I first heard Starflyer 59 on a tribute album to Steve Taylor.

Yes, a musician most people have never heard of garnered a tribute album full of performances by bands most people have never heard of. But my abiding love for Taylor led me to pick up I Predict a Clone, which introduced me to all kinds of artists I’d never heard. Circle of Dust, for example, led off the record with a killer version of “Am I In Sync,” and now here I am buying the remastered reissues of all of the CoD albums, having followed the band’s mastermind Klayton into his new incarnation as Celldweller.

Sitting at track three was the strangest take on “Sin for a Season,” all impossibly thick guitars, crawling drums and a voice like a baritone whisper. I’m not sure I knew shoegaze when I heard it back then, but this was shoegaze so heavy you could measure it in tons. This was Starflyer 59, led by Jason Martin, and their immortal 1994 debut album (self-titled, but always called Silver) was more of the same. Snail’s-pace songs, what sounds like hundreds of guitars playing the same riff, Martin’s barely-there voice, an album so heavy you can’t lift it.

Twenty-two years later, I remain amazed at the continued existence and quality of Starflyer 59. Jason Martin is the sole member of the band, working with a rotating cast, and over 14 albums, 8 EPs and a pair of box sets, he’s led Starflyer on a merry dance through synth-colored pop, atmospheric melancholia, acoustic folk and straight-up rock. No two Starflyer records sound the same, but all of them are worth hearing. Listen to them all in a row and you’ll have no choicee but to admit that Jason Martin is an unheralded superstar, a songwriter and musician who really should be a lot more well-known.

The fact that he isn’t lends each new Starflyer album an air of the miraculous. In 2013, Martin went it alone, turning to crowdfunding to create IAMACEO, SF59’s punchy 13th full-length, and despite its apparent success, I figured that would be the last we’d see of him. But amazingly, here he is again with album 14, back on Tooth and Nail Records, and I hope this means a nice new contract and many more Starflyer platters. I’m especially excited because Slow, that 14th album, is excellent. As per usual with Starflyer albums, my only complaint is this: it’s too short.

Even by Starflyer standards, Slow seems brief: its eight songs last only 32 minutes. But it is a full emotional journey. The title track lives up to its name, inching forward like a ‘50s ballad, all ringing piano chords and reverb, Martin singing of time passing by: “My kids they grow up fast, I want it slow, so slow…” The record really kicks in with “Told Me So,” a superb ‘80s indie rocker with a tremendous guitar riff, and explodes with “Cherokee,” a skipping powerhouse that reminds me of early Cure albums. Martin’s crack band this time is bassist Steve Dail and drummer Trey Many, and as a trio, they kill it here. Martin’s voice hasn’t changed – it’s still lower than low, half-spoken, eerie and unsettling.

“Wrongtime” doubles down on the Cure influence, this time taking from the Disintegration era with its propulsive bass lines and clean guitar melodies. Speaking as someone who can’t get enough of this particular sound, this one’s a delight. “Retired” feels like a statement on Martin’s age and the state of his band: “I used to be the MVP, I used to be the center of a scene, I used to be the funny one, I used to be the setting sun, it’s tough to be retired when there’s so much left to do…” As if to prove how much he still has in him, he then hits us with “Runaround,” the loudest and fastest thing here, and then slides into home with “Numb,” a dark tale of slipping away: “Was it really better back then, were there really less problems, or was it really that because then you weren’t so numb…”

Slow is short, but it doesn’t feel that way. Its eight songs are among Jason Martin’s strongest, and as a full album, it’s among his best. More than two decades after first hearing them, I remain grateful that Starflyer 59 is still a going concern. Slow is another terrific Starflyer album in a long line of them. I’m never sure I’m going to get another one, so I try to savor each one. I hope Martin means it when he says it’s tough to be retired. He’s too wonderful to stay quiet. Long live Starflyer 59, I say.

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Time for another quick installment of Man, I Feel Like an Idiot. Despite hearing great things about her for years, I never bought a Sarah Jarosz album until last week. Considering how much I like – nay, love – her new one, Undercurrent, I’m gonna say that waiting this long was a pretty stupid decision.

