If it’s OK with you, I’m going to start this week’s column with the biggest surprise of the month.

I don’t have a lot of time for the Killers. I enjoyed Hot Fuss, and I think “Spaceman” (from their third album, Day and Age) is the best song of their catalog. Their obsession with Springsteen grates on me, however, and their faintly ridiculous 2012 album Battle Born fell off my radar quickly.

Which is why I’m so surprised at how much I’m enjoying frontman Brandon Flowers’ second solo bow, The Desired Effect. Flowers has always brought an ‘80s sensibility to his work, but this is the first album on which he gets the balance exactly right. This is an album right out of 1985, its sound only barely updated. It practically glitters with keyboards, the guitars are perfectly placed in the mix (meaning pretty far back), the drums are big and reverbed, the harmonies dripping wet. It’s like he’s finally gone the whole way, and it suits him well.

Here’s the thing he gets the most right: while that ‘80s sound might come off as kitschy in retrospect, it was absolutely serious at the time. The Desired Effect is exactly the same – there isn’t a hint of tongue-in-cheek irony to this thing. It’s not a pastiche, it’s a lovingly crafted album in a particular style. By taking even a bouncy trifle like “I Can Change” seriously, Flowers has captured the essence of the era better than he ever has. The songs here are the meaty anthems he prefers, delivered with all the earnestness he can muster. Somehow, though, they don’t come off as silly this time.

And I think it’s because he’s fully embraced the sound he’s only worn as a costume before. Something is different about this one. You can hear it in the lovely ballad “Between Me and You,” which features Bruce Hornsby on piano. The details here are perfect, from Tony Levin’s Chapman stick to the occasional “yeah” in the background. It’s a pretty song that could have walked right off of the radio in 1985. Most of The Desired Effect is the same way, and despite my resistance, I’m enjoying it more than just about anything Flowers has contributed to. If that was his desired effect, well, it was a smashing success.

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The first thing that drew me to Ace Enders was his ambition.

Enders is the leader and singer of New Jersey band The Early November. In 2006, TEN released The Mechanic, The Mother and the Path, a triple album that was equal parts brave and foolish. Clocking in at more than two hours, the album included a louder disc of modern rock, a softer one of more acoustic pieces, and a radio play that tied the concept together with some wonderful songs interspersed. It was a huge undertaking, its lesser moments easy to forgive in the face of its sprawling reach.

I loved it, and I swore to follow Enders wherever he went from there. And he’s gone a lot of interesting places, from his big and slick solo work to his messy and sparse efforts under the name I Can Make a Mess Like Nobody’s Business. When The Early November reunited in 2012 and started issuing new music again, I was excited, but it turns out that his first band is now the least interesting facet of Enders’ output. In short, they’re his rock band, and they do a fine job, but they don’t convey the scope of what the man can do.

Which brings me to Imbue, the just-released fourth Early November album. There is one fantastic winner on here, and it’s called “Better This Way.” It starts out as a slower, more atmospheric song, but the chorus just explodes: “You like it better that way,” Enders sings, before delivering the killer melody in wordless shouts. This one will stay with me, and all by itself it makes me glad I bought Imbue.

But the rest of the record is pretty average, I’m sorry to say. The band is energetic and gives these middling rockers their all, but they’re middling rockers, with few memorable moments. Things pick up at the end – closer “Nothing Lasts Forever” rocks with conviction, and bonus track “Digital Age” is unlike anything else here, whispery and pulsing. I don’t mind the rest – I quite like the piano on “Harmony,” and Enders sings all of these songs with conviction and power – but I don’t love it either, and I know Enders can do better.

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A couple years ago, I saw the Milk Carton Kids opening for Over the Rhine.

As you’d expect, it was just Kenneth Pattengale and Joey Ryan, each with an acoustic guitar, and they spun glorious and sad beauty from their simple tools. But what struck me most about the show was how funny the two of them were. The between-song patter was dry and sarcastic and, in its subtle way, uproarious.

I mention this because it’s nice to know that Pattengale and Ryan are not as morose as their music would lead you to believe. In fact, they’re having fun making this gorgeous stuff. For some reason, the image of the two of them live colored my listen to their second album, Monterey, and even though it’s exactly the same as their debut, I enjoyed it more. Monterey is just like the live show – two guitars and two high, beautiful voices, forever intertwined, for its entire running time.

And it’s so, so lovely. Simon and Garfunkel is an obvious touchstone, as is the Everly Brothers, and the Kids are under no illusions that this sound is wholly their own. They even center one song around a particularly Paul Simon line: “Everywhere we go, we are the child of where we came.” But their commitment to it, and their ability to write spare, simple songs that can still fill you up, makes this worth hearing and treasuring.

