We’ve talked a lot about Kickstarter in this column this year. And since it’s easily the most important innovation in my little corner of the world since the mp3, I expect I’ll be talking about it even more in the coming year. So I hope you’re not sick of this topic yet.

This is probably the last time I’ll base a column around it in 2012, though, so I wanted to spend a little time clearing up what I see as a misconception about Kickstarter and why it works. I heard a theory recently that Kickstarter contributors are, in essence, buying a connection with an artist. It’s the theory that says, sure, you can sell your album for $10, but if you put it on Kickstarter with some extra exclusive bonus stuff, you can charge $25 because people will feel connected to you.

Just speaking for myself, that’s not why I support projects on Kickstarter (or similar models) at all. Sure, it’s nice to feel connected to an artist I admire, but I can send an email or a Facebook message if I want that. The avenues of communication are much more varied and open now than they have ever been. Whether I spend $10, $25 or $100 for someone’s record, I feel no more connected to them than I did before hitting the “buy now” button. No matter how much extra stuff is thrown in.

No, what I love about this model is that it makes me feel important. I recently contributed $20 to Daniel Amos to help them make a new record, their first since 2001. I did this for two reasons. First, the music of Daniel Amos has meant a lot to me, for a very long time. They have a proven track record – they’ve been releasing music since 1976, and I can count the number of DA records I haven’t enjoyed on one hand. They’re a great band, and I want to hear new stuff from them.

But second, and more importantly, there’s a very real sense that without my $20, this new Daniel Amos music will not be made. And that’s why I do it – to support projects that would not happen otherwise. To show artists pushing out on their own that yes, their work is valued and vital. This model allows artists to specifically reach the people who love their work most, and allows those people to support that work in the most important way there is.

Sure, you’ll find some people who are only in it for the extra stuff. But I’d be willing to bet the vast majority of Kickstarter contributors feel the way I do. We want to be part of something, we want to pick our projects carefully, and we want our contributions to matter. When I hold the new Daniel Amos album in my hands next year, I’ll be able to say, “I helped make this.” And that’s an indescribable feeling.

This week, I have two other albums to discuss, and I helped make both of them. I’ve met Bill Mallonee once (he probably doesn’t remember) and I’ve never met Richard Julian. But their work has been important to me for a long time, and when both men asked me to give to their new projects, I did it without hesitation. Neither one used Kickstarter – they just built up an email list, and then asked those folks to contribute. Richard, I know, is still trying to meet his $18,000 goal to pay for all the expenses of his new record. But he went ahead and pressed it anyway, and it’s here. And it’s great.

Richard Julian is a criminally underappreciated songwriter. I’ve said that before, and it sadly remains true. He’s got a Randy Newman-esque wit, a deep appreciation for traditional music of all stripes, and the melodic skill to put his own twist on any form he adopts. He’s made seven albums now, and not a single one of them sounds like any of the others – Julian either has incredible trust in his audience, or he doesn’t think about them, following his muse wherever it goes.

Album number seven, the one I contributed to, is called Fleur de Lis, and it finds Julian steeped in New Orleans jazz and funk. He spends most of this album on piano, an instrument he’s never featured before, and he works with a host of local musicians, including some sweet, sweet horn players. He’s never done anything quite like the loose, tuba-fueled funk of “Your Thing,” but it suits him – Julian’s voice, with its semi-permanent smirk, fits this style well.

Julian’s lived in New Orleans since 2010, and he sounds fully immersed in the place on this record. The same sense of perception he brought to New York serves him well here – opener “Not Leaving New Orleans” is a barrelhouse stomp that takes us on a tour of the city, as Julian describes a rollercoaster of a date. It manages to poke fun at the city while celebrating it at the same time. In the end, Julian’s character wins enough money at the casino to go anywhere he likes, and he chooses to stay right where he is: “Now I’m living fat and happy with my baby down in New Orleans…”

“Die in New Orleans” is a beautiful, jazzy tune about a guy who wants to be buried in his favorite city. “I’ll take anything, even one of those August days in the heart of the brutal summer, the doggest of days, so long as the tuba player plays, let him play me out in New Orleans…” And the lovely “Bywater Bye Bye” is a love letter to Julian’s neighborhood, and its brass bands around every corner. You can feel in every note of these songs how much he loves his new city, touting its virtues and its vices equally. The lyrics are sprinkled with references to steamboats and seafood and, always in the background, the oil spill.

When Julian steps out of New Orleans for inspiration, the results are equally superb. “Gypsy Lover” is a little epic based on a revolving piano figure, and some delightful percussion from Jon Cleary. I never like to read Julian’s lyrics before listening to his songs, because he’s so good at taking me by surprise. Here he describes his lover as “slutty as a bumblebee” and “random as the breeze outside,” two lines I adore. Julian’s the kind of writer who would compose a delicate acoustic piece about Galileo (“Secret of the Stars”) and include this line: “The powers that be threw down this decree, ye keep that shit to thine self.”

It’s not all top notch – “Sexistan” is a b-side if I ever heard one, coupling a loose jam with a juvenile lyric. But Julian recovers quickly with the dry, fatalistic “You’re Only Gonna Die,” and keeps the high standard through the closing instrumental “Floyd.” Fleur de Lis is a terrific album. If you’re familiar with Richard Julian, that should be no surprise, although the musical milieu will be. Despite remaining under the radar, he’s built up a body of work that would be the envy of most songwriters.

