I’ve just heard about the death of Nicholas Courtney.

Most of you are probably wondering just who Courtney is. But Doctor Who fans everywhere are having a sad, sad day today. For more than 40 years, off and on, Courtney played Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, commander of the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce, a regular foil to the anti-establishment Doctor. The Brig was one of the most beloved Who characters ever, and that’s down to the dignity and grace with which Courtney played him.

The Brig first appeared in 1968’s The Web of Fear, and was characterized as a tough, no-nonsense military man. But when he became a recurring character with 1970’s Spearhead from Space, the first story of the Third Doctor’s era, the writers began realizing that Courtney was very funny, in a subtle way. Courtney got some of the funniest scenes and lines of 1970s Who, the most famous of which came in 1971’s The Daemons: “Jenkins! Chap with wings there. Five rounds rapid!” (It’s funnier in context.)

Courtney drifted away from the show after 1975’s Terror of the Zygons, but they always found clever ways of bringing him back. He played two versions of the Brigadier from two different time periods in 1983’s Mawdryn Undead, and came out of retirement to face an evil witch from Britain’s mythical past in 1989’s Battlefield. His last appearance was in 2008, in the Sarah Jane Adventures story Enemy of the Bane. Courtney was much older and softer than we’d seen him before, but he still had that twinkle, that sense of mischief that he always brought to the character.

And Courtney was reportedly every inch the kindly gentleman off-screen as well. I wish I’d had the chance to meet him. Nick Courtney died Tuesday at the age of 81. I’ve been a fan of his since I was seven years old, and this news just knocked the wind out of me. Rest in peace, Brigadier. You will be missed.

Here is a brief obituary by Doctor Who DVD producer Ed Stradling.

* * * * *

Lately I’ve found myself in an interesting position: I’m defending Radiohead.

Specifically, the band’s eighth album, The King of Limbs, which has lit the Internet on fire over the past six days. As usual with Radiohead, it’s either a masterpiece or a disaster, a work of art or a swindle of the highest order, Thom Yorke’s labor of love or his continued insistence on flipping off his longtime fans. There is no middle ground with Radiohead, no option of simply saying, “Meh. Whatever.”

What’s surprising me most this time is which side I’m coming down on.

I’ve been pretty vocal in the past about my disdain for Radiohead’s post-OK Computer work. They went from creating the greatest album of the 1990s to wallowing in remote, simple electronic nothings, and along the way, forgot how to write songs. And man, they used to write magnificent songs. Dazzling multi-part epics with soaring choruses and stunning buildups and breakdowns. Even something simple like “Just” is superior to most guitar-rock you’ll hear these days, and when they really let loose (“Paranoid Android,” “Karma Police”), they were unstoppably great.

It’s taken me more than 10 years to stop hating Kid A, the first of their synths-and-no-songs releases. I remember hearing it for the first time (a week early, in a planetarium) and thinking, “They have to be kidding.” I despised it from the first, and couldn’t understand where the band that crafted OK Computer had gone. Over time, I’ve warmed to it, but not too much – I still never again have to hear “The National Anthem,” or “Treefingers,” or “Idioteque.” I wanted songs, and I got loops and atmospheres.

Amnesiac, released a year later, was even worse. Sonic squiggles alongside repetitive beats-and-moans sculptures, with only a couple of redeeming tunes (“Pyramid Song,” “I Might Be Wrong,” “Knives Out”) to its name. And since then, it’s been like listening to a formerly great band stop trying. I liked Hail to the Thief and In Rainbows, but neither one knocked me out. I think In Rainbows is the best thing Radiohead has done since 1997 by a country mile, and it’s still not half as good as The Bends.

In Rainbows was also the first album the band self-released through its website, which is becoming its modus operandi. Last Friday, The King of Limbs hit the web, 24 hours before it was scheduled to be released. This time, instead of offering a pay-what-you-want model, Radiohead gave us two options: a nine-dollar download, or a 48-dollar limited edition “newspaper album,” that includes two vinyl records and hundreds of pieces of artwork. (The standard CD and vinyl editions will be in stores on March 29.)

So I paid my nine dollars, but I have to say, I wasn’t overly excited about it. Deep down, I hoped this would be the album that finally renewed my faith in this band, but I didn’t have very high expectations for it. Those expectations were lowered even further when I saw the track listing: eight songs, 37 minutes. The shortest Radiohead album ever. That didn’t do much to convince me they’d knocked themselves out trying on this one.

But as The King of Limbs unspooled for the first time, I found myself getting wrapped up in it. At first blush, it sounds like Amnesiac meets Thom Yorke’s solo record The Eraser, and given that, I ought to hate it. But I don’t. And each time I listen, I find more to appreciate and enjoy. This is the furthest thing from The Bends and OK Computer they’ve made, and yet, it’s the first one that convinced me that they’re on to something, that this experimentation has finally borne fruit.

I’m not sure how to explain it. It’s not the use of organic instruments alongside the electronic pitter-patter, because they’ve always done that. This album has horns and strings and acoustic guitars galore, but so did Kid A. But I think Yorke and company have finally figured out how to balance their cold electronic side with their warm and human one, and The King of Limbs is the first one that gets it right. I don’t feel distanced from this album at all. I feel drawn in by it, particularly the gorgeous second half.

