So I had a plan for this week.

I’ve bought three so-called comeback records in the past week or so, and I was planning to review all of them, and question whether their authors should have tried to come back at all. I was varying shades of disappointed in all three, most particularly the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and even though I dislike writing pans of mediocre albums, I was ready to do it. If I could keep one person from buying the Chili Peppers disc, it would be worth it.

But all that’s changed now. You see, I just got a pre-release download of the new Quiet Company album, We Are All Where We Belong. It comes out October 4, but the band was gracious enough to send me the music early, and even though I much prefer to listen to new stuff (particularly new stuff I’m jazzed about) on CD, I can’t wait. So I’m going to hit play on this 64-minute monster, and I’m going to write down my thoughts as it unspools.

This is a dangerous way to do things – what if I hate it? – but I expect this’ll be one of those cases where I just keep writing down superlatives. Quiet Company has been one of my favorite modern bands since their first record, Shine Honesty, in 2006. Their secret weapon really isn’t a secret: in frontman Taylor Muse, they have one of the most exciting songwriters I have encountered in many years. Muse songs rarely let me down, and on the strength of them, I named QuietCo’s second record, Everyone You Love Will Be Happy Soon, the second-best album of 2009. (Behind the Decemberists’ masterpiece, The Hazards of Love.)

I’ve heard pieces of this new album, and liked what I’ve heard, but I’m excited to hear the whole thing in its intended order. In fact, I’m so excited that I’m just going to shut up and play it, right after I tell you this: you can hear lots of Quiet Company music for free here, and order the new album here.

OK, here we go. We Are All Where We Belong.

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Track one, “The Confessor (You Could Exist Without It),” starts quietly, with an organ and what sounds like a zither, and Muse’s tender voice. “I don’t wanna waste my life…” He’s already tackling what I expect will be the album’s big theme – this is Muse’s Curse Your Branches, his breakup album with God. Hang on, the song has just completely changed, slipping into a Beatlesque bounce, and then exploding into a full-band, horn-driven bloom. The above lyric ends with “…thinking about the afterlife”: we’re absolutely going to explore this theme further.

A little bit of noise, and we’re in the single, “You, Me and the Boatman (Truth Is, I’ve Been Thirsty My Whole Life).” (Yes, every song has one of these outrageous, awesome parentheticals.) I’ve heard this one 20 times, and I still love it. The horns are back, and they’re wonderful, Muse picking up another pet theme of his: “You and me, our love is bigger than most everything,” he sings, following it up with, “Let’s live to love and love to live.” If you had any doubt that this was going to be a record about being happier on earth than in heaven, these first two tracks should dispel that. This song is great.

And then we’re into the first of a two-part epic, “Preaching to the Choir Invisible.” Part one, subtitled “What Do You Think Happens When We Die,” begins with acoustic guitars and drum clicks, and more of those wonderful horns. “I believed that shit for so long,” Muse sings after a verse about hell, and finally concludes, “There’s probably nothing more than this.” Meanwhile, this song shifts form every few seconds underneath him, going huge and then pulling back, and then building up again. The song hits its climax as Muse shouts out the title phrase of the album. I’ve been following this guy for years, and this is the best song I’ve ever heard from him – it’s epic in all the best ways, melodic and memorable, and honest as a punch in the gut. It sounds like it could the last song on the record, with its drums-and-choir ending.

Part two of “Choir Invisible,” by the way, resides at track 12. We’ll get there in a bit. Track four is called “Set Your Monster Free (My New Year’s Resolution is to Cope With My Morality),” a title that calls back to two previous QuietCo tunes. It’s delicate, acoustic guitars and pianos, Muse again singing about the “beautiful lies” of religion. This one seems to be sung directly to Muse’s young daughter, Harper, and sounds like a lullaby. “You don’t have to waste your time holding on to beautiful lies…” It’s simple, but nice, building up to a two-chord, full-band coda. I get the sense these horns are here for the long haul, and that’s a good thing.

I’ve heard track five, “We Went to the Renaissance Faire (All Our Friends Were There),” but after “Set Your Monster Free,” its fuzzy eruption is delightfully jarring. It’s frenetic, like a Foo Fighters song, but better. “Love me with no reservations,” he sings to his wife, “and I promise I’ll be good, because you are my salvation…” We’re definitely dealing with an album-length theme here, all of Muse’s preoccupations tied together in a bow. Salvation is other people, not some invisible God.

And here is the absolutely tremendous “Fear and Fallacy, Sitting in a Tree (You Were Doing Well Until Everybody Died),” all about the fear of death. My favorite verse, which creeps into my head unbidden at all hours: “Let’s bow our heads for something, pray that God is on our side, because the pagan and the pious, they all sound the same, oh my God…” The chorus, a repeated “I know my time is coming,” couldn’t be more infectious. This is a great, great song.

Track seven is called “Are You a Mirror? (Or a Window?)” It’s another song to his daughter, in which Muse sings, “I look inside you and I see myself.” The music is something of a march – martial drums over strummed acoustics and a choir of “ba-ba-bas.” The second verse is haunting: “One day you will look me straight in my eyes, and judge me for the things I’ve been in your life, I hope you love me when you know me well…” That’s amazing. That’s every frightened new parent song ever written, summed up in three perfect lines.

So far, I’m very much enjoying this record, although I already know I’m going to have to go back and listen many more times to get it all. The production is vibrant and three-dimensional, and I know I’m missing sonic details on this first spin through. But thus far, it’s everything I’d hoped.

