It’s time once again for the WTF Awards, traditionally among the most fun columns I get to write each year.

2014 has been a doozy for great, ambitious new music, so it stands to reason that it would also be a good year for strange, unclassifiable new music. They usually go hand in hand – the more exciting a year’s music is, the more bizarre a lot of it tends to be as well. So the WTF Awards are reserved for those records that don’t seem to make any sense whatsoever on the surface, those whose very premises leave you scratching your head and wondering how they ever passed the concept stage. In short, things that make you go “hmmm.”

It shouldn’t be any surprise that the Flaming Lips have ended up here. They’ve always been the weird stepchildren of the rock world, only occasionally dipping their toes into more accessible work like Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots. In recent years, they’ve only gotten stranger, giving us (among other things) a song that stretches to a full 24 hours, a complete cover of The Dark Side of the Moon with Peaches and Henry Rollins on board, a collaborative record with the likes of Kesha, Nick Cave and Biz Markie, and an even stranger psychedelic side project called Electric Wurms. In the middle of all that, they issued The Terror, perhaps the most off-putting major-label record of their career.

So in some sense, the existence of With a Little Help From My Fwends isn’t a surprise, since nothing the Lips do these days would surprise me. Still, the very fact of it is puzzling. Fwends is a full cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, the immortal Beatles album, undertaken with the help of a couple dozen guests, ranging from Tegan and Sara to Miley Cyrus to J. Mascis. Despite the lengthy list of co-conspirators, Fwends sounds like a modern Flaming Lips album to the core, and would probably benefit from the use of psychedelic drugs more than even the original album would.

The main question here, before we get into the meat of what’s presented, is why they have done this at all. Sgt. Pepper is not an album that needs new interpretation. It is, in my humble estimation, perfect exactly as it is. It’s the high point of a career that scaled higher points than almost any other. The very idea that this collective from Oklahoma could improve upon or otherwise illuminate the work of Messrs. Lennon, McCartney, Harrison, Starr and Martin is inherently absurd. Fwends is clearly a tribute to these songs in this order, acknowledging and celebrating their excellence. But to release it means that they see value in it as a companion to the original.

Cheap Trick, of course, did something similar a few years ago, but they’re a much more reverent band, and their version (recorded live) was a slavish copy. The Lips have never been described as reverent, and this version of Sgt. Pepper veers pretty far off script. In a way, that’s what’s needed – there’s no point in just playing Sgt. Pepper again. The Lips recast the whole record in their trademark synth blots and alien vocals and drums that sound like they’ve been recorded inside an exploding star. It’s a smeary, delirious mess.

That said, the essence of these songs is largely preserved, for which I’m grateful. The melodies are celebrated above all – the music that slathers “When I’m Sixty-Four” appears to have been constructed entirely from synthetic farts and belches, but McCartney’s wonderfully old-school tune survives, achingly sung by head Lip Wayne Coyne. Miley Cyrus and Moby turn up to add vocals to “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds,” but the arrangement is among the most traditional. “Lovely Rita” sounds like it belongs in a video game – one about tracking down a meter maid on the mean streets, perhaps – but Tegan and Sara find the tune amidst the synthetic noise. And yeah, the Lips do “A Day in the Life” seriously, replacing the massive ascending orchestra with blatty keys, but it still kind of works. (Cyrus adds a lot, actually.)

With a Little Help From My Fwends is right in line with the Flaming Lips’ recent work. It’s thoroughly bizarre, and kind of unnecessary, but it’s still an interesting listen. In fact, some of the most striking parts of it are the most bizarre, like J. Mascis’ far-too-loud solo on the title track, or Foxygen’s five-minute jam on the reprise. The fact that this album attempts to reinvent one of the best and most important rock albums ever made grants it a WTF Award straight off. The fact that it sounds like it should be sacrilege but ends up as something far more fascinating is just icing. Neon green icing dripping like alien blood from a 60-foot-tall eye. Or something.

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The other two awards this time go to a pair of almost unbelievable collaborations. I mean the kind of thing you’d expect to happen only in a parallel universe. Just imagine this: we live in a world in which not only do two of the strangest acts I can think of, Scott Walker and Sunn O))), exist, but they have made a record together. And it is extraordinarily odd.

I should clarify that I’m not talking about the Scott Walker who is up for re-election as the governor of Wisconsin. I mean the Scott Walker who made his name with the Walker Brothers in the ‘60s, lending his glorious voice to Bacharach/David and Shuman/Pomus songs, and sang Jacques Brel songs as a solo act. If you remember that Scott Walker, you will not be prepared for what he’s been doing for the past 20 years. Over three impossibly noisy and difficult records, beginning with 1995’s The Tilt and culminating with 2012’s Bish Bosch, Walker has redefined himself as an avant-garde sound sculptor. He still possesses a stunning, classically trained voice, and hearing it in these new settings has been revelatory.

Walker doesn’t care if you like him, which means he has something in common with Sunn O))), the Seattle drone metal band. Sunn O))) is heavy in the way that being slowly pressed under 400 tons of rock would be heavy. Their songs are thick, loud, slow, inescapably long affairs, with huge, towering, hellish guitars. They’re so heavy they almost come back around to ambient, their massive rolling soundscapes feeling a bit like sinking into liquid concrete.

So of course, I’ve been imagining what Soused, Walker and Sunn O)))’s collaborative album, would sound like since I first heard about it months ago. The final product is pretty close to what I had envisioned – crawling hellfire foundations of thick guitars over which Walker sings like a tortured bird. Walker wrote all five of these songs, ranging from nine to 12 minutes, so they sound a lot like his recent solo work – sweeping epics with peaks and valleys and moments of transcendent beauty. Sunn O))) proves invaluable, though, in conjuring a particularly nightmarish atmosphere for these melodies to live in.

