Every time I get to see Mike Roe play, I consider it a privilege.

Roe is a guitar player, but that never seems to cover it for me. Let’s put it this way: if I were able to simply pick up a guitar and do with it what Mike Roe can, I’d never get tired of it. I’d play all day, every day, and marvel at the magic I’m making. I’ll go to pretty much any lengths to hear him play. Lately, that’s involved trekking three and a half hours south to the Cornerstone Festival, and sitting in the sweltering heat to hear Roe’s brief sets.

But on Friday night, I got the rare pleasure of seeing Roe play in a room a couple miles from my house. And it was fantastic.

The show also drew the largest audience I can remember seeing at one of Mike’s local concerts. I think there were a couple hundred people there, an audience far smaller than the man deserves, but still far larger than normal. I was thrilled, and at the same time saddened – Mike’s been so good for so long that I think he should be a household name by now. But despite a remarkably consistent recording career (on his own, with his band the 77s, and with the Lost Dogs) that spans 30 years and a long history of magical shows, very few people know who he is.

But that means I still get to see him in small, intimate rooms like the Warehouse Church in Aurora, where he and former 77s guitarist David Leonhardt alternately strummed acoustics with deft grace, and let loose with a scorching twin electric guitar assault. The acoustic portions of the set were uncommonly beautiful, particularly “Kites Without Strings,” played near the end. Roe hasn’t lost any of his soaring falsetto, and the song remains simply gorgeous. (Here, check out the video from Friday night.)

It was the electric stuff, though, that brought down the house. Roe and Leonhardt are touring behind a massive three-CD re-release of Sticks and Stones, one of the most popular 77s albums, and they tore through this old material with a vengeance. Using programmed drum beats, the two played explosive versions of “You Walked In the Room,” “The Days to Come” and the awesome “This Is the Way Love Is.” And they topped it all with “God Sends Quails,” a dark and foreboding masterpiece that I never thought I’d get to hear live.

By the end of the set, when we were all singing the wordless parts of “Ba Ba Ba Ba” and “Nowhere Else,” the show achieved some sort of transcendence. Every time I get to experience this, I feel lucky to have found Mike Roe’s music, and to have had the chance to see him as often as I have. If you get the chance, you really should take it.

* * * * *

And of course, I picked up a copy of that Sticks and Stones re-release.

When Sticks and Stones came out in 1990, I was a high school sophomore, and I’d never heard of the 77s. It was my obsession with the Choir, one of their contemporaries, that eventually brought me around. I’ve said this before, but the Choir’s Circle Slide was my gateway drug to this whole corner of the music world. I followed lead singer Derri Daugherty to his side project, the Lost Dogs, and from there found the 77s, Daniel Amos and Adam Again, all incredible bands.

I think the first Roe album I bought was his solo project, The Boat Ashore. (His name’s Michael Roe, and the album is called The Boat Ashore. That by itself may have sold me.) I’m pretty sure the first 77s album I heard was Tom Tom Blues, the fiery debut of the current trio lineup of the band. So I worked backwards, beginning with the more Zeppelin-esque heroics of the ‘90s and hearing the poppier ‘80s stuff later. And I’m not sure which I liked better at the time. In fact, I’m still not sure – both eras are so good, and the current Gospel-inspired stuff is marvelous too.

Among 77s fans, Sticks and Stones is a classic, which probably comes as a surprise to Roe and the band, since it really is a collection of demos and also-rans. Listening to it as a whole, you’d never suspect that it wasn’t intended as a cohesive album of songs. It flows better than many records conceived as such. Sticks and Stones is the last gasp of the original 77s lineup of Roe, keyboardist Mark Tootle, bassist Jan Eric and drummer Aaron Smith, and it serves as a love letter to an era.

As Roe says in his new liner notes, the songs set this album apart. They’re all terrific, from the danceable rock of “MT” to the delightful full-on pop of “Nowhere Else” to the absolutely smoking “Perfect Blues,” on which Roe laments the failings of his gender. (“Face it, we’re all jerks.”) “The Days to Come” is a barnburner, Roe spinning out those guitar lines effortlessly, and the aforementioned “This Is the Way Love Is” should have been a hit single. Tootle’s simple piano line and Roe’s spoken vocals at the start give way to a relentless beat and some blistering lead guitar. “It’s a one-sided double-minded mirror with no reflection…”

But Sticks and Stones contains two songs I would consider among the best of the 77s material, and pretty high on my list of all-around favorites. Roe describes “Don’t, This Way” as the saddest song he’s ever heard, and it’s up there for me. A farewell to a departed friend, this seven-minute wonder is all about Roe’s guitar lines – to this day, I can’t hear that moment when the ascending guitar melody kicks in at 0:45 without getting chills. The recording is minimalist in the best way, leaving plenty of space for that guitar, and it’s just a heartrending piece of music.

