The thing about being an obsessive fan of something like Doctor Who is that you notice things the casual viewer may not. While the average person probably only knows Matt Smith, David Tennant and Tom Baker, the more seasoned viewer can tell you which guest actors appeared in which episodes. For instance, did you know that second Doctor Patrick Troughton’s son David has played three different roles in the series, once in the ‘60s, once in the ‘70s and once in 2008? It’s true.

Doctor Who has been on the air for so long that some terrific actors have, like David Troughton, made repeat performances, playing different characters. And after a while of combing through the old series, you start to recognize them as they pop up. Michael Wisher played six different parts between 1970 and 1975, most notably the original Davros, creator of the Daleks. Philip Madoc played four memorable roles, perhaps none more so than Solon in The Brain of Morbius. These are actors who don’t get the limelight reserved for the Doctor and his companions, but without whom, the show would suffer immeasurably.

Peter Halliday was one of those. Now, Halliday had a long career outside of my favorite long-running British sci-fi show, mostly on television, although he was in The Remains of the Day. But it’s his Doctor Who work that I will remember him for. Aside from his awesome voce work, he played four parts on the series, the first in 1968 and the last in 1988. That’s him as the Renaissance-era soldier Tom Baker outwits in City of Death. There he is as Pletrac, one of the more diplomatic aliens in Carnival of Monsters. And there he is in Remembrance of the Daleks, as a blind vicar who stands by as Sylvester McCoy buries the Hand of Omega.

But I will best remember him as the bumbling, hilarious Packer in the 1968 Patrick Troughton adventure The Invasion. Working against the amazing Kevin Stoney, Halliday displayed perfect comic timing, bringing a spry lightness to a part that could have been a simple lunkhead. Halliday and Stoney turned “Packer!” into a Who fan catchphrase, and practically stole the show out from under Troughton – not an easy thing to do.

Peter Halliday died last week at the age of 87. There won’t be many celebrity obituaries for him, but I wanted to express my appreciation for the contribution he made to one of my favorite shows. Those roles, particularly Packer, just would not have worked as well with another actor playing them. So thanks, Peter. Rest in peace.

* * * * *

This may seem like a no-brainer thing to say, but I have a really good musical memory.

If I hear a song, even once, chances are good that I will remember it. If I don’t, it’s usually because the song bores me, and I found nothing to latch onto. It’s very rare that I will hear something I like a great deal, and then not be able to remember it later.

But for some reason, that’s the predicament I’m in with Field Music. They’re a progressive pop band led by brothers Peter and David Brewis, with four albums to their name. I’ve liked every one of them. No, even better – every one of them has left my jaw on the floor. The Brewis brothers write and play music of startling complexity, yet with a firm commitment to melody and lush orchestration. You’d think they would be among my favorites. And while the records are playing, you’d be right.

When the music stops, however, Field Music has an uncanny way of simply leaving my head. A case in point: in 2009, the band released their second self-titled album (and third overall), which fans call Measure. It’s completely brilliant. Twenty songs, 70 minutes, intense yet sweet, with more than a few hints of Yes for good… um, measure. Straight up my street. And yet, I’m looking at the track listing now, and I can’t remember how a single one of these songs go. Play them for me again, and I’ll nod and agree about how good they are. But I never reviewed Measure, because I just couldn’t hang on to it, musically speaking.

I have no idea how the Brewis brothers managed this, or if this is something that’s happening to other people. But it’s definitely happening again with the band’s fourth album, Plumb. There’s nothing wrong with this album at all. Peter and David played nearly every instrument on here, but you’d think you’re listening to a full band with an uncommon grasp of rhythm. Plumb is 15 tracks in nearly 36 minutes, and it flows like a single song, a proggy suite of blissful melodies and odd time signatures. It is, frankly, great stuff.

Except I’ve heard it three times now, and I just don’t remember it at all. Nothing is sticking. I know the hook melody of “Sorry Again, Mate” has made me smile every time it comes up, but I couldn’t hum it for you. “Choosing Sides” is four minutes of essentially the same tricky riff, with variations laid on top, and even though I’ve basically heard that riff for 12 minutes, I don’t recall it. This may be the slipperiest music I’ve ever encountered, and it’s frustrating, because I want to give this a glowing, top-notch review. But now I’m trying to figure out if it’s me, or if these songs just aren’t that memorable.

On occasion, the complexity works against this record, muddying what could be soaring choruses. I like “Who’ll Pay the Bills,” for instance – it leaps from 7/8 to 4/4 nimbly, and it has a nifty descending melodic line in the chorus, and man, those drums are wonderful. But it’s not a song you’re going to be humming for days. In fact, I just heard it not more than five minutes ago, and I don’t think I could tell you how it goes. Some of this album, like “So Long Then,” is loping and low-key, too, which may not take root in the brain as well as the higher-energy tracks.

But on balance, I think it’s just me. Field Music is a band I should absolutely love, and while their records are blaring from my speakers, I absolutely do. Plumb is another superb album, progressive pop of the highest order. I’m near the end of the record now – the lovely a cappella piece “How Many More Times” has just given way to the orchestrated “Ce Soir,” and it’s tremendous. I know when this is over in a few minutes, it’s going to float away, and I won’t be able to hold on to it, and that makes me indescribably sad. If you can remember this album better than I can, I envy you, because it’s great.

* * * * *

Now, Shearwater? Shearwater is a band I remember.

