I’m starting to get what Bryan Scary is doing.

Here’s a guy who made his name crafting huge, complex pop opera epics, with a sense of importance tempered nicely by an equal and opposite sense of goofiness. His last record, the mammoth Daffy’s Elixir, was a 70-minute monsterpiece, a Wild West-themed concept record full of so many melodic twists and turns that it should have come with a Google map. It was phenomenal, but if you wanted to absorb it all, it took several full and immersive listens.

So imagine my confusion when Scary unveiled his new project, Evil Arrows. Under this banner, Scary has released two (so far) short EPs of almost miniscule pop gems, most of which are remarkably straightforward affairs. The unassuming nature of this project is almost cute. But if Scary is trying to make his work more accessible, both by stripping back his proggy nature and by presenting his new material in easily digestible chunks, it’s definitely working. Where Daffy’s Elixir was daunting, the two Evil Arrows EPs are inviting.

The second, simply titled EP2, is another delight. Four of these songs star the other Arrows, Graham Norwood and Everet Almond, while the other two were completely performed by Scary. Once again, you’d probably be hard-pressed to tell which is which. These songs are tiny – the longest is 3:36, the shortest 1:44 – and they walk on stage, do their business, and leave. As a ‘60s-inspired pop wonder, “Last Living Doll” is perfection. “New Age Holiday” is similarly vintage-sounding, and deceptively hummable. “Shadow Lovers” brings us forward into ‘70s glam rock, and it’s loud and proud. Closer “Lady Brain” is a slower rocker, but an effective one.

And again, I’m left wanting more. The Evil Arrows project has so far yielded just more than 30 minutes of material, and it’s all superb. I hope Scary keeps these gleaming little joys coming, and he eventually collects them into one massive pop wonderama of an album. I’ll be first in line to buy a copy.

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Speaking of pop wonderama, here’s Foster the People.

I resisted the debut album from Mark Foster’s project for as long as I could, simply because I’m allergic to hype. But “Pumped Up Kicks” finally wormed its way in, and stayed there, and when I bought Torches, I found that it was positively bursting with similarly infectious electro-pop. None of it pushed the envelope as much as “Kicks,” possibly the catchiest song about school shootings ever penned, but tracks like “Helena Beat” and “Call It What You Want” made me smile like a Joker victim. Torches is a solid, danceable debut, and I enjoyed it immensely.

That sort of thing is really hard to sustain, though. Foster essentially had two choices for a follow-up: he could create a clone of Torches, churning out more move-your-feet frothiness, and hope that diminishing returns did not set in, or he could try to deepen his project and diversify his styles. He’s taken the latter tack on Supermodel, the second Foster the People album, and it works for the most part. Unfortunately, what he’s decided to diversify into is a fairly standard indie-rock band.

While Torches could have passed for a one-man project, Supermodel is defiantly the work of a band, and that’s the first major difference you’ll notice. It’s still suffused with electronic beats and studio goodness, but many of these songs sound here like they probably will when performed live. This is good and bad – the quirky electro-pop that formed the basis for a lot of Torches also gave it a unique sound, one that’s been jettisoned on this second album.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, particularly when the songs are as good as they were on that first record. The opening number, “Are You What You Want to Be,” is the best, recapturing the melodic thrills of Torches and building on them. It’s a danceable delight, with a new hook every few seconds. The next two songs, “Ask Yourself” and “Coming of Age,” are also pretty great, with memorable turns and choruses that stick. None of these songs sound like Foster the People, exactly, but they get the job done.

Sadly, they’re the last songs that do, with the exception of mid-record funk-a-thon “Best Friend.” Foster and his bandmates have clearly tried for a measure of artistic growth here, and they’ve made the same mistake that a lot of new artists do – they’ve mistaken dourness for seriousness. You can make charming, memorable pop music seriously. In fact, I’d argue that Foster the People did it on their first record. But Supermodel is choked with songs like “Nevermind” and “Pseudologica Fantastica,” which bring in that thick indie-rock sound, all big synths and murky guitars and meandering tunelessness.

And look, there’s nothing really wrong with a dramatic rock number like “A Beginner’s Guide to Destroying the Moon.” It’s fine. It even pulls in some clever chords by the end, to go with its soaring backing vocals and its pounding pianos. It’s just that it sounds like the work of a million other indie rock acts. Foster the People used to have their own sound, and they spend a lot of Supermodel giving that up. An acoustic shuffle like “Goats in Trees,” or a whispery lament like the closer “Fire Escape,” is much more typical than I expected from this band. And I really didn’t expect them to turn out a second record that I largely don’t remember.

