I’ll be the first to admit I don’t fully understand hip-hop.

Part of it is cultural, no doubt. So much of this music is dedicated to the experience of being black in America, and those are shoes I will never walk in. But then, I’ll never be a poor boy from a British mining town, or a working-class guy from New Jersey, or an evangelical Christian from the deep south, or a victim of Apartheid in South Africa. And yet, I own music from artists who express all of these points of view, and help me to understand them, the same way Chuck D. and Posdnous and Q-Tip and Eazy-E helped me understand theirs.

No, my stumbling block with hip-hop has always been musical. Here’s the thing: I like pop music so much because I get it. I know what goes into it. I know how a good pop song is constructed, and I understand when writers play with those rules. I’m well-versed in the history of pop music, and I can tell you when writers with a sense of history are pulling from certain styles.

I don’t have this same kind of knowledge of hip-hop. I’ve watched it grow and evolve from the early ‘80s, when I first started listening. (Admittedly, I was listening to DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, but whatever.) I know the landmark albums, I can tell you which records are responding to which, but I can’t exactly explain to you why, for example, Illmatic is awesome and Nastradamus isn’t. I know I like Illmatic more, but in a lot of ways, they’re very similar to me.

And the real difficulty I have is that I’m an old-fashioned melody addict. I need strong melodies to really engage with something, and lyrics are often less important to me on first listen. Hip-hop, particularly the more stripped-back beats-and-rhymes hip-hop, requires me to completely reorder my way of thinking. I usually end up in awe of the lyrical construction and vocal delivery, without ever really liking the songs very much. And I know that sentence by itself must seem odd to hip-hop fans, because in many ways, the lyrical construction and vocal delivery is the song.

So I don’t keep up with a lot of the lower-key rap releases during the year. (I definitely don’t keep up with the higher-profile ones either. My collection just doesn’t need any 50 Cent.) This year, for example, I bought Eminem’s album, which I really liked, and Big Boi’s, which I dug, but apparently not enough to write about. I’ll buy anything De La Soul puts out. I liked Mos Def’s last record, The Ecstatic. I like Sage Francis a lot, but haven’t picked up his latest for some reason. I feel like hip-hop is a world I know very little about.

And yet, I keep trying. I can only review rap albums the way I review any album: by talking about what strikes me and what doesn’t. My analogies are all going to be to rock and pop records, though, because that’s what I know best. All art comes from the same human desire for connection and expression anyway, it’s just the trappings that are different.

Case in point: Kanye West. Here’s a guy who wants to be loved, wants to be revered as an artist. But he wants that on his terms. When he started out, he was a pretty good rapper and a very good producer, making off-center pop hits like “Jesus Walks” and “Gold Digger.” He quickly earned a reputation as an artist who would collaborate with anyone – his second album, Late Registration, was co-produced by classic pop composer Jon Brion, and was in many ways the hip-hop Sgt. Pepper.

But lately, West has been making weird, weird music. This is to his credit. There’s practically no rapping at all on his fourth album, 808s and Heartbreak. Just the sound of a broken man singing through Auto-Tune over ancient synths. And now here is My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, his longest, most self-indulgent, most profane, strangest, and quite possibly his best. It’s an album no one else on the planet would make, the product of complete creative freedom, and that’s both its blessing and its curse. It’s an album that isn’t quite sure of itself – like its creator, it works very hard to convince us of its genius, even if it doesn’t quite believe it.

Early word had West returning to hip-hop on this album, and that turns out to be correct. But he’s Kanye West, so you know it’s not that simple. This record pulls from a hundred different sources, and while it remains rooted in rap, it explodes those boundaries again and again. West collaborates with dozens of artists here, some you’d expect – Jay-Z, Kid Cudi, Nicki Minaj – and some you’d never guess, like Elton John and Justin Vernon of Bon Iver. West uses programmed beats and synths, of course, but he also incorporates cellos and horns, and samples from some wild sources, like Aphex Twin and King Crimson.

Essentially, West does whatever the hell he wants on this album, and while there are moments when he falls on his face, the overall sense of unbridled creation here is worth it. Just the first single, “Power,” is unlike anything he’s done, with its hook ripped from “21st Century Schizoid Man,” its orchestral interlude, its beautifully arranged choral vocals, and its unstoppable beat. Everything clicks here. “All of the Lights” incorporates a massive number of guest vocalists, including Rihanna, The-Dream, John Legend, Alicia Keys, Elly Jackson of LaRoux, Elton John, Fergie and Drake, but doesn’t just mass them all together – they’ve got parts, and you can hear them intertwine.

For the first five tracks, in fact, West’s ambitions are perfectly realized. It’s the best opening shot he’s ever delivered, from the Mike Oldfield-sampling “Dark Fantasy” to “Gorgeous,” based on a lick from the Byrds’ “You Showed Me.” But in the back two-thirds, West gets into more self-indulgent waters, starting with a three-song stretch of straight beats and rhymes, loaded down with guest stars. Swizz Beatz, Pusha T, Prynce Cy Hi… I don’t even know who most of these people are, but they each get extended verses. The only must-hear moment is Nicki Minaj’s jaw-dropping turn on “Monster,” my favorite of these three tunes.

The final third, however, is music only West would and could make, and it’s brilliant and bizarre, tentative and bold. It’ll make you gasp in awe and roll your eyes in contempt, often in the same song, and in that way, it’s very much like its author, who inspires both frustrated sighs and fervent accolades. West takes on his own public image on “Runaway,” one of the best songs he’s ever penned. “Let’s have a toast for the douchebags, let’s have a toast for the assholes,” he sings, before advising the listener to “run away fast as you can.”

“Runaway” drew cheers from the crowd at the Video Music Awards, and I think some might have considered it penitent when he performed it. Not so. The lyrics are more probing and curious, West seemingly saying he just does what he does, and he has no idea why he acts like such a douche. He’s basically asking his fans to indulge him, and then he immediately takes advantage of that, stretching the song to nine minutes. The final third of “Runaway” finds West humming through Auto-Tune over a repetitive cello part. For three whole minutes. Another producer would have vetoed this, no doubt, but West gives it all to you, for what it’s worth.

“Blame Game” is a further eight minutes, and this one perfectly sums up the joy and exasperation I feel listening to this record. The song is amazing – West samples Aphex Twin’s “Avril 14,” wrapping up the piano parts in warm synths, and then gets John Legend to spin a tale of miscommunication: “I’ll call you bitch for short,” he sings, and later responds, “You call me motherfucker for long.” (It doesn’t sound pretty, but it is.) But then, West gives the last two minutes over to Chris Rock, for a repetitive, tedious gag that, tonally, just jars. On repeated listens, this bit is particularly useless.

