Recently, an acquaintance of mine posted a short rant about how much he would like to hate Vampire Weekend. He seemed sincerely disappointed that the band’s music struck a chord with him, since it prevented him from despising the group outright. Evidently, this boiling resentment came solely from looking at photos and reading interviews. At least, I guess so, since the music apparently didn’t play a part.

Quite frankly, I don’t understand this at all. I’ve been called a hater before, but I’ve never felt this way. I’ve never wanted to hate anything. On the contrary, I go into every musical experience hoping it will enrich my life. I’ve certainly bought albums I expect will be terrible, but I’ve delved into each of them with an open mind, hoping for the best. And if I do end up disliking something, it’s because of the music on the disc, not any other factor.

I’m not a hater. But man, do I seem to hate the National.

My distaste for this New York quintet is well documented, and a source of consternation to many of my friends. And I want to say this to all of them: I’m just as frustrated as you are. I want to like this band. I honestly do. It’s no fun being on the outside looking in, listening to High Violet and failing to hear the soulful and powerful music everyone else is hearing. It pains me that I don’t like this.

But I don’t. I’ve never really examined why – at least, not in this space – so I’m going to use the occasion of the National’s sixth album, Trouble Will Find Me, to pick this apart. Once again, I’ve bought a National album hoping to like it, and once again, the record has left me mostly cold. I’ve heard Trouble Will Find Me four times now, and on two of those run-throughs, the more sedate atmosphere the band conjures this time has worked for me. On the other two, I’ve nearly drifted off from sheer boredom.

People like me who don’t like the National will often say they’re boring, and leave it at that. I’m not sure that means much on its own. It’s true, of course – I do think the National is one of the most boring bands I’ve ever heard. But I think that’s subjective, and about what each individual listener is looking for. There are plenty of bands in my favorites list that others have described as boring. Marillion, in particular, comes in for that criticism a lot. Where I hear majestic and soul-stirring, others hear painful plodding.

So here’s what I mean when I say I find the National boring. I respond well to songs that are either about their melodies, like the best work of Elvis Costello and Aimee Mann and Andy Partridge, or about their atmospheres, like the music of Hammock and Sigur Ros. I find that the National tries to straddle that line, and ends up being neither melodic nor atmospheric enough for me. National songs tend to stick to a few chords, usually played slowly, and repeated without much variation. Matt Berninger’s voice is a fine, low, sonorous instrument, but he never does too much with it, staying close to the root notes and barely sounding like he’s awake. What melodies there are never really take off.

Even though Trouble Will Find Me contains the best National songs I’ve ever heard, there are still plenty of examples here. Take the first single (and second track), “Demons.” The most interesting thing about it is its 7/8 meter. Berninger spends the verses moving back and forth between two notes, and when the chorus comes (“I stay down with my demons”), neither Berninger nor the band do very much to call attention to it. The bridge section actually feels like a buildup, with Owen Pallet’s orchestration kicking in, but Berninger’s snoozy delivery keeps things flat, and the song quickly returns to the few chords it started with. To me, there is literally nothing memorable about this song – it starts, it ends, it goes nowhere in between.

If you’re fine with the atmosphere conjured up here, you’ll like this more than I do. This is the least rocking National album yet, and the songs with faster beats are the weakest. “Don’t Swallow the Cap” is practically spoken – if Berninger sings three different notes during its whole running time, I’d be surprised – and everyone but drummer Bryan Devendorf seems to be sleepwalking through this. Devendorf is the highlight throughout, actually. Many of these songs are in odd time signatures, and while the rest of the band continues to plod while counting in their heads, the drum work is nimble and interesting.

When the arrangements strip down, I’m generally happier with what I’m hearing. “Fireproof” may be the first National song since “Ada” that I like unreservedly. Its delicate guitar figure suits its windswept melody, and Berninger drifts into his upper register, always a good thing. “Humiliation” may as well be this band’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” It changes a good three times, including during a brief coda, and even when it’s merely stretching out its mood, it does that well.

But most of the record is like “Heavenfaced” and “Graceless”: repetitive and dull. The National is very good at introductions. The first 30 seconds of every one of their songs lead me to believe that they’re going somewhere remarkable, and I’m usually left wanting by the end. A song like “I Need My Girl” could be special – it has a wonderful ringing guitar part, and Berninger’s voice fits it well. But then it simply repeats four chords again and again, never lifting off.

Fans of the National will point out Berninger’s lyrics as a selling point, and they’re right to. He’s a fine wordsmith, and his gift has not failed him on Trouble Will Find Me. At times, he seems to be channeling Leonard Cohen, both vocally and lyrically. “Fireproof” begins like this: “You keep a lot of secrets and I keep none, wish I could go back and keep some.” The record is full of little gems like that, and if finely written lyrics were all I needed, I could feast on this album.

But if lovely poetry were enough for me, I’d be a Bob Dylan fan. I need the sense that the music was just as painstakingly crafted, and with a few exceptions, I don’t find that among the National’s catalog. Trouble Will Find Me is several steps in the right direction, but the style they seem to be going for negates most of that work. I like the more sedate sound of this album – even a song like “Sea of Love” feels restrained, and the record overall seems draped in shadow. I just wish it sounded more alive at the same time.