But it’s in the first half where Radiohead makes most of their great leaps forward. The opener, “Bloom,” could have fit on The Eraser – the drums are cut and spliced, likely from Phil Selway’s actual playing, into a nearly dubstep rhythm, and Colin Greenwood’s bass is muted and processed into a strange, almost jazzy tone. Thom Yorke uses that amazing voice to meander over a simple and repetitive melody. It shouldn’t work. But then the strings come in, and Yorke hits those higher notes, and somehow, it does.

“Morning Mr. Magpie” is even better, based on a galloping guitar figure and more of those folded, spindled and mutilated drums. It sounds like a live band put through a bank of computers, and made to resemble something more electronic. The chorus is low-key and easy to miss, and I wish the song had gone a few more places – it’s the “Bodysnatchers” or “Where You End and I Begin” of this album. But the more I listen, the more I like it, particularly the ambient breakdown in the middle.

Still, I found myself thinking at this point that Radiohead had delivered another so-so release, one that would get a middling review from me. Two tracks later, “Feral” dropped my spirits even more. It’s a pointless loops-and-sounds instrumental, the kind of thing that probably creeps up onto Yorke’s hard drive without much effort. With only eight songs, The King of Limbs could scarcely afford to throw one away on something like this.

Luckily for me and the band, sandwiched between those two tracks is one of the best post-OK Computer Radiohead songs, the great “Little By Little.” Spanish guitar surrounded by electronic sounds, Yorke digging into a real, honest-to-god chorus, some finely detailed production – this song is a little wonder. Again, I hear more each time I listen, and the rich sonic depth isn’t just confined to this one track. The King of Limbs was clearly labored over. It’s an airy album, but a thick one, and the sonic detail is easy to miss if you’re not paying attention to it.

The first half is an important step in Radiohead’s evolution, but the second half contains the gems. These four songs – “Lotus Flower,” “Codex,” “Giving Up the Ghost” and “Separator” – are my favorite they’ve done since OK Computer, especially in sequence. You’ve no doubt heard “Lotus Flower” by now, and may have seen the ridiculous video that accompanies it. It is, bar none, the sexiest and slinkiest tune to bear the Radiohead name, Yorke stretching that silky falsetto over a juicy synth bass and Selway’s deceptively funky drumming. It’s the one that gets stuck in my head the most.

But the last three… they’re the most heartrendingly beautiful tracks I’ve heard from this band in more than a decade. “Codex” finds Yorke digging into a gorgeous melody over phased-out piano and some subtle, yearning horns, and it moved me like little else in this band’s catalog. If you were upset with them for ruining “Videotape” with random percussion, you’ll love this. It’s organic and beautiful, and it’s matched by “Give Up the Ghost,” which circles around a delicate guitar figure. When Yorke gets to the title phrase, it raises goosebumps. It’s absolutely lovely.

And then comes “Separator,” a very simple and optimistic song, but one that works brilliantly at the close of this album. “If you think this is over, then you’re wrong,” Yorke croons over a practically soulful beat and bassline, before hitting these lines: “Like I’m falling out of bed from a long and weary dream, finally I’m free of all the weight I’ve been carrying.” It’s a long way from the paranoid fantasies of OK Computer to this, but it feels hard-fought, and well-earned.

I would never suggest that The King of Limbs is a return to form for Radiohead. If you’re waiting for them to recapture the soaring genius of their early works, you won’t find that here. This is the furthest the band has tunneled into their own rabbit hole, and those who consider them pretentious and overhyped probably won’t find much to change their minds.

But it works for me. For the first time since 1997, what they’re doing makes sense, and inspires me. I have no idea if you’ll hear the same thing in this little record, but I feel like The King of Limbs is the one on which (most) every piece of their jigsaw falls into place. Like the music itself, the advances the band makes here are subtle ones, but they make all the difference in the world. I’m happy to defend this album – it has worked its way under my skin like nothing this band has done in nearly 15 years.

I like Radiohead again. Who’d have thunk it?

Next week, women rule the school, with new ones by Eisley, Lykke Li and Julianna Barwick. 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.

So no sooner does Arcade Fire win the Grammy for Album of the Year, when Radiohead announces their eighth album, to be released on Saturday? Wow. Pretty good week.

I don’t know that I care so much about the Grammy win. I find it interesting that after years of talking about how the Grammys mean nothing, and how they’re just a self-congratulatory circle jerk for the old-guard record industry, suddenly the indie cognoscenti is all over this win as if it’s Truly Significant. I don’t know what combination of factors led to Win Butler and his crew taking home the prize, especially since they beat out industry darlings Eminem, Katy Perry and the two Ladies (Gaga and Antebellum). It feels like a bit of a seismic shift, but is it? If an absolutely irrelevant award goes to the right band for once, does that make the award suddenly relevant?

I don’t know. But I’m happy about it. The Suburbs was easily the finest of the nominated albums, and considered a long shot to win. And I’m happy for major-minor label Merge Records, too. They put out some amazing music, and engender loyalty from the bands they sign. There’s no bad here. I just don’t think this means anything for the industry or the Grammy awards. A few more years of this, maybe, but I’m betting Lady Gaga will win next year and all will go back to normal.

Although, they did give a practically unknown jazz musician the Best New Artist trophy over Justin Bieber, so maybe…

The Radiohead news, now, that has me excited. The band’s eighth album is called The King of Limbs, its cover is suitably creepy, and for the second time, Radiohead is self-releasing it. You can pre-order the album here, in two ways: a digital-only download (MP3 or WAV), available Saturday, or a deluxe “newspaper” edition with two vinyl records, “many large sheets of artwork, 625 tiny pieces of artwork and a full-colour piece of oxo-degradable plastic to hold it all together.” Mmm-hmm. That comes out May 9.

