We seem to be losing music legends at the rate of one a week lately. This week we bid farewell to the amazing, enigmatic Scott Walker.

In my eulogy for Mark Hollis, I mentioned that he perfectly executed one of the most radical left turns, musically speaking, I had ever heard, evolving from pure pop to meditative and beautiful sonic landscapes. Scott Walker is another textbook example. Walker hit it big in the ‘60s as the frontman of the Walker Brothers. (None of them were actually brothers, and none were named Walker – Scott’s given name was Noel Scott Engel.)

With Scott’s deep baritone up front, the Walker Brothers scored with some traditional pop ballads, and when he went solo, Walker stayed in the same vein, eventually indulging a fascination with the songwriting of Jacques Brel. Walker even had his own late-‘60s TV show on the BBC. He probably could have remained in that mode forever, but in the ‘80s he decided to move in a darker, more idiosyncratic direction.

The resulting run of solo albums contain some of the strangest and most compelling material you’re likely to encounter anywhere. Climate of Hunter and Tilt set the stage for 2006’s The Drift, a stunning off-kilter masterwork. These records paired Walker’s dramatic voice with nightmarish soundscapes and bleak, progressive compositions that could not have been further away from his matinee idol past. He remained an uncompromising artist until his death – 2012’s Bisch Bosch, 2014’s collaboration with Sunn O))) and his subsequent film scores are among his strangest works.

Along the way, Walker served as an inspiration to many artists, including David Bowie (whose final album, Blackstar, is basically Bowie does Walker), Radiohead, Leonard Cohen, Steven Wilson, Jarvis Cocker, and the list goes on. Walker died on Friday, March 22, at age 76. For lovers of music without boundaries, he will be sorely missed.

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I love sinking into a lengthy double album. But lately I feel like I’m probably alone in this feeling, since it seems to be the in thing to split up double-length projects into two separate releases. The only reasons I can think of to do this are financial – you get to charge two single-disc prices instead of one double-disc price, which certainly brings in more cash. If there’s an artistic reason for dividing a single project into two releases, and then separating those releases by months, I haven’t thought of it.

But to be fair, I’ve only heard the first half of the latest project to do so, Foals’ Everything Not Saved Will be Lost. And if there’s a band I trust to have an artistic reason to split up their new songs onto two separate volumes, it’s this one. Since first emerging in 2007, this Oxford quartet has been on an upward trajectory, finding equal space for their math-rock and dance-groove sides. 2015’s What Went Down was a clear victory point for the band, especially the shout-along single “Mountain at My Gates,” and tackling a double album seems like the next logical step.

The band has been clear that while the two volumes of Everything Not Saved are companion pieces, they will be very different. The first volume, which came out on March 8, is the keyboard-y one, with the second containing more guitar-heavy material. At least, that’s what the band says. This first volume certainly seems to have more synthesizers than I am used to hearing in Foals music, but there’s a lot of superb guitar work as well, and when this record locks in, the band is as organically danceable as they have ever been.

While this entire first set is excellent, especially big-beat winners like “White Onions” and “Exits,” it reaches its zenith with “On the Luna,” perhaps the band’s best ever single. It’s head-spinning – the guitar part is in 9/4, everything else is in 4/4, and it’s seamless, stomping from one end to the other with determination and purpose. “Luna” is where the record begins to lose energy, and it slows down dramatically for the lovely final two tracks, closing with the lament “I’m Done with the World (and It’s Done with Me).”

At 39 minutes, the first volume of Everything Not Saved Will be Lost feels complete in itself, and so I am left to wonder if its second half will seem like a separate album. Would combining these two efforts into a single thought have proven detrimental to either one? We’ll see in September. For now, I can say that this first volume is everything I wanted it to be. It’s so good that even if there were not a second volume on the way, I’d be satisfied.

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It’s taken Jenny Lewis’ swell solo career to make me realize why I never quite liked Rilo Kiley.

Lewis has a crystal clear, Patsy Cline-like voice that worked fine in her indie-rock band, but works wonders on her more traditional folk-pop solo material. In retrospect, Rilo Kiley was an exercise in finding the right vehicle for that voice, and the band never really hit upon it. In contrast, I have adored everything Lewis has done on her own, from the pure folk of her debut with the Watson Twins to 2014’s beautifully crafted The Voyager.

