Christmas is my favorite time of year, and I expect that to be doubly true this year.

I don’t know about you, but I could use some good tidings of comfort and joy. It’s been a hard year, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to get easier anytime soon. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to heading east and being with family and friends, eating home-cooked meals, giving gifts, even just sitting alone in rooms full of Christmas lights. And then I’m looking forward to bidding this year adieu, because I’ve kind of had it with it. (We lost Florence Henderson on Thanksgiving and then Ron Glass, the immortal Shepherd Book, a few days later, just to add to the ever-growing list of death I wrote about last week.)

If you know me, you know I love Christmas music most of all. You also know that ordinarily I have a rule: no Christmas music until after Thanksgiving, and then only until Christmas day itself. This has traditionally been my protest against the “Christmas creep” in stores and everywhere one looks, and also a way of making myself appreciate the music more. But this year I broke that rule, and I did so for a couple of reasons. One, my girlfriend loves Christmas more than I do, and started blasting the carols weeks ago. Two, I’m in the band at our church, and we’re practicing Christmas songs already. But three, and probably most importantly, I needed it, like I need a warm blanket on a cold night.

So I’ve been indulging in the Bing Crosby and the Frank Sinatra and the Sufjan Stevens Christmas box sets and that glorious Noel album my friends in the Choir put out in the ‘90s. I’ve been listening to more recent favorites, like Timbre’s extraordinary Silent Night and Aimee Mann’s Christmas record. I even pulled out Made in Aurora Vol. II, a local holiday compilation that I contributed to, and was struck again by how terrific it is. Basically, it’s all Christmas all the time in my house right now, and it’s helping.

As usual, I picked up a few new Christmas albums this year, and I’ve been alternating between them and old favorites. I usually don’t expect too much from new Christmas albums, but this year’s batch is a tasty one. Let’s start with the weakest of them, although it’s still pretty good: Christmas Party, by She & Him.

I’m not sure even M. Ward and Zooey Deschanel expected their novelty collaboration to still be going eight years and six albums later, but here they are with their second Christmas collection, five years after their first. The sound remains the same as always – Ward’s guitar-based old-time arrangements supporting Deschanel’s pleasant yet limited voice. There’s a hint of karaoke to what they do, but I expect that they’re aware of it, and they’re just having a good time. And Christmas Party, barring a couple sad-sack tunes, is a good time.

I read a piece last year about the Christmas canon, and how it is no longer expanding. The last Christmas song that truly entered that canon, this author suggested, was Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You,” released back in 1994. As if to prove that theory right, Ward and Deschanel start their album with a low-key version of it, and it sounds like a classic. Steve Shelley of Sonic Youth is on drums, Jenny Lewis sings backing vocals, it is as hipster as hipster can be, and yet it never sounds ironic to me. It’s just a good song performed well, like most of this album.

Other highlights include their renditions of “Winter Wonderland,” the Hawaiian-themed “Mele Kalikimaka” and the delightful “Marshmallow World,” popularized by Bing Crosby in 1950. The album ends with a shuffling take on “Christmas Don’t Be Late,” otherwise known as “The Chipmunk Song,” and as played and sung straight here, it’s quite a nice tune. The benefit of making your second Christmas album is that it forces you to go deeper, to mine songs that many may not know. She & Him certainly do that here, and they offer a wistful and sweet Christmas music diversion. Looking forward to hearing what they uncover for their third such effort.

Also on her second Christmas album is Sarah McLachlan, whose voice was made for this sort of thing. Wonderland is exactly what you might expect, particularly if what you’re expecting is something that is often heart-stoppingly pretty. For Wonderland, McLachlan worked with her usual team of Pierre Marchand and ex-husband Ashwin Sood, but brought in a group of superb Canadian jazz performers. You can hear them in full glory on opener “The Christmas Song,” that old Mel Torme chestnut. This rendition features gorgeous piano playing by Jerome Beaulieu and fleet-fingered upright bass work by Philippe Leduc. McLachlan rarely gets to sing over something so nimble, and she makes the most of it.

The rest of the record follows suit, and is often just the prettiest thing you can imagine. “White Christmas” is here, performed just on guitar and trumpet, McLachlan filling in the spaces with her voice. She’s accompanied by an orchestra for takes on “O Come All Ye Faithful” and “Silver Bells,” as well as on a song that was unfamiliar to me, the lovely “Huron Carol.” Emmylou Harris and Martha Wainwright turn up to sing, and Harris especially sounds marvelous on “Away in a Manger” and “Go Tell It On the Mountain.” Canadian rock band Half Moon Run provides instrumentation here too.