I first heard them in 2008, midway through their Island Trilogy – Palo Santo, Rook and The Golden Archipelago – on a recommendation from longtime correspondent Lucas Beeley. (His brother Steve may have been involved as well.) One minute into Rook, and I was hooked for life. Shearwater makes glorious, dramatic, sweeping music. You could call it rock – they use the same instruments as a rock band – but somehow, it’s more than that. It’s bigger and older and more epic. And on top of all that is the supple, slightly odd, almost ghostly voice of Jonathan Meiburg, taking the material to new places with every syllable.

In retrospect, you could hear the band straining against the more placid tones of the Island Trilogy throughout Archipelago, the loudest of the three. But if you expected Shearwater to go from there to the jagged and earthy music they’ve made on their new one, Animal Joy, well, you’re better at this than me. This record is a surprise, but a wonderful one. It crackles with life, it prowls about its cage with ferocity and confidence. It’s the band’s finest work, at least partially because it takes your idea of what a Shearwater album can be and gives it a good shove.

It’s possible they’ve rocked harder than they do on “Breaking the Yearlings,” but that song’s jagged, stomping beat sounds like fresh energy to these ears. The raw organ sounds only add to the intensity. Meiburg doesn’t try to outdo the music – he just sings the way he always does on top of it, glistening falsetto and all, and it works beautifully. Similarly, Shearwater may have more expansive songs than “You As You Were,” but you’d be hard-pressed to name them while it’s playing. The repeated piano notes, the spine-tingling melody, the damn-the-torpedoes sweep of the thing – it’s just terrific.

The six-minute “Insolence,” at track five, is your first chance to catch your breath. It’s sparse and creepy, with a rolling drum line that occasionally comes out of nowhere. This song gets huge too, Meiburg singing his heart out over big, open chords. Right after this mini-epic is “Immaculate,” a two-minute garage rocker. Yes, I’m serious. Fast, explosive, completely unexpected. But that’s Animal Joy all over. I’m a fan of this band, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard them sound this alive.

The album ends with two of its prettiest tracks. The simple-yet-effective “Believing Makes It Easy” has one of those melodies you’re going to carry around with you for a while, and closer “Star of the Age” is one of Meiburg’s finest moments, an earthy anthem that reaches for the skies. There isn’t a track on Animal Joy that doesn’t move me, and this one wraps it all up perfectly.

If you’re a fan of this band, you’re going to want to hear this, since it subtly redefines them without losing their essence. If you’re new to them, you’re definitely going to want to hear this, because it’s the perfect introduction to where this band is, and where they’re heading. Animal Joy is an absolute stunner, a tremendous effort from a tremendous band.

* * * * *

Next week, who knows? Be here in seven days to find out. In the meantime, watch this trailer for Keane’s just-announced fourth album, Strangeland, out May 8 on these shores. Pretty excited. Plus, that means that Keane and Rufus Wainwright are releasing new albums on the same day. Orchestral pop overload!

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.

The new Choir album is called The Loudest Sound Ever Heard, and it comes out on April 10.

If you know me, you know that puts just about every other new release announcement on the back burner. There’s certainly music over the next two months that I’m excited about, including new things from the Magnetic Fields, Lyle Lovett, the Shins, the Mars Volta, the Cowboy Junkies, Spiritualized, BT, Brendan Benson, Jack White and Rufus Wainwright. But if I had to pick one that has me scouring the web for any information at all, and counting the days, it’s The Loudest Sound Ever Heard.

This is the way I live my life – always in a state of anticipation. I mark my mental calendar with gold stars representing album, film, book, TV and DVD releases, and I wait, nervously, until those days arrive. I have a little less than a month until that new Shins album, Port of Morrow, hits stores, and I’m excited for it, and dreading it at the same time. Same with Rufus Wainwright’s new one, Out of the Game. His last few have been all over the map, and this one promises to bring back the lushness of prior efforts. Rufus hasn’t knocked one out of the park since Want One in 2003, so there’s a lot riding on this one.

Now, take all that consternation and multiply it by 100, and you have about what I’m feeling as the release of The Loudest Sound Ever Heard draws closer. The Choir may be my favorite band, and they’ve been on such a roll lately – their last two records are among their best ever. I’m sincerely hoping they can keep the magic going. We’ll see in about a month and a half.

* * * * *

I’m anal-retentive about a lot of things. Punctuation is a big one. I truly hate pretentious misuses of punctuation – I’m looking at you, moe., and you, Panic! at the Disco.

So you can imagine how thrilled I am to review the new album from Fun. That’s f-u-n-period. It’s impossibly annoying. Even though I reservedly liked their debut, 2009’s Aim and Ignite, I never reviewed it here, at least partially because I didn’t want to type that damn period over and over in the middle of sentences. But alas, the new one, Some Nights, really deserves some digital ink.

Three years ago, Fun. was a modest little pop band, one that took from the Beatles and Queen in equal measure. But Some Nights is a massive sophomore effort, an ambitious piece of popcraft that rarely sounds like the work of the same band who made Aim and Ignite. This is an album that reaches for the brass ring with everything it has – nothing less than millions singing along with these anthems will do.