As they did last time, the Kids use their silky sound to soften the blow of their dark, sad lyrics, in the best folk tradition. There are deaths, there are lonely wanderings down deserted streets, there are glimpses at a happier past that set the melancholy present into sharp relief. The Kids work in some Crosby, Stills and Nash-style political commentary, too: “Freedom rings loudly now, listen up, hear the sound of screaming as the shots ring out, that’s what freedom sounds like now…” One song later, they deftly reframe the political with the personal: “The letter said it all, we’re shipping out, I know they got it wrong without a doubt, the war ain’t over there, it’s here with me, the battle of the bloody century…”

There are no changes and no surprises on Monterey, and while I might wish for some artistic growth, I’m not sure what that would mean for this particular sound they’ve conjured up. I don’t think this needs to be bigger, or more fleshed out. It’s something special just as it is.

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As if on cue, here’s an example of an acoustic duo that has beefed up their sound, for better and for worse.

It’s been five years since we’ve heard from Deb Talan and Steve Tannen, the married couple known as the Weepies. Their fifth album is called Sirens, and it’s pretty clear that they spent most of those five years working on it. The Weepies write adorable little folk-pop ditties, and at the start of their career, they played them primarily on acoustic guitars, letting their pretty voices do most of the work. But they’ve been building up that sound, while being careful not to obliterate the precious fragility of what they do.

Sirens is, sonically, the biggest thing they’ve done, and on it, they tackle a few styles they’ve never tried before. “No Trouble” comes early, and it’s the biggest surprise, a slinky piano-led minor-key tune with a big beat. “Fancy Things” is the kind of electro-jazz lounge music The Bird and the Bee do so well, with flitting electric pianos and some thick processing for Talan’s voice. “Early Morning Riser” goes for a bit of a ska beat, with full horn section. There’s a cover of Tom Petty’s “Learning to Fly.” Mostly, these experiments work, and it’s at least partially due to the parade of big-name session musicians, including Gerry Leonard, Tony Levin and two of Elvis Costello’s Imposters.

With all that, though, it’s the songs that sound like the Weepies that capture my heart here. The title track is absolutely wonderful, a dark tale of death at sea (and emotional ruin on land) with a sweet, hummable melody. “Wild Boy” had me at “don’t I know it,” and sealed the deal with its lovely wordless backing vocals. “Ever Said Goodbye” is perfectly adorable, Tannen singing gently of regret: “You said with a smile that one day I’d make you cry, I don’t know why I ever said goodbye.”

Having said that, the swirling “Does Not Bear Repeating” may be my favorite thing here, with its chiming synthesizers, double-time beat and circular melody. It’s a great example of building on the band’s sound without changing its DNA. I love the Weepies, and while I love hearing them try new things – and for the most part, Sirens’ steps off the beaten path work well – I love hearing them sound like themselves even more. They do an equal amount of both here, and after a five-year wait, I’m happy with the balance they’ve struck. Sirens is a delight.

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And we may as well complete the musical-duos trifecta by talking about Best Coast.

Bethany Cosentino and Robb Bruno have made their name by embracing the innocent pop of a bygone era and playing it loudly, with no concessions to fidelity. On their third album, California Nights, one of those things has changed: this record is big and polished and shiny. The guitars jump out of the speakers, the drums (by session musician Brady Miller) pop in perfect balance, and the harmonies are fuller and thicker.

In all other respects, though, this is a Best Coast album, and so this feels like a natural progression. Cosentino still writes catchy little ditties that play in the shallow end, lyrically. It’s all about love and heartbreak, as usual. Sample line, from “Heaven Sent”: “I never meant to make you cry, I can’t pretend I never told a thousand lies, it’s not the end, I just want you to know that I think that you are heaven sent…” Another? OK, this one’s from “In My Eyes”: “I wake up alone, I look at the phone, there’s no one there, I look to the sun, know I can’t run from my cares…” It’s all on this level.

But if you’ve listened to Best Coast before, you’re used to this, and there’s no point complaining about it at this stage of the game. Cosentino is a songwriter that is just fine with a line like “I climb into the sky and my eyes they cry,” or with anchoring a song called “Jealousy” around the line “Why don’t you like me?” She’s hearkening back to the teen-pop of the ‘50s and ‘60s (and, let’s face it, the ‘80s). If you’re good with that, California Nights is the loudest and best of her band’s three records. These songs are undeniably catchy, and a tune like “In My Eyes” even achieves a bit of catharsis. The fuller sound does wonders for these tunes.