I’m all for artistic growth. I want my favorite artists to change, to evolve, to develop beyond their origins. But I also want them to retain the qualities that make them interesting. Those qualities are usually not anything as prosaic as genre or instrumental makeup. They go deeper than that. Supermodel disappoints because it sacrifices those qualities. With rare exceptions, the songs on this album could have come from any of a hundred bands, and to hear them from Foster the People is a shame. Supermodel isn’t bad, but it does nothing to stand out from the crowd, something the debut did so easily. It’s a much easier album to forget, and I wouldn’t blame you for doing just that.

* * * * *

Hey, look at that, it’s time for the First Quarter Report.

If you’re new to this column, I’ll explain. Some years ago, I decided to give readers a bit of a window on my process by essentially providing four top 10 lists a year. I publish one each quarter, showing the final list in progress, and ranking what I’ve heard thus far. Essentially, if I were forced at gunpoint to finalize the top 10 list right now, this is what it would look like. It’s a snapshot at an early part of the year, so you can see easily what I’m liking and not liking.

In a lot of ways, I don’t feel like 2014 has even started yet. We’re getting the Choir album in a couple of weeks, the Steve Taylor album shortly after that, and new things are on the horizon from Aimee Mann (with Ted Leo), Dan Wilson, the Eels, Bob Mould, and a whole host of others. Basically, the list that follows should bear no resemblance whatsoever to the list I publish in December, unless something goes tragically, horribly wrong.

I’ve also included three records that I have not yet reviewed, including one that has not been released. I decided that I can’t pretend I haven’t heard these records, and I’m not building my list around them. One of them, Andrea Dawn’s Doll, is out on Record Store Day, but since I know her, I’ve been listening to it for months. It’s positively amazing, and when you get to hear it, I expect you’ll agree. Check her out here.

OK, here we go. The First Quarter Report.

10. Lost in the Trees, Past Life.
9. The Farewell Drifters, Tomorrow Forever.
8. Neneh Cherry, Blank Project.
7. Broken Bells, After the Disco.
6. The War on Drugs, Lost in the Dream.
5. Jonatha Brooke, My Mother Has 4 Noses.
4. Andrea Dawn, Doll.
3. Nickel Creek, A Dotted Line.
2. Elbow, The Take Off and Landing of Everything.
1. Beck, Morning Phase.

And you know, looking at that list, it isn’t bad. That’s a solid first quarter. Keep up the good work, 2014.

Next week, folk music with Nickel Creek and Peter Mulvey. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am, and Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

This week I did something amazing. I sat in a movie theater and watched a film that should not exist.

I’ve done this once before, when Joss Whedon’s Serenity hit theaters in 2005. Serenity, you may recall, is the big-screen continuation of Firefly, one of the best single-season wonders to ever hit television. As far as I know, this had never happened before – Firefly had been canceled for low ratings, meaning no one aside from a core group of faithful had watched it. And yet the response of that core group to the DVD set was enough to see a major motion picture greenlit and shot.

I remember sitting in the theater before Serenity began unspooling, certain that Fox executives would come barreling in and cancel it before it could get started. Until the end credits rolled, I pretty much refused to believe that the film truly existed. This isn’t the world I live in. In the real world, beloved but canceled television shows do not get a second chance at life on the big screen, especially not with their original creator and cast of relative unknowns. Serenity was impossible. And as Mal Reynolds once said, we have done the impossible, and that makes us mighty.

Sadly, Serenity was not a hit. Its box office numbers were charitably described as “underperforming.” This was bad news not only for fans of Firefly, but also for fans of other brilliant yet canceled TV shows whose creators might have hoped for a marquee revival. Serenity was impossible, and it looked like it would never happen again.

But then along came Kickstarter, and a teenage private eye named Veronica Mars.

I will admit to not watching Veronica Mars when its three seasons aired, between 2004 and 2007. It was never a massive hit, but critics loved it, and I promised I’d catch up with it one day. It actually took Whedon’s recommendation – it’s his favorite television show – to get me to watch, but once I did, I fell in love with Veronica and her world. The show was smart as a whip, dark as any noir you could name, and filled with fascinating, flawed characters. It could succinctly be described as “Nancy Drew as a complete badass,” but it’s so much more than that.