And now she’s made what is probably my favorite of her records, On the Line. Its cover art mirrors that of its predecessor, letting you know right up front that this one will be in the same vein. It’s certainly a refinement of a sound that went down a treat last time – this one is also largely produced by Ryan Adams, a fact that Warner Bros. would probably have made more of a few months ago, and includes contributions from Beck, Ringo Starr, Benmont Tench, Don Was, Jim Keltner and other country-tinged folk-pop royalty.

Together, this dream team has fashioned a perfect setting for Lewis’ voice, which remains her strongest asset. Right behind it, though, are her songs, and these are without a doubt among her best. Hopefully you’ve heard “Wasted Youth” and “Red Bull and Hennessy,” two of the strongest singles she’s ever released. The album doesn’t falter from there, sticking with its simple, elegant melodicism. Beck produces three of these songs (with the great Jason Falkner on guitar), and they fit right in, so consistent is the writing.

This is also Lewis’ most personal work, dredging up relationships (she just ended a 12-year one with former songwriting partner Jonathan Rice) and addictions, and dedicating one song (the lovely “Little White Dove”) to her always-strained relationship with her late mother. “Party Clown” is worthy of Aimee Mann – it’s so detailed in its despair. (“I took a weightless bath until my own laugh gave me the creeps.”) Only the final track, “Rabbit Hole,” finds Lewis asserting control again: “I’m not gonna go down the rabbit hole with you again,” she sings, putting paid to at least one of the spiraling relationships she discusses here.

If nothing else, On the Line should cement Jenny Lewis’ reputation as a songwriter and an artist. She’s left her band far behind on this one, standing on her own and plumbing the depths of her heartache to emerge with her strongest set of tunes. Here’s hoping she can keep this streak going, because as a solo artist, she’s something to behold.

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I’m still not sure what to make of Jonathan Coulton’s new album, Some Guys.

Don’t get me wrong, I love it, even if I don’t understand the impetus behind it. Coulton, you may remember, is a self-styled internet superstar who made his name writing wonderful songs about geeky things. Robots, vampires, zombies and aliens all made appearances in Coulton tunes, and he often wrung gorgeous emotions from his fanciful subjects. (“I Crush Everything” is a cry of anguish from a self-loathing giant squid, for instance, while “I’m Your Moon” is a euphoric love song to Pluto from one of its moons, consoling it on the loss of its status as a planet.)

Coulton has been on an upward trajectory for years, writing more and more earnest material, and 2017’s incredible Solid State is his finest – it’s a concept record about the internet of the future, with some of his sharpest and most melodic songs. For his follow-up, Coulton has decided to ditch that trajectory, at least temporarily, and take a sharp left turn. But he’s done so with all the charm and energy and wonder he injects into everything.

Some Guys finds Coulton covering 14 soft-rock hits of the 1970s, from Bread’s “Make It With You” to the Bee Gees’ “How Deep Is Your Love” to Gerry Rafferty’s “Baker Street.” Even weirder, these tracks have been perfectly aped – Coulton not only does nothing to change the songs, he goes to great pains to make sure these new recordings sound exactly like the originals, save for his voice.

He’s framed this as a statement on masculinity – when he was growing up, he said, these softer, more emotional songs gave him a framework for how to be a tender and considerate man. That’s laudable, and I love it. But I’m not sure anyone listening to this record will enjoy it as much as Coulton enjoyed making it. I really like all of these songs, from America’s “Sister Golden Hair” to Dan Fogelberg’s “Same Old Lang Syne,” and I enjoyed hearing Coulton sing them. But these are such perfect carbon copies that I feel like I have already wrung all of the joy out of them that I am going to.

But hey, I love supporting Jonathan Coulton, and thankfully, I’m not alone – the Some Guys Kickstarter asked for $20,000 and raised more than $150,000, all of which goes to JoCo. I hope people like this record enough to support his next one, whatever it may be. Coulton’s independence, both financial and artistic, means that he can do anything he wants. Sometimes what he wants to do is create an astonishingly original piece of work like Solid State, and sometimes what he wants to do is smash the patriarchy with soft rock. I’m on board for everything he’s done, and anything he chooses to do next.