Opener “Brando” begins with Walker belting out a high, lonesome melody over some chiming organ, but it isn’t long before the sludgy guitars appear, accompanied by bullwhip sounds and synth whistles. The song is subtitled “Dwellers on the Bluff,” a literal translation of the Native American word Omaha (where Marlon Brando was born), and the nine-minute song attempts to evoke the frontier while conjuring up something more sinister: “A beating would do me a world of good,” Walker moans.

This song sets the tone – Soused is a dark, punishing experience, rolling from one devastating hellscape to another. “Fetish” finds Walker singing about the dark places of the inside over mechanical whirs and clangs, and when it all drops away around the two-minute mark, leaving just that wavery tenor, it’s utterly captivating. The rest of the song is disturbing, in all the best ways. The closing track is called “Lullaby,” and while it may be the least traditionally heavy thing here, it’s certainly not going to lull you to sleep. Something dark and menacing bubbles just under the surface here, and it occasionally gets close to bursting upward, but somehow it stays just beneath. It’s masterful.

Most of the time, these one-off collaborations end up saying all they have to within a song or two. But I would be happy to see Scott O))) continue down this path. Soused is one of the most unsettling records I’ve heard in years, and it took the combined sensibilities of both artists to create this thing. It’s dark and powerful stuff, not for the faint of heart. But if you’ve liked where both Walker and Sunn O))) have gone in the past, this takes both artists a significant step forward.

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And finally, we have one of the most unlikely matchups I could imagine: golden-throated jazz balladeer Tony Bennett and meat-suit-wearing pop iconoclast Lady Gaga.

You’d be forgiven for thinking these two have nothing at all in common. Bennett is a legend, a classic suit-and-tie singer of standards who has been recording since 1952. He’s a tremendous interpreter of jazz and pop music, lending an air of smooth authenticity to everything he touches. Gaga, on the other hand, is a modern pop star with a reputation for crass and attention-getting imagery, penning anthems of individualism and setting them to trashy Euro-dance music with a touch of Freddie Mercury. In short, Bennett is all class, while Gaga is mostly crass.

But damn, their collaborative record Cheek to Cheek is a huge surprise. Granted, it’s more in Bennett’s turf than Gaga’s, consisting of 15 standards arranged for jazz band and strings. But if you thought Gaga would embarrass herself singing these duets with Bennett, think again. While it’s clear that she’s not trained in this style, she acquits herself quite well. She has a full-throated, full-bodied tone, but can reel that back into coquettish playfulness when needed.

Bennett and Gaga are undoubtedly winking at us by opening this record with Cole Porter’s “Anything Goes,” but their rendition is sweet, and features a sparkling sax solo by Joe Lovano. Gaga sings “Nature Boy” beautifully, stands right up next to Bennett on “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love,” and sashays her way through the wildly fun “Goody Goody.” (She nails the aside “I told you, I’m not a goody, I’m a baddy.”) Your first spin through this record will, justifiably, be about seeing if Gaga can hack it in this environment, and stunningly, she really can.

And Bennett? He’s a legend for a reason. He’s 88 years old, and can still swing with the best of them. Check him out on the brief “Firefly,” and on his solo spot “Sophisticated Lady.” These are songs he’s sung a million times, but he’s a master of phrasing and tone. He inhabits these tunes, wearing them like a fine fitted suit. Above all, he and Gaga sound like they’re having a grand old time – just listen to them banter on “I Won’t Dance.” You can practically picture them swing-dancing around each other, spotlights trailing them.

I didn’t know what to expect from Cheek to Cheek, and for orchestrating a pairing that made my jaw drop, this gets a WTF Award. But the album is such a blast, such a frothy good time, that even those making a purchase spurred on by curiosity will enjoy it. The record ends with Duke Ellington’s immortal “It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing),” with Lovano back filling in the grooves, and Bennett and Gaga just have so much fun singing the “doo-wah-doo-wah” parts that it’s infectious. I was skeptical, but I’m sold. These strange bedfellows make a delightful team.

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Next week, three types of folk music. 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.

Reinvention is a tricky subject for me.

I love it when a band flips its own script and tries something new. I love being surprised by music, and hearing a band known for one thing fully committing to something else entirely is one of the best of those surprises. And yet, I also appreciate consistency – I like artists who establish an identity, and then play with that, leaping through different styles. Elvis Costello is probably the gold standard for that kind of thing. He started playing rockabilly and punk, but has delivered solid work in country, folk, jazz, orchestral balladry and a host of other styles. He can commandingly collaborate with Allan Toussaint, Burt Bacharach and the Roots, and still sound like himself.

So it’s a difficult balance, and it requires a true confidence in one’s musical personality. As much as I like L.A.-via-Chicago quartet OK Go, it’s not really a balance they’ve been able to maintain. They burst onto the scene as a cheeky power pop band, then hired Franz Ferdinand’s producer to helm their more… well, Franz-sounding second record, Oh No. And then they thoroughly dived into Dave Fridmann’s trippy electro universe with 2010’s Of the Blue Colour of the Sky. Three records, three completely different-sounding bands. The most consistent thing about OK Go is their elaborate videos, so it’s no surprise that they’ve become known more for their YouTube presence than their music.

To their credit, they seem to have realized this. The band’s just-released fourth album, Hungry Ghosts, is just a quick hop from the sound of Colour instead of another massive leap. The band has once again retained Fridmann, and while this record is less of a head trip, it does make use of the producer’s trademark electronic frippery. The band does have a drummer, Dan Konopka, but it sounds to me like he makes few appearances on this record. Main songwriter Damian Kulash has toned down the Prince influences here, settling on 12 short, sharp pop songs. While this record doesn’t have the same jaw-dropping sprawl as its predecessor, it is more concise, more focused and more fun.