I’m thrilled that my money went to the creation of Fleur de Lis, and should Julian ask for my help again, he’ll get it without a moment’s pause. Check out his work here, and his band The Little Willies with Norah Jones here.

Similarly, I’ll buy anything Bill Mallonee does until one of us dies. The Georgia singer-songwriter’s been at this game for more than 20 years, and he’s never made a record I don’t like. Fortune has not been kind to Mallonee – he once enjoyed label support, back when he fronted the tremendous Vigilantes of Love, but since 2004 he’s been a one-man operation, recording and releasing his songs online, and touring until his car falls apart.

This year, for the second year in a row, Mallonee asked his mailing list to contribute money toward the making of a new album, to be released on CD. Last year’s The Power and the Glory was classic Mallonee, and this year’s Amber Waves is the same, with longtime VoL bassist and drummer Jake Bradley and Kevin Heuer providing support. Once again I’m glad I paid my money and took my chance. There’s nothing new here – this is the full-blooded guitar-fueled Americana Mallonee has pretty much always given us, with touches of dust bowl folk and Crazy Horse rock. If you liked him before, you still will.

So what does this one offer? Thirteen songs of love and loss and spiritual yearning, played and sung with gusto. While I like to let Richard Julian surprise me, I always read Mallonee’s lyrics first, since that’s where his focus is, and they’re typically marvelous on Amber Waves. Sometimes he’s harsh and devastating, as on this verse from “Faith (Comes Soaked in Gasoline)”: “The foreman’s car pulls into Hooverville, he’s got 100 jobs for 1,000 men, and ‘cause our kids look like skeletons, it won’t cost him much of anything, gun-toting deputy wears a shiny badge, that kind of justice don’t mean a thing, there’s one thing about faith you can be sure of, it all comes soaked in gasoline…”

But he can also be hopeful, bowing under majesty. “Though fate and sad reversals slow your journey home, you’ll get there ‘cause that deal was done a long, long time ago,” he sings on “Pillow of Stars,” and he speaks of everlasting hope on “Walking Disaster”: “On the fault line of walking disasters, there’s a place where the angels still sigh, and the river of love, it still rolls on long time after the well has run dry…” A lot of this record finds Mallonee weary and broken, but by the final track, he’s at some measure of peace: “Let me go down easy when the box gets shut, let me go down easy into God knows what…”

That song, “Into God Knows What,” is one of two absolute classics here. The other, “Long Since Gone,” may be my favorite Mallonee song since he launched his solo career 10 years ago. Over a delicate acoustic strum, Mallonee sings from the point of view of poor workers in Carolina, desperately clinging to whatever they can. “The fields, they’re all barren, factory up and moved it overseas, boarded up town, ghosts walking the streets, hung heads and heavy sighs, winter coming on, what little was left is long since gone…” It’s heartrending.

Musically, Mallonee pulls out a few little surprises – the Moog synth on “One Kiss at a Time,” the ringing xylophone on “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah,” the thick riffing on “Break in the Clouds” – but mostly, he sticks to his wheelhouse here. With the possible exception of Ryan Adams, though, he does this wheelhouse better than anyone. I’ll never figure out why Lost Highway or a similar label hasn’t snatched Mallonee up. His catalog – more than 50 albums strong and counting – surely is evidence enough. If you need more, listen to the killer riff of “To the Nines,” or the nimble, heartbreaking “Into God Knows What.”

Mallonee’s a treasure, and whatever we need to do to keep him writing songs and recording them, we ought to do. I’ve complained before that Mallonee writes the same kind of great song over and over, and that’s still true on Amber Waves. But a great song is a great song, and this album (like every Mallonee album) is full of them. Contributing to the continuing musical adventures of a guy who can write and play a song like “Long Since Gone” is a no-brainer. Here’s to many more.

You can become a Bill Mallonee fan too, just by clicking here. Everything is free to listen to, but if you like it, consider buying it. You’ll be supporting a truly independent artist, one I hope you’ll agree is worth your hard-earned money.

Next week, it’s Christmas all over the world. 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.

Last week’s column was all about surprises, and 2012 has been a year full of them.

Not all of them were pleasant. New records by the Shins, Mumford and Sons and Aimee Mann fizzled, Joe Jackson broke his streak of excellent records with his lamentable Duke Ellington project, and most sadly, the Choir released their first mediocre effort in a long, long time. The Beach Boys reunion collapsed, the Cornerstone Festival breathed its last, and Adam Yauch died.

But this year brought its fair share of positive stunners too. Rufus Wainwright, John Mayer and Fiona Apple all made terrific new records, Jellyfish (Jellyfish!) released a live album and a collection of instrumentals, Bob Mould rocked his way back to Sugary heights, Amanda Palmer used her Kickstarter money to make the album of her life, and most wonderfully, Ben Folds Five reunited after a long absence, and knocked it out of the park with The Sound of the Life of the Mind.

