So the big news this week was the breakup of a band that means a lot to me: the accidental icons from Athens, R.E.M.

The nature of a weekly column means I’m the last to the table with thoughts about this, but that’s all right. The extra time has allowed me the chance to really figure out what I want to say. Like a lot of truly big moves they made, the members of R.E.M. announced their split with no fanfare at all. A simple posting on the band’s website, a couple personal reflections from Stipe, Buck and Mills, and that was it.

So it’s been pretty difficult to process this, since it doesn’t feel real. Like a lot of people, I came to R.E.M. late – the first album of theirs I heard was the collection, Eponymous. The first song I heard, I’m pretty sure, was “Fall On Me,” but I was 11 years old when it was released, so hopefully I can be forgiven for not gravitating to it. I’m also pretty certain I made fun of people for liking “The One I Love,” a song my 13-year-old brain thought was too simple to really work.

Yeah, I was a stupid 13-year-old. But luckily, Eponymous blew my freaking mind. Song after glorious song – “Can’t Get There From Here,” “So. Central Rain,” “Driver 8,” “Rockville,” “Radio Free Europe,” and of course “It’s the End of the World as We Know It.” I rushed back to the record store and bought everything I could. I remember being a little disappointed in the horns-free mix of “Finest Worksong” on Document, so thoroughly had I absorbed the Eponymous version. But I also remember hearing Lifes Rich Pageant for the first time. Holy hell, that was an album. “These Days” remains my favorite R.E.M. rock song.

And I stayed with them. Green was a letdown, I thought – too many songs that went nowhere – but I loved (and still love) Out of Time. Yeah, “Losing My Religion,” “Shiny Happy People,” whatever. That album was diverse and fascinating, and full of terrific songs. Case in point: “Half a World Away.” It’s a minor track, a blip in the R.E.M. catalog, but it’s just a great, lilting, yearning tune. Nothing held a candle to Automatic for the People, though. Released my freshman year of college, it was a haunting masterpiece, perhaps their finest overall effort. I remember playing “Sweetness Follows” over the college radio station for a dormmate who had lost a family member. That song has stayed with me for nearly 20 years.

After that, it was a rough road. I loathed Monster, and only reservedly liked the three albums after it. Bill Berry’s departure felt like a mortal wound, one from which they’d never recover, and the abysmal Around the Sun seemed the final nail in a long-overdue coffin. But you know what? The more I know, the more I know I don’t know anything. R.E.M. roared back to life with Accelerate in 2008, and just this year, they released Collapse Into Now, their best album in nearly two decades. It’s most likely going to be on my top 10 list this year. (It’s on the Third Quarter Report list, below.)

Through it all, R.E.M. seemingly never made a move they didn’t want to. They struggled with Berry’s exit, but found ways to carry on, and in recent years, started sounding whole again. I was elated to see that, to see a band I’d admired since middle school pull it together and put out another pair of classics. It rarely happens, and it’s so sweet when it does. I never thought of Collapse Into Now as the band’s final album – it just sounded so vital and alive. But if it is, they went out on a very high note.

In the wider view, R.E.M. has to be part of any conversation about the best American bands of all time. I can’t think of many that matched them for longevity, integrity and (relative) consistency, and I can’t think of any others I like nearly as much. On that score, the band’s breakup is a big deal, and a sad one. But on a more intimate level, I feel like another part of my formative years has passed on. The older I get, the more frequently this will happen, but R.E.M. is the first long-running band from my youth to call it quits. And it’s a strange feeling.

Regardless, I love this band, and will miss them terribly. RIP, R.E.M. Thanks for everything.

* * * * *

So here is a sentence I never thought I’d type: I love the new Wilco album, and I’m not sure about Mutemath’s latest effort. I know, it feels like I’ve wandered into an alternate dimension.

Let’s start with that Wilco album. You all know how I feel about Jeff Tweedy’s crew lately – after releasing their masterpiece, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, in 2002, they shuffled their lineup around and produced three snoozy efforts that drifted from pretentious and unlistenable (A Ghost is Born) to lazy and uninspired (Wilco, The Album). There are friends of mine who have genuinely liked everything Wilco has done over the last 10 years, and I would love to spend a few hours in their heads, because I simply don’t get that.

So as you can imagine, I wasn’t expecting an awful lot from The Whole Love, Wilco’s eighth studio album and its third with the current six-man lineup. I just knew what I was going to get – another half-assed, low-key folksy rock record, with the occasional “experimental” touch, and an overall sound like Tweedy and his fellows had just woken up from an afternoon nap. In short, boring. I keep buying Wilco albums, hoping Tweedy can recapture some of the genius of the YHF era, but I fully expected another snore-inducing letdown.

You could have knocked me over with a single touch after I first heard “Art of Almost,” the seven-minute opening track on this new record. Pulsing electronic drums and bass, lovely synth strings, fascinating sounds blipping in and out, and a propulsive, jammy, live-band coda reminiscent of Built to Spill, all wrapped up in a creepy, foreboding atmosphere. It’s the best Wilco track in years, even if the melody is slight, and it clearly illustrates just what’s been missing from their output for all that time: passion.

