In my head, Quiet Company is deservedly famous.

To me, there is absolutely no doubt that they are among the best and most important rock bands to emerge in the last 10 years. I don’t say this lightly. I’ve watched in awe as frontman Taylor Muse grew his one-man project into a tight, hard-hitting ensemble, and reached new heights as a songwriter. He’s written some of the best songs of the last decade, songs that dig deep and, without irony, reach for soul-baring greatness.

In 2011, after two albums that were, respectively, very good and excellent, Quiet Company made the best record of the year. We Are All Where We Belong detailed Muse’s disillusionment with religion and his renewed commitment to love – grand themes, delivered with a sweeping intensity and an ear for indelible melody. It’s a powerful and shakingly honest piece of work, one I keep coming back to. It is, in no small measure, a masterpiece, and in the perfect world in my head, it was rightly hailed as such by all and sundry.

In this world, however, QuietCo is still referred to as a “rising Austin band.” They’ve come a long way since their early days, and each time I go see them in Chicago they draw more and more people. (They’re astonishingly good live, by the way, ferocious and intense in all the right ways.) The band’s dedicated following has grown steadily over the years, and it’s been a joy to watch. But I want them to be household names. I want Muse’s songs celebrated in the most popular music publications. I want to have to fight for tickets to their shows. I want poseable Tommy Blank and Matt Parmenter action figures. (OK, maybe not that last one.)

Which brings me to Transgressor, the fourth QuietCo album. I don’t like to make predictions here, but you know that sense you get when a band has made just the right album at just the right time to get them to just the right place? That’s the feeling I get when I listen to Transgressor. This is a different kind of Quiet Company album – it’s leaner, it’s louder, it’s more compact, and it’s by far their easiest to connect with immediately. It seems specifically crafted to be your first Quiet Company album, and your best introduction to what this band does.

This change feels deliberate to me. In addition to writing more succinct songs – none of these 11 numbers breaks five minutes – the band enlisted a producer for the first time (Matt Noveskey of Blue October) and recorded much of this album live. You can tell – this record roars at you with a ferocity the band has previously only exhibited on stage, and the first half especially tears by so quickly that you’ll be at the midpoint before you can catch your breath. Even the more epic tracks, like the amazing “A Year in Decline” and “The Virgin’s Apartment,” rocket forward with purpose and stay only as long as they need to.

I will admit to being initially underwhelmed by this direction – I love Muse’s ambition, his willingness to open his songs up to expansive arrangements and lengths. But I’ve been unable to get Transgressor out of my CD player and out of my head for a while now, and here is what I’ve learned: weak moments on Quiet Company albums were few and far between to begin with, but there isn’t a single one on Transgressor. There isn’t time for one. This is a record with a mission, and even in the second half, when the scope widens and the music gets more dramatic, the tendency to sprawl is curtailed. There’s no “Everything Louder Than Everything Else” on this record, but there are several songs that take the grandeur of that song and accomplish it in four minutes.

We Are All Where We Belong wrestled with heaven and hell, taking on the absence of God, the redemptive power of love and other heady topics. Transgressor, on the other hand, is down in the mud. It’s no less a concept record, but this one is about coming to terms with one’s own failings and hoping that love is enough to overcome them. Behind that tuneful exterior, Transgressor hides a lot of emotional turmoil, coiled up and waiting to explode. And you’ll be singing along with all of it.

The first three songs, in fact, rank among the darkest Muse has written. “Seven Hells” (a cheeky Game of Thrones reference) explodes right out of the gate – no prelude, no buildup, just a thudding drumbeat, a badass bass line and Muse’s powerful howl. “I’ve got a problem and I can’t seem to fix it, Midas touch of turning things to shit… Now everyone I love has figured out what I do, and so everyone I love is living out the same awful truth…” This song introduces Transgressor, Muse’s evil twin, who crushes all the things he can’t let go. “Make peace with all your demons when you just don’t have the strength to cast them out,” Muse screams, and while the song ends with glimmers of hope, that line sets the tone.