I will admit that some of my issue is the sheer amount of acclaim this band receives. It encourages them to remain as they are – humorless, dour and dull. Every song on Trouble is accompanied by a specially commissioned painting in the liner notes, and while I’ve never had a problem with that practice before (see Peter Gabriel’s Us, which I adore), it seems to speak to this band’s sense of self-importance. That’s not bad in itself, but it leads to songs like these, content to wallow in themselves.

Of course, all of this is about my taste, about the way I perceive and receive music. I am listening to Trouble again, for the fifth time, and finding that some parts of it I dismissed last time through – “This Is the Last Time,” for instance, or the Mark Eitzel-esque “Slipped” – are working for me. This is undoubtedly my favorite record they’ve made, for what that’s worth. But the National still hasn’t broken through for me, as much as I want them to. I’ll keep trying, though, and I hope that they will, too.

Meanwhile, I just want to lay to rest the idea that I ever want to hate something. I take no joy whatsoever in writing negative reviews, in not connecting with music. Most of what I hear drifts in one ear and out the other, leaving no mark. I keep listening, though, because each new song might be the one that redraws my life, that leaves me breathless, that sends my spirit soaring. All cliches, I know, but they’re all true. That album, that song, that musical moment that kicks open my doors and lets the light in, that’s worth everything. I am always hoping, every time, that each song I hear will be the one.

In the end, it’s music. Of course I want to love it all. Of course I do.

Next week, Ben Folds, Megadeth, Laura Marling and/or Queens of the Stone Age. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook and Twitter to stay up to date.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Well, look at that. Moffat pulled it off.

A couple of weeks ago I spent an inordinate amount of space bemoaning the state of Doctor Who. The ship seemed directionless, particularly after a pair of lousy episodes (“The Rings of Akhaten” and “Cold War”), and I had less than no faith in showrunner Steven Moffat to stick the landing on a season finale boldly titled “The Name of the Doctor.” I could feel this show going off the rails, and quickly.

But then two things happened. First, the second half of the season turned out to be pretty marvelous. The streak began with Neil Cross’ “Hide,” but Steven Thompson nailed his experimental “Journey to the Centre of the Tardis,” and Mark Gatiss – Mark Gatiss! – delivered one of my favorite Who scripts in “The Crimson Horror.” That Neil Gaiman’s “Nightmare in Silver” was just solid instead of mindbendingly brilliant is a shame, but the episode was still strong, with a terrific performance by Warwick Davis. And some genuinely creepy Cybermen.

And then, with “The Name of the Doctor,” Moffat delivered one of his finest scripts. In a scant 45 minutes, he wrapped up years of plotlines, crafting an elegant solution to the mystery of Clara Oswald and cutting to the heart of the Doctor’s relationships with those he loves most. The farewell scene between the Doctor and River Song broke my heart, and the stunning revelation at the end dropped my jaw. It was a tremendous piece of work, and a perfect lead-in to the 50th anniversary special slated for November.

And you know what? I rewatched all of Season Seven (or Season 33) recently, and it all holds up much better than I remembered from my week-to-week viewings. Even “The Rings of Akhaten” grew in stature on a second spin. (“Cold War” still kinda sucks, though. And “The Angels Take Manhattan” is still something of a travesty.) It’s clear now that while this season did not scale the epic heights of the previous two, it certainly delivered a run of solid, enjoyable adventures, with some occasional brilliant moments. It’s Moffat’s worst season as showrunner, but it’s still damn fine television.

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Here’s a quick list of the last five albums to reach my number one spot for the year:

2012: Lost in the Trees, A Church That Fits Our Needs.
2011: Quiet Company, We Are All Where We Belong.
2010: Sufjan Stevens, The Age of Adz.
2009: The Decemberists, The Hazards of Love.
2008: Fleet Foxes.

Hands up if you can tell me what they all have in common. That’s right, they’re all intense, weighty things, Serious Statements about art, God, life and death. In short, none of them are any fun. I’m sure many of you have wondered if your faithful columnist has ever just let his hair down and had a musical good time without worrying about compositional structures or lyrical themes or any of that. The question at the heart of all of this: do I ever just dance?

And, well, yeah. I do. It’s not as rare as you’d think. I will cop to a preference for studied, mannered music produced like a symphony. But give me a good groove and I’m there.

Want proof? I absolutely adore Random Access Memories, the fourth proper album by French duo Daft Punk. It’s been eight years since their tepid third effort, Human After All, and Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo and Thomas Bangalter have spent that time assessing just what they love about this thing called music, and crafting a valentine to it. They’ve been on a soulful trip for some time (with a brief detour to score a Tron movie with chilly electronics), but this is a whole new level. It’s simultaneously a glittering homage and a statement on the direction of modern dance music.

The first thing longtime fans will notice is that these songs were largely recorded with a live band. There’s a looseness, a vibe to this album that has been missing from Daft Punk records in the past, and the result is magical. The duo has chosen to weave their traditional electronics in among the live tracks, achieving a fascinating synthesis. There’s a massive orchestra on several tracks, a full choir on several others, and in the midst of this, that familiar-sounding modular synthesizer, providing a chilly counterpart. It all works marvelously.

