For a while now, I’ve been worried that my job might evaporate.

Those of you considering journalism as a career should know a couple of things. First, you’re never going to make a lot of money as a reporter. You have to do it because you love it, not because you’ll be able to buy your dream house. Second, the old journalism model is completely broken, and just about every newspaper in the country is circling the drain.

Back in March, the Chicago Sun-Times, which owns my newspaper, filed for bankruptcy. The heads of the company spent the next six months looking for a buyer, and they found one, only to see the company’s unions resist the deep, deep concessions he asked of them. For about a month, it looked like the deal would fall through, and I and everyone else in the Sun-Times News Group would be out of a job. And so I’ve been saving money and seeking other employment.

That didn’t happen. James Tyree’s new Sun-Times News Group started operations on Monday, kicking off what I believe is a temporary reprieve, but hope is a long-term survival strategy. And while it’s true I’m not getting a pay raise, I’m not going to immediately need those shored-up cash reserves and pithy cover letters I’d amassed. (Which is good, because I didn’t find anything I’d rather be doing than news work anyway.)

So, in a burst of ill-advised enthusiasm, I went online and ordered every album I’d missed over the last two months, while I was being frugal. There are 17 in all, and they’re all winging their way to me as we speak. I think next week’s column will be a large collection of small reviews, most likely, provided I have time to listen to all the new music I’m getting. So there’s your happy ending for you.

That’s next week. This week, two strange yet successful projects from one of my Discoveries of the Decade. But first, another movie review. Bet you can’t wait.

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It’s hard to believe this now, but there was a time when The Blair Witch Project freaked out the entire country.

I promise, it’s true. That ridiculously cheap and improvised experiment in faux-documentary horror looks pretty tatty now, particularly on DVD, and especially with the lights on. “Oh my god, a pile of sticks! Aaaaaah!” Yeah, I know. But it worked at the time – I was caught in its spell during the film’s theatrical run, because it was unlike anything I had seen. It trafficked in anticipation, rather than full-on scares, which I appreciated. And the marketing campaign was amazing. There are probably still people who believe The Blair Witch Project actually happened.

That marketing blitz was so effective that the makers of Paranormal Activity have cloned it. And dammit, it worked again.

Paranormal Activity purports to be found footage, all that remains of a suburban couple’s attempt to find out what is haunting their home. The action never leaves their house, and it’s all captured by Micah and Katie’s video camera, which they purchased to (hopefully) film evidence of the titular activity. They do – long stretches of this movie involve a single long shot of the bedroom and hallway, with very little happening. But the very little that happens is freaky indeed.

Again, I find myself under the spell of a movie that shouldn’t work. But the difference is, Paranormal Activity was made by filmmakers, instead of actors improvising with cameras. The shots are very specific, the lines written, and everything works to thicken that sense of dread. Every time we returned to that long shot of the bedroom, my stomach tied up in knots, and by the end of the movie (an ending which, by the way, mimics Blair Witch almost exactly), I was tense and queasy.

I daresay this movie is more effective than Blair Witch, despite using the same devices. And yet, I have a hard time telling people that it’s scary. It’s more unnerving than anything else, which for me, is much more interesting. If you’re expecting to jump out of your skin, you probably won’t. If you’re expecting to leave the theater shaken and creeped out, well, you might. But you should see Paranormal Activity in the theater. As with Blair Witch, a home viewing will likely not cast the same spell.

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Oh, Sufjan Stevens. Wherefore art thou, Sufjan?

It’s been more than four years since Stevens gave us Illinois, one of the five best albums of the decade. I vividly remember when it came out – it was the talk of that year’s Cornerstone festival, and though I didn’t buy it then, I did shortly thereafter. My first listen is still etched into my brain. I spent the entire 74 minutes waiting for the bad song, and there wasn’t one. I kept gasping, “This album is perfect” under my breath. It was then and it is now. Better than that, it was part of a series, the second of a planned 50 albums, one for each of the 50 states. Seriously.

Now, if pressed, I will say I know that Stevens wasn’t serious. Even if he only took two years between albums, it would take him another 96 years to finish his 50 States Project. I know this. And yet, I still had hope we’d hear a few more brilliant documents like Michigan and Illinois, albums that show a deep love for their subject matter and a scope far beyond it. Failing more 50 States records, I was hoping we’d at least have one more Stevens album by now. Something. Anything.

But aside from the odd track on compilations here and there, all has been quiet at Stevens’ Asthmatic Kitty Records. In the four intervening years, we’ve seen a collection of b-sides, a box set of Christmas songs, and nothing else. I hope Stevens has been writing all this time, and we’re in for a double album of excellence sometime in 2010.

But wait, you’re saying. There were two new Sufjan Stevens albums this month, weren’t there? Doesn’t that mean the long drought is over? And to you I say, “Sort of.”

Yes, there are two new Stevens projects on the shelves. But unless you’ve been hoping that Sufjan would drop all that boring folk-pop he does and just concentrate on the orchestral side of his work, I wouldn’t start rejoicing just yet. The first new album is Run Rabbit Run, and it consists of string quartet versions of every song on Stevens’ 2001 electronic album Enjoy Your Rabbit. And the second is an instrumental suite dedicated to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

Neither of these records is bad. In fact, if you like orchestral music (which I do), they’re both fascinating. Take Run Rabbit Run. The source material was composed and recorded before Stevens had found his 50 States sound – it’s full of scratches and blips and bleeps, all on synthesizers. Still, there are melodies, even though you have to listen to Enjoy Your Rabbit a number of times to find them. It’s a strange anomaly in the Sufjan Stevens catalog.

New York string quartet Osso has taken on the challenge of arranging and performing these loopy pieces faithfully. They’re no stranger to Stevens’ work – they performed on Illinois, and have been part of his touring Illinoisemakers band. They clearly have great respect for the man and his music, so trust me when I say they performed these pieces faithfully. Every dissonant bloop, every white noise scratch, every electronic shimmer is transcribed and played on violins, violas and cellos.

