In three days, I get to see the Choir play my hometown.

There are bands I like. There are bands I love. And then there’s the Choir. My relationship with the Choir goes so far beyond words like “love” that I can barely describe it. I’ve grown up with them, their music has scored virtually all of the important moments in my life. They’re like old friends I’ve known forever, and every few years, they send me a letter telling me about their lives and what they’ve been thinking about.

The Choir has helped shape my outlook on life like few bands. The first album of theirs I heard was 1990’s stunning Circle Slide, a record about doubt and love and mercy wrapped up in the greatest dark, swirly, ambient, reverbed pop music I’d ever heard. The Choir caught me on my way out of the church, and guided me into a more complex and nuanced spiritual place. They taught me that it’s all right to feel confused and doubtful, that there’s something funny about a lot of sad things, and that there’s something wonderful about love.

I recently took a trip back through the Choir’s 12-record catalog, and I came to the conclusion that there isn’t another artist out there with a body of work I love as much as this one. It’s not the finest music I’ve ever heard, and they’re not the best band in the world. But they are my favorite band, perhaps the one that means the most to me. I’m not sure anyone else hears what I hear in them, and I don’t know if that makes me too biased to properly assess their music or its place in the landscape.

I can’t care about that, though. I can only tell you what I hear, and how it affects me. And the Choir affects me like few other bands.

When I was a teenager, the Choir was some mythic outfit on the far side of the country, releasing albums without warning, and only to the one Christian bookstore near my house. When Choir albums magically showed up on the shelves there, it was like my birthday. Nowadays, it’s a really good time to be a Choir fan. Not only have they cultivated an online community, complete with plenty of advance notice of an impending release, but they’re in a particularly creative period now. Their last new album, 2010’s Burning Like the Midnight Sun, was their best in 20 years, and since then, the band has released an acoustic project called De-plumed, and guitarist/singer Derri Daugherty completed an ambient solo disc entitled Clouds Echo in Blue.

And now they’re back again, with album 13, The Loudest Sound Ever Heard. Three Choir albums in three years is unheard of, a gift to fans like me who can’t get enough of this band. But the album itself is, sadly, an indication that they need to slow down, take stock, and craft their next one a little more carefully. Loudest Sound isn’t a bad album by any means – I’ve been listening to it non-stop since it arrived in my mailbox, and it’s gaining ground with each play. But it lacks the punch of their last couple, and it sounds relatively uninspired to these ears.

Of course, a weaker Choir album still gets to me like little else. Whatever this album’s demerits, it still has the voice and guitar of Daugherty, the drums and words of Steve Hindalong, and the bizarre, off-kilter, beautiful way these guys make records. This one’s a little more smoothed-out and serious-minded than they’ve been in a while – bass god Tim Chandler is more restrained than usual – but it’s still delightfully weird in places.

And Hindalong has stepped up with his best set of lyrics in some time. Loudest Sound is a hopeful record full of wonder, and Hindalong’s words this time encapsulate a lot of what the Choir’s been about. The world is a difficult and painful place, but also a heartbreakingly beautiful one. The loudest sound of the title is initially the eruption of Krakatoa, referenced in “I’m Learning to Fly,” but turns out to be the heartbeat of a true friend, as explained in “Melodious.” That, in a nutshell, is the Choir – life is unexpected and dangerous, and we all need someone to hold on to. There’s still something wonderful about love.

So what is it about this record that isn’t knocking me out? I think some of the songs could have used more work. The opening track, “Strange Girl,” is one of the weaker ones, a mid-tempo yawner that doesn’t go much of anywhere. I do love Christine Glass Byrd’s countermelodies – her voice meshes with Daugherty’s beautifully – and I love that sax man Dan Michaels has such a prominent place on this tune, and elsewhere on Loudest Sound. The song just doesn’t do much for me.

Ditto “Cross That River,” this album’s epic. It’s six and a half minutes long, and it jogs in place for most of that time. The band is really proud of this one, and I’m not sure why. The lyric is splendid, but the two-chord music stays earthbound, despite Marc Byrd’s best efforts on the dreamy ambient guitar. (It’s one of only three songs the Hammock guitar wizard is on this time around.) This tune should put me in a trance, but it doesn’t. It’s grown on me considerably since I first heard it, but I still want more from the crescendo and the finale. There’s an energy missing from this song (and this record) that was in full force on Midnight Sun, just two years ago.