Which brings up a good point: for all of West’s brilliant production techniques, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy is a lyrically confused and often ugly record. West presents himself as both self-aware and defiant, exploring his shortcomings, but then refusing to grow as a person. It’s an interesting paradox – he’s a guy who really wants to be liked, but still raps about dating porn stars. It’s like he’s showing us all of this ugliness while looking for our approval, and the extraordinary music makes rejecting it much more difficult.

His final sentiments make the point better than I ever could. The last track is called “Lost in the World,” and it’s West’s most complete collaboration with Justin Vernon. Vernon’s all over this record, in a supporting role, but “Lost in the World” is built off of Bon Iver’s Auto-Tune wonder “Woods.” West somehow makes this piece even more affecting than it was originally, and gives it a pulsing beat. It’s almost spectral, otherworldly, and over that, West raps this: “Let’s break out of this fake-ass party, and turn this into a classic night, if we die in each other’s arms, we’ll still get laid in the afterlife.” It’s like a dirty joke at a funeral.

And then? And then he layers in a sample of Gil Scott-Heron’s scathing revolutionary rant “Comment No. 1,” which adds more gravitas to this record’s closing moments than they deserve. As a poet, West isn’t working on Scott-Heron’s level. My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy is a self-obsessed document of douchebaggery pretending to be a major statement. Musically, this is astonishing stuff, and it flows like wine. But when the author of the story reveals himself, he just doesn’t have anything important to say.

Still, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy is probably West’s masterpiece. He’s working on a plane all by himself. Rather than abandon rap when other music interests him, West has grounded himself here, bringing all of his myriad influences to enrich his hip-hop roots. It’s phenomenally self-indulgent, sometimes ill-advised, but mostly off-the-charts creative, and unlike anything else you’re likely to hear. West is prodigiously talented, and when he’s on, he’s at least as good as he thinks he is. Which is pretty damn good.

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And that guy, Kanye West, once said that Kid Cudi is his favorite living musician. That alone would make Cudi’s work worth checking out to me, but I’ve been reliably informed that the popular rapper is not held in high regard. This is probably one of those times where my unfamiliarity with the genre and its scenes trips me up, but I can only say what I feel: I like Cudi. And as much as I liked his first record, I like his second even more.

Kid Cudi (real name Scott Mescudi) made his name with mixtapes and guest spots, and I suppose people were expecting something more hardcore from his debut album, Man on the Moon: The End of Day. Instead, what they got was a low-key, almost somnambulant collection of paranoid, drug-obsessed dreams. The sequel, Man on the Moon II: The Legend of Mr. Rager, turns those dreams to nightmares. It remains slow and low – there are practically no beats on this thing, just little percussion patterns – and the whole thing is claustrophobic and dark.

That fits its subject matter. Mr. Rager is a concept album about dealing with the pressures of fame. Yes, it’s one of those, but there’s a conceptual weight to this thing that ties it all together well. It’s subdivided into five acts, and Mescudi starts off on relatively stable ground. But by act four, he’s drowning in his own addictions and pain, and turning into Mr. Rager, his violent and self-destructive alter ego. It’s just as self-obsessed as West’s work, but Cudi’s conceptual underpinning elevates it. You feel pulled in by Mescudi’s darkness.

The production is mostly minimal – ghostly beats, empty bass lines, droning keys. Cudi’s voice is hangdog, and when he sings he slips off the notes more often than not. But even that works with the record’s theme. Even a song called “Wild’n Cuz I’m Young” is a pitch-black shroud of music, like a death march. Only “Erase Me,” a guitar-fueled pop song with a verse by West, doesn’t quite fit, but it’s fun, so I let it slide.

This is the second installment in a trilogy, the back cover blurb informs us, and I think Cudi sees this as his The Empire Strikes Back, the middle movie that puts our hero in jeopardy. He ends the record trapped in his mind (on a song called, um, “Trapped in My Mind”), looking for a way out of the prison he’s built for himself. (But not very hard: being trapped is “not that bad,” he sings.) Cudi is very popular, and his records sell well, but listening to this, I’m at a loss to explain why. That’s a good thing, by the way – this album is so odd, so dark, so antithetical to anything you’d hear on pop radio that its popularity is a mystery.

But I like it. It’s moody, trippy music that never overstays its welcome, and though the album as a whole is oppressive, it’s also impressive. I have no idea how long Cudi can keep this up, but he’s carving out a space for himself, doing music no one else is doing. I guess I’m not supposed to like this, but I do, and I’m already waiting for Man on the Moon III.

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I’m on much sturdier ground when it comes to Cee Lo Green.

But wait, you say. Cee Lo’s a singer, not a rapper. Ah, but he used to rap, when he was one-fourth of Atlanta-based hip-hop group Goodie Mob. So he counts. And his album is terrific, and I want to tell you about it.

Cee Lo Green, as you probably know, is a golden-throated soul singer. He’s the voice of Gnarls Barkley, but earlier this year, he scored his first wildfire hit on his own with “Fuck You,” the song that launched a million YouTube views. In many ways, “Fuck You” is the perfect Cee Lo song – it coasts on a bed of old-school soul music, but Green uses the lyrics to say the things the old soul singers just couldn’t. It’s firmly rooted in the Motown sound, but fully and completely modern at the same time. It’s a little miracle of a song.

It’s also the best pop tune of the year, bar none. Even Green was surprised when “Fuck You,” released as a teaser for his third album The Lady Killer, went viral and turned into the biggest hit of his solo career. And I think he was caught flat-footed. For more than a week, while “Fuck You” made its way around the interwebs, Cee Lo offered no way to legally download the song, and no album to buy it on. The Lady Killer clearly wasn’t finished, and at the time of the single’s release, was still three months from hitting shelves.

The Green Team scrambled, and brought the release date forward about a month, and now The Lady Killer is here. It’s still two months too late, but it’s here, and it’s very, very good. The entire album maintains that perfect balance between the old soul sound and modern production, and somehow Cee Lo has mastered the art of writing this particular kind of song.

Just listen to “Bright Lights Bigger City,” the opening number. (After the awesomely badass intro. “My name is… not important.”) It comes dangerously close to taking the bass line of “Billie Jean,” and it’s performed almost entirely on synthesizers, but it’s such a classic-sounding tune. “Satisfied” is similar – I can really hear Al Green singing this one. “Love Gun” even uses the old hip-hop trick of substituting gunshots for snare drums, but its zippy James Bond-style surf-soul really works.

