort of brilliant.

Now, my friend Melissa and I had a conversation about doing something similar a few months ago. I decided I already ask you guys to wade through my endless rambling every week, I didn’t feel like asking you for more than that. But now that Tony’s gone and done it, and I’m putting my pennies together to (hopefully) afford that stereo box set (16 CDs and a DVD, in a gorgeous case, and hell, it’s the Beatles), it looks like he’ll get the last laugh. But you never know. There are a lot of box sets coming out that I want, most notably the $365 Miles Davis complete Columbia albums set. That one’s 71 discs. Seventy. One. Discs. I’m dead serious. Might need some help on that one.

So good on you, Tony Shore. And I’m going to give you some money, just for having the gumption to do this. I hope you pronounce my name right on your podcast.

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Speaking of podcasts, if you head to www.linernotesmagazine.com right now (RIGHT NOW!), you can hear a new one starring Derek Wright and yours truly. I talked about this a couple of weeks ago, but it’s a reality now. Hear us both trash The Airborne Toxic Event and Deer Tick, and disagree slightly on how awesome the Antlers album Hospice is. Also, listen as a trained professional radio man (Derek) guides a stuttering, tongue-tied fool (me) through his own points. It’s fun and educational!

In this particular podcast, Derek and I got into a discussion about double albums. I like ‘em, he hates ‘em. It took us five solid minutes of back-and-forth to come up with the crux of our divergence: I am excited by the potential of the double album, and Derek is disappointed that so many fail to live up to that potential.

And you know what, I am too. The wide-open canvas of the double album still thrills me, but so few truly fill that canvas with great art. The thing is, I will never look at getting more music from my favorite artists as a bad thing. I love ambition, and I love it when songwriters feel they have enough to say, enough of a statement to make, that just one CD won’t cut it. I get that they’re not all like that, but no amount of practical accounting of double-album successes and failures will make me less excited about them.

Case in point: the Black Crowes. Longtime readers of this site know how I feel about them. I’ve been a fan since I was a teenager, I cried a couple tears when they broke up in 2002, and rejoiced when they reunited six years later. They’ve re-emerged as a more complex and subtle band – reunion album Warpaint was much slower and more relaxed than anyone could have guessed it would be – but they’re still a superb ‘70s-inspired rock band, and the combination of Chris Robinson’s voice and brother Rich’s guitar still knocks me out, just like it did when I first heard it.

So imagine my joy when I heard the Crowes would be releasing their first double album. Well, the etymology’s a little confused – while there are two discs of material here, they’re separated into two albums, Before the Frost and Until the Freeze. The second album comes as a free download when you buy the first. Unless, of course, you buy the vinyl, which includes all 20 songs, mixed up into an entirely new order. It really makes me wonder how this was meant to be heard.

But all I can do is review what’s in front of me, and the way I have it, Before the Frost… Until the Freeze is a double album on two CDs, individually named. And it’s interesting that they’re separated out this way, because Before the Frost, in this incarnation, is one of the best albums of the Crowes’ long career. And Until the Freeze… isn’t.

Let’s back up. For this album, the Crowes finally did something they should have done years ago – they recorded their new songs live. They wrote 19 tunes, threw in a cover of Stephen Stills’ “So Many Times,” rounded up an audience at Levon Helm’s studio, set up some microphones and went to work. The result is an album simply dripping with energy. If you were concerned that Warpaint had a few too many ponderous ballads, then the first disc, Before the Frost, is for you. The Crowes have rarely leapt from the speakers with such rock ‘n’ roll ferocity.

In this setting, the push and pull between the often-squabbling Brothers Robinson comes alive. The record opens with “Good Morning Captain,” one of their more singalong numbers, but explodes with “Been a Long Time (Waiting on Love).” Opening with a monster riff, the tune just smokes along for four minutes, then breaks down into an awe-inspiring jam coda for another three. After this, Rich Robinson is well and truly warmed up, and he doesn’t put a foot wrong for the rest of the record.