Track eight is the epic, the seven-minute “Everything Louder than Everything Else (Xanadu Clambake, Point Zion, RI, Summer 2001).” Yeah, that’s the real title. It starts gently, on rolling waves of acoustic guitar, but quickly builds up – the strings here are magnificent, adding to that on-the-ocean feeling. And then the wave breaks, and subsides again. Muse references the ocean in the first line, so the feel is not coincidental. “It’s time to get off our knees and offer our hands up to the earth, it’s time to find that we belong, and see what it’s worth…”

I am in awe of this song. It’s rushed to a climax and then pulled back three times already, each time more dramatic than the last. The full band is in now, and Muse is scream-singing, as he does so well. The chorus is pretty great – simple, like most of these songs so far, but effective and memorable. And now the sweet horns are back in. This song? This song’s terrific. Muse admits he’s “so damn scared” of dying, and that he believes there’s nothing past this. “And I’m almost there,” he sighs, and it’s chilling. I absolutely love this.

“The Black Sheep and the Shepherd (Look, I’m Just an Instrument, Okay?)” brings back the melody of “The Confessor,” as sung by a gospel choir around an old piano. The harmonies are breathtaking. And then we’re in another Beatles-type piano bounce. “I never heard Jesus speak to me, not in any way that I would consider speaking, but I bowed my head just the same,” he sings, before the chorus, which opens like a flower. This song feels like an examination of Muse’s Christian upbringing, and a rejection of it. “With all we know now, how can we say you just gotta take it all on faith, don’t think too much, just hush and pray, like we’ve always done…”

And now this: “Hey God, now I got a baby girl, what am I supposed to tell her about you? ‘Cause her life, it shouldn’t have to be like mine, she shouldn’t have to waste her time on waiting on you, because you never do come through…” The theme of the album in miniature. This is the most straightforward song on the record so far – the suicide verse is chilling. Very brave stuff.

“The Easy Confidence (What Would I Say to You Now)” has a propulsive, driving-at-night edge to it, with a great cello part and some circular guitar. But before long, Muse is railing against Jesus again, and screaming his lungs out on a stunning midsection. Quiet Company has never sounded this devoid of joy. But wait! Right around 3:15, the sun breaks through the clouds: “I want something better, I want something real.” The song gets brighter, but Muse keeps screaming, and the effect is amazing. This is the most un-QuietCo QuietCo song I have heard, and they pull it off masterfully. Man, that one’s exhausting.

After that, the quiet acoustic intro of “Midnight at the Lazarus Pit (The Harlot and the Beast are Dating)” is a nice break. But the themes remain heavy. Muse has spend the last few songs breaking free of God, of the hold religion has on him, and he turns his eyes to life and love. “I’m completely yours,” he sings, in what is, to this point, the record’s most beautiful moment. No, wait, here’s a more beautiful one – the strings and harmonies come in, building up this simple, lovely song into something transcendent. As huge as everything else has been, this is my favorite song so far.

And here is “Preaching to the Choir Invisible Part Two (What Do You Think Happens When We Live?),” the last of these songs I’ve heard before. “We filled a book with what Jesus said, so we could all disagree on what he meant to say…” “I’ll make a deal with Jesus Christ, speak just one word I can hear, prove you’re alive, and I’ll believe you’re there…” And the darkest “hallelujah” I’ve heard in ages. At this point in the album, I’m thinking it may have been a mistake to devote all 64 minutes to this theme. It feels like it’s all been said. This song is excellent, particularly the final repeated “we are all where we belong,” and there’s an artfulness to Muse’s rejection of spirituality, but it’s growing slightly repetitive.

Here is my favorite title of the bunch: “Never Tell Me the Odds! (This is the Worst Crazy Sect I’ve Ever Been In).” Despite the manic quality of the name, the song is low-key and pretty, rising up from a programmed rhythm and keys into a horn-driven hymn that feels like the sun rising. “Everybody’s probably gonna be all right…”

And the final bigbigBIG song, “At Last! The Celestial Being Speaks (The Utterly Indifferent).” It’s a folksy number with God as a main character. “I didn’t mean to be so abstract, so elusive, you see, but I don’t see why you would believe that you needed me…” It’s the final statement and summation of the theme: “Lift up your heads, don’t worry about death, you’re all gonna be just fine.” It’s a happy ending – after spending more than an hour breaking away from the feeling instilled in him as a boy that he needs God, or some force directing his life, Muse celebrates the mortal, the earthly, and finds it wonderful. Final track “Perspective” just sends it home – it’s a tender, unadorned love song at the last.

I definitely need to listen to this album a few more times before giving a full opinion – you can check back here for that closer to the October 4 release date. But my first impressions: this is a conceptual piece that probably could have been shorter, but musically it’s outstanding, easily the best thing this band has done. The subject matter (and the fact that the entire album explores it) is probably going to put off a few folks, but We Are All Where We Belong is a brave work that takes on big themes, and aims to be an Important Statement. We’ll see how I feel in a few listens, but on first run-through, it’s pretty great, if pretty naked and difficult stuff.

More later. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to listen for the second time.

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Next week, what was supposed to be here this week, unless something better comes along. 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.

Hands up if you’re tired of hearing me bash Tori Amos.

Believe me, I’m tired of doing it myself. Tori used to be one of the most important artists in the world to me, but after more than 10 years of bloated, mediocre records, that distinction has certainly faded. On some level, I want to like everything I hear, from any artist, but that’s more true of Tori’s work than just about anyone else. I keep buying it because I want to love it, and I keep walking away disappointed.

So it’s with guarded optimism that I’ll say the following: I really like the first two songs I’ve heard off of Tori’s upcoming album, Night of Hunters. The opener, “Shattering Sea,” rumbles like an earthquake, and the closer, “Carry,” is perhaps the loveliest Tori song I’ve heard since “Gold Dust.” Best of all, both of these songs – and the entire album, reportedly – return Amos to her piano-and-strings roots. Neither of these tunes pack the emotional punch of “Winter,” or “Cloud on My Tongue,” or even “Flying Dutchman,” but it’s so nice to hear her facing that direction again.