Tweedy’s voice just lends itself to sleepwalking through a song, but you can tell pretty easily when he’s engaged with the material, and when he isn’t. Check out the live versions of the Ghost songs on Kicking Television, and compare them with the tired studio takes. That’s what I mean, and that level of commitment is on every track of The Whole Love. “Art of Almost” is a monolith of an opener, but the ten shorter songs that follow match it for drive and energy.

At times recently, it’s sounded like Tweedy didn’t even bother to show up to the recording sessions, like they brought him a microphone and a lyric sheet in bed and barely roused him. On The Whole Love, he throws himself into these sessions, and the result is a record that can stand up next to the likes of Summerteeth and not feel shamed. The album is beautifully produced, a treat for the ears, and the songs, by and large, step up to the plate. “Sunloathe,” for example, is the finest psychedelic Wilco ballad since the Jay Bennett days, and its Sgt. Tweedy production is remarkable.

The Whole Love is a deceptively dark record, its lyrics about waiting endlessly for love, and dealing with it badly when it arrives. “I Might” is a sprightly single about a relationship with serious problems: “You won’t set the kids on fire, but I might, ho ho ho.” “Dawned on Me” paints a picture of a man unwilling to let go, but it does so with one of the most delightful choruses Tweedy has penned in ages. I’m not sure there’s a prettier song in the Wilco catalog than “Black Moon” – Nels Cline’s lap steel is simply heartbreaking, and then those strings come in – but it’s a tragic story of a man who will end up waiting forever.

Even when the second half slips into more typically Wilco material, like the shuffling “Capitol City,” the sense remains that the band really cared about this album. Arrangements remain creative and fascinating, and Cline finally sounds like he belongs, whipping out that blistering guitar only sparingly, while adding invaluable texture to these tunes. In fact, The Whole Love sounds like the album on which this roster finally clicked. To quote another perpetual-letdown band with a good new album, everything is in its right place.

The album ends with a song that could have been a disaster. “One Sunday Morning (Song for Jane Smiley’s Boyfriend)” is 12 minutes long, and based around a simple acoustic guitar figure that never changes. On previous Wilco albums, this would have been interminable, but here, it’s hypnotic. The production certainly helps – it’s always low-key, but never uninteresting. But the subtle secret here is that Tweedy and company are never bored by this song, so I’m never bored with it.

Yeah, I’m as surprised as you are, but I love this new Wilco album. Hopefully this is the start of a new renaissance for a band I’d all but written off. But even if it isn’t, at least we got one more terrific album from a fully-engaged Jeff Tweedy. Hell, even the bonus tracks on this one are really good. I don’t know what inspired Tweedy this time, but I hope it sticks around. The Whole Love is very, very good.

* * * * *

And then there is Mutemath.

I don’t want you to get me wrong. I don’t dislike Odd Soul, the third album from this New Orleans collective. I just don’t know what to make of it. I’m the guy who thought their first album (and, more specifically, the original, self-released version of their first album) was pretty much perfect. Comparisons to the Police were many and well-deserved, but it was the songs that drew me in. “Chaos,” “Noticed,” “Stare at the Sun,” “Without It,” “Stall Out” – these were some of the best pop songs of 2005. As good as they were on record, Mutemath brought a full-on carnival act to the stage. They were brilliant, and seemed on the cusp of greatness.

And they’ll probably still get there, but Odd Soul sounds to me like a strange left turn away from a lot of the things I admired about the band. It doesn’t help that guitarist Greg Hill departed before the album sessions, leaving Mutemath a trio. The record itself is different enough from their older material that it’s like getting to know a whole new band. This one’s louder and bluesier and less melodic, and more prone to jamming. These are all things that will probably endear them to an audience that hasn’t sampled them yet, but for me, they make loving Odd Soul difficult.

Let’s start with what I like. First, you’d never know that their guitarist left – this is easily the most aggressive, most rocking Mutemath album. This is the record on which they captured the energy that explodes from this band on stage. You know those extended versions they like to play, where they turn “Break the Same” into a 15-minute epic jam, percussion spilling out all over the place, drummer Darren King flailing like a demon-possessed man? That’s the vibe for a lot of Odd Soul, and it’s fantastic.

Speaking of Darren King, he absolutely owns this record. This is a guy who belongs in the top 10 of every “best drummer” poll. He’s a monster, rarely playing on the beat, but providing a rock-solid foundation anyway. A track like “Quarantine” shows off just how good the man is, but it’s his less showy, but no less astounding work on tracks like “Cavalries” that really blows my mind. That song’s a 6/8 workout that erupts into a funk party halfway through. King is just unstoppable on it.

But I feel like the band spent so much time crafting this new sound and not enough writing great songs to anchor it. There are honestly about four songs here I love, songs with compelling melodies. Most of the others exist in this Black Keys-esque blues-rock jam space – the leadoff track “Odd Soul” is a good example – and while that’s fine, it just isn’t what I love about Mutemath. I mentioned how much I love the performances on “Cavalries” earlier, but the song is nothing, and when it erupts halfway through, it’s like the band giving up on structure altogether. As a jam, it’s fantastic. As a song, not so much.

