Some months, life is just unbearable, an endless trudge from one day to the next. But some months, life goes so well that it’s almost hard to believe.

I’m having one of the good kind. As many of you know, I took a new job two months ago, at the Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory. Last week, my first press release came out – I wrote the announcement of first light for the Dark Energy Camera, the most powerful digital camera ever built. Constructed at Fermilab, the camera is now mounted on a telescope in Chile, and will be used to map part of the sky in ridiculous detail. Here, read all about it. And look at the pretty pictures.

Well, that release caught fire. It was reported in more than 200 publications in 36 countries. We were in Wired, Scientific American, Popular Science, National Geographic, the works. Best of all, as far as I’m concerned, Jay Leno made a joke about the Dark Energy Camera on the Tonight Show last week. Check it out, about six minutes in. I nearly fell off my chair.

So, job is going well, life is going well. And music? Holy hell, September was a great month for music. At the bottom of this column, you’ll find my Third Quarter Report, essentially an early draft of my top 10 list. Three of the 10 you’ll see there were released this month. Plus, three of my very favorite artists hit me with new records this month. I had to do a double-take when I saw the schedule. Yes, Marillion, Aimee Mann and the reunited Ben Folds Five would all be releasing albums in September. Insane.

This week, I’ll be talking about the latter two. Both are songwriters I hold in very high esteem, and both have returned to an earlier sound on their new records. Let’s find out how that decision worked for them.

* * * * *

I remember when I first heard Ben Folds Five.

My friend Chris had recommended them, saying they reminded him of Jellyfish. That was all I needed to check out the band’s self-titled album, and while I could see the comparison, BFF struck me in a completely different way. Brilliant pop songs, played with a jazz trio lineup and the energy of a teenage punk band, but with enough sense of history and melody to slow down and be graceful when the tunes called for it. I listened to that thing again and again, reviewing it twice for my local music magazine, and I practiced endlessly until I could play a passable version of “Philosophy” on the piano.

I’ve stuck with Folds ever since, and he’s rarely let me down. In fact, only once, on his tossed-off 2008 effort Way to Normal, and that still had a few good songs on it. I’ve read a lot about diminishing returns when it comes to Folds’ solo career, and I’m just not hearing it. Rockin’ the Suburbs, Songs for Silverman, all his terrific EPs, even 2010’s marvelous collaboration with Nick Hornby, Lonely Avenue – I think he’s been remarkably consistent, all told.

So I greeted the news of a Ben Folds Five reunion with tempered joy, because I knew some would see it as a desperate attempt to return to the glory days. I would never suggest that those heady late ‘90s days weren’t glorious – Whatever and Ever Amen and The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner remain two of my most treasured records. I just think the man’s been damn good since then, too. He doesn’t need this reunion, so to my mind, it’s something he wants to do.

And I expect that’s because he hears what I hear in the collaboration between himself, bassist Robert Sledge and drummer Darren Jessee. On his solo records, Folds is undeniably in charge, and the other musicians fall in line. But Ben Folds Five is a band, and their interplay, their energy, their ability to slip perfectly into the spaces between one another, is unbeatable. It’s been 15 years since these three guys have played together, so in that sense, the reunion would be a treat regardless.

But as my friend Nate said, nothing would have been worse than a half-assed reunion record. And believe me, the just-released The Sound of the Life of the Mind is not half-assed. It is a full-fledged Ben Folds Five album, wiser and more mature, but still musically astonishing, clever, moving and fun. I was afraid it would be a joke, a quick-and-dirty throwdown like Way to Normal. But instead, it’s a remarkably well-considered affair, a fine reminder not only of how good the Five can be, but how solid Folds has always been.

The first thing you hear on The Sound is Robert Effing Sledge, cranked up to 15 and all but drowning out Folds on the herky-jerky intro to “Erase Me.” It’s your first signal that this is a Five album, and everyone’s going to get equal time to shine. But then “Erase Me” morphs into an off-kilter showtune, halting and lumbering forward, Folds showing off his undimmed falsetto. (And yes, the almost-but-not-quite Ben Folds Five harmonies are back in full force, and I missed them.) It’s the strangest opening track Folds has written since “Narcolepsy,” a tour de force that defies your expectations for lightning-fast power pop.

The record stays on a chilled-out vibe – the only real workout is the finger-blistering anthem “Do It Anyway,” an instant knockout. Both the delightfully profane “Draw a Crowd” and the witty “Michael Praytor, Five Years Later” glide along on mid-tempo grooves. Everything else is comparatively relaxed, which is something of a surprise, until you remember that half of Whatever and Ever Amen was also comprised of ballads. The Five has always sounded like this – for every “Julianne” a “Boxing,” for every “Kate” an “Evaporated.”

And the slower songs here are simply gorgeous. The title track sports wonderful lyrics by Hornby, and a Foldsian epic sweep, cresting and falling back. Jessee takes flight on this one, supporting the whole thing with rolling toms. “On Being Frank” is ready for its close-up – it’s a lovely, jazzy pastiche, sung from the point of view of Frank Sinatra’s butler. It’s sad and witty and thoroughly hummable, a Folds classic in the making.

But for my money, the grand prize this time out goes to “Hold That Thought,” the first of a delicate trilogy that ends this record. It’s as specific as the best Folds story songs: “She broke down and cried at the strip mall acupuncturist while the world went on outside…” And it sports the most lovely simple melody on the album, a soaring wordless falsetto over gently flowing piano, gliding into a terrific back half with Sledge and Folds darting off each other. It’s practically perfect.

“There’ll be times you’ll like the cover and that’s precisely why you’ll love the book,” Folds sings in “Do It Anyway,” and I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect summation of this record. If you’re excited by the words Ben Folds Five on the cover, you’ll love this book. The Sound of the Life of the Mind is even better than I hoped it would be. It’s the sound of three simpatico musicians reuniting as older men, but still finding that youthful joy that exists between them. Here’s hoping this is just the first chapter in a long second life.