It’s a fascinating listen. But really, it’s only worth that one listen. I promise you, you’ll be reaching for Run Rabbit Run as often as you do Enjoy Your Rabbit. This record obviously took a tremendous amount of time to put together, and these pieces sound as difficult to play as some of Frank Zappa’s orchestral work. But even after all that, it’s still a curiosity, still just a weird footnote in Stevens’ discography.

The BQE is much better, and much closer to a proper Sufjan Stevens album. Originally commissioned by the Brooklyn Academy of Music and performed in 2007, The BQE is a multimedia piece orbiting around a 40-minute orchestral suite composed and arranged by Stevens. It comes in an elaborate, yet very odd package, its artwork scrawled with nearly unreadable electronic graffiti, and in addition to the CD, you get a DVD containing Stevens’ mini-movie set to the score, and a ViewMaster reel telling the story of the Hooper Heroes, the three hula-hooping stars of that short film.

Cut right down to the musical core, however, and you’ll find something that sounds very much like the more instrumental passages of Illinois. “Introductory Fanfare for the Hooper Heroes” is suitably grand, its repeated brass section motif coming off both nostalgic and triumphant. The first movement, “In the Countenance of Kings,” is gloriously languid, not so much building as ebbing and flowing. The second, “Sleeping Invader,” has some nice staccato brass bursts atop a sweet string bed.

The biggest surprise comes as the third movement (“Linear Tableau With Intersecting Surprise”) segues into the fourth (“Traffic Shock”). As the strings and horns build up, Stevens throws in a mess of electronic beats and noise, and it’s startling – what was up until this point a gently swaying chamber piece comes alive. I’m not sure it works, not entirely, but it does inject some energy into the piece, and puts you at attention for the second half.

Stevens never pulls a trick like that again, but the remainder of The BQE is just as well-written as the first half. The question is, will you care much beyond one or two listens? I’ve come back to The BQE a lot more that I have Run Rabbit Run, but if I’m honest, the trilling flutes and brass fanfares just make me want to listen to Illinois again. I don’t want to be one of those clamoring for a “real” Sufjan Stevens album, because it’s obvious that to him, The BQE qualifies. And it is excellent work, an orchestral piece that retains the character of its composer.

But try as it may – and it does, mightily – it’s just not what I want. Four years after Stevens rewrote my life with Illinois, I’m still waiting for the next chapter. I applaud Stevens for taking on The BQE, because it was clearly a challenging labor of love. I’d just be a lot more receptive to it if I knew that the lyrical songwriter I love so much was still in there somewhere, aching to get out. If this is a side path, I’m on board – as I said, The BQE is excellent, for what it is. But if it’s a destination, then it’s one I didn’t expect, and while I’m not disembarking just yet, I’m hoping the next stop is more to my liking.

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Next week, whole bunches of things. As always, thanks for reading. 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.

Another week, another wedding.

This time it was my friends Sebastian Szyszka and Rhianna Wisniewski who tied the knot after nearly 11 years together. Naturally, the first dance song was “At Last.” They held the ceremony and reception in the Cheney Mansion in Oak Park, and even though I initially objected to setting foot in any place named Cheney, I have to admit that house is beautiful. I got to catch up with friends I hardly ever see anymore, and I got to play a really nice-sounding piano. And also, I got to see two of my favorite people share the happiest day of their lives.

No weddings scheduled for next week yet, but I’ll let you know.

I also saw Where the Wild Things Are, Spike Jonze’s mad extrapolation of Maurice Sendak’s immortal book. Everything you’ve heard is true. This movie captures the spirit of Sendak’s work, which was always more prickly than cuddly. Jonze and writer Dave Eggers resist every temptation to be cute – this movie is raw and angry and untamed, catching and bottling the tidal wave of emotions unique to children. It’s a tough little film about learning to deal with those emotions, and that it tells this very serious tale with creatures that look as though they’ve wandered on screen from some other dimension’s Sesame Street is just amazing. My friend Josh Larsen sums it up well here. Go. See.

But wait, there’s more. I also saw Mutemath in concert at the House of Blues. I’ve seen this New Orleans quartet five times now, and this was without a doubt the best show I’ve seen them put on. Mutemath is something of a traveling musical carnival, band members swapping instruments, playing percussion on microphone stands and doing somersaults over the electric piano, all while playing some pretty complex music.

I am happy to report that the Armistice songs come alive on stage – what sounds restrained and minimal on record just explodes live. And Darren King remains the most entertaining drummer around right now. I won’t tell you the new use he came up with for the Big Drum at the end of the show, but it was a definite highlight. If you have a chance to see Mutemath live, don’t pass it up. They just get better and better.

Okay, it’s time for the silly music column. Onward!

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This week, HBO’s joke band Flight of the Conchords released an album called I Told You I Was Freaky. Yeah, it’s funny, but the real freaky album of 2009 hit stores one week before – Embryonic, the new 2-CD head-scratcher from the Flaming Lips.

Oklahoma’s favorite sons have never been anyone’s idea of a straightforward band. But lately, they’ve been streamlining their excesses and building a body of interesting, grand, silly and pretty excellent work. Starting with The Soft Bulletin in 1999, the Lips dialed down their head-trippier side and began creating heavily orchestrated music for the films in Wayne Coyne’s head. 2002’s Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots may as well have been a movie, and last year’s Christmas on Mars actually was one, with a soundtrack right out of those cheesy old sci-fi flicks the Mystery Science Theater guys love.

And yeah, 2006’s At War with the Mystics was pretty bad, but mainly because it married the Lips’ modern style to an ‘80s Prince funk thing that just didn’t work. I was fully expecting them to go back to the Soft Bulletin formula for its follow-up, and release 12 more hopeful, dense, huge-sounding pop songs. The very fact that I expected this means I don’t know the Flaming Lips at all.