“The Most Dangerous Game,” one of the catchiest songs Muse has ever written, finds him struggling against fatalism. “I know everything I build here will burn, once you understand the problem you can learn how to be part of it… Now my veins are full of rust and it’s worse than I thought…” But it’s “Mother of a Deal” that takes the prize for darkest song on the record. The beat is almost jaunty, the melody bouncy, but the words… Muse calls himself “the patron saint of making bad decisions,” admits that “I don’t think I’m ever gonna be the kind of man I wanted me to be,” and sings of drowning in blood, still swinging. “These tired songs don’t resonate, they never did much anyway,” he sings, before the music explodes in a shouted mantra of “sell yourself, sell sell sell!”

It’s arresting stuff, and hearing so much self-doubt and churning emotion from one of my favorite songwriters makes my heart ache. “Understand the Problem,” the ultra-catchy first single, doubles as an apology from Muse to his wife for his failings, and for the choices that lead him away from home. “I’m so tired of practicing on stages, every empty bar a bad decision that I’m making, I wish I was someone else, I wish you loved someone else…” It’s a powerful song, Muse vowing to right the wrongs his absence has been causing, and begging forgiveness. After that, you need “Kindness,” the beautiful acoustic love song that closes out the first half. “And we will carry one another as we march into the sun, singing darling I will never get enough of your kindness, of your laughter, of your love.” It’s a wedding song, and one of the prettiest things in the QuietCo catalog.

Things get much more widescreen, and thankfully much more hopeful, in the second half. “I Heard the Devil Call My Name” is a stunner, one that truly benefits from the live-band recording. It’s a love song, but a realistic one: “I’m begging you to know me, I’m begging you to figure me out, are you brave enough to love me, are you smart enough to have your doubts?” And then comes “A Year in Decline,” and ten months from now, this will still be one of the very best songs of 2015. It gallops along, causing an almighty racket as it does, but when the torrent subsides for Muse to sing “I can’t sleep if you’re not laying next to me,” it’s one of my favorite musical moments. “Cast them down, those devils of our lesser natures,” Muse screams, and that’s the record’s real turning point.

From here on, Transgressor is a love story, and an absolutely beautiful one. Nothing about these last three songs is idealistic, or magical, or sprinkled with fairy dust. These are love songs full of the dust of the earth, worn and weary but ready to be open and vulnerable. “Wherever You Take Me” might be Muse’s prettiest song, based on a simple pattern of piano chords. “I’ll stay as long as you will have me, and I’ll follow if you want to lead, I’ll share the load that gets so heavy, wherever you take me, home I will be.” This song puts the rest of the album in perspective: “I think that maybe I lost myself on a year of trying to be someone else, now I’m scared and sad and feeling stuck, but I ain’t never gonna give you up…”

The oddly titled “The Virgin’s Apartment” is massive, a layered epic in 4:02, and it finds Muse vowing to his wife that “we will make these four walls sacred, a Parthenon.” (Seriously, you need to hear the final, mostly wordless minutes of this song – they’re intense.) And the closer, “Midnight at the Dairy Palace” (a title that hearkens back to a song on the previous album), is simply gorgeous. It feels like a swaying ballad at first, but it builds and builds, the glorious refrain ringing out: “At the end of the day, ‘till the end of our days, you belong with me.” The sweeping strings echo the “I can’t sleep” melody of “A Year in Decline,” connecting these final four songs in a delightful suite, one that resolves the album’s more turbulent moments beautifully.

Transgressor may even be a more honest and naked record than Belong, which is an impressive feat all in itself. That they managed such honesty on a record that also feels like a perfectly crafted next-level introduction to a legion of new fans is remarkable. Transgressor plays like a rocket ride and reads like a diary, and that is probably its greatest triumph. It’s everything I love about QuietCo in a smaller, more direct package. It is exactly the right record at exactly the right time, and I hope it makes them as famous as they deserve to be.

You can help. Listen to Transgressor and buy it from the band here.

Next week, who knows? I can’t think that far ahead. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’m having one of those weird in-between weeks.

It doesn’t help that I spent half of it in San Jose, California for a science conference. For half my week I enjoyed 80-degree days, and for the other half I’ve been suffering through sub-freezing temperatures and walls of cold air. Jet lag messed with my internal clock, and I’ve been getting up earlier than I’ve intended. And my natural tendency toward introversion took a beating this week, and I haven’t had the proper time to cocoon myself away and recharge.