And that’s the filter I’m trying to enjoy the album through. I can imagine this stuff being incredible live. Dig the opening of “Walking Paranoia” – that’s some killer funk-blues guitar and bass interplay. It’s awesome, really. But as much as I like what the band is doing on songs like “Tell Your Heart Heads Up,” there’s nothing grounding it. Cool riff, nice jam, Paul Meany sounds great shouting the title over and over, but there’s no song there. And the seven-minute “Quarantine” is even looser and emptier.

But the band sounds so incredible on this record that I’m trying to like it, even without the strong melodies they usually provide me. Happily, there are some songs that give me what I need, and they’re the ones that, to these ears, sound the most like Mutemath. “Allies” may be my favorite song here, Meany really digging into a fine chorus. “All or Nothing” starts off as an atmospheric piece full of Meany’s electric piano, but at its midpoint it spirals into a deliriously amazing electronic finish. And I quite like “Equals,” which marries the band’s new love of funk with a great refrain.

So that’s where I am with Odd Soul. It’s entirely possible that, given some time, I will embrace this album as thoroughly as I have Mutemath’s previous efforts. I can already feel it leaning that way. But for now, I am left thinking that if this had been the band’s first record, had been my first exposure to them, I’m not sure I would love them the way I do. Odd Soul is a big step in another direction for this band, and while I expect this will go down well live, on record it’s not quite what I’m looking for from Mutemath. Give me time, though.

* * * * *

OK, it’s that time again. Time for the Third Quarter Report, a sneak peek at my top 10 list in progress. This one’s a little weird and tentative, even for me. I’ve taken PJ Harvey right out – its stock has plummeted with me, for some reason, and I’m hoping I can reconnect with it soon. I’ve added a few new ones, too, most prominently Quiet Company – look for a real review of that in a week or two – and Josh Garrels. And I’ve swapped my number one and number two choices, although they go back and forth depending on what week it is.

So, if forced at gunpoint to release my top 10 list right now, here’s what it would look like:

#10. R.E.M., Collapse Into Now.
#9. The Boxer Rebellion, The Cold Still.
#8. Over the Rhine, The Long Surrender.
#7. The Violet Burning, The Story of Our Lives.
#6. Glen Campbell, Ghost on the Canvas.
#5. Bon Iver.
#4. Josh Garrels, Love and War and the Sea In Between.
#3. Quiet Company, We Are All Where We Belong.
#2. Paul Simon, So Beautiful or So What.
#1. Fleet Foxes, Helplessness Blues.

I need to chew on that for a bit, but I think it’s right. At least, right now. Lots of great music still to come in 2011.

Next week, that proper Quiet Company review, I think. Also look our for reviews of Matthew Sweet, the Bangles, Ryan Adams, Dream Theater, Bjork and Loney Dear. 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, hands up if you’re tired of reading my complaints about Tori Amos.

Too bad I can’t see you all, because I’m sure most of your hands are still in the air. I know, I know. It’s become a semi-annual thing. Tori Amos, once perhaps the most vital and important female artist in the world, releases another middling, overlong, boring, soulless record, and I whine about how she’s not as good as she used to be, but I can’t stop buying her stuff. I’m probably as sick of that cycle as you are.

I’m just not sure what else to do. If Little Earthquakes, Under the Pink and Boys for Pele didn’t mean so much to me, even now, I wouldn’t be so let down by shaky works like 2009’s Abnormally Attracted to Sin. I’d be OK with what Tori’s been giving us if I didn’t know how much better she can be. Tori’s music used to make me feel like no one else’s – it was agony and wonder and fury and heartbreak and joy. It was everything I wanted music to be. And lately, her work makes me feel nothing at all.

You can forgive me, then, for sighing audibly when word of Tori’s 12th album, Night of Hunters, hit the net. Here was another ass-aching concept album, stretching to 72 minutes. This one, apparently, would incorporate variations on classical music themes, and would tell the story of a woman suffering after a broken relationship, and regaining her power with the help of a talking fox. I mean, wow. That sounds like a steaming pile of pretentious and worthless, right?

Well, apparently Tori was getting tired of the same old cycle too, because Night of Hunters turns out to be the most interesting musical detour she’s taken in a good long time. And even though it is suffocated by its concept, and remains surprisingly distant, it’s the best damn thing she’s done since her glory days.

For one thing, Night of Hunters returns Amos to her classic sound – piano, voice and orchestra – for the entire running time. And it’s so good to hear her in this context again. As much as she loves her skittering electronic beats and synthesizers, I don’t think her voice has ever sounded comfortable atop so much noise. But this sounds like home. From the first low, rumbling notes of “Shattering Sea,” this record hits me like the Tori Amos of old. This context has always seemed right for her to me, and if nothing else, I’m glad we finally have an entire album of it.

