My musical mind is always racing.

It’s involuntary at this point. I’ve heard so much music, and learned to play so much music, that my brain automatically dissects every song I listen to. I’m hearing each instrument separately and listening for how they connect together. I’m counting out any odd time signatures or missed beats. I’m reflexively predicting the next chords, and hopefully ending up surprised by where the song goes. And I’m listening to the lyrics, but that’s still a secondary thing for me – it often takes two or three listens, after I’ve drawn the whole musical map in my head, for me to pay attention to the meaning of a song.

The point is, I can’t turn it off. Every time I listen to music, my brain is on overdrive. This is why I need my dose of prog-rock and metal on top of all of the other kinds of music I love. It’s why I appreciate it when bands take that extra effort and throw in musical curve balls, little moments that make my synapses take notice. I like surprises, and I’m also excited by music that feels like a math equation, every disparate element working in tandem.

Which is why I love Everything Everything. These boys from Manchester make music that sounds like clockwork. It’s rare that any two instruments are playing the same thing, and singer Jonathan Higgs never takes the easy melody, draping that gloriously weird falsetto over some of the oddest and densest songs you’d expect to hear on alt-rock radio. Lately they’ve been incorporating more electronic elements, more stop-start arrangements, and even stranger melodies. Their last album, 2015’s Get to Heaven, was awesome, a constant stream of ideas.

EvEv’s just-released fourth album, A Fever Dream, is surprisingly streamlined in comparison. Some of it is straight-up dance music, particulary the two hip-shaking singles, “Can’t Do” and “Desire.” These are the most blatant bids for mainstream love this band has given us, and they’re still amazing. “Can’t Do” strides forward on a synthesizer pulse and Michael Spearman’s elaborate drums, and the little guitar flourishes just make it. And “Desire” is a stunner, Paul Simon-style guitars sharing space with big, abrasive keyboards, gorgeous harmonies and a slam-dunk of a straight-ahead chorus. In the universe where I am king, this is an enormous hit.

The inventiveness never lets up. In some ways, EvEv has always sounded the same, but they keep coming up with new ways to refract that sound and twist it around. “Run the Numbers” is classic EvEv for most of its running time, but the huge guitars in the chorus are a shock. The title track is a beautiful six-minute round robin, Higgs’ vocals and piano hitting at odd meters and rubbing shoulders with the electronic elements. And “Ivory Tower” is fantastic, an unrelenting four minutes of freight-train intensity that builds to an almost absurd degree.

A Fever Dream is probably the most accessible Everything Everything album, for all that. It may also be their best. The band has refined its gears-and-pulleys sound into something vibrant and, yes, fun. A Fever Dream is a great time, a musical playground for your brain that will get your feet moving too.

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The downside of my active musical mind is that I find it harder to enjoy simplicity.

I do try. Every year or so I make another effort to get into Bob Dylan, to no avail. I do my best with Bruce Springsteen and his acolytes. I don’t mind simple arrangements – some of my favorite songs have little more than a piano or an acoustic guitar accompanying them. Simple songs, though, I have trouble with, and have to work to enjoy. I will never be a blues fan. My brain just gets bored.

So it is with The War on Drugs, a band I wish I could like more than I do. I’ve been hearing about how epic and expansive their new album, A Deeper Understanding, is for months. And it sure feels like a big deal record. Its ten songs stretch out to 66 minutes, only one song is less than five minutes long and most are epics, with the big one, “Thinking of a Place,” clocking in over 11 minutes. The physical sound of this record is massive, too. Leader and mastermind Adam Granduciel (he even has the word “grand” in his name) piles on guitars and pianos and keyboards and thumping bass and then slices through it all with one of the most arresting, piercing lead guitar tones I’ve heard in ages.

On paper, The War on Drugs seems to have every “epic” box ticked. But throughout this long record, Granduciel demonstrates just how important it is to have strong, solid songs beneath all the glittering accoutrements. Mostly, these songs are weak and repetitive things, content to ride one groove for six or seven minutes, taking no detours and building no melodic structures. The physical sound is the only thing carrying it, and it often feels like the towers of sound are there to distract from the lack of interesting songwriting.

The upshot is that my brain gets bored by most of this. There are exceptions. “Holding On” is pretty swell, convincingly building its upbeat vibe. I like the massive, repetitive, reach-for-the-sky orchestrations on “Strangest Thing,” a song that actually had me excited for the guitar solo. (It does go on too long, though, like most of these tracks.) But by the time we’re halfway through “Thinking of a Place,” my mind’s about ready to doze off. It’s only the rising tide of the sound that keeps me interested.

I’ll keep listening to A Deeper Understanding, trying to, well, understand it more deeply. From my first few listens, it sounds to me like pretty typical Springsteen-style encouraging lyrics sung over massive arrangements meant to hide how little is actually happening in these songs. There may be more to it, but I’m having trouble staying focused long enough to hear it.