And then there’s “God Sends Quails,” which Roe considers a failure. I can name 50 songwriters off the top of my head who would be thrilled to count this among their successes. One of the darkest pieces in the 77s canon, this song opens with two full minutes of Roe soloing over an oppressive, ominous bass line before getting to the meat of things: “You failed, you try half-hearted and fail…” All that and a lovely melodic chorus, too. Of course, Roe’s guitar playing is tremendous here, but his voice is in fantastic form as well. It’s a song you’ll never forget.

The album has been completely remastered, and it sounds remarkable. I’ve heard Sticks and Stones probably 75 times, and I’ve never heard it as clear and bright as this. And it’s been augmented with two whole discs of never-released bonus material – mostly live tracks, but some interesting demos and unearthed tunes too. The second disc, entitled This Is the Way Love Was, has the highlights: demos of three songs we’ve never heard before, including the fun “Problem Girl” and the absolutely stunning “Cross the City Sky.” (Man, I wish they’d recorded this for real.)

The Sevens really know how to stretch out live, and the second disc has plenty of evidence. My favorite is a 10-minute take on the crawling “Pearls Before Swine” that dips into Dick Dale’s “Misirlou.” You also get extended runs through “Bottom Line” and the tremendous “You Don’t Scare Me,” and two versions of “This Is the Way Love Is,” one of which runs to about 14 minutes.

The third disc, Seeds and Stems, is only available with the super-deluxe version of the re-release, but it’s worth it, especially if you’re a longtime fan. You get some quality live takes on oldies “What Was In That Letter,” “Ba Ba Ba Ba” and the terrifying “I Could Laugh,” you get a loose jam on church song “The Prodigal Son,” and you finally get to hear Mark Tootle’s original demo of “This Is the Way Love Is.” Roe’s been talking about this demo for years – Tootle imitates Roe’s vocal style, and in turn, Roe imitated Tootle’s impression when recording the real deal. It’s neat to have both sides of that equation at last.

All of this is thanks to the fine work of Chicago’s own Jeffrey Kotthoff with Lo-Fidelity Records. It’s all lovingly put together, from the sound to the packaging, a fine tribute to an album too few have heard. If you’re not one of them, you can rectify that by heading here. And if you want to hear some of what Mike Roe does for free, go here. You’ll be glad you did.

* * * * *

All right, it’s time for the First Quarter Report. I’m amazed at how quickly 2012 is flying by. So far, it hasn’t quite lived up to its promise, musically speaking. There have been a fair few disappointments, like that new Shins album. But there have been some surprises too. Here’s what my top 10 list would look like if I were forced to publish it right now.

#10. Van Halen, A Different Kind of Truth.
#9. Ani Difranco, Which Side Are You On.
#8. Leonard Cohen, Old Ideas.
#7. Fun., Some Nights.
#6. Nada Surf, The Stars Are Indifferent to Astronomy.
#5. Kathleen Edwards, Voyageur.
#4. Esperanza Spalding, Radio Music Society.
#3. John K. Samson, Provincial.
#2. Shearwater, Animal Joy.
#1. Punch Brothers, Who’s Feeling Young Now.

Nothing against many of those records, but this is a pretty weak list. Certainly not up to the standard set by the first quarter of 2011. There are some promising albums on the horizon from Keane, the Choir, Marillion, Rufus Wainwright, Beach House, Bryan Scary and Jukebox the Ghost, to name a few. Plus, I just heard a record by a band called Lost in the Trees that I think is a strong contender. I need to listen a few more times, and review it properly, but it’s a stunner on first blush.

Next week, more reviews in a variety of genres. That means I have no idea what I’m writing about yet. Come find out in seven days. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So I learned this week that the new Marillion album will include a song called “The Sky Above the Rain.”

This is how I live my life – collecting little tidbits about projects I’m looking forward to, each one either enhancing or dampening my anticipation. F’rinstance, I heard a rough mix of a tune from the new Choir album, and that’s dampened things a little bit for me. But having heard not a single note of “The Sky Above the Rain,” I’m beyond excited to experience it. Any fan of Marillion is probably imagining how breathtaking a Marillion song called “The Sky Above the Rain” could be. And I’m a pretty big fan.