The album closes with my favorite carol, and one of my favorite all-time melodies, “O Holy Night.” McLachlan has actually improved as a singer since her ‘90s heyday, and she does the song sweet justice. There’s nothing about Wonderland I don’t like. It’s like curling up under the covers on a snowy night.

For a more uncomfortable experience, there’s Dark Sacred Night, the first Christmas album by David Bazan. Just the existence of this thing is a surprise, given Bazan’s feelings on Christianity in general, and it’s that tension that illuminates his versions of songs like “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” and “Silent Night.” This album was recorded at home, sparsely and in pieces, for sporadic single releases for more than a decade. That doesn’t make it any less compelling – Bazan is often at his best when he’s at his most naked, as he is here.

The album opens with an original, “All I Want for Christmas,” which turns out to be “peace on Earth.” Bazan sings that phrase on repeat over a mournful piano, and drives his point home with a strummy take on John Lennon’s “Happy Xmas (War is Over).” He’s alone with his guitar on “Away in a Manger” and a faraway, sad take on “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” Bazan writes his own third verse, which finds him “sipping Christmas whiskey and wondering if I still believe,” turning this carol into the lament of a grieving doubter. It’s powerful stuff.

Similarly, “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day becomes, in Bazan’s hands, a dark exhortation to be the change we want to see. “Then pealed the bells more loud and deep, we’re only what we sow and reap, if we ever are to get along then we ourselves must right the wrongs,” he sings, and these are actually the original lyrics – Bazan only added his own world-weariness to them. Bazan’s “Silent Night” is vicious and unflinching, taking aim at violence done in the baby Jesus’ name. When he does “O Little Town of Bethlehem” straight, it’s almost a surprise. He performs it with as much reverence as he does Low’s magnificent “Long Way Around the Sea,” from their Christmas album.

Dark Sacred Night ends with another Bazan original, and this one is the most difficult to listen to. It’s called “Wish My Kids Were Here,” and it spins the tale of a man separated from his children on Christmas (“They live with their mom in Alabama and I live with my girlfriend in Nashville, Tennessee”), and his struggle to make it through the day. “So I go awhile and fake a smile and drink and drink and drink,” Bazan sings, and it hurts. If you’re looking for a warm and nostalgic Christmas record, this would not be it. But if you want something that challenges the idea of what a Christmas record should be, Dark Sacred Night is strong and arresting, like all of Bazan’s work.

My taste in Christmas music runs more toward the joyous, so it’s no surprise to me that my favorite of a good lot this year is from Josh Garrels. An imposing figure with a powerful voice, Garrels writes lovely songs that explore faith and beauty. The Light Came Down is his first Christmas album, a mix of new takes on traditional songs and originals that depict the birth of Christ in poetic language. The opening title track is one of those, as Garrels sings “the light came down, cast the darkness away” over stirring strings and martial drums. The song so encapsulates everything I would expect from a Josh Garrels Christmas number – there’s a falsetto section, and a choir, and everything – that you may wonder where he goes for the next 14 songs.

Thankfully, the answer is “pretty much the same place.” Garrels sings “What Child is This” and “O Come O Come Emmanuel” and “O Holy Night” like the hymns they are, set in absolutely gorgeous foundations of guitar and strings. His elastic voice takes old classic “The Virgin Mary Had One Son” dancing, and simply electrifies “Gloria,” another swell original. Like his masterpiece Love and War and the Sea In Between, Garrels ends The Light Came Down with a suite of songs that lay out his vision of the meaning of Christmas, which includes “Silent Night” but also a stunning version of the Brilliance’s “May You Find a Light.” It’s such a beautiful song, and I’m glad someone of Garrels’ caliber noticed it and ran with it.

The album concludes with a pair of hymns. Garrels simply shines on “O Day of Peace,” a song that wraps up all that has come before in a lovely bow, and his own “Come to Him” is a perfect coda. The Light Came Down is everything I thought it would be, and is the most hopeful thing I have heard in a long time.

And really, that is what I need from my Christmas music – a sense of hope, of love, of peace, particularly now, particularly this year. I’m not sure that my days will be merry and bright, but listening to this and other Christmas records this week has made them considerably merrier and brighter. I hope that for all of you as well.