I’m particularly pleased with “Obsession,” with its dirty Achtung Baby guitars and shifting percussion, and “I’m Not Through,” which glides around on a silky beat, faraway vocals and punchy strings. “Bright As Your Eyes” is sunny and joyous, with some 3-D guitar effects, while “I Won’t Let You Down” is a delirious dance floor anthem, ready for your wedding reception. (Perhaps a wedding reception with a giant Rube Goldberg machine as a centerpiece?) Things wind down with the starry-eyed “Lullaby,” and after 11 songs of blipping beats and slathered synths, the simple acoustic foundation of that song feels almost revolutionary.

Hungry Ghosts is a mostly effective pop record, a nice attempt to fit Kulash’s old-school songwriting in with Fridmann’s studio insanity. It works well. It feels like a very small step away from Of the Blue Colour, but it also feels like OK Go trying, for the first time, to establish just what kind of band they are. It’ a nice sign that they want to be known for the music they make, and not just as that band with the treadmills and paint. A few more records like this one and they’ll be in danger of actually being consistent.

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Jukebox the Ghost is another band that has reinvented itself, but not necessarily for the better.

In 2010, the Washington, D.C. trio unleashed Everything Under the Sun, an absolutely brilliant pop album. Extraordinary songs, incredible arrangements, pounding piano, not a single moment of it mired in cliché or mediocrity. It shot for the sky, got there, and then just kept going to the moon. I worried that I might have been overrating it, but I listened again recently, and it’s just as tremendous as I remember. It is pop music unbound, without limits. And it seemed like the band could do anything from there.

What they decided to do, alas, was simplify. 2012’s Safe Travels is a really good record, but in comparison with Everything, it’s much smaller and less interesting. And now here is Jukebox’s self-titled album, which completes their evolution to a streamlined pop band. To their credit, they truly commit to this – they’ve made a strong, glossy, infectious piece of work here, and every song works. Ben Thornewill’s piano is center stage, and though there are no flights of fancy here, no moments when the band uses these songs as jumping off points for something brighter and greater, they acquit themselves well. Their transformation into a smaller, more modest pop band has paid dividends – I enjoy ditties like “The Great Unknown” and “When the Nights Get Long” more than some of the more ponderous moments of Safe Travels, and this record is quite a bit more fun.

Still, I’m not sure this is much of a step up. Not much separates a pretty little thing like “Long Way Home” from a lot of the acoustic pop music you can hear anywhere. Lead single “Sound of a Broken Heart” is fun as all hell, and I don’t really need more than the giddy woah-oh chorus, but I still remember when this band would give me more. As usual, the second half outdoes the first – I’m a big fan of “Hollywood” and “Postcard,” two of this album’s most convincing piano-bangers, and the almost otherworldly gospel song “Undeniable You” is captivating. Album closer “Show Me Where It Hurts” is tender and lovely. Everything here works. I’m not sure why I’m complaining.

It’s just that Jukebox the Ghost used to be a special band. Well, they’re still special – it takes huge amounts of skill to write goofy yet compelling little pop songs like these, and to create a record so appealing out of them. But this brand of special doesn’t thrill me the way this band used to. There’s nothing really wrong with the synth-pop of “The One,” for example – I like it, I hum it, it makes me want to dance around like a moron. But it doesn’t strike me as something only this band could do. Jukebox the Ghost is another good record that only pales in comparison to where they’ve been. If the goal was to make an accessible, infectious, truly enjoyable little record that might turn more ears their direction, then mission accomplished. I just wish they didn’t have to lose so much in the process.

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If the theme this week is establishing a musical identity, Andrew McMahon has it nailed.

Following his stint fronting rock band Something Corporate, McMahon brought his sense of melody and strong songwriting to Jack’s Mannequin, where he established his sound. McMahon writes smart piano-rock songs, gussies them up with keyboards (and occasionally guitars), and sings them in a strong, clear voice. McMahon is what happens when a Drive-Thru Records artist grows up and discovers who he is. (See also: Ace Enders.) Since taking the reins, he’s never sounded like anyone but himself.

All that is a way of saying that even though his new project Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness has a brand new name, it still sounds like him. The guitars are pretty much gone, replaced with more synths and programming, but if you liked his songs and his voice, you’ll like this. From the first moments of “Canyon Moon,” I was wrapped up in this record. McMahon’s tunes have always evoked a particular nostalgic feeling, like capturing those last fleeting moments of youth, and on this record, he manages to do that while also writing about what it’s like to be an adult.

“Cecilia and the Satellite” is particularly touching – it serves as a look back at important moments in McMahon’s life, but it all points forward to the moment when he meets his first child. “For all the things my eyes have seen, the best by far is you,” he sings, and yeah, there’s something in my eye. It’s just a great, great song. The darker side of that same point in his life is explored on “See Her on the Weekend” – McMahon sequestered himself in a cabin to create this record, and would only see his wife once a week. It’s full of tiny details: “Cell phone is dead and she’s calling, message box is full…”

And yet, when I hear something like “Driving Through a Dream,” I feel like I’m 17. It’s exactly the kind of song that reminds me of being younger – not my actual young man’s life, but a more idealized one that exists in my head. “The night is long, the road is longer, you say you sleep better when I’m awake, I’ll stay awake for you…” Something about that just makes me swoon. For some reason, McMahon’s keys-only production only adds to that feeling. This record draws me in more than any he’s made. Even the lesser songs, like “Halls,” do it for me.

Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness is, at its core, a modest record of fairly simple songs. But there’s something about it, something that McMahon has brought with him all the way through his career, an emotional honesty that I completely respond to. I won’t be naming this one of the best records of 2014 – it’s really small and simple, and it does have a few lesser tracks – but it might be one that I return to most often. Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness is still Andrew McMahon, thank goodness, and just hearing his songs again makes me smile.

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Next week… man, so many options. Come back in seven to find out. 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.

For reasons too complicated to go into here, I’ve been listening to some ‘80s radio lately.

I love ‘80s music. I love that thick, gated snare drum sound. I love those gloopy synthesizers slathered over everything. I love the pulse of synth bass, and the alien way vocals were processed then. I love the idea that producers at that time thought they were being futuristic, when in fact they were sealing their works in a time capsule, dating them forever. And I also love that you can hear a great song through all of that anyway.

But even amidst the best that decade had to offer, Prince stands out. When a Prince song flits its way into one of those radio playlists, it’s not only instantly recognizable as his work, it’s completely different from whatever the song-selecting robot has placed it next to. Prince’s mix of ‘60s pop, ‘70s funk and soul and ‘80s computer rock would be enough on its own to distinguish his songs, but he adds this indefinable Prince-ness to everything he does. For all the talk of him defining the era, no other artist – ‘80s or otherwise – has ever sounded quite like him.

It’s no surprise that Prince is still putting out music some 30 years after his most praised period, nor is it a surprise that the vast majority of that music is very, very good. In fact, it’s often more surprising when Prince makes a so-so record, as he has done a few times in the past decade. After surging back with Musicology in 2004, he made five discs of varying quality, and saddled some of them with bizarre release strategies. The pretty-good Lotusflower and MPLSound albums were packaged together with a terrible album by protégé Bria Valente and made available only at Target. The much better 20Ten was only available in the UK and Ireland as a free insert with the Daily Mirror, so almost no one on this side of the pond heard it.

This is nothing new for Prince. It’s always been confusing to me unpacking which music he wants heard and which he seems to want kept under wraps. But when he makes a bold move, like re-signing with Warner Bros. and putting out two albums at once, it usually means we should pay attention. Prince hasn’t issued a new album on Warner since 1996, and at that time he was still writing SLAVE on his face in lipstick and going by an unpronounceable symbolic moniker. That seems like forever ago, and while it doesn’t really matter what label he’s on, I’m glad time has healed this wound because it means I can just hop down to the record store and buy these new albums without hunting for them.

And I’m pleased to report that Prince is still Prince, wherever he hangs his sparkly purple hat. Neither of these new albums are groundbreaking works, but they’re both solid and worthy efforts that should remind people what a stone cold genius the man is. Both are collaborations with his new backing band, 3rdEyeGirl, a trio of fine singers and musicians. Art Official Age is the pop record, credited just to Prince, and Plectrum Electrum is the rock record, credited just to 3rdEyeGirl. (Yes, even with his major label comeback records, he found a way to be confounding.)

Art Official Age is the most familiar-sounding. It’s chock full of Prince-pop beats, soulful sex jams, portentous ballads and his one-of-a-kind arrangement sense. Opener “Art Official Cage” would sound insane next to anything on the radio these days, with its quick-step beat, nimble funk guitar, weird vocal effects and head-spinning structure. It’s pure Prince, and while the album rarely gets that dizzying again, it sets the tone. The next track, “Clouds,” is a simple pop delight, the kind that Prince has excelled at since his earliest days, but then the sci-fi monologue about cryogenic sleep comes in out of nowhere, and you know exactly whose music you’re listening to.

That narrative winds its way through Art Official Age, but thankfully it never drags down the silky-smooth music on offer. “Breakdown” is one of the best ballads Prince has penned in the past decade, and it makes full use of his falsetto, still an astonishingly supple instrument. “The Gold Standard” is a six-minute funk workout, “What It Feels Like” is reminiscent of Prince’s ‘90s material (with a little New Jack flavor), and “Breakfast Can Wait” is the sexiest song about… well, see for yourself: “Hotcakes smothered in honey, I’m gonna have to pass, fresh cup of coffee, no, I gotta have you in my glass…”

Amidst all of this, “Way Back Home” is remarkably confessional – it may be part of the show, but it strikes me as one of the most personal songs he’s ever given us. “I never wanted a typical life, scripted role, trophy wife, all I ever wanted was to be left alone… trying to find my way back home.” The music is dark and lovely, and the 3rdEyeGirl backing vocals take it to another level. It’s a definite highlight on an album that can stand with some of Prince’s best work, and rises above much of his recent material.

Both Art Official Age and Plectrum Electrum contain “Funknroll,” a featherweight ditty that only serves to highlight the different approaches each album takes. The AOA version is a dance-y stomper, with processed vocals and big keyboard sounds. The 3rdEyeGirl version strips it down to guitars, bass and drums, and has a tremendous time rocking it out. Just about all of Plectrum Electrum follows suit, and if you want proof that Prince is a guitar hero in the classic mold, just listen to this.

Prince has had a lot of bands over his career, from the Revolution to the New Power Generation, but he’s never had one as focused as 3rdEyeGirl. Guitarist Donna Grantis, bassist Ida Nelson and drummer Hannah Ford Welton are good, solid, straightforward players, and with Prince at the fore, they jam like the Jimi Hendrix Experience in a particularly funky mood. Opener “Wow” is a bit of a mid-tempo crawl, but “Pretzelbodylogic” showcases this new band well – check out Nelson’s bass licks and Welton’s tasty fills, and how they seem to energize Prince’s playing.