So I’m feeling between poles right now, drifting a bit. And this week’s column feels that way to me too. Next week, I have a solid plan – I will be talking at length about Transgressor, the fine fourth record from Quiet Company. I have been ordering and re-ordering my thoughts on this disc for a while now, and I feel ready to write about it. But that’s next week – Transgressor doesn’t hit shops until Feb. 24. So that leaves me with this week’s, stuck between Copeland and QuietCo, unsure of what to do.

Here’s what I can try, though.

As I’ve mentioned before, most music I hear falls in between my extreme love and hate reactions. Most of it – I’m thinking roughly 75 percent of it – fails to rouse any strong reaction in me one way or another. I thought, since this is an in-between sort of column, that I would run down a few of the new things I have bought this year, those records that don’t inspire me one way or another, and talk about why they leave me adrift. I don’t know if it will be interesting, but it certainly won’t take very long, and that’s attractive to me right now too.

The latest record to make me shrug is I Love You Honeybear, by Father John Misty. I totally get why this is a fascinating release for some people. Josh Tillman, drummer for Fleet Foxes and prolific singer-songwriter, has fashioned this mad alter ego that is, on the surface, sort of head-spinning. Father John Misty records (there are two so far) are full of lush, classic balladry – think Roy Orbison and Glen Campbell, all strings and big arrangements. Tillman sings these songs in a rich tenor, diving right into the contours of the sound.

But his lyrics are absolutely insane. They are stream-of-consciousness tales of debauchery with no holds barred – the first verse includes the line “mascara, blood, ash and cum on the Rorshach sheets where we make love,” and songs like “The Night Josh Tillman Came to Our Apartment” (yes, that’s the title) spin stories of unfortunate convergences: “I hate that soulful affectation white girls put on, why don’t you move to the Delta? I obliged later on when you begged me to choke you.” It’s meant to be a little too much, and the first time through, it is.

It doesn’t stand up to repeated listens, though, and by the time I’d taken three trips through Honeybear, I was bored with it. The songs themselves are unspectacular, though the arrangements are meticulous and rich, and the lyrics feel like someone spray-painted graffiti all over them. I don’t hate this, and I can see why people like it – whether it’s meant to be satire or just goofy, it does call attention to itself. But I don’t feel anything from it. I haven’t been able to give my all to it, because it holds me at a distance, preferring that I gape at it from afar rather than hold it close. I definitely prefer Tillman under his own name, and with his band.

Let’s see, what else.

A slew of good reviews convinced me to try Fall Out Boy’s new record, American Beauty/American Psycho. This is the first FOB album I have heard since Infinity on High, and the reviewers were right – it almost sounds like a completely different band. I’m not absolutely sure it sounds like a better one, but the electro-pop Cuisinart that turned out this album is certainly more interesting. Patrick Stump is still annoying as hell, but the band has written a few truly catchy numbers – “Irresistible,” “Centuries,” “Uma Thurman,” a few others.

It’s a slick piece of work, and it makes use of some interesting cultural touchstones, most notably the Munsters theme on “Uma Thurman.” And yeah, it’s surprising and confident and quite unlike what I was expecting from an album with the words Fall and Out and Boy on the cover. But it didn’t blow me away, like it did many of my cohorts in criticism. I might buy the next one. I might not. Depends on where they go, and if they keep evolving at the same rate.

I was definitely with my fellow critics when discussing the long-awaited new Aphex Twin album, Syro. That thing was impressive, a welcome return for Richard D. James, one of the few geniuses electronic music can claim. And there’s no doubt that his recently released follow-up EP, Computer Controlled Acoustic Instruments Pt. 2 (there is no Pt. 1), is something of a toss-off in comparison. It doesn’t have the benefit of the 10-year absence like Syro did, and it’s a much shorter and less amazing affair.

That’s not to say it’s bad, but it does what it says on the tin – these 13 tracks, ranging from nine seconds to five minutes, are sound collages made from acoustic-sounding instruments that have been processed into new shapes. And it’s, you know… fine. It’s interesting for me to have such a muted reaction to an Aphex Twin release after missing James’ work for so long, but there it is. This EP is a minor statement from a guy who can do much better.