Jarosz made her name in bluegrass circles – she plays guitar and mandolin and sings like a down-home angel. She’s played with Punch Brothers and Sara Watkins and Aoife O’Donovan, and I’m pretty sure I have a dozen or so records she’s guested on. But Undercurrent is proof that on her own, she’s something else altogether. Her songs are rooted in the traditional, but ache with honesty, and her arrangements sparkle. When she’s not going it solo, as she does on the lovely opener “Early Morning Light,” she sings with Jedd Hughes, and the two have a Buddy and Julie Miller vibe on several of these tracks.

While I love “Early Morning Light” – and who wouldn’t? – the album took off for me with track two, “Green Lights.” A soaring pop melody, some subtle yet wonderful electric guitar from Luke Reynolds, and a celebration of anything-can-happen love: “Green lights and open road and skies of endless blue, that’s the feeling I get when I’m with you…” “House of Mercy” takes us down a dustier road, Jarosz and Hughes harmonizing beautifully: “Don’t try and change my mind, that knock gets louder every time, don’t try and wear me down, you’ll never get inside this house…”

“Back of My Mind” is an almost supernaturally beautiful waltz about holding on to people you shouldn’t. The bigger arrangements here (including pedal steel from Reynolds) suit it well, but Jarosz is just as effective on her own, with nothing but her guitar. “Take Another Turn” is a pretty song about moving forward, while “Everything to Hide” is a darker piece about hidden and forbidden love. Jarosz invites both Watkins and O’Donovan to add fiddle, guitar and vocals to the deceptively tricky “Still Life,” but ends the record alone: “Jacqueline” is a sweet lament for Jackie Kennedy, in her pillbox hat and bright pink dress, dying and moving on: “You covered up with a blanket of light, Jackie won’t you walk with me tonight, maybe in a little while I’ll feel alright…”

It’s haunting, like much of Undercurrent, deep and wide and open and powerful. Jarosz’ voice is lovely, her songs even lovelier, her album one of my favorites in a (so far) very good year. I feel pretty dumb for not exploring her work earlier, but I’m in now, swept away, ready to hear more. This album knocked me out.

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Hey, look at that, the year’s half over.

That means it’s time for the Second Quarter Report, where I give you a look at my top 10 list in progress. As I mentioned above, this year has been very good, and the list has changed dramatically since March. I’m sure there will be some surprises here, and I definitely expect there will be more surprises on the way. Here’s the list as it stands right now:

10. Cloud Cult, The Seeker.
9. Steve Hindalong, The Warbler.
8. Gungor, One Wild Life: Spirit.
7. Anderson Paak, Malibu.
6. Sarah Jarosz, Undercurrent.
5. David Bowie, Blackstar.
4. Radiohead, A Moon Shaped Pool.
3. Beyonce, Lemonade.
2. Paul Simon, Stranger to Stranger.
1. Esperanza Spalding, Emily’s D+Evolution.

Esperanza’s still hanging on to that top spot. Yes, her album really is that good.

I was actually all set to review Steve Hindalong’s album this week (as his name starts with S), but then I realized that it’s not available for sale yet outside the Kickstarter backers. It will be next week, so I’ll review it then, along with others from my excursion to the fourth annual AudioFeed Festival. Should be a longer one, and I hope to have it up on time.

I’ll leave you with this, easily the best music news of my week. If Act V is anywhere near as amazing as Act IV, I’ll be rearranging those top spots again before the Third Quarter Report. We’re also getting the new Marillion before then, too. As Tori Amos once sang, pretty good year.

Next week, AudioFeed. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

If you’ve been reading this silly music column for a while, you know that artistic restlessness is pretty much my favorite thing.

If you want me to love your band – I mean, really love your band – the worst thing you can do is stay in a rut. If you’ve made the same album half a dozen times, I’ve probably stopped listening, or at least listening more than once. But if you’ve decided to be unpredictable and surprising, to the point where I have no idea what you’re going to do next, I’m in. Make a record on kazoos. Sing in gibberish. Compose 75-minute suites. Write an album with your grandmother. Just make it good, and keep me guessing.