* * * * *

Of course, there is some music that is designed to soothe the manic musical brain, to gently shut it down and allow it to just be submerged in sound. The War on Drugs’ tunes contain too much that is meant to grab your attention, too much that follows the usual formula of pop music to allow for that submersion. You need a certain kind of ambience for that. You need music specifically created to allow someone like me to relax and drift away.

Basically, you need Hammock. The duo of Marc Byrd and Andrew Thompson has created some of the most ethereal, otherworldly ambient music you’ll ever hear. For twelve years now, Byrd and Thompson have harnessed some kind of spiritual magic to weave extraordinary guitar skyscapes together with other elements (piano, voice, cello) to create music that rarely feels like it was made by humans.

Hammock’s tenth album, Mysterium, is, in its own way, just as expansive as A Deeper Understanding. Its sound includes a full choir and the Nashville Recording Orchestra, along with the usual clouds of guitar and keyboards. It’s a darker, more mournful record than they’ve made before – it’s dedicated to a longtime friend who died last year – and its ebbs and flows hide great reserves of feeling. I don’t know how Hammock always makes such emotional music, but they do, and they’ve done it again on Mysterium.

In fact, so much of this record moves me nearly to tears. Byrd sings the elegiac “I Would Give My Breath Away,” his prayerful words (“If I could give my breath away, I would, so I could hold you one more day, I would…”) barely audible beneath the waves of shimmering beauty. The gently flowing orchestra on tracks like “Remember Our Bewildered Son” is breathtaking. “For My Sister” is astonishing, its elegiac piano breaking into heart-rending guitar and deep strings. Hammock has rarely been prettier or sadder.

Mysterium ends with its most traditional song, an epilogue titled “This is Not Enough.” It features drums by Ken Lewis and plaintive vocals from Byrd, and it serves to bring us back to earth after the previous 53 minutes. “Time fades away, we float away, this is not enough,” Byrd sings, and its sentiment is echoed in the swirling, lovely, heartbreaking music his band conjures. All Hammock albums are amazing, but some are truly special. Mysterium is one of those.

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Next week, Neil Finn’s live-on-the-internet experiment Out of Silence, along with one or two others. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I still buy CDs.

Yes, I’m that guy. I’m the one who keeps my local record store afloat, spending twice as much on new music as I’d have to if I just switched to downloads. (Alternatively, I spend half as much as I would if I went to vinyl for everything, which some people I know do. But I can’t play vinyl in the car, so I buy very little of it.) I know CDs are the most reviled form of music delivery system out there – even behind cassettes, the cutting-edge technology of 1971 – but I think they still deliver the best value for what I want.

I’m not one to go on about the quality of the sound I’m listening to, but I can definitely hear the difference between compressed download files and glorious full-sound CDs. And I’ve never warmed to the idea that extra noise and pops and crackles somehow enhance the sound of vinyl. CDs are where it’s at for me, still, and it’s partially because I like the sound, but mainly because I’m a fan of physical media.

I’ve sung this song before here, so I’m sure you know the tune. The artwork, the credits list, the liner notes, even the thanks list provide important context for me, into which I place my experience of the music. Just listening to the music itself is a less complete experience for me, and I don’t feel like I actually own the album I’m hearing. I feel like I’m just borrowing it, which is why paying money for downloads is so hard for me. I feel like I’m buying air.

But in recent years I’ve been listening to more and more downloaded music, and the reason is pure impatience. Many bands – and I have three instances of this on tap for this week – are offering immediate downloads of new music with CD purchases, and I have found that I just can’t wait. Often it takes weeks, if not months, for a band to press a CD, and with the music at my fingertips, I can’t help myself. I have to press play. By the time my CD shows up, I’m intimately familiar with the music, and I’ve robbed myself of my preferred experience.

I suppose I could be more patient, but when the music is as good as it is in all three cases this week, it’s pretty unlikely that I will wait months to hear it. I don’t know anyone who could. I absolutely understand the convenience and instant gratification that comes with downloaded music. I totally get it. But I feel a little adrift this week, reviewing music I don’t really feel like I have heard yet, in its full context.

In the case of Nine Inch Nails, the physical component of their work has always been important. This is a band that takes great care when designing the artwork and packaging for their releases, setting a mood and drawing you in. NIN artwork is unsettling, often indistinct and abstract, letting you know you’re about to hear something damaged, something just beyond your ability to grasp. And amazingly, most of their music lives up to this image.

And then, late last year, NIN basically stopped making albums. Trent Reznor, the group’s mastermind (and, until the recent addition of Atticus Ross, sole member), announced a series of smaller EPs that would be released online, and touted this as the way forward for the band. The idea is a mixed bag for me – I get new NIN material every six months or so, but Reznor – one of the most accomplished album artists in the world – is limited to smaller statements, released into the ether without proper packaging.

Luckily, these EPs have also been really good. Last year’s Not the Actual Events brought back the weird and creepy aspects of Reznor’s sound, and the recently released Add Violence continues along that path. The opener, “Less Than,” is the catchiest and most immediate NIN song in years, but once it’s over, the remaining four songs swim in darker waters. “The Lovers,” like much of Reznor’s best work, is physically uncomfortable in places – his unnerving voice-overs send chills – while “This Isn’t the Place” rides its slow slither of a groove through more than two minutes of instrumental setup before Reznor’s wavery falsetto enters, singing “I thought we had more time” over and over.

