Back in 2002, I made a seemingly bold prediction.

I suggested that, if they apply themselves, the then-semi-well-known British quartet Coldplay could one day be one of the biggest bands in the world. This was months before “Clocks” made them superstars, back when the band could simply release records, instead of creating worldwide messianic events. But there was always something there, some yearning for bigger and more epic mountains to scale.

The album I was reviewing at the time, A Rush of Blood to the Head, sounds so quaint and small now. My prediction was dead on – Coldplay got huge, and their sound transformed along with them. From “Clocks” to “Fix You” to “Viva La Vida,” they have evolved into a rare beast: a stadium-filling pop band that still cares, very much, about art. Coldplay traffics in singalong anthems, but they are on a mission to create the greatest singalong anthems ever belted out by 90,000 people at once.

Because here’s the thing about Coldplay: they don’t have to try new things. They could keep on pumping out the same rehashes of their older material and cashing the checks. (And with “Speed of Sound,” the first single from 2005’s X&Y, they very nearly did.) But they’re better than that. They’re restless, and while bringing in Brian Eno to shake up their sound certainly isn’t going to put to rest any of those U2 comparisons, the places they took that sound on 2008’s Viva La Vida were remarkable.

On that record, they pulled from a wide range of influences, from Radiohead to the Talking Heads, but in the process, gave up a little bit of their identity. Viva La Vida was a strikingly diverse piece of work, and pushed Coldplay forward in many important ways. It just didn’t often sound like them. Well, they’ve managed to rectify that without losing any of their experimental edge on their just-released fifth effort, Mylo Xyloto. It’s hard to explain what they did right here – this record still doesn’t sound much like Coldplay, but it feels like them.

Rather than running wild through a dozen different styles, the band has concentrated on the things they do best: hands-in-the-air triumphant rock songs, and peaceful, pretty ballads. These songs could easily fit on earlier Coldplay albums, but they’re produced like new-model Coldplay, awash in synthesizers and electronic beats and sparkling effects. I’ve heard this described as the band’s foray into pop, as if they’ve been playing some form of art-rock before this, and I think that’s a reaction to the heavy synth bass lines and computers on display. The songs, they’re pure Coldplay.

Eno is back, providing “Enoxification,” according to the liner notes, and whatever that is, I’ll credit it with making Mylo Xyloto the most relentlessly enjoyable Coldplay record ever. This thing apparently began life as a concept record about two lovers (named Mylo and Xyloto, natch) in a dystopian future burning down around their ears. Of course, that’s pretty much the plot of Green Day’s 21st Century Breakdown, so I’m glad it’s only hinted at on Coldplay’s disc. But this feels like a concept record, like a single piece carrying you through from first note to last.

It helps that all of those notes are really good. “Paradise” has already taken hold as one of my favorite Coldplay singles, with its dirty electronic bass and Chris Martin’s earworm chorus. “Charlie Brown” may be even better – it’s one of those songs like “Clocks,” on which the band hits upon an almost inhumanly catchy and memorable instrumental figure, and builds a whole tune around it. This is the band in full anthem mode, and is countered by the simple, fragile “Us Against the World.”

By this point, you’ll have realized that one of Coldplay’s greatest strengths is also its biggest weakness: Chris Martin. His voice is oddly compelling, his everyman style grounds this band effectively. But his lyrics are lead weights. They’re terrible. “Us Against the World” is exactly what you think it is – over an elementary guitar strum, Martin sings, “Slow it down, through chaos as it swirls, it’s us against the world.” That the song still works is a minor miracle.

Same with “Every Teardrop is a Waterfall,” a rousing, soaring piece loaded down with clunkers: “I got my records on, I shut the world outside.” “From beneath the rubble, sing a rebel song.” “I’d rather be a comma than a full stop.” But damn if it doesn’t rise above that, and connect anyway. Jonny Buckland pinches Big Country’s trick of making his lead guitars sound like bagpipes, and when he, bassist Guy Berryman and drummer Will Champion kick in full force about a minute from the end, it’s like listening to the puzzle pieces fall into place.

The band does take a few risks, like the complex and dark “Major Minus,” but none is more interesting than “Princess of China,” on which the boys welcome Rihanna to duet with Martin. Remarkably, this tune isn’t much more radio-pop than the rest of Mylo Xyloto – Rihanna confidently works her powerhouse voice right into the sound of this record. It works far better than you’d expect it would, and sets up the back third of the album nicely. Final track “Up With the Birds” is like the streamlined version of “Death and All His Friends,” sliding through movements and building up to a brief coda, before collapsing back to earth.

I mentioned that Mylo Xyloto plays like a single song, and one thing that helps that is the band’s restraint on individual tracks. Yes, they’re mainly stadium-sized things, but they’re relatively short – only a few tracks here break four minutes, and Eno and the band have sprinkled little interludes throughout. No other Coldplay album comes off as a cohesive experience quite like this one.

That’s a big step forward, I think, as is the fact that the band has figured out how to meld their restlessness to their core identity. Very little of Mylo Xyloto sounds like Coldplay, but in many ways, it’s the most Coldplay album they’ve made. It’s also one of the best. I don’t think Martin is right when he says his band is the most hated on the planet, but they certainly don’t get the respect they deserve, as record-makers if nothing else. Mylo Xyloto probably won’t change that, but for those of us who predicted an artistically and commercially successful career path like this one, it’s a sweet triumph.

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You couldn’t invent Tom Waits if you tried.

An old-time balladeer, part Gypsy, part Tin Pan Alley, with a voice like freshly ground sandpaper and a knack for telling darkly humorous, yet indescribably moving stories. Yeah, Waits is one of a kind. He’s been plying the same rhythmic, earthy yet otherworldly trade since he kind of went nuts on 1983’s Swordfishtrombones, so the only question that needs asking about a new Tom Waits album is, is it as good as the last one?

Yep, it is. Waits’ 20th record is called Bad as Me, and it’s full of the same ghostly shuffles, clattering grooves and glorious weepers as its predecessor, 2004’s Real Gone. I’m not really sure what took him so long, in fact – once again, Waits proves that he does Tom Waits better than anyone. There are some classics on here, like the organ-blasted “Raised Right Men,” on which Waits growls “Heavens to Murgatroid” and gets away with it, or like the absolutely crushing “Pay Me,” a doomed man’s lament, with accordions.

As always, Waits’ voice shouldn’t work with this material, and yet, I can’t imagine any other voice working quite as well. Take the sweetly-shuffling “Back in the Crowd,” as traditional a ballad as Waits has written: “If you don’t want these arms to hold you, if you don’t want these lips to kiss you, if you’ve found someone new, put me back in the crowd…” But he sings it like a drunken man teetering on a ledge, his gravely mumble suggesting the notes rather than hitting them, and it’s somehow so much more affecting than it would be with a straighter delivery.