What they’ve actually done is delivered the freakiest album they’ve made since Zaireeka, 12 years ago. On first listen, Embryonic is an absolute shambles, comprised mostly of incomprehensible noise and studio frippery. Staying with it yields rewards – more than can be found in At War with the Mystics, for example – but it is still perhaps the most bizarre and off-putting record of the band’s career. At times, it seems to hang together through force of will. At other times, it doesn’t hang together at all.

Embryonic is billed as a double album, but it runs barely 70 minutes, and in the cheaper “standard” edition, it fits all on one CD. The “deluxe edition,” which strikes me as the definitive, splits the album onto two CDs, Julian Cope style, and I think it works well this way – each “side” has a strong beginning and an even stronger ending, even if only in relation to the more questionable tracks on here. It also comes with a DVD containing a high-resolution version of the album, and since the point here is sound and texture, this is worth spinning at least once.

But I wouldn’t blame you if you only managed to get through Embryonic once. The production here is intentionally irritating – drums are distorted beyond belief, vocals are processed to death and shoved into the background, odd synthesizers bleat and blat all over the place, melodies (such as they are) are hidden beneath a mountain of noise. Some of this record physically hurts my ears. The whole thing is filled with fascinating, yet annoying production choices. Even the most straightforward songs, like “The Impulse,” are like canvases smeared with feces, and the odder ones… well…

All of this would be less of an issue for me if the Lips had bothered to write any compelling songs here, but they didn’t. I understand they were aiming for a collapse of structure, and they succeeded very well, but the result is nearly unlistenable. Opener “Convinced of the Hex” is one of the most linear pieces here, and it merely repeats its three-note melody for three minutes. There are five tracks named after astrological signs, and these are all segments of jam sessions, instrumental nothings that flail about for whole minutes without going anywhere. The exception is “Gemini Syringes,” which repeats a single-note bass line and throws spooky goop on top.

There are definitely some things I’ve grown to like on Embryonic. “The Ego’s Last Stand,” which opens disc two, is a chilling little number. “The Sparrow Looks Up at the Machine” works reasonably well, even though it’s a bit repetitive. “Evil” is the closest to the Soft Bulletin style, and “Silver Trembling Hands” is a real, honest-to-God song, my favorite thing on either disc. I will also admit some love for both closing tracks, each among the album’s longer pieces, and full of slowly-crushing power.

But you have to get through a lot of annoying crap to reach them. Some lowlights: there are two stoner metal songs on here, “See the Leaves” and the endless “Worm Mountain,” and they are proof that just doing drugs doesn’t make you a stoner metal band. Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs stops in for “I Can Be a Frog,” the stupidest Lips song ever, and her part consists entirely of making animal noises at the end of each line. “I can be a lion,” Coyne sings. “Raaar,” Karen O replies. It’s embarrassing as all hell. But at least it’s kind of hummable – good luck getting through formless stretches like “Aquarius Sabotage” and “Virgo Self-Esteem Broadcast.”

Coyne has said this album was made in the spirit of experimentation, and it certainly sounds like it. More to the point, this sounds like the product of a few months of fucking around in the studio, and if you’re expecting an album of actual, you know, songs and stuff, you’re going to be let down. I’ve softened my initial get-this-away-from-me reaction a bit, but I’m still putting this into my Interesting Failures drawer, along with Kid A and Amnesiac. If you thought those albums were the greatest of the last decade, you will probably drool all over Embryonic. Me, I like a little more substance with my crazy. If they can harness these new powers for good, though, I’ll be first in line.

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At the other end of the spectrum is Harper Simon, whose self-titled debut is only 30 minutes long, but is full of terrific low-key songs.

Harper is Paul Simon’s son, a fact he never seems to play up. And with songs like these, he doesn’t have to. I tried out Simon’s work on a whim, and ended up playing the three tunes on his Myspace page again and again for days. As it turns out, these are tracks two through four on his self-titled debut, and certainly among the strongest numbers here. But the whole album sparkles with life, each song a melancholy wonder all its own.

I’m not sure how much of that is down to Harper Simon himself. True, he wrote or co-wrote all of these songs (save the traditional “All to God”), but he had some first-rate heavy-hitter help here. Of course, his dad pitched in, co-writing three songs and playing guitar on one. But Harper also assembled a crack band of Nashville elites for a few tunes, most notably the wonderful “The Shine.” And the record also features contributions from Marc Ribot, Steve Nieve (of Elvis Costello’s band), Petra Haden, Patrick Warren, Sean Lennon (I bet he and Harper had a lot to talk about), Inara George of The Bird and the Bee, Yuka Honda of Cibo Matto, and Aaron Espinoza of Earlimart.

With that star-studded lineup, it’s hard to imagine this album going wrong, and of course, it never does. The songs co-written with Paul Simon certainly bring out the vocal similarities between father and son, but Harper wisely records those with the Nashville band, bringing out a totally different sound. “Tennessee” is a classic country story-song, and the aforementioned “The Shine” is one of the year’s most beautiful. But even the ones without Paul, like the great “Wishes and Stars,” show Harper’s a Simon. That song is a web of acoustic guitars and chimes, and finds a new way to express loneliness: “There are more wishes than stars…”

“The Audit” brings Elliott Smith to mind, with its sweet melody and piano part. “Shooting Star” is wonderful, with pedal steel from Greg Liesz and a melody that will stay with you. And “Ha Ha,” with layered laughter from Petra Haden, is a highlight and a half – a great little Paul Simon lyric matched to a delightful, sprightly melody. Even something as simple as “Cactus Flower Rag” works marvelously here, like one of Simon and Garfunkel’s more upbeat moments. It often takes the children of musicians years to come to terms with their inherited traits – Julian Lennon struggled with it mightily, for example. Harper Simon seems comfortable taking his inspiration from his dad, even though it might lead some to dismiss him.