And it’s built around “We Are Young,” a single that is, by some measure, bigger than the band. It’s the kind of song they just have to wrestle to the ground, and not screw up. It’s already everywhere – on TV shows, in car commercials, seeping into our lives with inexorable force. It’s almost impossibly catchy, with a fists-in-the-air sentiment that means nothing, but sounds life-changing when you’re singing along. “Tonight we are young, so let’s set the world on fire, we can burn brighter than the sun…”

In many ways, Some Nights feels constructed around “We Are Young,” the other nine songs desperately trying to capture that universality again. To the band’s credit, they actually pull it off more than once. “Carry On” is a synth-driven pick-me-up that will soon be the song of choice for supportive friends to link to on Facebook. “It Gets Better” starts with a nervous squiggle, but soon explodes into an Auto-Tuned flurry of optimism.

There is little on Some Nights that sounds like the work of a real live band – this is almost fully synthetic, pitched somewhere between ‘80s Queen and the Flaming Lips at their most anthemic. “Why Am I the One” is a pleasant exception, built around strummed acoustics and chiming electrics, giving way to real-life strings on the wonderful coda.

The record doesn’t put a foot wrong until near the end, on a song fittingly titled “One Foot.” Its repetitive synth hook gets old after about 10 seconds, and there are 202 seconds to go after that. And the seven-minute finale “Stars” is clearly meant to be the anthem to end all anthems, but it dissipates into an Auto-Tuned mess. But before it crashes and burns, Some Nights gets at least five good-to-great songs out there into the world, and that’s worth celebrating.

It’s true that they never better “We Are Young,” but then, that’s a tall order. You’ll be hearing that song for years, and chances are it will live beyond the band who created it. That’s kind of a shame, so when you hear that song on the radio, remember the band’s name. It’s Fun. With a period at the end.

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I said up top that the Choir’s new album overshadows everything else coming out this year, but that’s not completely true. My other favorite band, Marillion, has a new one slated for this fall, and while I don’t know much about it yet (except for some dispiriting rumblings about “funk rock”), I’m looking forward to it. Marillion is like no other band out there, at once monolithic and intimate, cerebral and intensely emotional. Every time they make a record, it’s an event.

I have no idea when to expect that one, alas. So until it makes its appearance, I will have to be satisfied with frontman Steve Hogarth’s new album, a collaboration with Richard Barbieri called Not the Weapon But the Hand. Thankfully, Hogarth and Barbieri make it easy to be satisfied. This is a dark and ambient piece of work, rich and layered and simply hypnotic. It sounds nothing like Marillion, and I wouldn’t want Hogarth’s main band to sound like this, but as a one-off collection of atmospheres, it’s tremendous.

Hogarth’s partner in crime here, Richard Barbieri, is the full-time keyboard player for Porcupine Tree and No-Man. He brings a lot more of the latter project’s mood to this record – Barbieri composed and performed synth-driven instrumental tracks, over which Hogarth wrote lyrics and vocal melodies. Nothing here rocks, and only one song (the great “Only Love Will Make You Free”) has an identifiable chorus. The rest meanders in the best possible way, taking time to weave in and out of corners and detour down back alleys.

Some of these tracks may test the patience of pop music fans. Despite some fine guitar work from XTC’s Dave Gregory, “A Cat With Seven Souls” doesn’t really go anywhere, and “Naked” takes its one melodic idea and surrounds it with a sea of moody dulcimers and bells. But it’s like someone once said about Marillion – either you’re waiting the whole time for the good part, or you think it’s all basically the good part. The seven longish songs here (and one postlude) all weave a particular spell, and if you’re not under it, you’ll probably find this a bit boring.

But for those of us who can get on this record’s wavelength, it’s pretty cool. The production is dense and intricate – there’s something new to catch the ear every few seconds, if you’re listening for it. Barbieri’s synth tracks mesh with Gregory’s guitar like they were meant to be together. And Hogarth’s voice is amazing. He’s one of my favorite singers on the planet. Here he spends a lot of time whispering – check out “Your Beautiful Face,” essentially a spoken word piece that Hogarth infuses with menace. But he can also put amazing power behind that voice, and aim it straight for your soul.

For proof, look no further than the centerpiece of this album, “Only Love Will Make You Free.” It starts slow and mellow, a rolling synth over exotic percussion, as Hogarth sing-speaks the verse. But starting with the soaring chorus, the tune rises and falls over eight wonderful minutes. The best parts come when the waves crest and crash, leaving nothing but Hogarth’s whispers. In the end, it stands as a fitting counterpart to Marillion’s grand “Happiness Is the Road.”

Not the Weapon But the Hand is unlike anything Steve Hogarth has done, a real shift in tone and direction for one of my favorite singers. But if you like ambient music (which I do), and you’re able to just let a record like this drift over you, it’ll put you in the best kind of trance. It’s an album of surprising depth and beauty, and a fine way to tide yourself over until the Marillion album, which will no doubt sound nothing like this. (Funk rock? Really?) Get it here.

* * * * *

I am new to the wonders of Chris Thile, and I owe Kevin Trudo for making the musical introduction.

Kevin – an accomplished musician and songwriter – simply loves Thile, and it’s easy to see why. I’ve only heard his now-three Punch Brothers albums and a couple of solo records, but I’m ready to call Thile a once-in-a-lifetime kind of musician. He’s a mandolin player, and an absolute magician on that instrument. He can make it do things that will boggle your mind. But he’s not a showoff, by any means – Thile is all about the song, the arrangement, the full power of music.