* * * * *

Aimee Mann is another songwriter without a fallow period to apologize for. She has weaker records, but no weak ones, if that makes sense, and when it comes to her brand of darkly sentimental pop, she’s practically in a class of one. In some ways, you know what you’re going to get with a Mann album – a collection of traditional-minded pop tunes with splendid melodies and well-crafted lyrics. She never really changes as a songwriter, but she doesn’t have to. She’s a master.

So the only differences between one swell Mann album and another are the sonic touches. And lately, she’s been embracing the sorta-cheesy keyboard sounds with which she first made her name. Everyone remembers Mann’s first hit with Til Tuesday, “Voices Carry,” but fewer stuck around to hear her final record with that band, the terrific Everything’s Different Now. That one was an even mix of the synthy sounds that Til Tuesday trafficked in, and the more folksy pop Mann would go on to create.

As it turns out, late-period Til Tuesday is the perfect touchstone for Mann’s new solo record, Charmer. It could be the son of that album, in fact – the keyboard sounds are everywhere, but the songs are just as literate and folksy as they’ve been for 25 years. It amazed me how often I was transported back to 1988 while listening to Charmer. It’s almost like time travel, like Mann, all of 52, took a trip back to make a record with her 27-year-old self.

And for that, it’s enjoyable. I’m just not sure this is Mann’s strongest set of songs. Numbers like “Labrador” make their way with simple, overused chords, and some songs, like “Disappeared,” fail to get off the ground at all. She strikes gold more than once – the title track is terrific, zipping along on a wavery keyboard line, and “Soon Enough” is a devilishly clever mid-tempo glide. “Crazytown” is the most fun you’ll have on this record, Mann lamenting a friend’s choice of paramour over a bouncy bed of keys and tremolo-laden guitar. “You’re out there trying to flag a cab, and for who? A girl who lives in Crazytown, where craziness gets handed down…”

I’m also quite fond of “Living a Lie,” a duet with James Mercer that sounds more like a great Shins song than just about anything on Port of Morrow. “Slip and Roll” makes me grin as well – it’s classic Mann, a slowed-down folk tune in 6/8 with a twisty chorus. But past that, this record leaves less of an impact. There’s nothing quite wrong with the four songs that close out the surprisingly brief Charmer, but there’s nothing outstanding about them either. Cautionary tale “Gumby” ambles along pleasantly, “Gamma Ray” brings the rock but fails the memory test, and closer “Red Flag Diver” is too short to really grab hold of its promising melody.

Charmer is growing on me with each listen, but it’s the first Aimee Mann album in… well, ever, that’s needed time to sink in. It isn’t the sound – I think Mann makes superb use of her array of synthesizers, and adds a flavor that’s both nostalgic and new. It surprises me to say that this set of songs just isn’t her best, and if Charmer has a weakness, it’s in the lightweight tunes she’s hung everything else on. It’s been a long time since I’ve had any complaints about an Aimee Mann album, and it’s an interesting feeling. I’m going to keep on listening and see if I can make that feeling go away.

* * * * *

I’ve talked a lot about fan-funded albums recently, so I’ve avoided mentioning until the end here that both the Folds and Mann albums were released on the artists’ own labels, and Folds paid for his through PledgeMusic, a Kickstarter-esque site. We’re getting to the point where the labels will only be necessary to build up the audience for new artists. Once they’re established, the tools are in place for a band to take off on their own. Be interesting to see how many do.

OK, as promised, here is my Third Quarter Report. This is how my top 10 list stands right now. I don’t expect that the final list will look like this, but it may be close. I have high hopes for the Muse, Beth Orton, Hammock, Ben Gibbard and Bat for Lashes albums, but barring any surprises, those are the big ones before the end of the year. I have a hard time believing the top three or four, at least, will change at this point. Anyway, the list:

#10: Shawn Colvin, All Fall Down.
#9: Fiona Apple, The Idler Wheel.
#8: Amanda Palmer, Theatre is Evil.
#7: Rufus Wainwright, Out of the Game.
#6: Shearwater, Animal Joy.
#5: Ben Folds Five, The Sound of the Life of the Mind.
#4: Punch Brothers, Who’s Feeling Young Now.
#3: Bryan Scary, Daffy’s Elixir.
#2: Marillion, Sounds That Can’t Be Made.
#1: Lost in the Trees, A Church That Fits Our Needs.

Despite a strong showing from Marillion (which may fade with time, we shall see), Lost in the Trees is still holding on to that top spot. I haven’t heard a richer or more emotionally devastating work this year, and I don’t expect to.

All right, next week, more high-profile releases with Green Day, Mumford and Sons, and Muse. 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.

My adopted home town of Aurora lost one of its most creative souls this week.

I barely knew Jack Schultz, but man, I knew of him. He and his darling wife Sherry own the Riverfront Playhouse in downtown A-Town, and they’re all the evidence I need that every city should have its own community theater. The Riverfront is exactly what you’d hope it would be – small and intimate and fun, a place where artistic risks can be taken and a good time can be had by all.

For years, I’ve made the Riverfront production of Night of the Living Dead: The Musical a Halloween tradition. The show is a Jack Schultz original, and every year, while his wife, his son Jackson and his daughter Heidi would perform on stage, Jack would be in the back, playing the music he had written. Such a fun show. I even got to be a guest zombie one year, dripping blood and lunging for fresh brains. (And dying horribly at the end.) It was a blast.

Jack’s whole life looked like a blast to me. Writing plays, writing songs, acting, appearing in films, and hanging out with his tremendously creative family. That life was cut short by a sudden heart attack this past weekend. Jack Schultz was only 58. But if his family had any doubt of the impact Jack made on the Aurora community, all they had to do was look out at the hundreds upon hundreds of people who lined up to pay their respects at his wake. It was a true testament to the man, his talent, and his character.