Waits has pulled that trick off throughout his career, and he does it here half a dozen times. The rest of the time, he sounds like a lunatic, or a demon. The title track is a mesmerizing big-beat blues, Waits leaping for notes in an unhinged falsetto, and the incredible “Hell Broke Luce” is like a death march with Satan playing drill sergeant. “How is it that the only ones responsible for making this mess got their sorry asses stapled to a goddamn desk,” he barks, over a genuinely scary percussive soundscape, one that devolves into machine gun fire midway through.

This all works through sheer personality, and through the efforts of the amazing and like-minded musicians Waits has assembled. Guitarist Marc Ribot, Waits’ longtime bandleader, is superb here on every track. His subtle lines in “Face to the Highway” cannot be overvalued. Bad as Me also features Keith Richards, Charlie Musselwhite, Flea, David Hidalgo, Patrick Warren and Les Claypool. Yes, all on the same record. And what’s astonishing is, you’d never know it – they all just sound like the Tom Waits Band.

Bad as Me is just the latest chapter in a singular vision Waits has been playing out for decades. There’s not much new here – Waits’ even falsetto on “Talking at the Same Time” is new for him, but that’s about it. But hell, as long as nobody else is even attempting to be Tom Waits, Tom Waits can do it as long as he likes. He’s like no one else on earth.

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It took Tom Waits seven years to follow up his last album, but he’s got nothing on our other Tom this week, who has been away from store shelves for 19 years. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I missed him.

If people know Thomas Dolby, they likely only know him for one thing: “She Blinded Me With Science.” That a man this prodigiously talented is considered a one-hit wonder is practically criminal. I could probably fit everyone who heard 1992’s splendid Astronauts and Heretics into my basement. And it’s not a particularly large basement. The guy’s made some excellent music that has been woefully ignored, is what I’m saying. So much so that he left music sometime in the 2000s to concentrate on his ringtone company. Yeah, his ringtone company.

So the fact that there’s a new Thomas Dolby album at all is kind of amazing. And the fact that it’s as good as it is makes me a very happy music fan. It’s called A Map of the Floating City, and it’s tied to a video game Dolby also developed, which takes you through three areas of play: the mechanical Urbanoia, the dusty western Americana, and the vast and peaceful Oceanea. Songs on the album are split up into those three categories as well – the more electronic stuff first, the acoustic Americana stuff second, and the pretty and watery material last.

Oh, and it was all recorded on a solar-powered 1930s lifeboat, apparently.

If all this sounds too heady for you, take it from me: the album is a blast. Dolby makes polished, melodic, consistently enjoyable pop music, and while the extensive back story might be daunting, it’s completely unnecessary. The songs are immediate, and time has not dulled Dolby’s lyrical prowess. This is dark and cynical and just wonderful stuff, and it has a good beat, and you can bug out to it.

The first suite is along the lines of Dolby’s past work – computer-enhanced pop with swell melodies. Opener “Nothing New Under the Sun” is a mid-tempo singalong with pitch-black lyrics about music and fame: “Somehow the cancer found a lung, you woke up to hear your words on the tip of every tongue, now go learn to live with the legend you’ve become…” “Spice Train” takes the Urbanoia theme seriously, spinning an intricate web of synth lines and percussion with a nifty Middle-Eastern melody. And “Evil Twin Brother” pulses along nicely, with vocal contributions from Regina Spektor.

All of which makes the quick turnabout on the Amerikana music more jarring, and more fascinating. “Road to Reno” bounces along to a skipping drumbeat and an acoustic strum, Dolby telling the tale of a politician and a lingerie saleswoman who meet a sticky end in a hotel room. “The Toad Lickers” gets even more down-home country, with fiddle from Natalie MacMaster and Jew’s harp from none other than Imogen Heap. And the seven-minute epic “17 Hills” is mesmerizing, a soaring country ballad about lovers on the run: “We robbed a store and she shot an armed guard, but mine was the face on the DVR…” Like most of Dolby’s stories, this one doesn’t end well for our heroes. But Mark Knopfler adds some wonderful guitar.

The Oceanea material is my favorite. “Oceanea” itself is almost inhumanly lovely, Dolby showing virtually everyone else who has ever used Auto-Tune as a vocal effect how it’s done. Over a shimmering synth bed, he sings a song of freedom: “You’re soaring on a thermal wind, you’re learning how to shed your skin, you made it home to Oceanea…” Just when you think it can’t get any more beautiful, Eddi Reader adds her voice to the mix. It’s just terrific.

And it’s matched by the stunning closer, “To the Lifeboats.” The music is lilting, even pretty, but the words are black as midnight. “The superstitious sailors of old refused to learn to swim, but there’s no need to drown these days, ‘cause we’ve got lifeboats… Where are the lifeboats? There are no lifeboats, there are no fucking lifeboats…” It ends almost too quickly, the first Thomas Dolby album in nearly two decades shivering to a conclusion on the name “Caroline.”

Speaking for myself, I didn’t need further proof that Thomas Dolby is brilliant. But if you do, A Map of the Floating City gives it to you in spades. It’s a fine addition to his too-brief discography, a gently malignant piece of work that again establishes him as a tremendous songwriter and record-maker. Like a lot of artists unfairly dismissed as one-hit novelties, once you get past the surface of Dolby’s work, you’ll find it’s something pretty special.

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Next week, devil horns in the air, as I tackle metal’s Big Four. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I grew up in a church.

My dad was Catholic, my mother Protestant. My mom won, so we all joined a Congregationalist church in Medway, Massachusetts. I grew up with Sunday services, youth group meetings, even week-long retreats to cabins in the woods. I went to Christian summer camp, I said prayers before meals, I read the Bible cover to cover more than once. (I even had a thousand-page comic book Bible, sanitized for my protection – when the Israelites killed women and children because God told them to, they did so off-panel.)

I was always a spiritual kid, but from about 11 to about 15, I went through a hardcore Jesus phase. I not only listened to bands like Petra and White Heart, I joined a Christian rock band with a couple other like-minded middle-schoolers. I was all about it, all the time, and I think at the core of my full-bore dive into faith was a desperate need to belong, to believe, to be part of something. Because I would question it all the time. Have I prayed the right prayer? Am I really going to heaven? My pastor told me again and again that hell was real, and I was deeply terrified of ending up there.

Because here’s the thing. I never once, not even at my most fervent, heard the voice of God talking to me. Others in my church would say they did. “I hear him speaking to me,” they would say. “God told me that I should walk this path,” they would tell me. And I wanted to. I truly, truly wanted to hear that voice. So I prayed and waited and prayed some more and listened and held on for years. Nothing.