The rest of the first half is much more interesting. The aforementioned “I’m Learning to Fly” is this record’s finest pop song, starting off with that trademark Derri Daugherty chiming guitar, and building to a catchy chorus: “I’m living to love in a dying world, I’m learning to fly…” “Laughter of Heaven” is classic Choir, Daugherty’s clean guitar cutting through the sky. Hindalong’s on a journey here: “Embrace the mystery, unlearn, unknow, pray for serenity, you’re not in control, go higher, go deeper, surrender, let go, the laughter of heaven echoes in your soul…” This is just a great, great song.

“O How” keeps the streak going. It’s a lovely piece about the sadness that comes with being a parent, and its pretty melody is set against a cloud of otherworldly, beautiful noise. Daugherty weaves magic on this one – he’s all alone, and he shows he can bring the ambient guitar wonder just as well as Byrd. I quite like “The Forest,” too, after a few listens – it’s a simple, optimistic rock song that catches hold. Chandler’s at his best here, zipping all over the place, and rarely playing the note you’d expect him to.

The next three songs are all slowly growing on me. “Takin’ the Universe In” is a slow gallop with Michaels’ sax providing the bedrock, and Hindalong absolutely crushing his drums. “Melodious” is the acoustic ballad this time out, and it’s nice – some swell cello by Matt Slocum, some well-placed chimes, a fun lyric about Chandler. And “A World Away” features Hindalong’s best lyric here: “I’m a world away from enlightened, more than a stone’s throw from the truth, I’m a sad far cry from a man who never lies, but I’ll hold the lantern high for you…” It’s a very pretty tune, with some soaring lead guitar.

I’ve just realized that I haven’t said anything bad about these three songs, and listening to them again now, I’m not sure why I felt they didn’t work. I think my issue with this album is the lack of youthful energy that was so prevalent on their last couple of efforts. This is a mature, streamlined Choir album, mainly mid-tempo pieces with weighty lyrics, and all in a row like this, the effect is initially underwhelming. It’s the first Choir album in a long time that I haven’t loved immediately – it’s a more contemplative work that takes time.

And I like the closing track, “After All.” Those who have Clouds Echo in Blue will recognize it – it’s “My Imaginary Friend” with newly-minted lyrics and vocals by Daugherty and Leigh Nash of Sixpence None the Richer. Nash fits in quite well here, and the song is a lovely bit of ambience. “Are we mere specks of dust floating through the Milky Way? Are we here to learn to love? I think that’s true anyway…”

Had I written this review a week ago, it would have been far harsher, and would have included words like “mediocre” and “disappointing.” I’m glad I waited. The Loudest Sound Ever Heard is the first Choir album that’s taken its time to sink in, and while I still don’t think it’s perfect, or as good as they’ve been recently, I’m glad to have it. I will admit that I have given this record more chances than I would have if the words “The Choir” were not on the cover, but as I said above, this band and I go way back. And if you can’t extend grace to your friends, what kind of person are you?

That said, I want to love this, and I don’t. Not yet. As much as I have enjoyed hearing from these guys so often in the past few years, I think they need to take more time with their next effort, and make it something special. Even though The Loudest Sound Ever Heard isn’t my favorite of their records, the Choir is still my favorite band, and while there are glimmers of wonder here, I want my Choir records to shine to the heavens. This one doesn’t quite get there, but it’s still a Choir album, and I’m grateful to have heard it. And I’m grateful for the 12 before it, and the years of joy this band has brought me. It’s been a fine, fun time.

Check them out here.

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Next week, two more contenders for my top 10 list from Rufus Wainwright and Bryan Scary. 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.

Hey, so guess what? I’m an uncle.

At 2:33 p.m. Eastern time on Sunday, my sister Emily and her husband Bill had their first child, a healthy 8-pound, 10-ounce boy. (Well, I say Emily and Bill, but I’m fairly certain Emily did all the work.) They’ve chosen the name Luke, and I’m pretty sure Bill came up with it, so he can make Darth Vader jokes. (“Luke! I am your father!”) Which I totally support.

It was a bit of an odyssey getting Luke here – he was two weeks overdue, and Emily spent more time in the hospital lately than any of us would have liked. But she’s home, the baby is healthy, and all is well. And I can’t wait to come out there and meet him. And show him Star Wars. And play him his first Beatles album. And basically be his cool-ass uncle.

Congrats, guys. And welcome to the world, Luke.

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You all know me, and you know what I like. So the idea that I’m anxiously anticipating the new Linkin Park album is probably surprising. Believe me, I’m surprised too.