I can’t remember the last time I liked one of Tori’s first singles this much. In celebration, I decided I would revisit the second half of her career, and see if my low opinion of it still stands. I listened to everything from 1999’s To Venus and Back on, and without the first few masterpieces to compare all this more recent material to, I ended up enjoying some of it. In particular, American Doll Posse is as good as I remembered, loud and raucous and very strange, while some sections of Abnormally Attracted to Sin held me in their grasp.

The only one of these albums to inspire a complete reevaluation, however, was 2002’s Scarlet’s Walk. At the time, this was the last straw – I had suffered through the mediocre Venus and the covers disc Strange Little Girls, and I was ready for another hit-you-in-the-gut stunner. And Scarlet’s Walk, an 18-song concept piece, seemed poised to deliver that. The album itself was a mellow, low-key, slickly-produced affair that didn’t find Amos stretching that beautiful voice at any point. It all seemed so… controlled. And the songs, I argued, were simplistic things, lacking the complexity of my favorite Tori songs, like “Yes, Anastasia” and “Precious Things.”

But man, this time through, Scarlet’s Walk really hit me. Yeah, these are simple songs, but they’re melodic ones, and they burrow into your brain. How did I miss the shimmering beauty of “Taxi Ride”? The melancholy of the title track? The wonderful chorus of “Mrs. Jesus”? Last time I heard Scarlet’s Walk, I came away liking exactly three songs. This time, I flipped that equation – there are only three songs I would remove from this track list. And I can overlook those for the towering “I Can’t See New York,” which I now think of as the Last Great Tori Amos Song. (And “Gold Dust” ain’t too shabby, either.)

Maybe it’s just that I’m getting older, and glossy production like this doesn’t bother me as much anymore. Or maybe it’s that I had the bar set so high for Scarlet’s Walk that nothing could have cleared it. This album doesn’t do me in like her first three, but to dismiss it the way I had is a serious mistake. There’s a lot to love here, and taken as a whole, as Amos’ response to the horrors of September 11 (now nearly 10 years ago), it’s a remarkable piece of work.

So I was wrong, and I’m happy to admit it.

But The Beekeeper still sucks a lot. Trust me.

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So Night of Hunters comes out on September 20. But before we get there, we have a lot of new music to plow through. And the announcements keep on coming. Here are some things we didn’t know before:

On September 6, Hank Williams III will release three new albums, one of them a double. The two-fer is a country record called Ghost to a Ghost/Gutter Town, his second country record of the year. The other two are heavy speed and doom metal records, one called Attention Deficit Domination and the other Three-Bar Ranch Cattle Callin’. The latter has vocals by actual auctioneers, set to speed metal rhythms. Hank III has always been weird, but this volley of releases – the first on his new self-made label – promises to outdo everything before it.

September 13 will see several returns from exile. Primus will release Green Naugahyde, their first record in 12 years. Alice Cooper will drop the sequel to perhaps his best record, Welcome to My Nightmare. (The new one already has a point against it, since it’s called Welcome 2 My Nightmare. Ugh.) Dream Theater will release A Dramatic Turn of Events, their first record without drummer Mike Portnoy. The Bangles will give us their first disc in eight years with Sweetheart of the Sun. And Worship Music, the long-in-the-works reunion record from Anthrax, will also hit shelves.

Other news since last we spoke. I am over-the-moon excited for Everything Changes, the new effort from Julian Lennon, slated to hit UK stores on October 4. His last album, the forever-ago Photograph Smile, remains a favorite, and I have high hopes for this one, which he’s been working on for years. Ryan Adams will walk back into our lives with Ashes and Fire on October 11, alongside a new one from Rachael Yamagata, a remix record from Radiohead, and New Blood, a collection of orchestral reworkings of his own songs from Peter Gabriel. Pretty excited for that one, too.

Brian Wilson decided the best way to expand on his immortal legacy was to make an album of Disney tunes. So he did: Songs in the Key of Disney hits on October 18. Perhaps it’s just my weakness for all things Brian, but the first taste, “Heigh-Ho/Whistle While You Work,” makes me smile. Brian didn’t stick to the classics, though – his record includes versions of “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” and “I Just Can’t Wait to be King,” from The Lion King, and “Colors of the Wind,” from Pocahontas. I often wonder if he knows he’s Brian Wilson. The man can do what he wants, but… sheesh.

Also on October 25 is the new one from Coldplay, saddled with the nonsensical title Mylo Xyloto. I’ve enjoyed what I’ve heard, but this doesn’t sound like another great leap forward, like Viva La Vida was. Also returning on the 25th is Thomas Dolby, who hasn’t had a new record in nearly 20 years. The long-delayed project is called A Map of the Floating City, which is a very Thomas Dolby title.

And finally, here’s one for you old-school metalheads. For the first time ever, I believe, Metallica and Megadeth will release albums on the same day, November 1. Metallica’s is their bizarro-world collaboration with Lou Reed, called Lulu. And Megadeth will drop its 13th album, wittily titled Th1rt3en. Could they both be terrible? Time will tell.

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Speaking of time, I have just enough of it for one quick review. So I picked my favorite thing I’ve heard recently. It just so happens it’s a tribute album to the Muppets.

I’m not even going to pretend here: I love the Muppets. Always have. I have seen every Muppet movie multiple times. As a child, I would remain glued to the screen when The Muppet Show was on – I was a particularly big fan of the Pigs in Space sketch. Some days I identified with Kermit, the nice guy trying to make everyone happy. Some days (well, most days) I identified with Gonzo, the misfit looking for a place to belong.

I can’t say enough good things about Jim Henson. The Muppets were his expression of childlike joy, and they still resonate today. But they didn’t talk down to children, or fill them with false hope. The message of the Muppets is that sometimes life will be hard, and you’ll feel outcast and downtrodden. But with good friends and a song in your heart, you can make it through anything.