But hey, I’m over-intellectualizing again. The thrill of this album is just how well these different styles flow into each other, how all-encompassing and danceable this record is. Random Access Memories is an hour and a quarter long, and one might expect a bit of self-indulgence, but despite some songs stretching to nine minutes, it’s all laser-focused. That’s even more remarkable when you look at the long list of collaborators, which includes former Chic mastermind Nile Rodgers, electronic music pioneer Giorgio Moroder, Strokes singer Julian Casablancas, Panda Bear, musical theater legend Paul Williams and pedal steel genius Greg Liesz. Yes, they’re all on the same album. No, it doesn’t sound like a mess.

In fact, the whole thing wraps together beautifully. It starts with a Rodgers collaboration, the chill-funky “Give Life Back to Music,” all wacka-wacka guitar and electric piano, and you wouldn’t think that could play nicely with the epic “Giorgio by Moroder,” but it does. True to its title, “Giorgio” features a monologue by the venerable musician discussing his life in music, and a blissful synthesized tribute to the man’s style. But over nine glorious minutes, Daft Punk add strings and screaming guitar, keeping the core of Moroder’s blocky sound while exploding it. It’s magnificent.

After that, you need a comedown, and tender piano ballad “Within” fits the bill. Every note the Daft Punkers sing on this album is through a vocoder, but they don’t use it as a crutch. It becomes a signature, so much so that when Casablancas steps in for the more traditional pop of “Instant Crush,” they do the same thing to him, rendering him unrecognizable. “Instant Crush,” all by itself, explains and outdoes the electronic-tinged material on the new Strokes album. It’s a fine mid-tempo piece, but it’s crushed into oblivion by the four-on-the-floor “Lose Yourself to Dance,” the album’s first collaboration with Pharrell Williams. (Rodgers is back for the ride on this one too, and he’s relentless.)

“Get Lucky,” the second of Pharrell’s tracks, is even more infectious. But only Daft Punk would sequence “Touch” between them. An eight-minute slice of orchestrated drama, “Touch” feels like it’s straight out of a funky musical, which is why Paul Williams fits in nicely. His voice is campy and classically trained, right off of a Broadway stage, and it fits this crazy composition nicely. There’s a “Domino Dancing” feel to some of it, as the pianos pound and the horns blare atop stirring strings, but this thing changes every few seconds, culminating in a massive refrain: “Hold on, love is the answer…” Very little of this should work, but all of it does.

Daft Punk’s experimental streak continues into the superb final third of this record. “Fragments of Time,” sung by Todd Edwards, is like a lost Doobie Brothers track, with pedal steel accents by Liesz. The chorus will take up residence in your head. “Doin’ It Right” is the only fully synthesized tune here, but it features the Brian Wilson-esque voice of Panda Bear, so it wins. And the instrumental finale, “Contact,” is pure Daft Punk – a swirling, constantly building synth motif that explodes like the big bang. It puts the perfect capstone on an album that puts forth a hundred different definitions of dance music, and ties them all up with the same bow.

Random Access Memories may be the most inclusive dance album I’ve ever heard. And yet, it never loses the core of what Daft Punk does. It’s wildly experimental, but it’s still geared toward moving your feet. It’s without a doubt the best record Daft Punk has made, a valiant attempt to redefine what they can do, and what dance music can be.

You’ll get more modest thrills on the new record by !!! (pronounced Chk! Chk! Chk!). In fact, the best part about the album is its title, an easy front-runner for the best of the year: Thr!!!er. That’s a bold choice, calling back to one of the best pop albums of all time, and the record can’t quite live up to it. But it’s a strong return to form for Nic Offer and his comrades, and a foot-stomping good time.

Opener “Even When the Water’s Cold” is classic !!!, all slippery bass, funky drumming and slinky guitar. The first line: “Friends told her she was better off at the bottom of a river than in a bed with him, he said until you try both you won’t know what you like better, why don’t we go for a swim?” You can just hear the smirk, and the infectious chorus delivers on it. The first third of this album is one dancefloor stomper after another – “Get That Rhythm Right” is unstoppable, if a little chilling, while “One Girl One Boy” is a devilish disco party, with soaring vocals by Sonia Moore.

From there, the music gets deeper and weirder, but no less infectious. “Fine Fine Fine” is tremendous, with its nods to Echo and the Bunnymen, while Moore returns to give “Except Death” a nice boost. “Careful” is more subtle, its skittering percussion raining atop a throbbing bass line and some Spanish guitar accents. The biggest surprise is closer “Station (Meet Me at The),” a full-on garage-rock workout. It doesn’t seem to fit with this album, Offer trying out his Nick Cave impression, but it’s a bold choice, and it does have a strong chorus, and its sloppy, explosive live band feel is an interesting counterpoint.

Still and all, Thr!!!er largely stays in place, delivering another slab of danceable rock from this always-likeable outfit. Perhaps it simply falls short in contrast to Daft Punk’s more wild effort – taken on its own, it’s a fine, fun shimmy of an album, accomplishing the same ends with simpler means. If all you want to do is dance, dance, then this record will do it for you. If you’re looking for wider vistas, you know where to find them.