That’s the kind of year it was. Some of the best stuff came out of nowhere, from unexpected directions, and mainly from bands and artists who had been away long enough that I’d taken my eye off them. I have three of those on tap this week, from a very diverse crop of artists. In fact, the only thing that connects them is that they’ve been away from the public eye for ages, and no one expected them to return. Here’s where I welcome them all back.

* * * * *

Whenever Paul Buchanan returns with an album, it seems to take everyone by surprise.

Perhaps that’s because Buchanan’s music is so unassuming. With the possible exception of Talk Talk, Buchanan’s longtime band The Blue Nile may be the most patient, melancholy pop group to ever come out of Great Britain. Their four albums were each separated by a minimum of six years, and each hovered around 40 minutes. Blue Nile songs were slow, layered in keyboards, and focused with almost laser-like precision on Buchanan’s striking voice. It’s hard to explain what kind of singer he is – he’s not vocally acrobatic, but every word he utters demands your attention like few other singers can.

Buchanan songs unfailingly aim for a particular kind of wonder, one that bides its time while it seeps its way in. He favors long buildups instead of immediate choruses, complete four-minute thoughts instead of highlight moments. You have to take in Blue Nile albums whole, and you have to wait for them to reveal themselves. Perhaps that’s why each one took so long to come out – the (unfortunately small) audience needed the extra time to truly absorb these works.

I can’t claim to have been a longtime Blue Nile fan. My first album-length exposure to them was 2004’s High, a masterful yet modest collection of soulful balladry. I thought perhaps this was a departure from their ‘80s work, but no. Every Blue Nile album is modest and soulful, Buchanan’s voice deservedly taking the spotlight atop lush synths. They somehow built an entire career by striving for unadulterated beauty, with no compromises.

It’s been eight years since we’ve heard from Buchanan, and in that time, the band evaporated. You can hear its loss in every lonely, lovely note of Buchanan’s first solo album, Mid Air. Somehow, he’s made his music even more modest, even more melancholy. Mid Air is down to piano, some hints of orchestration, and that still-striking voice, and in this glorious setting, Buchanan stops time. Everything around this album freezes while it’s playing, as if the air itself is listening intently. It’s that lovely.

It would be fair to describe these songs as sketches, in a way. Only one of this album’s 14 tracks breaks the three-minute mark, and all are stripped down, almost to the point of not existing at all. Buchanan keeps his amazing voice to a whisper throughout, singing haiku-like lyrics about love and loss. It sounds very much like the product of a series of sleepless nights, as if Buchanan, blurry-eyed and contemplative, found himself at the living room piano at 3 a.m.

None of this sounds impressive, I know. But when he quietly slips into “I Remember You,” for example, it’s unspeakably moving. “I know exactly where you’ll be, you’ll be exactly where I am, we go arm in arm, I remember you…” I can’t breathe, it’s so beautiful. When he sings the opening lines of “Buy a Motor Car” (“Buy a motor car and drive somewhere you believe, far away from me, I’m not sure if I’m alive…”), my heart stops. While it’s playing, it’s the saddest 2:37 I can imagine. That is, until he gets to these lines in “Wedding Party”: “Are you trying to tell me what I already know, letting go…”

In the best possible way, Mid Air sounds like eavesdropping, like listening to someone’s innermost thoughts without their knowledge. It’s naked and exposed, and it’s often surprisingly warm and whole and thankful. Buchanan packs oceans of emotion into the final lines of “Two Children”: “Ask me if I am grateful, watch as I fall down to my knees.” The album consists of little glimpses, tiny epiphanies measured in seconds, and it may be the closest Buchanan has come to that ideal beauty he’s been searching for.

It’s hard to explain the appeal of this album, or of Buchanan’s life in music. You just have to hear it, fall in love with it, be transformed by it. From nearly nothing, Paul Buchanan has spun one of the most moving albums of the year. I hope I won’t have to wait another eight years for the next one, but I’m sure I will. And I’m also sure that, like Mid Air, it will be worth every day.

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The members of Soundgarden have never struck me as particularly cheeky. So I couldn’t help but grin when I saw that the first song (and first single) on their reunion album, King Animal, is entitled “Been Away Too Long.”

It’s certainly been a while – Soundgarden’s last album hit stores 16 years ago. During their ‘90s heyday, they were arguably the best, and certainly the most musically adept band to ride the grunge wave out of Seattle. While their contemporaries were almost embarrassed by their fame, and preferred to whine over sludgy guitar chords, Soundgarden exhibited an almost Zeppelin-like swagger. They rode in on big riffs, tricky time signatures, and the rock god voice of Chris Cornell. Their masterpiece, 1994’s Superunknown, is a relentless 70-minute slab of intelligent, twisty, almost cocky rock and roll. (If you haven’t heard it in a while, try it. It holds up remarkably well.)

The decade and a half since the split-up hasn’t been particularly kind to Cornell. A stint with the ill-advised not-so-supergroup Audioslave, a ridiculous Michael Jackson cover, and a much-derided collaboration with Timbaland (which I quite liked) did a lot to undo his reputation as a phenomenally gifted singer. Guitarist Kim Thayil and bassist Ben Shepherd all but disappeared, and drummer Matt Cameron has been a permanent member of Pearl Jam since 1998. Believe me when I tell you that no one was expecting a Soundgarden reunion, and even when one was announced, no one had high hopes for it.