In that frame of mind, I want to write something in praise of bizarre and unexpected decisions. I obviously have a lot of interest in artistic identity, but I love it when bands tell artistic identity to go hang. I love it when artists do interesting things that, at least at first, seem so far afield as to be ludicrous. It’s especially fun when the artist in question has such an established voice and way of working that you can’t really imagine how they would pull off something new and daring.

This will shock some of you, but right now I’m talking about Mumford and Sons.

Marcus Mumford and his banjo-picking troupe hit the scene in 2009 with Sigh No More, an album I quite liked. They stood in a line like a bluegrass band, playing acoustic instruments and a single bass drum, and sang dramatic folk songs that floored me with their intensity. (“I Gave You All” still kinda knocks me out.) But a sea of imitators and a repetitive second record played that sound out, and Mumford found himself staring down an artistic dead end. Third album Wilder Mind tried to break out of that with loud electric guitars and drums, but ended up sounding pretty generic, and left the band in a weird limbo, unwilling to sound like themselves again but unsure of their new path.

Apparently, though, they’ve discovered that not knowing where you’re going can be remarkably freeing. The new Mumford and Sons EP, Johannesburg, is a collaboration with African musicians, and creates an entirely new context for what they do. Mumford and company work here with famed Senegalese singer Baaba Maal, Cape Town pop band Beatenberg and The Very Best, a DJ/vocal group with members who hail from Malawi. All of the African musicians are listed on the cover – this is collaboration, not appropriation, and everyone is an equal partner in this music.

And it shows. Mumford shares the vocal spotlight with Maal and with Very Best singer Esau Mwamwaya, to the point of barely even showing up on the final track, “Si Tu Veux.” African pop abounds here – the slinky clean guitars, the percussion, the groove. Mumford and Sons, for their part, bring only the qualities I’ve always liked about them – their big, dramatic choruses, their massive harmonies, their sense of dynamics. Those qualities fit in here perfectly, particularly on the opening track, “There Will Be Time.” Beginning with soft piano chords and Maal’s gentle voice, the song slowly picks up, finally exploding in a trademark Mumford refrain: “In the cold light I live to love and adore you, it’s all that I have…” It’s the same crescendo, the same catharsis, but the sound is completely different.

“Fool You’ve Landed” is more of a straightforward groove-pop song, the African harmonies leading into a catchy chorus surrounded by hand drums. “Ngamila” finds Mumford dueting with Mwamwaya over a lovely piano figure before the big guitar chords crash in, bringing a dose of Britpop with them. It’s not even a tiny bit jarring, though – it all works beautifully. And the incredible “Si Tu Veux” is a showcase for Maal, singing over ambient guitar and a small army of percussionists. It’s vast, filling the room, triumphant, a stunning closer to this all-too-brief experiment.

And it still leaves Mumford and Sons in the same place, without a viable path forward. But it does signal that they are far more adventurous and interesting than many, including me, gave them credit for. I love discovering that. I love it when bands take my idea of who they are and blow it through the sky. I have no idea what they’re going to try next, and I don’t even know if they know. But I’m suddenly very excited to find out.

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Bruce Hornsby is one of my piano heroes.

Some of you may know that I dabble as a piano player. Hornsby was one of the first players I fell in love with, and one of the most daunting to try to emulate. I’ve seen him live, and been gobsmacked by his ability, particularly his left-right independence. I have no idea how he physically plays some of his songs (“King of the Hill” and “Spider Fingers” come to mind). I know whenever I buy a new Hornsby record I’m going to get quirky songwriting and impeccable, jaw-dropping, study-worthy piano playing.

So of course, here’s Hornsby with his first piano-free album. Rehab Reunion finds him on the dulcimer for all ten tracks, leading his band the Noisemakers in a totally new way. The voice and the songs are the same, but it’s surprisingly strange to hear that voice over twangy stringed instruments. The Noisemakers have gone totally organic for this record, with mandolins and fiddles and acoustic guitars, the lovely electric solos of Gibb Droll being the only real exception. If you think of the piano as part of Hornsby’s core identity, he’s here to prove you wrong.