He spent his early years in Nickel Creek, a band at the forefront of the “newgrass” movement. But it’s with his new outfit, the five-piece Punch Brothers, that Thile is really making his mark. They’re a standard bluegrass lineup – guitar, bass, banjo, mandolin and fiddle – but the last thing they would play is standard bluegrass. The first Punch Brothers album included a 42-minute prog-rock epic of stunning complexity, and the follow-up Antifogmatic presented a beautiful, streamlined vision of complex bluegrass pop.

The third, Who’s Feeling Young Now, takes that vision even farther. This record contains no drums or percussion whatsoever, but is a full-on rock album nonetheless. These are Arcade Fire-type songs in scope and power, and though they’re played on acoustic instruments, they’ll still bowl you over. Opener “Movement and Direction,” about pitcher Greg Maddux, is one of the most impressively-arranged pieces of music you will hear all year. The banjo and mandolin lock into a wrist-breaking, almost ghostly groove while the bass flits around it, and the fiddle lifts it into the stratosphere. There are points when the instruments seem to be playing in different time signatures, but it all coheres under Thile’s strong, clear voice.

“No Concern of Yours” holds the title of 2012’s prettiest song thus far. Thile’s melody is heartbreaking, Gabe Witcher’s fiddle playing simply lovely, and when the band reaches for that high lonesome sound in the bridge, it’s magic. The title track would be indie rock, if played on electric guitars (and with a lot less subtlety). The fact that this song has no drums at all is simply incredible. “Patchwork Girlfriend” is a drunken shanty, “Hundred Dollars” flirts with blues rock, and “Soon or Never” is soaring, heartrending folk music. The one thing they rarely play on this record is bluegrass.

The Brothers include two covers, both instrumentals. The first is Vasen’s bluegrass workout “Flippen (The Flip),” and is the closest this record comes to the traditional. The second is an astonishing arrangement of Radiohead’s “Kid A.” With nothing but their five acoustic instruments, the Brothers perfectly mimic every electronic blip and whir of the original. They even somehow capture the tone of Thom Yorke’s processed vocals, with nothing but fiddle and stand-up bass. It’s just incredible.

Who’s Feeling Young Now closes with a much simpler piece – the poppy “Don’t Get Married Without Me.” It’s a showcase for Thile’s voice, and the arrangement is top notch, and it ends the record with a bang. This is the best and clearest elucidation yet of Thile’s vision, of the directions he believes bluegrass can go. And it’s just awe-inspiring stuff. Thile’s one in a million, and with this band, he’s reaching new heights. I may be new to his world, but I’m excited to follow wherever he goes.

* * * * *

I did finally get that Guided by Voices album, but I may just refuse to review it for a while, just to keep the streak going. By the time I get to it, there will likely be another – Class Clown Spots a UFO, which has already been announced. Before that, Pollard has another solo record, called Mouseman Cloud, set for March 6. Seriously, when does the man sleep?

Next week, Field Music and Shearwater. Spoiler alert: they’re both fantastic. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’m a piano player.

I’m not good enough to do it professionally or anything, but I started playing when I was six, and I’ve stuck with it when I can. I was the guy who knew how to plunk out Journey’s “Open Arms” and Richard Marx’s “Right Here Waiting” in high school, and I pretended to grumble each time I was asked to play them, but really, I loved it. And I still do love it whenever anyone asks me to play.

So naturally, I’ve always been drawn to the piano as an instrument. I was a Bruce Hornsby fan at an early age, I stuck with Billy Joel and Elton John far longer than anyone should, and you can just imagine how excited I was to hear Ben Folds for the first time. The ebonies and ivories still do it for me – from Keane to Jack’s Mannequin to Over the Rhine to Quiet Company to Kate Bush’s new record. I think it’s the most beautiful instrument there is, if it’s played right.

Which is why I’ll give anything that promises piano-pop a try. That’s how I ended up with so many Gavin Degraw records, but it’s also how I first heard Rufus Wainwright, and the amazing Jukebox the Ghost. It’s also the only excuse I have for liking the Fray, a band so average and banal that most critics have simply dismissed them. But not this idiot. I’ll keep buying their stuff and hoping to like it, largely because Isaac Slade plays piano, and the band puts that at the forefront of their sound.

Or at least, they did. The band’s self-titled second album was a huge step in the right direction for me, with some tricky and memorable songs, and a strong focus on the piano melodies. “Syndicate,” “Absolute,” “Say When,” “Enough for Now,” “We Build Then We Break” – all pretty nice songs that found the Fray sounding like an honest-to-god piano-pop band. There were some lame tracks, and of course they were the hits, but The Fray sounded like the work of a band determined to forge its own identity, limitations be damned.

Alas, here’s Scars and Stories, the band’s third, and all that work has been washed away. The band hired Brendan O’Brien to produce, presumably hoping he would add some punch to their sound. And he has, by de-emphasizing the piano, moving the guitars up front, and smoothing everything out. Slade’s keys are now just a part of the sound – it’s there, on every track, but it never grabs the spotlight the way I want it to. The guitars are certainly louder and more prominent, but everything’s been blanded up to a sad degree.

The problem isn’t just with the sound, though. It’s the songs. I’ve heard Scars and Stories four times now, and I still don’t remember most of these tunes. The hooks just aren’t there, and the melodies that are there are completely forgettable. First single “Heartbeat” sets the whole tone – the simplistic chorus sounds like it’s building to something, but it isn’t. That’s it. A song like “Run For Your Life” ought to be better – it’s dramatic and massive, but it never gets off the ground.