Initially, I was distressed by this. I don’t care that Radiohead has done away with their pay-what-you-want method, unveiled with 2007’s In Rainbows. Nine bucks is a fair price. But I’m a physical product kind of guy, and I honestly have no use for vinyl, and don’t want to pay $48 for the big package. That’s why I was glad to hear that TBD Records will release The King of Limbs in a standard edition on March 29, in record stores. Now I get to (gladly) buy the thing twice, once from the band this week, and once from my local record shop next month.

As for the music itself? I have hope. I will always be a Radiohead fan, but I think they fell off track with Kid A in 2000. Granted, OK Computer is a nearly-impossible act to follow, but since then, they haven’t really tried, churning out one forgettable computerized blip after another. I do think that In Rainbows was a step in the right direction, their best album since the glory days, but it wasn’t overwhelmingly good. Could The King of Limbs be the full redemption I’m seeking? We’ll see.

Of course, expect a full report next week.

As for this week, we’ve got a trio of albums ranging from the very good to the marvelous. For all intents and purposes, 2011 starts here.

* * * * *

Conor Oberst is Bright Eyes. Bright Eyes is Conor Oberst. There’s no denying that simple fact. The first Bright Eyes album, A Collection of Songs Written and Recorded 1995-1997, is all Conor, with his guitar, in his bedroom. Other musicians have drifted in and out since then, but Oberst is the only one who really matters. If he decided not to show up to the studio, there would be no Bright Eyes records, no matter who else turned up.

That’s why it was so confusing when he “went solo” in 2008. Oberst made two albums and an EP under his own name, and it wasn’t much of a leap to assume that the Bright Eyes moniker was dead. But no. Just to make things even more confusing, Oberst is back under his band name with a new album, The People’s Key. You’d be forgiven for wondering just what the difference is. If Oberst is behind this music too, why not release it under his own name? Or why not just keep Bright Eyes for everything?

All of that confusion slipped away, at least for me, after my first listen to The People’s Key. This is absolutely a Bright Eyes album, in a way the two Oberst albums weren’t. What separates them? Believe it or not, it’s pretension.

As Bright Eyes, Oberst was always a pretentious little scrapper. Fashioning himself a modern Bob Dylan, he composed poetry and sang (and sometimes screamed) it to Very Serious Music, meaning folksy strumming and contemplative production. Over time, he got better at writing this Very Serious Music, and his last few albums as Bright Eyes were pretty damn good. But they were still overwrought affairs concerned with Big Ideas and Big Themes, and most importantly, they were No Fun at All.

Nothing wrong with that, but the two albums he made under his own name were revelations. Loose and shambling and funny, they were like Bright Eyes taking a holiday. Despite its 70-minute length, Outer South is the most fun I’ve ever heard Conor Oberst have in a studio – he let members of his band, the Mystic Valley Band, sing their own songs, and let a few tunes spin out into rustic jams.

The People’s Key is not that, at all. It is Very Serious Music. The album begins and ends with a rambling monologue about spirituality by Denny Brewer, singer of Refried Ice Cream. Every song is tightly arranged and produced – Oberst’s voice never appears without some kind of effect on it – and the whole thing is obviously meant as a statement, not just a rock record. I think it suffers for it, even though these are some of Oberst’s most accomplished songs.

Too bad they don’t really get to breathe. Take the sort-of title track, “A Machine Spiritual in the People’s Key.” (Now that’s a Bright Eyes song title.) Oberst’s voice is loaded with reverb, his acoustic guitar buried under piles of synths and noise, and his melodies trapped in a claustrophobic space. Which is a shame, because the melodies are nice. Same goes for many of these songs. Even though I like them, particularly the spry “Shell Games” and the thudding “Triple Spiral,” Oberst’s desire to make this record sound huge has made it sound suffocated.

There is one wonderful exception: “Ladder Song,” written in the wake of a close friend’s suicide, is heartbreaking. It works mainly because it’s so sparse – a keyboard, Oberst’s voice, and little else. It stands alone on this record as a reminder of where Oberst has been, and should serve as a path to where he should go. His material just sounds remote and confused when given the full sonic overload. “Ladder Song” is nowhere near his best work, but just by being honest and open, it’s the best thing here.

The rest of this album wants to be a Grand Statement about oneness and spirituality, and it doesn’t quite get there. Don’t get me wrong, these are fine little songs, and Oberst still has a way with meaningful-sounding lyrics, but when The People’s Key is over, I don’t feel enlightened, and I don’t feel changed. I don’t even feel like pressing play again. This is a C-plus album from a guy who can do better, and it’s the first Conor Oberst album in more than a decade that feels like a backslide. Perhaps it’s time for Oberst to say goodbye to Bright Eyes, and just be himself.

* * * * *

PJ Harvey should be considered a national treasure. Who cares that she’s not from this nation?

The English songwriter has amassed a catalog unlike that of any other musician I know. From the raw power of Dry and Rid of Me to the dramatic rock of To Bring You My Love to the experimental pop of her collaborations with John Parish, Harvey has never stood still, and has always been worth hearing. It’s never a matter of whether the new Harvey album is any good, merely what kind of good it is this time.