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Next week, could be anything. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook and Twitter to stay up to date.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So no sooner did I post last week’s column, in which I enumerated the 10 albums I’m breathlessly anticipating this summer, when two more were announced. That brings us to an even dozen, but since I’m dealing with two from last week’s list in this installment, we’ll just call it 10 again. Until next week, when Daft Punk drops. And the week after that, when the Polyphonic Spree hits. It’s not a perfect system.

Anyway, neither of the new entries have release dates yet, but both feel fairly imminent. First up is Over the Rhine, the Ohio-based husband and wife duo. They’ve been on my list of favorites for some time, but lately, they’ve been shaking up their minimalist sound with some dazzling jazz influences. Their last album, The Long Surrender, is simply incredible, and Karin Bergquist continues to earn her place on the list of the best singers we have.

OtR has been accepting pre-order donations for a pair of new albums since late last year. The first of those turned out to be a double, called Meet Me at the Edge of the World. Nineteen songs, with each of the two discs granted its own distinct title. The last time Over the Rhine made a double album, it was called Ohio, and it kindled my love for this band. Here’s hoping this will be similarly amazing. Go here for more info.

Hammock’s last album was a double as well, the blissful and beautiful Departure Songs. Its companion is called Oblivion Hymns, and the band says it’s being mixed right now. Hammock, if you don’t know, is the greatest shoegaze band on the planet. (Yes, I know My Bloody Valentine is back.) They create ethereal, gorgeous oceans of sound, and they say they use guitars to do it, but if they said they conjured orchestras from the ether with centuries-old magic, I’d believe them too. Hammock has made some of my favorite sounds of the past 10 years, and a new album from them is always welcome. Check them out here.

OK, enough lists. On to actual reviews!

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If ever a band suffered from too much hype, it was Vampire Weekend.

Their 2008 self-titled debut was practically flawless, a bright and kinetic update of Paul Simon’s Graceland sound for the college set. In 34 short minutes, the New York quartet established themselves as one of the brightest new lights in the sky, igniting both a rabid fandom and a backlash before they could even adjust to their newfound fame. It’s little surprise that their rushed second record, Contra, was such a huge step down. Torn between trying to innovate and striving to keep their new legion of fans happy, Vampire Weekend treaded water in the worst possible way.

They did the smartest thing they could do – they took their time crafting their third record. And now that said album is here, it’s clear they did the second-smartest thing they could do as well – they evolved past any concerns about the staleness of their sound. The unfortunately titled Modern Vampires of the City is a real surprise, a darker and more experimental work that dispenses with just about every recognizable element of the Vampire Weekend ethos, yet manages to sound like them anyway.

I’ve been saying that Modern Vampires is this band’s Achtung Baby. It’s a collection of relatively simple singalongs recorded in the weirdest ways they could think of. Musical mastermind Rostam Batmanglij plays the lion’s share of the instruments here, and contributes even more keyboard sounds and programmed drums than on Contra. But he’s taken the time to figure out how all the pieces fit here, how his blips and sighs can sit alongside his piano and organ, his occasional guitar, and Ezra Koenig’s warm voice.

That’s not to say this is smoothed out. But it accomplishes a neat trick – it sounds perfectly formed, until you really listen, and you realize what a strange thing it is. Take “Unbelievers” as an example. It opens with organ and shuffling drums, but before the chorus comes in, it’s shifted around to pounding piano, with galloping surf guitar waiting in the wings. Then the synths take over around the 2:30 mark, with Irish pipes bringing it home, save for a brief return to that organ at the end. But here’s the thing: “Unbelievers” just sounds like a great little pop song. You’d never know it’s so tricky unless you’re listening for the joins.

“Step” starts with a softly delivered diss (“Every time I see you in the world, you always step to my girl”) followed by a hip-hop beat. But Batmanglij goes all Baroque on us, layering piano, harpsichord and a choral synth sound on top of that beat. It’s thoroughly unexpected, and thoroughly enjoyable, even when Koenig whispers threats: “The gloves are off, the wisdom teeth are out, what you on about?” “Diane Young” (a pun on “dyin’ young”) is like a perverse inversion of a ‘50s rockabilly song, all flailing electronic drums and low, rumbling keyboards. Batmanglij even throws in an ear-piercing guitar solo, topped with distorted synths. Koenig’s voice is pitch-shifted beyond recognition here, particularly in the odd “baby baby baby” bridge. (His best line here: “You’ve got the luck of a Kennedy.”)

The record continues in this vein, these straightforward songs given fascinatingly odd studio treatments. But they all work. The band clearly took their time with this one, trying out arrangements and recording techniques until they’d crafted the strangest, most interesting record they could. “Everlasting Arms” takes them back to Paul Simon territory, with its skipping beat and kinetic bass line, but the organ is ever so slightly off, and the synth string quartet almost jarring. “Finger Back” is a meticulously produced piece of work, every element designed to sound like crappily recorded garage rock, distorting your speakers. That is, until the spoken word section. (“This Orthodox guy fell in love with a girl at the falafel shop, and why not?”)