Next week, the last reviews of the year. Can’t believe we’re here already. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Am I ready to talk about music again?

I’m not sure. The past two weeks have felt like an extended wake, like swimming through grief. I know that sounds melodramatic, but two weeks ago, I thought I knew what the country I live in and love was. We were basically good, caring people who would see the racism and xenophobia proffered by one of our candidates and we would certainly, certainly not choose to side with it. We were conscious of our place in the world, and conscious of the harm such a vote could do it. We were mostly kind to people, looking out for one another, and sure, there were plenty of people stuck in a time of old prejudices and hatreds, but that wasn’t most of us. Most of us would stand up against that.

And now I just don’t know. We’re clearly not who I thought we were, and it hurts to find that out. With every white supremacist and anti-gay activist added to the cabinet, with every policy-level discussion of a national registry of Muslims, with every step closer to unthinkable horror, I’m just not sure what America is anymore. I’m sure some of you think this is hyperbole, and those of us asking these questions should just calm down. But this is real grief, and it feels like something important has been lost. I’m actually terrified of where we will go in the next four years.

So am I ready to talk about music again? I’ve had difficulty concentrating on anything but my sadness and anger lately, as those who know me can attest. I’ve spent a lot of time over the past two weeks angry, and trying to push on through. Music always helps with that – if I can have an outlet, a way to let some of those emotions out without inflicting them on anyone else, it’s like therapy. I’ve been listening to Marillion’s FEAR a lot lately. It sounds prescient to me now, like it predicted this storm. We’re living for the new kings, indeed.

And there’s a new Metallica album out. I’ve been a metalhead since I was 14 years old – my first real obsession in that realm was …And Justice for All, which I still have memorized. The Big Four (Metallica, Megadeth, Anthrax and Slayer) occupied a huge chunk of my developing brain, and I’ve kept track of all of them. Perhaps coincidentally, all four of them are now riding late-career-defining albums, thrashing like it’s 1988 again. Metallica is the last of the four to step forward with something new, and the one I worried about the most. Sometime in the ‘90s they lost their own plot, paving the way for Nickelback with slower singalongs and doing whatever the hell that was with Lou Reed. (The less said about Lulu the better, honestly.)

It would take a lot to come back from all that, and Hardwired… to Self-Destruct, the band’s 10th album, gives it everything it can. It’s 77 minutes long, split up over two discs (for some reason), and it features some of their loudest and fastest material since the ‘80s. The first disc is tightest – listening to “Hardwired” and “Atlas Rise” back to back helps me scream some of that shaking rage out. “Moth Into Flame” does it for me too, Lars Ulrich and Robert Trujillo locking into a killer groove. The second disc is a little harder to get through – the more progressive tendencies come out here, with long songs that stick to a slower tempo. Songs like “Here Comes Revenge” and “Murder One” blend into one another, and take too long to say too little.

But like all classic Metallica albums, this one ends with its heaviest piece. “Spit Out the Bone” is pure snarling fire, its lyrics imagining a mechanical dystopia in which humans are chewed up and discarded. This is exactly what I needed right now – the metal heroes from my past giving me something scary and relevant to shout along with. Hardwired… to Self-Destruct is not exactly a healing balm, but it’s Metallica’s most convincing slab of anger in years, and right now, I’ll take it.

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Honestly, though, if people would stop dying, that would help me with the being less sad thing.

It’s only been a couple weeks since Leonard Cohen left us, and that wound is still raw. His You Want It Darker is destined for my top 10 list this year, and is a completely new experience now that he’s left us. Since Cohen’s exit, we’ve also lost Leon Russell and Gwen Ifill. My parents had Russell’s Carny on LP when I was growing up, and it was one of the first albums I heard. The cover still makes me think of my mom’s basement, where the turntable lived. He was one of a kind. And Gwen Ifill, well. My previous chosen career has lost one of its brightest lights.

And just a couple days ago, Sharon Jones died. I owe my Dap-Kings fandom to Jeff Elbel, who introduced me to Jones and her authentic old-school soul. I knew Jones had been struggling with cancer for a while, but she seemed on the rebound. Her loss, at a mere 60 years old, is a massive one for fans of real, down and dirty soul music. She kept that flame alive like few others. Last year Jones and the Dap-Kings put out what will likely be their final album, a Christmas platter called It’s a Holiday Soul Party. In her honor, I broke my rule about not listening to Christmas music before Thanksgiving, and spun it three times. It remains wonderful. I’m going to miss Sharon Jones like crazy.