Now, it’s entirely possible that this song will be terrible. I have no idea. But as someone who loves it when Marillion gets dreamy and epic, I’m taking it as a good sign that they’ve even come up with a song called “The Sky Above the Rain.” I want this to be a masterpiece. I want to float out of my brain listening to it. I want it to be a magical experience, and this is a band that delivers that on a regular basis. I know this is odd, but just the fact that the new Marillion album includes a song called “The Sky Above the Rain” has me even more thrilled to hear it.

Yes, this is my life.

* * * * *

Next week, I’m posting my First Quarter Report, essentially my top 10 list in progress. While the list is constantly shifting, and I have no idea what will eventually make the top spot, I do, in essence, save spaces for albums coming out that I expect will blow me away. There are spots on this year’s list reserved for the Choir, Marillion, Keane and Aimee Mann, and those spots are theirs to lose. (Which, doubtless, some of them will.)

I’m not ashamed to admit I was holding a spot for the Shins. Their last album, 2007’s Wincing the Night Away, very nearly won the year, bested only by Silverchair’s incredible Young Modern. James Mercer has a fantastic voice, both as a singer and as a songwriter, and Wincing contains some of his very best work. Some argued that it was over-produced, spit-shined to within an inch of its life, but I disagree. I think it’s just shiny enough to be gleaming.

So I hope I can be forgiven for expecting the fourth Shins album, Port of Morrow, would similarly impress. And I’m sad to report that it doesn’t. In fact, it’s the worst album the band has made, an aggressively mediocre piece of work that may serve to establish them as mainstream indie-pop best-sellers, but won’t do much for the legions of fans hoping for more brilliant James Mercer songs. I’ve heard it three times now, and liked it more each time, but it’s still not rising above average for me, and that’s sad.

Granted, the odds were somewhat against it. Over time, the Shins have morphed into a solo project for Mercer, and this album is the product of a partnership between him and Greg Kurstin, of The Bird and the Bee. Kurstin is a pop producer, no getting around it, and he does to this album what many thought Joe Chicarelli had done to Wincing. There’s a slickness to the sound of this thing that can’t be ignored. This is the Shins dressed up and ready for the radio.

Which would be fine, if the songs were up to Mercer’s usual high standard. But with rare exceptions, they’re just not. By now you’ve all heard “Simple Song,” on which Mercer finds his inner Pete Townshend. It lives up to its title – the chords are simple, the melody singable yet unremarkable. It’s a likeable tune, a good first single. It’s also the album’s finest piece of music, and I was really hoping it wouldn’t be. Opener “The Rifle’s Spiral” is the second-best, and it pales in comparison.

The rest of it? Well, it’s not bad. It’s perfectly sturdy mainstream indie rock, which, in a just world, would be an oxymoron. I mean, there’s nothing particularly wrong with a sweet little ballad like “It’s Only Life,” but there’s nothing inspiring about it either. I can hear Taylor Swift singing this song with very little effort. Similarly, I wouldn’t say there’s anything terrible about a slice of mid-tempo acoustic shimmy like “No Way Down.” It sounds like one of the better tunes from the most recent Crowded House albums. It’s, well… it’s fine. It’s OK.

Lyrically, the record is similarly average, and it struggles to connect. The chorus of “For a Fool” is honestly “Taken for a fool, yes I was, because I was a fool.” (The song is a low-key ramble that meanders around for a while without ever taking off.) Most of these tunes concern “grown-up” subjects like love and family, and all of the obliqueness of Mercer’s prior lyrics has been pretty well sanded off. I hate to keep picking on this song, but you need look no further than “It’s Only Life” to see what I’m talking about. The best metaphor: “How will you learn to steer when you’re grinding all your gears?” One chorus: “I’ve been down the very road you’re walking now, it doesn’t have to be so dark and lonesome, takes a while till we can figure this thing out and turn it back around…”

Again, there’s nothing particularly wrong with that. As a sentiment, it’s nice. But like the song, it just kind of sits there. You may be wondering at this point just what I want. After all, this record is perfectly pleasant, and it even picks up by the end, with the Radiohead-esque title track. Had this not been the new Shins album, I may have cut it more slack.

But it is the new Shins album, and that sets these songs up against some of the more remarkable melodic wonders of the past decade. There’s nothing here on the level of “Girl Inform Me,” or “Caring is Creepy,” or Saint Simon,” or “Australia,” or even “A Comet Appears.” There are no songs here that set my mind reeling at their imaginative melodies, no songs that make me feel like I’m inches above the ground, singing along at the top of my lungs. In short, there is nothing here that, had I heard this record first, would have made me a Shins fan.