The album’s high point is “Ya Hey,” a slowly loping hymn about failing to understand God. “Through the fire and through the flames, you won’t even say your name, only ‘I am that I am,’ but who could ever live that way,” Koenig wonders, as the slippery bass line shimmies beneath a shifting bed of keyboards. The chorus finds Koenig’s voice folded, spindled and mutilated, squeaking out the title phrase like an unhappy baby. But it all works. It’s actually quite beautiful, and unlike anything this band has done. You could imagine them playing this straight, but it wouldn’t be nearly as interesting.

The same could be said for the entire record. That Modern Vampires is consistently enjoyable is a testament to the craft that went into assembling it from so many jagged parts. (Only “Hudson” comes close to collapsing under its own weight.) It’s a striking new direction for Vampire Weekend, a band I feared had been boxed into a limited sound. Man, was I wrong. I’m not sure I’ll hear another album this imaginative in 2013, but the magic of it is that it remains, from beginning to end, recognizably Vampire Weekend. I’ll never worry about limits with them again – if they can be this, they can be anything.

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If you’d asked me last week, I would have said that while Vampire Weekend is nice and all, I was expecting true greatness from Promises, the fourth album by the Boxer Rebellion. No one is more surprised than me at how that turned out.

I first heard this London band two years ago, when I picked up their third album, the magnificent The Cold Still, on a whim. (I liked the cover.) I was hooked from the first notes of opener “No Harm.” The Boxer Rebellion plays majestic, soaring, driving, atmospheric rock, as straightforward as it is magical. They conjure whole worlds with their guitars, and the elastic voice of native Tennessean Nathan Nicholson sends their best songs into a deeply emotional orbit.

Yeah, I love that record. But as much as I don’t want a Modern Vampires-style reinvention from this band, Promises feels to me like a holding pattern. For 11 songs, they just sort of do what they do, only the production this time – by the band and Billy Bush instead of the great Ethan Johns – isn’t quite as good. They still try to cast their particular spell, and on massive tunes like “Fragile” they manage it. But it feels like an effort this time, like the songs didn’t come as easily, or the sounds weren’t at their fingertips.

For one thing, there’s an unfortunate number of big keyboard parts filling in the holes that either should have been left open, or covered by guitar-scapes. For another, though, the songs just aren’t as good this time around. There’s nothing here as soul-filling as “Both Sides Are Even,” nothing as invigorating as “The Runner.” These songs tend to sound alike after a while, a malady the last album never succumbed to. There are fewer melodies to sink your teeth into, and you’re left with similar-sounding pretty noise.

But hey, the land of not-as-good-as-The-Cold-Still is where about 80 percent of the music I listen to resides. Promises is certainly not a bad album. It’s front-loaded with driving songs, few of which take hold, but its second half gets to the heart of this band’s magic. “New York” is a stately piano anthem that makes fine use of Nicholson’s tenor, and brings in some tremendous percussion. “You Belong to Me” is the quietest thing here, built on a circular piano figure and a pleading voice, while “Dream” reaches for great heights, and (mostly) reaches them.

I was definitely expecting better, though, and while I’m trying to hear that extraordinary alchemy on this album, it just isn’t here. I hope next time they remember how to capture it, because it was certainly something. The music on Promises isn’t bad – some of it is lovely, in fact – but it’s a shadow of the stunning work this band is capable of. I remain hopeful.

* * * * *

Next week, Daft Punk, and maybe some other surprises. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook and Twitter to stay up to date.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I live my life in a state of constant anticipation.

I know each week what I have to look forward to – which new albums and new movies will hit, which TV shows I’ll be watching with which group of friends. Every day I have something to yearn for, something to get me through. When I liked my life a lot less than I do now, that sort of lifestyle came in very handy. It warded off despair. But now, it’s just fun.

I keep a running calendar of new album releases, which I add to nearly every day. (Just today, I penciled in the new Travis album, Where You Stand, under August 20.) There are 39 albums between now and the end of August that I have deemed important enough to write down on this calendar, and of those, I’m really looking forward to about a dozen. These are the ones I’m counting the days for, the ones I’m out-of-my-skin excited to hear.

Yes, I know, it can all go wrong. (See this week’s review.) But this is how I live. I’m eternally hopeful that the next album I buy, the next song I hear will change my life. It could be any of the 39 I have listed on my calendar. (Or it could be a record that takes me by surprise.) I do have realistic expectations, but I like to remain as optimistic as I can.

So, as part of my ongoing attempt to show you what it’s like to be me, here’s a quick look at a few new albums I’m anticipating, and whether I honestly think they’ll be any good.

The Boxer Rebellion, Promises.
Release date: May 14.
Hopes and fears: I can’t claim to be a longtime fan of this glorious London band. I picked up their third album, 2011’s The Cold Still, on a whim. But its simple, effective songs and commitment to atmosphere blew me away. The Boxer Rebellion is the band the National wishes they could be. Their fourth album promises (heh) more of the same, but when the same is this good, I don’t mind.
The odds: Probably pretty good. This is a band with a fine track record and a superb style. Even if they don’t change much, this ought to satisfy.