“Not Anymore” is a shambling burst of anger and confusion punctuated by his unhinged screams over the unmistakable sound of live drums. But it is the 12-minute closer, “The Background World,” that is the most disorienting. After a slow crawl of a first act, Reznor and Ross fill out the remaining eight minutes with a disjointed, cascading loop that builds in intensity and disintegrates as it goes. Every time it loops, it misses a fraction of a beat, which drives my musical OCD nuts, but truly illustrates how confused and out of step the song’s protagonist feels. It goes against all the lessons Reznor seems to have been teaching himself about sonic architecture, burning it down in a fascinating way.

Even without a full album to work with, Reznor and Ross have spun a whole world around Add Violence. The CD version is out in a few weeks, and I’m definitely buying it. But these EPs do have physical components, which ship weeks (or months) after the music is available, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention them. While Not the Actual Events was accompanied by a dossier covered in a strange, invasive black substance, Add Violence’s component is safe to open indoors. It looks like an owner’s manual for a sound mixer, and actually contains lyrics and details (including that Add Violence is Halo 31). These are appreciated, though a straight-up CD would be appreciated more.

Quiet Company is doing the same thing with their new music, releasing it in bite-sized chunks as it is recorded. Thankfully, they’re also releasing CDs of these mini-albums, but as they’re one of my favorite bands, the instant download has so far proven too tempting. The second of these installments is called Your Husband the Ghost, and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t, for the first time, really capture what this band sounds like live. I’ve been following QuietCo since their debut, and up until now, the insane ferocity of their stage show has outpaced their recorded output.

The snarling Your Husband makes me feel like I’m watching them play it. Taylor Muse, the band’s mastermind and lead singer, is as passionate and emotional here as he is on stage. His songs are typically sharp and hummable, but they feel more intense here than usual. Part of that is the subject matter – this album dissects his relationship with his ex-wife, in all its messy, painful truth, and offers a bleak state-of-our-disunion address from Muse’s conflicted mind. But part of it is the way it’s recorded – loud, vibrant, barely controlled.

Much of this EP is difficult for me to listen to, since I’m invested in Muse’s happiness. He’s clearly miserable on “An Unholy Year,” using sex as a “poor imitation of the thing I needed” and only comfortable when the encounter ends. “Oh! The Humanity” is even bleaker, contrasting the Muse of today with his more optimistic younger selves. The song is such an uptempo winner, horns and gang vocals and all, that it’s easy to miss how dark it is: “Now I’m 33 and all that’s left for me is greed, spite and jealousy…” He seems lost in “On Guilty Pleasures,” when he dismisses a connection (“I want you to mean more, but I know what it meant”) and resigns himself to feeling this way forever (“I will never fall in love again, but I think that I can do without…”).

This EP is terrific, of course, as Quiet Company records always are, and I’m very much looking forward to owning the CD and adding it to my collection. Musically, it is tremendous – ferocious and hummable, with surprising quiet interludes and some great arrangements. But I’m not sure how often I’ll listen to it. It’s a dark and painful thing, and I find myself hoping that Muse takes the advice he shouts in “We Should Go to Counseling”: “You’ve got to change, change, change, motherfucker, you cannot stay the same, same, same, expecting progress.”

I’d been expecting both the Nine Inch Nails and Quiet Company records, but the third of my review subjects this week was a complete surprise. I wasn’t sure we’d ever hear from Brand New again – it’s been eight years since the rushed-sounding, not-quite-there Daisy, and that album had all the hallmarks of a band throwing something together for the sake of it. Of course, Daisy followed up The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me, which is basically this band’s OK Computer, completing their rapid transformation from pop-punk to a thoughtful, textured, almost indescribable kind of music.

Five days ago, Brand New surprise-released Science Fiction, their fifth album, and there’s nothing rushed about this one. If Daisy was a speed bump, Science Fiction completes this band’s evolution, bringing the subdued maelstrom of The Devil and God home to a more reflective, consciously beautiful vibe. Among a small segment of my friends, the unheralded appearance of this record was a seismic event, and while I can’t pretend to feel quite the same about this band that many do – they’re cherished and important to a select few, in a way not many bands ever are – I had to listen to the download ahead of the October CD release, to be part of the conversation. And I am so glad I did. Science Fiction is quickly becoming one of my favorite records of the year.