But the band’s last album, 2010’s A Thousand Suns, impressed the hell out of me. It was their Great Leap Forward, a record so far beyond anything they’d done that it often sounded like the work of a different band. Just “Robot Boy” alone was worth the price of admission, but the fact that the band crafted a cohesive, front-to-back statement of the caliber of A Thousand Suns marked them as worth watching.

And so I am. Linkin Park’s fifth album, Living Things, will be released on June 26. The first single, “Burn It Down,” is streaming at their website. They seem to have given their guitar player the year off again, but the song is a catchy, creepy thing, and I like it. Even Mike Shinoda’s rapping. I’ve heard that the band went back to its basics on this album, and I’m hoping that isn’t true. The single could go either way – it’s more of an old-school Linkin Park song, but with much more interesting production.

We’ll see what the album brings. I’m hopeful they didn’t retreat from the artistic leaps of A Thousand Suns entirely. Or if they did, I hope it’s not a permanent condition.

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I can usually tell when I’ve heard the album of the year.

It’ll sometimes take me a listen or two, but I’m pretty good at knowing when I have something special. It’s rarely a foregone conclusion – I expected Quiet Company’s We Are All Where We Belong to be great, but when the album landed, and I worked my way through it a few times, I knew it was the best thing I would hear in 2011. That said, I was open to other albums knocking that one off the top spot, but none did. And I kind of knew that none would.

I’m also pretty good at knowing when I haven’t heard the album of the year yet. I meandered through 10 months of 2006, sure I hadn’t discovered that one masterpiece that would top the list. And then came Joanna Newsom’s Ys, like a bolt from the blue. I second-guessed myself a couple times on that one, but if I’m honest, I knew from the first listen that it was the year’s best.

Every year, I wonder whether the 2006 experience will happen again – whether I’ll get to the end of the year without a clear front-runner, an album that gives me that special sense of awe and joy. Well, I’m thrilled beyond measure to be able to tell you that 2012 is not that kind of year. I have what I am pretty sure will be the best album I hear this year in my hands right now. It’s possible something will come along and dethrone this record at some point over the next eight months. But whatever manages it will have to be astonishingly good.

At the moment, though, the album of 2012 is A Church That Fits Our Needs, by a North Carolina band called Lost in the Trees.

I’m listening to it again now, and I can scarcely believe how much it still affects me, after probably three dozen spins. I first bought it on Ian Tanner’s recommendation (for which I have profusely thanked him), and I was in love from the first two minutes. I’m always saying that artists should strive for greatness, should pour every inch of themselves into their art and create as if they may never have the chance again. It’s surprisingly rare how many of them do, but every note of A Church That Fits Our Needs captures the pain and wonder of frontman Ari Picker, and communicates it with desperate, deeply felt, extraordinary artistry. It’s a finely-crafted work that feels like a flooding of the soul.

In 2008, Picker’s mother, stricken with cancer, took her own life, on the same day as his wedding. That’s her on the front cover of A Church That Fits Our Needs, and the 10 agonizing, searching songs within are Picker’s attempt to make sense of the senseless. The lyrics are filled with images of water and ghosts, and songs that lull and restore. The record begins with the sound of a film projector shuddering to life, taking us back through Picker’s memories, and the words he’s chosen are very like memory – hazy, indistinct, shifting perspectives, like snapshots of time, which occasionally sharpen into unsettling focus.

And the music. The music! Picker’s songs are darkly majestic things, with magnificent melodies and full orchestration. Opener “Neither Here Nor There” starts with delicately plucked acoustic guitar, but before it’s over, the sweeping strings and subtle percussion cloud lift the song into the stratosphere. “Red” is haunting from its first moment, Leah Gibson’s da-da-da vocals quickly giving way to violins over a shifting beat. The arrangements, all by Picker himself, are breathtaking.

“Golden Eyelids” is almost inhumanly beautiful. It’s built on a ‘50s doo-wop beat and a soaring melody, adorned with some gorgeous strings and horns – the chromatic string shimmy after each chorus gives me chills. Picker’s high, clear voice drives it home: “But no tears now that your cancer is fed, your soul shielded, your voice sings red…” As lovely as that is, “Icy River” brings me to tears each time. As the orchestra holds him up, Picker sings of pouring out his mother’s ashes. “Don’t you ever dare think she was weak-hearted,” he cries. “Like a ribbon of silver, I poured her body in the river…”

The songs on A Church That Fits Our Needs are clearly meant to go together, and explain one another. Picker references his twin sisters, who died after being born prematurely, in “Red,” and describes them as “born far too early, cut out and laid in a bed of heat” in “Golden Eyelids.” His mother’s artwork mentioned in “Neither Here Nor There” is discarded in “Icy River,” in a quote from her suicide note, and Picker brings that circle to a close on track nine, “An Artist’s Song.” This is an album, intended to be listened to in sequence, and then again, and again.