I generally like my silly pop to be a bit smarter than this, but if I put away the lyric sheet, get in the car, roll down the window and drive with this cranked up, it works for me. I can’t imagine Cosentino is looking for anything else, so I’d say California Nights is a success.

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I saved the best for last, so I hope you’re all still reading.

For 18 years, the Danish band Mew has been known for two things: magnificent soundscape-rock that would blow the socks off anyone who listened to it, and bizarre album titles and artwork that seemed designed to make sure few people did. I’ve been into them since Frengers in 2003, and trying to get people to listen to albums called And the Glass-Handed Kites and (deep breath) No More Stories Are Told Today, I’m Sorry They Washed Away, No More Stories The World is Grey, I’m Tired, Let’s Wash Away has been a bit of a struggle.

Mew has never been as impenetrable musically – they’re a little like Sigur Ros, except they write pop songs and sing in English. Their sixth album is called + –, and that’s the least accessible thing about it. On this record, Mew has harnessed their grandiose sound into little chunks of magnificence, and in doing so they’ve crafted their most welcoming work. The sound remains extraordinary, otherworldly, massive and layered – Mew stacks keyboards and guitars and vocals atop one another, basically building enormous yet perfectly sculpted towers. And yet, the songs within these towers are singable, uplifting gems.

The first eight songs on + – are some of the loosest and flat-out prettiest material the band has written. The album starts with the glistening “Satellites,” easing in on an ethereal harp figure while spectral synths build up. Jonas Bjerre’s voice is high and strong, and you’ll rarely hear it without glorious harmonies stacked around it. The guitars crash in around the one-minute mark, and the song takes flight, rising up and up, weighed down by nothing. The chorus is grand, and by the four-minute mark the song is in full glory, big and bold. “My life is my own, and now I’m always home.” It’s masterful.

“Making Friends” sounds like Mew’s version of modern pop, with an electronic beat, some ringing pianos, funky bass and a high, memorable melody. It’s gentle yet insistent, those Mew keyboards coming in for the choruses. Bloc Party’s Russell Lissack joins in on guitar on the darker “My Complications,” which merges Mew’s sweep with the slashing attack of Lissack’s band, a mash-up that works wonderfully. “Water Slides” takes a simpler and slower approach, as does “Interview the Girls,” but both songs carry you along in their current.

It’s the last two songs, though, that really make + – for me. Mew is always top-notch when they stretch out, and “Rows” is their longest song at 10:42. It’s transcendent, easing you in over several slower minutes before reaching full flower. As big as this one is, closing track “Cross the River on Your Own” is even more immense, an ever-expanding straightforward anthem in 7:28. It’s based on a simple sentiment – “You be good to me, and I’ll be good to you” – but this one almost (almost) gets too gigantic for itself. The band does keep control, but by the final guitar solo, there isn’t anywhere to go. Hence, the album ends.

This is the prettiest and most open Mew album, and just for that, it gets a strong recommendation. If you’ve never heard them, but you like bands like Sigur Ros, you should hear + –. It’s full of everything I like about them, but here the band is holding out its hand and drawing you in like they never have before. They want you to hear this one, and I think you should. It’s certainly one of my favorite things they’ve done.

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Well, all right. Next week we get Indigo Girls, Florence and the Machine, and Dawes. Be here. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Elliott Smith was my Kurt Cobain.

I’ve been in love with Smith’s music since the ‘90s, but I only recently realized the truth of that statement. For my money, Smith was the best songwriter of my generation, an honest and sad poet with a fragile heart. Like Cobain, he recoiled from the light of fame, and once it shone on him, he spiraled down into drug abuse and depression. And like Cobain, he wrote his own ticket out of this world – in Smith’s case, reportedly stabbing himself twice in 2003, at the age of 34.

I mourned Elliott Smith the way others mourned Cobain. In a lot of ways, I’m still mourning him – his later records, Figure 8 and the posthumous From a Basement on the Hill, are tough for me to listen to. That’s why, even though I still haven’t seen the Cobain documentary Montage of Heck, I drove 45 minutes to see the only screening of Heaven Adores You, the Elliott Smith documentary, playing anywhere in my general area.