For a band that started out playing three-chord punk, the fact that most of this record is played on acoustic guitars is striking. Much of this record is like staring into a lake at a calmer reflection of the band Brand New used to be. Jesse Lacey only rarely breaks out his full-throated scream, and you have to get to track five to hear it at all. The album starts slowly, almost hypnotically, with “Lit Me Up,” which sets the introspective tone. Lacey struggles throughout this record with his faith in God and his lack of faith in humanity, and he dives deep right at the start: “When I grow up I want to be a heretic, I want to climb over the wall ‘cause I’m not on the list, I want to put my hands to work ‘til the work’s done, I want to open my heart like the ocean…”

From there, Lacey thoughtfully tackles depression on the self-consciously upbeat “Can’t Get It Out” (“I want to tell you we’re all right, want to erase all your doubt, I’ve got this thorn dug in deeply, sometimes I can’t get it out…”), self-harm on “Same Logic/Teeth,” nuclear war on “137” (named after Caesium-137, an isotope that only appeared in the atmosphere after the first nuclear detonation), healing through video games (really) on the heavier “Out of Mana,” censorship on the shuffling “451” and the bigotry infesting modern Christianity on “Desert.” Science Fiction is also without a doubt meant to be heard in sequence, with interludes and snippets of conversations and segues throughout. It’s beautiful, and it’s beautifully made, worth every day of those eight years.

It’s definitely intended as a single thought, as well, diving below the surface on track one, visiting painful experience after painful experience, feeling those emotions drive closer to depression, and on the glorious closer “Batter Up,” coming to peace with those feelings and continuing the work to make the world a better place. “It’s never going to stop, give me your best shot,” he sings over gorgeous acoustic and electric guitars, spinning a fine and fitting swan song for the album and the band.

Yes, Science Fiction is most likely going to be the final Brand New album. Lacey and his bandmates have been talking about the impending breakup of the band for a while now, and they plan to finish things up next year. Many of the lyrics on Science Fiction take on a new resonance with that context – some songs, like “Waste,” are clearly about the band and what Lacey hopes it has accomplished – and its conclusion a new significance. Before Science Fiction, I didn’t realize how much I would miss this band. Now I’m genuinely mourning them.

I didn’t see Science Fiction coming, and every time I listen – even without context, even just as wisps of air floating out of my hard drive – I’m impressed anew with how good it is. I’m looking forward to hearing it for real in October, and losing myself in it all over again. If this truly is the last we hear from Brand New, it’s a fantastic way to go out. I’m still all about the CDs, but I’m glad I got to hear this right away. Two months waiting for this music would have been tragic.

Next week, Everything Everything and a couple others. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Just being alive and aware right now is emotionally exhausting.

The tragic events in Charlottesville, Virginia over the weekend were just the culmination point so far of this horrible year of hatred. Every few days there has been some new outrage, some new affront to decency and humanity. Just keeping up with it all is taxing, never mind reacting to it. And no one is looking to a white guy with a music blog for a cogent reaction anyway. You want thoughts about this week’s new tunes, and all I can think about right now is Nazis marching on a U.S. city, and people defending them.

I don’t know a way to segue from this into frivolous music reviews without at least acknowledging the privilege that would allow me to do so. For the record, and with no “on many sides” false equivalences: the racism and hatred personified by Nazis is sickening, despicable and inexcusable – or, it should be for any reasonable person. These ideas aren’t new. This country’s history of racism runs much deeper than a statue could ever hope to symbolize, and it should be named, called out and resisted.

Which is emotionally exhausting stuff. And I’m coming at it from a place of privilege, so I can’t even imagine how tired my friends of color are right now, or how long they’ve been dealing with the realities I am only lately waking up to. I have always drawn strength from music, and writing this silly music column helps me to go on pushing through the muck. I’m going to keep on doing it even if it seems pointless, because it gives me the strength to show up elsewhere and speak up.

And really, it isn’t pointless. In fact, if you need a story of strength to draw inspiration from, I have one this week. It’s certainly been helping many of the women I know, and it surprised the hell out of me too.

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I have never really cared about Kesha.

Let me qualify that. I have never really cared about Kesha’s music. She burst into the public consciousness in 2010 with a synthetic, self-consciously annoying little record called Animal, and I heard the first two songs and wrote her off. It was Not My Thing. The dollar sign in her name, the obviously invented or exaggerated party girl image, the cheeseball synthesizers – the whole thing felt cheap to me, and I figured she’d be gone in a year or two. I never even heard her second, Warrior. There’s a lot of music and I just didn’t care enough about this music to pay much attention to it.

But none of that means I wasn’t interested in her story, and passionately on her side. For the past five years, Kesha has been fighting to break free of her producer, Dr. Luke, whom she says physically, sexually and emotionally abused her. The courts did not have her back, denying her request to be released from her record contract (so she would not have to work with her abuser) and eventually throwing out all her abuse claims, forcing her to drop the case last August. This means she’s still on Dr. Luke’s record label, and is still bound to give him her new music.

Which, as it turns out, she has. She’d been writing and recording throughout her self-imposed exile, not wanting to give these songs to the man she was trying to get away from. I have no idea how hard it was for her to go through what she’s gone through and then hand her new music over anyway. Kesha has said that she didn’t know whether she would ever be able to create new music again, and even though she’s forced to work with Dr. Luke, she’s celebrating the release of these songs, so I’m going to celebrate with her.

And I figured that’s as far as it would go. I’d be happy to see a third Kesha album, finally. I’d be happy to see her back in the public eye, talking about her ordeal over the last five years and the reserves she drew on to finish it and release it. I’d be a cheerleader from a distance, happy for my friends who like Kesha, but continuing to not be all that interested in listening to her myself.