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Hey, it’s the end of March, which means it’s time for the First Quarter Report. This year is flying by already. If you’re new to these quarterly reports, they are basically my year-end top 10 list in progress. Below is what that list would look like if I were forced to publish it right now. This is guaranteed to change dramatically in the next nine months, so don’t read a lot into it. But here is the list as it stands:

10. Copeland, Blushing.
9. All Hail the Silence, Daggers.
8. Jenny Lewis, On the Line.
7. Joe Jackson, Fool.
6. Foals, Everything Not Saved Will Be Lost Part 1.
5. Over the Rhine, Love and Revelation.
4. Pedro the Lion, Phoenix.
3. David Mead, Cobra Pumps.
2. Peter Mulvey, There Is Another World.
1. Amanda Palmer, There Will Be No Intermission.

Honestly, looking at it now, that’s a really good list. I hope the year continues as it began.

Next week, something that I’m sure will shake up the list above: Devin Townsend’s Empath. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Another week, another loss. This week we said goodbye to Dick Dale, the king of the surf guitar.

I first heard Dick Dale’s music the same way many of my generation did: watching the opening credits of Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction. Dale’s rocking version of 1920’s tune “Misirlou,” released as a single in 1962, set the tone for the ultra-cool gangster movie that followed. It also showcased his innovative guitar style, with its fast, aggressive picking. He pioneered that style with songs like “Let’s Go Trippin’,” and with his Del-Tones, made five killer records full of it between 1962 and 1964.

Dale kept on playing even after surf rock fell out of favor, and made several albums in the ‘90s on the back of Pulp Fiction. He continued touring in his later years, he said, to afford mounting medical costs. Dale died on Saturday, March 16 at the age of 81, after being treated for heart and kidney failure. There aren’t many people who can say they invented a genre, but Dick Dale was one. May he rest in peace.

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Amanda Palmer seems to make people upset.

I don’t mean her work, although that sometimes does the trick too. I mean Palmer herself. The very existence of Amanda Palmer on this planet is enough to drive some people to genuine fits of anger. I’m not exactly sure why that is, although I’ve heard a lot of reasons. Some people find her gift for self-promotion annoying. Some find her use of crowdfunding – and her constant sloganeering about it, i.e. “we are the media” – to be somehow detrimental to other working musicians. Some just don’t like her seemingly inborn ability to be provocative. (And I’ll admit to a certain wariness about her for that last reason, too.)

But I would push back against the assertion that Palmer is not genuine. I’ve heard that too, that the theatrical nature of her work and persona somehow precludes her from creating honest art. I’ve been an Amanda Palmer fan since the first Dresden Dolls album, and I sincerely think the picture of her as some kind of button-pushing artifice machine is thoroughly mistaken.

In every one of her incarnations, from the German punk cabaret of the Dolls to the Ben Folds contemporary who made Who Killed Amanda Palmer to the grand orchestrator behind Theatre is Evil to her varied collaborations with husband Neil Gaiman and Jason Webley and Edward Ka-Spel and even her dad, Jack Palmer, the emotional underpinning has been real. Just behind the facepaint is a fully formed human being yearning to share herself through art.

That’s never been more true than on her third solo album, There Will Be No Intermission. I don’t want to give the impression that Palmer has given up her penchant for the provocative here. Just one look at the cover, on which she appears naked, balanced on a tree stump and holding a sword above her head, should put paid to that notion. But Intermission is her most naked, open-hearted and earnest album. It’s also the most emotionally potent thing she has done. Listening to all 78 minutes of this in a row is almost exhausting, so raw are the feelings it evokes.

Yes, I said 78 minutes. Intermission consists of ten songs and ten interludes, and the songs are often extended pieces – two of them break ten minutes, and a third tops eight. Its messy sprawl is part of what makes it so effective, though. A shorter album, one more sensitive to the nearly nonexistent attention spans of the modern audience, wouldn’t have nearly the impact this one does. Palmer knows this record is imperfect, but she invites you to love it anyway, in all of its fumbling glory. In a way, that’s the point – this is a record about being perfectly human, about how we’re all struggling through and should show each other grace.

I think Palmer’s right that no major label would have paid for this thing, which makes me happy once again that crowdfunding exists. These songs were financed through Patreon – Palmer has thousands of patrons who pay a minimal monthly sum to support her work, and she’s used that money exactly the way I would hope she would: by creating art that only she could create. The list of artists who would make a record like Intermission is exceptionally small. The list of artists who would make this record, just like this, only has one name on it.