And eventually I grew so disillusioned with the church that I drifted away completely. (There were political reasons as well, which I won’t get into here.) As a surly young teen, I started asking questions, and felt let down by the answers. I lost whatever belief I had, and I still haven’t regained it. Now, at 37, I feel like I’m more honestly spiritual than I’ve ever been. I’m fascinated by religion, fascinated by belief, certain that there is something greater than us, though I have no idea what it is. I’m still unsure how to answer questions about my own faith.

But I’ve really come to an undeniable and painful conclusion about that time in my life: everyone who told me they heard the voice of God was lying. No one actually hears it. We take signs and metaphors and feelings and find God in them. That’s what we do. I didn’t realize that then – I thought there was something wrong with me, something deficient, something unworthy. And the moment I realized that wasn’t true still counts among the happiest of my life.

And that’s the moment, right there, that Taylor Muse so deftly and beautifully captures on Quiet Company’s third album, We Are All Where We Belong. Whenever I listen to it, that’s the experience I relive. That sense of relief, of freedom, of life surging back into me. For more than an hour here, Muse explores that moment – he details all the pain leading up to it, and raises his fist triumphantly when it arrives. This is Muse’s Curse Your Branches, his breakup album with God, and it is angry and petulant in parts, but it is mostly joy through tears. It’s an album not simply about leaving something behind, but about finding something better to replace it.

It’s a record that will upset some people, even some people I know. But I am coming around to the idea that We Are All Where We Belong is the best album of 2011, not just for being a brilliant, consistent, extraordinary piece of music, but for being remarkably brave and honest about a subject few want to discuss. Muse has bared his soul here – he unflinchingly describes intensely private moments of tested faith, and makes you feel every step of this journey, and every elated second of its destination.

Because unlike David Bazan’s album, We Are All Where We Belong is not the work of a questioning soul still finding his peace. This is an album that comes to a conclusion, crests the mountain and plants a flag. And here is what’s amazing about this record to me. The conclusion is this: everything you were taught about God is wrong, there is no heaven waiting for you when you die, we are all on our own, and all we have is each other. And it’s a triumphant, gloriously happy thing – not in spite of that conclusion, but because of it.

I suppose if you weren’t raised with religion, that may not be surprising to you. But it is to me, so much so that it took some time to really grasp it. All those ideas that used to scare me to death – What if there is no God? What if there’s nothing after this? What if we’re all alone? All of those ideas are explored as unqualified good things here. Where Bazan’s unbelief makes him sick, Muse’s feels like casting off shackles.

This is the kind of album that only someone who once intensely believed could make. It’s laced with betrayal and shame and anger. Muse grew up in a devoutly Christian household, and parts of this record are about how he still feels the emptiness where faith once was, the pull of something he no longer believes in. (“If Jesus Christ ever reached down and touched my life, he certainly left no sign to let me know he had, and I wouldn’t mind that he couldn’t find the time, it’s just that now my heart longs for things that probably don’t exist…”) This is not an album that rejects faith out of hand – Muse struggled with this, and still does. This is the result and culmination of years of painful wrestling with the issue.

It’s also an album of astonishingly good songs. In fact, there are only two songs here I would describe as “merely great.” The rest are phenomenal. What may get lost in all the discussion of the thematic power of this record is the huge leap forward in craft it represents for Muse, already one of the best songwriters around. This is also the album on which Quiet Company, the band, fully gels and makes its mark. Previous QuietCo records were mainly Muse, with some help from his friends. This one is fully realized – it sounds like a band at the peak of their powers.

You get that sense right away – after the buildup of “The Confessor,” the band erupts into “You, Me and the Boatman,” one of the year’s catchiest singles. Over a powerhouse beat from Jeff Weathers, roaring guitars from Tommy Blank and blaring horns, Muse opens the book on two of the record’s big themes: the fear of death, and the salvation of love. It’s the record’s mission statement: “I don’t care about the past and future,” Muse sings, “when this existence is probably all we have, and so the lives we make are all that matter, so let’s live to love and love to live…”

Muse spends the next hour delving into that theme, and what initially seemed to me to be an over-examination – literally every song on this album is about this – now flows beautifully in my mind from first note to last. I’m particularly fond of the way the two parts of “Preaching to the Choir Invisible” – sequenced third and twelfth, respectively – counterpoint one another. The first part is your first indication that this is not going to be like other QuietCo records. It’s tricky and complex and elaborate, and makes the first cut: “Open up the pit, he swallows or spits, and I swallowed that shit for so long, now what should I think of faith? It ain’t noble or brave, and I don’t need to be saved or chosen…”

The second part is darker, and takes sharper aim – it’s the culmination of the more incisive second half. “We filled a book with what Jesus said, so we can all disagree on what he really meant.” “I’ll make a deal with Jesus Christ, just speak one word I can hear, prove you’re alive, and I’ll believe you’re here.” “I have rejected holier spirits than you, it’s no big deal, hallelujah.” It’s like Part One is Muse starting to talk about it, and Part Two is him finally screaming about it, getting it out, and moving on. Both songs end with the album’s title phrase, and while it almost comes too early in the album on Part One, it’s the perfect conclusion to Part Two.

Between those two poles, Muse picks at his past, and revels in his present. The sweetest songs on this record are reserved for his new daughter. “Are You a Mirror” is, bar none, the greatest new father song I’ve ever heard. “I look inside you and I see myself,” Muse sings, before delivering this stunner of a line: “And one day you will look me straight in the eyes, and judge me for the things I’ve been in your life, I hope you love me when you know me well…” “Set Your Monster Free” is a lovely tune about letting your child choose her own beliefs: “Daughter, I am wrong almost as often as I’m right, so Daughter, just be strong enough to make up your own mind…”

That song also delves into Muse’s own religious upbringing, and what it did to him. “You don’t have to waste your time holding on to beautiful lies,” he sings to his daughter, and later, in “The Black Sheep and the Shepherd,” he addresses God directly: “Hey God, now I got a baby girl, what am I supposed to tell her about you? Because her life 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…” You can’t fake a sense of betrayal like that – this is undeniably the statement of someone who once believed with all his heart, and just can’t anymore.

The amazing “Fear and Fallacy, Sitting in a Tree” tackles the fear of death, a recurring motif. This song contains one of my favorite moments on the record, the second verse: “So let’s bow our heads for something, pray that God is on our side, but the pagan and the pious, they all sound the same, ‘Oh my God! Oh my god!’” This bit pops, unbidden, into my head at all hours.