Vampire Weekend, Modern Vampires of the City.
Release date: May 14.
Hopes and fears: Here’s a classic case of a band with a unique sound, a smashing debut, and a rushed, mediocre follow-up. Some really liked Contra, but I’m glad this band took a few years to craft the unfortunately-titled follow-up. I like their Paul Simon goes Ivy League sound well enough that I can forgive a misstep. But probably not a second one in a row.
The odds: Meh. The songs I have heard from this album have underwhelmed me, and while I’m still interested, I’m not banking on this being excellent. Plus, it’s called Modern Vampires of the City, which is strike one already.

Daft Punk, Random Access Memories.
Release date: May 21.
Hopes and fears: It’s been eight years since Human After All, this French duo’s mediocre third record. In that time, they wrote a pretty awesome score for Tron: Legacy, and as far as I can tell, spent the rest of their days and nights writing and recording this new album. It supposedly makes greater use of live musicians, as the first single (“Get Lucky,” with Pharrell Williams on vocals) definitely bears out. I expect a late-‘70s dance party.
The odds: Quite good, actually. The list of collaborators is strong, including the great Nile Rodgers, and early reviews have been sparkling. Plus, it’s called Random Access Memories, which is an amazing title.

The Polyphonic Spree, Yes, It’s True.
Release date: May 28.
Hopes and fears: Tim DeLaughter’s absolutely gargantuan peace-and-love collective stumbled with their third album, the somewhat harsh The Fragile Army, back in 2007. But they’ve had plenty of time to give birth to this new effort, and they raised $100,000 on Kickstarter to make it happen. There really isn’t another band like the Spree, so I’m glad to see them return.
The odds: Not bad. The 11 tracks are reportedly separate affairs, instead of blending into one long listening experience. Still, what I’ve heard has been very Spree-like, which fills me with joy.

Black Sabbath, 13.
Release date: June 11.
Hopes and fears: Reunion records are always problematic. Despite Black Sabbath’s pedigree as one of the most important metal bands in the world, you’d be forgiven for not expecting much from their first album with Ozzy Osbourne since 1978. I wasn’t thrilled either, until I heard the first leaked song, “God Is Dead?” And well, damn. It’s nine minutes of classic Sabbath, and even ol’ batbiter himself sounds pretty good. So this goes on the “most anticipated” list.
The odds: Have you heard “God is Dead?” Because, damn. If they can keep that up over all eight tracks, this should be one for the ages.

Hanson, Anthem.
Release date: June 18.
Hopes and fears: Laugh if you must, but Hanson has evolved into a really good soul-pop band. Their sixth album will hopefully build on the musical leaps they took on 2010’s Shout It Out. Plus, I get a little charge out of playing new Hanson tracks for people, and watching their jaws drop. I’m very much looking forward to resuming that practice.
The odds: Very good. The first single, “Get the Girl Back,” is a ton of fun, and it feels like the Hanson brothers have kept on growing.

Sigur Ros, Kveikur.
Release date: June 18.
Hopes and fears: Sigur Ros might be the most singular band on the planet. They have a very specific style, all pianos and high vocals and crashing dynamics. So when they shake up that style, as they seem to have on the reportedly dark Kveikur, it’s always worrying. The first single was proto-metal, the second a kind of pure pop. Both songs are unfailingly interesting, but quite different.
The odds: Well, Sigur Ros has never disappointed me, and given how much I like what I’ve heard here, I doubt they’re about to start. A different-sounding Sigur Ros album is likely still a Sigur Ros album, and I’m very excited to hear this one.

Gogol Bordello, Pura Vida Conspiracy.
Release date: July 23.
Hopes and fears: The world’s greatest gypsy punk band smoothed themselves out somewhat for 2010’s Trans-Continental Hustle, but they still sounded great. Nobody could really smooth out Ukranian madman Eugene Hutz, but Rick Rubin gave it his best shot. I’m glad to see them move away from his care, and I hope Andrew Scheps kept the fire burning on this new album. First single “Malandrino” is pretty awesome, once it gets going.
The odds: Not bad. Even if they’re kinder and gentler, I think I’m going to enjoy this.

Travis, Where You Stand.
Release date: August 20.
Hopes and fears: Travis is one of the most inconsistent bands I know. They seem to lead two lives – the fragile acoustic pop band who made The Invisible Band and The Man Who, and the raucous rockers who slammed out 12 Memories and Ode to J. Smith. This reunion album comes after Fran Healy’s attempt to launch a solo career, so I’m on the lookout for signs of resignation.
The odds: 50/50. The title track has been released, and it sounds like Travis is in acoustic pop mode again. It isn’t bad, but I’m reserving judgment (and optimism) until I hear the whole thing.

Daniel Amos, Dig Here, Said the Angel.
Release date: Summer.
Hopes and fears: This is the pioneering band’s first album together since 2001, and while it may seem redundant to say so, it’s been a long time coming. I gladly gave to the Kickstarter drive for this album, just for the possibility of hearing another 10 or 12 Terry Scott Taylor songs. Daniel Amos is a national treasure, and I’m positively giddy at the notion of spending another hour in their company.
The odds: Pretty awesome. The band released a rough mix of a song called “Love, Grace and Mercy,” and it’s great – it’s got that ‘60s vibe and that inspired melodicism that I adore. I physically cannot wait until this thing lands in my mailbox.