You have to wait until track six, “1961,” to hear a melody that will stick with you. And you have to wait until track seven, “I Can Barely Say,” to hear Slade’s piano take center stage. That’s a slight song with a shaky, emotional falsetto chorus, but it’s drowned in a goopy orchestral arrangement. The record gets better near the end – “Here We Are” is a somewhat convincing attempt to ape early U2, complete with raging electric guitar, and I like the simple sentiments of closing hymn “Be Still.”

Otherwise, though, there isn’t much here you wouldn’t find on your average Lifehouse album, and that’s pretty depressing. The band members say they took some time to see the world before writing tracks for this album, and found inspiration in other countries. “Munich,” for example, was supposedly inspired by the Large Hadron Collider, the world’s largest particle accelerator, located at CERN in Switzerland. But you’d never know it from the average love song lyrics: “Girl you know it terrifies me, and I don’t know why, there you go, you paralyze me, and I don’t know why…”

It’s all so blasé, so achingly normal. I expect this album will do very well for the band, but speaking as someone who enjoyed the piano-pop direction of their last effort, I’m disappointed in this one. They’ve taken everything that set them apart and ground it into dust, emerging as just another in a million typical radio-ready pop acts. Sad, really.

* * * * *

So yeah, sometimes it doesn’t work out, but quite often, it does. It was my fascination with piano pop that led me to the work of Jonathan Jones, for instance, a little-known California songwriter who has been pounding the keys (and singing winning melodies over them) on record since 2004. He’s led two bands, Waking Ashland and We Shot the Moon, and though the latter is still a going concern, he’s also embarked on a solo career. Last year, Jones took to Kickstarter to officially launch that career, asking fans to help fund a new album.

That album is now here, and it’s pretty great. It’s called Community Group, and though it’s barely half an hour long, it’ll give you a good idea of Jones’ sound. He eases you in with the brief, plaintive “Last Place,” cellos sighing longingly, and then smacks you with “The Living Dead,” a world-class pop song. With one “wait it out, wait it out,” he’s got me. I love this. And the quality never lets up over Community Group’s 10 tracks.

I’m simply in love with the title track, a nostalgic vision of meeting the one you love at “Tuesday night community group.” The fun brass parts only serve to accentuate the heartfelt chorus. I also adore “Hey Andy,” the album’s most brash rocker, all about convincing a friend to start a band. (“So put in your two weeks at the factory, Andy…”) And “Brand New Eyes” balances off the piano and electronic drums with a rustic banjo.

Lyrically, this is Jones’ most searching, spiritual record, with several songs dedicated to seeking out lost faith. “Duracell” is a head-swaying, tuba-honking, Beatlesque number, over which Jones asks, “Where’d the spirit go?” “My Faith” is the most straightforward – over tender piano chords and glorious strings and brass, Jones pleads, “Where’s my faith, please come out of hiding, my poor heart is crying for you.” But by the time he reaches the album’s sweet acoustic conclusion, “Morning Light,” he’s ready to hope: “Morning light, sweet morning light, be my strength ‘til the day I die, a brand new life for you and I…”

I feel pretty safe in saying you likely haven’t heard Jonathan Jones. But this brief, terrific little album is worth your time. You can hear it all for free here. Jones is working on a new We Shot the Moon record now, but I hope he doesn’t give up his solo work. Community Group may be the best thing he’s done.

* * * * *

And sometimes, great piano-pop simply passes me by.

My friend Tony Shore hosts a splendid podcast at www.obviouspop.com, and I’m sure at one point over the last year or so, he recommended Ian Axel to me. And I dropped the ball. It took hearing Axel’s tremendous song “Waltz” on the Obvious PopCast year-end extravaganza to get me to wake up. “Waltz” is a devastatingly good song, and most of Axel’s 2010 debut album, This is the New Year, lives up to it. When I say I love piano pop, this is what I’m talking about.

New Year starts with “Leave Me Alone,” a bouncy kiss-off set to pounded chords, handclaps, and a joyous sound that hides the bitterness beneath. “Afterglow” is all joy, the melodramatic strings giving way to Axel harmonizing with himself. It’s just a great song, and its follow-up, “Gone,” is just as good – in fact, it’s as good a left-and-leaving song as any I’ve heard. The title tune is delirious, Axel adding flailing guitar heroics to his keys, and then stripping it all away at the most dramatic moment.

The centerpiece of this album is still undoubtedly “Waltz,” a powerhouse piece of writing. It lurches forward on an inexorable three-four beat, and builds up and up to the magnificent chorus: “You can’t stop us now, no, you can’t stop us…” The album never quite hits those all-together-now heights again, but its second half is still strong. “Cannonball” is a brief piano-and-strings interlude that strikes gold, “Girl I Got a Thing” is a wonderful pop song, and “We Are” is a simple number that somehow unfolds into an epic. (Sad-sack conclusion “Say Something” is also simple, but doesn’t fare as well.)

I owe Tony Shore a lot, and this superb album puts me even further in his debt. Ian Axel is a talent worth following, and I plan to follow him from here on out. Check him out here.

* * * * *

Next week, Field Music (for real), Shearwater, and that damn Guided by Voices album. 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.

Today is the one-year anniversary of my Patch site.

I rarely talk about my real job here, and I probably won’t even make a big deal of it on my site today, but considering where I started – trying to gain a foothold in a town that had never been covered by its own dedicated news source, a town in which a full third of the village board doesn’t even own computers – I’m pretty proud of where I am now. Last month I topped 12,000 unique visitors, in a town of 18,000 people. That ain’t bad.