Add these names to a list that includes David Bowie and Prince and Alan Rickman and Merle Haggard and Keith Emerson and Lemmy and Gene Wilder and George Martin and so many others. And of course, that list includes Phife Dawg of the immortal A Tribe Called Quest. Tribe’s influence on the evolution of hip-hop in the ‘90s can’t be overstated, and like a lot of people, I figured their legacy was set in stone with Phife’s passing. Little did we all know that, like Bowie and Cohen, Phife spent his last days working on what he knew would be the last album of his life.

And now it’s here – Tribe’s sixth and final effort, blessed with the year’s best title: We Got It from Here, Thank You 4 Your Service. I’m not sure what kind of posthumous hodge-podge I was expecting, but this is a full-blooded Tribe album, one that sounds quite different from anything they’ve done, but still stands with their best work. Phife and Q-Tip sound like they’ve spent no time apart since 1998, falling into their easy and impressive lyrical camaraderie. Eschewing the more modern method of file-swapping across long distances, We Got It from Here was recorded all at Q-Tip’s house, and you can feel the energy – the emcees dart around each other, finishing each other’s thoughts, rolling and tumbling together. Everyone involved knew this would be the last dance, and they made the most of it.

Even the guest stars, like unofficial Tribe member Busta Rhymes, are on fire here. The list includes Anderson Paak, Andre 3000, Jack White, Talib Kweli and Kendrick Lamar, and they all seem honored to participate. This is a typically socially conscious Tribe album, addressing the state of the world with trademark ferocity. It’s interesting to hear a song like “We the People,” which must have been written before Trump’s election, but feels so much scarier now. “All you black folks, you must go,” Q-Tip sings, taking on the persona of a racist dictator. “All you Mexicans, you must go, and all you poor folks, you must go, Muslims and gays, boy we hate your ways…” Phife laments “the fog and the smog of news media that logs false narratives of gods that came up against the odds…”

Phife’s impending absence is mentioned more than once, too, giving this album a hollow, ghostly feel. “Lost Somebody” is Q-Tip’s goodbye letter to his friend (“No more crying, he’s in sunshine”) and is a tough listen for those who grew up with this team. (Can I mention how absolutely amazing Q-Tip is here? He makes the case for himself as one of the best and most interesting rappers alive, spitting fire when he has to and spreading tenderness when he can.) The album ends with a song called “The Donald” that has nothing to do with Trump – it’s a reference to Don Juice, one of Phife’s many names, and the song is a final tribute to him. “We gon’ celebrate him, elevate him, give him his and don’t debate him, top dog is the way to rate him,” Q-Tip raps. The final words on the album are, fittingly, Phife Dawg’s name.

Does this help with the grief, to look it right in the face? I think so. I connected with the likes of Cohen more than with Phife, but listening to both of these final statements has been illuminating. Both men knew they were pushing out the boat for the last time, and swam through pain to complete one last bit of beauty. That’s the best we can hope for – to add as much beauty as we can to the world, and to stare down death while doing it. Grief is good, grief is healthy, but after a while, grief fades to a dull ache, and life moves on. Those who came before us can inspire us, but we’re the ones who have to do the work, and we have a lot to do.

Next week, Christmas music.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I don’t have a lot for you this week.

It’s been an emotionally exhausting seven days for me, and for a lot of us. I’ve gone through a period of deep sadness followed by one of fiery anger, and while both are not now quite as overwhelming as they’ve been, I’m hoping to hang on to those emotions and channel them into something good. To me this has always been about more than politics, more than left and right. It’s been about who we want to be as a country, and what we will accept. The grief comes from realizing that we’re not who I thought we were.

But understanding that doesn’t mean accepting it. This may be who we are, but we can still stand against it, still decide for each one of us what we will accept, and what we won’t. For me, the deep divisions and racially motivated hatred that have been brought to the fore and legitimized by this election process are things I will not accept, and I know I need to work harder at fighting them. We are not who we thought we were, but I am who I decide to be. We all are.