Of course, it wasn’t her idea. Deutsche Gramophon, the renowned classical label, approached Amos with the idea of creating a song cycle based on variations on classical pieces, and that’s just what she’s done. Every song here incorporates melodies and moments from pieces by Schubert, Mendelssohn, Bach and others. Some are subtle, others overt, but it’s clear Amos really understands these pieces, and respects them.

“Shattering Sea,” for example, is based on a spooky piano theme by Charles-Valentin Alkan, “Op. 31 No. 8,” subtitled “The Song of the Madwoman on the Seashore.” Amos deftly changes the melody to suit her own song, then elevates it – what’s amazing about the finished product is how much it sounds like a terrific Tori Amos song. (Hear a comparison here.) The string section is like an all-encompassing wave here, powerful and relentless, and Amos’ incorporation of Alkan’s melody for the bridge section is spine-tinglingly good.

Some of these variations are more successful than others, but all have been crafted with care. The nearly nine-minute “Battle of Trees” has an Erik Satie piece as its blueprint, and it stays in one place a little too often. But its follow-up on the record, “Fearlessness,” is simply remarkable. Its home base is “Orinetale,” a haunting piano composition by Enrique Granados, but Amos turns it into an almost superhumanly soaring number, her voice and the strings playing off one another brilliantly.

The only thing that keeps “Fearlessness” from crawling under my skin and setting up shop in my soul is the lyrics, and this is where the ridiculous concept starts to become a stumbling block. Tori’s been fleshing out these album-length metaphors since Strange Little Girls, but for the most part, it’s been easy to ignore them entirely and just listen to the songs as songs.

Not so here. Amos says the fanciful travails her characters go through on Night of Hunters are essentially a representation of her own 16-years-and-counting marriage, but I wish she’d just written songs about that. Here is the chorus of “Fearlessness,” just to give you an idea: “Teams of horses of the brine followed his cry through the fire, demons of the wild hissed with the wind, did you listen?” Here’s another gem, from the nine-minute “Star Whisperer”: “Night warns of an eastern threat, north calls reinforcements from the west, lost all reason guarded by the wise, sing to life the seven lords of time.” Um, OK.

So what we have here are beautiful, melodic, powerfully-arranged songs, showcasing Amos’ undiminished voice, and I have no idea what the fuck she’s going on about for most of this record’s running time. “Battle of Trees” is seriously about our heroine seeing a vision of an earlier version of herself, fighting her enemies with nothing but the “alphabet of trees” as her weapon. A handy guide to the tree alphabet is included in the liner notes, as if we’re really going to parse this for clues. The knock-on effect is that this record starts to sound scholarly, like a cerebral exercise more than an artistic expression, and despite the remarkable music here, that keeps me at arm’s length.

So the story involves a fox that can talk and impart wisdom, and that character is played by Amos’ 11-year-old daughter, Natashya Hawley. Thankfully, the girl can sing, so this isn’t just a case of rampant nepotism, but it’s still somewhat jarring, especially when she takes a whole song, as she does on “Job’s Coffin.” Amos’ niece Kelsey Dobyns plays the part of the “fire muse” (don’t ask) on one track as well. I’m not opposed to this – hell, the Decemberists made me love their theatrical, multi-voice effort, The Hazards of Love. I’m just not sure it works as well as it should here.

But when Tori settles in and gives us a straightforward slice of real beauty, I can forgive a lot. “Your Ghost” is one such gorgeous track, a variation of a Robert Schumann piece. As the strings build and build, Amos sings, “Please leave me your ghost, I will keep him from harm.” It is, to this point, the most crushingly beautiful thing on the record, mainly because it is the most direct. Something like “The Chase,” a dialogue between Amos and Annabelle the fox that is recognizably based on Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition,” is an interesting exercise that leaves you kind of confused, and kind of empty. But a song like “Your Ghost” opens a conduit to your heart.

On that scale, the album’s best song is its last. “Carry” is the first Tori Amos song since “I Can’t See New York” to move me nearly to tears. Based on the glorious “The Girl With the Flaxen Hair,” by Claude Debussy, Tori’s song is a gorgeous eulogy to one departed, and a promise to remember. “Your name is sung and tattooed now on my heart, here I will carry, carry, carry you forever,” Amos sings, and her voice, the melody, the strings, everything works. The variations on familiar themes here certainly intrigue my musical mind, but a song like “Carry” tears me right open, and that’s what I want from Tori Amos.

And I’m so glad to hear she can still deliver that. Not every song on Night of Hunters works to that degree, but they are all worth hearing, and for the first time in longer than I care to remember, the high points of a Tori Amos album far outweigh the low. I’m grateful to Amos for trying this experiment, for throwing her whole self into it (batty concept and all), and for at last giving me more songs to love. At this point, it’s more than I thought I would ever get again.

Next week, loads of stuff, I hope. Certainly Matthew Sweet, the Bangles, Lindsey Buckingham, and maybe Switchfoot, St. Vincent, Wilco… who knows. Tune in to find out. 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.