So happy anniversary to me. And thanks to everyone who reads both sites. (I know there are a few of you.)

* * * * *

I am listening to the new Van Halen album. And there’s a sentence I never thought I’d type again.

I’ve been a Van Halen fan for as long as I can remember. I’m pretty sure the first song of theirs I heard was “Jump,” which came out when I was 10. In that sense, my story isn’t unique: “Jump” was most of America’s first Van Halen song, atypical as it was. I’m fairly certain I heard 1984 first as well – my cousin had a wide selection of cool music on tape, and I think that was how I heard my first Van Halen record. I definitely remember the chain-smoking cherub on the cover from my early days.

But it was Brian Miller who really got me into them. Brian was the guitar player in my junior high school band, and it was through him that I started listening to guitarists, like Steve Vai and Frank Zappa. And of course, Eddie Van Halen. Brian showed me how Eddie played “Cathedral,” still one of the most impressive feats of six-string wizardry I’ve ever heard. And I remember listening to “Eruption,” the explosive solo piece on the first Van Halen album, and seeing his eyes light up. “Eruption” sounds like every fleet-fingered guitar wanker now, but in 1978, no one had ever played anything like it.

I quickly devoured every VH album I could get my hands on. This was 1987, so that meant everything through 5150, Sammy Hagar’s debut as the new singer. I loved David Lee Roth’s swagger, especially on fun and funny records like Diver Down, but 5150 had a few of my favorite Van Halen tunes on it. “Dreams,” especially, worked for 13-year-old me, as did “Love Walks In” and “Best of Both Worlds.” I didn’t realize at the time what a seismic shift 5150 represented. I just knew the band was taking itself more seriously, and as a moody and self-obsessed teenager, I related to that.

I believe I heard OU812 at Christian summer camp, which is pretty funny, if you think about it. Van Hagar’s sleaziest record is also their best, I think – it would be all downhill from there, through the blasé cock-rock of For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge and the uninspired slop of Balance. I remember the latter album hitting stores my junior year of college, and arguing with a couple of diehards about it. I thought it sucked from the outset. (My feelings on it have lightened somewhat, but not much.)

I have a much more complicated relationship with Van Halen III, also known as the Gary Cherone Experiment. When that album came out in 1998, I was a paid professional music reviewer. Also, I was (and still am) a big fan of Extreme, Cherone’s band. I thought Cherone was an inspired choice to take over vocal duties in VH – the man can sing pretty much anything well. Unfortunately, Eddie and Gary apparently decided to stick with a Sammy Hagar impression.

Cherone was a disappointment, but I still contend that Van Halen III is a terrific little record. It’s Eddie’s last-gasp bid for respectability, and Cherone’s politically-minded lyrics certainly helped. But it’s Eddie’s songwriting that really shone. “Year to the Day,” just by itself, is eight minutes and 47 seconds of awesome. Van Halen spent 13 years growing up, and on Van Halen III, they finally pulled it off.

So of course, it was a huge flop, and even the brothers Van Halen don’t like to talk about it much these days. They essentially took the next decade off, and with each passing year, Van Halen felt like the product of a different time. It’s interesting trying to put forth the argument that VH is an important band, despite the fact that they self-evidently are: before Eddie Van Halen hit the scene, no one played guitar like him. After, everyone played guitar like him. They practically invented a style of music that dominated the airwaves for the next 12 years.

But the band itself seems to defy any notions of importance. Their best records are effortless, fun, ridiculous things, the true talent of the band hiding behind the showiness of the whole thing. David Lee Roth had an outsized carnival huckster personality that turned everything into a circus, and it’s hard to make a good case for songs called “Everybody Wants Some” and “Bottoms Up,” to name a couple of killer tunes. It was a different time, and artistry wore different guises. (And every time Eddie Van Halen decided to aim for the respect he was due, his efforts fell flat.)

So what to make of A Different Kind of Truth, that new Van Halen record? It is defiantly a return to the original sound. The Van Halens have reunited with Roth, they’ve dug up a bunch of older songs that were never officially released, and they even brought the old winged VH logo back into service. This should be the punchline to a joke – Eddie Van Halen is 57, his brother is 58, and Roth is 56. To make matters worse, they’ve enlisted Eddie’s 20-year-old son Wolfgang to replace Michael Anthony on bass. This should be a pale shadow of the Van Halen of old, a wheezing, sputtering jester, falling flat on his face.

Except for one thing: it isn’t.

Believe me, I went into this thing ready to sharpen the knives. The first single and leadoff track, “Tattoo,” seemed to confirm the worst: it’s a lame song with a sleazy theme, and Roth’s aging voice is hung out there to twist in the wind. (Although I have to admire the particularly DLR line “mousewife to momshell.”) And in retrospect, I have no idea why this song is on A Different Kind of Truth, never mind leading it off. The rest of the record is so much better.

In fact, it’s kind of great. If you had told me that at age 57, Eddie Van Halen would be able to play like this, I wouldn’t have believed you. This is his loudest, heaviest, most technical and just plain badass work in 25 years. Check out second track “She’s the Woman” – it starts with a terrific bass-led figure, slams into a great riff, and midway through, evolves into this complicated power trio showcase. And Wolfgang! It’s not hard to be a better player than Michael Anthony, but man, this kid is great. He ups Alex’s game, and Alex was pretty awesome to begin with.