The first half of this album sounds like Quiet Company, but better – sharp, melodic pop songs with a kick. But as much as I like that stuff, it’s the four songs that lead into “Choir Invisible Part Two” that set this album atop any other this year. “Everything Louder Than Everything Else” is a seven-minute Sufjan Stevens-esque wonderama that takes us back to the beginning of time, and shows that fear of death is nothing new. “It’s time to get off of our knees and offer our hands up to the earth, and it’s time to find where we belong and see what it’s worth,” Muse sings, over pulsing strings and delirious guitars. It’s an incredible song.

But it doesn’t prepare you for “The Black Sheep and the Shepherd,” the song that delves into Muse’s past, in often chilling ways. “The river’s wide, and I could not swim across it, so I convinced myself that I walked upon the waves, but I lied and I knew I’d lied, but I did everything I could to soothe the family pride, and I just don’t think I can keep it up now…” It contains the record’s most harrowing passage, delivered in a matter-of-fact voice over lilting music: “The only times I ever thought of suicide, I was waiting on the Lord to direct my life, saying, ‘Give me one word and I’ll put down the knife and never pick it up again…’”

There is nothing wrong with us, Muse concludes at the end of this song. We’re not broken and defective because we don’t hear God’s voice. He’s not speaking. And that leads us into “The Easy Confidence,” subtitled “What I Would Say to You Now.” This is the album’s most powerful, frightening song, a bitter and angry shout to the heavens. “I was screaming out your name, I guess you never heard me, but I was screaming it for years,” it begins. The music starts at a slow creep, but soon takes off, Muse screaming his head off, like Job rending his garments: “I’ve got a bone to pick, and I want to pick it clean, the prodigal son and his shameful disbelief…”

It’s the final kiss-off, the big middle finger to God, and it ends in anger and recrimination: “This isn’t love, we’re not in love, if you wanted love you just should have spoken up.” It’s a devastating moment, and I can’t even explain to you what it feels like to hear it. It’s years of pent-up rage coming out, and as someone who has had similar one-sided shouting matches with God in my time, this song hit me pretty deep. Muse answers it with the next song, “Midnight at the Lazarus Pit,” a simple and glorious love song in which Muse gladly trades the spirit for the flesh. The refrain (“I’m completely yours”) is this album’s most lovely moment, and it takes us into “Choir Invisible Part Two,” in many ways the end of the journey.

So there we are. God has been rejected, life has been embraced. Nothing is waiting for us after death, and we shouldn’t fear it. We should take every day that’s given to us, and enjoy it, since it’s all we have. The lives we make are all that matter. There is nothing wrong with us. We are all where we belong. In the final track, “At Last! The Celestial Being Speaks,” Muse takes on God’s voice and apologizes for being so elusive. The album ends with this sentiment: “So lift up your heads, don’t worry about death, we’re all gonna be just fine.”

It’s amazing. Whether or not you agree with his conclusions – and I don’t, not completely – this album is nearly flawless, and almost jaw-droppingly brave. In the same way that I am fascinated to hear artists like Terry Taylor and Steve Hindalong explain to me why they believe, I am fascinated to hear Taylor Muse explain to me why he doesn’t. In a lot of ways, this album gives a voice to that 15-year-old kid I was, questioning and drifting and finally breaking away. I never heard God speak to me either, Taylor, and I don’t think anyone ever does.

For me, what brought me back around to spirituality was music. I heard the Choir’s amazing Circle Slide in 1990, just as I was turning bitter and angry, and it helped me see a different perspective. But I have felt the way Taylor Muse feels here, and though life led me a different way, and toward different destinations, I feel like I walked at least part of this journey with him. And I’m grateful for and in awe of his honesty here. Though I know many people who will have strong negative reactions to this record, I think it’s a masterpiece. And each listen convinces me of that even more.

I don’t know if this long ramble has made any sense. I also don’t know if it’s convinced you to give We Are All Where We Belong a try, or if it’s scared you off. It took me several listens to truly absorb this piece, but I think it’s 2011’s finest. It is certainly its most powerful. It has touched me and made me think more than any other, and its songs dance across my mind nearly every day. I’m awed by it, frightened of it, and in love with it. It is the best record of Quiet Company’s career, and the best thing I’ve heard this year.

You can hear all of We Are All Where We Belong and download it here. Buy the record here.

Next week, Coldplay and two guys named Tom. 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.

You can find Part One right here. No time for love, Dr. Jones. Onward!

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I didn’t do this consciously, but I seem to have kept a veritable who’s who of modern songwriters for this second installment. No disrespect intended to Peter Gabriel, or Bjork, or even Julian Lennon, but the names I’m about to trot out belong on any respectable list of great songsmiths from the last 30 or so years. And we’ll start with one who, in my opinion, ought to be higher on those lists than he usually ranks.

Ryan Adams is, put simply, just incredible. As a pure songwriter, he has it all – a strong sense of history, a great way with a melody, lyrics that cut to the bone. Take a walk through his solo catalog sometime. You can even leave the Whiskeytown trilogy aside for now – I know much of his acclaim centers on those three records, and they’re wonderful, but Adams’ solo work has often been just as good, if not better. Cold Roses, Jacksonville City Nights, Easy Tiger, Gold and Heartbreaker are all 100 percent classics to these ears.

So what’s the problem? Why is he merely respected, instead of revered? Well, he’s mercurial, he’s inconsistent, and he’s a bit of an asshole. He’s the guy who will write and record a Rock N Roll just to mess with his record company. He’s the guy who will get into fights with people at his shows, and storm off the stage – in fact, you should never bet on which Ryan will show up at any given concert. Last year, he released a metal album under the name Orion, and a double record of ‘80s-inspired pretty noise with the Cardinals, neither his best work.

So he really needed an album like Ashes and Fire, his best and prettiest work since Easy Tiger in 2007. There are no gimmicks with this one. It’s just 11 well-written country-folk songs, played and sung with heart. This is the kind of record that makes things like Orion and Love is Hell sound like diversions – Adams is so very good at this straightforward, no-frills songcraft that anything else he does feels like a side project.

Ashes and Fire starts with a couple of terrific low-key mid-tempo things, and they connect, particularly the woozy title track. But the third cut begins a series of heartbreakers (no pun intended), stripped-down and lovely. “Come Home” is among his prettiest, and when his all-star backing vocal choir (Norah Jones, Stephen Stills and Adams’ wife Mandy Moore) chime in on the chorus, it’s moving. “Do I Wait” gets me every time I hear it – Benmont Tench’s organ is exactly what the song needed to take off and fly.