Lately I feel like I need a scorecard just to keep up with all the new music news coming at us. 2011 may be nearly over, but it’s showing no signs of slowing down as we barrel into the home stretch. (Man, count the cliches in those two sentences. You deserve better. Let’s see if I can make that happen for you.)

Things we didn’t know last week. Well, the first and biggest piece of news is that Kate Bush will release her second album of 2011 on Nov. 21. Her first, Director’s Cut, consisted of interesting reworkings of older material, but this one, called 50 Words for Snow, is all new stuff. It consists of seven songs stretched out over 65 minutes, which means the prog tendencies that reared their heads on 2005’s Aerial have only been fed and encouraged. Before Aerial, Bush was MIA for 12 years. It’s great to have her back, and enjoying what appears to be her most creatively fertile period since the ‘80s.

November 1 is turning into a day to watch. First up is that Lou Reed/Metallica album, called Lulu. Turns out, it’s a double album, running nearly 90 minutes. Two songs top 11 minutes, and the closer, “Junior Dad,” runs 19:28. I am even more intrigued than I was before – you know how long songs do it for me. Demerits, though, for introducing us to the name “Loutallica.” That is the thing that should not be.

Also on Nov. 1, Florence and the Machine will release record #2, Ceremonials. Advance word is that it’s mellower and spookier than Lungs, which could be a good thing. Me’Shell Ndegeocello, who gets my vote as one of the most underrated artists in the world, will give us her ninth album, Weather. Megadeth’s 13th album is called Th1rt3een, and it has 13 songs on it, naturally. And it’s a tremendous day for older music, too, as we’ll get the Beach Boys SMiLE Sessions box, a deluxe reissue of U2’s Achtung Baby, and the final wave of double-disc Queen remasters.

What else? A solo album from the Swell Season’s Marketa Irglova on Oct. 11, a volley of Todd Rundgren reissues that same day, a Christmas album from She & Him on Oct. 25, and David Lynch’s first album of music, which sports the very David Lynch title Crazy Clown Time. Seriously, I don’t know what more you could want. This is shaping up to be the best year ever.

* * * * *

I’m at that age now where some days I feel 20, and others I feel 50. I sometimes will catch myself railing against those young whippersnappers on my lawn, ranting incoherently about artists with one album and no track record and a cover story in NME. Music was better in my day, I’ll say, while clutching my copies of OK Computer and Spilt Milk. But I will also sometimes find myself giving new bands a chance, particularly ones with members 15 years younger than I am. It’s how I discovered Vampire Weekend and Fleet Foxes, just to name a couple.

So the question is, does age matter when it comes to artistry? I used to think so, and I am coming to realize that had more to do with my own biases than anything else. When I was younger, older musicians held no interest for me – it was the young punks like R.E.M. and Metallica that were really changing the scene, man. Now that I’m older, I have the same bias against younger musicians. “It takes time and experience to really master your craft,” I would say, puffing on my pipe while refilling my brandy glass. “There’s no such thing as a 21-year-old musician.”

As someone likely closer to the end of my life than the beginning, I must say I appreciate when older artists make something sublime, though. Brian Wilson’s return to prolific and brilliant work in his 60s has been inspiring to me, as has Paul McCartney’s recent run of very good records. Tom Waits, at age 61, is still the coolest man in town, and I’m breathlessly anticipating his new one, Bad As Me. And hell, to reference something mentioned earlier, there’s that double album from Lou Reed and Metallica coming out. The greatest metal band of my youth, teaming up with a 69-year-old legend and making a 90-minute monstrosity. That’s really interesting to me.

I’m also a sucker for endings, which is one reason Glen Campbell’s new work, Ghost on the Canvas, moves me. I would never say I’m a huge Campbell fan, even though he did sing the original version of “Wichita Lineman,” which may be my favorite song of all. But the man’s had a hell of a life. A session musician for many years, he played guitar on Pet Sounds, won Grammys for “Gentle On My Mind” and “By the Time I Get to Phoenix,” hosted his own TV show, hit big again with “Rhinestone Cowboy,” and was inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame. And did I mention he got to sing “Wichita Lineman”? All right then.

Campbell is 75 years old now, and suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. He has announced Ghost on the Canvas as his farewell album, the last collection of studio songs he plans to make. (Ironically, it follows his sorta-comeback album from 2008, Meet Glen Campbell.) But if you’re expecting a maudlin stroll through halls marked “sadness” and “regret,” you’re in for a pleasant surprise. You see, Campbell knows how lucky he is, and he’s grateful for every minute of the last 75 years. And you can hear that in every note of Ghost on the Canvas.

Like its predecessor, this new album was produced by Julian Raymond and Howard Willing, and it’s a lush, full-color, glorious affair. It’s star-studded – check out this partial list of contributors: Brian Setzer, Jason Falkner, Dick Dale, Rick Nielsen, Billy Corgan, Roger Manning, Kim Bullard, Vinnie Colaiuta, Josh Freese, Chris Isaak. The album includes two new Paul Westerberg songs, alongside covers of tunes by Teddy Thompson, Jakob Dylan and Robert Pollard. This is the very definition of throwing yourself a goodbye party.