I had the same reaction to Goin’ South, the new album from Richard Page. I’ve been a Page fan since I was 12 years old, and he sang for a band called Mr. Mister. Page has a strong voice and a knack for progressive pop – his work with Patrick Leonard in 3rd Matinee was great, and that fourth unreleased Mr. Mister album, Pull, is highly underrated. As a solo artist, Page has been hit and miss, but when he gets hold of a good pop song, he can still drive it home.

Goin’ South, though, is baffling. It’s a bog-standard, fairly boring pop-country album, recorded in Nashville with a bunch of session players. The songs are below Page’s usual standard, his voice is often affected to match the twangy arrangements, and the whole thing smells like a money grab, like an attempt to get played on country radio. I bought this based on Page’s track record, and this disregards everything I like about him. As a pop country record, I guess it’s OK, but I don’t have a lot of interest in those, so it’s hard to tell.

Finally, there’s Jamie Cullum, who made the album I like best of all of these. Interlude is billed as Cullum’s jazz record, but the British wunderkind has always played jazz – he’s as much a jazz singer as Harry Connick is. This time out, though, he’s focused primarily on older tunes, ones that are not quite standards, but are written on significant pages of the Great American Songbook. The title track is a Dizzy Gillespie tune, “Don’t You Know” belongs to Ray Charles, “Out of This World” is Arlen and Mercer, et cetera.

The arrangements are great, Cullum’s voice is in fine shape, and he gives his record the edge by adapting a few surprises to this setting, most notably Sufjan Stevens’ melancholy “The Seer’s Tower” and Randy Newman’s lovely “Losing You.” Gregory Porter guests on “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood” and Laura Mvula takes a vocal turn on “Good Morning Heartache.” It’s all quite nice, an interesting diversion more than a next chapter for young Cullum, but an enjoyable one nonetheless.

Interlude is the perfect example of what we’re talking about this time, though. It inhabits that weird place in between the essential and the disposable. It’s a record that’s just sort of there, bringing a smile while it’s playing but never quite planting its flag. That’s about the best you can expect from these in-between days, in the end.

Next week, Transgressor. You can hear it all right now, if you like. Do that, and be here in seven to talk about it. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Copeland is a band that has often slipped right under the radar with me.

I don’t want to understate how much I like them. They’re a dreamy pop band that gets both parts of that equation right, and in their best moments, they create transcendent music, the type that can make you feel like you’re having an out-of-body experience. The greatest weapon in their arsenal has always been the high, perfect voice of Aaron Marsh, who also serves as producer and sonic architect. They began in Lakeland, Florida as more of an indie-rock outfit, filling two albums with sweet melodies and ringing guitars, before taking a more subdued, more ethereal direction.

I had problems with that direction at first, panning the band’s third record Eat, Sleep, Repeat without giving it a thorough listen. Now, of course, I think of that album as a minor masterpiece, one that kick-started Copeland’s evolution into something much more interesting. So aside from that minor speed bump, I have always liked this band. But I have never considered them particularly important, or particularly ambitious. I never thought of them as even aiming for the top of my favorites list, but rather content to make quiet, delightful contributions to my musical background.

And when Copeland broke up in 2008, I figured that’s all they would ever be to me. I never imagined that six years later they would reunite and do something nigh-on revolutionary, something that I can’t stop listening to. But here we are – the sixth Copeland album, Ixora, is so fascinating that I’m going to review it three times. The full version of this album is such a bold idea, and took so much work to conceive and pull off, that it’s worth some extra space. That this idea comes from a band I had never expected much from is stunning, and true to form, they’ve been pretty modest about it. So here’s some rightly earned praise.

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Let’s say this right up front: Ixora is a beautiful record.

This is the band’s first effort in six years, following an extended hiatus. But in many ways, they’ve picked right up and continued their evolution. All of these new songs weave fragile and lovely atmospheres, each aiming for a lush, yet spare beauty. Copeland stopped being a rock band a while ago – guitars now are used either as sparse skeletons or as soaring flourishes. Aaron Marsh’s piano takes center stage more often now, but mostly Copeland focus on layering sounds to create gorgeous, wispy, cloud-like things.