The three 3rdEyeGirlers all sing – I don’t know which one takes lead on “Ain’t Turnin’ Round,” but she has a bold and brassy voice. Taking the pressure of vocals off of Prince has allowed him to focus on his guitar, and damn. Damn. There are two instrumentals on here, including the kickass title track, and on them, you can really hear how good Prince is. If this is his version of a bar band, these songs are the ones that flip the stools over and set the place on fire. The rawness of most of this record sets something like “Stop This Train,” a more traditional Prince tune with electronic drums, in sharp relief. The record would have been better without it.

Thankfully, that’s a rare occurrence. Most of Plectrum Electrum is spent reveling in this new band, and the melodic funk heroics at the core of its sound. Even the slower tunes, like “Tic Tac Toe” and “Another Love,” have a bluesy, organic vibe to them. While Art Official Age is Prince being Prince, and doing so masterfully, Plectrum Electrum really feels like the work of a band, and while it’s not groundbreaking stuff, it’s good to hear him in a setting like this. Both of these new records stand up tall amidst the man’s legacy, and given how mammoth that legacy is, that’s saying something. His name is Prince, and even now, nearly 40 years after his first record, he is still funky.

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Speaking of the ‘80s, one of the most interesting records of that decade is now available in a brand new, sparkling remastered edition. It’s also one of the most ignored records of the ‘80s, one which only a few people heard. This has always struck me as criminal – it’s an album that can stand with the best that the new wave movement had to offer, one with remarkable depth and thematic heft wrapped up in a snarky, deliriously creative outer skin.

The album I’m talking about is Doppelganger, the 1983 release from California quartet Daniel Amos. Those who know DA know that they were one of the most important bands to the then-burgeoning Christian rock movement, and that association has largely kept them from getting the attention they deserve. Daniel Amos mastermind Terry Taylor is one of the most interesting songwriters I have ever encountered, and his vast, expansive catalog – with DA, the Swirling Eddies, the Lost Dogs and on his own – will probably remain unheralded.

I’ve done my best to change that in my little corner of the world. To me, Terry Taylor and Daniel Amos are Important, and everyone with even a passing interest in great, weighty music with an ‘80s sheen should hear Doppelganger. It’s the second volume of the Alarma Chronicles, a four-album set of sci-fi-inspired dissertations on the Reagan era, and probably the most bizarre. It certainly rocks the hardest – the band was more tentative on Alarma, and surrendered completely to synthesizers on Vox Humana. But on Doppelganger, they let loose.

The album’s theme is duality, in the form of masks we wear, lies we tell, and artificial walls we construct between ourselves and others. Opener “Hollow Man” is actually a song from the last album played backwards, to set that ball rolling. “Mall (All Over the World)” is about living in a plastic world: “How come you’re sad, how come you cry, when golden arches cross your sky?” The album artwork is full of mannequins and masks, and the songs explore that artificiality. “Real Girls” asks where those titular women are amongst a bevy of fake ones on TV and films (and don’t worry, Taylor indicts men as well), while the hilarious “New Car” takes televangelists and snake oil salesmen to task, outing their real financial motivation.

All these songs are pretty amazing, but I would highlight the pummeling “Youth With a Machine,” a song that sums up much of the ‘80s for me, and the spastic “Memory Lane,” about someone who takes too many trips down that road. “Distance and Direction” is remarkably beautiful, with its Brian Wilson vocal arrangements, and it stands in contrast with the angry final third. The slash-and-burn trilogy of “Little Crosses,” “Autographs for the Sick” and “I Didn’t Build It for Me” obliterate the likes of Jerry Falwell and the whole notion of ministry as a business. Hearing Taylor spit and snarl his way through these tunes brings a grin to my face.

But I’m most moved by the final song, barring a reprise of “Hollow Man.” “Here I Am,” true to its title, finds Taylor dropping all the masks in an attempt to connect with his audience. It explores the question of whether the listener can ever truly know the band through its music, and in its choruses, aims for true human moments as a way of testing that idea. “You want an autograph, what is your need? Mine is for you to know that I really bleed, here I am, I’m crying…” It’s a marvelous capper to Taylor’s album-length theme, and the song is a delight.

The new remaster sounds incredible – sharp and clear and brilliant – and I will admit to smiling wide when I saw that the second disc is a doppelganger of the first. It’s every song from the main album, in sequence, in an alternate version. Most of these are curiosities, but if you love this band like I do, they’re revelatory. I’m especially glad to have an isolated vocal mix for “Distance and Direction,” one that allows me to hear each glorious harmony. You don’t really need the doppel-Doppelganger, but it’s neat to have.

You do need Doppelganger, though. It’s a vicious, sharp, hummable, extraordinary record, and it’s due for a serious critical appraisal. While no one was watching them, Daniel Amos made magic again and again. (Last year’s Dig Here, Said the Angel is proof that they’re still making it.) Perhaps that was the secret to their success – you can do more in obscurity than you can with the eyes of the world on you. Still, I would love to see more love for Terry Taylor’s catalog. I’m glad to see the band investing in these double-disc reissues. Doppelganger is a masterpiece, like so many of DA’s records, and it more than deserves this lovely re-release. I hope it gets more people to listen.

Daniel Amos can be found online here.

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Next week, pop music with OK Go and Jukebox the Ghost. 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.

Another couple months, another Evil Arrows review.

Bryan Scary has never been anything less than impressive, but his ongoing Evil Arrows project is turning into his magnum opus. The fourth in a series of EPs is now available and brings the total to 24 songs over roughly 75 minutes, without a single stinker. Scary is a pop songsmith with few peers, and Evil Arrows has been his attempt to streamline his work into bite-sized chunks. It’s been a phenomenal success.