Creator Rob Thomas (no, not that one) had been talking about a Veronica Mars film ever since the show’s untimely cancellation. Unfortunately, Warner Bros. owns the property, and they refused to fund one. (I’m sure they had Serenity’s paltry box office numbers jotted down somewhere.) So Thomas and star Kristen Bell turned to Kickstarter, the revolutionary crowd-funding site, to gauge interest in a movie. Warner Bros. would make the film if no risk was involved – if the whole thing was paid for in advance. And so that’s what we fans did.

Thomas asked for $2 million to make the film. He raised $5.7 million, in the most successful Kickstarter campaign ever undertaken.

This caused a bit of controversy, as you may recall. There’s a school of thought that suggests that crowdfunding sites like Kickstarter should only be used by people who have no money, and that neither Thomas nor Warner Bros. have any business asking fans to front the funds for a project. I can see that point of view, but in this case, I feel perfectly fine with my $50 contribution. First, it’s not a donation – I received a digital copy of the movie on the release date, a copy of the shooting script and a t-shirt, and I will soon get a copy of the film on DVD. I would have bought this anyway, so my contribution was essentially just buying it all a year in advance.

But second, this movie would not have been made any other way. Without this show of fan support, Warner Bros. would have simply continued to say no. I’m happy to pay for art I would like to see born into the world. The Veronica Mars movie exists, and that’s only because I and 91,584 other people plunked down our cash. I honestly don’t know why I should feel bad about that.

Because of our support, Warner Bros. was able to take a no-risk approach to the Veronica Mars movie, which means they basically let Thomas do whatever he wanted. That has led to a remarkable release strategy – the movie is in select theaters, but is also available now on iTunes and virtually every video on demand service. It’s the first film to get a simultaneous digital release, and I think we’ll see a lot more of that in the future.

So how is it? In a word, awesome. In retrospect, I probably should not have been surprised by this, but it is exactly like watching the television show. This film caters solely to fans, because of course it does – we paid for it, and Thomas doesn’t need to draw in new viewers the way Whedon did. If you haven’t seen the three seasons of Veronica Mars, you’ll be lost, and most of the best lines will go right over your head. That’s fine, though. This is intended to be a continuation of the series, not a reboot of it, and it accomplishes that goal marvelously.

And yes, it’s great to see all the old faces again. Some have changed – Jason Dohring, who plays bad boy Logan Echolls, looks older and more seasoned now, and Tina Majorino sports a wild new hairdo as nerd-made-good Mac. But others, like Percy Daggs’ lovable Wallace, look just as we left them seven years ago. In the world of the film, it’s been nine years since the third season of the show, and the cast attends their 10-year high school reunion. (Because of course they do.) But because this is Veronica Mars, that’s just a sideline – she’s in town to solve a murder, one in which Echolls is implicated.

The show always did a tremendous job of showing Veronica as a flawed character, and the movie certainly follows suit. It dispenses with nice-guy boyfriend Stosh “Piz” Piznarski in favor of the more dangerous Logan, and explores Veronica’s addiction to crime-solving. Neither of these themes are taken lightly, and we end the film with Veronica feeling certain about choices we, the audience, know are wrong for her. And yet, we’re sold – I want to see where this goes, and just how far Thomas can probe these ideas.

Along the way, there are a few shocking deaths, and a cracking good mystery story. Veronica Mars is exactly as good as I’d hoped when I handed over my money a year ago. I’m proud to have been a part of this extraordinary campaign, and to have helped fund this enjoyable little film. After this, I think, the world has truly changed. Stories don’t have to end if we don’t want them to. Even if only a few thousand people care about those stories, they can go on. Once again, we’ve made the impossible real. That’s pretty damn cool.

* * * * *

I’m feeling under the weather this week, so I’ll wrap up here. Next week, Foster the People, Sufjan Stevens’ rap album, and the First Quarter Report.

Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am, and Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

People often ask me why I buy so much music.

It always struck me as a strange question. I don’t think I buy nearly enough. I typically bring home between five and 10 new records a week, not counting all the online purchases I make to fill in my collection. But even if I bought three times that amount, it still wouldn’t seem like enough to me. When does one have “enough” music? For me, that’s like saying I have enough air. “I’m good. I don’t need any more air.”