But lo and behold, King Animal is actually pretty good. I’d love to say the band picked up where they left off in ’96, but they haven’t. This album is a little more tentative than I’d like, and the band is clearly older and less adventurous. Cornell’s high, throaty wail has aged, and the band is content to simply ride a groove like “Non-State Actor” instead of shaking it up like they once would have. But in all, these 13 tracks are far better than I was expecting.

The best material here is the moodiest, and comes after the rollicking opening salvo. Track five, “Blood on the Valley Floor,” does what Soundgarden does best – a crawling riff right out of the Zep handbook, some interesting time signature shifts, a soaring melody, and out in 3:48. “Bones of Birds” is reminiscent of Cornell’s best solo work, its folded and spindled 7/8 riff leading into a swell minor-key chorus. “Black Saturday” presses the acoustic guitar into service, but it’s joined by exotic percussion and a full horn section for one of the band’s signature head-spinning sections.

With all that going on, the simple ditty “Halfway There” might have sounded slight, if not for that catchy chorus. It’s the closest thing to a hit you’ll find here, amidst workouts like “Worse Dreams.” King Animal ends with “Rowing,” built around a twisting bass figure from Shepherd and a simple, relentless drum beat from Cameron. It’s a song about persevering – “Don’t know where I’m going, I just keep on rowing” – and it strikes just the right note at the end of this record. I hope Soundgarden perseveres, because as good as King Animal is, they should be back to full strength in a couple of albums. And I definitely want to hear that.

* * * * *

But the prize for most unexpected reunion album goes to Dead Can Dance.

Like Soundgarden, it’s been 16 years since Brendan Perry and Lisa Gerrard have recorded together. They were one of the original 4AD Records bands in the ‘80s, and sat somewhat uncomfortably among their gothic counterparts. Dead Can Dance has always been an all-encompassing world music outfit, mixing Eastern melodies and instruments with Western production. They were unique in the ‘80s, and they’re unique now.

Dead Can Dance is a band I have heard of more than I have heard. I never explored their catalog to the extent I should have. But their reunion album, Anastasis, has convinced me to look deeper. The title is a Greek word for resurrection, and the album lives up to it – here are eight long songs that exemplify this band’s fascinating mix of styles and influences. Perry and Gerrard are not afraid to return after 16 years with an album that is difficult, demanding, and unlike anything else you’ll hear.

If the pair felt like they had to prove anything, they did it with the first track, the sweeping “Children of the Sun.” Over thick synths and swirling strings, Perry unveils his Morrissey-imitating-David-Bowie voice, and reveals its power bit by bit as the song swells. By the end, the orchestration has built up an almost palpable force. It’s a gauntlet-throwing opener, and the album doesn’t reach those particular heights again. But that’s all right, because it follows other paths.

Half of these songs are Perry’s, and those contain intelligible lyrics and steady beats. They’re all good – “Amnesia” starts off with a hint of reggae, and ends up with huge string and horn lines fighting for space. “Opium” could almost be a single, with its supple rhythm and choral keyboard sounds. And closer “All in Good Time” is lovely, Perry’s reverbed voice drifting above an ambient backdrop.

But the other half belong to Gerrard, and they’re the heart of the album for me. Gerrard sings in glossolalia, uttering syllables that have no meaning, but convey emotion. She lets that voice loose on the Middle Eastern-flavored “Anabasis,” and it seems to have no boundaries. It floats disembodied above the sinewy sonic backdrop, synths melding with traditional instruments for a mind-altering experience. “Agape” is similar, Gerrard showing why she’s been an in-demand film composer since Dead Can Dance’s last record.

Nothing here is as remarkable as the eight-minute movie without pictures “Return of the She-King.” A simple percussion figure (including sleigh bells) supports some lovely strings while Gerrard layers her voice atop itself, turning herself into a spectral choir. I almost wish for real horns at the five-minute mark, but it might not carry the same effect. Perry enters shortly thereafter, wordlessly joining Gerrard’s gorgeous vocal, and the two ride the majestic wave out.

Dead Can Dance have been away for 16 years, and even after all that time, there’s still no other band like them. Anastasis fits right in with what I’ve heard of their older material, like no time has passed. Their return is one of the most welcome surprises of the year, and I hope their collaboration continues. They clearly fill a niche that no one else can touch.

* * * * *

Next week, a couple of albums I helped to make. After that, this year’s crop of Christmas music, and then we’re in the year-end festivities. Another one in the books. Hard to believe. 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’ve talked a lot in this column about expectations, and how they color reactions to music. And I’ve written reams about records that I expected to be good, but turned out to be mediocre, or worse. I’ve noticed, though, that we haven’t really discussed it from the other angle. What about albums you expect to be crap, but which end up impressing you?

It’s no secret that lowered expectations can be good for an artist with something to prove. I call it the Waterworld Effect, after Kevin Costner’s 1995 sci-fi epic. At the time, its $175 million budget made it the most expensive film ever made, and rumors of its inescapable crappiness surrounded its release. (If I recall, some critics referred to it as Fishtar, after a similarly expensive flop.) Waterworld didn’t do very well. But when I went to see it, I left the theater happy. It was a mediocre movie, all told, but it cleared the very low bar I’d set for it easily, and ended up impressing me.