But the album sounds beautifully unified, like a single thought, connected by Campbell’s tremendous, distinctive voice. It’s a joyous album, in love with life – stark opener “A Better Place” is the only acoustic piece here, and it finds Campbell looking back with satisfaction and forward with hope. The rest of Ghost on the Canvas treads similar lyrical ground. Campbell’s own “A Thousand Lifetimes” is the mission statement: “I’ve held the ring of brass and many times smashed it to pieces, each breath I take is a gift that I will never take for granted.”

And man, that sense of peace and wonder is in his voice on every track. Campbell has a terrific time tearing up Thompson’s “In My Arms,” and actually makes me like a Jakob Dylan song, “Nothing But the Whole Wide World.” By far the strangest and, as it turns out, most inspired song choice here is “Hold On Hope,” the beautiful Guided by Voices song from their album Do The Collapse. Robert Pollard’s melody is magical in Campbell’s hands, and sung by a man holding on to his own hope, the song takes on brilliant new dimensions.

Campbell sings songs to God here (his own “It’s Your Amazing Grace”), but saves most of his love for others who have stood by him, most prominently his wife Kim. The final third of the album finds Campbell facing his impending death head on, offering apologies on Westerberg’s “Any Trouble” and pledging devotion, even if “this is not the road I wanted for us,” on his own “Strong.” Finale “There’s No Me… Without You” is another wonderful Campbell original, a song of pure and true love. “I’m never gonna fade away, your love won’t allow me to,” he sings, and then steps away, letting his guest guitarists pay tribute over the song’s final minutes.

This album is, quite simply, fantastic. And it flows masterfully, tied together by half a dozen interludes created by Jellyfish’s Roger Manning. I would like this anyway, even if it weren’t the final album from a legend. But the fact that it is, and that Campbell faces the end with such gratitude and grace and joy, well, that makes this a tour de force for me. Campbell looked back on three-quarters of a century, distilling all of that experience into a few simple themes: life is good, and love is better. Ghost on the Canvas is just a beautiful record, one that could only have been made by this man, at this point in his life.

* * * * *

At the other end of the pendulum is Laura Marling, and if you – as I once did – believe there’s no such thing as a phenomenal young musician, you need to listen to her. And while you do, keep in mind that she’s only 21 years old.

Marling was 18 when she released her first solo album, Alas, I Cannot Swim. It sounded like the work of a 30-year-old. She’s only gotten better, deeper, more musically interesting since then. She used to hang around with the guys in Noah and the Whale, but she was just too good for them, and she’s gone on to flourish while they’ve floundered. Marling’s third album, A Creature I Don’t Know, is her most accomplished and terrific work yet.

Marling’s songs sound centuries old. I don’t mean that as a criticism in any way – I mean they sound timeless, lived-in, passed down, like the work of Richard Thompson or Joni Mitchell. You may think I’m reaching by invoking those two, but that’s just because you haven’t heard this. A Creature I Don’t Know opens with “The Muse,” a knotty folk tune with a damn delightful turnabout after each verse, and some swell cello and piano work. The song is about inspiration that eats you alive: “Don’t you be scared of me, I’m nothing but the beast, and I call on you when I need to feast.”

Its counterpoint, “The Beast,” is amazing. It begins delicately, with an elastic acoustic guitar figure and Marling’s supple voice, but before long the cello and drums have burst through, bringing this deeper into the darkness. “Tonight he lies with me, here come the beast,” Marling sings, as electric guitars and strings swirl around her, aching for the apex. When it reaches it, squalling and screeching, the moment is breathtaking.

It’s not all darkness and anger, though – some of it’s darkness and sadness too. Take the gorgeous “Night After Night,” just Marling’s voice and delicate guitar. It’s about watching a lover fade away, and it’s stunning. “Rest in the Bed” is similar, but takes on more elements of ancient English folk music, and incorporates a ghostly, lovely banjo. And closer “All My Rage” sounds like a danceable jig, until the first line: “Stole my children, left my son, of all of them he’s the only one who did not mean that much to me…” Believe it or not, the song is a shaft of light here, about leaving anger behind.

These are songs steeped in centuries of tradition, but they sound fresh and vital in Marling’s hands. And that, I think, is a better indicator of musical worth than age: whether an artist has some sense of his or her place in the infinite continuum, some idea of the giants who came before, and how their work can be built on. One of my bigger frustrations as a music junkie is listening to bands of youngsters fumble through the same chords and recycle the same melodies, because they just don’t know they’re overused. They’re flush with discovery, and they have no sense of history.

Laura Marling has never had that problem. Even at 21, she knows more about music than most ever will, and on A Creature I Don’t Know, she puts that knowledge to remarkable use. Her songs are raw yet refined, her voice eager yet weary, her music far wiser than her years, but still full of that vitality that comes with youth. Even a crusty old curmudgeon like me can tell she’s a brilliant artist, and she has many years ahead to keep on proving it.