And it’s an emotionally devastating one. The delicate “This Dead Bird is Beautiful” contains several powerful moments, none more so than the single line “I’ll carry her, because she breathed I breathe.” If you can get through this song without crying, you’re better than me. “A golden armored sky will carry her, but I’ll always have her eyes…” It’s so lovely that when “Garden” explodes in with its pummeling bass line, it’s almost shocking.

The album’s climax is the extraordinary “An Artist’s Song,” a prayer addressed to Picker’s mother, a passionate painter who inspired his own love of art. “You walked through this horrid life, but you got to sing before you closed your eyes… so sing your hymn of faith, ‘cause I have none, your song is my fortress…” The strings and choir are somehow ghostly and heart-stoppingly loud at the same time. The sweeping melody about three and a half minutes in may be my favorite moment on the record.

But it all gives way to “Vines,” the moving, sparse closer. In the album’s final moments, Picker sings, “And my songs can try, but there are things that songs can’t say, so watch me fall away as I cower under your grace.” It’s stunningly beautiful, and I’m reduced to nothing. There are things songs, and words about songs, can’t say.

All I can tell you is that the experience of taking in A Church That Meets Our Needs over the last few weeks has been one of the most emotional of my music-listening life. Picker said he wanted to use this album to find a place for his mother’s soul to rest, a heaven she deserved – a lofty goal to be certain, and I don’t know how close he believes he came to doing it. Some might wonder why Picker thinks he can do such a thing with music. I wonder why more artists don’t believe in their music this much. It’s music. It’s boundless, infinite, beyond our attempts to hold it down and limit it. And this is the most powerful music I’ve heard in some time.

I fully expect to be touting this album’s greatness come December. I fully expect to be listening to it and loving it far beyond that. Ari Picker and Lost in the Trees have distilled oceans of pain and confusion into a remarkable album of unending beauty, one that leaves me speechless and destroyed. It’s an unflinching love letter from a son to his departed mother, and a gift to all of us. I’m grateful I lived to hear it. That’s all I can say. Like Picker at the album’s conclusion, I have no more words.

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Next week, the Choir. 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.

Titles are important to me.

I don’t know that I can adequately explain why. It’s true that the title of an album, book or movie has no real impact on the quality of the thing itself. One of the best albums ever made is Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, and if you strip that title of its cultural significance, it’s pretty silly. Would the album still be amazing if it were called something else? Definitely. Do I still love the album, even with the name it has? Also definitely.

But an album’s name is generally one’s first impression of it, and that’s important. Most often, I’ll hear a title before I hear a note from an upcoming release, and it’s fun to imagine what kind of album we’ll be getting just from its moniker. Serious? Silly? Self-important? All three, as in the case of Fiona Apple’s new record, The Idler Wheel is Wiser than the Driver of the Screw, and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More than Ropes Will Ever Do?

It really is difficult to tell anything about an album just from its name. I’m not sure anyone would guess the depth of composition on Frank Zappa’s Burnt Weeny Sandwich just from that phrase, for instance. But I like rolling titles around in my head for a while before hearing the records themselves, and that’s easier and more satisfying when the titles, you know, roll. Instead of stumble and pitch forward clumsily.

All that said, I’m still trying to decide what I think of the name Marillion has chosen for their 17th album. They’ve called it Sounds That Can’t Be Made. Now, despite the fact that I’m left wondering whether my CD will be blank (and at $45 for the deluxe edition pre-order, it better not be), I’m just not sure what they’re trying to evoke. It’s kind of a klutzy name, but if it ties back into the lyrics nicely, I’ll be happy with it. I imagine I would have had the same reaction to Anoraknophobia, and that didn’t even call back to a lyric. I like that record just fine.

But while the oddly similar name of the new Choir album, The Loudest Sound Ever Heard, really works for me, Marillion’s title doesn’t yet. I expect that’s because I know what the Choir’s title means – the loudest sound ever heard, in drummer/lyricist Steve Hindalong’s words, is the heartbeat of a true friend. I like that. It’s schmaltzy, but nice. I hope the other Steve H., Marillion’s Steve Hogarth, has a similar reason for Sounds That Can’t Be Made.