Adams incorporates a string quartet on several songs, most prominently the brief “Chains of Love.” But it’s the subtler arrangement on the lovely “Save Me” that I prefer. In fact, the understated moments on Ashes and Fire (and there are a lot of them) are the best. The record ends with two of them – “Lucky Now,” a classic Adams tale of yearning despair, and “I Love You But I Don’t Know What to Say,” which, despite its title, is a wedding song: “I promise you I will keep you safe from harm, and love you all the rest of our days, when the night is silent and we seem so far away, I love you and I don’t know what to say…”

Ashes and Fire is 11 more reasons Ryan Adams should be considered one of the finest songwriters anywhere. It’s a fragile, down-home, flat-out beautiful little record, and for all the diversity on display in his catalog, this is the stuff he does best. I’m glad to put up with the things he doesn’t do quite as well, if it means we will occasionally get albums like this one.

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Bill Mallonee has the opposite problem.

His fans – and I count myself among them – rightly tout Mallonee as a great songwriter, but he’s almost too consistent. He writes the same kind of great song over and over again, to the point where you know exactly what to expect from a new Mallonee release. It’s been five years since we’ve had a proper one (you know, on CD and everything), but the new The Power and the Glory is just what I thought it would be – 12 well-written Americana songs with ringing guitars and heartland-poetic lyrics.

To be fair, I’d already heard most of these songs – they were released in demo form over the last three years as part of a download-only series called Works (In) Progress Administration. In fact, Mallonee has embraced the Internet in ways many of his contemporaries simply haven’t. His Bandcamp page allows you to hear everything he’s ever done, and allows him to release these songs almost as they come to him – The Power and the Glory is his ninth release of 2011, and in between that and Permafrost, his last CD, he’s put out 20 digital-only collections.

But there’s no getting around the sense that this is the first “real” Mallonee album since 2006, the first one he’s poured precious touring money into pressing up. And it’s very good. Its track list pulls from several volumes of his demo series, but here the songs are fleshed out, played by a rock band at the height of its powers. All of the guitars on this album are Mallonee, and the ringing, enveloping six-string tones take these songs to another place entirely. Every note of this thing says it’s the big one, the record we’ve been waiting for.

The lyrics are, of course, tremendous. Mallonee is nothing if not a poet, which may be why he has gravitated recently to Jack Kerouac and the beat generation. He gives them their due in “From the Beats Down to the Buddha”: “Lowell’s lonely factories, post-war America happily leaving all the brightest and the best, you never felt that understood pounding on your Underwood, you were putting all their alloy to the test…” The wonderful “The Ghosts That I Run With” references D.B. Cooper: “And my parachute, it opened wide, I still see blue sky in my dreams, now it’s mysteries left unsolved on your TV.” That song is about thinking you’ve disappeared without a trace.

If there’s one person who gets referenced most often, however, it’s God. “Bring You Around” is the prettiest: “And that love that walked in here without a sound, it will whisper your name, it’ll take all the blame and bring you around.” “Ever Born Into This World” lays Mallonee’s faith bare: “I am saddened for the orphans, for the scared and confused, I am gladdened when the child within each one of use steps forth with his good news, you may come back like a prodigal son to your father’s home, or you may steer clear for a thousand years ‘till the shepherd finds his own…”

But The Power and the Glory runs smack into the same problem every Mallonee album ever has: it all sounds the same after a while. These 12 songs all stick to similar tempos, and the same chord structures, and the same ringing Americana tone. It’s great in small doses, but by the time you’re rounding third in the hour-long effort, you’ll probably want Mallonee to vary it up a little. Song by song, this is great stuff, though, and for a lover of physical objects like me, it’s nice to have another Mallonee title to slide onto the shelf. He’ll probably do exactly this kind of thing until he dies. If you liked him before, you’ll like this. If you’ve never heard him, start here. It’s as good an entry point as any.

For a slightly more ecstatic review, check out my friend Carl Simmons’ blog here. He’ll be unhappy with next week’s column, so I’m trying to get in his good graces now.

* * * * *

If you’d asked me for a list of my favorite songwriters in 1995, Matthew Sweet would definitely have been on it.

That was his heyday, the Girlfriend–Altered Beast–100% Fun years, when he could do no wrong. Every album was chock full of sharp tunes with indelible melodies, the guitars – many of them played by the great Robert Quine – were loud and thick, the harmonies lighter than air. Sweet made a string of fantastic pop records, all the way through 1999’s In Reverse, and then kind of… went away for a bit.

When he returned, he came back stranger. These days, it takes me three listens, minimum, to every new Matthew Sweet album to decide whether I like it, or I think it’s a mess. His albums now feature the oddest production you’re likely to hear – hard stereo panning, backwards noises, arrangements that seem like they’re going to fall apart any second. All of this sometimes obscures the songs, which is a shame, since Sweet remains a gifted pop songwriter.

His new one, Modern Art, keeps the streak going. These 12 songs are, for the most part, splendid. But it will take you some time to discover this, as the off-putting “psychedelic” production will keep distracting your ears. “She Walks the Night” is a great example. This is a tune that could have fit on Girlfriend, a free-flowing, Byrds-y ditty with a delightful chorus. But if the weird backwards vocal technique isn’t enough to confuse you, at about the 2:30 mark everything drops away for a bizarre interlude that stops things short.

Some of these tunes are left alone. “When Love Lets Go I’m Falling” is as lovely as you’d hope, its straightforward recording doing it every favor in the world. But bouts of weirdness like “My Ass is Grass” serve to drag this thing down somewhat. It’s still a collection of strong songs from a guy I hope never stops writing them. But I’d like to hear what these tunes would sound like recorded live. Sweet’s voice is in top form, and his songwriting hasn’t suffered. I just wish it didn’t take so much work to hear those attributes on Modern Art.

* * * * *

The new Bangles album, Sweetheart of the Sun, is probably closer to how longtime fans remember Matthew Sweet records. There’s a reason for that – Sweet produced it, the band recorded it at his home studio, and Sweet plays and sings on it. But don’t let that fool you into thinking that this is a Sweet album under another name. No way. The Bangles reunion is the real deal, and this album is fabulous.

The Bangles are down to a trio now, with the departure of bassist Michael Steele – it’s Susanna Hoffs and the Peterson sisters now. Sweetheart is their first album in eight years, and all three of them brought their A-game. They all contribute splendid, sunny songs to this record, and play them like a band reinvigorated. Check out Debbi Peterson’s “Ball N Chain,” a rocker of the highest order – the double-time drums, the barely-audible pounding piano, the backing vocals (“dragging me down”), everything clicks. It’s just awesome.