In fact, the whole album is excellent. I’m even warming up to Green’s cover of “No One’s Gonna Love You,” my favorite Band of Horses song. This version is missing the ghostly beauty of the original, but Green amps it up with strings and his from-the-heart vocals, and it works. Top to bottom, The Lady Killer is solid and entertaining stuff.

There’s only one problem, and its name is “Fuck You.” It’s far and away the best song on this record, as it would be on just about any record released this year, and its presence puts everything into sharp relief. Without “Fuck You,” The Lady Killer is a really good neo-soul album from a master of the form. With it, though, the album may as well be titled Fuck You and Some Other Songs That Aren’t As Good. Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather have the song than not have it, but if there’s any case that cries out for a return of the ‘50s and ‘60s practice of non-album singles, it’s this one.

Green was wise to sequence the amazing “Wildflower” right after “Fuck You,” and it very nearly carries its momentum. But as you check out the spooky “Bodies” and the lovely “Cry Baby” and all the other very good tunes on The Lady Killer, you’re going to want to go back to track three and hear its best song again and again. Resist that temptation, and you’ll find that Cee Lo Green has delivered a really swell album here, one worthy of the praise it’s getting. Green may never again write a song as catchy or as perfectly-realized as “Fuck You,” but if he continues giving us albums like The Lady Killer, his place in pop history is assured.

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Next week, well, could be anything. 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.

I’m in a really good mood this week.

On Saturday, I got to see local band Kid, You’ll Move Mountains play for the first time. They debuted six new songs from their upcoming record, and they were all great. Drummer Nate Lanthrum, in particular, made my jaw drop more than once with his tricky, constantly shifting rhythms. (“I’m just trying not to be boring,” he said after the show.) KYMM opened for Chicago’s Gold Motel and Milwaukee’s Maritime, both of whom put on really good shows. I left smiling.

Tonight (Nov. 17), I’m seeing the Dresden Dolls play at the Vic Theatre in Chicago. Everything I’ve heard about every Dresden Dolls show has me excited for this. As a special treat, the opening act is Chicago-based punk marching band Mucca Pazza, which counts among its members Vanessa Valliere, a woman I went to high school with. Small, small world.

So yeah, things are pretty good right now, musically speaking. I’ve also been finding a lot of good recorded stuff to listen to lately, despite my earlier moaning about the end of the year doldrums. This week’s column is brought to you by the letter M, and it features music that has invaded my CD player of late and won’t give it back. I mean that in a good way.

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1. Metal

It’s true confessions time.

You know how we all have these phases we go through, where we passionately and completely love something others find questionable, but we don’t care? And later, when we look back, we can’t quite understand what it was about that thing that drew us to it? You know, the way some people fell head over heels for the New Kids on the Block, and hung their posters on their walls and obsessed over which one was their favorite and screamed their lungs out for them at concerts? And now they feel a little embarrassed for having done so?

For some people, that phase was teeny-bopper pop music. For me, it was Christian heavy metal.

From about 14 until about 17, I consumed all the Christian metal I could get my hands on. I don’t mean glammy metal like Stryper, although I did like some of that. I mean real, brutal, thrashing metal, with face-melting solos and drums that would give you whiplash. I mean metal that could stand up proudly next to the stuff I loved as a teenager, like Anthrax and Slayer and early Queensryche. Only, you know, about Jesus.

I suppose it isn’t much of a stretch to understand why I liked this stuff. I was a church-going lad, raised in a church-going family, and I embraced a very simple religious message early on. This music is essentially based on that message: accept Jesus or your soul will burn in Hell. It’s an uncomfortable idea for me now, and the so-called Christian music I listen to these days (Terry Taylor, the Choir, even Sufjan Stevens) offers a more complex worldview, a more complicated morality. But the metal bands of my youth matched my childlike faith with their own black-and-white preaching, and I responded.

So there was this label called Intense Records, a subsidiary of Christian music giant Frontline, and they were the first and the best at this Christian metal thing. I bought everything they put out, and they covered a pretty wide range. I have very close to the entire Intense catalog on cassette, and I loved all of these ridiculous bands. They had a huge impact on my formative years as a music fan, even though almost no one I know has any idea who they were. I’ve caught up with a couple – Deliverance, for example, is still putting out albums, and Australian metal monster Mortification keeps soldiering on.

But I figured the rest of the Intense lineup would be lost to the sands of time. I didn’t count on Intense Millennium Records, a new label that has taken on the task of remastering and re-releasing these old albums in spiffed-up new versions. It’s like someone went back in time and brought me a piece of my childhood, all gift-wrapped. And since I’m the only person I know who likes this stuff, it feels like a personal gift to me. So thanks, Intense Millennium.

The label’s first set of reissues consists of five albums by three bands, all of which I obsessed over as a kid. I remember when fellow metalhead Chris Callaway brought Human Sacrifice, the debut from Vengeance (later Vengeance Rising), in to church one Sunday. The front cover was a graphic shot of a hand nailed to a cross, the songs had titles like “Fill This Place With Blood” and “Beheaded,” and the whole thing looked really foreboding to a sheltered kid from the suburbs. That impression didn’t go away when I heard the music. It was punishing, explosive, heavy stuff, with a vocalist who sounded like he’d gargled with razor blades before stepping up to the mic.

That was my gateway drug, and soon, I was listening to everything with an Intense logo. It was a phase, one I don’t understand, but still look back on fondly. So now here I am with wonderful remastered versions of Vengeance Rising’s Human Sacrifice and Once Dead, Sacred Warrior’s Rebellion, and Bloodgood’s self-titled debut and its follow-up, Detonation. I’m finding I still know every song by heart, even though I haven’t heard some of them in nearly 20 years.

Human Sacrifice is still stunning, even 22 years after its release. It’s uncommonly brutal, and the newly remastered sound is thick and dense. It obviously wasn’t made with a lot of care – there are two glaring vocal mistakes that stayed in – but it moves with a ferocity that’s still startling. Some songs are mere seconds long, like “Salvation,” but others, like the instrumental “Ascension,” stretch to more than five minutes, winding down detours and showing off the band’s chops. And they had chops aplenty.

Once Dead, the 1989 follow-up, is simultaneously cheaper and more epic. The original cover showed the band members in cheesy zombie makeup rising from their own graves, and the production is similarly threadbare, hissy and ragged. But the songs grew more punishing, and more interesting. The eight-minute “Into the Abyss” is my favorite Vengeance song, a slow-motion jackhammer powerhouse. Roger Martinez’ voice is somehow in worse shape here than on the debut, vacillating between a growl and a whine, but it works well with the music. And there’s a hilarious cover of “Space Truckin” here too. I may not be making this record sound awesome, but it is.