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That’ll do for this week. Next week, Tori. After that, la deluge. 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.

Back in May, NPR’s Planet Money ran a piece on Jonathan Coulton.

In it, host Alex Blumberg detailed the numerous things that set Coulton apart from other singer-songwriters. His business exists almost entirely on the Internet. He owns all of his own music, and sells it (or gives it away) as he pleases – his website allows you to hear every song he’s made in full. His songs are passed around like candy online – he releases everything under a Creative Commons license, so fans can make their own videos, or perform covers, or create remixes freely, so long as they credit Coulton. His topics are often geeky, but they are just as often sad and heartwarming and human.

Coulton doesn’t have a label, or tour support, or any of the things “the industry” seems to think you need to make it as a start-up in the music biz. His tour support is basically staying in touch with his fanbase. He plays wherever he knows there will be an audience. And he does all right for himself – Coulton revealed during the podcast that he made about half a million dollars in 2010.

Most of this flies directly in the face of the old record-label model that is crumbling around our ears. But instead of asking serious questions about how (and why) online music-making works, Blumberg brought in a pair of “experts” from NPR’s music blog, The Record, and they proceeded to dismiss Coulton as a fluke. His business model works for him, they said, but doesn’t point to any replicable way forward. They even compared him to a Snuggie. It wasn’t pretty, and Coulton rightly took umbrage on his site.

While Coulton patiently pointed out that his business model is the same as every recording artist’s has ever been – make good songs, sell them, play shows for people who like them – I just shook my head. Every time people talk about Jonathan Coulton and his unique path to success, they miss the important thing, the reason his fans adore him and buy his music, even though they don’t have to. It’s frustratingly simple: Coulton writes fantastic songs.

I first heard his work in 2007, after he’d wrapped up his massive year-long Thing-a-Week project. Essentially, Coulton wrote and recorded one song a week, and released them for free online, collecting them on CDs later. I listened to three songs – “Re: Your Brains,” a satire of office-memo-speak with zombies; “Code Monkey,” a wonderful rocker about a lonely programmer; and “I’m Your Moon,” a remarkably romantic love song to Pluto from one of its moons. I may have also heard “I Crush Everything,” the tale of a self-loathing giant squid, but by that point I was hooked. I bought everything Coulton had for sale immediately.

It was the songs, the beautifully-written, funny-sad, utterly hummable songs that did it for me. I didn’t know any of the backstory at that point, and I didn’t care. Here was a guy making unique, smart pop music, and I wasn’t thinking at all about record labels or The Future of Music. I was just thinking about how much I love “I’m Your Moon.” I don’t know for certain, but I’d bet my experience is similar to that of many Coulton fans.

If you need any proof that it’s the songs that made Coulton what he is, you need to hear Artificial Heart, his just-released new album. It’s his eighth release, but for many people, this will be their first Coulton album. It is his first recorded in a studio, his first with a real band, and his first with an outside producer: John Flansburgh of They Might Be Giants. He’s hinted that it will also be his first to receive a full-on marketing push.

And in keeping with that, Artificial Heart is the first Coulton album to leave most of his geeky novelty tendencies behind. Prior hits have come equipped with easy hooks – “Here’s a song about a prison planet run by robots,” or, “Here’s one about an evil genius in love.” The songs on Artificial Heart are about complex relationships, about pain and grief and bitterness. They’re almost surprisingly dark and knotty, and the album as a whole is Coulton’s bleakest.

That it’s still truckloads of fun is testament to his skill as a writer. In fact, the whole record seems designed to show off Coulton’s writing – he clearly pushed himself here, determined to break free of his reputation, but also to bring his audience along with him. The whiplash opener “Sticking It To Myself” announces right away that things are different – the electric guitars practically jump out of the speakers, and the very TMBG horns add an expansive (and expensive) feel that JoCo has never delivered before. But the song is classic – it’s about hating yourself for success. (“See all the accolades sitting there on my shelf, I’m the man now, and I’m sticking it to myself…”)

“Artificial Heart” is the perfect name for a Jonathan Coulton song, calling to mind both science fiction concepts and the emotional distance that the song is really about. It’s a piano-pounding mini-epic with an indelible chorus, and the mechanical drum pattern only underscores the theme. “I’ve got a new heart, it’s not a real heart…” And the great “Nemeses” is another classic Coulton tune, a desperate plea to a bitter enemy who, it becomes clear, doesn’t see the relationship the same way. “You pretend that you don’t even know my name, well played…”

Coulton is so confident as a writer here that he even gives the mic to guest vocalists on three tracks, including “Nemeses,” which is sung by John Roderick of the Long Winters. I admit some dismay when I first listened to the studio version – the song is so quintessentially JoCo that hearing a different voice up front is jarring. In the context of the record, though, it works. There are a lot of firsts for Coulton here, and guest lead vocals are just one of them.