The week began with the most horrific election result of my lifetime, and in the middle of all of that – as if it were not already emotionally wrenching – we lost Leonard Cohen. Others will eulogize Cohen better than I will, but I have unfailingly found him an incisive and powerful writer, one of the finest lyricists I’ve ever encountered, and I’ve always responded to his struggles with faith and mortality. His voice, even before the ravages of age turned it into a superhuman rumble, has always spoken with deep authority and power, and he has used that voice to expose the heart of what it means to be human, more times than I can count.

It strikes me that the bloody 2016 began with David Bowie delivering his final album, and as it lurched to a close, Leonard Cohen gave us his last record, the incredible You Want It Darker. Like Bowie’s Blackstar, it’s an album that takes on new and heartbreaking resonance in the wake of its author’s death. It’s a portrait of a man ready to see what lies beyond, and wrestling with the idea that it might be nothing. It’s a bleak and difficult and mesmerizing record, and I’m so grateful it exists, particularly now. I’m going to miss Leonard Cohen in ways I probably don’t even realize yet.

I know it’s been quoted too many times since his death, but the chorus of “Anthem” remains among my favorite Cohen lyrics, and it’s a sorely needed sentiment now:

“Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.”

As the long and exhausting week wore on, one of my good friends who has been dreading the exact result we got posted his own words about light. He’s fond of calling himself “the night” and affecting a dark and miserable persona online, although those who know him know that he is one of the most encouraging people alive. What could have been an excuse for him to grow even darker and lash out at the world turned into an opportunity to inspire, in the strangest way: he posted the Oath of the Green Lanterns. (Like me, he’s a huge comic book nerd.)

If you don’t know the oath, here it is: “In brightest day, in blackest night, no evil shall escape my sight, let those who worship evil’s might beware my power, Green Lantern’s light.” It is, as he says, a cheesy saying from a lesser-known superhero. But somehow I found it impossibly moving that he posted this, and followed it up with his desire to seek hope. “I am the light,” he said. “The world has enough night.” I’m tearing up just thinking about it. The election may have shown us who we are, but this is who we can be, if we want to.

The world has enough night.

We’re the light.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Today is election day, and I’m so anxious about it I could chew my own arm off.

I long ago swore off being political in this space. But this election – the most important of my lifetime, easily – goes beyond politics to me. It’s a question of which America we want to live in, one governed by fear or one striving for unity and hope. The idea that we might, with one vote, choose to rocket backwards into a darker age has kept me up at night, shaking. As a certain late-night host said, I feel like I’m waiting for the x-rays to come back, dreading the news. I’ll be very happy when this dread-inducing cloud of unknown is gone, whatever the outcome.

As for that outcome, I’m going to take my cue from my good friend Mike Ferrier. Here is Hillary Clinton’s speech at the Democratic National Convention. Here is Donald Trump’s speech from the Republican National Convention. If you ignore all the nasty rhetoric, the scandals (trumped-up and otherwise), the sinking sense that our national discourse has tunneled straight through rock bottom, and just focus on the two candidates (also ignoring third-party candidates, since they cannot win) and their visions of and for the country, the choice is stark and clear. Which of these speeches reflects the America you see around you? Which one reflects the America you want to live in?

In closing, please vote. It’s so, so important, this time more than ever. Voting is your voice. Please use it.

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I had this whole segue here about voices, tying my voting plea into the two albums I have this week, each led by an instantly recognizable voice. But that’s weak and flimsy and I know it. Really, I just don’t want to talk or think about the election anymore, and would rather talk about two records I like. Hope you will indulge me, and you won’t in any way think I’m trivializing or minimizing this election. This is a silly music column, after all, so let’s talk about music.

It will be hard for me not to discuss voices, though, especially in this first case. Tom Chaplin is the voice of Keane, and is still, for my money, one of the most underrated singers working. I’ve seen Keane live half a dozen times, and each time I’m blown away by Chaplin’s power and control. He’s able to sing any melody thrown at him, even ones that demand incredible range and contain tricky intervals, with seeming ease. Dismiss a song like “Love Is the End” as fluff if you must, but that sucker is hard to sing, and Chaplin makes it sound natural.

Keane in general is often ignored as an artistic force, simply because they write straightforward songs with plain-spoken lyrics. Their hearts are always on their sleeves, and always wide open, and this has led to many writing them off as a Coldplay knockoff, or a lightweight pop act. I’ve always heard them in a different way. Keane’s songs are melodically astonishing, making full use of Chaplin’s voice, and beneath that plain language lies genuine emotion. Their high water mark, 2006’s Under the Iron Sea, is basically their Rumours, a series of songs written by pianist Tim Rice-Oxley about Chaplin – his drug problems, his unreliability as a friend and bandmate – and then sung by Chaplin as if that were the most common thing in the world.