It’s a journey that I expect I’ll be on my entire life. I’m ravenously searching for new sounds, new musical experiences, in the hopes of finding one that reorders my life. It’s been a while since that happened, but I know I can still feel it – Lost in the Trees proved that to me. And so I keep digging, following bands as they evolve, listening for a spark fanned into a blaze, hoping to catch my soul alight.

So I don’t have a lot of time for bands that play the same old same old. If you’re not putting at least some stamp of originality on it, be it a well-written lyric or a melodic turn I don’t see coming, then I’m not too interested in what you’re up to. I have a lot of friends who like the blues, and feel like music reached its peak sometime in the mid-‘70s. Nostalgia’s all right for a while, but not for a lifestyle. I’m all for a sense of history, but I wouldn’t want to set up house in the past and never come out.

What I’m looking for, put simply, is music that sounds like no other music. This is the ideal. It’s extremely difficult to find, because everyone is influenced by someone. But it’s what I want more than anything else – to hear a band or an artist step forward with an individual vision beholden to no one, singing truly new songs and igniting new emotions. I will buy 200 lousy records to get to the one that opens new doors in my mind and heart.

All of which brings me to Elbow.

I haven’t given Manchester’s finest quite enough love in this column. It took me quite a while to become a fan – the band’s first two albums, Asleep in the Back and Cast of Thousands, didn’t click for me at first, though I now think they’re marvelous – and for some reason, I forget about them when it comes time to compose my top 10 list each year. The problem isn’t just mine. Elbow is not an immediately memorable band. They’re a patient one, creating music that often sounds like stillness, music that doesn’t stick in one’s head.

But some of my very favorite bands have felt similar to me. Talk Talk, for instance, filled their last two albums with some of the most beautifully slow atmospheres one could imagine conjuring up, songs that stretched to nine minutes without actually doing much at all, except painting an entirely new world one delicate brush stroke at a time. Elbow takes a bit from Talk Talk, particularly the idea that minimizing the changes magnifies each one, so that when the chords shift it sounds like the earth trembling.

Aside from a couple of songs – “Leaders of the Free World” and “Grounds for Divorce” among them – Elbow has steadfastly resisted any attempts to speed them up and present them to the masses. Their sixth album, The Take Off and Landing of Everything, follows the same path they’ve been on, moving from their guitar-led past to a more airy, more pure sound. Elbow is on a quest for beauty, and they’ve removed just about everything from their sound that does not contribute something beautiful.

The result, as you can imagine, is absolutely gorgeous, and like nothing else I have heard this year. Like all Elbow albums, if you’re the type of person who skips through songs looking for the “good parts,” this will leave you frustrated. For me, it’s an hour-long good part, every song contributing to a glorious whole. I’ve heard several people already describe this album as boring, though, and as it’s not an uncommon assessment, I’d recommend trying this: listen to the entirety of the seven-minute opener, “This Blue World.” If you don’t think this is one of the most lovely pieces of music you’ve heard in ages, Elbow is not for you.

Needless to say, I think “This Blue World” is wonderful. Consisting of little besides a quiet organ, gentle acoustic strumming, a chiming single-note electric guitar line and Guy Garvey’s extraordinary voice, the song floats 10 feet off the ground. Its melody is a gentle caress, that electric guitar a breath of cool air, and though the song picks up around the four-minute mark, it never tries to soar. (Elbow rarely soars, which only makes the moments in which they do mean so much more.) And yet, for seven solid minutes, there is nothing in the world I would rather be listening to.

Much of The Take Off and Landing of Everything strikes me the same way. Though there’s an insistent beat to songs like “Charge” and the epic “Fly Boy Blue/Lunette,” they have the same sensibility that Elbow is known for – slowly unfolding melodies, savoring each moment without rushing things. There’s so much space in Elbow songs, so much air – it’s almost an antidote to our oversaturation society. They require and reward close and careful listening. Plus, the spaces amplify what is there – when the big, bold strings make their entrance on “Charge,” it’s almost enough to knock you down.

“New York Morning” is, easily, one of this band’s finest hours. Blessed with a lovely circular melody, the song builds at its own pace, Garvey riding it like a wave, his voice coaxing it up and up, higher and higher. The final minutes of this song achieve orbit, and they’re magnificent. The song is a love letter to the city, which Garvey describes as “the modern Rome, where folk are nice to Yoko.” The follow-up, “Real Life (Angel),” may be even better – it shimmers in on a subtle beat, and within one minute, Garvey will have you in the palm of his hand. The chorus is a work of art, the words “hallelujah morning” perhaps the most beautiful thing I’ve heard so far this year.