But the Waterworld Effect is about average art benefiting from low expectations. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about genuinely terrific records, ones that I’d enjoy regardless of baggage. I’m talking about the sweet surprise of hearing something sublime from a band I’d written off, or barely explored. There are better things about being an obsessive music fan, but none offers that particular thrill of rediscovering something worthy.

For instance. I have always liked the Dave Matthews Band. I know that’s an admission I’m not supposed to make – they’re almost universally dismissed as dad-rock hippies – but I’ve been into their sound since I first heard “Jimi Thing” playing in a record store in Massachusetts in 1994. I’ve stuck with them ever since, but I’ve been tempted to jump ship more than once in the intervening years. After the tremendous Before These Crowded Streets in 1998, they started sliding down, a precipitous drop that culminated in the death of saxophonist LeRoi Moore in 2008.

After that, I figured they were done. The band rallied to finish the album they were working on when Moore died, and the result was the surprisingly good Big Whiskey and the Groogrux King. But I thought of that as a finale, a last grasp at greatness. I figured they’d reached deep for that record, in memory of Moore, and they would most likely just fade away once it was released.

What I didn’t expect is that they’d outdo it, and everything they’ve released since Crowded Streets, with their new album, Away From the World. In fact, I was so sure this album would be terrible that I neglected to listen to it for more than a month, letting it collect dust in my “someday” pile. When I finally gave this platter a spin, I was amazed. Not only is this the best set of songs Matthews has put together in more than a decade, the band sounds revitalized playing them.

Away From the World brings producer Steve Lillywhite back into the fold for the first time since the aborted 1999-2000 sessions that followed Crowded Streets. In a lot of ways, those sessions were the turning point – after scrapping them, the band made the horrid, pop-encrusted Everyday, and the slide began in earnest. So bringing Lillywhite back is a symbolic statement of purpose. And the album sounds like it. This album is definitely not the old-school, wrist-breaking, passionate DMB – they’re older, and they’ve mellowed out. But even in its more mid-tempo grooves, this record sounds alive.

Take “Belly Belly Nice,” which rises above its awful title on a kinetic acoustic guitar groove and some high-powered sax work from longtime guest Jeff Coffin. When it slides into the chorus (“You can’t get too much love”), it’s like the sound of the band remembering what made them great. “Mercy” is a lovely little ballad, Matthews’ aging voice sounding wiser than ever, and “Gaucho” is a slippery epic, ducking and diving between time signatures. On this one especially, Carter Beauford continues to make the case for himself as one of the finest drummers around.

And that’s the thing with the DMB. Matthews may have it in his head that we’re here for him, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s always been his band. Beauford is amazing, bassist Stefan Lessard is nimble, and violinist Boyd Tinsley continues to shine. It’s the interplay between these guys and Matthews’ guitar that makes DMB records for me, and the more over-produced they are, the more they rely on pop gloss and sonic layering, the less interesting they become.

Away From the World sidesteps all that like no record they’ve made since the ‘90s. This one’s about the band playing, which is all I want to hear. The final track, a nine-minute wonder called “Drunken Soldier,” is the epitome of this approach – the song is killer, and everyone’s in top form, jamming in a room. And in the process, they sound reawakened, ready to leave the tragedy of 2008 behind them and start anew. I honestly didn’t think they still had something like this in them. I’m happy to be wrong.

* * * * *

I’ve never had a lot of time for Norah Jones.

I’ve heard her stuff, of course. I couldn’t escape “Don’t Know Why” in 2002, as much as I wanted to, and I’ve listened to scattered singles in the years since. But I’ve never liked her enough to go deeper. There’s a sleepy, coffeehouse-safe vibe to her brand of lite jazz that I just couldn’t get beyond. I like her kitschy side project, the Little Willies, but mainly for her bandmate Richard Julian, who remains a criminally underappreciated artist. As for Jones, she’s never made much of an impression.

I’m not sure why I bought Little Broken Hearts, her fifth album. I expect it was curiosity – she appears on the cover in a wild wig, posing like the girl on the Mudhoney poster, and she teamed up with Danger Mouse, who co-wrote and produced the whole thing. You all know Danger Mouse – one half of Gnarls Barkley and Broken Bells, manned the boards for the last three Black Keys albums, has worked with Gorillaz and Beck. He’s never done lite jazz in his life.

So yeah, I was curious, and I’m glad I was, because Little Broken Hearts is excellent. It’s not quite the messy, trashy wonder the cover promises, but it does find Jones digging into new styles, and draping that purring voice over new backdrops. The record has a haunted, downtempo feel to it, but it elicits shivers, not yawns. Danger Mouse keeps things surprisingly minimal – the minor-key “Take It Back” sticks with two guitars and bass for half its running time, before subtle drums and keys come in. “She’s 22” is barely even there – just some wisps of guitar and piano.