As I’ve said, this record is fine. It’s not bad. Your mileage may vary – you may end up liking it quite a bit more than I do. It certainly wants to be liked. But for me, it’s missing some crucial spark. Everything is in its right place here, but nothing sounds alive. I can’t help thinking that this is the way the execs at Columbia Records imagined a Shins album should sound, and Mercer made it to order. It’s not what I want from a Shins album, and it’s the first one I’m probably going to file away without revisiting any time soon.

* * * * *

I’d definitely say the new Shins album is a more accomplished effort than the third White Rabbits record, Milk Famous. But I prefer the latter, for reasons I’m not sure I’ll be able to articulate.

White Rabbits are an interesting case study – they’re sort of a Spoon tribute band, yet fully sanctioned by the object of their affection. Their last album, the striking It’s Frightening, was produced by Spoon frontman Britt Daniel, while Spoon’s longtime producer Mike McCarthy manned the boards for Milk Famous. They have that same sort of staccato, bass-heavy, piano-pounding groove sound Spoon has, and when they’re on, they do it just about as well.

So why would we need this band, when we already have Spoon? Milk Famous goes some distance toward answering that question, particularly in the moments when it sounds the least like Spoon. A lot of this record is given over to really interesting moody soundscapes – check out the remarkably restrained “Hold It To the Fire,” with its dreamy, space-pop chorus. There isn’t much to it, but it changes things up every few seconds, and the effect is mesmerizing.

“Are You Free” works its one groove for three minutes, but in the process it weaves a spell of clean guitars and distortion. “Back For More” resurrects that evil Calypso sound this band did so well on their debut, with an added air of menace. And “The Day You Won the War” is just awesome, a Beatlesque pianos-and-drums explosion with some tremendous lead guitar lines. Not many hooks here, but a definite display of power and grace.

Granted, there are several songs that sound like Daniel’s band, but when White Rabbits adopt this style, they do it fantastically well. Check the slinky-spare “Everyone Can’t Be Confused,” based around a catchy one-finger piano part, or the infectious single “Temporary,” or the truly epic “I’m Not Me.” The chorus figure will come out of nowhere on that one to surprise you. But even when they’re building their own version of a well-known sound, White Rabbits bring something darker and more adventurous to the table.

This record covers a lot of interesting ground in 40 minutes, and you get the sense that every track was labored over. While there’s nothing here that will grab you immediately, like the towering “Percussion Gun” from their last record, Milk Famous weaves a black-cloud atmosphere from the first track, and sustains it, making this White Rabbits’ best and most cohesive effort.

* * * * *

But the big winner of the week is undoubtedly Esperanza Spalding.

Most people probably know Spalding from last year’s Best New Artist controversy. With Justin Bieber, Drake, Florence and the Machine and Mumford and Sons up for the award, Grammy voters opted to give the trophy to a jazz bassist from Portland, Oregon. This led to a flurry of “Who the fuck is Esperanza Spalding?” tweets from enraged Bieber fans. Lots of people considered it yet another blunder in a long line of them from the Academy.

There’s just one problem with that – they got it exactly right.

Well, not the bit about Spalding being a new artist. At the time of her award, she was riding her third album, the splendid Chamber Music Society. But the Academy considers a “new artist” one that established a public identity within the given year, which allows them to comfortably ignore everything until the general public catches on. That’s a whole different rant, though. What they got right was Spalding’s talent and presence as an artist. Put simply, she’s awesome.

Like most, I didn’t find her until Spalding won her Grammy, so I guess they’re good for something. But I’m on board now, and I breathlessly awaited her fourth record, the just-released Radio Music Society. It was worth waiting for. Spalding plays a fascinating amalgam of jazz balladry, soul-pop and funk, with the voice of an angel and the arrangement skills of a master. Plus, have you heard her play bass? She’s tremendous.

Radio Music Society travels further down the path she forged with her last effort, although despite smoothing things out somewhat, there’s still nothing here that radio would touch. Her songs here are reminiscent of Prince at his jazziest, or Janelle Monae without the hip-hop elements. “Crowned and Kissed” is wonderful, a stick-in-your-head melody anchored by Leo Genovese’s slinky piano and a trio of horns. (It was co-produced by Q-Tip, but you’d probably never know it.) Spalding scats her way through this tune with elegance and grace.

Sax master Joe Lovano stops by to add some awesome to “I Can’t Help It,” a superb swinging pop song that changes up the tempo with fluidity. Spalding dabbles in big-band on “Hold On Me,” with a 14-person backing band that rushes to a huge climax, and sets a subtler atmosphere on the lengthy, meandering “Vague Suspicions.” It may surprise you how few of these songs have pop choruses and hooks – if Spalding were aiming for radio acceptance, she could have streamlined this quite a bit more. But I’m glad she didn’t. These songs are tricky and hard to pin down, and worth repeated listens.