For my money, the opening track should have been “China Town.” It’s a fast and furious slice of metal – like real, heavy metal, not like “Don’t Tell Me What Love Can Do.” In this setting, Roth sounds wonderful. He’s always been more of a showman than a singer, and when the band is chugging forward on full throttle, that works as well as it always has. He strains on some notes here and there – “Blood and Fire” is problematic – but as usual, he gets by on style.

And with Roth, and with this material, the swagger is back. This record struts about like it knows how good it is, and even its lesser moments are carried along by sheer confidence. “Told you I was coming back,” Roth says at one point. “Tell me you missed me. Say it like you mean it.” Swagger. And then they hit you with “Bullethead,” 2:51 of tight, focused, killer metal, with a screaming solo.

The best thing about A Different Kind of Truth is that it never lets up. “As Is” will drop your jaw, it’s so tight and heavy and just blistering. “The Trouble With Never” rides a funky lick and a stomping riff to glory. (This one could have gone, just as it is, on Van Halen II.) Eddie breaks out the acoustic guitars for the first minute or so of the super-fun “Stay Frosty” at track 11, and it’s the first moment you’ll have to breathe. And of course, the band kicks in with full force seconds later, and they don’t stop until album’s end.

That end is “Beats Workin’,” a classic David Lee Roth-style number about the band’s longevity. Roth’s voice is at its weakest on this one, but after the previous 40 or so minutes, you won’t care. This tune is just the kind of comedown this powerhouse of an album needed. Here’s hoping when this incarnation of Van Halen starts writing new songs, they’re like these.

I truly did not expect to like A Different Kind of Truth as much as I do, and if the fifty-somethings in this band can keep up this level of energy on stage, they’re going to have a triumph on their hands. This is a band I have liked for pretty much my entire life, and they’ve overcome my doubts and hit me with a new classic. I can barely believe it. Thirteen-year-old me loves this record, and 37-year-old me likes it quite a bit too. Are they an important band? When they’re playing this well, it almost doesn’t matter.

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Next week, piano pop with the Fray, Ian Axel and Jonathan Jones.

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.

It’s February! Holy hell.

So let’s talk about singers and voices, and why I think they’re different. I’ve been getting into a few musical arguments lately (some of which have gotten out of hand – sorry about that), and one of the topics has been just what qualifies someone as a good singer, and whether those qualities are important. One of my frequent sparring partners is a trained singer, and looks for the same kind of training in any singer he encounters: good pitch, good control, good tone.

And that’s admirable, I think, but so few singers in the worlds I inhabit ever get there. Kathleen Edwards, whose terrific new album Voyageur I reviewed last week, is one of them – her voice is a strong and supple instrument. But I’d be hard-pressed to say the same about Matthew Caws of Nada Surf, last week’s other contestant. And I like the new Nada Surf album more.

This is going to sound disingenuous coming from a guy who doesn’t like Bob Dylan, but if your voice is interesting, and holds the listener, and you’ve arranged the music to suit it, then it doesn’t have to actually be “good.” A classic example is Tom Waits. He sounds like a gorilla that’s spent the last 30 years swallowing razor blades, but there’s no one else I want singing a tune like “Flower’s Grave.” Tom Waits sings Tom Waits songs like no one else.

And then there’s Leonard Cohen. Never the world’s greatest singer – he sounded like an old poet even at 32 – Cohen’s voice has atrophied into a low, tuneless bass rumble. He’s 77 now, and on his 12th studio record (cheekily titled Old Ideas), he doesn’t really sing. He speaks, in a whisper that could move mountains. But sweet lord, this record is wonderful, and I wouldn’t want anyone else at the microphone. Cohen’s voice, far from being some sort of detriment, actually makes this thing.

Old Ideas isn’t much different from the work Cohen’s been doing lately. The songs are spectral blues pieces, spare and ghostly, and his voice is contrasted with female backup singers (longtime collaborators Sharon Robinson and the Webb Sisters). Anjani Thomas and Jennifer Warnes make appearances, as they have for years. Cohen’s mind is on God, ruined love and old age, and he’s still finding new ways to plumb these well-worn topics.

So yeah, this is a Leonard Cohen album, but it’s a particularly good one. It’s largely shorn of the synthesizers Cohen’s been using since the ‘80s, with producers Patrick Leonard and Ed Sanders casting him in more timeless jazz and gospel settings. The absolutely wonderful seven-minute “Amen” is drums, banjo and pump organ, and little else, as Cohen sings of his own unworthiness: “Tell me again when I’m clean and I’m sober, tell me again when I’ve seen through the horror, tell me you want me then, amen…”

“Darkness” is a dirty blues that tackles the album’s grimmer themes head-on: “I got no future, I know my days are few, the present’s not so pleasant, just a lot of things to do, I thought the past would last me, but the darkness got that too…” Its follow-up, “Anyhow,” is a plea for mercy: “I know you can’t forgive me, but forgive me anyhow…” Cohen is close-miked here, and you can feel the shape of his voice, over a shimmering shuffle and some lovely piano work from Leonard.

There is light within these shadows, however, as there always is. “Come Healing” is a prayer for solace, for water in an endless desert, and it sounds like it. Dana Glover’s harmonized vocals take center stage for nearly a full minute, over spare electric piano: “And let the heavens hear it, the penitential hymn, come healing of the spirit, come healing of the limb.” Cohen’s voice fits into this perfectly, worn and weary and seeking grace.