And he does, because this record is great. Key to its success is the Hornsby way with a witty lyric and a melody. It begins with a pair of more serious tracks, and I’m a big fan of opener “Over the Rise,” with backing vocals by Justin Vernon. But before long Hornsby’s lodging his tongue in his cheek. The protagonist of “M.I.A. in M.I.A.M.I.” finds a new girlfriend: “She doesn’t even care that much that I’m not Latino, and her papi says he thinks that I look like Dan Marino.” “Tipping” is literally about figuring out how much to leave as a tip: “Five or ten percent’s too cheap, even twenty percent’s too steep, don’t know how to get to fifteen percent, it should be on the receipt…” That sounds clunky, but he makes it sing.

Hornsby collaborates with songwriter Chip DeMatteo on about half the songs here, including the title track, which effectively tells the story of meeting back up with one’s rehab group. Kicker line: “I need a drink at my rehab reunion.” He also works with Robert Hunter on “Tropical Cashmere Sweater,” a very Hunter-esque story. “TSA Man” is Hornsby’s gentle slap at airport security – the narrator of this tune loves the extra attention he gets in pat-downs. And sweet closer “Celestial Railroad” brings Mavis Staples aboard to send the record off in style.

But perhaps my favorite thing here is a recasting of “The Valley Road,” a song that is nearly 30 years old. It was a hit for Hornsby and the Range in 1988, and here he reclaims it, stripping it of the canned drums and synthesizers and giving it the organic sheen it always should have had. It’s a rustic song of lost innocence, and I like this version better than the one I’ve been listening to for almost three decades. This says, to me, that Rehab Reunion’s dulcimer experiment is an unqualified success. It’s a strange choice for Hornsby, but on this evidence, the right one. While I’m sure he’ll be back to making me gasp in awe at his piano playing soon, I’m loving this right now.

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Sometimes the risks don’t pay off the way you hope they will. Unfortunately, I think that’s the case with Tegan and Sara’s turn to synth-pop.

The Quin sisters, formerly sharp guitar-rockers, made this curious transformation three years ago on Heartthrob, and have now doubled down on it with their eighth album, Love You to Death. And I would love to love this to death, but it’s not easy. The record is a mere 31 minutes, and the sisters appear to have given the whole thing over to Greg Kurstin of The Bird and the Bee. I adore Kurstin, but he plays every instrument on here – the Quins merely sing, as if they’re pop stars just showing up for work.

The Quins did, at least, write all the songs (some in collaboration with Kurstin), and the lyrics are sometimes as delightfully subversive as ever. “Boyfriend” is about a woman trying to get her girlfriend to acknowledge her: “I don’t wanna be your secret anymore.” Mostly, though, these are radio-ready songs of desire and devotion. “BWU” is probably the most romantic: “Save your first and last dance for me, save your first and last born for me… I stop the clock to be with you, just to be with you…” There isn’t much here that you wouldn’t find on a typical pop record, though.

So this is where we are. Beyonce has made one of the strongest, most moving albums of the year, and Tegan and Sara have given us half an hour of synthetic fluff. I appreciate that diving in and fully immersing themselves in this style is a risk, and I don’t deny that some of Love You to Death is catchy and fun. But I remember albums like So Jealous and The Con, and I can scarcely believe these are the same Quin sisters. That’s the thing with changing your artistic identity: it has to work. It has to be better than what you’re leaving behind, or at least as good. It shouldn’t make me nostalgic for the old sound. And I’m afraid that’s about all Love You to Death does for me.

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Next week, Starflyer 59 and a few others. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I was an angry young man, and I listened to angry young music.

I’ve talked at length here about my teenage metalhead years, during which bands like Megadeth and Testament gave me an outlet for my adolescent rage. But when that phase was over (and I say “over” like I’m not still into all that great stuff), I was a twenty-something in the 1990s, the decade where the angry, the sad and the depressing became mainstream. It was the decade when the word “alternative” ceased to have any meaning at all – bands like Alice in Chains became superstars, riding the wave of Nirvana’s out-of-nowhere blockbuster Nevermind.