EP4 is the longest so far, at 22 minutes, and all six songs break the three-minute mark. For Evil Arrows, these are epics. Most of these six songs have slower tempos and more subtle melodies – “Broken Heart Police” is a strummy acoustic wonder, while opener “The Bad Things Are Back Again” floats in on a supple piano melody before soaring with a falsetto chorus (complete with some wonderful “doo-doo-doos”). Songs like “Staring Into Space” and “In Clover” are less manic than previous Evil Arrows tunes, but no less hummable and insanely catchy.

The only one here that sounds caffeinated is “For Love Instead,” which plays up Scary’s love for ‘60s psych-rock. It’s pretty awesome, with its herky-jerky acoustic rhythm and underpinning fuzz guitar, and Scary pulls off the sing-speak vocal brilliantly. This EP ends with “Stereo Slumber,” a fragile and pretty piano ballad – it is one of the loveliest things Scary has ever written, and my only complaint about it is the same one I have had about every one of these damn EPs – it’s too short. I’m looking forward to the next one already.

* * * * *

I have a complicated relationship with Weezer.

At least, that’s probably how it seems from the outside. I’ve always liked them – it’s hard to be a power pop fan and not respond to Rivers Cuomo’s penchant for catchy, catchy tunes. But I find myself having two sets of competing arguments with Weezer fans. I think the band has been fairly consistent, aside from that Make Believe–Red Album period when I was sure Cuomo had suffered a stroke. That means that while I like the Blue Album and Pinkerton, I don’t think they’re life-changing works of genius. And likewise, I very much enjoyed later efforts like Raditude and Hurley. I am often defending them on one hand and knocking them down a couple pegs on the other.

So when I say that Weezer’s 10th album, Everything Will Be Alright in the End, is the band’s best and most consistent since the 1990s, it’s not coming from someone who thinks they’ve done nothing worthwhile since Pinkerton. Nor is it coming from a rosy, nostalgic mindset – I’m not pining for the days when “Buddy Holly” was on MTV, although I did prefer it when MTV played any music videos at all. Taking the Weezer catalog as a 10-record burst of fun, hummable power pop, this new record is the most fun, the most hummable, the most power-poppy that they have made since their early days.

Some of that is probably Ric Ocasek, the former lead singer of the Cars, who is back behind the boards for the third time. The band is obviously aiming for that Blue Album sound throughout, with thick, layered guitars and thumping drums and 1970s synthesizers snaking in and out. If you’ve missed that sound, and you can’t understand why Cuomo has been collaborating with the likes of Jermaine Dupri, you’re gonna love this record. This is the sound Weezer tribute bands are aiming for, the Weezer Classic.

But you can only credit Ocasek so much. (He did produce the Green Album, remember, and people don’t seem to like that one.) The reason this album works better than the last few Weezer records is Cuomo. He buckled down and wrote some fantastic songs here, the type of songs his longtime fans have been praying he still had in him. The record simply explodes to life with “Ain’t Got Nobody,” which rides a thunderous riff straight back to 1994. It’s like a shot of adrenaline to the heart, that sound, especially in service of songs like “Lonely Girl” and “Da Vinci.” Remarkably, the songs actually get better as the album goes along – the closing volley of “Cleopatra,” “Foolish Father” and “The Futurescope Trilogy” may be the best things here.

They’re certainly better than “Back to the Shack,” the ill-advised first single and the song that best illustrates my one and only problem with this record. “Shack” is an apology with a beat, Cuomo begging forgiveness for the last 10 years of Weezer records. “Sorry, guys, I didn’t realize I needed you so much, I thought I’d get a new audience, I forgot that disco sucks,” Cuomo spits out, before declaring, “We belong in the rock world, there is so much left to do.” Along the way he expresses a desire to get “back to the Strat with the lightning strap” and swears he’s “letting all these feelings out even if it means I fail.”

That’s fascinating stuff, if a bit troubling. As I said before, I don’t think records like Raditude and Hurley require apologies. But “Shack” also sets a weird tone for this new record, which ends up largely being about making a great new Weezer album. “Eulogy for a Rock Band” is pretty much what it appears to be: Cuomo’s fantasy epigraph for his own band, once he reclaims its glory. The awesome “Had It Up to Here” is about not allowing one’s ideas to be “polluted by mediocrity.” “Don’t want to find myself homogenized,” Cuomo sings, and later, “Don’t wanna end with as much edge as a balloon.”

It’s like listening to him psyche himself up to write a great Weezer album. And Everything Will Be Alright works a lot better when he just gets down to it. “The British Are Coming” is awesomely nuts – it’s literally about the Revolutionary War, and it has a stunning falsetto chorus. “Da Vinci” starts off like “El Scorcho,” all acoustics and whistling, but ends up rocking like an avalanche – that low, rumbling chord that kicks off the chorus is tremendous. “Go Away” is a pristine pop song with guest vocals by Bethany Cosentino of Best Coast. And “Cleopatra” is amazing, from the extra beat in the choruses to the stomping “five, ten, fifteen, twenty” section, to the big, thick, harmonized solo. It’s just a great, great Weezer song.

And one thing you have to say for Everything Will Be Alright – it ends better than any Weezer album in recent memory. “Foolish Father” is a wonderful epic about forgiveness, and just when you think it can’t get more epic, the band brings in a children’s choir to sing the album title. It sounds like it shouldn’t work, like the worst excesses of the Red Album period, but it does. And then comes the seven-minute, three-part, mostly instrumental “Futurescope Trilogy,” which is mainly about the band, playing their little hearts out. It’s mad, it’s all over the place, it’s a delight.

Seriously, if you abandoned the Weezer ship any time in the last 20 years, you should make it a point to hear this one. They’re still just a power pop band, no more and no less, but on Everything Will Be Alright in the End, they’re a better power pop band than they’ve been in some time. I’m not sure if this record will be enough to erase the embarrassments of the past – “Beverly Hills” would take a lot of erasing all by itself – but it’s pretty damn good, in ways that I wasn’t sure Weezer would ever be again. Everything is all right, but despite the title, I certainly hope this is not the end.