This is why I’m so jazzed about a new Muppet movie – a whole new generation of children will get to discover the Muppets, and watch the old show and movies. (The Great Muppet Caper is the best one, kids.) Similarly, the just-released The Green Album will hopefully point that younger generation in the direction of the wonderful original songs composed for the Muppets over the years. Most of the classics are here, in new versions performed by the likes of OK Go, Andrew Bird, My Morning Jacket and the Fray.

The best stuff here is at the beginning and the end. OK Go’s trippy version of the “Muppet Show Theme Song” is great, the Fray actually do a splendid job with the immortal “Mahna Mahna,” and Alkaline Trio knock the old Muppet Movie chestnut “Movin’ Right Along” out of the park. My favorite, of course, is “Rainbow Connection,” performed respectfully by Weezer with Paramore’s Hayley Williams. This song, the opening number of The Muppet Movie, never fails to move me. This version is lovely.

From there, the record dips somewhat – I’m not particularly interested in anything the Airborne Toxic Event does, and though I like Sondre Lerche’s take on the Electric Mayhem tune “Mr. Bass Man,” that was never a song that spoke to my soul. I had never heard “Our World,” the sweet tune My Morning Jacket takes on, and apparently that’s because it’s from the upcoming movie. And if you ever wanted a screaming metal version of “Night Life,” from The Great Muppet Caper, well, Brandon Saller and Billy Martin are here to give it to you.

It’s all fun, but for my money, give me the last three tracks. Andrew Bird faithfully sings the great “Bein’ Green,” adding his own whistles and violin playing, and it’s terrific. Matt Nathanson does a great job with “I Hope That Something Better Comes Along,” hangdog Rowlf’s showcase from The Muppet Movie. You’d never know this is a Muppet song – it’s like a Randy Newman piece. And the finale is Rachael Yamagata’s beautiful, haunting take on “I’m Going to Go Back There Someday,” the Muppet Movie song that sums up not only Gonzo’s character, but the Muppets in general: “There’s not a word yet for old friends who’ve just met, part heaven, part space, or have I found my place, you can just visit, but I’m going to stay…” It’s just an amazing song, and Yamagata sings it amazingly well.

Those unfamiliar with the Muppets may be surprised at how adult these songs are. The Muppet songs are timeless, and this tribute album, though flawed, certainly succeeds in shining a light on them for those who have yet to discover their magic. Long live the Muppets. And someday we’ll find that rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers and me.

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Next week, some fair-to-middling returns from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Lenny Kravitz and Mike Doughty. 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.

We’re in the August doldrums right now, which means there isn’t much to talk about these days. New music is still coming out, but the real set-your-world-on-fire albums will not hit shelves for another few weeks. Between September and October, I plan to pick up about 45 new albums, and a few box sets just for good measure. It’s gonna be a great month.

But in August, I think I’ve bought eight or so new records, and I haven’t been bowled over by any of them. I’m still playing the Josh Garrels album more regularly than anything new I’ve brought home recently, and I’m more excited by sneak previews and first singles from upcoming albums than I am by whole discs I’ve already plunked down money for.

So what to do? Well, next week I’ll talk about some of that upcoming stuff, but this week, I have a trio of mediocre-to-decent records to plow through. I’ll try to keep this short, since I’m only really going to recommend one of them, but keep reminding yourself that better things are coming.

Oh, and this week’s column is brought to you by the letter H.

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I want to like Hotel Lights.

Mainly because of the band’s pedigree: it’s the solo project of Darren Jessee, who for eight years or so was the drummer for Ben Folds Five. He wrote some tremendous songs while with that band, including “Magic,” an absolute standout on The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner. His drum work with BFF was extraordinary – just listen to “Narcolepsy” for an indication of how good he is. I like Darren a great deal.

But I don’t really like Hotel Lights.

Why not? Well, two reasons, really: Jessee has a weak voice, and he writes weak songs. Both issues plague Girl Graffiti, his third album as Hotel Lights, and his fullest and meatiest production yet. He’s got a good band behind him, including Alan Weatherhead on guitars, Zeke Hutchins on drums and Jay Brown on bass, and several songs feature string and horn sections. The whole thing has a robust, rootsy feel to it, and just based on that, I really ought to like it.

But none of these songs strike me. The closest one comes to burrowing under my skin is “Super 8mm,” with its pretty piano figure, but there isn’t a memorable melody in the bunch. Last time out, on 2008’s Firecracker People, Jessee managed a couple of strong tunes, including the title track. This time? I’ve heard Girl Graffiti three times, and I don’t remember much of it. The goofy ones (“Dave Sharkey to the Dance Floor,” “All My Asshole Friends”) are the ones that stick out, but they’re nothing to shout about either.

Jessee’s voice sounds better when framed by all the jangling guitars and other racket he conjures on this album, but it’s still hesitant, hovering around the notes instead of landing on them. I know Jessee can sing backup – his harmonies with BFF were terrific – but as a lead singer, he still needs practice. Between that and the simplistic, hook-free songs, I’m afraid Hotel Lights just comes off a bit amateur to me. I’ll keep buying Jessee’s stuff, because I want to support him. I just hope he gets better at this.

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Mister Heavenly is one of those wretched supergroups.

You know what I mean. A supergroup is a band made up of members of other bands, coming together in a kind of Marvel Team-Up wish fulfillment, as if musical chemistry were a math equation. “Surely if we put this great guitarist together with this great drummer and this great singer, we’ll have the world’s best band!” Cue the first Damn Yankees album.

In Mister Heavenly’s case, it’s hard to apply the supergroup moniker, since very few people will know the bands these guys usually call home. Nick Thorburn is the mastermind behind the Unicorns and Islands (those are two separate bands), Ryan Kattner usually goes by Honus Honus when he plays in Man Man, and Joe Plummer is the group celebrity – he’s the drummer for Modest Mouse. This is the kind of collaboration that gets Pitchfork writers all weak in the knees, but doesn’t mean much for 90 percent of the population.