And then I heard “Praying,” the powerful first single from Kesha’s new album, and it was all over. I knew I would be buying and listening to this thing. “Praying” is a haunting piano number all about Dr. Luke, although it never names him. But it’s not vengeful or even angry. It comes from a place of pride and strength, wishing good things for her abuser: “I hope you find your peace, falling on your knees, praying…” This is a completely different Kesha, a serious-minded and thoughtful one.

That’s the Kesha most on display throughout Rainbow, her absolute revelation of a third album. Rainbow is ludicrously better than anything else I’ve heard from her, a massive leap into the realm of serious artist to be reckoned with. I don’t want to overhype it – it’s still a pop record, not The Age of Adz or anything – but damn if it isn’t a compelling pop record, solid and diverse and endlessly entertaining. Best of all, it showcases (for the first time, I believe) the real Kesha, not the cartoon party animal she played on her first two records. (The complete absence of Dr. Luke from the credits is not a coincidence here.)

And the real Kesha is weird and fun, of course, but also strong and self-possessed. After years of being accused of auto-tuning her way through her music to hide her vocal deficiencies, she begins Rainbow accompanied only by acoustic guitar, singing the folksy “Bastards” alone. “Don’t let the bastards get you down, don’t let the assholes wear you out,” she sings, which is basically the album’s mission statement. For the album’s first half, Kesha swears like she’s just discovered it while penning anthem after anthem about standing up and being yourself in the face of adversity.

And they’re great songs. “Let ‘Em Talk” is where the record kicks in, an electric guitar-fueled pop-punk powerhouse featuring Eagles of Death Metal. It’s so singable, and it leads perfectly into “Woman,” one of the record’s cornerstones. Over tasty licks from the Dap-Kings horns, Kesha gives us a modern-day “Respect,” declaring herself a “motherfucking woman, I don’t need a man to be holding me too tight.” You can’t listen to this song without simultaneously dancing and pumping your fist in the air. My favorite part, though, is the most authentic – it’s her breakdown into giggles in the second verse. It sounds like an outtake, like it shouldn’t be here, and I love the fact that it is.

Honestly, the record never gets less interesting. “Learn to Let Go” is a delightful pop tune, all about moving past hardship and embracing life. Its message is the record’s message, and in this context “Praying” fits perfectly. It’s not even the best piano ballad on the album, though – that prize goes to the title track, with full orchestration by Ben Folds. It’s about getting back the stars in your eyes, falling in love with being alive, and it’s exactly the hard-won encouragement you’d hope for. The soaring middle eight may be my favorite part of this record.

And then, in the second half, she just gets on with the business of being Kesha, still informed by the ordeals of the last five years but free of them in new and interesting ways. “Finding You” may be my favorite here – it’s about devotion, about saying forever and meaning it, and it’s a world-class pop song, all pianos and acoustic guitars and Kesha’s swooping voice. Good-time tunes “Boogie Feet” and “Boots” are back to the old Kesha sound, but updated in more organic ways. “Hunt You Down” is a genuine surprise, a rockabilly two-step about murdering cheating boyfriends. Believe it or not, it’s fun, and it’s great to hear Kesha having fun.

The final stretch is probably the most surprising, though. None other than Dolly Parton joins Kesha on “Old Flames (Can’t Hold a Candle to You),” a lovely torch song she popularized in 1980. Why is it here? Well, because Kesha’s mother, Pebe Siebert, co-wrote it. Its inclusion is touching, and leads into the quirky final two songs. I’m not even sure what to say about these, they’re so outside the realm of what I expected. “Godzilla” is an acoustic ditty about loving people no matter what they are, and “Spaceship”… well, “Spaceship” is just awesome. A cosmic folk song in the middle ground between Patsy Cline and The X-Files, “Spaceship” is about not fitting in down here, and waiting for the aliens to rescue you. For real. That’s what it’s about. That Kesha is so committed to it makes it oddly beautiful. It’s one of my favorite things here.

That I have favorite things on a Kesha album is a strange experience for me. Make no mistake, though, Rainbow is a superb, solid, triumphant and endlessly entertaining piece of work. It’s such a revelation, so far beyond what I thought I was going to get that it boggles my mind. It’s a testament to her strength and resilience that it exists at all, and that it comes from such a place of peace and self-worth. She’s come through a harrowing time, and found herself on the other side, changed for the better. This is our first visit with the real Kesha, and I like her quite a bit. I can’t wait to hear what she does next.

Next week, who knows? Could be anything. Be strong until then. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’m often asked to name my favorite song. I always name “Wichita Lineman.”

This may seem like a strange choice, but I think it’s a perfect song. I must have first heard it on the radio when I was very young, because I cannot remember a world in which I didn’t know “Wichita Lineman.” Its melody is a glorious, ever-changing thing, capped off by a perfect rising note that still sends chills. It contains one of the most beautiful lines in all of pop music: “I need you more than want you, and I want you for all time.” I’ve heard probably 40 different versions of this song, and every time it gets me.