Even if he doesn’t, hell, it’s the new Marillion album, so I’m still excited about it. But really… Sounds That Can’t Be Made. Not sure about that yet at all.

* * * * *

And now for something completely similar.

It’s no secret around Aurora town that I don’t like the title of Andrea Dawn’s new album, Theories of How We Can Be Friends. Andrea and I need no theories – we are friends, and my dislike of the title (and her stubborn refusal to change it to make me happy) is a long-running in-joke at this point. She even brought it up during her recent interview on the Fox Valley Voice podcast, forgetting to mention that a) it’s funny to both of us, and b) I really like the album.

So, here. Let me set the record straight. The title, Theories of How We Can Be Friends, is clunky, overlong, inelegant and not very memorable – essentially, the exact opposite of the album itself. The album is extraordinary, a triumphant and uncompromising coming out party for an uncommonly good singer and songwriter. Listening to it, I have to continually remind myself that Andrea lives about 10 minutes from my house, and I have her cell phone number. It’s so far beyond what you’d expect from a self-released local album that your head will spin.

This is Andrea’s first full-length solo album, following a split LP with Jeremy Junkin and a live EP, and she worked on it for a year and a half with her incredibly talented husband, Zach Goforth. Andrea tickles the piano and sings like a smoky angel, while Zach plays every instrument known to man with a skill that will make your jaw drop. Their drummer is Dan Knighten, and while most other drummers might just keep a beat, Knighten paints little percussion pictures behind many of these tunes. It takes a few listens for his work to sink in, but he’s fantastic.

In fact, it may take a few listens for all of Theories to really take hold. This is a particularly subtle album, full of simple tunes that will sneak up and wallop you. The first song, “Theories,” is nothing but piano, strings and Andrea’s stunning voice, and it’s your first hint that this is not going to be a collection of pop singles, but rather a journey. The piece – part Fiona Apple, part Radiohead’s “Pyramid Song” – is gorgeous, a dark and dramatic kiss-off. It’s a song clearly addressed to someone in particular, and she begins by asking if that person knows the role he plays in her lack of innocence, and then ends with this: “Since I’ve given everything, each verse, each melody, I’m afraid it has to be nothing at all…”

It’s a bold choice for an opener, but it soon smoothly glides into “Numb and Fine,” which rides a Dan Knighten drum pattern and a repeating piano figure into one of the record’s best tunes. This one’s like driving through a dark tunnel at night, with some ringing vibes to add atmosphere. It takes more than two minutes for the song to reach its full bloom, and the crescendo is so subtle you may not even notice how much it builds.

But Andrea and Zach have just been easing you in at this point. They pull out all the stops for “Fightin’ Off That Bad,” a relatively simple tune that sounds like they spent a million bucks on it. In fact, it’s the only one here that feels weighted down by the production, instead of buoyed by it. It starts with a slinky bass line and a simple yet appealing chorus, one that gives Andrea her Adele moment around the two-minute mark. But then they pile on a full horn section, clarinets, a synth breakdown with a million little percussion instruments surrounding it, and an admittedly awesome low-moan vocal ending. That it almost pulls it off through sheer confidence is kind of remarkable.

After that, you’ll need a break, and “Underground” shows up at just the right time. A little wisp of a song, “Underground” floats by on lovely backing vocal harmonies. It doesn’t do much, but at this point in the album, it doesn’t need to. It takes you by the hand and leads you to “Spell It Out,” one of the record’s best – it has a melody that will stick with you, and the soaring bridge is probably my favorite part of the album. “Peter and the Sheep” is similarly dramatic, Andrea’s voice gliding over a staccato, Regina Spektor-ish piano figure. The lyrics are a twist on “Peter and the Wolf,” and the orchestration on this one is breathtaking.

But for all the sound and fury harnessed on this album, perhaps its most affecting song is “Old Letters,” featuring nothing but Andrea and her piano. It’s a demo recorded at home, and it’s remarkably intimate, delivering her best lyric with all the emotion it deserves. The song is a soft cry for lasting love, the singer writing of it in letters hidden below floorboards, carving it into tree trunks, keeping it in a locket around her neck. It’s tinged with sadness – as she cuts initials into a heart on a tree, she sighs, “Five or so years from now when you hardly know my name, we’ll have made history just the same…”

The greatness continues with “No Love for the Devil.” Theories is not an album full of pop hits – it’s too much of a personal journey for that – but if there’s one song here with the chance of breaking wider, it’s this one. You’ll hear why the second Andrea starts the chorus: “Bye bye, baby, oh oh, I can see…” When those clean guitar hits come in (courtesy of fellow Aurora musician Jeremy Keen), it’s magic. This song has been in my head since I first heard it, and it’s my favorite thing here.