As you might expect, the film was sad and lovely. It traced Smith’s entire life, beginning with his death and looping back to his childhood, his first musical efforts, his time in Heatmiser (a surprisingly loud band for those who only know Smith as a folksy finger-picker), and the growing fame that met each of his six solo albums. The sight of white-suited Elliott Smith playing “Miss Misery” at the Academy Awards hasn’t lost any of its grand oddness, but here it is played like a victory, not just for Smith but for lovers of quality music. “We won one,” says Rob Schnapf, who produced Smith’s fourth album, XO.

And he’s right. Elliott Smith was never going to be a rock star. He’s too soft-spoken for that, his music too fragile and complicated and beautiful. That the measure of fame he attained was the worst thing that ever happened to him is clear throughout Heaven Adores You. But the fact that this gentle genius was able to touch so many with his work remains miraculous to me. That XO, which is on my short list of absolutely perfect albums, was released by a major label to massive critical acclaim is still a cause for celebration to me. As is the fact that I heard it at all, amidst the clang and clamor of the ‘90s.

Heaven Adores You is a fine tribute to a songwriter who means a lot to me, and watching so many people who knew him well say such nice things about him did my heart good. Twelve years on, I still miss him, and I still wish we could hear more of his sad, perfect songs. Watching this film brought all of that back. I highly recommend it, whether you’re new to Elliott Smith or, like me, his work is finely woven into the fabric of your life. Heaven Adores You will be out on DVD on July 17.

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Speaking of the ‘90s, there’s a new Faith No More album.

I have a list of songs that changed my perception of music, songs that tore down my mental barriers between styles and genres and showed me that music could be anything. Most of that list wouldn’t surprise anyone, but the fact that Faith No More’s “Epic” is on there does raise some eyebrows. I’m not sure I can overstate just how weird that song was in 1989 – they were a metal band, but Mike Patton rapped the verses, and they had prominent and dramatic keyboards, including a haunting piano outro that accompanied footage of a dying fish in the promo clip. This was unlike anything else out there.

And when I bought the album, The Real Thing, I found that “Epic” was unlike anything else the band had done too. The Real Thing is a metal-pop-prog smorgasbord, at times tongue in cheek (a vampire thrash song called “Surprise! You’re Dead!”) and at others deathly serious (the fantastic title track). There has never been a frontman like Patton, but he particularly stood out amidst the leather-clad hair-metal prancers of the day.

If Faith No More led to the horrors of Limp Bizkit and Sevendust, well, you can’t hold them responsible for that. Especially since they did everything to distance themselves from the rap-rock crowd in the following years. Angel Dust, their remarkable next record, practically spit in the face of everyone hoping they would produce “Epic II.” A singularly off-putting and uncompromising album, Angel Dust remains the band’s finest and craziest work. I don’t know any other band who would record both “Jizzlobber” and a cover of “Midnight Cowboy” in the same sessions, let alone sequence them back to back.

After guitarist Jim Martin left, Faith No More began sputtering, and finally ran out of gas in 1997. Their final effort, ironically titled Album of the Year, was fairly underwhelming, if still decent. It is this band, the 1997 band that includes guitarist Jon Hudson, that reunited in 2009 for years of successful tours. And it is this band that has written and recorded the first Faith No More album in 18 years, Sol Invictus.

I emphasize this because if you’re hoping for something on par with The Real Thing and Angel Dust, this is going to disappoint you. But if your benchmark is Album of the Year, you’ll find that Sol Invictus more than lives up. It is, blessedly, an album that doesn’t care if you like it. It’s clear the band was allowed to do whatever they wanted, and they used that freedom to create a dark collection of dramatic, keyboard-driven sorta-metal, a collection that makes full use of the versatile, amazing Patton.

Truly, Patton is the star here. The album begins with the piano-led title track, which he sing-speaks in his trademark unnerving way, and that leads into “Superhero,” a riff-heavy dirge that finds Patton unveiling both his scream and his strong melodic voice, and then into the nimble “Sunny Side Up.” These three songs should set the scene for you – they’re all pretty average, yet fully competent, and while the band sometimes sounds like they’re going through the motions, Patton is on fire. His material doesn’t always match his passion – he’s amazing when he has something to really sing – but it’s great to hear him in this context again.

I wish I could say this album knocked me out. I like the dark crawl of “Separation Anxiety,” especially when it erupts around the two-minute mark, but it doesn’t go anywhere spectacular. I love hearing Patton spit out the spoken lyrics of “Cone of Shame,” then shout “I’d like to peel your skin off so I can see what you really think,” but that’s about all I love about that song. I’ve disliked “Motherfucker” since I first heard it, and I have reserved feelings about the dark six-minute epic “Matador.” My favorite thing here might be “Black Friday,” a jaunty acoustic tune about commercialism that explodes into a fiery refrain of “BUY IT!”