The second half of the album isn’t quite as striking as the first, but it’s still excellent. Many of these songs take the time to sprawl out, and half of them break the six-minute mark. But Elbow isn’t interested in prog-rock excess – their songs unfurl, filling the extra space with the simple and the pretty. The climax of the record is the seven-minute title track, on which the band crafts a spinning, thumping anthem, one that you wish would go on forever, and then they make it go on forever. There’s more clang and clamor in this one song than on the rest of the record, like they’ve been saving up their joy and they let it out in one sustained burst.

In some ways, the closing “The Blanket of Night” is a comedown, but it’s intended as one. A journey song, it tells of poor souls in “a paper cup of a boat” on the “heaving chest of the sea,” sailing by moonlight and “sewing silver prayers into the blanket of night.” Garvey sings over warm, rolling keyboards, wrapping you up and keeping you from the cold, and the song feels like being out on the ocean at night. It’s nice, but it doesn’t achieve the transcendence I wanted after such a gorgeous album.

But that’s all right. There’s enough wonder on The Take Off and Landing of Everything to keep me happy. There really isn’t another band that sounds like Elbow, and miraculously, they keep getting better at sounding like themselves. I hope they stay this course forever, deepening their work while remaining true to it, and I hope I have the presence of mind to remember this lovely disc when list-making time rolls around. The best praise I can give this album is that it finds Elbow sounding more like Elbow than ever before. That’s a rare and beautiful thing, and one worth treasuring.

Next week, my thoughts on the Veronica Mars movie, and maybe Foster the People’s second record. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am, and Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I promised never to lie to you in this column.

Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. is meant to be a running guide to my life as a musical obsessive. It’s intended to give you some idea of what it’s like to be me, and that means sharing even the most embarrassing songs and albums I end up loving. I’ve copped to being a Hanson fan, I’ve talked about my soft spot for Michael W. Smith, and I’ve mentioned that I think Ylvis’ “The Fox” is one of the best songs of last year. I’m pretty candid.

For some reason, though, I’m always a little hesitant to talk about how much I like Coldplay. They get no respect from critics, and I think I’m expected to fall in line on that one, reacting negatively to their uber-popularity and Chris Martin’s leaden lyrics. But I can’t. I’ve always liked them, and I’ve enjoyed every one of their records, particularly the latter ones. I don’t even think this is an indefensible position – Coldplay is a restlessly experimental pop band, much more interesting than they need to be, considering their place as one of the biggest groups in the world.

Still, I feel like someone’s going to come take my critic card away for admitting to enjoying their work. Coldplay is remarkably divisive, but the division is usually between pop radio fans and “serious,” discerning music consumers. That’s odd to me, since Coldplay is exactly what I want from the biggest pop bands on earth. They’re constantly scanning the underground for new inspiration, and always shaking up their sound, trying new things and throwing curve balls. Just listen to all of Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends, their all-over-the-place fourth album. This is not the work of artless airplay whores.

So I’m compelled here to tell you that Coldplay’s just-announced sixth album, Ghost Stories, is one of my most anticipated records of 2014. And I’m glad to give you two reasons why, in the form of the two songs released so far. First is “Midnight,”one of the least Coldplay-sounding Coldplay songs ever. It’s little more than a shimmering electronic pulse, with a ghostly melody that repeats three times. It never “kicks in,” never gets to an emotional catharsis. It’s five minutes of reflective, restrained, fascinating atmosphere. I’m particularly fond of the wordless vocal section after the second verse, and the circular synths that radiate in around 3:30.

If that alone doesn’t make you wonder just what kind of Coldplay album this is going to be, there’s the official first single, “Magic.” It’s a subtle piece of electronic soul, sticking to two chords and some understated piano for about half its running time. The song builds convincingly, though, through a pair of sweet choruses and into a bigger section with ringing, chiming guitars. What’s interesting is that it still sounds nothing like Coldplay, but in a completely different way than “Midnight.”

Most of the time, I’m able to figure out what kind of record to expect from a couple of early song releases. This time? No idea. These two songs are nothing alike, and feel like uncharted territory for the band. If the rest of Ghost Stories is similarly diverse and experimental, I will have no trouble telling you all how much I love it. As I’ve said before, Coldplay doesn’t have to be this weird. They’re one of the most popular bands on the planet, and they could just keep sticking to what works and cashing the checks. That they create songs like “Midnight” and “Magic” despite all that earns them my respect.