But even if you’re not familiar with the source bands, Mister Heavenly’s debut album, Out of Love, is worth a listen. It takes a 1950s approach to indie rock, with clean, reverbed guitar sitting atop do-wop melodies and harmonies. “Charlyne” is a good example – this could be a Buddy Holly song, and its pounding piano and nifty guitar accents are charming in the extreme. There’s a romance to this music that is only slightly undercut by Thorburn’s lyrics, which look askance at love and happiness.

Check out “Hold My Hand,” an innocent-sounding ditty that turns dark in its second verse: “Don’t try to leave, feral dogs have us surrounded, the gates are locked, don’t try to knock, don’t bother pounding, hold my hand, maybe that will help you…” All this while the harmonies “whoo-oo-oo” behind Thorburn, and the pianos pound out a ‘50s dance rhythm. It’s deceptive, and very cool.

On the next track, the band invents a new form of music – “Doom Wop” is like Black Sabbath playing Frankie Valli. Like much of Out of Love, it’s interesting enough on first listen to warrant a second, and a third. I’m not sure if Mister Heavenly is a band or a one-off project, but either way, it’s a clever and fun little record. exposing the darkness behind this gently swaying music. Check it out.

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A while back, I mentioned my Third Album Theory. Essentially, I believe, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to either dismiss or define a band until their third record. The debut tells you who they think they are, the second what they believe others want from them, and the third where they think they can go. Three albums is enough to chart a progression, and if there isn’t one (hello, Franz Ferdinand), it’s enough to know whether you want to give up.

All that said, I think you’d need to go back to Radiohead to find an arc of improvement over three albums like the Horrors have delivered. From Southend on Sea, in England, the Horrors began as a gothic punk trash experiment, but have grown into a fine, dreamy pop band. Listening to their very good new album, Skying, it’s hard to remember just how awful this band’s first offerings were. On both their self-titled EP and their full-length debut, Strange House, the Horrors worked under “hilarious” fake names, covered Screaming Lord Sutch, and delivered some of the most unlistenable “scary” garage rock you’ve ever heard.

Hell, Strange House was subtitled Psychotic Sounds for Freaks and Weirdos, which just underlines how lame it is.

But 2009’s Primary Colours was a complete, radical shift. The band incorporated synthesizers and new wave influences, essentially turning into Echo and the Bunnymen in places, and suddenly began taking their work seriously. I didn’t hear it at the time, but the closing track, “Sea Within a Sea,” is one of the most interesting songs of that year. There were stumbles, most notably “New Ice Age,” which sounds like a holdover from the first album sessions. But Primary Colours was a huge leap forward.

Skying continues down the same path, but is more self-assured, more nimble. There is no trace here of the band the Horrors once were. Most of the songs here, particularly in the more straightforward first half, could fit nicely onto college rock stations in the ‘80s, between the Psychedelic Furs and Simple Minds. Songs have big beats, throbbing bass lines, soaring vocals, glittering synthesizers, and guitars that shimmer and then explode at a moment’s notice. It’s grand, grandiose stuff.

As much as I like the first half, particularly the sweeping “Dive In,” it’s the second that really gets me. “Still Life” is absolutely wonderful, sounding like it’s in search of a generation-defining John Hughes movie to perfectly score. “Moving Further Away” is magnificent, its circular synths looping back upon themselves again and again, its chorus rising up like a gentle wave, its mood subtly shifting over eight and a half solid minutes of bliss.

And closer “Oceans Burning” is the record’s highlight. (One thing you can say for the Horrors, they know how to end an album.) It starts off at a laconic whisper, but around the five-minute mark, it erupts into sheets of noise supporting a soaring vocal. It ends abruptly, but fittingly. Seriously, it’s been a long time since I’ve heard a band grow by such leaps and bounds. If they can keep this up, the Horrors could soon be one of the most interesting bands in the world.

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And that’ll do it. Next week, some random ruminations. 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, I will be settled into my new home.

I am writing this on Sunday, three days before you get to read it. Two Men and a Truck (that’s the company’s real name) will be dropping by tomorrow (meaning Monday) to move all of my furniture from one western suburb of Chicago to another. I have spent the last week and a half carting over everything else I own, and if you know me at all, you know that’s a lot. More than 6,000 CDs, thousands of books, DVDs by the truckload. I have a lot of stuff, and most of it lives in my new place now.

But not all of it, and I only have a few hours to get everything else in line. So if it’s all right with you, I’m going to keep this one short. It’s OK, though. I have a pretty great record to talk about, and at the end, I have a free song to give you. So it’s not all bad, and I’ll be back to my usual way-too-long ramblings next week.

For now, though, here’s an album I’ve really been enjoying lately.

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Fountains of Wayne gets a bad rap. And sometimes, they deserve it.

I’m not sure I know of any other band that is a) great and b) universally dismissed as a frothy novelty. Only They Might Be Giants comes to mind, but they’re afforded a much greater measure of respect. Fountains of Wayne are the Rodney Dangerfield of the pop-rock world. Their biggest hit is “Stacy’s Mom,” a winking celebration of ‘80s cheeseball anthems and teenage hormones, and while it’s fun, it in no way encapsulates the diversity and heart of the album it’s taken from, 2003’s Welcome Interstate Managers.

They didn’t exactly put their best foot forward last time out, either. 2007’s Traffic and Weather played up the novelty aspect of the band’s sound, piling on synthesizers and settling for half-assed ideas like “Strapped for Cash” and “Planet of Weed.” Like their big hit, the album was fun, but empty, words that can also be used to describe co-founder Adam Schlesinger’s extracurricular activities – the sorta supergroup Tinted Windows and his soundtrack work for films like Music and Lyrics.