That sense of complexity stays until the end. You get the six-minute funk workout “Endangered Species,” with its Zappa-esque melodic fragments. You get “City of Roses,” another collaboration with Q-Tip with some tremendous Rhodes work from Genovese, and you get the abrasive, off-kilter closer, “Smile Like That,” on which Spalding welcomes legendary drummer Jack DeJohnette for some extra muscle. That tune also includes some wild guitar work from Gilad Hekelsman.

Despite its title, this is not some dumbed-down concession to the Bieber fans. This is Esperanza Spalding doing what she does – writing cool jazz-pop tunes, arranging them brilliantly, and singing them with confidence. This is an album that will take some time to work its magic, but it’s a pretty terrific effort from an artist more people should know.

* * * * *

I’ll be seeing Michael Roe play on Friday, and picking up the remastered reissue of Sticks and Stones from his band, the 77s. So expect a review of that next week. On the near horizon, new things by the Mars Volta and Cowboy Junkies, and the complete Mermaid Avenue sessions from Billy Bragg and Wilco.

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 am, once again, pretty sick.

I’ve been coughing, sneezing and blowing my nose for days now, and I feel like I’m almost out of the woods. But I also feel like I need to get a good 12 hours’ sleep to really cement my recovery. So this one will probably be pretty short. Apologies, I’ll make it up to you next week.

I’ve also got something weighing pretty heavily on my mind. Late last week, one of my father’s best friends, a truly terrific guy named David Morrison, succumbed to cancer. I have so many good memories of David from my childhood – he was always the funniest guy in the room, but never mean about it. He’d always come up with that perfect quip that would set everyone laughing. If I’d paid closer attention to him as a kid, I probably would have turned out a lot more likeable.

I last saw David at my sister’s wedding last May, and he looked good. He had been battling the disease for some time, but appeared to be on an upswing. But things took a turn for the worse over the last couple of weeks, and on Saturday morning, I got a text from my mother informing me that he’d passed on.

I had a discussion with her about it, and she opined that it’s always the best people who contract and die from cancer. Now, last week, I also did a couple of stories about a local family who lost a four-year-old girl to brain cancer, and two of my best friends’ fathers have also succumbed to the disease, so it’s tempting to agree with her. But that’s not the way it works at all. If there were some sense to it, even twisted, backwards sense, I’d feel better. But there isn’t.

In fact, some of the worst people I’ve ever known have also died from cancer. That’s horrible to say, but it’s true. Cancer doesn’t care who it takes. It’s completely, utterly, capriciously random. Every day we’re told a new way to prevent cancer, and often the new method contradicts an older one. You can do everything right, health-wise, and still be struck down. You can smoke three packs of cigarettes a day for 50 years and emerge unscathed. There’s no rhyme or reason.

And I’m reminded again of the late, great Warren Zevon, and his final piece of advice before dying of cancer himself: “Enjoy every sandwich.” As I get older, that resonates even more. Enjoy every day of your life. Even the smallest pleasures, hold on to them. Wring every drop from them. You never know when it could come crashing down.

Rest in peace, David. If there’s a better place, I hope you’re there.

* * * * *

I know I mentioned I’d be tackling a slew of live records this time, but I only have it in me to review one of them. For the record, though, the others I was set to feature were Chris Cornell’s Songbook, Rhett Miller’s The Interpreter, and the Cure’s Bestival Live 2011. All of them are holdovers from last year, and all of them are worth hearing. I’m especially pleased with Rhett Miller’s, which finds him taking on a bunch of interesting covers, in a relaxed atmosphere at Largo in Los Angeles.

But this is a new music column, and you don’t come here to read my thoughts on last year’s stuff. You want to know what’s worth buying in the record store this week. Well, let me tell you, the first full-length live album from the Decemberists is most definitely worth your cash.

It’s called We All Raise Our Voices to the Air, it was recorded during last year’s tour, and listening to it, you’ll wonder why the hell Meloy’s merry band hasn’t compiled one of these live documents before. Over two hours, the band touches every phase of its decade-plus career, from the first song on their debut EP Five Songs to seven selections from their latest (and most streamlined) album The King is Dead. Along the way, they prove what a singular band they’ve always been – in fact, if you’re looking for a capsule summary of just what all the fuss is about, you can hardly do better than this.