Chicago’s Sacred Warrior played (and still plays) a brooding form of mid-tempo metal that takes from Queensryche and Iron Maiden. In Rey Parra they have a powerful, operatic singer, and his voice is at the forefront of the band’s 1988 debut, Rebellion. I liked subsequent Sacred Warrior albums more, but this one is very good, despite the awful ballad “He Died.” Quick burners like “Stay Away From Evil” and “Children of the Light” still crank, and the closer, “Sword of Victory,” remains the album’s best.

And then there is Seattle’s Bloodgood, named after their bass player, Michael Bloodgood. They were one of the first Christian metal bands – their self-titled debut preceded Human Sacrifice by two years, and at the time, no one could have imagined a heavier Christian album. Bloodgood is more blues-based and less thrashy than their contemporaries, although Bloodgood does contain the absolute scorcher “Black Snake.” The majority of the album’s fare is guitar-heavy rock like “Stand in the Light” and “Anguish and Pain.”

Their second record, 1987’s Detonation, turned the intensity up. It opens with “Battle of the Flesh,” a massive workout for drummer Mark Welling and singer Les Carlsen, and though it includes the slower “Alone in Suicide,” it also contains the two-part Easter drama “Crucify” and “The Messiah,” the songs for which Bloodgood is best known. “Crucify” in particular is awesomely ridiculous. Over hyperspeed drums and riffing, Carlsen plays the part of Pontius Pilate, acting out Jesus’ trial. It could be comical, but they sell it, and “The Messiah” is suitably reverent and memorable.

Of course, the lyrics on all of these records are straightforward, straight-up religious. I was okay with them as a churchgoing teen, but these days, I find some of the moral absolutes here questionable. The Vengeance albums in particular made me queasy more than once. There’s a violence to them that seems to preclude rational thought: “I want my head chopped off, you’ll see my body rot, and then I’ll reign with Christ and then you’ll fry,” for example. It’s almost like Martinez went from the Old Testament to Revelations, skipping all that “love everybody” stuff in the middle.

How do I feel listening to this stuff now, after more than 20 years? A little conflicted, but these albums are permanently etched onto my life, and there’s no reversing that process. Seeing what’s happened to Roger Martinez has been disillusioning – he’s still preaching with the same intensity, but from the opposite perspective now. He’s on Facebook, swearing up a storm and daring anyone who will listen to defend the atrocities depicted in the book of Numbers. It’s like watching a childhood friend die.

I try not to think about any of that when listening to these albums. When it comes right down to it, reflexive theology aside, Vengeance was a superb metal band, and Sacred Warrior and Bloodgood are still at it, and still very good. The lyrics don’t ring as true to me anymore, but these songs are still favorites, still important to me. I’m looking forward to hearing the rest of Intense Millennium’s reissues too – the second Sacred Warrior and third Bloodgood are on tap for January, with the third Vengeance and an album by Deliverance set for February.

The remastering, by the way, is amazing. Full and rich and lush, even in the case of Once Dead, which no longer sounds like it was recorded on a boom box. Each remaster has new artwork by James Heru, with the original cover art on the other side of the booklet. I like the new art better in nearly every case (it’s hard to beat that iconic Human Sacrifice cover), and the packaging is well-designed. The Vengeance and Bloodgood albums came with bonus discs, full of demos and bootleg-quality live tracks, and while I won’t be listening to them very often, they’re nice to have.

In all, Intense Millennium has done a bang-up job with this chapter of my childhood, and I’m excited to hear more. If you are too, check them out here.

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2. Mumble

My friend Jeff Elbel owns a recording studio in Wheaton. He does lots of work for lots of people for very little money, and has an ear that I would kill for. He’s great at this, is what I’m saying, and if you want proof, check out the new album from Michigan band Mumble, called Happy Living. Jeff produced it over the past several years, and it sounds like the band paid a million bucks for his work.

I’d never heard Mumble before Jeff played me their stuff, but over the last week, as I’ve spun Happy Living again and again, I’ve grown to really like them. They play complex, progressive pop with a keen sense of melody, and the 13 songs on this record all go places you won’t expect. And then there’s the sound itself, dense and lush and full of surprises. There are very few moments here that sound like a band playing on a stage, but as a studio creation, Happy Living is impressive stuff. It’s rare to hear a local album that sounds this good.

The record opens slowly, with a minute-long intro segueing into the grandiose, mid-tempo “In It Now.” But when that chorus hits, you’ll know why they put it first. “Mad Drivers” is a tricky, proggy thing, with some nifty organ lines and hidden, almost inaudible percussion tricks. (It took three listens for me to really hear what the woodblocks are doing. It’s that kind of record.) I think “Claire” is the single, with its lovely acoustic guitar parts and glorious harmonies. The band thinks “I Got a Woman” is the more likely hit, and though I disagree, I can’t fault that song either. Its chorus is soaring and memorable.

“Child Giant” is also a winner, and its repetitive yet endearing chorus will get stuck in your head. (It certainly has in mine.) But my favorites on this album are in the more experimental second half. “Bloodletters’ Town Hall” is a terrific parable set to dark music, “My Fighting Weight” reminds me of Minus the Bear, and the lovely “Daffodil” is a low-key gem. Closer “Big Blue Ball” is the album’s one disappointment – it should rock more than it does, and it comes off a little flat. But overall, this is one fine pop album.

My one quibble is with leader John Hawthorne’s voice. He has a nice tone, but I wish it were a little stronger in places. The man writes all the songs, and he should get to sing them if he wants to, but some of these songs (“Big Blue Ball” especially) could have used a more forceful vocal. But it’s clear Happy Living has been a labor of love. At times this record is so full of sound, so generous and overflowing with joy, that you wonder whether it can sustain it. The fact that it does, and that it packs so many well-written, well-made songs into fewer than 50 minutes, is a testament to all involved. This is really good stuff.

Hear Mumble here. Order Happy Living here.

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3. Mae

And finally, we come to a band I’ve loved for years. I just got the word that Mae is breaking up. They’re embarking on one last tour with all five original members, and probably making a live album, and then calling it quits. Those who don’t know Mae probably don’t realize it, but this is a real shame. They’re a superb band, and I’ll miss them.

But they’re going out on a high note. Over the past two years, they’ve been recording and releasing songs online, letting people download them for a small donation, and putting that money into service projects around the globe. They worked with Habitat for Humanity and DonorsChoose, donating thousands of dollars. It was an impressive thing to watch.

The music is equally impressive. Spread out over three EPs entitled (M)orning, (A)fternoon and (E)vening, Mae delivered 23 tracks that expanded their horizons while remaining as punchy and melodic as anything they’d done. The just-released (E)vening brings the project to a close gracefully – where the first two EPs were often fiery workouts, the final chapter is quieter and more reflective. It’s also, I think, my favorite of the lot.