Turns out Chaplin’s addictions only got worse, to the point where he nearly died in early 2015, following the start of the band’s current hiatus. He sought help, and slowly put his life back together, writing songs as he did. He then joined up with Aqualung himself, Matt Hales, to record those songs, newly sober and with a new outlook on life. The result is The Wave, a record of inspirational anthems and beautiful laments, one that traffics in that same simple language to deliver a sweeping, soaring, hard-won optimism.

By themselves, the lyrics on this album won’t win any awards. “It’s such a beautiful world, so why do I feel so down,” he asks on first single “Hardened Heart.” “Hurting everyone I know, bringing everybody down so low, stuck along a road of sadness with nowhere to go.” Two songs later he’s dealing with his pain: “The undercurrent is stronger today, this time it’s different I’ll keep it at bay.” He lets it all go on “Bring the Rain”: “Spring, spring, a new beginning, till the earth is fit to burst and springing into life.” He repairs his bridges on “Solid Gold” (“You’ll never be lonely, never lonely, not again, I’m letting you in”) and reaches out to others, secure in himself, on “Quicksand”: “If you crash land in the quicksand, I will pick you up, I will pull you out.”

But you can tell, in every line, that Chaplin means these words from the bottom of everything he is. These are simpler songs than he gets to sing with Keane, but he sings them as if his life depends on it. Just listen to his performance on the great “I Remember You,” one of the more guitar-driven, upbeat pieces here. He just nails it, taking that melody to school while the bass and guitars dance behind him. I’ll be forever grateful that Chaplin and Hales found each other, because that pristine Aqualung production keeps the voice front and center and builds gleaming structures beneath it. Hales brings his electronic edge to a couple of these songs, most notably “The River,” but for the most part he keeps it grounded in piano and guitar. Just listen to “Bring the Rain.” That thing is pretty much perfect, and Chaplin takes his best swing and connects.

Throughout The Wave, Chaplin sounds refreshed, renewed, clear-eyed and hopeful. I’m overjoyed by that, and not just because he owns one of my favorite voices. This year has given us plenty of reason to despair, and The Wave is an album-length reason to celebrate. Its tales of healing and redemption are sorely needed – or, at least, I sorely needed them, and I’m so very glad to have them. Chaplin could have ended up yet another casualty of the bloody 2016, but he didn’t. He crawled back, he forced open the door and walked out into the sunlight, and he’s written down his tale, and then sung it to the skies. The Wave is a liberating album, and I’m glad that it exists.

* * * * *

Speaking of voices I will never tire of, there’s Hope Sandoval.

I don’t know about you, but I certainly didn’t predict the return of Mazzy Star three years ago, or how good their reunion album, Seasons of Your Day, would be. It captured their unique style – part southern drawl, part shoegaze-y ambience – perfectly, in a way that no other band has been able to imitate. A big part of that style is Sandoval, whose shy-girl voice is the perfect complement to the band’s Patsy Cline-meets-Slowdive sound.

Sandoval’s solo work is always closer to Cline, but her third album with her band the Warm Inventions, Until the Hunter, strikes that balance nicely. Once again, Sandoval works with My Bloody Valentine drummer Colm O Ciosoig, and for the first time as a solo artist she lets these songs breathe and stretch out. Opener “Into the Trees” is a nine-minute dirge, floating on menacing, droning organ notes while Sandoval’s breathy voice floats out and around them. “Let Me Get There” is a sloppy two-chord bar band number that Sandoval sings with Kurt Vile, and the band rides that loping groove for seven and a half minutes.

Around these experiments we get more of what Sandoval does best – pretty acoustic pieces. “Day Disguise” is a sparse meander, her guitar delicately pirouetting beneath her while her voice draws you in. It’s absolutely gorgeous. “Treasure” brings the full band in behind her, but barely makes any more noise. Tender strings caress “The Hiking Song.” The album never really rises above a whisper, but it’s a sun-through-the-trees-in-autumn kind of whisper. It is an album of details, of tiny moments instead of sweeping gestures. It’s a finger to the lips, a quiet walk through the trees, and even the full-band blues of the closing song, “Liquid Lady,” doesn’t break the spell.