And I sank right into that music. I couldn’t get enough darkness, even in my sunny pop music. Which is exactly why Garbage worked for me when they appeared in 1995. I was only happy when it rained, and the songs on Garbage’s first album married grey sentiments like that with jaunty, memorable electro-pop. The band was originally a studio creation convened by Butch Vig, who had produced Nevermind, but audiences responded so strongly that they decided to become a real touring band.

Twenty-one years later, they’re still together and still kicking. Their sixth album, Strange Little Birds, is the darkest one they have made, and I think 22-year-old me would have loved it. For the first time, the music is routinely as gloomy as Shirley Manson’s lyrics, which means they’ve jettisoned the tension that used to define them. In its place is just… bleakness, and I’m finding as I get older that bleakness isn’t at (or near) the top of my list of favorite qualities. I’m a happier person, and I’m actually kind of sad that Manson isn’t.

Throughout Strange Little Birds (and in fact throughout the Garbage catalog), Manson is insecure, lonely, angry and very often hopeless. Album opener “Sometimes” circles around these words: “Sometimes I feel so jealous, sometimes I feel so insecure, sometimes I feel like I vanished in thin air, sometimes I feel I’m not there.” “Empty” is another in a long line of Garbage songs about obsession: “I’m so empty, you’re all I think about.” “Empty” is the first single for a reason – it’s one of the very few that marries its desperate lyrics with upbeat, propulsive music.

The rest of this record mostly crawls forward on its stomach, getting down in the muck. You can imagine what songs called “Night Drive Loneliness” and “Even Though Our Love is Doomed” sound like. The production is amazing, as always – when Garbage decides to set an oppressive mood, they really set one. The pulsing synths on “Magnetized,” for instance, give Manson a dark cloud to sink back into: “You bring your light, I’ll bring my pain, you bring your joy, I’ll bring my shame.” The sound is impeccable, the band still refining the rock-pop-electronic formula they invented.

I just wish there were more joy here. I’m not sure why I would expect any – nothing this band has ever done would lead me to that idea. But while Garbage has shaded darker, I’ve been seeking out more light. I hope making records like Strange Little Birds is cathartic for the band, particularly Manson. When she reaches for glimmers of hope, as she does on the epic “So We Can Stay Alive,” it’s even cathartic for me. But I find that I need music like this less these days. Strange Little Birds is a beautiful-sounding, bleak little thing, and while 20 years ago I would have nodded along in solidarity with its lonely, bitter sentiments, now they make me want to give Manson a hug and tell her that it gets better.

* * * * *

Tom Odell is 25 years old, so I can forgive a little more melodramatic depression from him. He was a mere 22 when he gave us Long Way Down, his remarkable debut album. The highlight of that record for me was “Can’t Pretend,” as dramatic a song as has ever been written about love withering on the vine. It was a marvelous calling card – Odell has a big, bold voice, and his piano-driven songs give him ample opportunity to use that voice to its fullest.

In some ways, I like his second album, Wrong Crowd, better. It’s a more mature album, its songs of love and loss more subtle and full. There’s nothing here that captures me the way “Can’t Pretend” did, but there are plenty of riches, and the production is less kid-with-a-piano and more journeyman tunesmith. It’s a progression that usually takes more than a couple years, and to hear Odell pulling it off so quickly is gratifying. He’s definitely one to watch.

Wrong Crowd does jettison the fun, though, in search of more meaningful pop music. Gone is the ivory-pounding likes of “Hold Me,” and in their place is a mellower, prettier, more considered brand of Tom Odell. Second song “Magnetized” is as rowdy as this gets, and it’s more of a slow build to a big chorus. “It’s not right, I’m magnetized to someone who don’t feel it,” he sings over pianos, drum rolls and handclaps, and it’s the album’s best hands-to-the-sky moment. As an army of Tom Odells sings “she keeps me hanging on,” you might think Wrong Crowd will turn out to be more fun than it eventually does.

But there’s nothing wrong with the direction Odell does take. “Constellations” is gorgeous, a song about a magical moment in time: “It’s the same old constellations of stars up in the sky, but yeah, I’ve got a feeling they’re gonna look different tonight.” This one is just Odell, his piano and some lush strings, and while I might wish it were even sparser, it works. “Sparrow” is a highlight, a circular, constantly growing lullaby, and “Still Getting Used to Being On My Own” sways with a newfound soulful influence. “Silhouette” sounds like an attempt to make a British mid-tempo dance-pop song, with a computer beat and strings.