(E)vening brings Jacob Marshall’s piano to the fore once again. That was the element I first responded to – Mae’s first two albums combined pop-punk force and melody with a nice leavening of pretty keys, and it stood out as unique. The new EP opens with a short piano piece, then segues into “Bloom,” a gentle tune with a great piano line. David Elkins’ high, even voice is in fine form again, and I can’t help thinking that this, this is the sound I’m going to miss.

Not that the rest of the EP misses the mark in any way. Both “I Just Needed You to Know” and “My Favorite Dream” are classic Mae songs, mid-tempo pop numbers with complex twists, fine playing and lovely harmonies. But the real surprise of the EP is “Seasons,” a 14-minute solo piano piece subdivided into 18 movements. It describes, in music, the passing of a year. It’s lovely. On a personal note, I like this because when I sit down to play the piano, this is what it sounds like.

The full band returns for “Sleep Well,” but the tone remains gentle and quiet. I love the chorus to this one – it sounds like Elkins and company putting the band to bed with a song. It builds and builds, finally segueing into the dramatic closer, “Good (E)vening,” strings flailing in the background while the band plays as if they’ll never have the chance again. It’s simply marvelous, a grand capstone to a career that went unheralded, but produced some terrific music. Rest in peace, goodbye, good night.

Hear Mae’s stuff and get their EP trilogy here.

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And that’s what I’ve been listening to. How about you? Next week, Kanye and Kid Cudi and Cee-Lo. 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.

That’ll teach me to open my mouth.

After waxing lyrical for two weeks straight about how there just isn’t anything interesting happening in the last two months of the year, I get to eat those words this week. A couple of potentially fascinating projects have been announced in the last few days, and I expect they’ll fill the empty weeks until 2011 nicely.

First up is the Choir, perhaps my favorite band. After taking five years off, they’re about to release their second album of 2010. (It’s shipping now, in fact, from www.thechoir.net.) It’s called De-plumed; Exposed, Laid Bare, Featherless, and it’s a collection of new acoustic takes on songs from their long history. Twelve songs, in fact, one from each of their albums. They picked some I might not have (“Hey Gene,” “Enough to Love”), but they also selected a few of my favorites, including “To Bid Farewell” and “A Sentimental Song.” Two Choir albums in one year? Pinch me.

And on December 14, the first posthumous Michael Jackson album hits stores. Simply called Michael, it is purportedly made up of recordings he was working on at the time of his death last year. This will be interesting for me on a musical level, certainly, but also on a sociological one. Will the general public embrace this project more than they did Jackson’s last couple of records? Is dying the best thing one can do for one’s career? Or will this be considered disturbing the self-styled King of Pop’s grave? Most important of all, will this be any good?

In between those two is Eric Johnson’s sixth album, Up Close. Johnson’s one of those guitar players who doesn’t get a lot of press, but should. He’s fantastic, and I’m looking forward to this. And of course, there’s the three-CD monstrosity The Story of Our Lives by the Violet Burning, expected to ship sometime in December. And Live at Cadogan Hall, an acoustic document from Marillion. Turns out all is not as bleak as I thought. The moral of this story: don’t ever listen to me. I have no idea what I’m talking about.

And now, more of my opinions.

* * * * *

I listen to a lot of music, much more than the average person. I know this. Because I listen to a lot of music, people ask me all the time how I discover the bands I write about here. They often pose this question as if I have some kind of super-power, or inside track. What I usually want to say is this: I’m so behind the curve it’s not even funny. There’s new music coming out every week that I will never hear, and some of it is bound to be life-changingly good. I feel like I’m in slow motion a lot of the time.

But I don’t say that. My standard answer is that I keep my ears open, searching out new stuff (and keeping track of established bands that have fallen out of favor) at a rate some might call obsessive. Even though this casts a pretty wide net, I still rely on other music fans to point me in the direction of good stuff I’ve missed. I’m blessed to have an entire network of similarly-obsessive music lovers looking out for me, and I return the favor as often as I can.

This week is all about those people. I’ve mentioned several of them before, like Dr. Tony Shore and Jeff Elbel. I owe a lot of what I do to fellow fans who get just as excited about new music as I do, and can’t wait to share it. I’m grateful that they’ve shared it with me.

* * * * *

Somewhere in the dark recesses of the United Kingdom lives a man named Nick Martin. I’ve never met him, I’ve never spoken to him. But anything he suggests I buy, I will buy.

Granted, he doesn’t do it often. Nick’s an occasional correspondent, and his recommendations, usually of UK bands that haven’t found their way across the pond, are becoming an annual tradition. Last year he turned me on to the sweet, glittering pop of the Yeah You’s, and their debut album Looking Through You scored an honorable mention in 2009’s top 10 list. (It topped Tony Shore’s list, after I shared Nick’s suggestion.)

This year, Nick got me hooked on Everything Everything, a virtually unknown British band with a sound that knocks me out. It’s part modern Brit-pop (singer Jonathan Higgs has that high, wavery, Thom Yorke/Chris Martin tone), but part ballsy prog, taking a lot from Drums and Wires-era XTC. Rhythms are constantly shifting and moving, melodies collapse in on themselves, nothing remains in one place for any length of time, and yet these songs are catchy and unforgettable.

Everything Everything’s debut is called Man Alive. Its 12 songs never sit still. Opener “My Kz, Ur Bf” rises above its text-speak title, delivering a trippy mix of herky-jerky rhythms, swelling keyboards and a dynamite chorus. “Qwerty Finger” is even better, mainly because it’s faster, but even when this band slows it down, as on “Leave the Engine Room,” they can’t resist making something complex and consistently engaging.

And then there is “Photoshop Handsome,” a whirlwind of vocals, marching band drums and clean guitars. It’ll knock you flat. They follow that up with “Two for Nero,” a modern “Scarborough Fair,” all harpsichords and intertwining voices. I haven’t heard anything like this on a new pop album in years. Amazingly, the quality of Man Alive never dips, mainly because Higgs and his cohorts never settle. Every song here takes off in a million directions you won’t expect.

The only stumbling block here is Higgs’ voice, which sometimes stretches past its capabilities. But it does provide an interesting counterbalance – the songs are very precise, and his singing is loose and slippery. Some of these melodies, like the cascading craziness of “Come Alive Diana,” are out of his grasp. It adds a touch of humanity, but a stronger, less watery voice might have fit this music better.

That’s it, though. It’s my only quibble with this very fine debut from a band hopefully destined for greatness. Nick Martin has done it again, and I can’t wait to hear what he recommends next year. Hear Everything Everything here.