But no one should, particularly if they hear this superb little album. Recently, Simon played closer “Berkeley Girl” on Jimmy Kimmel Live, and he gave it a Bob Dylan treatment, with horn sections and a shambling full band. It didn’t particularly work, but that’s because “Berkeley Girl” is best as it is on the album – just vocals and acoustic guitar. It is a perfectly hushed ending to a quietly confident debut, one of the year’s finest surprises. May the son also rise.

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Next week, two orchestral pieces from Sufjan Stevens. Some pretty good stuff coming up after that as well, including Transatlantic, R.E.M., the Swell Season, We Shot the Moon, Tegan and Sara, Joy Electric and Tom Waits. And of course, there’s the ridiculous-sounding new Weezer, called Raditude. Yes, Raditude. I can hardly wait.

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.

What a week. My company was saved, my father got married, and the Red Sox botched their way to the end of their season. Whew!

Thanks again to everyone who sent me notes of support about my job. It all happened very quickly: the auction last Monday turned up no bidders except multi-millionaire James Tyree, the unions came around by Wednesday, and the bankruptcy judge approved the sale on Thursday. Signed, sealed, delivered, we’re his. I’m hopeful for the future – if this guy believes and practices half the things he’s saying, we should be in good hands.

My father’s wedding was Sunday. It was a lovely ceremony, held in an old hotel in St. Charles. For a guy who obsessively plans things, my dad basically winged this – none of us had any idea what the ceremony would be like until it started up, including him. He’s married a terrific woman who gets him, and has made him a more whole person than I’ve seen in a long time. I’m very happy for him.

And then the Red Sox. Well, let’s not talk about that. Although Jonathan Papelbon should start considering his options. Anyway, on to the silly music column. Thanks for joining me.

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So it’s that time of year again. Time for me to take another long look at the rules governing my top 10 list, and possibly reconsider them.

I’ve been making these lists for most of my life. I thought I might outgrow the obsessive need to rank and compare things by now, but I haven’t. I’m still that same 16-year-old boy who would argue passionately about who was the better rhythm guitarist, James Hetfield or Scott Ian. And even back then, I knew these lists meant nothing unless they were strictly bound by rules and regulations.

My annual top 10 list is no exception. It’s governed by a series of rules, my attempt at keeping it on a narrow and particular track – new albums of new songs by current artists. I’ve come to think of some of the rules as immutable. For example, I only consider new records, not reissues or re-releases. Without that rule, my top 10 this year would include Sgt. Pepper, Revolver, Abbey Road and Rubber Soul, and probably A Hard Day’s Night and Help as well.

So only new albums of new songs released during the current year count. But there are other rules I am constantly reconsidering. A big one is this: as of now, I only consider albums that have been released on CD. The delivery method is changing, and rapidly – I nearly had an issue with Radiohead’s In Rainbows, back in 2007, when the band released it for download only. It deserved to be on the list, and I grappled with the idea of including an album distributed digitally, but thankfully, the CD hit UK stores on December 31, so I didn’t have to worry about it. But I know I’ll have to eventually.

There are other rules, all of which were written with the best of intentions. But every year, they keep excellent, otherwise worthy records from taking top honors. And every year, I write a column like this, in which I review and ruminate on several of those disqualified albums, and question the rules that keep them outside looking in. When it comes right down to it, though, I believe the structure is necessary and important.

The exact nature of that structure, however, can always be questioned. For example, my rule about only awarding albums of new songs. For one thing, I all but broke that rule in 2004 by naming Brian Wilson’s SMiLE the best of that year. (My reasoning was that even though the fragments were composed in the ‘60s, the actual piece of music, as a symphonic whole, was only realized in 2004. I go back and forth on it, though.) And for another, this year that rule will keep Marillion’s terrific Less is More off the list.

The last few years have been particularly prolific ones for this long-running British band. They put out the middling Somewhere Else in 2007, and the extraordinary Happiness is the Road double album last year. You’d think they’d want to take a break, but no. Less is More is technically their 16th studio record, but it’s more of an in-betweener project, a stripped-down retrospective that takes 12 old songs and reinvents them in fresh new ways.

It’s much more than an unplugged-style exercise, though. In taking these songs acoustic, Marillion has completely rewritten them – I often felt like I was listening to brand new songs made from familiar elements. The band also pushed themselves by picking some surprising choices. They didn’t just string together a few verses of “Easter” and “The Answering Machine” and call it good. They took aim at some of their trickiest and most labyrinthine pieces, and the results are fantastic.

One of the most surprising is right up front. After the sedate and gorgeous version of “Go!” that opens the record, you get a recasting of “Interior Lulu.” Like the opener, “Lulu” is from 1999’s Marillion.com, one of the band’s most criticized efforts, and on that album, it was a 15-minute melodic prog excursion.

Here, the elements are all preserved (except the dazzling synthesizer solo), but rendered in fascinating ways. Steve Hogarth plays the hammered dulcimer and glockenspiel, while Mark Kelly gives us autoharp and harmonium along with his lovely piano. The first section of the song is a web of mallet percussion, but as the band snakes through the remainder of the piece, it becomes more and more beautiful. In this version, the lyrics are much more pronounced, and I never noticed how layered they are. The final bit (“And we gaze, dumbfounded, at the rain”) is sung over a subtle weaving of piano, acoustic guitar and harmonium. It’s breathtaking.

Even more beautiful is “Out of This World,” the centerpiece of 1995’s grand Afraid of Sunlight album. On that record, the song was a shimmery, ambient thing, all synths and electric guitars. Here, it’s a subtle acoustic and piano piece, more delicate and fragile. They skip the soaring electric solo, but include the striking coda, here rendered in acoustic guitars. I was most worried about this one, since the original is so singular, but they pulled it off wonderfully.