None of Sol Invictus is bad, and I’m inclined to be lenient considering the band hasn’t written new material together in nearly two decades. This certainly doesn’t reach the heights that those who would be interested in it might expect. As a second album from the band that made Album of the Year, it’s not bad. As a continuation of the Faith No More legacy, it falls a bit short. It’s nice to have these guys back, and it’s especially nice to hear Mike Patton snarl and shout his way through a new batch of songs. If this is a true reunion, though, I hope their next record edges closer to the revolutionary work they’re known for.

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That’ll do it this week. Next time, I try to catch up, and (I’m sure) fail utterly. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

It’s a sad reality that as far as pop culture is concerned, you are the first thing people know you for.

That’s how you can have someone like Elvis Costello, who for nearly 40 years has proven himself adept at a million musical styles from pop to jazz to orchestral, and people still clamor for a return to his “angry young man” days. That’s how a genuine chameleon and all-around genius like Frank Zappa can be written off as a purveyor of comedy music. Whatever the culture sees first, that’s your identity, and it’s very difficult to decide that you’re actually something else.

Which is why I admire it when bands and artists try. Reinvention is so tricky, so complicated, so risky that it’s usually easier to just keep pumping out what people want to hear. When artists make radical changes, it’s usually driven by a creative desire, and I’m all about supporting those. Reinvention is different from evolution – Daniel Johns has slowly morphed from grunge-era clone to an exciting pop artist, for example, but he did so over 15 years. When I talk about reinvention, I’m talking about complete 180-degree turns, usually with no warning.

And I love them. I love figuring them out, trying to understand the connections between an artist’s earlier work and this new stuff, trying to map the journey that we didn’t get to hear. I’m not always successful – sometimes the change is so abrupt and so complete that I can’t imagine how someone got from one place to another. But sometimes, you can hear it. You can hear the conscious decisions about which elements to leave in, which elements to change and how to change them. And sometimes, you can even hear why the changes were made.

All of which brings me to Mumford and Sons. I feel bad for Mumford. Six years ago, they appeared out of nowhere with a sound quite unlike anything else around at the time. Before long, their thumping bass drum, wailing banjo and earnest lyrics became a trademark, then a cliché, then a joke. Their second album, 2012’s Babel, proved that the sound was a creative dead end – it was exactly like their debut, only less inspired. So what do you do when your entire musical identity has been co-opted into a now-passe scene, and you’re not even getting any artistic satisfaction out of it anymore?

Well, you completely change. Mumford’s third album, Wilder Mind, came with an avalanche of pre-release buzz promising one of those fabled reinventions, with photos of full drum sets and electric guitars and keyboards and not a banjo in sight. It rarely sounds anything like Mumford and Sons, at least on the surface – there are big, chiming guitars screaming out at every opportunity, there are powerhouse drums propelling things forward, and Marcus Mumford’s voice is processed and reverbed and forcibly removed from the earnest trappings of their first two records.

At first blush, this feels successful, at least somewhat. While the album opens with two slow burners, including the half-finished first single “Believe,” it erupts at track three with “The Wolf,” a big rock song on which this new Mumford meshes like well-tuned gears. When Mumford reaches high for the emotional refrain (“You’re all I’ve ever longed for”), you won’t miss the banjos at all. “The Wolf” is the record’s high point, but it’s such a strong one. Other songs in this new style work pretty well on first listen too, like the title track and “Just Smoke,” with its Mike Rutherford-style guitar figure.

But here’s the thing. Mumford and Sons used to have an interesting identity, before the copycats got hold of it. (I’m looking at you, Lumineers.) And now they’ve consciously stripped that identity away, and they haven’t really replaced it with anything. Much of Wilder Mind sounds like Coldplay used to in 2002, or like The National does now, only less compelling. Honestly, this is only a radical reinvention if the only band you’ve ever heard in your life is Mumford and Sons. Compared with literally any other band, this is average, even boring. Say what you want about their thump-thump-thump folk music, but at least it was original. Now they’re just anonymous, trying to make electric guitars and drums sound like something they’ve just discovered.

They probably could have taken several steps in the right direction by writing some compelling material, but aside from “The Wolf” and late-album anthem “Only Love,” there isn’t a song here I remember. Not the way I remember hearing “The Cave” or “Little Lion Man” for the first time. “Monster” is indicative of the whole – it’s a slow, simple song with a lazy beat and no melody to speak of. I wasn’t happy with the songwriting on Babel, and I’m similarly unhappy with it here – Mumford and Sons have decided to let their new instrumentation do all the heavy lifting. And after a couple of listens, that’s no longer enough. The moment halfway through “Snake-Eyes” when the drums crash in and the electric guitars crank up, that no longer disguises the fact that the song keeps on doing the same one thing it’s been doing all along.