The Decemberists play sprightly pop influenced by centuries of folk music from all over the world. The album kicks off with “The Infanta,” which begins with Colin Meloy strumming and singing, but ends in a cacophony of drums, guitars and horns. As enthralling as the Decemberists are on record, here the energy just crackles, and I sort of wish they’d kept the momentum going instead of launching into a couple of middling tunes from King. (I’ve come around on that record, but it still strikes me as a slight effort.)

Ah, but things certainly pick up with the wonderful “Bagman’s Gambit,” and that forward motion stays with the band through the end of the first disc. “Down By the Water” is terrific, as is golden oldie “Leslie Ann Levine” and the one selection from prog opus The Hazards of Love, “The Rake’s Song.” But the gem is a full performance of “The Crane Wife” – all three parts, over 16 minutes. It’s simply magnificent, and while I wish they’d segued right into the 12 minutes of “The Island,” I guess you can’t have everything.

The second disc’s highlights include a take on “Billy Liar,” from their second album Her Majesty the Decemberists, and a reading of “Dracula’s Daughter,” which Meloy calls “the worst song I’ve ever written.” That slams into “O Valencia,” which gets the second-loudest reaction from the crowd. The loudest, of course, is reserved for “The Mariner’s Revenge Song,” a staple of Decemberists shows. If you’ve never heard this, it’s a blood-soaked sea shanty, and on stage it can last up to a quarter of an hour. (It’s 12 minutes here.) It’s simply amazing, and the closing rendition of “I Was Meant for the Stage” can only be a comedown after that.

Some bands suck live. This is just a fact. You hear the studio records, then see a concert clip, and you can hardly believe it’s the same group of musicians. Happily, the Decemberists have never been one of those bands – in fact, they shine in a live setting. I’ve only seen them once, to experience The Hazards of Love on stage, but based on how much I enjoyed We All Raise Our Voices to the Air, I’m already planning to see them again the next time they come my way.

* * * * *

OK, that’s all. Well, three more things.

Pre-ordering is underway for the new Choir album, The Loudest Sound Ever Heard, which is out on April 10. Not trying to sway you one way or another, just putting the information out there. Go here.

I will try to sway you to do this, though. The local artists compilation I contributed to last year, Made in Aurora Vol. 1, is up for an Independent Music Award. This is kind of a big deal – I mean, look at the panel of judges. You get a vote too, and I’d very much appreciate it if you took a second and cast it for Made in Aurora. Go to this link. And thank you. (For more info on the project, go here.)

One last thing. I discovered BT’s new band, All Hail the Silence, last Friday, and I’ve been mainlining the sole released track, “Looking Glass,” ever since. As BT himself says, this is straight out of 1983, and it’s marvelous. Check it out here.

All right, heading to bed. I’m hoping to tackle the Shins next week, as well as a few others. No need to thank me. Action is my reward. 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.

For the second week in a row, I’m a sad Doctor Who fan.

I’m still mourning the loss of Peter Halliday, and now I’ve received word that Philip Madoc has died. Madoc was another of those supporting actors with multiple roles across the years. In fact, he played four between 1968 and 1979. His first was in the Patrick Troughton story The Krotons, which I still haven’t seen, but the second was as the sinister War Lord in Troughton’s epic swan song, The War Games. He brought his trademark calm, unnerving menace to the part, underplaying just about every moment, and he was immensely memorable.

His final Who role was as Fenner in the forgettable story The Power of Kroll. (Well, the story was forgettable. The giant rubber squid, on the other hand…) But even casual fans of the classic series know Madoc best for his turn as Solon in the classic The Brain of Morbius. Madoc’s unhinged and desperate genius with a Frankenstein complex is one of the all-time great Doctor Who performances, verbally jousting with Tom Baker the way few actors could.

Madoc was 77 years old. Rest in peace, Philip. You’ll be missed.

* * * * *

People often ask me what kind of music I like, and I never know quite what to say.

Lately I’ve been responding with, “I like everything.” And this always provokes a skeptical look. “How can someone like everything? You can’t possibly like everything.” And I just have to shrug and say, “I just work here.”

Because I do like pretty much every style of music. Ska is problematic, and synthetic pop balladry leaves me cold, but I’ve found examples of both that I enjoy. Next week, I’ll be buying three new albums: the latest from metal mavens Soulfly, the fourth album from emo punkers Say Anything, and a live album from indie-folk gods The Decemberists. The following week I’m picking up both the Shins and Esperanza Spalding. On the 27th I’ll be taking home new things from Iron Maiden, Madonna, the Mars Volta, Paul Weller and the Cowboy Junkies.