By far the most thorough rewrite here is “Hard as Love.” Originally the blistering rock moment (and arguable weak link) on 1994’s masterpiece Brave, here the song has been reordered and rearranged for piano. Hogarth and company have written a new chorus, based on a backing vocal moment in the original, and given the lyrics – written from the point of view of a teenage girl – a new poignancy. Hogarth is excellent here, as he is throughout. For my money, he’s one of the finest singers around right now, and on Less is More, you can really hear the nuances in his performance.

The band doesn’t stick to acoustic instruments throughout – there is electric guitar on two tracks – but the self-imposed limitations have sparked a new creativity. On 2001’s Anoraknophobia, “Quartz” was a nine-minute funk-rock journey, but here it is a tricky clockwork maze of percussion, with liberal splashes of jazz in the chorus. Bassist Pete Trewavas plays an acoustic stand-up, while drummer Ian Mosley is credited with playing “skulls.”

Are there weak moments? Sure. Hogarth pushes himself out of his range on “If My Heart Were a Ball It Would Roll Uphill,” another of the band’s braver choices. And the new song, “It’s Not Your Fault,” is a weak piano-vocal mantra that was obviously captured in one take. But the whole thing is so well-crafted, so lovingly made (and beautifully produced by Mike Hunter), that the small holes are easily papered over. The last track (barring a fun-fun-fun hidden tune) is a straight-ahead acoustic read of “This is the 21st Century,” one of my favorite Marillion songs, and this version builds up remarkable force as it goes along. Rather than inviting comparison to the original, the new take stands alongside it, as an equal.

Most of Less is More does the same thing, reinventing the familiar until it rises up new. Hence my dilemma – technically, this is not new music, but these versions are so different from the originals, and so very good, that I want to include this album in the top 10 list anyway. Still, since I am awarding composition as much as performance and recording, I will have to swallow hard and disqualify it. But you should absolutely buy it, even if you’ve never heard Marillion before. Go to www.marillion.com and check it out.

I also have a rule forbidding live albums, and b-sides collections. The first one still seems right to me, since (as I said above) I’m awarding composition as much as anything. They’ve got to be new songs. But collections of b-sides and unreleased tunes, well, that’s different. I still feel like, if I’m standing up for the album-length statement, I should stick to that rule. But occasionally, something like Morphine’s At Your Service comes along to make me question it.

Morphine was a Boston band comprised of one singing two-string bass player, one baritone sax player, and one drummer. And that’s it. The band was the brainchild of Mark Sandman, who also played in Beantown luminaries Treat Her Right, and they made five superb albums before Sandman tragically died onstage in 1999. Ten years later, the remaining members of Morphine have compiled this two-disc collection of unreleased tracks, live takes and unheard goodness. It’s awesome.

Sandman used to refer to Morphine’s sound as “low rock,” and that’s as good a description as any. Everything about the sound is in the low register, even Sandman’s rumbling, husky voice. They had a jazz trio lineup, but played dark rock and blues music, the kind of thing you’d hear wafting out of the windows of the smokiest bar in town. The collection is named after Sandman’s regular on-stage welcome: “From Boston, Massachusetts, we are Morphine, at your service.”

A lot of what you’ll hear here is rehearsal recordings, since just about all of the band’s b-sides have already been collected. Sandman compulsively recorded everything, and there are reportedly more than 60 complete Morphine songs, sitting around waiting to be released. You get 17 previously unheard songs on At Your Service, as well as a bevy of alternate versions and live workouts, and over two hours, this collection paints a picture of Morphine as a surprisingly diverse and supremely tight unit.

Opener “Come Over” is classic Morphine, a sliding groove played on both bass and sax, with nimble drumming, and a swell Dana Colley sax solo. But the creeping “It’s Not Like That Anymore” plays up the beat poetry influence that has always been a part of Sandman’s thing, and the awesome “5:09” shows just what a pure blues-pop outfit Morphine could be. “Call Back” is an early version of “Wishing Well,” from 1997’s Like Swimming, and the ever-growing “I Know You” saga gets a fourth and fifth part.

But it’s the live tracks here that really shine. The trio rocks its way through “Shoot ‘Em Down,” Sandman repeating the lyrics like a poem. “Claire” is just fantastic, as is “Radar.” Top that off with live-sounding alternate versions of some of the band’s best songs (“All Wrong,” “Empty Box,” “Buena”) and you have a second disc that truly captures the dive-bar essence of Morphine. The only glaring omission is “Honey White,” which didn’t end up on their one live album either. But that’s okay. Even without it, this is one strong collection of unreleased goodies.

Now, I know this thing doesn’t belong anywhere near my top 10 list – it’s full of live recordings of older songs, and the unreleased studio tracks don’t make a cohesive album on their own. But I still love it, and wish I could include it. Morphine was a one-of-a-kind band, tragically stopped in its tracks just as Sandman was leading his cohorts to new musical terrain. If you’ve never heard them, you could do worse than picking up At Your Service. It’s got just about every reason I liked Morphine, wrapped in one convenient package.

Morphine’s album gets disqualified for being a compilation of songs of random and diverse origin. But Neil Finn’s latest project has the exact opposite problem, and this is the one that’s causing me to look at these rules most closely. Finn, as longtime readers know, is one of my favorite songwriters – from Split Enz to Crowded House to his solo material to his work with brother Tim, Finn has written one charming and complex pop song after another for more than 30 years.

In 2001, Finn assembled a group of like-minded musicians (including Eddie Vedder, Lisa Germano and Johnny Marr) for a live album called 7 Worlds Collide. It worked so well that eight years later, Finn has brought back most of those same musicians for a benefit album (for Oxfam) he’s called The Sun Came Out, released under the name 7 Worlds Collide. Essentially, what we have here is a various artists collection of songs all written and recorded at the same time, over a few days at Finn’s home studio.