We’ll miss you, Jack. Rest in peace.

* * * * *

So I’m sitting here for what feels like the dozenth time, trying to put into words why I love Marillion.

The thing is, I’m not sure it matters at this point what I say. Marillion is one of my favorite bands, and I’ve waxed positively ecstatic about them in this column before. It probably surprises no one that I’m about to do that again. But lately I’ve been wondering whether my rhapsodizing makes any difference. My fondest wish, as I’ve said before, is for people to listen to music I love and hear what I hear in it. When it comes to Marillion, though, people simply aren’t hearing the same things I am.

There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m coming to understand that Marillion’s music isn’t for everyone, even if I don’t quite understand that. It’s confusing to me, because they bring together almost everything I love about music. They have an astonishing level of technical ability, but they never show off. They’re deeply committed to melody, and can write three-minute pop songs and 20-minute ever-changing epics with equal skill. They draw from a deep reservoir of emotion, and pay attention to atmosphere and ambience. They’re remarkably ambitious, but never pretentious. And they just plain make music that moves me, like few other bands can.

I do understand that I’m not alone in my love for this band. Marillion has attracted and nurtured a dedicated global fanbase that most bands would envy. Thousands turn out for their semi-annual conventions in Europe and Canada, and they practically invented the Kickstarter model – they’ve sustained themselves for years by asking fans to preorder their albums before they’re even recorded, and every time, thousands upon thousands of people do. The band has a rich, strong and vast group of supporters, and I have no doubt they all hear what I hear when they immerse themselves in Marillion’s music.

I just wish I knew more of them. It’s been a lonely sort of fandom for me, and even seeing the packed house at Park West in Chicago this summer for the band’s first U.S. tour in seven years didn’t help much. I live to share what I love, and I feel stymied when I love something others don’t. Marillion means a lot to me, and their new album, Sounds That Can’t Be Made, has been the non-stop soundtrack to my last couple of weeks. It’s one of my favorite records they’ve made, and is sure to place highly in the 2012 top 10 list. More than that, it has already made my life better. These songs have already taken up residence in my head and my heart. Little bits of them will float through my mind at all hours of the day, and when I sing lately – at home, alone, where no one can hear – it’s these songs I’m belting out.

What makes this one special? I think it’s a renewed sense of focus. Sounds That Can’t Be Made is still all over the place, as is Marillion’s modus operandi – the first three tracks, for example, are a 17-minute metal-tinged progressive epic, an ‘80s-inspired keyboard fantasia, and a soulful Todd Rundgren-esque pop ditty. There’s bits of ambient cloud music, southern rock, orchestrated balladry, and Beatles-inspired poptopia. It all sits next to each other without jarring once – perhaps Marillion’s greatest strength is a seeming ignorance of musical boundaries, or even of any sense that all bands don’t draw from the same deep pool of influences.

But there’s a real feeling of coming to the top of the mountain on this one, in a way that the band hasn’t delivered since 2004’s brilliant Marbles. They sound fully engaged, committed to each one of these ideas, and everyone brought their A game. (Particularly producer Mike Hunter, who has finally made his Marillion masterpiece. The density and complexity of sound on this thing is breathtaking.) This is why I love this band, in 74 brisk minutes, and if you listen to this whole thing and aren’t moved by it once, then Marillion simply isn’t for you.

So that said, let me tell you a little about it.

Sounds That Can’t Be Made is Marillion’s 17th album, and the third one they have financed with fan preorders. The beautiful deluxe edition comes in a hardcover book that features more than 100 pages of artwork and the names of the first 5,000 people who pitched it to fund it. (There were about 13,000 preorders in total.) Its eight songs range from five-minute pop tunes to that aforementioned 17-minute epic, and because they are Marillion and they don’t worry about people losing interest quickly, they’ve put that epic right up front.

Oh, and did I mention it’s the most politically controversial track the band has ever released? It’s called “Gaza,” and it’s written from the point of view of a young child living in the Gaza strip. Singer Steve Hogarth uses this voice to describe the hellish conditions there, and offer up a plea for compassion and justice. But it’s a simple voice he’s chosen, and simple words he’s using, and some have accused him of naivety, of attempting to reduce a complex situation to this single perspective, and failing. Some have written off “Gaza” as anti-Israeli, simply because its main character is a Palestinian child.

And some have pointed to a section in which Hogarth attempts to understand the motivations of suicide bombers, and accused him of condoning terrorism. “When their hopes and dreams are broken, and they feel they might as well be dead, as they go, will we forgive them if they take us with them?” For my part, I see the vast chasm between understanding and condoning, and would not doubt that these would be the thoughts of someone living through this every day. (Many of the lyrics in “Gaza” come directly from conversations Hogarth had with Palestinians and Israelis living in that part of the world.)

Having lived with it for a few weeks, I think Hogarth tried to do something noble here, and was largely successful. “Gaza” is not a song about the conflict between Israel and Palestine. It could be set in any war-torn region of the world, and remain almost the same. The song does what Hogarth has always done – it tries to give a voice to the voiceless, and cries out for peace. The key lines come in a later section: “Nothing’s ever simple, that’s for sure, there are grieving mothers on both sides of the wire, and everyone deserves the chance to feel the future just might be bright, but any way you look at this, whichever point of view, for us to have to live like this, it just ain’t right, it just ain’t right…”

This is not a complicated (or, let’s face it, well-informed) dissection of a centuries-old conflict. But it is a deeply human response to suffering, and for that, I applaud Hogarth and the rest of the band. This could have been more carefully rendered, but it might have lost some of its passion and power, and that would be a shame.