Initial reports surrounding her eighth solo album, Let England Shake, called it a return to rock after the spare and haunting White Chalk. I can’t say I wouldn’t have welcomed that. White Chalk is an amazing record, Harvey pushing her voice up and out of her range again and again to tell ghost stories over pianos and little else. But it freaked me right out, and I wasn’t looking forward to that experience again.

But Let England Shake isn’t that promised rock record, either. It’s sort of a mid-point: quieter than she often is, but still propulsive and moving, like music to drive though a snowstorm to. There are electric guitars aplenty, but they’re mostly for texture and movement. Nothing about this album will leave blisters, but all of it will leave a mark. This is Harvey’s love/hate letter to her homeland and its bloody history, and it makes sense that the music is both lovely and prickly.

Some have described Let England Shake as a war documentary in song, and that’s not far off. The word “death” appears as often as the word “England,” and songs like “All and Everyone” and “In the Dark Places” detail the horrors of warfare with sickening precision. But this album is about a history steeped in blood, and what it takes to still love your country despite that. “I live and die through England, it leaves sadness, it leaves a taste, a bitter one,” she sings on the raw and tough “England,” but then concludes, “Undaunted, never-failing love for you, England, is all to which I cling.”

“Bitter Branches” explores what war means to those left behind: “Their young wives with white hands wave goodbye, their arms as bitter branches spreading into the white world.” And final track, the duet “The Colour of the Earth,” surveys the damage: “If I was asked, I’d tell, the colour of the earth that day, it was dull and browny-red, the colour of blood, I’d say.” The music remains dark and powerful throughout, even more so with Harvey’s restraint. She sings each of these songs in a high, floaty tone, like a spirit looking down upon a battlefield. And she sings most of these songs with Parish, the strongest musical presence here apart from Harvey herself, and the counterpoint is chilling at times.

Now, you may be saying to yourself, what separates this from Bright Eyes’ album? Surely both seem to be Very Serious Works, yes? Why would Harvey get a pass when Oberst doesn’t? The answer is, Harvey’s album is alive, while Oberst’s sounds stifled. Let England Shake simply jumps from the speakers, a sparse work, yet one full of blood and bone and bile. You can feel Harvey’s anguish – she’s not trying to make a statement, she is simply making one, like the astonishing artist she is.

If you couldn’t tell, I think this album is simply magnificent. I’m only starting to explore its contours, but already this record hurts and heals in ways Harvey never has before. Let England Shake is, as usual, a PJ Harvey album unlike any other PJ Harvey album. It is also her most wide-ranging and terrifying work. Beyond just proving once again that she’s a phenomenon, Harvey has expanded the very idea of what she does, and what her music means. This album is important, and if I don’t hear a smarter, more powerful one all year, I won’t be surprised.

* * * * *

The third of our Serious Artists has a pretty un-serious name: …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead. But it would be a mistake to discount what they do because of it. The Austin band started out making a stripped-back post-hardcore racket, but as they’ve progressed, they’ve added instruments and sonic colors and a real sense of prog-rock ambition.

It’s exactly that ambition many critics don’t like. As inconsistent as their last two albums for Interscope (2005’s Worlds Apart and 2006’s So Divided) were, they were remarkably imaginative affairs, and 2009’s The Century of Self carried that into the indie realm, paring the sound back but keeping the intricate songs. The closer Trail of Dead have come to Yes territory, the further the critical gatekeepers have backed away from them. But it’s exactly that prog-tastic sensibility that keeps me coming back.

So I’m very happy with Tao of the Dead, the most freakishly ambitious album this band has ever made. It is uncompromising, particularly in its intended two-disc form. It’s a record in two parts – the first, Tao of the Dead, can be listened to as 11 tracks or as one, and the second, Strange News From Another Planet, is a 16-minute suite in five movements. The whole thing tells the story of a comic book singer Conrad Keeley wrote and drew, the first 16 pages of which are included in the (gorgeous) package.

I know, right? Just reading that either made you want to give up, or buy the album as soon as you can. There’s no middle ground with something like this. The band presents the album in two tracks on the first disc, with Tao of the Dead in one seamless 36-minute medley. It’s this band’s equivalent of the sidelong epics on Tales From Topographic Oceans, one moment segueing into the next beautifully, and in this form, it stands as the finest composition of the band’s career.

Here’s the interesting thing: the song itself is a long and winding ode, but the production is much more minimal than Trail of Dead has been known for lately. Tao is a guitar-based piece, and is full of driving rhythms and powerful hairpin turns. It almost sounds like it was recorded live, although the richness of the sound and complexity of the segues belies that. Best of all, it hangs together as a single piece – themes restate, the entire enterprise builds to the lovely “Ebb Away,” and it ends with a five-minute instrumental freak-out called “The Fairlight Pendant” that’s simply scorching.

Tao of the Dead is included on the second disc as 11 separate tracks, with no segues, and while that allows more of a focus on the individual songs, it doesn’t work as well. Without the connective tissue, there’s no reason for the reprise of “Pure Radio Cosplay” that shows up at track nine. And on its own, “The Fairlight Pendant” sounds like a self-indulgent mess. Hearing it in disconnected form is interesting, but only serves to underline what a singular piece of music this is in its single-track rendition. Oddly, though, the 11-track version is the one you’ll get if you buy the standard edition.