Some criticize the Crowes for staying so true to their ‘70s rock roots, but I don’t mind, for two reasons. First, no one else sounds like this right now. No one is doing pure rock ‘n’ roll like this. And second, the Crowes write great songs. There isn’t a one-four-five blues-rock song on Before the Frost, anywhere, and some of them, like the disco-infused “I Ain’t Hiding” and the funktastic “Make Glad,” go places this band has never gone before.

There are slower moments, like Rich’s solo spot “What is Home,” and the beautiful closer “The Last Place that Love Lives.” But Before the Frost is all about reasserting the Crowes’ rock credibility, and man, it does that well. This is the way they should record all of their albums. I’ve rarely heard them lay into a groove the way they do here, and every single song on Before the Frost is worth hearing.

But that’s just because they put all the so-so ones on Until the Freeze. Before hearing it, I wasn’t sure why the Crowes had decided to make this record a free download. Now I know. Freeze contains all the more traditional and acoustic numbers, and all the ones in which the melodies don’t quite cohere. It opens with a nearly seven-minute, mostly-instrumental jam called “Aimless Peacock,” which lives down to its title, and while it goes up from there, nothing on this album matches the explosive excellence of the first disc.

I don’t want to give the impression that Freeze is bad, though. It’s just simpler and lazier. I quite like the extended acoustic float of “Greenhorn,” with its spectral electric piano bits, and the traditional bluesy stomp of “Shine Along” is nice. “Roll Old Jeremiah” is a sweet old-time country number, and they do quite a nice job with “So Many Times.” But by the time you get to the weepy closer “Fork in the River,” you may be wondering if you’re still listening to a rock band.

All of which really makes me wonder about that double vinyl release. It might be fun to hear just how Before the Frost… Until the Freeze sounds as an integrated unit, but I’m not sure I would sacrifice the momentum and energy of that first disc. And it would – instead of “Good Morning Captain,” the vinyl version opens with “Aimless Peacock,” which likely stops things dead before they get started. And yet, separated out by the more rockin’ tracks, the Freeze material might seem more energetic.

Intriguingly, I appear to be defeating my own argument – as a double album, I’m not sure this works. But reduced to a single disc of the strongest tracks, this is one of my favorite Black Crowes records. Regardless, if you’ve ever liked this band, you owe it to yourself to at least try Before the Frost. 20 years into their career, the Brothers Robinson are still making great music together, and these new songs are some of their best.

And look, I got through an entire review without calling the Black Crowes the best rock ‘n’ roll band in the world.

Ah! Dammit!

* * * * *

There’s a lot of music coming out in the next couple of months, but of the dozens of new records hitting stores, one stands out to me. And it’s not even eligible for my top 10 list.

On October 2, Marillion will release Less is More, their first acoustic album. It’s stripped-down studio recordings of 10 old tracks and one new one. Why am I so excited for this? First of all, Marillion’s one of my favorite bands, and they’re constantly reinventing themselves. But second, there’s the track listing, which was officially released over the weekend.

Rather than sticking to the usual suspects (“Easter,” “The Answering Machine,” “Gazpacho”), Steve Hogarth and the boys have apparently gone for broke, doing acoustic renditions of songs I never expected. Among the lineup: “Interior Lulu,” a 15-minute prog-rock extravaganza from 1999; “Hard as Love,” the near-metal centerpiece of 1994’s Brave; and “If My Heart Were a Ball It Would Roll Uphill,” the nine-minute multi-part Rock God closer of 2001’s Anoraknophobia. This is like Metallica making an acoustic album, and eschewing “The Unforgiven” for “Battery” and “And Justice for All.”

I’m pretty stoked for this. It sounds like these songs have been completely reinvented, and I always love hearing that. But more than that, it sounds like this long-running band (28 years and counting!) is still pushing against its own boundaries, and that makes me a happy music fan. More details here.