The full version of The Sun Came Out spans 24 tracks over 90 minutes, and while there are some stylistic shifts here and there, it’s mostly an hour and a half of lovingly crafted acoustic chamber-pop. And it’s also mostly wonderful. For this go-round, Finn has called on Marr and Germano again, as well as most of his family: brother Tim, wife Sharon and son Liam. He’s also brought a slew of new voices into the fold, including KT Tunstall, Sebastian Steinberg, New Zealand songwriter Don McGlashan, Bic Runga, Radiohead members Phil Selway and Ed O’Brien, and most of Wilco.

The highlights come fast and furious, although McGlashan’s two songs are probably my favorites. “Girl Make Your Own Mind Up,” in particular, really works for me – it sounds something like Neil Young mixed with Beck’s Sea Change material. Neil Finn sings a couple of numbers, most notably “All Comedians Suffer,” but mostly he gets out of the way, adding guitar lines here and there while his guests take the spotlight.

Much of the press so far has centered on O’Brien and Selway, each taking vocal turns for the first time. O’Brien’s “Bodhisattva Blues” is one of the more rocking numbers here, while Selway’s two tunes are quiet and haunting. Wilco musicians Pat Sansone and John Stiratt each get a song to sing as well, and they acquit themselves marvelously. And Jeff Tweedy sings two tracks, one of them an early and more ramshackle version of “You Never Know,” which appeared on this year’s Wilco (The Album).

Yes, there’s the same sense of disconnectedness that comes from any record with different singers on each track, but The Sun Came Out is unified by its homespun vibe and its attention to melody and songwriting. There are only a couple of tracks I think could have hit the cutting room floor. The vast majority of this record is made up of fine, fine songs, and some number among my favorites of 2009.

But I’m having trouble thinking of it as an album that qualifies for the list. I have a rule against various artists compilations, and on the surface, that’s what this is. But I’m still considering it, since it was recorded all at once, by a collective of musicians, which could almost be considered a band. I have no problem including the Lost Dogs, for example, or even Works Progress Administration, the new collaboration between Glen Phillips and members of Nickel Creek. But this, with 18 different singers… I’m not sure. I do know that I will have fun listening to it again and again while I decide.

So yes, I am putting together the top 10 list as we speak. But looking at the new releases list through the end of the year, there isn’t much that lights my fire. I don’t expect it will change very much from here on out. Next week, I’ll discuss one of the albums that I have high hopes for, the Flaming Lips’ Embryonic. After that, a pair of orchestral works by Sufjan Stevens. And after that…?

We’ll see. 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.

For those wondering about the state of my job, well, I should find out tomorrow what the future holds. But things are looking up. If the Chicago Sun-Times actually does go into Chapter 7 bankruptcy, I’m sure you won’t need me to tell you about it. But thanks for all the good wishes. Fingers crossed.

I’ve been trying not to think about it, so I’ve been immersing myself in new music. I got Marillion’s Less Is More this week, and it’s terrific – I plan to review that next week, along with a slew of other recent records by my favorite artists that are similarly ineligible for my top 10 list. (I’ll explain the rules again next week, for those who don’t know them.) But this week I just have a bunch of new albums to talk about, some I liked and some I didn’t. It’s my way of pretending that this is just another week, with some days I like and some days I don’t.

* * * * *

We’ll start with one I like, much to my surprise. Last time Phish broke up and reunited, I was pretty harsh. But neither 2002’s sloppy Round Room nor 2004’s last gasp Undermind worked for me. The Vermont quartet had been sounding tired and worn out for years prior to their hiatus in 2000, but these two attempts at prolonging the magic were dead on arrival. The concurrent tours were reportedly pretty bad as well, and their final weekend festival, in Coventry, Vermont, was more of a relieved collapse than anything else. It was a sad case of a band marching on long after the war had been lost.

So when the four Phishers announced they were reuniting again earlier this year, I didn’t hold out much hope. Phish started off as an amazing group, blending the jam band aesthetic of the Grateful Dead with the proggy absurdity of Frank Zappa, and their marathon live shows were legendary. It’s true that the studio records don’t give the most accurate or complete picture of the band, but they do trace the decay – the first four were fantastic, bouncing from one fun-filled idea to the next, but when they started streamlining and simplifying, they also started to bore.

You don’t even need to go to the post-hiatus records to hear the rot set in. Just listen to 1998’s slipshod The Story of the Ghost, or 2000’s pop-boogie snoozer Farmhouse. These are extremely simple songs, played by musicians who should have been pushing themselves, but were instead sleepwalking. Live, they stretched these bare-bones songs to 15 or 20 minutes, their white-boy funk and lame jamming just filling time unremarkably. It felt to me like the Phantastic Phour just didn’t have it in them anymore to play together, especially since their solo projects felt more alive and vital.

But wonder of wonders, the reunion record, Joy, is my favorite Phish release since… well, probably the last time they worked with producer Steve Lillywhite, on 1996’s Billy Breathes. Against all odds, this album just bursts with life, and you can hear in every nook and cranny just how glad these four guys are to be playing together again. It’s a true reunion album, and based on this evidence, I see Phish Phase Two lasting quite some time.

The songs on Joy aren’t miles away from the ones on Farmhouse – there are still some basic rock and boogie moments, and a lot of one-four-five chord progressions. But within this framework, the band finds interesting arrangement ideas, and their much-vaunted telepathic interplay is in full force. Just check out “Ocelot,” by far the simplest song here. But listen to the way guitarist Trey Anastasio and pianist Page McConnell bounce off each other, keeping things moving. And dig the Easter egg-style nod to “Dear Prudence.” It’s things like this that keep me coming back to Joy.

I don’t want to give the impression that this is just a well-played version of the stuff they did before the breakup, though. The quartet actually wrote some very good tunes here, particularly “Stealing Time From the Faulty Plan,” which pivots on the line “Got a blank space where my mind should be,” and bassist Mike Gordon’s superb “Sugar Shack.” The title song is dark and pretty, dedicated to Anastasio’s sister Kristy, who died after a long battle with cancer in April, and you can hear the emotion in his voice as he sings it.