They’ve been headed this way for three albums now, and Ixora is the culmination point. None of these songs are immediate – you won’t be humming any of them after one listen. They’re all patient, deeper rivers, and you need to get used to them. Marsh’s voice is still absurdly wonderful, but he doesn’t push it here – the melodies on Ixora are sweet and pretty, but they don’t carry these songs the way Copeland melodies often do. Listen a few times, though, and you’ll hear just how beautiful a song like “Erase” is, particularly when Marsh leaps up into that spine-tingling falsetto.

The pleasures on Ixora are mostly subtle. There are glorious climaxes – “Erase” has one, before the song disintegrates into a trembling string coda. “Lavender” starts off almost danceable, with a pulsing, programmed beat and a thick synth bass line, but the actual song is much dreamier, breaking down in the middle for a piano bridge and gracing the synth-pop bed with a meandering melody that never breaks out. Opener “Have I Always Loved You” starts with delicate acoustic guitar and a breathy “ah-ah” from Marsh that sets the tone. It takes nearly 90 seconds for more instruments to appear, and even when they do, the song remains a simple welcome.

“Ordinary” is nothing but piano and Marsh’s breathtaking voice, singing a simple, luxurious song about being comfortable in love. It leads into the smooth “Like a Lie,” with its almost-funk chorus. “Feels like a lie when I hold you, feels like a lie but it comes true,” Marsh sings over electric piano and his own swooping bass line. Even this is remarkably restrained, only a few keyboard notes to brighten its corners. The remainder of the album is filled with intricate, layered pieces, from the ever-building “Chiromancer” to the absolutely extraordinary “World Turn,” which for most of its running time is as fragile as a baby bird. (There’s even a completely non-cheesy saxophone solo.)

The album proper ends with a love song, “In Her Arms You Will Never Starve,” albeit one with darker overtones: “In your darkest hour, should storms rage around you, her love will be a shelter and she will pull you under…” The orchestrations on this song are gorgeous, and Marsh has rarely sounded warmer. There’s a bonus track on the deluxe edition called “Like I Want You,” and its inclusion only sharpens those dark overtones. It’s a song of leaving: “And when I turn to see you’ve left me here, it takes my breath away, it’s taken all my heart to love you…” The guest vocals by Steff Keoppen fit in perfectly.

It took a while for me to love Ixora, but I absolutely do. It’s the kind of album that needs to seep in, to make its home in your heart in its own time. Once it does, it’s impossible to deny how lovely it is. These songs will not grab you – most of them barely assert themselves, preferring that you come to them, unguarded. The care that Marsh and company have taken with the sound of this record is incredible, and even when the songs don’t immediately draw you in, the sheer physical depth of the album will. Take the time to soak it in, and Ixora emerges as the most beautiful thing Copeland has ever made.

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So that’s the version of Ixora that you can find in the stores, and it’s worth buying. But you’re only getting one-third of the experience.

Ixora was funded through pre-orders, and those who ponied up the extra cash received what the band calls the Twin Version of the record. And here is where I think Copeland’s trademark humility is working against them, because the Twin idea is absolutely brilliant. Nestled inside the sturdy tin box is a second version of Ixora – all 11 songs, arranged in completely different ways. And while it is intended as a companion piece, Twin stands up as a record all its own, one that is often just as beautiful as its counterpart.

Part of the reason is that Twin is mostly even more spare and delicate than Ixora. “Disjointed,” in this case, moves forward on a backwards pulse, with some light percussion surrounding it, and making way for the vibes and strings. It transforms what was the band’s best bet for a single into a fascinating fantasia. (Neither version of “Disjointed” sounds even slightly disjointed, for the record.) “Erase” is even prettier on Twin, steadfastly refusing to build up – it’s acoustic guitars, some lovely effects and Marsh’s voice, and that’s about it. The part of the song propelled by drums on Ixora is instead almost naked, and you can hear the contours of Marsh’s falsetto. And the string coda is replaced by a lovely final verse.

The exception to the softer-and-quieter rule is “Ordinary,” which on Twin is a full-band effort with shuffling drums, thumping bass and vocal harmonies. It’s a thoroughly different spin on the song, though it is recognizably the same one. “Like a Lie,” as well, begins fuller, with electronic drums and electric piano setting a dusky mood. Fascinatingly, this version of “Like a Lie” contains no vocals until the chorus, and even then it only seems to provide a counterpoint to the main melody on Ixora. It’s a bizarre, yet enjoyable listen, the only thing on Twin that feels like a remix.