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Steve Warrenfeltz is an old hippie.

It’s okay, I can say that. I spend thousands of dollars a year in his record store, Kiss the Sky, a little piece of heaven right in my home town. Part of the charm of Kiss the Sky is that it’s run by two guys who bucked the establishment – both Steve and his business partner Mike Messerschmidt left cushy corporate jobs to open the store, because they were sick of working for the man. It’s a very child-of-the’60s (and very admirable) thing to do.

So Steve’s an old hippie, and he likes old hippie music, like Dylan and Jimi Hendrix and old blues guys. When he’s in the store, that’s what you’ll hear. So imagine my surprise when I wandered in last week and heard, coming from the speakers, this lovely, rootsy, completely unfamiliar music. I listened to two songs, loved them both, and asked Steve just what he was playing. And he said, “It’s a local guy.”

And I said, “What?” Because the production on this stuff was just incredible. Huge and clear and full and dense, like the product of the finest Nashville studio. Turns out, he was spinning the debut from Miles Nielsen, and while he lives in the western Chicago suburbs, he’s not just a local guy. Illinois residents certainly recognize that last name – Miles is the son of Cheap Trick guitarist Rick Nielsen, and he pulled in some top-notch backup and production help for his self-titled record.

Which explains the sterling sound, but even the best production couldn’t disguise lousy songs. Miles Nielsen writes really good songs. Some of them sound like old standards, some like Ryan Adams on a good day, but all of them are heartfelt and well-crafted. I’m particularly fond of the shuffling “Good Heart Sway” – that one has a chorus that won’t quit, and a clarinet part to top it off. But all 12 of these songs are worthwhile, and the end result is 37 minutes of history-conscious rock and roll.

Nielsen pulled in Bun E. Carlos to play drums, and former Black Crowe Marc Ford to play guitar, but the dominant voice here is his. Man, just listen to “Sugarfree.” I haven’t heard a country-rock song this good in a long time. “Wine” is dark and powerful (“Been drinkin’ all the poisonous berries”), its shambling percussion adding a new dimension, while “Lost My Mind” is a hit single waiting to happen, like the best of the Old 97’s. It all ends with “The Crown,” a lovely little tune built on acoustic guitars, piano, vibes and some subtle mellotron.

Miles Nielsen has once again proven that the famous progeny theory is just plain wrong. His songs deserve to stand on their own, and they deserve a much wider audience. It’s telling that every time Steve plays this album in the store, someone asks about it. This is just a superb little album, and I thank Steve for turning me on to it. You can hear Miles here.

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Rob Hale’s another guy who works at Kiss the Sky, but he’s not an old hippie. In fact, he’s my age, and his favorite thing to play in the store is Porcupine Tree. That’s in fact how we met – I complimented him for treating customers to The Incident, the latest PT album, and we hit it off from there.

Of course, we soon found out that we disagree more than we agree. But that just comes with the territory when you’re an obsessive music fan. I already trust Rob’s taste, so when he called the new Oceansize album his record of the year, I had to hear it. It’s called Self-Preserved While the Bodies Float Up, and while I’m more lukewarm about it than he is, it is an impressive disc.

Oceansize is an English quintet with three prior albums and a host of EPs. They’ve flown entirely under my radar, and I’m working feverishly to correct that oversight now. They play a heavy version of shoegaze prog, their songs sometimes stretching to 10 minutes or more without a lot of apparent movement, but lots of energy. I’d never call them metal, but they do get very, very loud, as heard on the opening track of the new one, “Part Cardiac.” It’s a sludgy, melody-free nightmare that almost kept me from pushing on, and I still think it was an odd choice for the album’s leadoff slot, but I’m glad I kept going. Self-Preserved gets a lot better from there.

I like how many different tones the album takes on, from the bullets-from-above monster “Build Us a Rocket Then…” to the expansive nine-minute “Oscar Acceptance Speech,” which ends with two full minutes of keyboard orchestration. Singer Mike Vennart never screams, but his voice is powerful and melodic, and suits the songs. This is the kind of band that will go from the atmospheric “Ransoms,” with its subtle organ parts, to the almost psychedelic “A Penny’s Weight,” to the damn near apocalyptic “It’s My Tail and I’ll Chase It if I Want To.” Along the way, they prove their worth as players, handling all of the tricky material with ease.

So yeah, this is certainly remarkable stuff, even if it doesn’t leave much of a mark. This record is definitely a grower, and I like it more each time I listen, but I sometimes wish the band would grab hold of a killer melody and run with it. I’ve heard most of their previous album, Frames, and it seems that this turn towards the more hypnotic is new. I think Frames is the better record, but I’m growing to appreciate and enjoy Self-Preserved as well. I’m certainly not ready to name it the album of the year, as Rob did, but I’m glad I listened to him and picked it up.

Hear Oceansize here.

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Sometimes – not often, but sometimes – people will contact me to recommend their own work. I’m always curious about it when they do. I try to hear everything I can get my hands on, and chances are I’d never have otherwise found many of the independent artists who reach out to me.

The latest to do so is Andy B. White, a Chicago native whose new album is called The Road to Here. Andy sent me this record months ago, and I’ve been trying to find the time and space to work in a review. I’m very glad I lived with it for a while, though, because this is a really good album, and its charms were not immediately apparent to me. On the first couple of listens, I thought The Road to Here was nice, but unremarkable. But soon it became part of my regular rotation, and it worked its way into my life with subtle persistence. Now I like it a lot.

Andy B. White is a former member of the band Favorite, but for his debut solo album, he stripped things down almost completely. The Road to Here is performed primarily on acoustic guitar, and none of its 11 songs feature drums. Acoustic records are difficult to pull off – there’s no hiding behind walls of sound, and if the songs don’t work, there’s nothing else to catch the ear. White doesn’t have any of these problems. His songs are simple, but effective, and his voice is clear and strong. Many of these tunes have string arrangements, but they’re quiet, in supporting roles, and they work beautifully.

I’m a big fan of “I’m Not Giving Up on You and Me,” with duet vocals by Cate Kanell. Even though it’s sequenced second, it sets the tone for the album. It’s sweet and bright and hopeful, and doesn’t mind wearing its heart on its sleeve. “First Grade Letter” is the same, its lyrics telling a delightful tale of young love remembered. “In a world full of split hearts, I still believe in a love that’s so pure, in a hope so unwavering,” White sings, and seriously, you can’t make a line like that work unless you mean it.