Throughout it all, Odell’s voice remains vast and strong, lending this whole album cohesion and character. Wrong Crowd isn’t quite the out-of-the-park follow-up I was hoping for, but it is a step in some confident new directions for this young songwriter. He’s still using lines like “I never believed from the day that I met you that a loser like me could ever get you,” but if he keeps growing at the rate he has been, I’m excited to see the kind of songs he writes in his 40s. In the meantime, Wrong Crowd is a fine pop record, a worthy successor to a great debut, and one I’ll no doubt be coming back to for years.

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Finally this week, we have Miles Nielsen.

I said I would mention more about him this week, after seeing him and his band the Rusted Hearts deliver a tremendous set at the Two Brothers Summer Festival here. I may be underselling how great they were – they were easily the highlight of the day’s lineup, playing complex Americana-tinged rock songs arranged for six very tight musicians. Miles, as you may have figured out, is the son of Cheap Trick’s Rick Nielsen, but he doesn’t trade on that, and gets no mileage from it. His work couldn’t be farther from the lick-driven rock of his dad’s band.

Many of the songs Nielsen played last week were taken from his third album, Heavy Metal. It’s also his best album, and you can hear how much he and the band put into it. These ten songs are strong, lived-in, smartly arranged and memorable. There’s a strong Tom Petty influence here, particularly on songs like “Simple Times,” but Nielsen throws some curve balls, like the Beatlesque bridge of “Honeybee” (complete with clarinets) or the Allman Brothers guitars of “Strangers.”

Nielsen’s been on a steady trajectory toward something as good as Heavy Metal for years, and I’m quite glad that he and his band took the time and spent the money on this. The saxophones on “Sarah,” for instance, might seem like an extravagance, but they’re integral to the song. This album sounds like a million bucks, and happily the songs deserve everything the band has lavished on them. Atop it all is Nielsen’s voice, high and distinctive, surrounded by lush harmonies. Heavy Metal is great, a triumph for a songwriter and a band I’m excited to keep watching. You can get it here, and you should.

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That’s it for this week. Next week I’ll hopefully think of a theme. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’m writing this on June 5. It’s my birthday.

Today I am 42 years old. This seems unfathomably ancient, especially since, in my head, I feel about 20. But I went to an all-day music festival yesterday (featuring Cold War Kids and the great Miles Nielsen – more about him next week), and today I’ve paid for it. My joints are creaky, my head hurts, my whole body is in revolt. I’ve slept a lot of the day away.

Nonetheless, I have been looking forward to 42 for some time, since my whole year will be a Douglas Adams joke. “Hey there. Were you looking for the ultimate answer to the ultimate question about life, the universe and everything? Because here I am.”

As always when I turn a year older, I’m grateful for anyone who says to me, “Oh, you’re not old.” I’m also grateful for anything that convinces me that life doesn’t end at a certain age, that people can be marvelously productive and creative and interesting well past the point when others might call them senior citizens. I’m beyond happy to hear stories of so-called “old” people thumbing their noses at even the notion of growing old, proving that the brain doesn’t have to atrophy, and ambition doesn’t have to wither.

So you can imagine how grateful I am to have a splendid new Paul Simon album.

Simon is 74 years old, and I’ll be thankful to live that long, let alone retain as much fire and intellect as he has. His new album Stranger to Stranger is his 13th solo album, not counting (of course) his seminal work with Simon and Garfunkel, and from its Chuck Close cover to its complex and engrossing songs, it’s a weird garden of delights. Simon’s last record, 2011’s So Beautiful or So What, was a meditation on age and mortality, and was in many ways his final statement. This has left him free to say anything on Stranger to Stranger – no one will be looking to it for more of the same musings on age and death – so it’s as loose, limber and wide-reaching as you could hope.