But when Danger Mouse asserts himself, as on the trippy “After the Fall,” the results are spectacular. The effects on Jones’ normally unaffected voice are perfect, cutting through the little web of skipping drums, plinking guitars and washed-out organs. There isn’t much of a melody, but the atmosphere is enough. “4 Broken Hearts” is a reverbed, Chris Isaak-esque shimmy, dark and sexy. “Travelin’ On” sounds like the closing scene of a move like True Romance, in which the broken and bloodied hero heads off into the sunset with his love, sad but hopeful.

The loudest thing here is “Happy Pills,” and it really isn’t that loud. Its muted saxophone lines accent a rhythm that straddles doo-wop and the Cars, Jones crooning, “Please just let me go.” The production is marvelous, full of little details, and Jones rises to the occasion well. It’s the one shaft of light here – Jones turns murderous on the next track, “Miriam,” and then closes things out with a slinky, six-minute sorta-reggae crawl called “All a Dream.” The hook line is “You never hurt someone who wants to learn to be your slave.” Like much of Little Broken Hearts, this is not a portrait of a healthy relationship.

It is, however, a portrait of an artist looking to break out of her self-created mold. It’s been a while since I’ve heard an artistic reinvention as successful as the one Jones pulls off on Little Broken Hearts. For the first time ever, I’m interested to hear where she goes next.

* * * * *

And finally, we have Shiny Toy Guns.

I first heard this Los Angeles band when they opened for Mutemath back in 2006. I thought they were ridiculous. They wore face paint, the drummer spent more time twirling his sticks and pointing to the ceiling than he did drumming, and the candy-coated electro-stomp they pumped out was exactly the wrong style to play to Mutemath fans. When they played “Le Disko,” their annoying single, I wanted to run screaming.

Perhaps the great Mutemath show I saw later that night tempered my contempt, because I went out and bought Shiny Toy Guns’ debut album, We Are Pilots, and enjoyed it. They’re definitely a studio band, constructing most of their sound out of stacked synthesizers, and even though “Le Disko” was still irritating, other tunes like “You Are the One” and “Don’t Cry Out” showed a refined sense of drama and melody. In short, the record is a pretty good slice of trashy electronic pop.

And then it all went south. Vocalist Carah Faye quit, and Chad Petree and Jeremy Dawson soldiered on with a darker, more dismal second album, Season of Poison, which tanked horribly. And then, for three years, Petree and Dawson talked about their third album, letting release date after release date fly by. They’d clearly lost their way. I knew how this story would end – the third record would probably come out, and it would probably be a cobbled-together, over-thought mess, and then the band would disintegrate.

Well, I have to say, way to prove me wrong.

The third Shiny Toy Guns album, fittingly titled III, is marvelous. It may be one of the best electronic pop albums I’ve heard in a couple years. The record finds Faye rejoining the fold, and the band rediscovering its footing. Gone are the sheets of guitar from Season of Poison – this album is almost entirely synth-driven, and the production by Petree and Dawson is glimmering. The sound is exactly right, a huge step up from the analog burbles of Pilots.

But better than that, the songs are superb. Even with Faye back in the ranks, the band only delivers one riff on “Le Disko” – it’s called “Speaking Japanese,” and it’s pretty great, if kitschy. The rest of III, however, is surprisingly mature, deeply melodic, dark and (believe it or not) restrained. It opens with “Somewhere to Hide,” a sparkling, catchy pop song just drenched in snaking synth lines – it’s so good that the members of Garbage are probably kicking themselves for not writing it. The electrifying “Carrie” skips along at a brisk pace, and “If I Lost You” brings early Pet Shop Boys to mind.

Once “Speaking Japanese” is over, the album shows its true colors. “Mercy” is a stunningly good epic, its atmospheric opening leading into a wordless wonder of a chorus. “Wait For Me” is slow simmer, clouds of synths supporting the twining voices of Faye and Petree. “Fading Listening” sounds like Rumours-era Fleetwood Mac (really), and “The Sun” keeps the mood going with a soaring anthem. The final six songs, in fact, are all tremendous, and never once slip into the trashy dance-pop the band made its name with. The last track, “Take Me Back to Where I Was,” is even an unaffected, earnest piano ballad.

I’m very surprised by how much I like III. Before this, Shiny Toy Guns was one of those bands I’d decided to follow, but didn’t love. Now, I would truly miss them if they called it quits. III is an almost modest, vulnerable record, and that I was not expecting. This is an album that was crafted with care, and it draws me in, demanding I play it again and again. I’ve already heard it more times than Pilots and Poison combined. While I was writing them off, Shiny Toy Guns went and wrote a new chapter. Here’s to many more.

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Next week, maybe that column of unexpected returns, but maybe something else. 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.

This week we here in Aurora bid goodbye to the New Automatics.

I don’t know if this has ever happened to you, but have you ever watched as something extraordinary began, evolved and grew, and you just knew that magic was happening? And that even though this thing was a secret shared by only a few, you knew – just knew – that this was the real deal, and it wouldn’t stay a secret for long?

The New Automatics was like that. It was our local supergroup – songwriters Jeremy Keen and Andrea Dawn anchored it, with impeccable support from Zach Goforth and Brendan McCormick. Watching these four find each other, take their first steps forward, and finally revel in and celebrate their musical connection was a joy.