All editions of this record contain Strange News From Another Planet, though, and that’s a minor miracle in itself. Just like “Siberian Khatru” on Close to the Edge, this is the more compact but no less awesome piece that counterpoints the massive suite. It’s similar to Tao, but rocks a little harder, and makes its point in less time. For most bands, this would be the epic masterpiece on the album. For this one, it’s the lesser achievement, but it still sparkles.

Tao of the Dead is Trail of Dead’s crowning achievement, in every conceivable way. It hearkens back to the sound of their older albums while expanding the reach of their later ones, and balances the progressive and pummeling sides of what they do perfectly. I still have no idea what most of these songs mean, but that doesn’t matter – I don’t understand Tales From Topographic Oceans either, and I still love that. While this may not be the best album for the uninitiated, it’s the one on which everything clicks.

* * * * *

2011 keeps getting better. Just in the past week, we’ve had announcements about a new Death Cab for Cutie (Codes and Keys, May 31), a new Moby (Destroyed, May 17), a new TV on the Radio (Nine Types of Light, April 12) and a new Foo Fighters (Wasting Light, also April 12). The Violet Burning has finalized the track list for their new triple album, The Story of Our Lives. And it’s seeming more and more likely that we’ll get a new Daniel Amos this year too. I’m just beside myself with joy.

Next week, Radiohead. Oh yes, Radiohead. 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.

By the time you read this, my Patch.com site should be up and running. I’ve been working like mad to get this thing ready for launch, and now it’s out there, and the endless treadmill of being a Patch editor has begun. I have to say, it’s a bit more work than I was anticipating, mainly due to the administrative end of things, but I feel like I’ll be in a rhythm soon enough.

And that’ll be just in time for the deluge of good music headed our way. 2011 keeps getting better – the big news last week was Fleet Foxes’ sophomore album, Helplessness Blues, out on May 3, but there’s more news since then, including new ones from Panic at the Disco, The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, Lykke Li, the Baseball Project, Low and Alison Krauss, and reissues of Pearl Jam’s second and third albums, Vs. and Vitalogy, respectively. Speaking of Pearl Jam, bassist Jeff Ament’s project with Dug Pinnick of King’s X, Tres Mts, is finally seeing the light of day on March 8. (Get a free song here.)

So yeah, good year. And this week was a good week, even though it didn’t seem like it would be. In fact, I’m still absorbing one of the week’s big three releases, And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead’s Tao of the Dead. (Seriously, this thing is huge and difficult.) But that’s okay, because I still have a bunch of new things and one wonderful reissue to discuss. Shall we?

Oh, we shall.

* * * * *

Late last year, I got to see the Dresden Dolls play in Chicago, and they were astounding. I’ve been an Amanda Palmer fan for a long time, but it was at this show that I figured out why she’s developed such a devoted following. In between singing songs about creepy sex and dashed innocence, Mrs. Neil Gaiman was warm and friendly and hilarious. She invited to the stage a local woman she’d met online and sang a duet with her. She sang a tune from the balcony, right next to some lucky concertgoers. She engaged the audience like a natural.

It was a side of her that rarely comes through in her recorded work, both with the Dresden Dolls and on her own. Even bizarre side project Evelyn Evelyn, about conjoined twins who grew up as performers, was more sad and disturbing than funny. I found myself wishing for an Amanda Palmer album I could put on and laugh along with, one that reflected the genuinely delightful performer I’d seen at the Vic Theatre.

And now, here it is. It’s called Amanda Palmer Goes Down Under, and I really shouldn’t like it as much as I do. A self-released hodgepodge of live tracks, covers and experiments, Down Under has a slapdash quality to it that normally turns me off. But I love this. It’s a travelogue of Palmer’s recent time in Australia and New Zealand, featuring tracks recorded at the Sydney Opera House and Australian studios. It’s completely off the cuff, hysterically vulgar, occasionally beautiful, and thoroughly enjoyable, in spite of (and really, because of) its freewheeling vibe.

You know what you’re in for from the first track, a ukulele cover of “Makin’ Whoopie.” You might think she’d approach this song the same way she did “What’s the Use of Wond’rin,” a song she laid bare and exposed for the misogynistic artifact it is. But no, she just plays and sings it, almost revels in it. It’s a fitting start for a record that contains songs called “Vegemite (The Black Death)” and “Formidable Marinade.”

The live tracks are awesome, and they leave plenty of Palmer’s stage banter in, showing just how much fun she is. My favorite is “New Zealand,” a song she wrote in 20 minutes to placate angry New Zealanders demanding their own anthem. (She’d already written the great “Australia,” you see.) As you might expect, the song isn’t a polished work – in fact, it rambles through whatever was on Palmer’s mind at the time, including her own menstrual cycle. I laughed out loud at the final lines. I wish I’d seen this show.

There are serious moments on Down Under, including a beautiful rendition of Jeffires Peter Bryce’s “On an Unknown Beach,” and Palmer’s own “Doctor Oz.” The concluding number is Nick Cave’s “The Ship Song,” and it’s lovely. But every song like these is countered and balanced by wonderful insanity like the danceable “Map of Tasmania” and “Formidable Marinade,” a romp about cannibalism written and sung by a guy named Mikelangelo, who sounds like Tim Curry mixed with Jack Skellington.

Yeah, this is terrific stuff. You can get it on CD, or download it (for much less money), at Palmer’s site. I don’t want her to do this kind of thing all the time, but I’m glad to have this, and I’ll probably play it more often than some of her more serious works. If that’s a measure of success, then Amanda Palmer Goes Down Under gets an A from me.