“World Turn” is just as breathtaking on Twin as it is on Ixora, performed here on piano with an insistent electronic drumbeat in the background. The chorus this time is sung in wispy, treated harmony, and it’ll raise the hair on your neck. (And yes, the saxophone solo still works.) I think I like the Twin version of “In Her Arms You Will Never Starve” better – it’s more of a dirge, with slow piano, low keys and haunting, echo-y vocals. The string lines here are more sorrowful, and it feels like more of the sad lament I think it is.

After listening to Ixora for so long, Twin is an absolutely fascinating thing, like the version of the album that would have been released in a parallel universe. This goes beyond mere remixes or acoustic versions – Twin sports completely different takes on these 11 songs, teasing out new nuances in each one. It may not be quite the complete picture that Ixora is, and for the most part I agree that the band issued the correct versions on the main disc, but it’s pretty wonderful.

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But wait, there’s more (that’s not sold in any store).

By now you’ve probably guessed the most brilliant part of the Twin concept – the two versions of Ixora are meant to be played together, simultaneously. The liner notes say that doing so will create a third version of the album, and man, the liner notes do not lie.

The first night I received my Twin Version package, I did what the band asked. I used two CD players, situated on different sides of the room, and played both discs at the same time. It was difficult to get them to line up, since every player has a different lead time for its pause function, but when I could make it work, it was magical. The new arrangements on Twin folded seamlessly over the originals, filling in gaps and completing the picture. At times it was like doing a jigsaw puzzle in my head, hearing how one vocal line meshed with another in perfect harmony, or noting when the differing string arrangements complemented each other.

Listening to the quadrophonic version of Ixora was, no joke, my favorite musical moment of this year so far. Since then, I enlisted a friend to make a combined version of the record, one with Ixora in the left speaker and Twin in the right. Listening to it is still remarkable, and if I place my speakers far enough apart, it will still give the quadrophonic effect the band was after. What’s interesting to me is how completely this new version transforms Ixora. What was once, in both versions, a delicate and sparse record is, in this combined form, Copeland’s version of SMiLE. There’s just so much happening in each track, and it all works so well.

The only weakness – and it barely qualifies as such – is that for every quieter moment on one of the discs, the other compensates with a larger arrangement, so that every single second of the combined Ixora is bursting with sound. It’s such incredible, colorful sound that it hardly matters, but the bigger arrangements turn Ixora into a totally different record. The piano that makes up all of “Ordinary” on the main album is now an accenting instrument in the full band arrangement from Twin. The spare guitar and voice version of “World Turn” is now folded into Twin’s electronic beat take, and the new version isn’t quite as haunting as either of its components. The new version of “In Her Arms You Will Never Starve” is more triumphant and vibrant than either of the others.

But this is a minor issue, since the original uncombined versions are here to be played and enjoyed as well. I love how the chorus vocals of “Like a Lie” now merge into a call-and-response, almost turning it into a different song. I love how the piano and acoustic guitar dance off of each other in the opening moments of “Chiromancer.” I love how the string coda, so isolated on Ixora, now serves as the perfect backdrop to the added verse on “Erase.” I adore this new version of “World Turn,” Marsh’s aching lead vocal meshing with the more ethereal harmonies on Twin. (And for the third time, the saxophone solo is great.) And I love that this combined, full, rich version of Ixora evolves Copeland even further, turning them into astonishing studio wizards.

Most of all, I find this whole idea bold and amazing. The only analogue I can think of is Zaireeka, the Flaming Lips album from 1997 that came on four CDs that were meant to be played at the same time. But none of the four Zaireeka discs were intended to stand alone. That’s where Copeland have pulled off a coup – the two Ixora discs are swell listens on their own, betraying no evidence that they are parts of a whole, and they seamlessly integrate into a third version of the album. I’ve never heard anything like it.

As far as I know, the Twin Version is only available from the band, in limited quantities. I have no idea if you can still get it. But if you can, I cannot recommend it highly enough. Go here. Ixora, in all its forms, is a most welcome return for Copeland, a band I will never again underestimate.