That’s it for this week. Next week, Imogen Heap and David Bazan, probably. Don’t forget to listen to Derek’s podcast at www.linernotesmagazine.com. 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.

I am all about theme.

Each week, as I scan my ever-growing CD pile, trying to decide which records to review, I attempt to group my selections under some thematic umbrella. Even if it’s something as simple as picking two or three CDs on the same label, or manned by the same producer. I like to tie things together into neat little bows.

I have three albums to talk about this week, and I’ve been staring at them for a while now, and I can’t come up with one thing they all have in common. Aside from the fact that they’re all pieces of music etched onto plastic discs, these three couldn’t be more different. One is a Danish art-rock record with a 23-word title, another is a one-man electronic pop project full of disco breakdowns and lyrics about dentistry, and the third is a sweet and simple acoustic session with no drums and some of the prettiest melodies of the year.

Yeah, there’s nothing to connect them. So I’m not even going to try. Here are three reviews of three utterly incongruous albums, tied together by only one thing: I like them all.

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Some of you probably know by now that I’ve started a blog, at tm3am.blogspot.com. I’ve mostly been using it to post my first-listen impressions of new albums, ones I don’t necessarily expect to have time to get to in the regular column. My initial idea was to follow up in this space only if my opinion of an album changes markedly with repeated listens, with tm3am proper hosting the more considered review.

Well, here’s my first follow-through on that plan. On August 1, I posted my thoughts on Ocean Eyes, the second full-length album by Owl City. I said that while I enjoyed the synthetic textures and joyous delivery on display here, the experience of hearing 12 similar-sounding songs in a row was wearying. But I also said that Owl City makes me love life, and that opinion has only grown over the last month. I’ve been watching as critic after critic has picked apart Ocean Eyes, calling it a bargain-basement Postal Service tribute, and at the same time, I’ve been listening to this over and over, enjoying it more each time.

It’s amazing how quickly I’ve gone from “I like this” to “I love this, and stop picking on it.” But that’s where I am.

Owl City is Adam Young, a 23-year-old studio whiz from Minnesota. He has a love of old-school synthesizers and bad puns. The Postal Service comparisons are lazy, but there are superficial similarities, most notably in Young’s voice. It’s high and smooth, like Ben Gibbard’s, although every second of it is Auto-Tuned on Ocean Eyes. But where the Postal Service turned in a sparse album of self-serious dirges back in 2003, Adam Young has made something bursting with joy and color, and unlike his more image-conscious foils, he doesn’t care if he ever gets to sit at the cool kids’ table.

Want proof? Check out “The Bird and the Worm,” perhaps the silliest great song of 2009. It starts with a shimmying acoustic shuffle, but quickly blossoms into a full-blown poptopia, complete with “da-da-da” refrain. It also contains this line: “For all my pals who live in the oceans and the seas, with fronds like these, who needs anemones.” Seriously. That just brought either a grin or a grimace to your face, and you’ll know just from that whether Ocean Eyes is for you.

It’s all satisfyingly silly, from the disco-ball breakdown in “Umbrella Beach” to lyrics like “Take a long hard look in your textbook, ‘cause I’m history.” But there’s something in every song to catch the ear, hidden little touches that make these ditties come alive. I said a month ago that I probably wouldn’t like these songs had they been recorded with guitars, and that still stands, but it’s taken me a while to realize that the synth-pop wonderland Young constructs around his simple melodies is the point.

Young only goes a little too far on “Dental Care,” an admittedly catchy tune that’s actually about, well, dental care. (“I’ve been to the dentist a thousand times, so I know the drill…”) But one track later, on the brief yet gorgeous “Meteor Shower,” he lets his sentimental side out: “Please don’t let me go, I desperately need you,” he sings, over a dramatic synth bed. Single “Fireflies” is in the same vein, building slowly to a pure-pop chorus that’s just delightful.