Next week, Prince times two, and a few other things. 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.

When I was a kid, 40 was old.

And when I say old, I mean ancient. Decrepit. Moments from shuffling off this mortal coil. I took to heart that old saying about never trusting anyone over 40. I mean… four decades, man. That’s a long, long time to be walking this earth. And of course, along with advancing age comes a loss of passion and creativity. Art and expression are for the young. The tired, broken-down fogeys should get out of the way.

Of course, now that I am 40, my perspective has shifted somewhat. Truth be told, I never really bought into the notion of a sell-by date for artists, which is one reason sites like Pitchfork annoy me – they’re in constant pursuit of the next thing, the new young standard bearer, and they tend to ignore the older and more established artists. They save their breathless hype for the 17-year-old who just learned to play two chords on a guitar, while I have long enjoyed the thrill of truly digging into an extensive, deep catalog.

You want a good example? Well, if there is some magical age at which musicians should pack it in or risk embarrassment, no one seems to have told Leonard Cohen. He’s 80 years old now, and from the sound of his 13th album, Popular Problems, his extraordinary third act is just getting started. It’s no secret that Cohen returned to the road 10 years ago because a shifty former manager depleted his retirement accounts, but he’s clearly found himself with more to say. His work since 2004 has not been obligatory, it’s been revelatory.

Cohen has always been a poet of sex, spirituality and suffering. His voice, always more of a sonorous speaking instrument, is now a ruined low rumble, a whisper away from crumbling, and it adds an air of weathered wisdom, a been-there quality that can’t be faked. It’s true that Cohen never needed any help sounding authentic, but his voice on Popular Problems brings even more weight to these weighty songs. Even better, Cohen spends this record collaborating with Patrick Leonard, who wraps these songs in witheringly beautiful organic clothes. All but gone are the cheesy synths Cohen has always loved, and in their place, a lovely, low-key band feel.

The songs win the day, but of course they do. Cohen delivers a mission statement with leadoff track “Slow,” inviting you to linger with him over these nine minor-key meditations. “It’s not because I’m old, it’s not what dying does, I always liked it slow, slow is in my blood,” he whispers, and the record (hell, his whole career) bears this out.

From there, Popular Problems tackles familiar territory for Cohen, but as always, he finds new ways to make his themes captivating. “Almost Like the Blues,” the dark and dreamy single, finds him looking out at a lost world, then shying away: “I saw some people starving, there was murder, there was rape, their villages were burning, they were trying to escape, I couldn’t meet their glances, I was staring at my shoes, it was acid, it was tragic, it was almost like the blues…” In the same song, he draws a comparison between torture and killing and “all my bad reviews,” and then points heavenward: “I’ve had the invitation that a sinner can’t refuse, and it’s almost like salvation, it’s almost like the blues…”

You could spend weeks just diving through these lyrics. It is often the music that surprises most on this record, though. Perhaps the finest song here is “Did I Ever Love You,” which begins as a lament, Cohen stretching that rough voice to meet a graceful melody, then flips backwards into a quick-step country number with vocals by Dana Glover. “Samson in New Orleans” floats up on a spectral solo violin. “Never Mind” might be more familiar ground – it’s a bass-driven spoken piece – but it stands out thanks to some delightful percussion and tribal backing vocals. This song is the sharpest here, Cohen dipping into the darkness in his soul, and yet finding it wanting in comparison with the world. “There’s truth that lives and truth that dies, I don’t know which, so never mind…”

Popular Problems finds a home for “Born in Chains,” a song Cohen has been working on for at least 25 years. It’s a dark gospel song, the kind he writes like no one else: “Word of words and measure of all measures, blessed is the name, the name be blessed, written on my heart in burning letters, that’s all I know, I cannot read the rest…” You can hear how grateful he is to have this one out, on the page, and into the world. But he does not end the record with this. The final track is “You Got Me Singing,” one of the most hopeful numbers in his catalog. It’s a psalm, an ode to moving forward, and it even references “Hallelujah,” the song for which Cohen is best known. “You got me singing, even though the world is gone, you got me thinking I’d like to carry on,” he sings, and it’s a gorgeous, hard-won sentiment.

I’d like Cohen to carry on, too, if the result is more little gems like Popular Problems. Any new record by Leonard Cohen will carry with it the significance of his perspective, his legendary perch among the greats. But unlike others of his generation, Cohen is still creating breathtaking, powerful art, still delivering work that stands with his very best. He’s a treasure, now more than ever, and Popular Problems is proof that there is no age at which the muse stops speaking.

* * * * *

John Mellencamp is 17 years younger than Leonard Cohen, but on his new record, Plain Spoken, he sounds much older. It’s the Indiana roots-rocker’s first new album in four years, and easily his most traditional offering, sticking to a pretty typical strum throughout. Mellencamp’s voice is a wreck, ravaged by years of abuse, but unlike Cohen’s, his rasp doesn’t add anything to these tunes. It’s easily the most boring thing the man has made.

So why am I still interested in it? Because Plain Spoken is a shockingly dark, intensely personal piece of work, and Mellencamp’s willingness to lay his own helplessness, confusion and depression into words is commendable, if not enjoyable. He’s never been the most hopeful of writers, even back when his music had a kick – the hook line of “Jack and Diane” is “life goes on long after the thrill of living is gone,” remember. But since turning 60, Mellencamp has seemingly been fixed on death, when not lamenting his divorce after 18 years of marriage, and those two circumstances have resulted in something almost painfully bruised.