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Next week, who knows? But after that, the great Quiet Company. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

We didn’t have to wait long for the first real disappointment of the year. But we also didn’t have to wait long for the first great record. As tradeoffs go, that’s not bad.

I’m talking about The Phosphorescent Blues, the fourth Punch Brothers LP. And if you know the Brothers, you know that isn’t a great surprise. De facto head Brother, Chris Thile, seems incapable of bad work, either on his own or with either of his combos. Last year, Thile issued an album of Bach sonatas and partitas performed brilliantly on mandolin, and rejoined lifelong friends Sara and Sean Watkins to reignite Nickel Creek. Their album A Dotted Line was one of the best of 2014, picking up the band’s bluegrass-trio-as-folk-pop-band sound as if they had never left.

As great as Nickel Creek is, Punch Brothers is something else entirely. It would be reductive to call them Thile’s rock band – they use a standard bluegrass lineup, with mandolin, guitar, banjo, fiddle and upright bass, and though they can play down-home twang with the best of them, this combo seems to be an ongoing experiment in eliminating musical barriers of any kind. Thile is a once-in-a-generation kind of musician, an absolute master of both his craft and his instrument, but this isn’t his show, not entirely. Punch Brothers is a true democracy, five people at similar levels of mastery, working as a democracy and seeing where they can go.

The answer, of course, is anywhere they want. Last time out, the Brothers courted a pop audience – Who’s Feeling Young Now broke them wider with clever pieces like “This Girl” and their cover of Radiohead’s “Kid A.” It was a fun record, charting a clear path. The Phosphorescent Blues takes a blowtorch to all of that. A sublimely confident piece of work, Blues is often even poppier than its predecessor, but it is also orders of magnitude more ambitious. This is an album that doesn’t care if you don’t like it. It does everything it can do to chase off casual fans and listeners – the first three songs are a 10-minute hook-free prog-grass epic, a five-minute meander that is at times almost inaudible, and an instrumental arrangement of a Debussy piece.

That is the band showing a huge amount of faith in their audience. Those expecting some high and lonesome pickin’ from this outfit are in for a shock, but those who have followed Thile and his muse down all his detours will find Phosphorescent to be a culmination point. Those first three tracks described above bring together many of the threads. Opener “Familiarity” is phenomenal, a three-part odyssey that climaxes in the middle. Its first half rises on Brian Wilson harmonies and meticulous arrangements, arcing ever upward as Thile sings his amens, finally pleading with the heavens: “God knows I mean it, God help me feel it…” The song’s second half quiets down, restating some of the same themes over more placid instrumentation as Thile admits he’s forgotten “how it feels to love something real,” but ends up willing anyway: “As long as you’re there I won’t be alone, a man alone among amens.”

Given the close listening required for those first three songs – particularly the lovely “Julep,” about a dead man remembering the good times – the sheer pop wonderment of the middle of the record is perhaps an even bigger shock. Drummer extraordinaire Jay Bellerose provides the first ever percussion on a Punch Brothers record, and his steady, subtle beat drives “I Blew It Off,” a tune with hit single potential. Producer T-Bone Burnett provides electric guitar fuzz on the choruses as Thile’s melody soars. It honestly sounds like the work of a different band entirely, and presages the next song, “Magnet,” a sex romp that explodes with Bellerose on the backbeat. “We’re pushing each other away,” Thile repeats as the band locks into a dynamite pop groove.

All this is before “My Oh My” and the traditional “Boll Weevil,” perhaps the most bluegrassy tunes here. “My Oh My” is a masterpiece, combining old-time harmonies and plucking with a fantastic, memorable melody. “How long, O lord, can you keep the world spinning under our thumbs,” Thile sings, lamenting our inability to appreciate what we have without trying to pin it down. “Boll Weevil,” at track seven, finally gives the bluegrass fans what they want, and it’s wonderful, leading into the more sedate final third.