That’s a pretty wide swath, and I honestly expect to like all of it. It’s sort of a disease – I’d have more money and more shelf space if I only liked certain kinds of music. I’m not sure why my brain is wired this way, and why I can go from Jandek to David Crowder to Jellyfish to Nina Simone without getting mental whiplash. Some people are put off by the relentless positivity of this column, but it’s really that simple: I kind of like everything.

That’s not to say I give everything a pass. I still listen critically, and I hope that comes through. But if I had a map, I’d be all over it, taste-wise. Here’s some proof: the three albums I have to review this week have absolutely nothing in common at all. Well, they’re all collections of songs with choruses, I guess, so the difference isn’t as far out as it could be. But I couldn’t find a common thread between them at all. So here they are, in all their scattered glory, three albums bound together only by the fact that I like them all.

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Lyle Lovett’s a cheeky bastard.

His eleventh album is his last for longtime label Curb Records, and he’s complained publicly that he doesn’t see a dime from these CDs. So what does he call his final album for the label? Why, Release Me, of course. And the cover photo finds him literally bound with ropes, a world-weary look on his face. The message couldn’t be more clear.

And it extends to the content of the record itself. Release Me is almost entirely covers, and on paper, it’s the definition of a contractual obligation album. There are 14 tracks, and Lovett the songwriter contributes only two of them. Now, Lyle’s always been an interpreter as well as a writer – see his fantastic earlier covers record, Step Inside This House, and his collection of film songs, Smile. So this isn’t a screaming left turn, but you’d be forgiven for thinking that Release Me is a rushed-together, inessential bit of product.

There’s just one problem with that: the album is wonderful.

Lovett’s band has always been blessed with fantastic musicians, and this record is no exception. Russ Kunkel on the drums, Victor Krauss on the bass, Matt Rollings on the piano, Luke Bulla and Stuart Duncan on fiddle, Sam Bush and Keith Sewell on mandolin – the list just goes on and on, and these guys throw their full weight into these songs. That, combined with Lovett’s clear affection for these tunes, transforms what could have been a hodgepodge into an album that can proudly stand with the man’s best work.

Lyle’s usually typed as a country artist (he does wear a cowboy hat), and Release Me’s title track is an old country standard, with k.d. lang on harmony vocals and some fine fiddle and steel guitar. But the record rarely slips back into shitkicker mode. Instead, the band slams through Jesse Winchester’s rollicking “Isn’t That So,” complete with full Memphis-style horn section, before slipping into “Understand You,” a fragile folk number from fellow Texan Eric Taylor.

Lovett and his crack band give us the most laid-back version of Chuck Berry’s “Brown-Eyed Handsome Man” you’ll ever hear, and nimbly navigate the tricky-time traditional boogie “Keep It Clean.” The six-minute take on John Grimaudo and Saylor White’s gorgeous “Dress of Laces” can stand with Lovett’s finest, most heart-rending ballads, and the full-on bluegrass stomp through Townes Van Zandt’s “White Freightliner Blues” is jaw-dropping. The record ends with a brief prayer, Martin Luther’s “Keep Us Steadfast.” (Yes, that Martin Luther.) It’s stately and understated, a fine conclusion.

And what of Lovett’s two songs? They’re not bad. “The Girl With the Holiday Smile” is a shuffling blues, Rollings knocking it out the park on piano, and “Night’s Lullaby” is a pretty piece in waltz time. But this record isn’t about Lyle Lovett the songwriter, and his contributions pale in comparison to his cover choices. In the end, Release Me comes off as a classy move – despite the backhanded title, it’s a heartfelt piece of work, and though it could have been a tossed-off parting shot at Curb Records, instead it’s a little gift, both to them and us.

Thanks, Lyle. Now that you’ve been released, can’t wait to hear what you do next.

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Speaking of cheeky, there’s the Magnetic Fields.

Their new album, Love at the Bottom of the Sea, comes affixed with a sticker that reads, “The best Magnetic Fields album on Merge Records since 69 Love Songs.” The joke is that it’s the first Magnetic Fields album on Merge since 69 Love Songs, in 1999. Between then and now, Fields mastermind Stephin Merritt has been plying his trade on Nonesuch Records, and while I wouldn’t say the music has suffered, it’s certainly been different – Merritt indulged his baroque pop tendencies, when he wasn’t dabbling in My Bloody Valentine-style layers of noise.