Simon also, at 74, doesn’t care anymore what people think of him. This is a glorious place for him to be. He sing-speaks with abandon here, and he eschews immediacy – these songs are based in rhythm and mood, with only a few offering singalong moments – and those are subtle, only revealing themselves after time. It can be hard to wrap your mind around what Simon is trying to do on songs like the opener “The Werewolf.” It starts with a single, twangy bent note played on a gopichand, an instrument from India, then the drums – half electronic and half acoustic – shimmy in, leading the song through half a dozen little sections, none of which sound like a traditional Paul Simon song. The production is amazing, including horns and wolf howls, and the organ dirge that closes the song is straight out of Kid A. It’s remarkable.

Much of Stranger to Stranger is driven by rhythm, in the way a lot of Simon’s material has been since Graceland. “Wristband,” the nimble first single, is mostly drums and acoustic bass, with a few tasty horns here and there. (That song is fantastic, starting off as an anecdote about being locked out of his own show and morphing into a treatise on social justice: “The riots started slowly with the homeless and the lowly, then they spread into the heartland, towns that never get a wristband…”) The two linked songs, “Street Angel” and “In a Parade,” are entirely percussion and voice, the first introducing us to a neighborhood poet who “writes his songs for the universe,” and the second finds him being treated for schizophrenia, deposed from his place as visionary of the streets.

And if I have any complaint about this album, it’s that the sharpest and jauntiest of these songs are missing Simon’s instantly identifiable guitar. He only plays on half these songs, including a pair of minute-long instrumentals, and mostly on the slower, more thoughtful ones. But that’s all right, since the heart of the record is in those moodier pieces. The title track is a sparse waltz that imagines how Simon would feel meeting his wife again, now, as he is. “If we met for the first time this time, could you imagine us falling in love again, still believing that love endures all the carnage and the useless detours…” It’s also about the joy of music, and by the end – after a tremendous muted trumpet solo by C.J. Camereiri – he’s reduced to repeating “I love you,” overcome with emotion.

The centerpiece and masterpiece of this album is “Proof of Love,” and every time I hear this song, I’m swept away, amazed again at how great it is. Its agile acoustic guitar figure gives way to a refrain that climbs up and up: “I trade my tears to ask the Lord for proof of love, if only for the explanation that tells me what my dreams are made of…” The unexpected amens, the flute, the absolutely gorgeous coda (“Silent night, still as prayer, darkness fills with light, love on earth is everywhere”), it’s all so beautiful. This is the truth Simon’s long life has shown him: love is everywhere, and is the only thing worth seeking.

The record comes back to earth for two more rollicking tracks. “The Riverbank” flirts with rockabilly to tell the tale of a community in mourning, and “Cool Papa Bell,” named after a Negro League baseball player, includes a treatise on the ugliness and usefulness of the word “motherfucker.” “Cool Papa Bell” is the only song that looks backward – it sounds like a Graceland outtake crossed with “La Bamba” – and for that reason, it’s my least favorite thing here.

But the album ends with its eyes forward, half-closed though they might be. “Insomniac’s Lullaby” is a gentle piece of music, Simon praying for sweet slumber: “Oh Lord, don’t keep me up all night, side by side with the moon, alone in the bed, the season ahead is winter that lasts until June, the insomniac’s lullaby…” This song is arranged for several microtonal instruments, invented by American theorist and composer Harry Partch. These are gadgets that play a whole range of notes between the ones we know, and the effect is disorienting, unmooring. It’s not quite out of tune, but your ears can barely process it. Which makes it a perfect backing for a song about being heavy-lidded, yet unable to sleep.

And let me underscore this one more time: this is an album by a 74-year-old who has arranged a song for microtonal instruments for the first time. Stranger to Stranger would have been a strong record from Paul Simon 20 years ago. That he’s still pushing himself, still creating work of such vivid imagination, is astonishing. These returns have not diminished one bit. I never want him to stop. I know each new Paul Simon album might be the last, but when they continue to be this wonderful, I want him to keep going well into his 90s. If Stranger to Stranger is it, well, it’s a good one. But I hope it isn’t. I hope he lives a much longer life, and keeps showing us younger folks how it’s done.

Next week, at the very least, Miles Nielsen and Tegan and Sara. Probably more. Happy birthday to me. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.