The problem with reinventions is that they have to work, because what can you do next if they don’t? You can go back to your old sound, tail between your legs, or you can try a completely different kind of reinvention, but once you have one failure under your belt, it’s harder to bankroll another big risk. I don’t want to say that Wilder Mind doesn’t work, not completely. But it relies pretty heavily on the shock of hearing Mumford and Sons play with new toys, and once that shock has worn off – once the fact that Mumford has, for all intents and purposes, gone generic sinks in – the album becomes a much less enjoyable affair.

Still, I’m interested to see what they do after this. “The Wolf” is proof enough that they can still aim high and get there. I have no idea where Mumford goes next, but I hope it’s someplace more original and compelling than this. This reinvention needs another reinvention, stat.

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You want an example of how to do it right? I have one of those, too, and I’ve been holding on to it for just such an occasion.

For almost 15 years, Matt Hales has been playing sad and wonderful piano pop as Aqualung. (No, I still don’t understand why he chose the name, but I’ve learned to live with it.) His pretty songs and wavery voice put him firmly in the British piano-pop tradition, but it’s a tradition I love with everything I have, so I’ve enjoyed all of Hales’ work. In fact, he’s been responsible for some of the most gorgeous songs of the last decade, including “Arrivals” and “Broken Bones” and “Thin Air.” Still, after the masterpiece that was 2007’s Memory Man, it’s been slightly diminishing returns, with 2010’s Magnetic North the (still enjoyable) low point.

Hales needed to shake things up, and oh my lord, he has. The new 10 Futures, released only overseas, makes several important changes to the Aqualung formula, and in the process completely blows it up. This is the most exciting music he’s made since Memory Man, and the changes in direction seem to have invigorated him. For most of this album’s running time, you won’t believe you’re listening to Matt Hales. And in fact, you often aren’t – this is his most collaborative effort, featuring guest spots by Joel Compass, Lianne La Havas, Sweet Billy Pilgrim and others he’s worked with as a producer in Los Angeles. He’s opened up his one-man show to other voices, and it works phenomenally well.

In fact, the first voice you hear on 10 Futures belongs to Compass, not Hales. “Tape 2 Tape” opens with the sound of a cassette deck ejecting, and then glides along on sparse pitter-pat electronic drums and whirring noise. Blatty synths and vocal samples slide in after a while, with organic drums and wailing guitar erupting near the end. The whole thing is off-kilter, odd, completely unexpected. It leads nicely into “Eggshells,” which certainly doesn’t reorient you – it’s a dreamy, almost ambient song with a skittering electro drum beat and a strange chorus, which Hales sings through a vocal processor. Lianne La Havas steps in for the second verse, and by this point, you won’t have any idea what this record’s going to throw at you next.

That’s the entire experience, really. “Be Beautiful” is like Hales’ “Viva La Vida,” a skyward-shout wonder played mainly by a string quartet. “Seventeens” brings the piano front and center for the first time, but the song takes some getting used to – it’s in 7/8, and its refrain finds Hales stuttering to imitate the sound of a slowly buffering audio file. “New Low” is a modern pop song extraordinaire, covered in strange and chiming percussion and produced with an ear toward tripping yours up every few seconds. “Clean” is low gospel with vocals by Sweet Billy Pilgrim, “Shame on Me” flirts with dance-floor funk, and “Hearts (Spinwheeloscillate)” finds Hales sitting in with Glaswegian electro outfit Prides, and fitting in nicely.

The massive variety of sound is what will thrill you at first about 10 Futures, but it’s the well-crafted songs that will keep you coming back. Every one of these 10 tunes finds Hales in fine, fine form, writing to his new styles but not forgetting the fundamentals of his pop roots. Even something as experimental as “Everything,” which feels like a proper template for Thom Yorke to follow in the future, lives and dies by its melody. And when Hales strikes a more straightforward vein, as on closer “To the Wonder,” he can make your heart soar. “To the Wonder,” like “Seventeens,” is closest to Hales’ old sound, but still sounds fresh and new thanks to the fascinating forward-thinking production.