There are plenty more, of course, but these 10 are the ones I’m most ready to hear right freaking now. I’ll keep you updated. Feel free to send me your lists as well.

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Of course, as I mentioned earlier, it can all go wrong. The problem with anticipation is that when an eagerly expected album disappoints, I have to determine whether I was hoping for too much from it, or if it really does fall short. That usually requires half a dozen more painful listens and a whole bunch of mental slate-cleansing.

If you’d asked me a month ago for a similar list, there’s no doubt that Bankrupt, the fifth album by French synth-poppers Phoenix, would have been on it. Like most of you, I loved their fourth, Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix. The one-two punch of “Lisztomania” and “1901” knocked me out, but the album as a whole, mashing up glittering dance tunes with more progressive moments, was one of 2009’s best. Most importantly, it was one of 2009’s hookiest – the songs were gyrating wonders, bursting with melodies you remembered for weeks.

All of which makes Bankrupt so much harder to understand. If you’re going to call your album Bankrupt, you had better make sure it doesn’t sound like a tired effort by a band out of ideas. Unfortunately, this one does. None of these 10 songs sports a killer hook, none of them displays the lightness of touch that previously defined this band. It’s a ponderous, and ultimately boring effort that wastes the voice of Thomas Mars on meandering, leaden tunes.

The first single and leadoff track, “Entertainment,” is a middling Phoenix song, its Eastern-sounding keyboard riff the best thing about it. Sadly, it’s the album’s best track. The thick-as-bricks synth sounds remain throughout, all but suffocating what melodies are here, so when the band hits upon something promising, like the slight but fun “Trying to Be Cool,” it’s dragged down into the muck. It doesn’t help that this album has been mastered by ramming everything into the red. It’s almost abrasive.

But I could deal with misguided production choices if the songs were good. They’re simply not. A song like “Chloroform” may feel to the band like an evolution, but evolving away from strong hooks into plodding, endless repetition isn’t change for the better. The seven-minute title track may be the most infuriating thing Phoenix has ever done. It’s meant to be a slow build, like Wolfgang’s “Love Like a Sunset,” but it doesn’t actually build. It just sprinkles random synth noises on you for an eternity.

The deluxe edition of Bankrupt comes with a bonus disc containing 71 sketches from the writing sessions, which I guess is so you can hear the lack of ideas forming before your ears. That it’s more enjoyable than the bulk of the main album is just sad. I’ve been trying to enjoy this for weeks, and that particular thrill has eluded me. It saddens me to report that Bankrupt lives up to its title. It’s a cautionary tale about what happens when we expect and pressure a band to perform miracles every time out, and a good reminder to keep our anticipation in check.

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Next week, two of the records on this list: Vampire Weekend and the Boxer Rebellion. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook and Twitter to stay up to date.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I was an angry young man.

You know that cliché of the chip-on-your-shoulder hothead who believes the world owes him something? That was me as a teenager. I raged against whatever machine I could find, certain that the world was holding me down. I don’t think I read The Catcher in the Rye until much later, but I lived up to the stereotype pretty well. When I wasn’t hating myself, I was hating a lot of other people.

And I listened to some pretty angry music. Oh, sure, I had the Beatles and glam metal to bring a smile, but the real stuff was Metallica and Megadeth and Pantera, bands with an axe to grind and throats to scream raw. Dave Mustaine was pissed off at the Parents Music Resource Center? Then dammit, so was I. Phil Anselmo threatened to get fucking hostile? I was right there with him, ready to take it out on the people who had made fun of me for years.

But then a funny thing happened. I grew up and I calmed down. I still love that angry music, but I don’t feel it anymore. These days I’m more into the complex metal of The Ocean and Between the Buried and Me. Yeah, I still buy every Megadeth album, and yeah, they’re still great. But just as my inner turmoil has quieted, so has my musical taste. I prefer beauty and grace to all the rage.

I think this is a fairly natural progression, and most people go through it just about the same way I did. So why do we remain surprised when our musicians turn out to take exactly the same emotional journey?

Take the prototypical angry young man, Elvis Costello. Every time he releases an album, it’s met by a chorus of fans who want him to return to his This Year’s Model style. Costello has nimbly danced across a dozen different musical genres since then, and while he can occasionally muster up some bile – see 2010’s marvelous National Ransom for some examples – he’s a much more rounded and interesting songwriter now. I’d rather listen to someone like him, who has grown and changed through the years, than someone like Anselmo, who remains in the same emotional shell.

English troubadour Frank Turner has always had an edge to his work. He began his career as the singer in a bona fide screamo band called Million Dead, and his first solo efforts – Sleep is for the Week and Love, Ire and Song – tried to infuse a punkier edge onto folksier tunes, to great effect. Turner’s a world-class shouter, and he writes fist-pumping songs of passion and loyalty. But lately, he’s been mellowing out a little more, writing from the perspective of an older and (sometimes) wiser man, and it’s been a joy to hear.