Unfortunately, the record stumbles near the end. “Silent May” is a bit of a mess, based around an impressive, hyperactive drum pattern that doesn’t quite mesh with the simple piano chords played over it. The song’s back half is a piano-bass-drums jam that never quite lifts off – if any moment of this album could have used some intense orchestration, it’s this one. After that, “Aren’t We” is a sweet comedown, a lullaby on Rhodes piano and brushes. After the tumbling relationship depicted in “Silent May,” the closer is soothing and delightful: “All this time we thought if we could just not fall in love, but we already are, aren’t we?”

Andrea has long said she hoped to make a million-dollar album on a thousand-dollar budget. It sounds to me like she did it. But more than that, she tapped into a deep songwriting well, crafting an intensely personal piece of work. I have no idea whether Theories of How We Can Be Friends will take Andrea to that next level. To her credit, it doesn’t sound like she thought too much about that when making it. This record is uncompromising, and it’s all the better for it. And for that, I think she deserves that wider fame her record doesn’t seem to be chasing.

It’s hard to be unbiased about Theories. I heard so much about it while Andrea and Zach were making it. But even if I didn’t know them both, I would consider this album one of the best I’ve heard this year. It does what only the best music does – it draws you in, and grows deeper and more meaningful each time you hear it. With Theories, Andrea Dawn has graduated from “local artist” to just plain artist. She’s in the big leagues, and this record is too good to remain a local secret for long.

Check her out here. Now, about that rubbish title…

* * * * *

Let’s finish with a title I do like.

A couple weeks ago, I got the chance to see Blue Like Jazz, the movie based on the book of the same name by Donald Miller. I just love that name. Blue Like Jazz. It could be about anything, couldn’t it? As it turns out, the film is a coming-of-age story that bears only the thinnest of resemblances to the book that lends it that title, a book I haven’t read. But that’s OK, because as interested as I was to see the movie, I was much more interested to meet its director, Steve Taylor.

I’ve been a Taylor fan since the ‘80s – before launching his film career, he was a musician. In fact, he was the sharpest satirist that the Christian music industry had ever seen. Over four full-length albums (and one biting EP), he took deadly aim at the hypocrisy he saw around him, angering the establishment. Taylor never trafficked in sweetness and light, and he always saw faith as a journey, not a destination. His early material strikes me as a little too right-wing these days, but tunes like “To Forgive” and “On the Fritz” still resonate with me.

And I still consider his 1987 album I Predict 1990 one of the finest “Christian” albums I’ve ever heard. This is the one that got him booted from Christian bookstores across the country, both for the artwork (which some thought looked like a Tarot card) and the lead track, a jaw-dropping abortion satire called “I Blew Up the Clinic Real Good.” The satire was so impressive, in fact, that many thought he was serious. Beyond that tune, there’s a depth to this album you just didn’t hear from this corner of the music world in the ‘80s. (Or, quite frankly, since then.)

So Taylor’s pretty used to pissing off the Christian industry, and he’s done it again with Blue Like Jazz. This is a film that is unapologetically Christian, and yet unflinchingly realistic in its depiction of college life. It follows a 19-year-old Don Miller (completely fictional) as he leaves his southern Baptist home and heads to Portland, Oregon to attend Reed College. Miller spends a year ditching his beliefs, both out of a desire to fit in and a genuine sense of betrayal from the church, but embraces them again by the film’s end.

Which sounds pretty hokey and typical, particularly from someone like Taylor who has railed against just that kind of pat narrative. That’s why a summary of Blue Like Jazz isn’t going to encapsulate it. This is a movie of moments, of touching relationships, of humor and heart. It’s a movie that introduces a character passing himself off as the pope of Reed College, with the big hat and everything, then gives him a real story to tell. It’s a movie full of frank sex talk, drug use and swearing (well, PG-13 swearing), relentless in its pursuit of accuracy and truth – which, it turns out, is the secret to its spiritual core.

Blue Like Jazz ends with a scene in a confession booth, erected during a particularly crazy campus bacchanal, during which Miller (played with wide-eyed wonder by Marshall Allman) realizes what he’s been running from. The film actually begins with a similar statement of faith, but where that one comes off as clunky and forced, the speech at the end feels earned. It’s especially important to me, since it’s a faith I don’t share. The pat answers and simplistic homilies had a hand in driving me away. They’re not the world I know.