And on “Lullaby,” he offers that grace in return. One of the few songs here with the Casio percussion that has been a Cohen trademark, “Lullaby” is a balm: “If your heart is torn, I don’t wonder why, if the night is long, here’s my lullaby…” It’s almost a shame when the album ends with the bitter “Different Sides,” a song of recrimination. But it’s just as well. Cohen remains a fascinating figure, torn between the sacred and the profane, and the off-kilter conclusion to Old Ideas retains that tension.

Leonard Cohen remains a singular artist, and this album would not work nearly as well with a more traditionally “good” singer. It’s his old-as-time, deeply authoritative voice that gives Old Ideas its power. For more than 40 years, Cohen has found the perfect collaborators and written the perfect music for that voice, and on Old Ideas, he does that better than he has in some time. His is a voice worth treasuring.

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Another idiosyncratic singer is Craig Finn of the Hold Steady. I’m not sure just how to describe his voice, if you’ve never heard it – it’s pinched, with a rough-hewn quality and something of a sneering tone. It works well in his band, which spits fire all over its tumbling Springsteen grooves. In that setting, it’s another part of the vibe – rousing, nostalgic and yet pissing on nostalgia at the same time.

But so much of what makes the Hold Steady work is that fire. Would Finn’s voice work apart from that setting? Finn’s first solo album is a chance to find out. It’s called Clear Heart Full Eyes (an inverted take on Coach Taylor’s catchphrase from Friday Night Lights), and it’s a quieter, more diverse take on the Hold Steady sound. Finn the storyteller is in full bloom here, but the music behind him is more acoustic, more sparse, and full of color.

Does it work? Sure. Finn doesn’t sound much different here, spitting out complex lines full of consonants, but where the Hold Steady would turn something like “Terrified Eyes” into a punky wall of noise, Finn’s crack band renders it as a sorta-folksy driving song. You’ll notice the difference right away: “Apollo Bay” starts off with a slow beat and fumbling guitars before bringing in the lap steels, and the song takes off about halfway through, but never picks up steam.

“New Friend Jesus” sounds like Uncle Tupelo, Finn’s voice taking on a Jay Farrar twang over rollicking acoustics. It’s my favorite lyric here too: “Now people give me sideways looks when we set up on the strand, but it’s hard to suck with Jesus in your band.” Jesus is a recurring character on this record, cropping up in “Western Pier” and “Honolulu Blues,” and conceptual links connect most of these songs. When the album ends with the sad “Not Much Left of Us,” you feel like you’ve been following a set of characters that have come to their dissolution point.

The sonic shakeup seems to be exactly what Finn needed – this is a much stronger effort than the Hold Steady’s last release, Heaven is Whenever. In retrospect, that album may have been an attempt to do songs like these within the Hold Steady framework, and it simply didn’t work. Clear Heart Full Eyes works, and I hope Finn can bring some of this more reflective sense of adventure with him when he rejoins his band.

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I haven’t heard a lot of complaints about John K. Samson’s voice, but I’ve always found it a little odd.

The Weakerthans singer has a high, reedy quality about him, sort of like Ben Gibbard, but less distinctive. It works very well in the context of his band’s driving, folksy rock, but like Craig Finn, Samson has just stripped everything down to its quietest point for his solo bow, Provincial. And where Finn’s effort is decent, even pretty good, Samson’s is wonderful.

Like the best of the Weakerthans’ stuff, Provincial is sad and wistful, but the music here matches – it’s acoustic guitars and strings and icy textures. A few songs (most notably “When I Write My Master’s Thesis” and “Longitudinal Centre”) crank up the volume and hit the distortion pedal, but for much of the running time, Samson is reflective and thoughtful. These tunes are twisty things, full of little surprises, and Samson’s voice is in fine form.

There’s real sorrow here, and a true sense that these people and places Samson is describing live in his head. Samson has long been an underrated lyricist, and his poems here read like little stories. “The Last And” so completely paints its picture of a broken love affair between a schoolteacher and a principal that you’ll feel like you’ve watched the movie of their story. “After Christmas holidays you never asked to drive me home again, and sometimes in the staff room I catch your eye with ‘why’d it have to end,’ but I know from how you worry at your wedding band, I was just your little ampersand…”

“Grace General,” in fact, could stand by itself as a short story in an anthology. Here it is, in full, in paragraph form as it appears in the liner notes:

“Cruel snow, cracked lips, sun lost by 4. Cold winces through the cardboard window where the cobblestone was smashed into glass, and the bare bulb of moon swings over Portage Avenue, lights the icy ruts they sprinkled with sand, down the dim hall of chain stores to Grace, where the parking lot is full again and I don’t bother locking up. The face, before the doors slide apart, is hers, the day they took away the candy and left gift-shop tulips to frame her alarmed ‘what will I do now?’ What will I do now?”

Elsewhere, Samson devotes an entire song to a petition to get former Philadelphia Flyers hockey player Regge Leach into the hall of fame. But he also finds new ways to describe isolation and inertia in “Stop Error,” and puts you in the driver’s seat in a dead-end small town on “Cruise Night.” Provincial is a lyrical tour de force, and is musically just as strong. It’s a fine solo project from an underrated talent, and his voice carries it beautifully.

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That’s it for this week. Next week, Van Halen. I’m actually hoping this isn’t horrible, but I’m not counting on it. Also possible: Of Montreal, Paul McCartney, and the Fray, plus catch-up reviews of Ian Axel and Jonathan Jones.

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.