And what a final third, driving the record home with beauty and grace. “Forgotten” may be the prettiest song in the band’s catalog, moving from dusty folk (with grand embellishments from Bellerose) to a straightforward mantra of reassurance: “Hey there, it’s all gonna be fine, you ain’t gonna die alone, you ain’t gonna be forgotten…” Banjo player Noam Pikelny and fiddle player Gabe Witcher intertwine their delicate lines, and the result is heart-stoppingly gorgeous. “Forgotten” sets the scene for the lovely final two tracks, the skipping “Between 1st and A” and the transcendent “Little Lights.” The latter incorporates a choir of Punch Brothers fans singing the final sentiment: “Shine little lights of ours, like Orion’s belt of stars, guide us back to where we are from where we want to be…”

The Phosphorescent Blues is a record of jaw-dropping musicianship and impeccable compositional skill that also remembers to be fun, and leaves you with deep reservoirs of feeling. In short, it’s everything you would want in a new album by one of the most impressive bands around. The cover of Phosphorescent is a painting called “The Lovers” by Rene Magritte, a Belgian artist known for challenging perceptions. It’s the perfect touchstone for a band committed to pushing against and ripping apart the idea of what a bluegrass band can be. They’re painting their own reality, with no boundaries, and it’s a joy to behold.

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While Phosphorescent is the first great album of the year, I’m more than willing to call Belle and Sebastian’s new one the first very good album – it beat the Brothers to the punch by about two weeks.

Next year is the 20th anniversary of this Scottish institution, and as if to celebrate their own reign, they’ve been on a serious roll lately. The last four Belle and Sebastian records have each built upon the last, evolving this sometimes-twee chamber-pop outfit’s sound into harder and brassier territory. Their new one – their ninth full-length – is called Girls in Peacetime Want to Dance, and if you can think of a more Belle and Sebastian title for an album, I’m all ears. In many ways, this is the most Belle and Sebastian of their recent work as well, a record on which all of their evolutions are solidified and brought back home.

Opener “Nobody’s Empire” is what I’m talking about, a purely Belle and Sebastian kind of song. Its rich orchestration, simple chords, sweet melody and deceptively dark lyrics mark it as the work of this band and no other. (It’s actually about leader Stuart Murdoch’s struggles with chronic fatigue syndrome.) Throughout this record, Murdoch and company bring dance music influences to bear (most notably on the driving “The Party Line” and the dark, sprawling “Enter Sylvia Plath”) and do more with keyboards than with violins, but there’s an inescapable sense of the definitive here anyway. This is what Belle and Sebastian sounds like, at their most Belle and Sebastian.

That’s not all that makes this a really good record, the band’s best in some time, but it does make this one feel important, like a statement of identity. What’s fascinating is that they’ve stepped outside their comfort zone in a few interesting ways here, hiring a new producer (Ben H. Allen III) and diving down a few musical rabbit holes. The dance-y funk of “Perfect Couples,” the most ruefully funny thing here, steps into new territory, as does the multi-part semi-polka “The Everlasting Muse.” And yet, the album feels like classic B&S to me, like exactly what they would have done without any outside prompting.

Perhaps it’s that this album doesn’t reach for the same sugary pop heights as Dear Catastrophe Waitress and The Life Pursuit. Songs like the string-laden (and political) “The Cat With the Cream” are patient odes, and numbers like “Ever Had a Little Faith” are classic Belle and Sebastian, pleasant and swaying. Girls in Peacetime aims for consistency, spreading its energy around equally, and the result doesn’t leave you with those few astonishing tunes (like “Step Into My Office, Baby” or “I Want the World to Stop”) but builds a 62-minute experience. So when you get to the seven-minute dance-pop windaround “Play for Today,” on which Murdoch and Sarah Miller spin twin tales, you’re ready for it – it doesn’t feel like a comedown, but another chapter.

Many are calling Girls in Peacetime a reinvention, the first time Belle and Sebastian have put their more danceable tendencies front and center, but I think that’s a superficial read of this record. The electronic elements seem to have energized the band, but in a way that finds them reaching back to what they truly are. “The Book of You,” for instance, is a lovable folksy tune with lines like “Valentine, if you could change with the weather, faith would just evaporate untethered.” Forget the buzzing synths and the pounding drums – listen to Miller sing “I’m the one for you and you’re the one for me,” before the whole thing goes nuts. That, right there? That is the sound of Belle and Sebastian, and on Girls in Peacetime, they’re in love with that sound once again.

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Next week, three reviews of Copeland’s Ixora. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.