But here’s the thing. When they’re on, when they’re trying for it, Fountains of Wayne is a terrific pop band. Seriously, just pull out Welcome Interstate Managers again. I know you bought it for “Stacy’s Mom” and didn’t give the rest of it more than a cursory listen eight years ago, but try it again. It’s an album that captures the sadness and joy of everyday life like few others I know. “Hackensack,” “No Better Place,” “Hey Julie,” and the heartbreaking “Valley Winter Song” are all the work of seriously talented, observant pop songsmiths.

And I’m happy to report that it’s that side of the band that comes to the fore over and over again on their new record, Sky Full of Holes. It’s a stunning return to form for Schlesinger and his co-writer, Chris Collingwood, who turn in some of their finest songs ever here. It’s a more sedate and serious work, compact at 13 songs and 45 minutes, but it’s full of warmth and wonder, and the band’s gift for pinpointing those small moments of magic and despair in all our lives is in full effect.

And man, am I glad to hear it. I missed songs like “Acela,” a tribute to Amtrak’s East Coast high-speed rail line. It’s the story of a man who boards a train, thinking his love will be there with him, but she’s nowhere to be found. It’s full of little, specific details: “And I looked in all the stores for you, I looked in Hudson News,” for example, or “For your information, it’s South Station at about 11:22.” Maybe it’s just that I’m from that part of the world, but these references help the song come alive for me.

And I missed songs like “Action Hero,” extolling the virtues of the suburban dad trying to keep his family and health together. And songs like “The Summer Place,” which kicks off the album with the tale of a woman desperately seeking to recapture her youth: “At fifteen, shoplifting was the only game she liked to play, at forty she’s so bored she thinks about it, then decides to pay…” And I really missed songs like “Firelight Waltz,” which perfectly captures a moment: “Mary, oh Mary, go find the light, take a hit from your whiskey and stumble inside, it’s a tune from your childhood and a soft yellow moon, and the firelight is just right for dancing…”

There are definitely moments where they stumble. I’m still not a huge fan of the single, “Richie and Ruben” – its story of a pair of clueless entrepreneurs seems too facile and surface-level for me. “Workingman’s Hands” is a little too obvious, although I quite like the line, “You save your money for a hole in the ground, a black car and a long wall of roses.” And “Hate to See You Like This” could have used a couple more drafts – it handles its subject matter a little too blithely.

But these are minor flaws compared to the heights Schlesinger and Collingwood reach on this record. Just listen to “Someone’s Gonna Break Your Heart,” a complex and compelling pop tune of the highest order. Or “A Road Song,” one of the band’s saddest and sweetest numbers. They know it’s a cliché – they say so in the lyrics – but that doesn’t make this song of longing from a traveling musician any less affecting, particularly when the band mixes in their trademark cultural observations: “In between the stops at the Cracker Barrel, and forty movies with Will Ferrell, I need some way to occupy my time, so I’m writing you a road song, sure hope you don’t mind…”

The record closes with what may be its most accomplished song, “Cemetery Guns.” It’s almost a children’s rhyme, describing a military funeral over martial drums and sweet acoustic guitars. I initially chuckled disappointedly at the chorus, with its “bang bang bang,” but once I figured out what they were doing, the song clicked into place. It’s the most ambitious thing here, even though it clocks in at under three minutes, and it’s the perfect way to end.

If you come to Fountains of Wayne for silly power pop, you may be disappointed in this album. There’s no “Bright Future in Sales,” no “’92 Subaru,” and definitely no “Stacy’s Mom.” What’s here, though, is an album of touching, sincere, funny and heartbreaking songs, the kind of thing that has been overshadowed by the novel and the quirky on previous records. Yeah, sometimes they deserve their bad rap, but Sky Full of Holes is an album to be proud of. From now on, if anyone questions my love for “that ‘Stacy’s Mom’ band,” I’m going to give them this.

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All right, I need to get going. But first, I promised you a free song, so here it is. Quiet Company’s third album, We Are All Where We Belong, hits on Oct. 4, and Austin’s favorite sons keep on giving us sneak previews of it. Here’s the second freebie, which is also the second track on the record, called “You, Me and the Boatman.” I think it’s tremendous. Let me know what you think.

Next week, who the hell knows?

See you in line Tuesday morning. 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.

Good morning, good morning. Lots to talk about this week.

If you haven’t heard the terrific first single from Quiet Company’s new album, We Are All Where We Belong, well, you need to. It’s called “Fear and Fallacy, Sitting in a Tree,” and there’s even a nifty video for it here. (This is the shortened version. It’s worth hearing the full thing, which you can for free here.) The new album comes out on Oct. 4, and I’m afraid this place is gonna seem like Quiet Company hype central for a while. After hearing this (and the new tracks on the live DVD), I’m beyond excited for this record.

Speaking of first singles, here is the title track from Mutemath’s third record, Odd Soul, also out Oct. 4. Not sure yet what I think of this. First, I think it’s interesting that they lost their guitar player, and then suddenly turned into the Black Keys. This is not the Mutemath I know and love, and if this were the first single of theirs I’d heard, I may not have explored much further. But it isn’t. This is the new tune from a band I’m invested in, so I’ve been giving it a lot of play. It’s growing on me. I’m now doubly curious to hear the album.

One more first single, this one from the great Jonathan Coulton’s new one, Artificial Heart. The song’s called “Nemeses,” and I heard him play it live earlier this year in Chicago. But the studio version is a strange disappointment to me, because JoCo decided not to sing it himself. The lead vocals were handled by John Roderick of the Long Winters, a decent enough band. But I liked hearing Coulton sing “Nemeses” live, and this feels like a bait-and-switch. Hopefully he doesn’t give up the mic too often on the album.

Artificial Heart is JoCo’s first record with a full band, and first with an outside producer: John Flansburgh of They Might Be Giants. The song is classic Coulton – expect 10 or 12 more songs just like it, which will make me very happy. Check out his prior work here.

All right, new releases announced since last we spoke.