And the music! “Gaza” is unlike anything Marillion has ever tried. Its opening minutes are a cavalcade of Nine Inch Nails guitars and Kashmir synth strings, and parts of it are louder and more chaotic than this band has ever been. But as its 17 minutes unfold, they take you on a journey, through ambient sections, ray-of-sunlight melodic bursts, and the most achingly beautiful piano-and-vocal moment on this album. (It corresponds with those key lyrics up there.) Guitarist Steve Rothery lets loose with a lyrical, liquid solo, before plunging into the dark, lumbering final section, over which Hogarth conjures Yeats: “It’s like a nightmare rose up from this small strip of land, slouching towards Bethlehem…”

“Gaza” is such a monster that placing it first almost does a disservice to the rest of the album. There’s a significant amount of silence between tracks one and two, as if the band understands this. And in some ways, the title track starts things over again. The rest of Sounds That Can’t Be Made is, in the main, surprisingly hopeful and optimistic – it’s the sound of Hogarth regaining his footing and enjoying his life again, and not just in the self-help-book way he did on 2008’s Happiness Is the Road. When he’s happy here, he feels it, and you feel it too.

That title track may be my favorite thing here. It floats along on Mark Kelly’s thick keyboards, as Hogarth sings of the vibrations that connect us, the sounds that can’t be made. And it’s wonderful for about five minutes, until the swirling synths begin climbing upward, skyward, finally bursting through the clouds on a stunning Rothery guitar line. Then it becomes exquisite. “Only love can stop you from merely existing,” Hogarth sings, and every time, I sing along at the top of my lungs. This is a patented Marillion moment, the kind of thing no other band can do this well.

After all that, the lightness of “Pour My Love” is a surprise. I mentioned Todd Rundgren earlier, and he’s the best touchstone – this tune drips with blue-eyed soul. It feels like a love song, but it’s clearly about death, about crying over a departed loved one. Hogarth sings beautifully over an electric piano and some subtle drumming by Ian Mosley. This is, again, like nothing they’ve ever tried, and they pull it off brilliantly. The big wide grin appears at the killer bridge section (“In a place where flowers rot and die, in a place where truth lies down and shacks up with the lie, there is still you, there is still you…”) and never leaves.

“Power” is another relatively simple song, but this one crawls along on sheer menace. While bassist Pete Trewavas lays down pulsing lines beneath him, Rothery spins supple webs during the verses, and explodes on the choruses. In some ways, this is Marillion by numbers, falling back and then building up to a crushing climax, Hogarth showing off his (ahem) power. But Marillion by numbers is fine with me. No one else sounds like this, so they may as well. I don’t want to sell this short – “Power” is a great song, just not as stylistically experimental as some of the others here.

“Montreal,” now, this one’s a trip. On first listen, it sounds like a 14-minute ambient meander, one chilled-out section leading into the next while Hogarth sings passages from his diary. This one takes a few spins to reveal just how clever the words are, and how beautiful and well-considered the music is. The lyrics are an account of the band’s first day in Montreal in 2009, for their first Canadian convention. More specifically, they’re about an event that has gone down in fan lore – a disastrous, equipment failure-laden performance of epic “This Strange Engine,” which ended with a frustrated Hogarth throwing himself onto the hands of the audience and crowd-surfing the length of the hall and back again. It was an amazing moment of reciprocal love, one that has clearly stayed with him.

But instead of being on-the-nose about it, Hogarth has written a song about that moment by not really writing about it. He describes the band’s plane landing, a Skype conversation with his family in his hotel room, a visit to Cirque du Soleil, the sports bar where the “ice hockey never ends” – all the little details that led up to their show, without ever getting there. He mentions the big moment once, while watching Leonard Cohen perform on TV in his hotel room: “It warmed the heart to watch him float around the hall, soaking up, reflecting, radiating, just as I would tomorrow night on the outstretched tender hands of Montreal.”

But in many ways, the entire song is about it – the words are full of falling imagery, particularly the bigbigBIG climax in the Cirque du Soleil section: “We watched the acrobat fall, he was quite safe, he was falling into Montreal…” Hogarth gives everything he has here, and it’s magical. The song ends up as a love letter to a city: “Je t’aime, my darling, Montreal.” And again, the music is just incredible. While the earlier sections all lead up to the big acrobat moment, the song never comes back down from there, and never loses its sense of atmosphere. It’s one of the best things Marillion has ever done.

After that, you’d think a five-minute number like “Invisible Ink” would have to work hard to make an impression. But this one’s a winner, starting at a whisper and blooming into a superb piano-pop song. The chorus has one of the most devilishly difficult vocal lines I’ve ever heard Hogarth sing, and he pulls it off while letting more and more desperation creep into his voice as the song progresses. “I’m hoping you don’t throw my little notes away, I wouldn’t blame you, after all, there is nothing they appear to say…” This one’s a little gem.

“Lucky Man” starts out like the Beatles and ends up like Lynyrd Skynyrd. Yes, seriously. It has an infectious, dirt-simple chorus that will get stuck in your head, and a ripping southern rock solo from Rothery. After nearly an hour of meticulous, often reserved music, it’s great to hear the band let loose. It’s also terrific to hear Hogarth embrace his own life, and celebrate it: “I truly am a lucky man, I have everything that I want…” This is the most conventional song on Sounds, but it’s terrific.

And finally, we have “The Sky Above the Rain.” I’ve been excited for this song ever since I heard the title, and I’ll admit the actual lyrics let me down at first. They’re almost as simplistic as the sentiments in “Gaza,” describing in plain language the dissolution of a relationship. “She loves him, but she doesn’t want him, she used to burn for him, but now that’s changed…” It’s sad and pretty, but I’m still not sure it’s deserving of the central metaphor, of a man trying to see (and flying through) the blue sky above the rain. That’s just gorgeous.