And one of the record’s finest tracks is another with a guest vocal: “Now I Am an Arsonist,” a duet with Suzanne Vega. I am honestly not sure what this wistful-sounding piece is about – its two main characters trade metaphors throughout, one taking on the role of an architect “setting up the sea,” the other an arsonist “burning through the air I breathe.” In the end, one is left, the other leaving, and it’s simply beautiful. Vega’s instantly-recognizable voice lends a heft to it, one the lyrics definitely deserve.

But the best songs here are the ones Coulton kept for himself. There is “Glasses,” which brings to mind Marshall Crenshaw – it’s a raw guitar-pop gem about marriage, and about growing old together. It’s full of tiny, wonderful details: “House shifts into place, a little breathing space, the radiators and the floorboards will argue while we sleep…” Coulton takes a blissful approach to time flying by: “There goes a day, fading as it passes, forget the grey, let it fall apart, it’s OK, I like you in glasses.”

Elsewhere, Coulton – by his own account a happily-married father – takes a dim view of family life in “Alone at Home.” It starts with the line, “I am glad to be shopping here with you,” so you can imagine where it goes. (Subsequent verses begin with the lines “I would love to swing by the candle store” and “We can stop at your parents’ on the way.”) It’s bitter and disconnected and vicious. It also rocks like a suburban house on fire. The striking “Dissolve” also takes relationships apart, to a slightly funky beat.

“Good Morning Tuscon” is similarly dark, if more fun. It’s sung from the point of view of a longtime TV anchor who hates his life: “When I don’t like what they talk about I take the earpiece out, but they just cue me through the window.” In the final verse, the world ends while our hero keeps on reporting, winging it after the prompter dies. “Through the smoke beyond my parking space, I see my giant face on the billboard by the highway…”

The heart of this album, however, can be found at track five. The deceptively funny title “Today With Your Wife” hides a song of real pain and astounding beauty – as it unspools, it becomes clear that the “you” of the title is dead, and his friends and family are mourning. The plaintive chorus (“You should have been there”) just knocks me out. This is one of JoCo’s finest songs, heartfelt and sad and wonderful, and its gentle piano-and-horns arrangement here is perfect.

As far as I am concerned, Artificial Heart proper ends with track 15, “Nobody Loves You Like Me,” a bleak a cappella piece about divorce. The last three songs are bonus tracks in my mind – you get the two songs Coulton wrote for the Portal video games, the Internet-famous “Still Alive” (sung here by Sara Quin of Tegan and Sara) and “Want You Gone.” And then you get “The Stache,” a facile and surface-level tune about growing a mustache. It’s very old-school JoCo, like a song he may have come up with during the early days of Thing-a-Week, and it stands out on an album that regularly digs deeper.

Still, I wouldn’t have wanted Coulton to reject “The Stache,” or the similarly jokey “Je Suis Rick Springfield.” For all the maturity and complexity Coulton shows as a songwriter on Artificial Heart, he still writes funny songs about silly things, and even if that side of his work is less represented on this record, it remains an essential part of what he does. Throughout the rest of Artificial Heart, Coulton proves himself a tremendous observational songwriter – his work here has depth and power, and yes, very real heart. This record states his case beautifully, and it deserves at least this: that any conversation about it focus on the music, not the method of its release.

To paraphrase “Still Alive,” Artificial Heart is a triumph, another of my favorite records of 2011. You can (and should) get it here.

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So this is the second week in a row that a surprise release has bumped my trio of recently-unveiled comeback records out of the top spot. With the September deluge coming, I don’t expect I’ll have a lot of time and space to get to them. So let’s dispense with them now, since none of them are particularly good.

First up is the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Their 10th album is called I’m With You, and it marks the exit of swell guitarist John Frusciante. He’s replaced by Josh Klinghoffer, who sounds like him, but with all the personality sucked out. So there goes your last reason to pay attention to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. This whole album is full of anonymous, slicked-up nothings. If you enjoyed Stadium Arcadium, you may find something to like here. Me, I find it all pretty boring.

Mike Doughty fares better on his fifth solo album, Yes and Also Yes – at least for a while. It opens strong, with some of the best rhythmic-acoustic songs Doughty has written in years. Roseanne Cash even stops by for one of them, the nifty “Holiday.” But after that, the record goes off a cliff, weighed down by minute-long filler tracks and poorly-thought-out ditties. It’s a real shame, because for a short while there, I thought I was listening to the second coming of Haughty Melodic.

Faring best of all, surprisingly, is Lenny Kravitz, with his long-awaited funk-based project Black and White America. If you like Lenny’s retro style, which draws from the work of 12 million other artists, you may quite like this. It’s his best work in some time, and much better than the abysmal Baptism. And hell, Trombone Shorty is on it, doing what he does very well. But it’s still a bunch of simplistic platitudes set to music, and appearances by Drake and Jay-Z (the latter on a song called “Boongie Drop,” about which I will say nothing more) bring it down. If I were handing out letter grades, this would get a C+. Not bad, but not worth hearing more than once.

Whew! Glad that’s out of my system. Next week, a whole ton of new stuff, including records by Lindsey Buckingham, Dream Theater, and Neil Finn’s new band Pajama Club, and the farewell release by Glen Campbell. 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.