I have no idea why Hoffs’ fantastic “I’ll Never Be Through With You” isn’t a worldwide hit right now. It’s a pop classic – I could imagine this song coming from Carole King, and ringing down the halls of the Brill Building. The textured recording is beautiful, Hoffs’ emotional voice blending with her bandmates atop Greg Liesz’ marvelous lap steel lines. It’s one of the best pop singles of the year, and I can’t figure out why the world has been indifferent to it.

The rest of the album is similarly excellent. Vicki Peterson’s “Circle in the Sky” is a strummed delight, and her “What a Life” is a quick-step powerhouse. The three Bangles harmonize like birds on the low-key “Through Your Eyes,” which almost reminds me of Crosby, Stills and Nash. And they take a pair of fun trips through others’ songs: John Carter’s “Sweet and Tender Romance,” here given a garage-rock treatment, and Todd Rundgren’s “Open My Eyes,” which closes the record. (It’s a Nazz song. Super bonus points for reaching that far back into the man’s catalog.)

I can’t say I’d written off the Bangles. I just hadn’t thought about them in years. But Sweetheart of the Sun brought them right back onto my radar screen. This is a wonderful pop record, loud and proud and melodic and graceful and just plain awesome. If you’re like me, you probably haven’t given this band much consideration in a while either. Trust me, this album will change that. Check it out.

* * * * *

And finally, a guy who has written more great pop songs in the past 15 years than almost anyone.

Yes, before you ask, the fact that Ben Folds has just released a career retrospective makes me feel very, very old. I’ve been with him since the beginning – I bought the self-titled Ben Folds Five debut on a recommendation from Chris L’Etoile in 1995, and loved it immediately. I’ve seen Ben in concert more than just about any other act, except maybe the Lost Dogs. I’ve breathlessly anticipated everything he’s ever done, and felt the joy of the triumphs (Whatever and Ever Amen, Rockin’ the Suburbs, the new Lonely Avenue) and the pain of the stumbles (I still can’t get into Way to Normal at all). It’s been a great ride.

So here is The Best Imitation of Myself, a three-disc collection that looks back over his work since 1992. Normally I leave these things on the shelf, but Folds has done it right – he’s matched up a best-of with two discs of unreleased live tracks and rarities. (Not to mention the 55 other tunes available online.) This is absolutely worth the money, and over almost four hours, it plainly states the case: Ben Folds is one of the finest pop musicians of his time.

Start with the first disc, the best-of. I’m just going to list off some of the titles. “Annie Waits.” “Philosophy.” “Landed.” “Don’t Change Your Plans.” “The Luckiest.” “Smoke.” “Still Fighting It.” And yes, even “Brick.” These are immortal songs, and “From Above,” a highlight of Lonely Avenue, last year’s collaboration with Nick Hornby, fits right alongside them. This is an unbelievable songwriter’s legacy, and the fact that I can come up with at least a dozen other songs that should have been here is further testament. The disc includes the strings version of “Landed” and a live recording of “Smoke” with the West Australian Symphony Orchestra, to my delight.

The first disc ends with “House,” the first new Ben Folds Five song in 12 years. There’s little that could live up to that, and “House” barely tries. It’s just a nice little song, with not much on its mind. Go in expecting that, and you’ll be happy with it. Me, I’m looking forward to the Five’s new album, which is reportedly in progress. They sound comfortable together here, like old times, and even more so on the two other new tracks on disc three. (We’ll get there.)

The second disc is all live, and it’s fan-freaking-tastic. Its first six tracks are half of that Ben Folds Five live album we’ve been needing for a while – they jam through “Julianne” and “Song for the Dumped,” and lay down pretty renditions of “Mess” and “Magic,” two highlights from the underrated The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner. From there, Folds takes the stage himself – we get live takes of “Zak and Sara,” the great “All You Can Eat,” “Effington,” the overlooked “Sentimental Guy,” and “Picture Window,” one of the most heart-rending Lonely Avenue songs.

We welcome the West Australian Symphony Orchestra back for a gloriously sad “Fred Jones Part 2,” and Rufus Wainwright takes the mic for a cover of “Careless Whisper.” (Yes, the Wham song.) The Five makes a brief return on “Army” and “The Battle of Who Could Care Less.” And there’s a version of “Long Tall Texan” unlike any you’ve ever heard. The disc ends with “Not the Same,” and actually closes out on the trademark audience vocals, which are always pretty amazing to experience.

The third disc is the gem, though. We get to hear demos of “Best Imitation of Myself” and “Boxing,” and an unreleased four-track song called “Rocky.” We get to hear how “Julianne” and “Evaporated” would have sounded on the Five’s aborted first album. (Based on this, it was a good call to scrap those sessions. They’re not bad takes, they just lack all sense of energy.) We get “Amelia Bright,” a song recorded for the Five’s unfinished fourth album in 2000. We get a set of demos from the same year, including the unreleased “Break Up at Food Court” and the great “Wandering,” which deserved wider acclaim.

We get Ben’s take on the Postal Service’s “Such Great Heights.” We get an alternate take of “Time,” another forgotten highlight from Songs for Silverman. We get “Because the Origami,” the best song from his “8in8” collaboration with Amanda Palmer, Neil Gaiman and Damian Kulash. We also get his infamous cover of “Bitches Ain’t Shit,” in case you didn’t have that already, and two songs from previously-released compilations.

But I know what you want to hear about. Yes, we also get two new Ben Folds Five tunes, although neither is technically new. “Tell Me What I Did” was written for the fourth Five album, and never recorded until now. It’s a fun stomper with a cool synth line in the middle, and it’s nice to hear these three play with such abandon again. And closer “Stumblin’ Home Winter Blues” is a tune drummer Darren Jessee wrote for his Hotel Lights project. This version is fuller and brighter, but no less beautiful. It’s a nice way to fade out.

So yeah, if you’re one of those people not yet sold on Ben Folds, pick this up. It does exactly what a retrospective should: it lays out every reason you’d need to become a lifelong fan, and it leaves you wanting more. It’s a perfect window into Folds’ snarky, sincere, brilliant little world. And once you visit, you’re gonna want to stay.

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Whew! Next week, just one record – I’ll finally deliver that full-fledged Quiet Company review. After that, there’s Coldplay, Tom Waits, Brian Wilson, a metal spectacular, and two more installments of God Save the Queen, if I can get to them before year’s end. Thanks for reading.

Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a tidal wave of new releases like we’re experiencing right now.

It’s become pretty damn difficult to keep up. In October, I plan to buy about 30 new albums. In November, about 20. I’m not even sure where I’m going to find the time to listen to all of it. And the backlog has come at just the wrong time – when my job has decided to suck even more hours out of my life than it had been before.