Love at the Bottom of the Sea pretends like none of that ever happened. It’s a return to computer-pop, and to clever two-minute marvels, and though the sound of the record is much more dense than early Fields efforts, the tone is the same. Fifteen songs in 34 minutes, none of them breaking the three-minute mark, with Merritt trading off lead vocals with Claudia Gonson and Shirley Simms. And it’s chock full of loneliness, pain and sadness, wrapped up in some wondrous wordplay.

The opening one-two shot is typical Merritt. First track “God Wants Us to Wait” is a sardonic look at religion getting in the way of sex (“Now you might like to kiss the dew on my hem, but when male and female God created he them, our lord intended us forever to mate, I love you, baby, but God wants us to wait…”), and killer single “Andrew in Drag” examines an unfortunate case of love at first sight: “So stick him in a dress and he’s the only boy I’d shag, the only boy I’d anything is Andrew in drag, I’ll never see that girl again, he did it as a gag, I’ll pine away forever more for Andrew in drag…”

“Your Girlfriend’s Face” takes that romantic-sounding title and spins a revenge fantasy around it: “So I’ve taken a contract out on you, I’ve hired a hit man to do what they do… they’ll have to hose off your trysting place after he blows off your girlfriend’s face…” (Gonson sings this one with glee, and the joyous synth sounds smile all the way through.) “I’d Go Anywhere With Hugh” is just as adorable as you’d expect, and “The Only Boy in Town” finds Gonson lamenting her unfaithfulness: “If only you were the only boy in town, for then I could not play the field and let you down…” (The last verse makes use of the phrase “more pricks than a cactus,” which is indescribably awesome.)

Melodically, this isn’t Merritt’s strongest set of songs, and it peters out by the end. (Last track “All She Cares About is Mariachi” probably should have been excised.) But for most of its running time, Love at the Bottom of the Sea is a charming return to form for the synth-pop side of the Magnetic Fields. It’s been a while since we’ve heard Merritt’s songs in this context, but it suits them – it adds a layer of plastic joy that only brings out the sadness of the lyrics. No matter the musical setting, I’m always glad to hear more Stephin Merritt songs, and this album delivers some terrific ones.

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Speaking of songwriters I love hearing from, there’s Donnie Vie.

Enuff Znuff is pretty high on the list of bands people can’t believe I like. But I’ll defend them to the death – they’re one of the best power pop bands on the planet, and Donnie Vie and Chip Znuff have a batting average most songwriters would kill for. Album for album, song for song, Enuff Znuff is one of the most consistent bands I’m aware of, and they keep on kicking – their last record, 2009’s Dissonance, was just as good as anything they’ve done.

The fact that a band so unfairly tied to the ‘80s hair metal scene keeps pumping out quality material after more than 20 years is amazing to me. I’m not sure what their sales numbers are, but they can’t be great, particularly in the U.S. In fact, I had to import Donnie Vie’s latest solo album, Wrapped Around My Middle Finger, from across the pond. But it was worth it – it’s another solid collection of heavy power pop, in a melodic class far beyond what you’d expect, if you haven’t been following along.

So yeah, the album is actually called Wrapped Around My Middle Finger, which isn’t going to help its reputation, and the groove-metal title track leads it off, giving the wrong impression right away. Not to say I don’t like it, but there are much more impressive delights waiting beyond it. Check out “Wunderland,” a terrific mid-tempo pop song with Vie’s typical shades of John Lennon. “Daddy’s Girl” is as cliched a fatherhood song as you’re likely to find, but it’s pretty in its low-budget epic way. And “Lil Wonder” is the album’s highlight, a swirling slice of prog-pop that builds and builds. Through all of this, Vie sings his heart out – his Beatle John-influenced voice shows signs of wear here and there, particularly on “Flames of Love,” but he still sounds great.

And “Now Ya Know” features a guest appearance from another guy still tied to his ‘80s past, Kip Winger. Here’s a guy who has tried hard to leave that image behind, releasing progressive pop solo albums and composing ballets. And In some ways, I wish Donnie Vie would do the same – it would be easier to argue for him as a swell songwriter if he’d stop coming up with tunes like “Smokin’ Hot Lollipop.”

But then it just wouldn’t be him. For more than 20 years, Vie and his Znuff-mates have married the screaming guitar party-rock aesthetic with some simply wonderful pop songs, and at this point, I’m not sure I’d want one without the other. (Plus, “Smokin’ Hot Lollipop” is pretty great.) Wrapped Around My Middle Finger is another in a long line of solid, sure-to-be-ignored efforts from a guy who deserves more respect than he gets. Here’s hoping he keeps on making records like this anyway.

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Next week, likely a slew of live records from the Decemberists and others. 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.