That’s what the evangelicals are missing – without the struggle, it means nothing, particularly to those on the outside. That’s what they missed about I Predict 1990 as well – they lashed out at the first nine songs without listening to how the tenth, the striking “Harder to Believe Than Not To,” wrapped it all together.

I don’t think this is a great movie. But it affected me, and not just because, for long stretches, the dialogue just sings. It affected me because it depicts one of my favorite themes – faith through hardship, like blades of grass through concrete – beautifully. Taylor’s been exploring that terrain for his entire career, and his unblinking sense of the world around him makes his belief even more interesting and real to me. That’s why Blue Like Jazz is the first movie I’ve seen this year that I will likely buy on DVD.

I’ve been calling it a film without an audience – the sex talk and swearing will turn off the churchy folks, and the spiritual philosophy will turn off the non-churchy folks. But the 4,500 supporters who funded this movie through Kickstarter – one of the most successful campaigns in the site’s history – beg to differ. The book was a hit, so perhaps the movie will show that thoughtful examinations of faith can do well. We shall see.

Thanks to Emily Miller, and to Erin and Andy Sauder, who experienced the movie with me, and got to see me geek out to the point of incoherence upon meeting one of my favorite artists. Let’s never speak of that again, ‘kay?

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Next week, Lost in the Trees. The album to beat in 2012. 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.

Well, 2012, you’ve been a bit of a disappointment so far.

Not as far as life is concerned. You’ve been doing OK there. I have a good job and good friends and every reason to wake up ecstatic every day. But musically? Not so much, 2012. I just looked at the First Quarter Report from last year – by this time, we already had the Over the Rhine album, the R.E.M., the PJ Harvey, the Dears and the Decemberists. This year’s quarter-time statement isn’t quite as good, I have to say. It’s a top 10 list with Van Halen on it. ‘Nuff said.

But there’s still plenty of time to redeem yourself, 2012. You’ve certainly started down that path, thankfully – in the next two columns I’ll be reviewing two of my favorites of the year so far. For the most part, though, the records I’ve expected to be brilliant have been mediocre, and the things I’ve enjoyed have largely been from left field. So I keep on scanning the upcoming releases, and wondering whether the ones I’m excited about will be any good.

I mean, you know by now how much I’m anticipating that new Choir album in a week or so. And that new Marillion record sometime this fall. Will they be worth it? No idea. I’ve heard the single from the new Keane album, Strangeland, and it’s marvelous. Will the album follow suit? Man, I hope so. I’ve liked everything I’ve heard from Rufus Wainwright’s new one, Out of the Game, and Jack White’s solo record, Blunderbuss, too. But this year, I just can’t be certain of anything until I hear it.

Some other things I’m looking forward to: Beach House, Best Coast and Garbage are putting new ones out all on the same day (May 15). Three very different bands with great female singers. Mount Eerie will release two records this year, starting with Clear Moon on May 22. Sigur Ros has a surprise new one on May 29, along with Sun Kil Moon, Regina Spektor and Rush, finally. The Walkmen return with Heaven on June 5 (my birthday), and the great Jukebox the Ghost resurface a week later with Safe Travels. And then there are new things by Fiona Apple and Joe Jackson on the horizon.

So, 2012, you should be a really good year. On paper, you rock. So let’s get it together. I expect the Second Quarter Report to be a thing of beauty. No excuses. Dismissed.

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People often ask me how I hear about new bands. The truth is, I put in a lot of research time, reading reviews and listening to singles. I probably follow up on only about 25 percent of what I sample. It’s almost a full-time job staying somewhat current, and I’m not even close to the level of some people I know. Yeah, it’s just a lot of hard work.

But then, sometimes, it happens purely by accident.

Last month, my friend Kevin Trudo played a solo show, opening up for a band from Chicago. I’d never heard of them, but I loved their name: The Right Now. That has to be one of the finest band names I’ve ever heard, actually. It’s immediate, it’s punchy, and it promises a good time. The band turned out to be an eight-member neo-soul outfit with a singer who could win American Idol any year she wanted to. And while they put on a good show, I just wasn’t feeling it.

On a whim, though, I ordered both of their records, and I’m glad I did. The Right Now comes off much better on disc, for some reason. It may be that the studio allows them to use vintage-sounding soul production, whereas on stage they can come off like a particularly tight wedding band. Whatever the reason, I really like The Right Now on record, and heartily recommend them.