Ocean Eyes contains three older Owl City songs, completely re-arranged, and it’s to Young’s credit that they’re among the least successful – that means he’s growing as an artist. But the new “On the Wing” is wonderful, and the new take on “Hello Seattle” builds up to that pop explosion at the end masterfully. (“The Saltwater Room” is still too sickly-sweet for words, though.) Young is getting better at this, refining his idiosyncratic synth-pop style into something unlike anything else around right now. Contrary to what some might have you believe, Young is not trying and failing to sound like the Postal Service, or anyone else. He’s trying and succeeding to sound like this.

Here’s the thing. My initial problems with Ocean Eyes are still there – the 12 songs all have a similar sound, and the melodies aren’t particularly original or complicated. But I’m under this record’s spell now, and its failings are nothing compared to the sense of warm, joyous exuberance coming out of every pore. As Young himself sings, he’d rather pick flowers than fights, and it’s obvious in every moment of this album – he just wants you to be happy. I’m glad to oblige. Ocean Eyes lifts my mood every time I play it. I said it before and I’ll say it again: it makes me love life. I can’t help it. I love this record.

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The first thing anyone’s going to mention when talking about Danish band Mew’s fifth album is its title, so let’s get it out of the way. Here it is: No More Stories Are Told Today I’m Sorry They Washed Away No More Stories The World is Grey I’m Tired Let’s Wash Away.

The second thing people will mention is the cover, a picture of a moth superimposed with a cartoon drawing of an egg-shaped monster with its own face on its nose. Yes, once again, Mew has decided to sabotage its own album, just as they did four years ago with the garish cover art and stupid title of Mew and the Glass-Handed Kites. You would never look at either album and imagine the intricate, moving and all-around excellent music that lies within.

Mew straddles the line between progressive rock and epic indie, songs built on a thick foundation of keyboards, guitars and harmonies. On The Glass-Handed Kites, Mew finally took their sound to its logical extreme, creating an hour-long unbroken suite that flowed from quiet moments of grace to gigantic oceans of noise. It was a crushing, expansive effort, one that felt like a plateau, and it’s no surprise that they’ve scaled things back for this new one.

But despite references to grey worlds and washing away, No More Stories is actually much more upbeat and accessible than its predecessor. The songs are shorter and simpler, the arrangements are less cluttered, and the overall effect is much less overwhelming. Of course, it also comes off as slighter, but it’s like saying this mountain is somewhat smaller than that mountain. They’re both mountains, at the end of the day.

No More Stories actually starts off with its weakest song, “New Terrain,” its backwards instrumentation and meandering tone kicking the record off awkwardly. Thankfully, things right themselves quickly – “Introducing Palace Players” is almost Mew as minimalist rock band, its repetitive guitar figure giving way to Flaming Lips-style synth textures and some soaring vocals. And then comes “Beach,” the closest Mew has ever come to giving us a straight pop song. This one actually has a Shins vibe to it, and lasts a mere 2:46. In an alternate universe, this could be a hit, as could “Repeaterbeater,” a jittery rocker with a hint of Bloc Party. (That one’s only 2:34.)

But don’t fear, prog fans, Mew still has your back. The seven-minute “Cartoons and Macrame Wounds” starts as a Soft Bulletin-esque synth-and-drums anthem, but shifts through a few softer, more meditative sections, singer Jonas Bjerre hitting those chilling high notes, before erupting once again. “Cartoons” is, at once, the centerpiece of the album and the antithesis of much of it, the band finally letting their more expansive tendencies out to play.

The rest of the album is a mix of the two extremes. The brief “Hawaii Dream” sets the album’s title to slow, drifting music, while “Hawaii” itself reminds me of the Dirty Projectors, all clean guitar, percussion and choral chanting. “Tricks of the Trade” is a standout, its synth drops falling like rain over a minor-key mantra, while “Sometimes Life Isn’t Easy” drops back into full Flaming Lips mode, its epic construction diving from sparse piano to huge orchestration in seconds. And yet, that song contains the album’s most memorable chorus. Oh, and a children’s choir.