You’ll get to hear more about the new Fountains of Wayne next week, but let me just say it’s a stunning return to form for a band I’ve always liked. Ignore the jokey, kinda-lame single “Richie and Ruben.” The rest of the album is sometimes joyous, sometimes sad power pop of the highest order. Why am I bringing this up? Because Adam Schlesinger is about to drop a double whammy – the fourth album from his other band, Ivy, comes out on Sept. 20. It’s called All Hours, and if it’s as good as the FoW record, we’re in for a treat. (I guess I should say “one of his other bands,” since Schlesinger also does time in Tinted Windows.)

Some of you may not like Jack’s Mannequin, but I’m a fan. 2008’s The Glass Passenger contained some very nice piano-pop, and one absolute classic, as far as I’m concerned: “Annie Use Your Telescope” will forever be the soundtrack to the last scene of a movie that plays in my head. The new Jack’s album is called People and Things, and comes out on Oct. 4, officially the best music day of the year. (Feist’s new one, Metals, will also hit on that date.)

And hey! Have you seen the track listing for that Ben Folds retrospective, out Oct. 11? It’s called The Best Imitation of Myself, it spans three CDs, and two of them are full of previously unreleased goodness. A full disc of live stuff. A full disc of rarities. And that isn’t even the big news. The big news is that The Best Imitation of Myself contains three new Ben Folds Five songs. You read that right. The band is back together and recording again. All that, plus access to 55 more rare tracks online? Way to make it worth my cash to buy disc one, which is full of songs I already have. This is extremely exciting stuff.

And finally, a bit of news that made me smile. Ronnie Martin has been spending his time on various other projects, including Said Fantasy and the Foxglove Hunt, but he hasn’t given up on Joy Electric yet. A new full-length, with the very Joy Electric title of Dwarf Mountain Alphabet, is slated for this fall. Speaking as someone who loves the bizarre, blipping, beautiful music Martin creates, I’m very much anticipating this one as well.

See? Best. Year. Ever.

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I’m a big fan of Gilmore Girls, the fast-talking, whip-smart show created by Amy Sherman-Palladino in the ‘90s. It was a quirk fest, certainly, but the characters were so wonderful that I didn’t want each episode to end. One of the show’s strongest characters was the small Connecticut town of Stars Hollow (officially the best name for a fictional small town ever, besting Bedford Falls by a significant margin). Everywhere you looked in Stars Hollow, you’d find something unusual, interesting, and just plain lovely.

For example, the town had its own troubadour. Played by Grant-Lee Phillips, the unnamed guitar slinger would wander the streets, singing tunes. He never seemed to ask for money or any other kind of recompense, he just wanted to play and sing music for people. Now, I just love the word troubadour, and I’m on a one-man mission to bring it back. (This is why I’m always referring to Kevin Trudo as Patch’s troubadour when he sings the news for us.) Some musicians just feel like old-time, good-hearted wandering minstrels to me, writing and sharing songs because that’s just what they do.

Josh Garrels is one of those. I’d never heard of Garrels before this year’s Cornerstone festival, but of everyone I saw there, he’s the one who most reminded me of the troubadours of old, moving from town to town, guitar in hand, to share what he’s come up with. Of course, Garrels is a new breed of troubadour – his sound takes from folk music, certainly, but also from modern acoustic pop, and from hip-hop, and from a dozen other places. He travels, picks up what he hears, and uses it.

Of course, it could just be that Garrels has decided to give his new album away for free. More precisely, the deeply Christian Garrels believes God has told him to give it away. And it’s no half-assed effort – the record is called Love & War & the Sea In Between, and it spans 18 songs over 66 minutes. It’s his best work, and a strong contender for best of the year. And you can have it for nothing. You can download it at joshgarrels.com. He also made CD copies, and if you ask (as I did), he’ll give you one of those for free as well.

I’m an old-fashioned work-for-money kind of guy, so this strategy is wonderfully insane to me. It’s doing the job, though, of getting his name out there. I’ve read so many reviews of this album recently, reviews that all begin (as this one does) by pointing out that it’s all free. Ironically, it’s a huge selling point. Let me say this, though: after hearing Love & War & the Sea In Between just one time, I would have paid whatever Garrels asked me to. (And I will, for his next one, which is probably the point.)

Because Love & War is a feast for the ears. Breathtakingly ambitious, and yet intimate and direct, it’s a sprawling album that never feels like it. It begins with acoustic guitar, but deftly moves into sample-laden coffeehouse hip-hop, over oceans of instrumental sweep, and into an astonishing final third that makes my jaw drop each time I hear it. As a songwriter, Garrels has a deft touch that carries you along, and he’s found a way to turn his admittedly strange-at-first voice into a remarkable instrument. This is an album with scope, with weighty subjects on its mind, but crafted like a single 66-minute thought that flies right by.

The album opens with a one-two caress of acoustic pop songs – the delicate and soaring “White Owl” and the infinitely hummable “Flood Waters.” The latter emphasizes how Garrels deals with matters of faith on this record – he never preaches, but he never goes much deeper than Sunday school either. “Somewhere in between forever and the passing days there’s a place moth and rust cannot lay waste, this is grace, the face of love…” The album’s lyrics are laced with Bible references, but if you didn’t know that he dropped one in the line above (from Matthew 6:19), you probably won’t realize it.

Still, I am always hoping for a more personal reflection of faith in song, which artists like Terry Taylor and the Choir provide me. Garrels doesn’t really do that. One of the most Christian songs here is the third, “Farther Along,” which takes its chorus from the old hymn – “Cheer up, my brother, live in the sunshine, we’ll understand it all by and by.” That’s kind of the guiding principle here. Garrels doesn’t pick at his faith, in an attempt to understand it. He just presents it as a part of him that needs no explanation. His failure to go deeper is, quite honestly, the only flaw in what is otherwise a pretty amazing album.