So this week and next week, I’m going to try to move quickly through some of the 30 or so records I’ve picked up recently. And I’ll try to do it as quickly and concisely as I can, although there are some here that deserve a more in-depth look. Hopefully, it’s going to be like speed dating: a few minutes with each contestant, saying what needs to be said, and then moving on. But with fewer awkward stories and a lot less desperation.

Ready? Clock is ticking.

* * * * *

I am probably alone in still expecting great things from Jane’s Addiction.

I feel like an old man when I say this, but in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, Jane’s Addiction meant something. Nothing’s Shocking and Ritual de lo Habitual were, to my teenage mind, seriously important records, the products of a band looking to push things forward as much as they could. They were my first brush with censorship – I still have a cassette copy of Ritual with the made-safe-for-Walmart cover, depicting the First Amendment written on a plain white background. And I’d never heard anything in the world like “Three Days,” or “Then She Did.” They were artists struggling against an artless system, and when they decided to disband because they just couldn’t kick against it any more, it seemed like an act of nobility to me.

So the idea that they’ve become a cash-grab project for Perry Farrell and Dave Navarro makes me sadder than I can tell you. I accepted 2003’s reunion album Strays, despite bassist Eric Avery’s decision not to take part, because it was actually pretty damn good. But the box set of scraps was a bridge too far, and now we have a second reunion record, The Great Escape Artist. And this one doesn’t even try to recapture the magic. It’s Jane’s Addiction in name only.

It would be one thing if this were merely the worst Jane’s Addiction album. That’s kind of a high bar – some bands have gone their entire careers without producing anything as good as Strays, the previous title holder. No, this is just a boring piece of work, from anyone. And it’s not that I dislike the more dreamy pop direction they’ve headed in here – the pretty noise Navarro coaxes from his amp still moves me, and here he’s experimenting with tones and textures like he rarely has before. But the songs are little nothings, and after an eight-year wait, the album is distressingly short.

If you’ve heard “Irresistible Force,” you’ve heard the record’s best song. It’s not bad – it’s one of the few that finds a melody for Farrell to sink his teeth into. Seriously, it’s been eight years since I’ve heard that voice, and this record gives him almost nothing to do. Dave Sitek of TV on the Radio takes up the bass reins this time, and co-wrote most of these songs (except for three inexplicably co-written by Duff McKagan). I’m not the biggest fan of his main band, but they write some catchy, memorable tunes. None of that talent is in evidence here.

I don’t want to make it sound like I hate this. I don’t. It’s acceptable modern rock, with some nice guitar textures. “Twisted Tales” has a nice ascending melody to it. “Broken People” makes the most of its U2-ish framework. The production is thick and dreamy, and on those rare occasions when Navarro cuts loose – as on “Irresistible Force” – he sounds swell. But this is an album almost entirely lacking in ambition, content to stay grounded, satisfied with its half-assed effort. Coming from a band like Jane’s Addiction, that’s sad.

* * * * *

One thing you can never accuse Peter Gabriel of is a lack of ambition.

In fact, his projects are often so ambitious that they take a decade or more to complete. He’s been working on I/O, the proper follow-up to 2002’s Up, for about eight years now, and there’s still no indication that we’ll get to hear it any time soon. But that’s OK, because the stopgap projects have been amazing. Last year, we had Scratch My Back, a covers album performed entirely with a symphony orchestra. And now, Gabriel’s taken the same approach to his own catalog, with astounding results.

The record is called New Blood, and for a longtime Gabriel fan like me, it’s revelatory, and in places unspeakably beautiful. Like those on Scratch My Back, these are not your average orchestral arrangements. They do not seek to emulate or replace the guitars and synths of the original versions, but rather to reinvent these songs from the ground up. One listen to the first track, the amazing “The Rhythm of the Heat,” will tell you that. The tribal drums of the original tune, still one of Gabriel’s creepiest, are all but gone, and the strings do all the heavy lifting. And they do it well – the arrangement is muscular and surprising and absolutely mindblowing.

To Gabriel’s credit, he waits until about halfway through this 77-minute album to start tackling his hits, like “In Your Eyes” and “Don’t Give Up.” The first five tracks are all lesser-known tunes, but some of my personal favorites, here given gorgeous new life. The first time I heard this new “San Jacinto,” for example, I found myself moved to tears. (This was while driving, so you can imagine the looks I got as I was singing along, weeping openly.) The arrangement is like scattered dots for its first half, the strings matching a glittering piano figure, but when the big moment comes (and if you know this song, you know what I mean), the dots become lines, and the strings just take flight. It’s incredible.

Here is “Downside Up,” from the overlooked OVO album, which Gabriel sings with his daughter Melanie. Here is “Intruder,” its new form even more freaky than the original somehow. And here is a true hidden gem from Gabriel’s catalog: “Wallflower,” a song based on his experiences with Amnesty International. The strings never overpower this song’s simple beauty, merely accenting Gabriel’s haunting vocal and piano. (Incidentally, Gabriel is 61 years old now, and he hasn’t lost a note. His voice remains a singular instrument of uncommon resonance.)

And yes, he gets to the hits, and yes, they’re marvelous. “In Your Eyes,” in particular, is a work of wonder in this new form, the cellos taking the piano part during the verses, and the full orchestra exploding all over the choruses. “Mercy Street” is lovely, if understated – the “kissing Mary’s lips” moment is breathtaking – as is “Don’t Give Up,” with Ane Brun singing the Kate Bush part. “Red Rain” is the only arrangement that goes a tiny bit over the top, but it’s forceful and powerful nonetheless.

Gabriel ends things with “Solsbury Hill,” separated from the main program by 4:48 of silence. In the liner notes, he says he did so because its arrangement is lighter than those he wanted to include here. And it is, but it’s still splendid – it’s not a reinvention, but it recasts this stone cold classic in new lights. Even if that’s a little less ambitious than the rest of this amazing album, it’s still worth hearing. New Blood is a treat for longtime fans, but even if you’re not intimately familiar with these songs, it’s still one of the most beautiful things you’re likely to hear this year.

* * * * *

The buzz surrounding Bjork’s new album, Biophilia, has almost nothing to do with the album itself.

For months, all I heard about was its unique method of release – Biophilia is apparently the first iPhone album, the subject of a series of apps that correspond to each song. Buy all the apps, you have the album, plus an interactive experience of some sort. If I sound indifferent, it’s because I am. The iPhone thing was the only story during the ramp-up to this record’s release, and all I wanted to know about was the music. What was my favorite big-voiced Icelandic visionary going to drop on us this time?