* * * * *

Synth pop has come full circle, I think.

When it started out, in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, it was cutting edge stuff. No one played synthesizers ironically – this was Pop Music of the Future. All right, the hair might have been a little over the top, but trust me, A-Ha and A Flock of Seagulls were very serious about what they did. The trouble is, technology moves on, and sounds get dated, and the music gets all wrapped up in the colorful shirts and hairspray sculptures, and suddenly synth pop becomes this kitschy thing loaded with irony.

And it took a while to break free of that. It took some time for people to see Gary Numan and Thomas Dolby as honest-to-god innovators, instead of one-hit punchlines. I’m happy to say that practitioners of synth pop today do it seriously and honestly, building on traditions set when I was a wee lad. And as a guy who has always loved this sound, I’m grateful. The big pendulum of life has swung back around in my direction.

All of this is a way of setting up the fact that I adore the new Cut/Copy album Zonoscope. It’s the Australian band’s third, and their most accomplished. You’ll hear traces of ‘80s bands (including fellow Aussies Men at Work) throughout this thing, but there’s nothing plastic or funny about it at all. This is just splendid pop music, performed on keyboards and wonderful reverbed guitars. The first two tracks, “Need You Now” and “Take Me Over,” say it all, really – they pulse along, moving into sweetly melodic choruses, and leave you feeling sunny all over.

There isn’t a song here I don’t like, although some I like more than others. One of those is the single, “Where I’m Going,” a sort-of-bluesy shuffle with out-of-this-world harmonies. Another is the extraordinary closer, “Sun God,” which starts out strong and then builds and builds over a quarter of an hour. Throughout, Cut/Copy play things straight, creating the finest blipping pop music they can. This won’t make you pull out your old Duran Duran t-shirt and ripped jeans. It’s no nostalgia trip. Like it was in the ‘80s, this truly is Pop Music of the Future.

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Teddy Thompson tends to surprise people.

Especially, I’ve found, if those people know his lineage – Teddy is the son of Richard and Linda Thompson, folk-rockers extraordinaire. There’s an expectation, it seems, that kids of famous musicians will a) be no good whatsoever, and b) will sound just like their parents. And when they press play on a Teddy Thompson album, and hear his rich, classic country sound and voice, and then listen to his unfailingly solid material, they’re kind of stopped in their tracks.

As a Teddy Thompson fan, I appreciate those moments. I can’t claim to have discovered him on my own – Thompson’s self-titled debut was sent to me during my last year at Face Magazine, and I spun it mainly out of curiosity. But I loved it, and I’ve kept up with his work ever since. His songwriting has grown stronger, and his album of country covers, Upfront and Down Low, is simply marvelous.

And now here’s Bella, Thompson’s fifth album, and it’s no exception. It’s a little slicker, a little fuller, a little more rocking than Thompson’s been in the past, but it’s still a swell collection of solid original tunes, sung with verve. There’s a definite country base to the opening trilogy, particularly single “Looking for a Girl,” but Thompson puts his own stamp on things: “I’ve been looking for a girl easy on the eye, but not so fucking stupid that I want to cry, I know God doesn’t give with both his hands, so I guess I just need someone I can stand…”

But the fourth track, “Over and Over,” is where things get started. A dark acoustic number buoyed by chilling cello, the song takes Bella in a decidedly different direction, and the record keeps on darting left and right, staying interesting until the last note. “Take Me Back Again” is so Roy Orbison it hurts. Thompson enlists Jenni Muldaur to banter with him on the clever call-and-response “Tell Me What You Want,” and hits insane falsetto notes on the pretty “Take Care of Yourself.” With all that, the home run here is the slightly menacing rocker “The Next One.” Listening to this, you just know Thompson’s potential as a songwriter is immense.

As I mentioned, this is album number five for Thompson, with no duds – the closest was his rushed-together fourth, A Piece of What You Need, but Bella more than makes up for it. I’m not sure how many terrific records he’ll have to make before people stop being surprised by his talent, but I’ll be there to buy each one.

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Which brings us to the reissue. I wasn’t sure how I would respond to George Michael’s Faith, 24 years after its release (and 20 years since I last heard it), but I couldn’t resist picking up the spiffy remaster. I was 13 years old when this album came out, and it’s fair to say that the “I Want Your Sex” video had an impact on me. I remember watching it clandestinely, ready to change the channel should my parents walk in. It’s pretty tame in retrospect – the soft-focus body parts remind me of a Victoria’s Secret commercial – but it was pretty sexy at the time.

And if the mechanical horniness of that track were all Faith had to offer, it would have sunk without a trace. But man, this is one top-to-bottom killer pop album. Even now, I think it holds up. The rockabilly title track is a catchy bit of fluff, but Michael was savvy enough to sequence the comparatively deep and serious “Father Figure” next, showing off his range. People make fun of George Michael now – he’s an admittedly easy target – but the man could write a pop song, and Faith is full of great ones.

Let’s start with this: George Michael has an incredible voice. He’s just naturally gifted – he can take on slamming dance tracks like “Monkey,” but can also sing the hell out of ballads like “One More Try.” How many of his contemporaries could pull off a jazzy torch song like “Kissing a Fool”? Not many, I’d wager. Between this album and Listen Without Prejudice Vol. 1, Michael proved himself one of the best singers of his time. You think I’m kidding? Go back and listen.