A couple of things work in this song’s favor, though. One is Hogarth, who sings the living hell out of it. He’s quite simply one of the best singers I’m aware of, digging deep into a seemingly boundless reserve of emotion, whispering when needed and belting it out when it’s called for. He’s amazing. The second is the band – they lay down a reserved, piano-based bed for these lyrics, and aside from some over-egging of the synth strings here and there, they play this simple song with subtlety and grace. Still, it would be a minor entry in their discography for me, if not for the last two minutes.

Man, those last two minutes. The band melts away, leaving just the piano, and then Hogarth enters at full voice: “Maybe they’ll talk…” And then you get Marillion at their most magnificent, playing the kind of epic, lush, wondrous soundscape that only they can. The hope simply radiates from Hogarth, as he dives headlong into his metaphor: “Heading west and climbing, in the place the sun never stops shining, the rain’s below us, the rain’s below us…” Rothery does what Rothery does, playing perfect lead lines over the huge wall of glorious sound the band conjures. The final two minutes of “The Sky Above the Rain” are perfect in every way, and reduce me to a teary-eyed mess.

And just like that, it’s over. Sounds That Can’t Be Made is a journey, eight unconnected songs that still play like a cohesive whole. It’s a poetic circle, in a way – it begins with two nations who can’t resolve their differences, and ends with two people with the same problem, which is why the soaring, hopeful conclusion packs so much punch. In between are love letters and joyous shouts and cries to the heavens. It’s everything I want in a Marillion album.

I don’t know if I’ve convinced you to give Sounds That Can’t Be Made a try. I’m sure many of you have already written this off as the ravings of a blinkered fanboy, and that’s fine. I was asked by a friend this week if Marillion had ever made an album I don’t like, and while I pointed to a few lesser efforts (Holidays in Eden, Radiation, Somewhere Else), the real answer is no. They never have. I’m a fan, and I don’t know how to be anything else.

But I’m a very happy fan right now. And if I’m ignored or shot down for trying to share that happiness, so be it. One of my favorite bands has just made one of their best records, more than 30 years into their career, and I’m unashamedly giddy about it. Your mileage may vary, but I’m enjoying this trip, and I hope it lasts forever. I truly am a lucky man.

If I’ve convinced you to give Marillion a try, you can check them out here. You can hear all of “Gaza” here, and “Power” here.

Next week, Ben Folds Five reunites and Aimee Mann returns. 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.

Eventually I’m going to get over how great Kickstarter is, and stop yapping about it. But not yet.

A few weeks ago, I led this column with a plea to support spiritual pop legends Daniel Amos in their quest to raise $12,000 for a new album. It’s been 11 years since the last DA record, and even though they’re justly lauded as pioneers in a particular corner of the music world, their fans number in the thousands, not the millions. Kickstarter is an all-or-nothing proposition – if DA did not raise 12 grand by the appointed time, they would get nothing, and we would not get a new record.

And here’s another way that Kickstarter has proved to be an incredible innovation – it serves as proof to artists that their fans love and support them. I’m not sure that knowledge is even quantifiable to a band like DA, whose members all work day jobs, and who, despite a phenomenal catalog stretching back more than 30 years, remains unjustly obscure. To know that there are hundreds of people willing to pony up to hear more music from you, well, I don’t know that you could put a price to that.

But you can quantify how much they ended up raising: $32,277. I gave them $20 of that, but some fans really bellied up to the bar. More than 100 people gave $100 or more. Several pledged $700, and one kicked in $1,000. The prizes were pretty great, including an autographed copy of the long-out-of-print Alarma Chronicles book set and a phone call from the band, but even so, that’s some true generosity. The fans love DA, and we’re excited to hear new material, especially since we know this is pretty much the only way it could possibly happen.

This outpouring of support is happening more and more lately, as relatively unknown bands take to Kickstarter to fund new projects, and find out they had more fans than they expected. I mentioned some a few weeks ago, like the Brothers Martin: Jason’s Starflyer 59 asked for $10,000 to make their first independent record, and got $24,302, while his brother Ronnie sought $6,000 to make his own new record as Joy Electric, and brought in $12,701. With this money, the Martins are free to make the music they want, the way they want, for people who already love what they do. That’s kind of a miracle.

And then there’s Amanda Palmer – or, as she prefers to be called, Amanda Fucking Palmer. She’s one of the most fascinating artists of the past decade, and in fact it wouldn’t be a lie to say she’s made an entire career out of being fascinating. As one half of the Dresden Dolls, she played theatrical cabaret punk with a dangerous edge, and as a solo artist, she’s proven herself a songwriter with a unique voice. She’s a walking melodrama, a mess of captivating contradictions, a puzzling and compelling personality – and that was before she married Neil Gaiman.

Earlier this year, she left the labels in the dust and took to Kickstarter, hoping her cadre of rabid fans would help her finance her first big independent album. She asked for $100,000. She got about $1.2 million.

I’m going to say that again. She asked for $100,000. She got about $1.2 million. $1,192,793, to be precise. That’s simply insane, and is a testament to a number of things. First, it’s obviously a sign that Palmer is doing something right artistically – her dramatic-yet-fragile confessions are striking a chord with people. But second, it’s not just the art. Palmer uses the Internet to connect with fans like few other artists, and she’s built up a strong following using all forms of social media. People feel like they know her, and they’re much more willing to give money to someone they know. She’s definitely done that right.

And third, I think people just wanted to see what someone like Palmer would do with $1.2 million. If Kickstarter is an experiment in funding unfettered creativity, Amanda Palmer is exactly the kind of artist I want to see benefit from it. She does whatever the hell she wants anyway – no label executive could have invented AFP, and none of them have been able to change or mold her. I’ve seen what she can do within the system, and in the main, it was fantastic. The idea of allowing an artist like Palmer total control and oodles of cash is just delicious.