So we’re up to track four now, and unless you’re familiar with Garrels, the next two tracks will surprise you. “A Far-Off Hope” is an organic electro instrumental, dissonant horns providing a sweeping bed, and it leads into “The Resistance,” a full-on hip hop number. Garrels is a nimble rapper, and the relentless beat he’s chosen hits like a bomb after four slower, subtler numbers. “The Resistance” was one of the highlights of my Cornerstone fest, and it loses none of its power here. “How do good men become a part of the machine? They don’t believe in resistance…”

I could honestly talk about all 18 songs, but I’ll restrain myself. Some favorites: the moving “Ulysses” is the tale of a sailor pressing on homeward, and its simple music builds and builds until it explodes. There’s a stretch of love songs in the middle of the record, and my favorite of those (to my surprise) is “For You,” a quick, almost Jack Johnson-esque ditty with a full-to-bursting heart. I find myself humming it all the time.

But the album’s conclusion… wow. Love & War ends with a six-song suite about rising up. It’s the “war” portion of the program, and half of it is instrumental. Taken as a whole, it’s a brilliant finish. First, we move from the gently ominous “No Man’s Land” into the simply indomitable folk song “Rise”: “Though they may surround me like lions and crush me on all sides, I may fall, but I will rise…” Things get heavier with instrumental “The March,” and then we’re in “Revelator,” in which Garrels describes John’s revelation over a stunning beat. “Holy, holy is the one who was and is and is to come,” he sings, and it sounds simultaneously terrifying and comforting.

But no sooner has that ended when the sweet tones of “Pilot Me” take over. I found the almost hippie style jarring at first, but now I think it’s the best way to end – the song is Garrels surveying the war-torn landscape of the last four songs, and asking God to get him through it. “When I have no more strength left to follow, fall on my knees, pilot me…” The record ends with “Processional,” a one-minute acoustic benediction, the sound of Garrels picking up and moving out, full of purpose. The final suite is, by any measure, fantastic.

Love & War’s straightforward Christianity is the only reason I can think of that this album won’t be at the top of nearly every critic’s list in December. And that’s a shame, because it’s one of the best records I’ve heard in an already amazing year. Ambitious in all the right ways, masterfully crafted, moving and powerful, sonically rich, with a perfect balance of light and shade – this record has it all. It is the sound of an already talented artist becoming truly great before your ears.

It is not, by any means, the kind of record you would expect to get for free – it seems almost superhumanly generous, and you should take Garrels up on it before he realizes just how good his album is. I don’t say this often, but when I do, I mean it: Love & War & the Sea In Between is a masterpiece. Go here.

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But when I say the word troubadour, it’s someone like Frank Turner that I’m picturing.

A 29-year-old from Wessex, England, Turner just looks like a guy who wanders from bar to bar, playing drinking songs for the unwashed masses. He’s got that five-o’clock shadow thing going on, and he seems to have been born with a guitar in his hand. He plays a revved-up form of English folk music, songs about watching the world grow up around you and fighting to hold on to your ideals. You know, Important Stuff.

Turner’s been around a while – he was the singer with loudloudLOUD band Million Dead, and he’s released four albums and three EPs on his own. I’d never heard of him until recently, though, when Aurora Schnorr and Andrea Dahlberg sent his songs my way. One in particular, “Photosynthesis,” grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. “I won’t sit down, and I won’t shut up, and most of all I will not grow up…”

Turner is still holding to that principle on his fourth record, England Keep My Bones, but he’s managed to slip in some maturity anyway. Turner’s last effort, Poetry of the Deed, found him edging a little too close to a wall of noise and frenetic energy, and this one dials down the electric guitars for a nice, even mix.

And yeah, there are songs like “I Still Believe,” about the power of rock and roll, and “If I Ever Stray,” about the value of staying on the path you’ve set for yourself. And it opens with “Eulogy,” a brief statement of purpose that ends with this line: “But on the day I die, I’ll say, ‘At least I fucking tried,’ and that’s the only eulogy I need.” If you want to pump your fist in the air while drinking a mug of ale, I certainly won’t stop you.

But there are signs here that, despite his best intentions, Turner is growing up. And it suits him. Much of it can be considered his love letter to his homeland – “Rivers,” for instance, is about tracing the coastline of England, Turner’s way of reminding himself where he comes from. (“And though I’ve seen a thousand rivers, from the Mississippi to the Rhine, the only place where I’ll lay my hat down is by an English riverside.”) “Wessex Boy” is self-explanatory (and terrific), and the a cappella “English Curse” could be centuries old, so authentic is its sound.

The best songs here, though, are the ones that dig deeper. “I Am Disappeared” is magnificent, a song of restlessness and dreams of escape. “One Foot Before the Other” is a stunning beat-poet stream of consciousness, with a stinging electric guitar kick. “Nights Become Days” may be the first Frank Turner song that looks back on youth with something less than longing, depicting drug use and suicide with an unflinching eye. And “Redemption” is just marvelous, a song of desperate leaving. “Can any of us hope for redemption, or are we all merely biding our time down to lonely conclusions?”

But don’t worry, Turner doesn’t leave you like that. The final song is ready for a football game singalong: it’s an atheist hymn called “Glory Hallelujah.” Here Turner stands as the anti-Josh Garrels, seeing the existence of God as something holding us back – he sings “there is no God” as if just the thought would free people from their chains. “There is no God, we’re all in this together, so ring that victory bell,” he shouts, before getting to the heart of it: “If we accept that there’s an endgame and we haven’t got much time, then in the here and now we can try to do things right.”

Don’t get me wrong, I do love that sweaty-barroom shout-along style Turner does so well, but with this album, he’s shown he’s more than just an anthem generator. He’s growing up, tackling bigger themes with more subtlety, and it works for him. As he dives into his 30s, Frank Turner has made his best album yet with England Keep My Bones. Go here to check him out.

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Next week, Fountains of Wayne. 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.