But Faith isn’t a singer’s album, it’s a songwriter’s album. You have to get past “I Want Your Sex,” presented on the record as an extended nine-minute suite. It’s robotic, it’s silly, and it doesn’t play to Michael’s strengths. It’s here to be the novelty hit, to garner press attention. The meat of the album comes after it, and Michael shows off his remarkable diversity, track after track. I mentioned “One More Try” before, but it’s heartbreaking – a soft synth, some thumping drums and bass, and Michael’s soaring voice. It’s almost a gospel song. That’s followed up by the funky “Hard Day,” which is 20 times the dance track “I Want Your Sex” is.

But then Michael takes us through the dark “Hand to Mouth” and the horn-driven “Look At Your Hands,” and brings us “Kissing a Fool,” a genuine surprise. I wasn’t sure I would still like Faith, but it turns out a great pop album is a great pop album, even 24 years later. I wish Michael’s career had taken different turns, that he hadn’t fallen out with his record label and stayed silent for years, that he hadn’t decided to focus on “serious art” like Older and most of Patience. On the evidence of Faith, he could have gone on to do anything.

But hell, he gave us this, an album that stands up as fun and fantastic a quarter-century after its release. You may be snickering to yourself, remembering the leather jacket and the tight jeans and the cross earring and everything else that just kind of goes along with this music. But strip all that away, and just listen. Faith is an uncommonly strong pop record, a testament to a singular talent who had his moment in the spotlight, and seized it. You wish your most famous record was this good.

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Next week, the deluge begins. Bright Eyes, the Dears, PJ Harvey, Mogwai, and that Trail of Dead album I’m still working through. Hope I can find some time. 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 writing this on Sunday, January 30, and I’ve just returned from David Alexander’s memorial service.

For those lucky enough to have met him, David was probably the most interesting person you knew. He was a stage magician for four decades, having learned from some of the most celebrated illusionists in the world. He spent time as a publisher, an editor and a private detective, and is the only authorized biographer of Gene Roddenberry, the creator of Star Trek. He has also amassed the largest collection of silhouettes in the world, and was working on a book about the art form when he died last month.

I met David several years ago, when he started on as deputy director of Sci-Tech, Aurora’s science museum. But I wrote about him because he was just so damn interesting. I went to his house for the interview, and while there, he performed some of his illusions for me, including one in which he produced a glass of water from an empty black bag. This trick is apparently one that very few people in the world know how to do, and seeing it up close was incredible. The two of us talked pretty frequently after that, and I enjoyed every one of our conversations.

David died of a heart attack last month while investigating a leak at a rental property he owned. He was 66 years old. Today’s memorial took place at Ballydoyle Irish Pub, and included bagpipers, Irish dancers, toasts and several tearful testimonies. I thought I knew a lot about David’s life, but I knew nothing. That paragraph up there, listing his accomplishments? That’s the tip of the tip of the iceberg. Today we heard from magicians and MacArthur fellows, artists and loved ones, and I learned so much about David and the mark he left on the world.

The overriding message of today, and in fact of David Alexander’s life, is this: do something interesting, all the time. Here’s a man who never wasted a day, who did enough for 10 lifetimes. And he also took time to meet people, and mentor them, and give generously of his enthusiasm and talent. He was simply remarkable, and I feel lucky to have met him. And I hope his life will serve as an inspiration for me to do more interesting, scary, amazing things.

Rest in peace, David. And thanks.

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I’m under the gun again this week, but that’s okay, because the real onslaught of new music hasn’t really started yet. It’s coming, though. In addition to the albums already mentioned in this column, the past few weeks have seen announcements for new albums by The Strokes, Richard Ashcroft, Duran Duran, Panic at the Disco, Robbie Robertson, Alison Krauss, Low, Panda Bear, Explosions in the Sky, and Okkervil River. And it just keeps on coming: the big news this week is Fleet Foxes, who will release sophomore disc Helplessness Blues on May 3.

But none of that arrived this week. This week we only got a few, and none of them are worth a full review. So I’m gonna give you some drive-bys this time, quick takes on three records that aren’t essential by any means, but are still pretty good. I’m not upset that I bought any of these, and I don’t think you will be, either.

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David Lowery, The Palace Guards.

For a guy who’s had a long and varied career, David Lowery has flown pretty much under the radar. He somehow stumbled upon one of the greatest band names in history his first time out with Camper Van Beethoven, and in the ‘80s released a string of quirky, funny, often brilliant records. But Camper Van’s only hit was a cover of Status Quo’s “Pictures of Matchstick Men,” and most people don’t even know that.

His second band, Cracker, scored his second hit, the semi-ubiquitous “Low,” which rode the grunge train to radio play in 1993. (You’d know it if you heard it.) Cracker may be a one-hit wonder to most, but they’ve made nine albums, and established themselves as a respected country-rock outfit, albeit a respected country-rock outfit no one really knows.

So here’s Lowery’s first solo album, The Palace Guards, and it’s yet another solid, unexceptional, enjoyable effort no one will hear. But that’s all right, because his fans will dig this. It basically sounds like a late-period, country-inflected Cracker record, all serious songs with sly lyrics sung in Lowery’s lazy-hazy voice. It feels like something he threw together in a weekend, but as usual with Lowery, that’s not a bad thing.