What did she end up doing with that money? She only made the best and most over-the-top record of her life. It’s called Theatre is Evil, and it’s nothing less than the ultimate Amanda Palmer album. It’s excessive and intimate in equal measure, it’s dramatic and disturbing, masked-up and massive, and yet deeply felt and moving. Its 15 tracks sprawl out over 72 minutes, and nimbly jump genres like frogs jump puddles. Whatever you were hoping for when you handed your money to Kickstarter for this project, it’s in here somewhere. And I can’t imagine any of her fans being disappointed with this thing.

The album is laid out like a stage show, with an intermission in the middle, and you’re going to need it. Because Theatre is Evil is intense. Some of it will make you gasp and recoil in horror, some of it will make you laugh with recognition, and some of it will move you to tears. Her three-piece backing band this time is called the Grand Theft Orchestra, and they’re able to go as widescreen or as pinpoint as Palmer needs. Some of the songs here, like the opening epic “Smile (Pictures or it Didn’t Happen),” are massive, horns and strings blaring. But some, like the brilliant and chilling “The Bed Song,” are as delicate as freshly-fallen snow.

And yes, Palmer has retained her penchant for dramatic shock value. Take “The Killing Type,” which comes complete with an incredibly gory video. The lyrics are an expertly crafted slow build of rage – Palmer insists again and again that she’s “not the killing type,” but the song is aimed at someone she’d like to kill, and it grows more and more unsettling as it goes. “I once stepped on a dying bird, it was a mercy killing, I couldn’t sleep for a week, I kept feeling its breaking bones,” she confesses, before shouting, “I want to stick my fist into your mouth and twist your arctic heart.” The music is similarly chilly, building to an explosion. “I’m saying it now, I’m saying it so even if you never hear this song somebody else will know,” she spits.

Also chilling in a different way is “Grown Man Cry,” which sounds like an ‘80s Pretenders song, all clean guitars and shimmering keyboards. Palmer paints a picture of a woman bored with her sensitive, nice guy: “For a while it was touching, it was almost even comforting, before it became typical, and now it really is not interesting to see a grown man cry…” As the song progresses, though, the man’s behavior becomes harder to rationalize, and Palmer’s coldness makes more sense by the abrupt, striking end.

And yet, here she is one song later, on the gorgeous “Trout Heart Replica,” lamenting the overflow of emotions she feels. “It’s hurting that’s the hardest part, and when the wizard gets to me, I’m asking for a smaller heart,” she sings. On the winning, Cars-like “Massachusetts Avenue,” Palmer lays her complexities bare – it’s a song of memories returning, triggered by the street on which Palmer lives, but it’s also a song of a failed relationship, and the reasons why: “Do you remember loving me more than I could be loved? I chased you for so long and when I caught you, I gave up.”

The album’s finest lyric is also its most devastating portrait. “The Bed Song” traces the life of a couple by the beds they’ve owned and shared. It begins with the young pair sharing a sleeping bag, “splitting the heat, we have one filthy pillow to share, and your lips are in my hair.” They move in together, first in an apartment with a futon on the floor, then in a condo with a bed. By this time, they’ve grown silent, drifted apart: “All the money in the world won’t buy a bed so big and wide to guarantee that you won’t accidentally touch me in the night…”

And still they never talk – the singer of the song never asks her partner what’s wrong, or why they don’t speak. The last scene takes us to their final resting place, a joint grave beneath a cherry tree, and the sadness just pours out of those final lines. It just hurts, in a way only a good story well told can do, and it’s proof that Palmer is a born songwriter. Others, like the tremendous “Berlin” and the delightfully pathetic “Do It With a Rockstar,” just provide even more evidence.

This is exactly the kind of record I was hoping Palmer would make with her Kickstarter cash – one that captures her essence while exploding her potential. When your album’s a $1.2 million success before you even start making it, you’re free to be who you are, and write what you want. I don’t think this is an album Palmer’s former label, Roadrunner Records, would have been too pleased with – it’s too long, there are no obvious singles, it’s messy and complicated. But it’s precisely what Palmer’s legion of fans will want, and now that she’s dealing directly with them, that’s all that matters. Theatre is Evil is hopefully just the first in a long series of spectacular records from an artist taking full advantage of her freedom.

The other thing Kickstarter does well is connect idiosyncratic artists with the music fans who will appreciate them. Under the record label system, A&R executives were the gatekeepers, the ones who decided what you would hear, which is why many quirkier projects never quite found their audiences. I mentioned Joy Electric earlier – Ronnie Martin’s analog synth-pop project has spent the past 20 years on Tooth and Nail Records, releasing album after album to a dedicated, yet incredibly small group of fans. And each time out, the label had to decide whether it was worth it to print up copies, considering how many they would sell. That they did, again and again, for two decades is a real testament to the label.

But Ronnie on his own, through Kickstarter, won’t have to worry about that. He’s proven that the audience is there, and with the freedom now afforded him, he can do what he wants – which is burbling keyboard fantasias sung in a breathy whisper – without fear. I don’t expect Joy E to change very much, but Ronnie can now just focus on making a great album the way he wants to, without worrying about how to market and sell it.

Another good example is Tourniquet. You couldn’t make up Tourniquet if you tried. They’re a technical metal band obsessed with medical imagery, standing up against animal cruelty, and singing about Jesus. They’re more classically-inspired than most metal acts, incorporating strings and flutes and orchestral movements into their work, and they’re thoroughly unafraid to do as many un-metal things as they can think up, while still remaining astonishingly heavy.

The audience for complex Christian metal with violins isn’t nearly as huge as it ought to be, and Tourniquet has been without a record label for almost a decade. But they still have fans, as they discovered when they took to Kickstarter last year. They asked for $22,000 – an enormous amount for a band like this – and got $28,476. With that money, they hired producer Bill Metoyer and a host of guest artists, and made the best record of their career.