The definitive version of “Wichita Lineman,” of course, belongs to Glen Campbell, who turned it into a hit in 1968. And if that were the only thing Campbell had ever done, he’d still be noteworthy. But of course it isn’t. Campbell’s career spanned more than 50 years and led to an astonishing 80 hits, 29 of them top ten. That’s not even counting his work as a member of Los Angeles session musician collective The Wrecking Crew, with whom he performed on hundreds of the most important songs of the ‘60s and ‘70s. (He’s on

And that’s not even mentioning his work in film and television. Campbell was a rare talent – a guitar player’s guitar player with a hit-maker’s charm, able to duck anonymously into work-for-hire one minute and be a charismatic band leader the next. We lost Campbell today after a long battle with Alzheimer’s disease. Over the past seven years, Campbell has been saying a long goodbye, re-recording some of his favorites (including “Wichita Lineman”) and giving us a final album of cover tunes in June called Adios.  It’s truly marvelous stuff, and a reminder of what a powerful performer we’ve lost.

Rest in peace, Glen. And thank you.

* * * * *

Last week Manchester Orchestra released an album that takes place in and around the site of one of my laboratory’s upcoming experiments. This week Randy Newman releases an album called Dark Matter, an album that opens with an eight-minute examination of science and faith. It’s like all of music has decided to be about me.

There’s no one on earth like Randy Newman, and I’m always glad to see a new record from him. They’re appearing about once a decade now, which isn’t nearly frequently enough for me, but he’s 73 years old and his intricate work takes some time to put together. Dark Matter is… well, it’s a Randy Newman album. It’s sharp and biting and definitely not safe. It’s also tender and sad, often in ways you would never expect from a man with his singular voice. And it’s fully orchestrated – these all sound like show tunes from a Broadway in a much more interesting alternate universe.

Newman wastes no time at all on this album, hitting you with “The Great Debate” right up front. Only Newman would write this song – it’s a dramatic piece pitting the world’s scientists against religious leaders in an arena in Durham, North Carolina (which should be a hint as to how this will go). Newman’s ringmaster character demands that science explain dark matter (which it can’t yet), and gives a Ken Ham-style refutation of evolution. His snarky pronouncements are punctuated by bursts of gospel music and dancing. And then it turns meta, with a member of the audience calling out Newman by name for setting up these cynical straw men. When the song Newman is writing turns against him, it’s a wildly thrilling moment, one that says a lot about his view of America.

Dark Matter doesn’t quite get there again – “The Great Debate” is the biggest and broadest statement of this record. But there are other highlights. Oh yes. “Putin” is one of Newman’s all-time greats, a sarcastic anthem for Russia’s bare-chested leader. “He can drive his giant tractor across the Trans-Siberian plain, he can power a nuclear reactor with the left side of his brain…” The Putin girls, there to provide lascivious commentary on Vladimir’s attractiveness and power, are hilarious, as is Newman’s dismissal of them: “Putin hates the Putin girls because he hates vulgarity.”

Elsewhere, Newman takes on the roles of historical figures. “Brothers” is a dialogue between Jack and Bobby Kennedy on the eve of the Cuban missile crisis. “Sonny Boy” imagines the original Sonny Boy Williamson returning as a ghost and seeing the young upstart who stole his name. Television makes a significant mark this time, Newman giving us not only a full version of “It’s a Jungle Out There,” his theme to Monk, but resurrecting “She Chose Me,” a beautiful song he wrote for (yes, really) Stephen Bochco’s Cop Rock.

And amidst all the satire and snark, there is a real beauty to Newman’s work, and he’s never been afraid to let it show. “Lost Without You” is the album’s prettiest song, a raw and real document of a family on the verge of losing its center. It’s devastating. The record ends with its second-prettiest, “Wandering Boy,” a swaying folk song that tells a whole tale about fatherhood in three minutes. Like all of Dark Matter, it’s vintage Randy Newman, a short story in song form. While I’d like one of these short story books more than once every ten years, when we get one, it’s always cause for celebration.

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If we’re talking about great songwriters this week – and we are – my list would absolutely include Dan Wilson.

He’s remained pretty much anonymous for most of his career, but chances are you know at least one Dan Wilson song. For nearly 20 years – basically since the breakup of his swell band, Semisonic – Wilson has been the songwriter for the stars, responsible for a remarkably wide range of tunes performed by a remarkably wide range of artists. Just over the last year, he’s written songs for Phantogram, Halsey, Cold War Kids, the Head and the Heart, Sara Watkins, Andrew Bird and Weezer, among others.

Like Jimmy Webb, the man behind “Wichita Lineman,” Wilson has stayed out of the spotlight, only receiving accolades for his myriad songsmithing contributions from those in the know. But his new solo album is designed to remedy that, showcasing Wilson’s versions of songs he wrote or co-wrote for others. It’s called Re-Covered (get it?), and it includes some of the biggest hits Wilson has penned, as well as some interesting deeper cuts.