And of course, there is “Time Turns Elastic,” the 13-minute prog-rock wonder at track nine. Originally a work arranged for strings, “Time” is the result of a ridiculous number of takes in the studio, but the results are apparent. True, this is no “The Divided Sky,” or even “Guyute,” but it is a very well-written and arranged piece, with musical right turns every couple of minutes – it’s exactly the kind of thing Phish hasn’t done in ages, showing off just how good these four guys really are.

Still, it’s the simpler ones that stand out to me this time, and maybe it’s just the fact that I’ve grown to appreciate stripped-down songwriting, but I don’t think that’s all of it. Yes, something as basic as “Kill Devil Falls” could have fit on Undermind, but just listen to how they play it here. This is a band revitalized, reborn. Closer “Twenty Years Later,” which obliquely references the 20th anniversary of album one, Junta, is boundlessly optimistic, and beautifully played. “It’s a small world,” Anastasio sings, “but we all start out small.”

Joy is aptly named, a celebratory record that rights this band’s ship and finds them heading off to the horizon again. For the first time in more than a decade, Phish sounds comfortable just being Phish, and the four guys who call this band home sound connected, together, acting as one again. And that’s a (forgive me) joy to behold. Welcome back, guys.

* * * * *

I’m a music fan, first and foremost. That means I want to like everything I buy. Ideally, I want to follow an artist from strength to strength, through decades of both of our lives. Some find pleasure in reporting failures. I don’t. I hate it when artists I admire go off the rails and start producing sub-par work.

So it pains me to have to say this, but Mike Doughty has lost his way.

It seemed for a while that he could do no wrong. Soul Coughing was one of the most original bands of the ‘90s, kind of an indie-dance outfit with Doughty, every inch a beat poet, at its center. With his solo debut, Skittish, Doughty found a way to translate that rat-a-tat hard-consonant rasp to stripped-down folk music, and it worked tremendously. By the time he made his first major-label solo album, Haughty Melodic, in 2006, Doughty had blossomed into a strong songwriter while preserving the rhythmic flow that made his name.

So last year, when he released the crushingly lame Golden Delicious, I wrote it off. Here was an album so thoroughly bereft of good ideas that it felt like an aberration, an expensive mistake. Doughty is better than this, better than an album whose best song was a remake of an old EP track. He’d right himself before long, I said. Just you watch.

But sadly, his third ATO Records album, Sad Man Happy Man, finds Doughty retrenching and feeling gun-shy, and the results are just as bad as Golden Delicious, in a different way. Somehow assuming that his fans just didn’t like the big sound and big budget of his last effort, Doughty stripped Sad Man down to the basics: his acoustic guitar, his drum machine, his voice, and a cello player named Scrap. That’s it. The album has an appealing skeletal feel to it, much like Skittish did, and the focus is on Doughty’s boom-ah-boom vocals.

All well and good, but he went and forgot to write any songs again. That was the problem with Golden Delicious, not the showroom shine. For all its bells and whistles, that record only had two worthwhile songs, “Wednesday” and “Navigating By the Stars At Night.” Sad Man Happy Man doesn’t even match those. For 33 minutes, Doughty whips out one two-chord nothing after another, repetitively rap-singing gibberish and failing to find a melody. Nearly every song is a variation of “Busting Up a Starbucks,” but not as good.

The opening track is actually a direct sequel, to Golden’s “Nectarine (Part One).” (Guess what the new one’s called.) Simple, folksy guitar, some cello whines, repeat, the end, and then we’re in drum machine territory. I suppose “(You Should Be) Doubly (Gratified)” is catchy, but that’s because it contains the closest thing to a chorus on the whole album. You can probably hear in your head just how “Lord Lord Help Me Just to Rock Rock On” and “(He’s Got the) Whole World (in His Hands)” sound, the title phrases repeated over and over again. (And what’s with the odd parentheses?)

Doughty’s lyrics are usually chosen for their consonance, not for any deeper meaning. “Pleasure on Credit” is nominally about the buy-now-pay-later mentality of America, but you won’t get much of that from the verses. And you may be intrigued by the title of “How to Fuck a Republican,” but Doughty will let you down even there, with lyrics that bear it no connection. The guitar thumps, Scrap’s cello whinnies (sometimes in the wrong key), and the whole thing is over before you know it. The best song here is a 92-second cover of Daniel Johnston’s “Casper the Friendly Ghost,” tacked on at the end.

This is Mike Doughty’s second disappointing effort in a row, if you can even consider Sad Man Happy Man an effort. It’s clear he’s trying to get back to his roots – even the cover looks like something he pressed up in his basement to sell out of the back of his van. But his roots involved writing good songs to batter with that remarkable voice, and I hope he remembers that soon.

* * * * *

And now, your long-awaited Imogen Heap review.

Eagle-eyed viewers probably noticed that Heap’s third solo album, Ellipse, found its way into my Third Quarter Report last week. Yes, it’s that good. I’ve known how good it is for more than a month. But for some reason, I just haven’t found the time to give it the proper review it deserves. Well, that ends now. For the record: Imogen Heap’s Ellipse is one of the best albums of the year, and here’s why.

I suppose it’s accurate to say Heap makes pop records, but it’s not the full picture. She’s always been as interested in sonic detail as she is compelling melodies, and though she collaborated with Guy Sigworth in Frou Frou, when she’s on her own, she’s truly on her own. Heap played virtually every note on Ellipse, and when you hear how many notes there are, how dense and intricate her productions are, you’ll be amazed at that little factoid. It takes Heap a long time to put these albums together, and it’s obvious why – she clearly spends years hunched over her mixing setup, twiddling knobs and setting levels and arranging particular sounds.