Hope Sandoval is unlike anyone else I know, and she makes albums of uncommon patience and reverence. Listening to one of her works is like stepping into another universe, like listening to some strange intersection of Twin Peaks and the Cowboy Junkies. Whether or not Mazzy Star continues, I hope Sandoval (see what I did there?) keeps making these strange, sprawling, lovely little records for many years to come.

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That’s it for this week. Again, please vote. Next week, a new president-elect, and a couple new records. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

It turns out that the (temporary) cure for pre-election stress is to see Marillion play. Twice.

It’s been four years since Marillion played Chicago, and nearly two since I drove more than a thousand miles to Montreal to be part of my first Marillion weekend. That’s long enough to nearly forget not only how amazing the band is live, but how extraordinary the vibe at a Marillion show is. I have never, in my entire concert-going life, felt the kind of reciprocal love I feel at this band’s shows.

It’s that love that allows them to create a difficult masterpiece like their new album, Fuck Everyone and Run, and play two of the longest, angriest and most challenging pieces on stage to a warm reception. The first of the two Chicago shows ended with the best rendition of “Three Minute Boy” I’ve ever heard – the first half a comedy routine, the second half a reverent audience singalong – and the second ended with a full reading of “This Strange Engine,” possibly my favorite of their longer songs. Both nights were magical. Thank you to Jeff Elbel, my constant concert buddy, for making the first of those nights possible for me.

Anyway, I told you that story to tell you this one – Marillion’s opening act for the Chicago shows was John Wesley, a longtime friend of the band and their fans. I know Wesley mainly from two places: his similar opening stint for Marillion in 2004, and his time with Fish, Marillion’s former singer. But I was again impressed, as Wesley took the stage alone, electric guitar in hand and programmed drum and bass tracks at the ready, and proceeded to play like a one-man King’s X. His set was loud and riff-heavy, often in tricky time signatures. Much of it was taken from his new album, A Way You’ll Never Be, which in turn takes heavily from Steven Wilson’s work with Porcupine Tree, a band Wesley has also played with.

And as riff-monster guitar albums go, A Way You’ll Never Be is pretty great. Wesley plays with a power trio here, just bass and drums, and fills out the rest of the sound himself. The album is front-loaded with its longest songs, including the what-time-signature-is-this-beast-in title track and the slower, more ominous “To Outrun the Light.” The album gets gentler – but only a little – on tracks like “The Silence in Coffee,” and instrumental “Unsafe Space” gives Wesley further chances to show off his soloing prowess. The record does get wearying by the end, since there’s no variation in sound throughout – Wesley was terrific in a half-hour opening slot, but over an hour, I find myself wishing for more than he offers. But if you enjoy songs based around big riffs, give this a shot.

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I’ve had even less time lately to listen to music and form thoughts about it, so I’m going to burn through a few I should have mentioned by now. Just keep in mind that you’re reading thoughts from only a couple listens, and I reserve the right to change my mind as I get to know these records better.

I’m certainly looking forward to knowing Lady Gaga’s Joanne better than I do now. If you think of her primarily as a walking marketing effort, then her fourth album is a weird one – it’s stripped down, more rock oriented, less shocking and more concerned with strong songwriting. Gaga poses in profile on the front cover, wearing subtle makeup and a light pink hat. It’s a far cry from, for instance, appearing as a half-woman half-motorcycle monster, as she did on Born This Way. None of this record announces itself in the way that Gaga usually does. In a lot of ways, it’s the opposite – the antidote, if you will – to her last one, the overcooked ArtPop. Where that one felt like an army of producers propping up an image, this one feels like a singer getting some friends together and making some music.

And if you think of Gaga as a singer and a songwriter, Joanne is a sigh of relief, a balm, a rousing chorus of “At Last.” It’s much more organic, in the vein of a KT Tunstall album, with a bluesy bent. It lasts all of 39 minutes, a modest running time for Gaga. It’s named after a deceased aunt, and the lovely acoustic title track is dedicated to her. There are certainly moments of electronic music – the refrain of the groovy “John Wayne,” for instance – but they’re in service to these songs, not the reason for them. And the songs are stronger than they’ve been in some time, and they suit that belting, all-systems-go voice. Gaga proved her vocal bona fides on her surprisingly good duets album with Tony Bennett, and she makes great use of that instrument here.