It’s called Antiseptic Bloodbath, and the front cover depicts the skeleton of Jesus on the cross behind a disemboweled animal carcass. It’s perfectly Tourniquet, as is the music within. You’ll know you’re not listening to a typical metal disc right away – the record begins with kids chanting out names from the periodic table in a strange cheer, which leads into singer Luke Easter shouting the song’s title (“Chart of the Elements”) and whooping like a loon after each repetition. Yeah, there’s a bone-crunching riff after that, but you’d be forgiven for wondering just what the hell you’re listening to before that arrives.

Tourniquet’s not-so-secret weapon is drummer Ted Kirkpatrick, who writes the lion’s share of the music. The classical influences are his – he’s pictured on the back of Antiseptic Bloodbath wearing a Chopin shirt – but he’s also one of the fastest and most precise metal drummers alive. This album’s title track is a full-on thrash nightmare, but it shifts tempo and time signatures every few seconds too, and Kirkpatrick just obliterates it. The song is about our tendency to sanitize brutality to make ourselves feel better about it, and Kirkpatrick’s lyrics somehow work in the crucifixion and slaughterhouses.

Throughout this record, Kirkpatrick’s penchant for interesting, unexpected riffs and melodies never lets him down. Check out the seven-minute “The Maiden Who Slept in the Glass Coffin,” which glides in on violins (over downtuned, crunchy guitars), leaves a wide expanse of space for guest Marty Friedman to solo, and then charges back in with the heaviness. Just listen to the middle section, in which the band emulates the more classically-driven opening with guitars and drums. It’s head-spinning.

Easter and guitarist Aaron Guerra contribute two songs as a writing team, and like always, their pieces are the shorter, more immediate ones. “Duplicitous Endeavor” fits the bill nicely, shimmying from a harmony guitar opening to a groovy stomp worthy of Countdown to Extinction-era Megadeth. But it’s Kirkpatrick’s epics that keep me coming back. The final track here is a monster – the eight-minute “Fed By Ravens, Eaten By Vultures” is a classic, somehow building from a spare violin to a full-on screamfest organically in its opening two minutes. This song is everything you want a Tourniquet piece to be.

The same can be said for all of Antiseptic Bloodbath, perhaps the purest distillation of what this band’s about. I think it’s amazing stuff, but I thoroughly understand that the audience for this kind of thing is limited. Since I’m in that audience, though, I’m thankful that we now have a mechanism to fund bands and projects like these directly. If Tourniquet asks for my money again, I’m gladly going to give it to them, especially now that I’ve heard what they’re likely to do with it. Trust builds trust. And if this new system we have can keep bands like Tourniquet making albums like Antiseptic Bloodbath, without fear, then I think it’s a keeper.

Buy Antiseptic Bloodbath here.

Next week, the ultimate Kickstarter band, the mighty Marillion. After that, Ben Folds and Aimee Mann. 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.

We lost Hal David this week.

That’s Hal David as in Burt Bacharach and Hal David, one of the most winsome and winning pop songwriting teams of all time. Burt wrote the music and Hal the lyrics for some of the most famous and justly lauded tunes in history. A partial list: “(They Long to Be) Close to You.” “Walk On By.” “What the World Needs Now is Love.” “(There’s) Always Something There to Remind Me.” “The Look of Love.” The two of them epitomized a particular late-‘60s-early-‘70s sound, all muted trumpets and delightful, simple sentiments.

One particular Bacharach-David song has a special place in my heart. When I was growing up, my grandparents owned a music box, one that hangs on the wall. It featured an elaborate 3-D carving of a boy with an umbrella, and when you wound it up (via the massive knob in front) and pulled the small metal pin, it played “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.” Both of those grandparents are gone now, but that music box still hangs in my mother’s house, and whenever I wind it up and play it, I think of them.

Hal David died on Friday after a stroke. He was 91 years old. He was inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame 40 years ago, and his work – his sublime, silly, sun-shiney work – will live forever. Rest in peace, Hal.

* * * * *

I hesitate to admit this, but the first Bob Mould album I ever heard was Sugar’s Copper Blue.

It was 1992, I was on my way to college, and the grunge revolution was in full swing. Sugar was just another great, loud band to me, one of a few dozen I was following at that time. I honestly had no idea of Mould’s pedigree – that he was a founding member of the great Husker Du, a band that influenced every single one of the groups I liked in ’92, and that he had carved out a superb little solo career after that, including the amazing Black Sheets of Rain. I knew none of that.

What I did know was that Copper Blue was a great record. You’d have to be deaf not to notice that. Sugar was loud, all right – the guitar sound on Copper is thick and abrasive and endless, even for 1992 – but Bob Mould’s unerring pop sensibility shines through. Try not singing along with “A Good Idea” or “Changes” or “If I Can’t Change Your Mind.” There isn’t a song here that won’t get stuck in your head. Even the epic “Hoover Dam” is hummable, and when you get to my favorite, “Fortune Teller,” buried at track eight… well, damn.

It’s 20 years later, and Copper Blue still sounds as great as it ever has. Better, even, if you pick up the newly-remastered deluxe edition, out last month. The guitars are even louder, but the separation of instruments is clearer, and Sugar the pop band is even more evident. It’s just a near-perfect album, the kind that sells a million, the kind Mould hasn’t really made since. In fact, he didn’t even come close with Sugar, although they had two further releases, both also available in remastered form.

1993’s Beaster is the dark half of Copper Blue. Recorded at the same time, its half-dozen songs represent the crushing steamroller aspect of their sound. Six-minute monsters like “Judas Cradle” and “JC Auto” pummel you in slow motion, Mould’s guitars sounding like tormented screams from the pits of hell. Those squalls are even clearer now in this new edition (bundled with Copper Blue), and while Beaster does have its more melodic moments, like the comparatively gentle closer “Walking Away,” it is mainly Mould taking out his pain and aggression. It’s a tough listen, which is why I don’t pull it out very often.