I’ll admit that I was more interested in the idea behind Re-Covered than the album itself. Wilson’s versions of these songs are all sturdy and enjoyable. I’m especially fond of his take on “All Will Be Well,” a song recorded by the Gabe Dixon Band (and used in a great episode of Parks and Recreation). The horn arrangements are spot on, and Wilson sings this with a delightfully wistful quality. But he’s not quite the singer he needs to be to match the original versions of some of these tunes.

Most notable here, of course, is Adele’s “Someone Like You.” Wilson gamely sings it, and he does a fine job, but come on, he’s no Adele. Others, like “You and I,” recorded by John Legend, and “Not Ready to Make Nice,” popularized by the Dixie Chicks, suffer similar fates. I like these versions fine, but I probably won’t turn to them very often.

Re-Covered does burst to life when Wilson tackles lesser-known tunes. “Landing” was written with his brother Matt for his 1998 solo album, and this re-do is marvelous. Wilson breathes new life into “Your Misfortune,” co-written with Mike Doughty. And I adore this take on “When the Stars Come Out,” originally performed by country darling Chris Stapleton. Wilson caps things off with a new take on “Closing Time,” Semisonic’s biggest hit, reminding everyone listening that yes, he wrote that one too.

I don’t want to be hard on Re-Covered. I like it fine. It certainly accomplishes its main purpose – connecting Dan Wilson’s name to all of these terrific songs he’s written. If this opens some people’s eyes to his wide-ranging, below-the-surface talent, I’m all for it.

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Next week, Kesha’s comeback. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Who wants to talk about music?

Well, good. Me too. So let me start by telling you a story about science.

I work for a particle physics laboratory, and a couple weeks ago we held a groundbreaking for our latest and largest experiment. We’re basically building a 70,000-ton monolith that will help us capture more information about tiny particles called neutrinos that are all around us, but are frustratingly difficult to study. This wasn’t just any groundbreaking – it took place a mile underground, in the site of the old Homestake mine in South Dakota.

Homestake used to be the deepest gold mine in North America. It’s located in a town called Lead, which is pronounced like “lead on, MacDuff” despite the many lead-into-gold jokes that a different pronunciation would open up. To get to the site of what will be our new experiment, you have to take a cage (basically an open wooden elevator operated by a massive 80-year-old winching system) down for about 10 minutes, watching the rock pass by as you go, and then get onto a motorized tram car and travel for another 10 minutes through narrow caverns of rock. It was quite the experience.

While I was there, I got a sense of how important the Homestake mine was to this region, and how intimately tied to the mine the history of Lead is. I met people who worked in the mine, and whose parents and grandparents worked in the mine. Building our new experiment will create a couple thousand local jobs, and the people of Lead are grateful to the underground research facility that took donation of the mine in 2009. They’re pleased to see something that was the center of their town’s life continue to be put to good use.

I mention all of this to say that I have a personal connection to Manchester Orchestra’s brilliant new album, A Black Mile to the Surface. Its story takes place in and around the Homestake mine, when it was still used for its original purpose. There’s a song called “Lead, S.D,” the only song that breaks with the album’s article-noun naming convention. (Others include “The Maze,” “The Gold,” “The Silence,” etc.) The mine and the town are used as a symbol of being stuck in a place, and later on, being stuck in a family.

Manchester Orchestra (they’re actually from Atlanta) is led by Andy Hull, a powerful singer who writes aching lyrics and sweeping melodies to go with them. Hull has said that Black Mile was inspired by the birth of his now-three-year-old daughter. Becoming a father has matured Hull, but it has also opened up new topics for him to dissect with his trademark fervor. This is a record about being part of a family, but it is also one about death and insignificance, about seeing one’s life for the fleeting thing that it is. It’s fitting that it was inspired by a birth, because this record really is the birth of something new for the band.

A Black Mile is the most complex and widescreen Manchester Orchestra record, and it gets there not by going bigger (as if they could get bigger than the amps-on-fire rock they’ve been playing since the start), but by embracing dynamics and scope. It’s the most well-produced album in their catalog, and in this case that doesn’t mean that it’s glossy or blunted. It just means it sounds fuller, that instead of just running headlong into the red, the band is now playing on a canvas that can accommodate their ambitions. Their last records, the scorching Cope and its quiet twin Hope, explored the extremes of their sound. Black Mile brings it all together, showing what they’re really capable of.

Hull and the band have responded with their best set of songs, their most cry-out-in-the-desert honest work they’ve ever delivered. Much of this album is wrapped up in fictional narratives, and it’s remarkable – as it always is with this band – that they’re able to cut right to the emotional heart anyway. “The Gold” is one of the sharpest songs they’ve written, Hull introducing us to a couple torn apart by the gold mine and their differences. “You and me, we’re a day drink, so lose your faith in me,” he sings over a rolling 6/8 riff, and it’s magical.