It saddens me that 10 Futures might never be released on these shores, that American fans might stop with Magnetic North and not hear this complete (and completely successful) reinvention of the Aqualung sound. This is how you do it. This is how you rewrite your story from the ground up and make it work. There are things on 10 Futures that I never expected to hear on an Aqualung album, and now that I’ve heard them, it’s clear that Matt Hales can take this anywhere. I hope he does. I’ll be there for the ride.

Next week, the first Faith No More album in 18 years. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

It’s been 25 years since I first heard the Choir’s Circle Slide.

That’s simply unfathomable to me. I’ve recounted this story before, but I bought Circle Slide on a whim, after seeing the gorgeous cover – the sweeping sky, the tire swing, the threatening storm. It just grabbed me. What I found when I listened was exactly the kind of human, doubt-filled spirituality that 16-year-old me had been searching for, wrapped up in some of the most bizarre and beautiful music I’d ever heard. The Choir has been on my short list of favorite bands ever since.

And I have never stopped listening to Circle Slide. It’s been with me for a quarter-century, for my entire adult life, and I’ve never grown tired of it. I’m still hearing new things within it, seeing new twists in the lyrics, feeling new emotions. I’m not sure what it is about this short collection – there are really only seven songs, and it’s over in less than 40 minutes, but there seems to be an entire world contained in there. Even now, 25 years later, that tom roll at the start of the title track, the one that leads into that dark and reverbed web of sound, makes my pulse quicken.

I love this record, and I don’t think I will ever stop loving this record. Which is good, since I’ve just bought it for the fourth time. I originally picked it up on cassette in 1990, then quickly upgraded to a CD, and then bought it again on CD as part of the Never Say Never box set in 2000. And now, here it is in a sparkling remastered anniversary edition, complete with a second disc containing enlightening commentary from the band. Thankfully, it sounds exactly the same, only better – this new edition makes it easier to sink into the glorious, thick, room-filling sound of this album.

I bought this new edition at the Choir’s show in Aurora, Illinois, where they played Circle Slide from beginning to end. That was an incredible experience – it was standing-room-only, the great Mike Roe filled in on bass, and the band brought a quarter-century of experience and love to these tunes. Some of them – “If I Had a Yard,” “Merciful Eyes,” “Laugh Loop” – they had never played live, but the thunderous, spacey title track benefitted from years of concert airings, and the astonishingly loud closer “Restore My Soul” was everything I could have wanted. All these years later, it’s still magic.

The Choir is touring Circle Slide now. If they’re anywhere near you, don’t miss this opportunity. Check tour dates and hear some Choir music here. And if you miss the tour, the band will play the AudioFeed Festival again in July.

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The Choir’s Circle Slide show capped off an incredible two weeks of music for me, which included a trip to Montreal to see Marillion play three times. I also got to see Zappa Plays Zappa take on the One Size Fits All album in Chicago, which was thoroughly remarkable.

But my two-week live music binge started off with a record release party by my friends in Noah’s Arcade. My standard disclaimer applies here: I know these guys, I see them play whenever I can, and I’ve talked with them at length about their music. I would like them as much as I do if none of that were true. Noah’s Arcade is accomplished singer-songwriter-guitarist Noah Gabriel and one of the best rhythm sections you’ll find anywhere: bassist Chad Watson and drummer Justin O’Connell. What started as a songwriter and his backing band has evolved seamlessly into a democratic power trio, and watching them grow into what they are now has been a treat.

You can hear that evolution on their second album, Easy. Coming only a year after their self-titled debut, Easy is a brief collection – nine songs in about 35 minutes. But in a short time, it makes the case for the band’s continued growth. The songs are surprisingly varied – the opening title track is a bit of a whisper, gliding in rather than making a splash, and from there we get the gloriously ‘90s rocker “All the Roses,” the tender and sparse love song “Angeline,” and the tense crawl “Lookin’ Back.” None of these tunes pick up the bluesy torch held high by the first record, preferring to strike out in new directions.

I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Easy was recorded essentially live, and only after the full band arrangements were worked out on stage. The album has that feel – a song like “Vultures” shows that Watson and O’Connell are equal partners, and all three carry the song at different times. The trio is completely in sync on Easy, and even the simplest of these songs – the bluesy “Better Things,” for instance – work well here because of that interplay. The best example is “For You,” a last-minute addition that enriches the final third of the record. It’s three chords in search of a chorus, but listen to the way Watson carries things with his loping, melodic bass lines. Listen to how the three of them play that solo section like a unit, O’Connell building up and easing back, Gabriel riding the wave perfectly.