Because here’s the thing: the last time Bjork truly knocked me over, musically speaking, was 1997’s Homogenic. I know a sizeable number of people like Vespertine, but I found it disappointing in comparison, and since then, she’s become more abstract, creating an album solely with the human voice (2004’s Medulla) and drowning another in beats (2007’s Volta). Along the way, she stopped writing memorable songs, concentrating instead on tone poems and mood pieces.

And perhaps the focus was on the iPhone apps for a reason, because Biophilia is Bjork’s most formless work yet. It’s strikingly minimalist – most songs include only one or two instruments, apart from programmed drums. And most of it sounds like a directionless meander, even by Bjork’s standards. Opener “Moon” is harp and voice, and that’s it, and at no point in its 5:45 does its author stumble upon a hook. “Thunderbolt” is the same way, except the harp has been replaced by organ and pitter-pattering drums.

I’m a fan of both “Crystalline” and “Cosmogony.” The former spins a web of chimes and drums, and includes an honest-to-gosh hook in its chorus, while the latter is like an old-school timeless ballad, played on synths, toned drums and horns. But things just take a dive from there. “Dark Matter” and “Hollow” are pipe organ nightmares with no discernible structure. I like the wordless chorus of “Virus,” for what it’s worth, but that’s the last moment of the album that holds anything for me, at least on the first few listens.

And yes, this is definitely something that will require listen after listen to properly absorb. Right now, it’s striking me the same way Jandek albums do, except everything’s in tune. The biggest tragedy of this record is that Bjork’s voice is still as wonderful, as commanding as it ever was. It’s a stunning instrument, and it elevates everything it sings. But this material just doesn’t seem worthy of it. She gives herself no real melodies to sing, no big moments to own, and that’s a shame.

Maybe I need the iPhone apps to really get the big picture here. But taken as 10 songs on a record, Biophilia is a confusing, abstract, messy piece that doesn’t play to its author’s strengths as often as it should. Perhaps further listens will change my mind, but for now, it goes on the disappointment pile.

* * * * *

I’ve waited a long time for this.

It’s been 13 years since Julian Lennon released Photograph Smile, the album that firmly cemented him as a songwriter to be reckoned with. Beatle John’s firstborn spent his early years avoiding any hint of his father’s influence in his music – see the synth-y pop of his first two records and the incongruous hard rock of Mr. Jordan – but with Photograph Smile, he embraced his heritage. Some of the songs on that album were downright Beatlesque, but others, such as the riveting “Crucified” and the lovely “Faithful,” proved Lennon’s mettle. It was a great album, and it seemed to signal a rebirth.

And then… nothing. And after that, nothing some more.

I don’t know how long he was working on his new one, Everything Changes, out now in the UK. All I can tell you is, it was worth it. This is Lennon’s best album – his most confident, most mature, most consistent effort. And while his penchant for straightforward, often cliched lyrics is still in evidence, he’s managed to come up with his strongest set of 12 songs, and used them to set a hopeful, accepting mood that lasts the entire album. After so many anguished tunes in the past, it’s great to hear Lennon so at peace here, so sure of himself, so seemingly happy.

If there’s a problem with Everything Changes, it’s that it may be a little too consistent. Songs stay in the same mid-tempo range, and there are few sonic surprises. But they’re compact and well-written, without a wasted note, and the production is sharp. Lennon is still happy to drop hints of his father’s work here and there – check the tiny callback to “Imagine” in “Invisible” – but the sound here is his own. There are highlights, like the title track and the lovely “Hold On,” but it’s Lennon’s ability to fill an entire album with these little pop gems that truly impresses here. There are no lowlights, is what I’m saying.

Of all of these songs, I’m happiest with “Just For You,” which marries a sweet acoustic verse with a rising-temperature chorus, one of Lennon’s best. “I’ve danced with the fallen angels, torn down the temple in two, sold my soul to the shadowman, just for you,” Lennon sings, and his voice has rarely sounded better. The record ends with another favorite, “Beautiful,” a classic Julian Lennon piano ballad about saying goodbye to a departed loved one. The words are straightforward – Lennon also shares that characteristic with his father – but his delivery is so earnest and honest that he sells it. “The love you left behind will carry on, you gave your heart and soul to everyone…”

Much of Everything Changes is like that – comfortable with heart-on-sleeve emotion. Just check out “Guess It Was Me,” in which Lennon is simultaneously critical and forgiving of himself: “I told the world that something was wrong, guess it was me all along.” It’s another indication that Lennon has come into his own. Even for a longtime fan like me, Everything Changes is a pleasant surprise. It’s a direct, simple, well-crafted pop album from a guy who has always deserved more respect than he gets. Welcome back, Julian. Don’t stay away so long next time.

* * * * *

And speaking of surprises, here’s Feist with a superb new record.

I know what you’re saying. Why am I surprised? Well, I’ve been on the verge of becoming a Feist fan for years, but I’ve never quite gotten there. Leslie Feist’s voice is terrific, I’ve just never warmed to the Sade-style light-jazz-pop she’s trafficked in. But as it turns out, all she needed to do to win my love is get a little bit darker.

Metals, her fourth album, is a moody departure, and is chock full of the best songs I’ve ever heard from her. There’s a dusty sense of longing and despair over these tunes, and her voice complements that perfectly. The first two songs alone are perfect tone-setters: “The Bad in Each Other” has a long-desert-road feel to it, and its chorus, with horns and strings attached, digs deep for its soul. And “Graveyard” is fantastic, its dusky minor-key verses leading into a shaft of light (“Bring them all back to life”). “Caught a Long Wind” is similarly terrific, its sparse piano chords leaving the focus right where it belongs – on that voice.

It’s almost a shame when the jazzy single, “How Come You Never Go There,” breaks the mood. But the song is so sweet that I don’t mind that much, and Feist sings the hell out of it. It’s a brief respite before “A Commotion,” the album’s heaviest moment. It begins with a foreboding bed of chugging strings, and even though it builds and builds, nothing will prepare you for the gang vocals shouting the title phrase. It’s startling, and superb.

Feist keeps things that inventive for the whole of the album’s running time. Even something simple like “Bittersweet Melodies” turns into a stunner midway through, and a sparse, bluesy workout like “Anti-Pioneer” just shows off what a great singer she is. This may be the best singer’s album I’ve heard this year, in fact – these songs give her a chance to show off in ways she never has, and man, she makes the most of it. But it’s the smaller, more intimate pieces that stick with me the most, like “Comfort Me,” a strummed highlight near the record’s end.

Metals is tremendous. It’s an album without one pop single, an album that probably made her record company reps sweat buckets. It’s a dark, evocative artistic triumph from a singer I’ve always wanted to like. And now I can. It’s almost as if she made this thing just for me, and if she did, well, I’m grateful. I like it a lot.

* * * * *

Next week, more. 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.