Every New Automatics show – and there were far too few – was an event. Every single element of their collaboration worked, from the superb songs Dawn and Keen wrote, to the exquisite three-part harmonies, to the way Keen’s electric guitar tone meshed with and elevated everything. There was no weak link. They were the best band in Aurora. And now they’re done. Keen and his family are off to Florida at the end of the month. It’s a sad day, because while Keen and Dawn are terrific on their own, they were beyond wonderful together.

The band did treat us to a final concert, though, and really, you should have been there. It was an emotional evening, as they ran through a series of songs about loss and separation, then sealed the deal with some well-chosen covers. The highlight, for me, was (believe it or not) Taylor Swift’s “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together,” which Dawn and Keen sang acoustically. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry – the song selection was perfect, and the reading so tender and funny. I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face. When the show ended (perfectly, with a cover of “Closing Time”), we were all kind of dumbstruck at what we’d lost, but happy to have seen them one last time.

I wish you all could have heard the New Automatics. They were something special. We’ll miss you, Jeremy. Come back and see us soon.

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I still get a little thrill when I hear that an artist I like is releasing two albums in one year.

I don’t quite know why. It wasn’t that long ago that putting out two records in a year wasn’t considered odd. Hell, the Beatles’ first six albums were all released within three years, not to mention the constant barrage of non-album singles that also hit stores. But we’re in an age now when an album is routinely twice as long as those first six Beatles records, so it really shouldn’t mean as much now. If Please Please Me is the base line, most of the artists I know put out the equivalent of two albums this year.

For some reason, though, I just like the idea of multiple projects coming to life at once. The venerable Over the Rhine has just launched a pre-order campaign for a pair of albums they plan to release next year, and I’m already pretty excited about it. Perhaps this is a distinction that only makes sense in the realm of physical products, but to me, putting out two albums is different than putting out a double album. The twin records approach says to me that even though these songs may have come from the same sessions, they fall into two completely different categories, and their respective albums have completely different characters.

That’s not always the case, but if an artist puts out two records in one year, I can’t help thinking about them in relation to one another. The astonishing Kate Bush dropped two albums on us last year, and they couldn’t have been less alike: Director’s Cut found her revisiting old material in new ways, and 50 Words for Snow took her tendency for lengthy ambient works to new, beautiful heights. They scratched different creative impulses, and as a fan, I appreciated them in different ways. But each illuminated the other for me.

A few artists have already released multiple records this year, including the ever-prolific Robert Pollard, who is on three and counting. Add to that the surprisingly ambitious Green Day – they’re in the middle of a trilogy, and they’ve just bumped the third installment forward to next month. We’re going to get three Green Day records this year, but at the moment, we have two, and they definitely fit the pattern I’m looking for – Uno and Dos are distinct entities, and they help explain each other.

You’ll recall I was disappointed in the regressive Uno, a calculated attempt to return to the days of “Welcome to Paradise.” Dos is the same kind of backslide, in a different way, and it solidifies what Green Day is up to – they’re bringing together all the styles they’ve worked in, and handing them to their 20-year-old selves. Dos lives up to its billing as the more garage-rock installment, but its songs are just as asinine and immature as those on Uno. Quite a lot of this record sounds like Green Day’s alter ego, the bratty-fun Foxboro Hot Tubs. But not enough of it captures that effortless sense of whimsy. Most of it, in fact, is just lame.

The sweet minute-long intro “See You Tonight” will not prepare you, for instance, for “Fuck Time.” Originally a Foxboro Hot Tubs song, “Fuck Time” is just as insipid as its title. It should be fun – it’s a Green Day song called “Fuck Time” – but it falls flat. If you giggle at this, the rest of the record may be up your alley. But considering Billie Joe Armstrong is 40 this year, I found it kind of sad. At least it’s not as creepy as “Makeout Party,” in which Armstrong sings, “Hey, you’ve got yourself a pretty little mouth, I think I want to rub you the wrong way, do you wanna play spin the bottle, play a game of chicken?” Again, Billie Joe Armstrong is 40.

Other lowlights include “Nightlife,” an execrable rap experiment, and “Baby Eyes,” an idiotic murder anthem. But Dos fares better than Uno musically, particularly on mid-tempo punkabilly like “Lazy Bones” and “Wild One.” The slinky “Stray Heart” is the best song on either album, bouncing along on sprightly bass and a Grease-ready melody. “Ashley” adds some well-needed excitement to the second half, even if the song is no great shakes. And I was pleasantly surprised by “Amy,” Armstrong’s sweet ode to Amy Winehouse. Considering the luck they’ve had with sparse ballads, this one could hit big.

So far, though, this trilogy is a bust. The third installment, Tre, reportedly contains the “epic” songs, but my bet is that it suffers from the same midlife crisis as its two predecessors. Armstrong and his cohorts seem to wish it was 1995 again, but they can’t turn back time. Uno and Dos find them dressing up in younger man’s clothes and pretending they’re not going gray. Unfortunately, they’re not very convincing, and the end result is just embarrassing.

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Speaking of going gray, there’s Neil Young. He turns 67 next week, and he definitely deserves his reputation as a grumpy old man these days. But he’s also an unflinching iconoclast. Neil Young does whatever he wants. If he feels like writing an album about his electric car, or creating a sequel to an album that was never released, or a rock opera about small-town America, he does it. At this stage in his career, he’s earned it.