Sure, there are Lady Gaga-style shocking moments, like the masturbation ode “Dancin’ in Circles” (which sounds quite a lot like one of her influences, Madonna), but most of the record is straightforward rock-pop. Her contributors here include double-take names like Josh Homme, Kevin Parker and Josh Tillman, and songs like “Million Reasons” sound like they were recorded live. I’m less convinced by the slower tunes – “Angel Down” has its heart in the right place, but gets a little sappy – but more than drawn in by off-center tunes like the country-leaning “Sinner’s Prayer.” I’m glad to see this album doing well, because I’d hate to trap such an interesting musical presence in the “shock me” box. If Gaga can do this – can just make an album of songs that she likes, and put them out on a disc – and succeed, she’ll be around for a while. And that’s a good thing.

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Speaking of career longevity, here’s a new album from Jonatha Brooke.

If you don’t know her name, I won’t be surprised. Dismayed, but not surprised. Brooke is a singer and songwriter from Massachusetts, and I fell in love with her work in 1997, when I heard her excellent second solo album, 10 Cent Wings. That album includes “Because I Told You So,” which is forever enshrined in my very short list of very favorite songs. Brooke’s career is a repeated story of writing fantastic songs that everyone who hears them would like, and then not getting famous off of them. She didn’t get famous as one-half of The Story in the early ‘90s, 10 Cent Wings didn’t make her famous in the late ‘90s, and her unbroken string of terrific albums since then has not done the trick either.

So I don’t have high hopes that her tenth album, Midnight Hallelujah, will do it either. But it’s really, really good. Brooke writes solid pop songs in the vein of Aimee Mann and Suzanne Vega, and her powerful voice sends those songs straight to the heart. Just listen to “Light Years,” on this new album. It’s a hell of a melody – it takes no breaks, spins out a simply glorious tune atop Brooke’s piano, delivering both the hope and sadness of the lyric. There are no frills, no bells, no whistles, just superb songwriting, as always. That’s Brooke’s calling card, and it’s all over Midnight Hallelujah.

The surprise this time is “Mean Looking Jesus,” written with Eric Bazilian of the Hooters. Over a dirty rock riff, Brooke takes aim at those who use Jesus to judge and condemn, and it’s the loudest and angriest I’ve ever heard her. The rest of the record is standard (meaning awesome) Jonatha Brooke, well-written and strong and pretty. It’s really quite wonderful, and I couldn’t be happier that she is still making music. If you don’t know who she is, try this album out. My bet is you’ll want to hear everything she’s done, and I’d highly recommend doing exactly that.

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It’s been 13 years since we lost Elliott Smith.

It’s hard to believe it’s been that long. Smith was perhaps the best songwriter of my generation, a shy and withdrawn genius who was slowly coaxed out of his shell, found the light too bright and killed himself. His story is tragic, and his songs – often gentle outpourings of depression and self-loathing – a fitting soundtrack. Smith left behind half a dozen albums of gorgeous, heartbreaking music, and it’s often difficult to listen to now, save for the fact that it is also beautiful.

It’s a testament to those songs that even now, 13 years after his death, people are still singing and playing them, and tribute albums like the just-released Say Yes are still being made. This latest, from American Laundromat Records, brings together luminaries like Tanya Donnelly, Amanda Palmer, J Mascis, Juliana Hatfield, Lou Barlow, Waxahatchee and Mark Kozelek, all fans, and lets them run with Smith’s tunes. As you might expect, the renditions are largely faithful, but just having the chance to revisit these songs is worth it.

My highlights list includes Donnelly’s opening “Between the Bars,” the quite excellent Julien Baker’s late-night lope through “Ballad of Big Nothing,” and Hatfield’s perfectly straight take on the amazing “Needle in the Hay.” Amanda Palmer makes “Pictures of Me” her own, while Jesu and Sun Kil Moon do their thing on “Condor Ave.” I was also impressed with several of the artists I’ve never heard, like Tomo Nakayama, who delivered a strong take on “Miss Misery,” and Adam Franklin, who dug deep to find the XO gem “Oh Well, Okay.” All in all, this is a fine tribute to a songwriter I miss a great deal, still. These songs are his legacy, and these reverential versions do them justice.

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That’ll do for this week. Next week, Tom Chaplin makes his solo bow and Hope Sandoval returns. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.