Yes, despite the sonic detours of No More Stories, it’s a Mew album at heart, and as such, it takes several listens to fully grasp. While they’ve pulled back in many areas, creating a much more immediate record this time out, they’ve expanded their range here as well. It’s still a searching, intricate, unique piece of music. If you can get past the garish cover and the surreal title, you’ll find some of the year’s most interesting music here. There’s still no other band on the planet quite like Mew, and that’s a good thing.

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A new David Mead album ought to be an event.

Here’s a guy who has written more than his fair share of great pop songs, in a variety of styles, over five excellent albums (and a damn good EP as well). In 2006, he released his finest, Tangerine, a chamber-pop extravaganza with melody to spare. Just “Fighting For Your Life” alone would have convinced me to buy anything this guy does, if I hadn’t already been a fan.

So why isn’t everyone lining up to praise his fifth, Almost and Always? Why is a guy this talented relegated to tiny labels and unjust obscurity? I have no idea. Perhaps it’s his restless artistic nature – no two David Mead albums sound alike, and this new one is as far away from the unfolding expanses of Tangerine as that one was from the sweet country-pop of 2004’s Indiana. That makes him harder to market, sure, but the common thread here is that these albums are all terrific.

Almost and Always is Mead’s acoustic project. It is entirely without drums, and has an appealing handmade quality to it, despite including half a dozen guest musicians on a variety of instruments. But the key here, as usual, is Mead’s songwriting, and the sparse production zeroes in on it. These are mostly sweet and wistful folk numbers, the kind to put on during light spring rainstorms, and as usual, Mead’s gift for a memorable melody never fails him.

Take “Blackberry Winters,” for example. A breezy tune, “Blackberry” slips into an elegant falsetto chorus, uses an ascending guitar figure to link the verses perfectly, and includes a glorious harmonized middle eight. But none of these music-nerd terms matter at all – the song is just heart-swellingly pretty. Mead’s songwriting skill is so great that even when he’s firing on all cylinders, it sounds effortless.

Calling Almost and Always a folk album is doing it a huge disservice. This record is remarkably diverse, given its limited instrumentation. Mead pairs the beautiful spirituality of “Mojave Phone Booth,” a song that brings Duncan Sheik to mind, with the show-tune carnality of “Twenty Girls Ago,” complete with lovely clarinet arrangement. He covers Nashville songwriter Daniel Tashian’s “From My Window Sill” like it’s an old standard, and the lounge-y arrangement (with finger cymbals!) suits it well.

Elsewhere, he pulls out the Beatlesque shuffle for the gorgeous “Gramercy Vaudeville,” stops time for the ghostly title track, and pulls out an amazing piano-led refrain on the surprising “Sleeping In Saturday.” And at track nine, he gives us “Last Train Home,” one of his finest songs ever. The tale of two lovers exploring a city late into the night, then sleeping on the way home, it’s simply a subtle, winsome delight. This is the kind of song some musicians wait their whole lives to be able to write. And most never get there.

As I said, the release of this album ought to be an event. But then, that might not suit the delicate music Mead has given us this time out. This is the kind of album you discover on your own, tucked away in a friend’s record collection, and you cherish. I don’t know how many people will hear Almost and Always, but I know those that do will find some of 2009’s prettiest songs, played and sung beautifully. These are songs to hold close, to sing to yourself on rainy Sunday afternoons, songs about finding joy, reconnecting and finally coming home. Almost and Always is a little thing, but in the end, it’s the little things that matter most in this world.

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Next week, the Black Crowes. After that, Imogen Heap, Phish and David Bazan. And, if I can afford it, a trip down Penny Lane with a certain fab foursome. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent Twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.