But the best thing about what Heap does is that all of that complex detail works towards the song, every time. Even if you don’t care about the art of making electronic pop records, you can still hear what a great little song “First Train Home,” the low-key opener, is. Heap’s voice is versatile and strong, her melody unerring, and you can pay attention to just those things and enjoy this tune. If you notice the lattice-work of swirling, interlocking synths, the impeccable buildups and comedowns, the moments when everything drops away but that multi-tracked voice, even the perfect, burbling percussion, well, that’s the cake beneath the sweet frosting.

Heap’s last album, 2006’s Speak For Yourself, was produced the same way, but Ellipse is leaps and bounds ahead of it, both in song and sound. Heap writes little epics here, like the amazing “Wait It Out,” but pairs them with bizarre experiments like the clockwork madness of “Aha!,” on which she really shows off those pipes, her voice folded and spindled and mutilated over a mad-scientist march. She takes on the apocalypse on the dark and dramatic “2-1,” and one song later lays down a slinky vamp and laments female body issues on the hilarious (and eminently danceable) “Bad Body Double.”

But three years ago, it wasn’t the intricate pop dioramas that caught the public’s attention. She struck gold with the a cappella “Hide and Seek,” the simplest thing on Speak For Yourself. She never even tries to replicate that success on Ellipse (thank God), but she does it several exponents better on “Earth,” a jaunty eco-anthem that sounds like it was constructed using nothing but her voice. There must be a hundred multi-tracks here, spinning web after web, and the result is awesome, like something Bobby McFerrin would need his entire Voicestra to emulate.

Ellipse is often fun like this, but just as often serious and beautiful. Brief piano instrumental “The Fire” leads into the final two tracks on this record, and Heap has never written two more lovely songs. “Canvas” is a creeping spiral of guitars and pianos circling a mantra-like melody. The buildup is subtle, but devastating by the end, and it dissolves into “Half-Life,” the sparse piano closer. After an album full of dramatic highs, Heap leaves you clinging to every half-whispered word right to the end.

Let me put it this way: the deluxe edition of Ellipse comes with a second disc of instrumental versions of the album’s songs, and it’s worth it just to hear the depth of what Heap does. But if you don’t care about any of that, Ellipse is still a fantastic album of fantastic songs. It takes Heap a long time to work her magic, and the fact that the results are so smooth and enjoyable is a testament to how well she does it. All of her sweat and toil was definitely worth it. Ellipse is not only Heap’s best work, but one of the year’s very best.

* * * * *

I used to love the Elms.

Back in 2002, the Seymour, Indiana foursome released Truth, Soul, Rock and Roll, a winning mix of Midwestern rock and British pop. I hailed them as one of the best new bands I’d heard in a long time, and I spun that album until it wore out. (That’s not true, since it’s a CD, but remember when you could actually wear out an album, on vinyl or cassette? It was a sign of affection, like you’d loved it to death.) I predicted big things for Owen Thomas and his merry band.

But in 2006, the Elms suddenly remembered they’re from Indiana, and decided that Americana is where their fortunes lied. Third album The Chess Hotel certainly rocked more than the first two, but the songs were lacking, and the John Mellencamp-isms were everywhere. It wasn’t bad, and it did grow on me, but it wasn’t the band I fell in love with. One of two things was happening: either the Brit-pop influences were all affectations, or this new rootsy focus was a put-on. But the Elms do both so convincingly that I still can’t tell.

Now here’s album four, and the title alone should tell you that they’ve continued down that path. It’s called The Great American Midrange, and it contains songs with titles like “County Fair,” “The Wildest Heart” and first single “Back to Indiana.” This is their full-on American rock band moment, and they embrace it, taking one cue from modern country, and the other from Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. And again, the result is just… okay.

Let’s get the embarrassing ones out of the way first. The album opens with “Strut,” a bar band blues-rock stomp that, unfortunately, sets the tone. “What’s a man to do when he’s had enough? You put on your boots and you strut your stuff,” Thomas sings over a sadly typical backbeat. The other roadhouse tune, “The Shake,” is even worse. “Shake it ‘till you can’t shake it out no more,” Thomas spits, apparently without irony, while his band plays the kind of blues-based arena rock that went out with the Reagan era.

Elsewhere, the good ol’ boy tone continues – “Unless God Appears First” is the kind of I-go-to-church-and-I-do-my-job everyman anthem country radio loves, one that mentions the rust buckle in the second line. “The Good Guys” actually includes the sub-Mellencamp line “it’s a long road for the simple man to get a helping hand.” Musically, these songs are mostly simplistic rockers and mid-tempo pieces, and there’s virtually no trace of the dazzling melodies Thomas used to write.

There are a couple of tunes I like, especially “The Little Ways,” with its sweet harmonies, and “The Wildest Heart,” which, despite its title, is actually something of a classic pop song. And there is one I love, for some reason: “This Is How the World Will End” is a simple plea for peace and understanding, one that fits this more straightforward style without slipping into cliché. But most of this album is like “Back to Indiana” – it rocks, no doubt, but it does so in the most hackneyed, middle-of-the-road way possible.

Three years ago, I suggested that the Elms have every right to change horses midstream, and try on a new style if they think it works better for them. I still believe that, but on the evidence of The Great American Midrange, I don’t think this style suits them as well. In fact, I think they sound like a million other bands now, when before, they had an intriguing mix of influences. This album competently executes its formula, but it’s lacking any spark. I still think Owen Thomas has good songs left in him, but with rare exceptions, you won’t find any of them on this record.

* * * * *

Whoa, harsh ending. Let’s rectify that by trumpeting a new songwriter I’ve just stumbled on. His name is Harper Simon, and yes, he’s Paul Simon’s kid. But he writes some wonderful songs, as you can hear here. His self-titled debut is out next week, and I’ll be first in line, hoping the rest of it is as good as the three songs I’ve heard.

Next week, Marillion, Neil Finn and Rufus Wainwright.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.