The gently swaying “Wake” is about as intense as this record gets, its insistent guitar figure (in seven-four time) supporting a dark and sweet string section. “The Hungry Deep” is another favorite, its very form mimicking the sea voyage the lyrics describe. “We still row on,” White repeats, the cellos cascading like waves upon the rolling guitar line. It’s a very cool arrangement. The album ends with a pair of grace notes, “Peace of Mind” and “Moving On,” capping off a record about looking through life’s painful moments and finding the love that’s all around.

I have two quibbles with this record. First, the songs are generally pretty simple, and I know that’s intentional, but my mind wanders sometimes while listening. Second, the sound and tone of the album is consistent, all acoustics and quiet meditations, and by the end, it blends together. Next time, I’d like to hear some variety in White’s songwriting and arrangement choices. But overall, The Road to Here is a quietly hopeful work that, given time, will become like an old friend, whispering encouraging words and sharing your burden. It’s that kind of record, and those are deceptively hard to make.

You can (and should) hear Andy B. White here.

* * * * *

Thanks to everyone I mentioned this week, and everyone who sends me tips and recommendations. Keep them coming. I’m always grateful. Next week, I think, a trip back to an embarrassing time in my past. 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.

And here we are: the last great new music week of 2010.

Trust me, I’ve seen the future. Or at least the release schedule, as I noted last week. Jimi Hendrix fans have a good week coming up on November 16, with re-releases of Live at Woodstock, Blues, BBC Sessions, a Christmas single and a new four-CD, one-DVD box set called West Coast Seattle Boy. Some of that is unreleased, none of it is new. (For obvious reasons.) After this week, it’s Cee-Lo, Kid Cudi, Kanye West, My Chemical Romance and maybe The Violet Burning. And that’s it.

So this week is the last celebration, the final hurrah for what was, in retrospect, a pretty great year. This week we got three highly-anticipated new records, and I like them all. Now, I don’t know how many of you have seen my blog. I think of it as a supplement to the main column, although I haven’t made much use of it lately. (I’m busy!) One of the main things I do there is first-listen reviews, posting my immediate impressions of records after only hearing them once.

Well, this week’s column is like that. I’m going to listen to each of these new records only once before reviewing them. Don’t expect any kind of in-depth analysis this time, particularly since one of them was written by one of our best lyricists, and no doubt rewards repeated listens. (You’ll know which one. No, not the Weezer.) This is going to be like a fly-by, a quick-hit series of instant thoughts. At least, that’s how I’m envisioning it. Let’s see how I do.

* * * * *

It’s sometimes easy to forget that Elvis Costello isn’t American.

I say that because he has a deep, abiding love for American music. He’s made country records and southern folk records and jazz records and records inspired by ‘50s California rock. He’s recently collaborated with New Orleans great Allen Toussaint, and he’s in the midst of a fruitful partnership with T-Bone Burnett and a terrific group of old-school Nashville musicians. One of his career goals seems to be to get an entry in the Great American Songbook next to some of his idols, like Cole Porter and George Gershwin.

Looking over his body of work, that doesn’t seem like an outsize ambition. I consider Costello one of the world’s greatest living songwriters, and he’s shown a remarkable ability to hit balls out of the park in a head-spinning array of styles. And yet, there are some who still want to pigeonhole him as an angry, twitchy rocker, referring to everything that doesn’t sound like My Aim is True as a “genre exercise.” I think this misses the fact that the rockabilly and organ-fueled punk of his early efforts are just as much about genre as anything else he’s done.

Costello believes in the album, a trait I admire, and everything he’s done for some time has centered around a sonic concept. The orchestral maneuvers of North and Il Sogno, for example, or the smash-and-grab rock of Momofuku. His latest forays have been populated by a stunning set of Nashville session players, like Jerry Douglas and Stuart Duncan and Dennis Crouch. Google a couple of those names, and you’ll find a curriculum vitae that could only have been assembled by the very best.

On last year’s Secret, Profane and Sugarcane, those players joined Costello, his Impostors, and producer Burnett to add bluegrass and country flavoring to some older originals. Now here’s the companion volume, in a sense: National Ransom, a collection of 16 new Costello songs performed with the same lineup. Everything about the way this one’s being marketed screams, “If you liked the last one, you’ll like this one too!” It even sports another cover illustration by comics artist Tony Millionaire.

And it’s true, except for a couple of things. For one, National Ransom is miles better than its predecessor. While Secret, Profane cast old songs in new settings, these tunes were clearly written for Costello’s hand-picked backing band, and they sound more comfortable and confident. For another, these songs are largely terrific, even on first blush.

You’ll find a lot of reviewers calling this a country album, and this is incorrect. There are a few solidly country songs on here, like the rowdy “I Lost You.” But this album pulls from jazz balladry, bayou music, a little Motown, and some plain ol’ rock and roll. It’s as diverse as the previous album, and while it doesn’t have as many hooks as I’d like (Costello, when he wants to, can write hooks), the result is a thoughtful, complex record that tours a dozen American musical forms.

Highlights? After one listen, I would point to the jaunty “A Slow Drag with Josephine,” the rough-and-tumble “Five Small Words,” the gorgeous “Bullets for the New-Born King,” the haunting “One Bell Ringing” and the unendingly lyrical “All These Strangers” as clear favorites. I would say this, though: the overall quality of the songs is consistent, if not extraordinary. This is Elvis Costello proving his mettle 16 more times, and doing it with some of the best players he’s ever had on record.

Lyrically, this record is a series of vignettes set in different periods of history, each about man’s inhumanity to man. The thumping title track sets the tone, taking aim at the fatcats: “They’re running wild just like some childish tantrum, meanwhile we’re working every day paying off the national ransom…” (This one’s setting is listed as “1929 to the present day.”) “Stations of the Cross” is another burst of anger at the government’s reaction to Hurricane Katrina, among other things, while the deceptively tender “You Hung the Moon” eavesdrops on families awaiting their loved ones’ return from World War I: “The shore is a parchment, the sea has no tide since he was taken from my side…”

I don’t even feel like I need to qualify this next statement: Costello is, without a doubt, one of the best lyricists working today. National Ransom is a typically dense piece of work, the songs sometimes working as delivery mechanisms for the words. The six-minute “All These Strangers,” near the end of the album, is a perfect example. Over a honey-rich folk backdrop, Costello spins a tale of paranoia and infidelity: “I saw my baby talking with another man today, speaking softly in a confidential way, I saw a shadow pull his glove off as a bluebird flew over, life’s no pleasure when you doubt the one you love…” By the time it finishes up, it’s surprisingly intense, and it’s undercut somewhat by the sing-song finale, “A Voice in the Dark.”