The new album is graced with the awesome title The Right Now Gets Over You. As you could probably tell by the name, it’s an old-school you-done-me-wrong record, full of songs with names like “Should’ve Told Me,” “I Could Kiss You (I Could Cry),” and “’Til It Went Wrong.” It’s a looser, funkier record than their debut, Carry Me Home, and it’s a little less hooky, but it succeeds on pure attitude. Just check out “Tell Everyone the Truth,” a classic-sounding little number with some top-notch horns and Stefanie Berecz singing her heart out. This is the sound they’ve been after, and they do it very well.

There are a couple of missteps on this record. “I Could Kiss You (I Could Cry)” is essentially hook-free, and lacks the energy this band brings to every other track. And “Higher” is a trippy experiment that doesn’t quite work. But otherwise, Gets Over You is a top-notch album. Besides “Tell Everyone the Truth,” you get the slinky “Half as Much,” with those spectral backing vocals. You get the delightful dance number “He Used to Be,” and the effervescent pop of “Good Man,” on which the horn section shines. Throughout, the band just clicks, particularly the rhythm section, and the all-purpose keyboards of Brendan O’Connell, the chief songwriter.

I found The Right Now by accident, but they’ve made me a fan. Both of their albums are fun, well-crafted, soulful affairs, and I’m excited to hear where they go next. Check them out at www.therightnow.com.

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I don’t know if this is a controversial opinion or not, but I think Counting Crows is a great band.

They’ve made five albums, and I don’t dislike any of them. I flat-out love a few of them, especially This Desert Life and the latest, Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings. Adam Duritz is a one-of-a-kind singer, his band is tight when they need to be and sloppy when they want, and they just write some great songs. I listened to “Amy Hit the Atmosphere” again tonight. That tune is just perfect.

So I’ll buy anything they do, even something like Underwater Sunshine (Or What We Did on Our Summer Vacation), their newly-released covers album. I’m not sure the idea of an hour of covers from this band would be an enticing notion to many people, but I was pretty interested to hear this, especially since I only recognized five of these 15 songs by their titles. You can tell a lot about a band by the covers they choose, and Underwater Sunshine outs the Crows as a traditionalist rock band with some interesting influences.

But what’s fantastic about this album is the sound, the vibe. The guys in Counting Crows have been known to produce their records pretty heavily, but this… this sounds like they recorded it live in about a week. And the energy is just pouring off it. This is what it sounds like when a great band gets in a room and just plays. This is the band’s first independent release, and if this is them starting as they mean to go on, well, I’m on board.

Duritz acknowledges that a lot of the songs chosen for Underwater Sunshine aren’t well known. They cover tunes from members’ side projects and former bands. They cover Dawes and the Romany Rye, two relatively unknown bands from the last few years. (The Dawes song they chose isn’t even on one of their albums – it was recorded for a Daytrotter session.) They pick a Travis b-side. Duritz swears they’re not being intentionally obscure, these are just the songs they like, and that’s clear in the vibe of the record.

While I enjoy hearing the Crows rip through these songs, this album works best for me when they put their own spin on tunes I know and love. The first of these in the running order is “Meet on the Ledge,” the Fairport Convention classic, and they knock it out of the park – they make it louder and rougher and more ragged. They do the same to Gram Parsons’ immortal “Return of the Grievous Angel” – Duritz sings the living hell out of this one.

The Crows strip down to acoustics for the Small Faces’ “Ooh La La,” and the Pure Prairie League classic “Amie.” They rip through Teenage Fanclub’s “Start Again,” and shimmy their way across Dylan’s “You Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere,” first recorded by the Byrds. (I’ve always said, if you want to hear a good Dylan song, wait for someone to cover it.) David Immergluck just attacks his mandolin. If you’ve never heard anyone attack a mandolin, well, you should hear this.

But my favorite thing here is the closer, a reverent yet spirited version of Big Star’s incredible “The Ballad of El Goodo.” I’m still missing Alex Chilton, so to hear a band I admire pay tribute to him like this is very moving. “El Goodo” is a gorgeous song, and this take is simply wonderful. “Ain’t no one going to turn me round…” I just love this.

So yeah, it’s a covers album, a risky proposition at the best of times. But Counting Crows take the opportunity to show both their impeccable taste and their highly underrated musicianship. This is what they sound like when they’re just playing for the love of it. And that’s the best – when a band loves the music they’re playing so much, you can feel it. It’s there in every note of Underwater Sunshine, and it makes me love this band even more.

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Next week, local superstar Andrea Dawn. 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.