With only nine songs in 39 minutes, you probably won’t expect The Palace Guards to be as varied as it is. It opens with a shambling mess called “Raise ‘Em Up on Honey,” acoustic guitars falling all over pedal steels while stomps and claps provide the only percussion sounds. The title track is deceptively tricky, while “Baby, All Those Girls Meant Nothing to Me” is a three-chord grunger that could fit on an early Cracker album. And somewhere in there is a note-for-note cover of Mint’s “Ah, You Left Me,” sweet and breezy.

My favorite song here sports the unlikely title “I Sold the Arabs the Moon.” It’s a dreamy waltz with some nice violin work, and lyrics that make no sense, but convey terrific images: “I was the man who sold the yankees the sky, the black of the night and the blue of the day, the endless horizon of hope and desire…” The quieter second half of The Palace Guards shows off Lowery at his best – none of this will set the world afire, but it’s all pretty enjoyable.

Do you need this record? As much as you need anything Lowery’s done, which is to say, not really. It’s hard for me to say Lowery’s unjustifiably obscure. But he seems perfectly happy to keep making little records like this one, and I hope he does. Word is he’s resurrecting Camper Van Beethoven shortly, and working on new Cracker material, and I’ll keep on buying his stuff, even though none of it knocks me out. Lowery is the very definition of a middling artist, doing just enough to keep me interested. So far, it’s worked, and The Palace Guards is no exception.

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Corinne Bailey Rae, The Love EP.

I adore Corinne Bailey Rae. The English singer’s second album, the massively underrated The Sea, pulled in an honorable mention from me last year, although it sank without a trace over here. Rae has an incredible, soulful voice, and on The Sea, she used it to get down into the pain of her husband’s death, and thoroughly break your heart. Seriously, the album’s fantastic, and you should buy it now.

But Rae’s not all sadness and shadow, as evidenced by The Love EP, a five-song romp that fully restores her sense of wonder and joy. It’s all covers, but it’s all fascinating covers. It opens with an awesome hip-shaking take on Prince’s “I Wanna Be Your Lover,” then slams into a loudloudLOUD version of Belly’s “Low Red Moon.” (Yes, Corinne Bailey Rae sings a Tanya Donnelly song, and she doesn’t strip it down or jazz it up. It’s raw and crackling.)

Those are not my favorites. They’re the warm-up acts. When Rae and her crack band dig into a stunning, soul-anthem take on Bob Marley’s “Is This Love,” the EP really gets going. Sweet piano, terrific drums, unstoppable bass, and a choir of backing vocalists take this to extraordinary heights. And then she performs a minor miracle: she gets me to like Paul McCartney’s “My Love,” one of the sappiest ballads ever written. In Rae’s hands, the song sounds like an old standard. Her angelic voice dances atop a nimble acoustic guitar, and brings more authenticity and weight to this song than it probably deserves. It’s gorgeous.

The finale is a 13-minute live jam on another song I hate, “Que Sera Sera.” Once again, Rae makes me eat my words. This is astonishing stuff, Rae inviting John McCallum on stage to share vocal duties, and leading her fantastic band through one jazzy twist after another. The coda alone is worth the price of admission. If you steered clear of Rae’s last album because it sounded too morose, too depressing, then you owe it to yourself to buy this EP. It’s a terrific taster from an artist worth watching.

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Pearl Jam, Live on Ten Legs.

I give Pearl Jam a lot of credit. They exploded onto the charts with album number one 20 years ago, and quickly became one of the most famous bands in the world. Since then, they’ve done absolutely nothing to retain that position. Nine studio albums, no hits to match “Alive” and “Even Flow” and “Jeremy.” Just five guys who want to be in a rock band, making frankly rough-and-tumble music that hasn’t changed much in two decades. They could have gotten all pretentious on us, making concept records and going electronic and turning into Billy Corgan, but they didn’t. They’re like a classic rock band now, soldiering on to the beat of their own drummer, making the music they want to make, without worrying about who’s listening.

Oh, and they positively smoke live. Just check out Live on Ten Legs, their latest concert document. This is a rock band at the height of its powers. Stone Gossard and Mike McCready lock into a powerhouse groove on every song, Eddie Vedder sings and screams his little heart out, and Jeff Ament and Matt Cameron make up a rock-solid rhythm section. This is meat-and-potatoes stuff, with riffs aplenty and very few jammy moments. Just a great band doing what they do.

That said, is another Pearl Jam live album necessary? Probably not, no matter how good it is. Don’t get me wrong, this one’s very good. The band trots out some old workhorses, like “Animal” and “Yellow Ledbetter,” but hits on a few surprises as well, like “Spin the Black Circle” and “State of Love and Trust.” They rip through four songs from their latest, the quick-as-a-bullet Backspacer, and take on a pair of fascinating covers: “Arms Aloft,” originally by Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros, and “Public Image,” the signature track from John Lydon’s Public Image Ltd.

And when they do stretch out, the results are wonderful. “Rearviewmirror” will never be my favorite Pearl Jam song, but the seven-minute version here is terrific, and concert staple “Porch” justifies its inclusion with a stunning extended rendition. I’ve heard “Alive” and “Jeremy” more times than I want to count, but those are the only black marks on a swell live collection. Necessary? Not in the slightest, but it’s pretty great nonetheless, and further proof that Pearl Jam is one of the few bands to make it out of the ‘90s intact. They did it by sticking to their guns – listening to this, you’d never know these guys were once impossibly famous, and that’s a very good thing.

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Next week, a strange brew, with Cut Copy, And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, and Amanda Palmer. Those three have nothing in common, and I have seven days to come up with a theme. Wish me luck.

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.