Turner’s fifth album, Tape Deck Heart, is his most mature and world-weary work. It also may be his best. It certainly digs deepest – songs like “Tell Tale Signs” and the great “Plain Sailing Weather” don’t just examine broken relationships, they pick at them like scabs, sopping up the blood and then picking some more. Where Turner used to sing about remaining forever young, now he writes songs like “Losing Days,” in which he admits to growing old and not knowing how to feel about it. “All these small ideas are suddenly commitments, as greatness slips on by,” he sings.

The tradeoff for all that youthful vigor is a newfound intricacy and power. Tape Deck Heart contains some of Turner’s deepest songs, particularly in its second half. He’s never quite captured the pain of fleeting moments the way he does on “Polaroid Picture,” and that’s because he now has a perspective on time flashing by. He’s still writing singalongs – “Let go of the little distractions, hold close to the ones that you love, because we won’t all be here this time next year, so while you can take a picture of us” – but they’re about impending death, about years passing like minutes.

Don’t despair, longtime fans. Turner still throws in a few crowd-pleasers, like the superb opener, “Recovery,” on which he rides waves of crashing guitars and crests them with a soaring melody. The deluxe edition appends four bonus tracks that sound like old-school Turner, and they’re fine. Oddly, though, it’s the audience-baiting rave-up “Four Simple Words” that falls flattest here. Those four words are “I want to dance,” and Turner uses them to frame a song about the thrill of live music. It’s earnest, but it’s a little goofy, particularly squeezed onto this record.

Once that song’s over, Tape Deck Heart takes flight on aging wings, and the results are tremendous. “The Fisher King Blues” is dark and intricate, “Anymore” is a delicate whisper with a sharp edge, and “Oh Brother” is a fantastic mini-epic about bonds of blood. The album ends with its saddest song, “Broken Piano.” Turner sings most of it over a buzzing drone (“So I sat down in my sadness beneath your window, and I played sad songs on the minor keys of a broken piano…”), but when it builds up and explodes, it’s marvelous. It puts a fine capper on Tape Deck Heart, an album that points to a bright future for Turner beyond the anger of youth.

If Turner’s patterning his career on anyone, it’s his fellow Englishman Billy Bragg. Through the ‘80s and ‘90s, Bragg was one pissed-off folksinger. He started his career playing a jagged electric guitar (with no other accompaniment) and slagging off the taxman and the bossman. His pro-union records like The Internationale and Workers Playtime are shit-stirring classics, and even as he’s added subtleties and brought together backing musicians to play with him, Bragg has remained delightfully incendiary.

But he’s 55 now, and he’s slowly been evolving into a much more reflective artist. That transformation reaches its apex on his new album, Tooth and Nail. Produced by the amazing Joe Henry, this album finds Bragg embracing his acoustic guitar and writing more happy, content songs than he ever has. And the end result is absolutely wonderful, a gentle stroll through a garden rather than a long run through a jungle. For most of his career, Bragg has wanted to shake you up, get you motivated to change the world. On Tooth and Nail, he just wants to serenade you, and he’s surprisingly good at it.

Bragg begins the album by announcing that he’s tired of being angry. “January Song” finds him “tightly wound in tension, feel just like a guitar string, waiting to reveal emotions, touch me and you’ll hear me sing.” He takes a political swipe, and it’s a good one: “Politician selling freedom, bumper sticker 50 cents, ask him what he wants to be free from, answer don’t make any sense.” But you can feel that his heart isn’t in it. In the second song, “No One Knows Nothing Anymore,” he rejects the very idea of thinking our way out of the mess we’re in. And then he spends the rest of the album looking for joy.

He often finds it, although this album has its share of well-drawn heartbreak too. “I Ain’t Got No Home” is the latest in a series of old Woody Guthrie lyrics that Bragg and musicians like him have set to music, and this one’s a stunner, a sad lament for a wandering worker. “Swallow My Pride” is a song of brokenness, beautifully written: “How can a man be strong, if he can’t even lift a telephone and say he’s wrong?” And “Goodbye Goodbye” is a final farewell from a friend: “The bells have all been rung, the songs have all been sing, this long river has run its course…”

The real surprise here is that Bragg doesn’t end the album with “Goodbye Goodbye.” No, that’s track eight, and before you reach the final grooves, he gives you the reality-of-love song “Chasing Rainbows,” the absolutely amazing song of fidelity “Your Name On My Tongue,” and the real ending, the hopeful “Tomorrow’s Going to Be a Better Day.” It’s a gorgeous final sentiment, set to loping acoustic guitars: “Don’t be disheartened, baby, don’t be fooled, take it from someone who knows, the glass is half full, tomorrow’s gonna be a better day…”

Yeah, there are embers of the old fire here, particularly on the rousing “There Will Be a Reckoning.” But for the most part, Tooth and Nail is the sound of a middle-aged Billy Bragg taking stock of his life and the world, and finding much to love in both. Bragg’s voice has weathered perfectly into a wizened tenor, and his songs have that lived-in feel that you just can’t fake. But the power of this record is that Bragg has not ossified – he’s evolved into a happier man, and it’s a joy to hear.

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Next week, some of my most anticipated records of 2013. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook and Twitter to stay up to date.

See you in line Tuesday morning.