1994’s File Under: Easy Listening should have been the one to bring it all together, the one to build on Sugar’s success. Instead, it feels rushed, half-formed. Only a few songs, most notably “Can’t Help You Anymore” and “Believe What You’re Saying,” resonate with the force and melody of the prior record. Mould has said that the b-sides, also included in this new edition, might have helped save this record had they been included. I have to disagree. These five songs are louder than the relatively hushed second half of FU:EL, but that’s all they have going for them. “Mind Is an Island” is the best, and it’s not fit to lick the boots of “Changes” or “Fortune Teller.”

And that was the disappointing end for Sugar. They left us a classic, its evil twin, and a disappointing follow-up. Merge has carefully packaged up all three of those records, along with two full-length live documents as bonuses. Live, Sugar was a monster – the guitars are somehow even louder, the vocals more buried, the energy more explosive. While their records were carefully crafted and overdubbed, Sugar became a pure power trio on stage, playing with reckless abandon and never pausing to address (or even acknowledge) the audience. I’m more of a fan of the second live record here, The Joke is Always On Us, from 1994, despite a set list that leans heavy on obscure material. They were just great live.

Hell, they were just great. It’s rare for a songwriter to find even one superb band. Two is a miracle. Sugar’s entire legacy is contained on these five discs, but it’s a powerful one, and it still holds up. What’s especially important about Sugar is that it has seemed for a very long time like Mould’s last gasp. Since these records, he’s resurrected his solo career, but dabbled in ill-fitting electronics and songs that simply lack inspiration. His last three albums have been decent, yet unremarkable slabs of guitar-pop, a far cry from his glory days.

So Sugar has long served as a fine reminder of the songwriter, player and singer Mould used to be. That is, until now. Because I told you that story to tell you this one.

Bob Mould’s new album is called Silver Age. It’s a reference to his greyed-out beard and temples – the man is 51 this year. But listening to this thing, you’d never know it. This is Mould’s first power trio album since the Sugar days, and if you play this back to back with Copper Blue, you’re unlikely to hear much difference. The songwriting is certainly back to top quality, and the energy – the sheer balls of it – is just remarkable.

Like Sugar’s live sets, this album never lets up. It’s 38 minutes of explosive goodness, starting with a three-song opening shot that will knock you down. “Star Machine” is just awesome, bursting out of the gate at full gallop, and it segues neatly into the equally breathless title track, and “The Descent,” perhaps the melodic highlight of the record. In 1993, this would have been a hit single, no question. It moves like a rushing wave, the trio locking in and riding it out, Mould singing for all he’s worth. When the band hits that drop-down chord on “make it up to you somehow,” I just have to air-guitar along. This is one of my favorite songs of the year, no doubt.

Does the album slow down from there? Like hell it does. “Briefest Moment” charges in like a rush of horses, all fire and thundering hooves. Even when this album slows down, like on “Steam of Hercules” and the wonderful closer “First Time Joy,” it’s loud, almost overpowering. (It only pulls back a little. There are no slow songs.) And when it explodes, as it does on the terrific “Keep Believing,” it’s something to behold. Remember when R.E.M. roared back with Accelerate a few years ago? This is like that, but louder and bigger and overflowing with melodies. It is, quite simply, Mould’s best album in 20 years.

I love it when this happens, when an elder statesman kicks over the tables and shows the kids how it’s done. Revisiting the Sugar catalog was the best thing that could have happened to him. It reminded him of what he does best, and Silver Age is full to bursting with it. If you remember how great Bob Mould can be, well, good news. He remembered too. May his Silver Age last a hundred years.

* * * * *

I saved this for the end, since I know you fine, faithful readers are probably sick of reading my thoughts on Marillion. Their new album, Sounds That Can’t Be Made, should hit my mailbox next week, which means my (very likely) long, flowing review will be published on Sept. 19. After that, I’ll probably shut up about it (at least until December, if it’s as good as I expect), so never fear. A couple more weeks, and it’ll all be over.

But I need to pass this on, since it’s knocking me on my ass. This week, Marillion shared the opening track to the new album. It’s called “Gaza,” it’s 17 minutes long, and it’s written from the point of view of a child living in that war-torn part of Palestine. And it’s unlike anything they’ve done. The music includes elements of stomping metal, ambient atmosphere and electronic pop, moving through deeply emotional moments to a dark and powerful conclusion.

And the lyrics? To say this will be Marillion’s most controversial effort is an understatement. Steve Hogarth plays a child here, so some of the lines are simplistic, yet some – including a section that implies an understanding of the motivations behind suicide bombers – are strikingly mature. “Gaza” is not a political song, it is a cry for peace and justice, a demand for a human response to senseless war. This is not going to stop people from decrying it as a polemic, though, since its only character is a Palestinian child suffering at the hands of the Israelis. The end of the song features its best line – “It’s like a nightmare rose up from this small strip of land, slouching toward Bethlehem.” Aggression and response, on both sides, locked in a spiral that lays waste to the innocent.

But the key section, to me, is around the 12-minute mark. “Nothing’s ever simple, that’s for sure, there are grieving mothers on both sides of the wire, and everyone deserves a chance to feel the future just might be bright, but any way you look at it, whichever point of view, for us to have to live like this, it just ain’t right, it just ain’t right…” Giving a voice to the voiceless is a lifelong theme for Hogarth, and here, in this most beautiful part of the song, he does it again, with grace. I’m still absorbing “Gaza,” and I’ll have more to say about it in a couple of weeks. For now, hear it for yourself. And read the lyrics here. And then tell me what you think. This is perhaps the band’s most ambitious song ever. Did they pull it off?

Next week, likely Animal Collective, Amanda Palmer and/or Yeasayer. 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.