That said, here is what’s always been interesting to me about Noah’s Arcade: they’re a rock band that only rarely rocks. Most of Easy is either slow or mid-tempo, the band only cranking it up a couple of times. I like this material, and I can see why the band likes to play it. But for my money, the best song on this record is the last one, “29 & 66,” a mini-epic in 5:06 that starts off in a slower place, but soon erupts in a hail of furious instrumental firepower. After half an hour of restraint, it’s great to hear Noah’s Arcade cut loose in the record’s final minutes, and just like their debut, this album ends just as it really gets going. I could have listened to that jam for another 10 minutes and been good with it.

None of that is to say that the band doesn’t pull off the slower and moodier material well. Easy is a fine step forward and a statement of intent from one of Illinois’ best bands, a short yet varied set that adds a couple new twists to their story. I’m interested to see what they do next. You can listen and buy here.

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Just time and space for a few quick takes of recent records. Naturally, more worthy stuff is coming out than I can get to, particularly considering the depth to which I like to explore new music. I’m finally going to get to that Aqualung record next week. No idea when I will review the Weepies, San Fermin, Best Coast, Mew, Todd Rundgren, etc.

In the absence of long looks, here are a couple glances.

One would think that the first album in 12 years from one of the most important bands of the 1990s would generate a little bit of fanfare. The relatively quiet release of Blur’s The Magic Whip is sort of mystifying, especially considering it’s a bona fide reunion record, the first featuring founding guitarist Graham Coxon since 1999, and the first produced by Stephen Street since 1997. They probably could have made a bigger deal out of this.

But the album, by all accounts, came about quickly and accidentally – it’s the product of a week’s work in Hong Kong after a canceled Japan tour – and that’s been the tone of the release. The Magic Whip just kind of… squeaked out. Thankfully, the record itself is better than it should be. About half of it resorts to loping grooves, like the first single “Go Out,” but the other half is just as grand and pretty as Blur has ever been.

The production is surprisingly dense, given the album’s origins – songs like “There Are Too Many of Us” and closer “Mirrorball” are big and lovely things, and the expansive epic “Thought I Was a Spaceman” feels like the product of weeks of work, instead of days. It’s great to hear Coxon and Damon Albarn together again – the quick stomper “I Broadcast” recalls their glory days, and there’s more than a hint of the Kinks-inspired Blur of old on tracks like opener “Lonesome Street.” For all that, my favorite thing here is “New World Towers,” a slower, statelier piece that captures the beauty Blur could achieve when they were firing on all cylinders.

Hopefully The Magic Whip isn’t just a one-off. Given how good it is, I’d like to hear what they can do when they really work at it.

Michael Angelakos is another guy who is great when he works at it. As the sole member of Passion Pit, he took his one-man show from the humble beginnings of Chunk of Change to the sublime Gossamer in a scant four years. His high voice, his oddly retro-yet-futuristic dance-pop, his way with a soaring melody – Angelakos was going somewhere, and it was fun to be along for the ride.

Which is why the third Passion Pit album, Kindred, is a bit of a letdown. It’s the first one not to really go any new places – it just distills the good stuff from Gossamer into a slighter 37 minutes. None of this album is bad, and it all sounds like Passion Pit, particularly the delightful “Lifted Up,” the very ‘80s “Where the Sky Hangs,” the grand “My Brother Taught Me How to Swim” and the “Five Foot Ten”/”Ten Feet Tall” diptych. The theme of family runs deep through these songs, and they’re all at least pretty good. But it never lifts off, and never goes somewhere Angelakos hasn’t already taken us.

That type of consistency can be good and bad, though, and in the case of Built to Spill – never the world’s most innovative band anyway – it’s a good thing. Ever since the sprawling Perfect From Now On in 1997, Doug Martsch and his fellow Idahoans have walked a fascinating line between Dinosaur Jr. and Crazy Horse, reveling in the sounds of the electric guitar and the full-band freakout.

Album eight, Untethered Moon, comes six years after its predecessor, but it’s pretty much the same – quirky fuzzed-out pop songs right next to eight-minute guitar-heavy jams. If you ever liked them before, you’ll like this. I’d begrudge them this lack of evolution if they weren’t still so damn good at this. I’m not sure why this gets a pass and Passion Pit doesn’t, but when Martsch and company lock into the blistering groove of closer “When I’m Blind,” I just respond.

That said, if you want something new from Built to Spill, this album won’t provide it. If you’re looking for further proof that they’re one of the last remaining great rock and roll bands, though, Untethered Moon should do the trick.

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Next week, reinventions from Mumford and Sons and Aqualung. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.