While “The Gold” is a high point, the album never slips from that pinnacle. Other highlights include the tricky, furious “The Moth,” the lower-key and lovely “The Alien,” the Hull solo track “The Parts” (probably the saddest and most affecting of these songs) and the extraordinary closer “The Silence,” on which Hull addresses the chains of family: “Little girl, you are cursed by my ancestry, there’s nothing but darkness and agony…”

A Black Mile to the Surface is a novel in album form, a dark masterpiece about responsibility and inertia. I went into it looking for connections to my own life and Homestake, but came out of it simply blown away by the heart and scope of this thing. I’ve always liked Manchester Orchestra, but this is the first time I have unreservedly loved every song, the first time that Hull’s horizon-wide narratives and ambition have swept me along like a pebble in a river. Everything about this record is beautiful. I cannot recommend it highly enough.

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Ambition, scope and heart used to be the hallmarks of Arcade Fire, the Montreal band with like 75 members. They exploded out of nowhere 13 years ago with a driving, nostalgic rock record called Funeral, and only got better on 2007’s Neon Bible and 2010’s The Suburbs. Arcade Fire’s sound was enormous and all-encompassing, the sort of thing you can only do for so long before burning out on it.

The turning point came on Reflektor, a double album on which the band embraced danceable, Talking Heads-ish grooves. And now they’ve gone full Abba on their fifth and worst record, Everything Now. Most of this album takes the form of a dance party about materialism and commercialism, which certainly feels like an attempt at irony, but it’s so leaden, so on the nose, that it falls flat. U2 took on a similar irony in the ‘90s and did it far more successfully, which should put this backfire in perspective.

Not that this doesn’t shimmy and shake convincingly. The opening trilogy of the bubblegum-pop title track, the relentless “Signs of Life” and the throbbing synths of “Creature Comfort” certainly set a tone, Win Butler railing against our dead-inside culture and addressing teenage suicide with typical bluntness: “God, make me famous, and if you can’t, just make it painless.” The synth-heavy sound is bright neon, the words subversive, but Butler acts as if no one has ever thought of this dichotomy before.

To say “things go south from there” is to understate considerably. “Peter Pan,” “Chemistry” and the two tracks titled “Infinite Content” are the worst Arcade Fire songs ever. It’s amazing to me that something as goofy and unlistenable as the faux-reggae “Chemistry” ever made it past the rehearsal stage. You simply won’t believe how bad it is. And Butler sings his lyrical pun on “Infinite Content” – in one form a piss-poor punk pastiche and in the other a lazy Sunday acoustic piece – with an unearned sense of self-satisfaction.

The album gets more interesting in its final third, but it couldn’t really get less interesting. I actually like the pulsing love song “Put Your Money on Me,” though its obvious “commercialism is not as good as love” theme is pretty basic, and the slow burner “We Don’t Deserve Love” is the album’s best song. Had they started from there, scrapped everything else and really buckled down, they might have written something worthwhile. As it is, though, Everything Now is remarkably facile and surprisingly limp. It’s a sad and precipitous fall for a once-great band, and proof that if you make a bad record ironically, you’ve still made a bad record.

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The artist formally known as Klayton seems to delight in being hard to predict.

He is the sole member of three projects. As Celldweller, he specializes in epic, genre-busting electronic prog-metal awesomeness. As Circle of Dust, he pummels you with chugging guitar-heavy industrial madness. And as Scandroid, he time-travels to the 1980s and channels the Blade Runner soundtrack for pure retro synth-pop goodness. He’s worked hard over the past few years to establish and separate these identities, even remixing songs from one project in the style of the others, just to delineate them.

So of course, his new Celldweller album, Offworld, sounds like nothing else he’s done. Gone are the hyperactive electronic drums, gone are the bursts of distorted guitar, gone is the almost ADD-quality genre-hopping. Offworld is a quiet, reflective thing, centered mainly on shoegaze-style clean guitar and melancholy atmosphere. It’s still perfectly produced, big-sounding and clear, but the subtle keyboard flourishes and linear, organic guitar that dominate this record are a surprise.

Is it any good? Of course it is. The expansive title track kicks things off with a long instrumental introduction that sets the tone. “How Little I Must Know” is the most naked Klayton has ever allowed himself to be on record – just an electric guitar, a subtle synth and emotional vocals. “The Great Divide” is a splendid single, strummy and memorable. He knocks a cover of the Call’s “Too Many Tears” out of the park, and then positively reinvents Scandroid’s “Awakening with You” as a shoegaze epic. “Into the Fall” is a rewrite of Circle of Dust’s “Embracing Entropy,” and it’s thoroughly unrecognizable.

Offworld is just the right length, too. Seventy-five minutes of this melancholy might have been too much. Klayton stops at 47 minutes, following up the terrific “Last Night on Earth” with a reprise of the title track. As a bonus, he gives us a stunning Ulrich Schnauss remix of “Awakening with You” that is absolutely worth the additional five minutes. This is a successful experiment on Klayton’s part – a Celldweller album that sounds nothing like Celldweller, and yet fits in with the aesthetic he’s built. It blurs the lines between his three projects while forging new paths. In short, it’s Klayton, and I’m still glad to be along for the ride.

Check out Klayton’s work here: https://fixtstore.com.

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Next week, more music with Randy Newman and Dan Wilson. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.