“Troubled Man” may be a character sketch, like those Mellencamp wrote for Ghost Brothers of Darkland County, but it sets the tone: “Anxiety and sorrow underneath my skin, self-destruction and failure have beat my head in, I laughed out loud once, I won’t do that again…” Later, he says that “too late came to early for me to face myself,” and announces, “I won’t do anything but hurt you if I can.” It’s a particularly despairing way to begin this record, and that doesn’t let up on “Sometimes There’s God,” a song about the randomness of life. “Sometimes there’s God and sometimes there’s just not, a little redemption would help us a lot, sometimes there’s God in the palm of your hand, some days hard times will cover your land…”

“The Isolation of Mister” seems to reference Mellencamp’s divorce in the bitterest of ways: “So many knots I did not untie, they came undone by my faults, and here’s the reason why, saw so many lovers walk out that door, never cared about being lonely because I didn’t love you no more, I said go away, go away…” “Tears in Vain” picks up that ball and runs: “I guess I should know better than to cry these tears in vain,” Mellencamp sings while Mike Wanchic’s electric guitars ring out.

Mellencamp’s gaze turns outward in the back half of the record – “Freedom of Speech” is about exactly what you’d expect, while “Blue Charlotte” tells the story of a man holding his lover during her last days. He brings things to a close with “Lawless Times,” the rawest rocker here. This song finds Mellencamp looking out his window and finding nothing but awful: “You can’t trust your neighbor, husband or wife, can’t trust the police with their guns or their nights.” He even calls out those who would pirate his tunes: “If you want to steal this song, it can be easily loaded down…” The fact that this is the funny song is telling.

I’ve been a Mellencamp fan since before I started buying my own music, and I have never heard him sound so beaten down, so fatalistic. Plain Spoken is not an enjoyable album, but it is a fascinating one. Mellencamp sounds old here, like the subject of “Blue Charlotte,” knowing he’s in his twilight years and just giving in. It’s shocking, it’s depressing, and it’s still oddly compelling. I would never recommend this record, but for some reason, I keep listening.

* * * * *

If you want the very picture of aging with almost superhuman grace, though, you’ll need to turn to 66-year-old Robert Plant.

Here’s a guy who changed the world with Led Zeppelin, still one of the most celebrated rock bands in history, and then spent the next 35 years just doing whatever the hell he wanted. Synth-pop records? Sure. Scoring hits during the age of hair metal, then delivering a sharp turn with his horn-driven Honeydrippers project? OK. A duet album with Alison Krauss that completely redefined him in the eyes of many? Absolutely. To Plant, it’s all music, and he’s been on a constant quest to find new songs to sing, new atmospheres in which to float that wonderful, high, worldly voice. He’s never taken a wrong turn, never made an embarrassing record.

That streak continues with Lullaby and the Endless Roar, his 10th solo album, and his first with his new backing band, the Sensational Space Shifters. The mission of this group seems to be to combine as many influences from around the world as possible into the lovely, almost ambient creations that fill this record. I hesitate to call this album low-key, because it isn’t, really. But if you’re looking for rock songs, even those that filled 2010’s Band of Joy, you won’t find them here. This record is built on slow, space-y dirges that work more on mood than anything else.

Plant’s voice is still the fulcrum around which all of this turns. He dances up and around the single-note foundations of songs like “Pocketful of Golden” and the wonderful “Embrace Another Fall,” and turns restrained balladeer on “A Stolen Kiss.” The best moments of this record are the ones where the huge wall of sound drops away, leaving Plant’s voice to carry things. He turns in a lovely performance here, holding back the histrionics and just letting the notes flow out. The Space Shifters prove to be one of the finest, most interesting bands he’s ever had at his disposal, building on their grooves with all manner of fascinating instrumentation, including electronic drum loops – check out the futuristic dusty ramble that is “Turn It Up.”

Plant remains a student of music, seeking out traditional songs to update and writing new ones that sound centuries old, just as he did in Zeppelin. Lullaby opens with “Little Maggie,” a traditional folk song that Plant and the band completely reinvent with dance beats and banjos, and “Poor Howard” sounds so much like an old folk song that it sent me to the liner notes to confirm that it’s an original. The fiddle work on this one is particularly nice. This sense of history roots the album deep in the earth, which then gives it the freedom to expand sonically in all directions.

The result is yet another swell Robert Plant album, continuing one of the most idiosyncratic and compelling solo careers I can think of. I hope I’m still saying that when he’s Leonard Cohen’s age, and still putting out albums as good as this one. Age means nothing when you still have something to say, and can still say it this well.

* * * * *

OK, it’s time for the Third Quarter Report. Essentially, this is what my top 10 list would look like if I were forced to publish it right now. The fact that the Cohen and Plant records reviewed above do not appear on this list should tell you what kind of quality year it has been. (Cohen came very close.) And when the quality is high across the board, my personal taste comes into play more than anything. Typically my third quarter list strongly resembles my final one, so if you want a preview of December, here it is.

#10. Nickel Creek, A Dotted Line.
#9. Andrea Dawn, Doll.
#8. Coldplay, Ghost Stories.
#7. Dan Wilson, Love Without Fear.
#6. Elbow, The Takeoff and Landing of Everything.
#5. Sloan, Commonwealth.
#4. Beck, Morning Phase.
#3. The Choir, Shadow Weaver.
#2. U2, Songs of Innocence.
#1. Imogen Heap, Sparks.

For now, these are the 10 records I like best. Anything can change, however, and we have new things coming from some highly respected artists, including the new Quiet Company. I tend to listen and re-listen more intently near the end of the year, too, so some of these might not end up in the final list. We shall see.

Next week, Weezer shows us how it’s done. 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.