But all together, National Ransom is yet another splendid Elvis Costello album. Essential? Probably not, but that’s just because he’s so good so often that this album is somewhat typical. It’s going to take me several more listens to absorb everything Costello’s laid down here, and unravel his finely-woven themes. But Costello is an artist that has never made me regret following him down every highway and byway he travels. His catalog covers a lot of ground, and National Ransom annexes some new territory (a remarkable statement on its own, 32 albums in), but his grasp has never exceeded his talent. He’s one of the very best, and National Ransom is further proof.

* * * * *

If it seems like just a few weeks ago we were discussing Weezer’s eighth album, Hurley, well, you’re not insane. Hurley hit stores on September 14, and here we are, a month and a half later, with the band’s ninth effort, Death to False Metal.

I’m going to repeat that title, because it’s 40 kinds of awesome: Death to False Metal.

So okay, technically this isn’t a brand new Weezer album. These 10 songs were written and recorded at various points in the band’s career, and were excluded from their proper releases for reasons unknown. The newest is opener “Turning Up the Radio,” written in 2008 (and we’ll get to the origin of this song in a bit), and the oldest are “Everyone” and “Trampoline,” which date back to the post-Pinkerton hiatus, around 1998. The songs were rescued from obscurity and re-worked in the studio, polished up to sound like modern Weezer.

The result is inconsistent, of course, but so is every Weezer album since Make Believe. The record mostly sticks to the thick, guitar-heavy pop Rivers Cuomo and company do so well, and though you’ll have to wade your way through some Cuomo-rific lyrical disasters (“It feels good to be a jerk, I’m just a loser on his way to work…”), the melodic sweetness the band lays down is, more often than not, worth it. Admittedly, it’s a little less worth it this time, but if you’re a Weezer fan, there are still some good tunes on here.

Take “Blowin’ My Stack,” written during the Make Believe sessions. This song is idiotic – the above lyrical snippet calls this track home – but the riffs are convincing, Cuomo bellows his way through it with a newfound energy, and Brian Bell whips out a flailing guitar solo that’ll make you smile. It’s stupid, dumb, moronic, completely un-smart. But it is fun, like most of this album. The one real speed bump is “Losing My Mind,” another Make Believe relic, which finds Rivers plumbing the depths of his soul to come up with lyrics like this: “I’m running out of energy and I have to lie down, right here on the sidewalk next to the Shoe Town.” I’m serious, he really sings this line like he means it.

Those of you who believe Pinkerton was the last Weezer album worth a damn will probably expect “Everyone” and “Trampoline” to be highlights. You’d be half right. “Trampoline” is a bouncy delight, but “Everyone” has nothing but rawness on its side. (“Everyone, everyone, everyone, everyone suck a thumb, suck a thumb, suck a thumb…”) You’d probably also expect “Radio” to be a disaster – it’s the finished product of Cuomo’s “Let’s Write a Sawng” project, for which he enlisted fans to submit ideas at every stage of the composition. In the end, 16 people are credited as writers, on what is essentially a typical melodic-pop ditty. But it’s fun.

Things I quite like: “I’m a Robot,” a piano-fueled surprise that rips modern life in the most obvious way possible, but has a super-swell beat and gang vocals; “I Don’t Want Your Loving,” a Maladroit-era track that could easily have fit on Hurley; and most bizarrely, a full-rawk cover of Toni Braxton’s “Unbreak My Heart.” (Yes, that’s real.) At the very least, I hope Death to False Metal puts lie to the idea that Cuomo’s just been getting worse – the latter stuff is, on the whole, better than the earlier stuff here.

But the album is disjointed, and in the final analysis, seems inconsequential. Some of these songs are definitely worthy of rescue, and while the spit-shining might irk some, I’m all right with it. It’s fluffy nothing, just like everything Weezer’s done, and if you’re looking for some hidden depth in the band’s cast-offs, you won’t find it here. Death to False Metal is silly, hummable fun, and if you don’t expect anything more from Weezer, you’ll dig it.

* * * * *

Consistency is one thing, but there’s little I like more as a music fan than a good ol’ redemption story.

Last year, William James McAuley, better known as Bleu, released his third record, A Watched Pot. The album was tangled up in record label red tape for ages, and it took years for Bleu to get the rights back. And if you ask me, it wasn’t worth it. A Watched Pot is a maudlin and overproduced collection of ballads, belying the sheer songwriting talent of the man behind it. His voice was still in good form, but that was about it.

Which is a shame, because I think McAuley is a terrific artist. Both Headroom and Redhead are power pop gems that too few have heard, and his work as L.E.O. is amazing. I criticized A Watched Pot for not playing to Bleu’s strengths, for going for the pop radio hit instead of aiming for the best music he could make. I got some shit for that, but I told everyone who lambasted me that if Bleu decided to make an album worthy of him again, I’d praise it to the skies.

The time has come.

Bleu’s new record is called Four, and he’s releasing it independently on his own The Major Label. He used Kickstarter to fund it – he asked fans for $8,000, and got more than $39,000. That had to be a nice dose of confidence, and the album reflects that. Four is a return to form in every way possible, the best record Bleu has made, and one of the coolest pop albums of 2010. It’s superb, and if you like well-written pop music, I can’t recommend it highly enough.

I like all of these songs, but I have a definite weakness for “B.O.S.T.O.N.,” the best song about my former home town I’ve heard in years. It’s autobiographical – McAuley was born in Green Bay, and now lives in Los Angeles, but he’s known as a Boston songwriter, and here he reaffirms his love for Beantown: “If you ask me where I’m from, Boston,” he shouts, as the backing vocalists launch into an absolutely exultant na-na-na-na refrain. This song makes me want to punch the air.

“Dead in the Morning” is a full-on gospel party, choirs of vocalists chiming in over pounding piano. “I’ll Know It When I See It” breaks out the vintage synthesizers, draping them over a dynamite acoustic guitar rhythm and some well-placed percussive exhales. The song takes off at the bridge: “Absolutely positively definitely yes, or maybe in the end it’s just anybody’s guess…” “I’m in Love With My Lover” is Bleu’s one foray into romantic balladry this time, but its sparse production gives it a spectral quality, the opposite of the glossy strings of A Watched Pot. And the closer, “Everything is Fine,” is a sweet ditty with a big heart..

Bleu gets some help on that song from Jellyfish’s Roger Joseph Manning Jr., who knows a thing or two about great power pop. And really, that’s what you’ll get here, almost without exception – great, melodic, catchy, quirky, utterly terrific power pop. Bleu is back in the game, and as I promised, I’ll be the first in line to say so. I love this little record, and I hope it’s just a sign of great things to come from a guy who should be much more famous than he is.

You can hear eight songs from Four here. Bleu’s home page is here.

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Next week, some recommendations from some swell people. 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.