Ghost Stories is out on May 19.

* * * * *

When people talk about the fusion of rap, rock and pop that occurred in the 1990s, I’m surprised that Neneh Cherry is rarely a part of that conversation.

Cherry first burst onto the scene in 1989 with “Buffalo Stance,” the hit single from her snazzy debut, Raw Like Sushi. But it was her second album, 1991’s Homebrew, that truly blazed trails. Cherry easily danced between styles on this record, one of the most underrated of that decade, rapping with Guru of Gang Starr on one track and singing with Michael Stipe of R.E.M. on another. Songs like “I Ain’t Gone Under Yet” presaged the rap-soul of Lauryn Hill by years, and when she dug into deeper, more ambient pieces like “Peace in Mind,” she was unlike anyone else around.

Which is probably why the album sank like a stone. Cherry made another record four years later, called Man, that was never released in the United States. And then she quit her solo career entirely, spending some time with a band called CirKus in the 2000s and only emerging to lend vocals to a collaborative record with jazz group The Thing in 2012. She’s remained a fascinating, idiosyncratic artist, but we haven’t had a true statement from her in 18 years. And for someone who predicted many of the pop music innovations of the past decade and a half, that’s a shame.

That’s why I’m so pleased to have Blank Project, Cherry’s first album since ’96. Its existence was a complete surprise, its announcement out of the blue. As always, Cherry does her own thing – this record was put together in five days, with production from Four Tet’s Kieran Hebden and musical contributions from RocketNumberNine. Its title and muted cover image give the impression that the album is no big deal, despite the long wait, but this turns out to be false modesty. It is, of course, nothing whatsoever like her seminal work from the ‘90s. It’s also nothing like anything else you’ll hear this year.

Blank Project is an electro-pop record, but it’s a minimal and haunted one. Cherry’s voice is still arresting and soulful, but her songs this time are skeletal things that require multiple listens to appreciate. The sound is gritty, mixing beautifully recorded organic drums with fuzzy synths, often just playing bass lines. There are choruses, but they’re not immediate ones. You probably won’t end up dancing to this, but a song like “Weightless” will make you move. This is a soundtrack for hard runs in the rain, dark and jerky with sharp edges.

In its own way, this album is just as innovative as Homebrew, smashing pop, jazz, soul, electro and rock into new shapes. This kind of sonic adventurousness is more common now than it was in the ‘90s, but somehow Cherry has made something bracing and unique anyway. The record begins with its starkest track – “Across the Water” is nothing but subtle percussion and Cherry’s voice, reminding you how much you missed it. She mourns her mother here, who died in 2009, and looks to the future, which the remaining nine songs depict.

There really isn’t anything else quite like the other nine songs. In other hands, “Cynical” could have been a club hit, its chorus all but demanding four-on-the-floor beats and swirling synths. Instead, we get live drums and minimal bass burbles, and nothing else. The dissonant breakdown finds Cherry half-rapping over harsh keyboards. “422” is a jazzy drum beat supporting a droning organ, while Cherry hits new vocal heights: “If we believe the rain has come to search us out, then we can take the pain, of this there is no doubt…”

Dance-pop star Robyn puts in a surprise guest appearance on “Out of the Black,” one of the most straightforward tunes here. Their voices sort of rub up against each other uncomfortably, while the drums pound out a relentless beat and the synths get fuller. It’s one of the oddest guest turns I’ve heard in some time. Blank Project concludes with the seven-minute “Everything,” built on a repeating sample and an infectious melody. It’s this album’s version of a joyous playout, conjuring a sense of dance-around-the-room excitement while remaining as minimal as everything else.

It’s so very good to have an artist like Neneh Cherry back. I’d often imagined what new work from her would be like, and it’s a tribute to her idiosyncrasy that Blank Project sounds like nothing I could have predicted. As always, she’s looking years down the line here, to a time when electro-jazz-pop-rock-soul-dance-minimalism is a thing. This is a tough and uncompromising record, one that takes some time to really love. But I wouldn’t have expected anything else from Neneh Cherry. I hope this record puts her back in the spotlight, and makes her part of the conversation. She deserves it.

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Next week, the amazing Elbow. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am, and Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.