So when he decided to reunite Crazy Horse, his fantastic longtime backing band, and jam out on traditional American tunes like “Oh Susannah,” “This Land is Your Land” and “Clementine,” well, he got to do it. And to be honest, that album, Americana, is better than it has any right to be. It’s vintage Crazy Horse – loud and sloppy, yet crisp and put together somehow. I’ve never been a huge fan of Young, but I adore Crazy Horse. And when Neil’s with them, he’s better – energized, tough, ready to play.

It turns out Americana was just the warmup. The second Neil Young and Crazy Horse album of 2012 is entitled Psychedelic Pill, and at 87 minutes, it’s the longest thing they’ve ever done. It’s an endurance test, stuffed with very long songs and endless guitar solos, but it’s also quintessential Crazy Horse. This record is like being allowed to listen in as they jam their way through new material, seeking out its twists and turns. There’s certainly little to suggest that they took anything but the first jams they got on tape to create this thing.

Case in point: “Driftin’ Back,” the 27-minute opener. As a song, it’s fine – it has a hook and a groove, and Crazy Horse plays it with force. But it drags on and on, guitar solo after guitar solo extending the running time well past its breaking point. Most of those solos are played over two notes repeated forever, and even the delightfully thick tones Young and Poncho Sampedro employ can only sustain interest for so long. In between jams, Young complains about MP3s and the music biz, ironically on the one song here that will not fit on a side of vinyl. And this is just track one. If you’re into it, and can ride it out, “Driftin’ Back” is an impressive jam. If you’re not, it’s headache-inducing.

Happily, that’s the worst thing on Psychedelic Pill. The remainder is classic Crazy Horse, with an extra jolt of good songwriting to boot. The title track is a festival of flange (a cleaner alternate mix also appears on disc two), “Born in Ontario” is a spirited romp, and “Twisted Road” is a slow burn with a sweet riff. None of these songs breaks four minutes, which definitely helps balance things out. The other two long ones are pretty good as well – “Ramada Inn” is the jewel of the record, even at 17 minutes, due to its interesting chords and inspired, sloppy leads, while “Walk Like a Giant” closes things out with a 16-minute racket worthy of bands half their age.

I don’t think Psychedelic Pill is a great record by any means, but it is one that only Neil Young and Crazy Horse would make together. Nothing here rocks, per se, but there’s a heaviness and a joy to these jams, particularly “Ramada Inn.” You can hear how much they enjoy playing together, how fruitful their partnership has been. Yeah, this record is way too long, and I wouldn’t mind hearing the five-minute versions of some of these epics, but if you want to hear what Crazy Horse sounds like when they’re alone, playing like no one’s listening, you can’t beat this. I may never listen to it again, but I’m glad I heard it.

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And finally, the Punch Brothers.

This has been their year. Their third album, Who’s Feeling Young Now, met with deafening acclaim and their highest sales figures. They appeared on Austin City Limits, and wowed audiences from coast to coast. If you hadn’t heard of Chris Thile before 2012, you’ve likely heard of him now. His experiment – a bluegrass band that can play any style with virtuosity and verve – has been declared a success, both artistically and commercially.

So what’s left to do but run a victory lap? Hence Ahoy, a five-song slice of awesome consisting of one new original and four magnificent covers. If you want a bite-sized summation of just why this band is so special, you can’t do better than this. The Punch Brothers are, in many ways, a traditional bluegrass outfit – mandolin, guitar, bass, banjo and fiddle. But they are just as adept at the standards as they are at songs Earl Scruggs would have run screaming from. (Check out their amazingly faithful cover of Radiohead’s “Kid A.”)

On Ahoy, they do both with style. The EP opens with Josh Ritter’s folksy “Another New World,” played straight, but with a startlingly well-conceived buildup. The band delivers a hayseed interpretation of Gillian Welch’s “Down Along the Dixie Line” – if you’ve ever heard Welch do it, your jaw will drop at the bouncy bluegrass rendition here. And traditional tune “Moonshiner” is given a heartfelt reading, fiddler Gabe Witcher truly shining. If you needed further proof that the Punch Brothers are one of the best traditional bluegrass bands on the planet, these three songs will provide it.

But then, things go nuts. Original instrumental “Squirrel of Possibility” is a joyous delight, nimbly carrying off a pop-bluegrass merger. Just listen to Thile on mandolin here. He’s a once-in-a-generation player, and few can compare. And then the Brothers launch into their version of hardcore band Mclusky’s “Icarus Smicarus,” and the gloves come off. It’s raucous, dangerous, finger-breaking stuff, particularly the extended playout, in which the Brothers play with dissonance and power like they rarely have. I can’t think of another bluegrass band who would even try this, let alone pull it off. The final note will leave you gasping for breath.

Yeah, this was the year of the Punch Brothers. There’s no other band like them. Ahoy is just them waving from orbit, getting ready to explore even further. I can’t wait to see where they go next.

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I’ve had this plan for weeks now to write a column about long-absent bands making unlikely returns this year. Trouble is, I’m still waiting for one of the albums I want to write about to show up. If it does by Monday, expect that next week. If not, expect something else. 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.