Intermission is a quiet thing, despite its length. Most of it was performed on piano (with a couple songs on ukulele), with minimal additions. The more full-sounding tunes (“Drowning in the Sound,” “Machete”) are the obvious singles, even though both stretch to six minutes. Elsewhere, though, Palmer counts on her audience to stay with her as she navigates these longer stretches, these outpourings of herself through 88 keys. She doesn’t couch that experience, either – she opens with it, putting the ten-minute “The Ride” right up front. This turns out to be the perfect place for it. “The Ride” is a more general song about life and death, like a slow-motion opening of the gates, ushering you in.

And it’s wonderful. She was right to trust us, because this long and sparse poem draws you in and guides you through. “Drowning in the Sound” is more compact and louder, with drums and everything, and it’s as strong a minor-key pop song as Palmer has ever written. It’s a reaction, as much of this record is, to the dark political climate we find ourselves in, and to climate change in particular: “And your body is a temple, and the temple is a prison, and the prison’s overcrowded and the inmates know it’s flooding, and the body politic is getting sicker by the minute, and the media’s not fake, it’s just very inconvenient…”

Every song here is a highlight, so I won’t go through each one. I’ll mention a couple, though, that stand out from a very strong pack. “Judy Blume” is a gorgeous paean to a writer who inspired millions of girls Palmer’s age, specifically mentioning events from Deenie and Tiger Eyes and of course, Are You There, God, It’s Me, Margaret. The final verse is just lovely: “Judy, I can’t believe sometimes that I’m an adult, and girls like I was think that I have this shit figured out, you and me lying together at night in my room, you’ll be inside them forever, Judy Blume…”

“A Mother’s Confession” is another ten-minute piano piece, and it’s even more captivating. It’s straight out of Palmer’s diary as she screws up time and again while trying to keep her newborn son Ash safe. He takes a tumble in a public bathroom and Palmer feels the weight and guilt of it. She gets pulled over for speeding because the baby was crying and she was trying to get to her destination quickly. The song is a stunning bit of empathy for every hard-working mother trying to get through each day, and when a choir joins in on the refrain (“At least the baby didn’t die”), it’s simultaneously heart-wrenching and joyous.

And speaking of empathy, there is “Voicemail for Jill,” probably my favorite thing here. It’s an absolutely apolitical song about abortion, which by itself is a miracle. It’s about how we treat women making the hardest decision of their lives: “No one’s gonna celebrate you, no one’s gonna bring you cake and no one’s gonna shower you with flowers, the doctor won’t congratulate you, no one on that pavement’s gonna shout at you that your heart also matters…” It’s a stunning piece of graceful humanity, a reminder that behind the arguments are real women going through real heartache. I think it’s one of the best songs Palmer has ever written.

But really, it’s the cumulative effect of this thing that sets it apart. This is an album that asks you to go through “The Ride” and “Judy Blume” and the hypnotic, circular, eight-minute “Bigger on the Inside” and “Voicemail for Jill” and “A Mother’s Confession” and THEN two more songs before reaching the end. I’ve done it a few times now, and each time my heart swells and breaks and is torn open. By the time the final chord of the wry “Death Thing” is fading out, I feel like I’ve lived a full life inside these songs.

I don’t know that I can ask more of that from any artist. As I said, I have been a fan for a long time, and I expected There Will Be No Intermission to be good. I did not expect it to be an experience of this magnitude. I certainly hope this astoundingly good record puts paid to the notion that Palmer is not an honest, genuine, powerful songwriter. There isn’t a false note here, and taken all together, this is one of the best records of 2019 so far.

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Next week, probably Foals and Jonathan Coulton, plus the First Quarter Report. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

We lost Hal Blaine this week.

Even if his name is unfamiliar, I guarantee you have heard Blaine’s work. As the drummer for the Wrecking Crew, a legendary group of Los Angeles-based session musicians, Blaine played on literally thousands of songs. He provided the backbeat on an astonishing 40 number one singles, including songs like “I Get Around” and “Mr. Tambourine Man” and “Be My Baby” and “I Got You Babe” and “Mrs. Robinson” and “Monday, Monday” and “These Boots are Made for Walkin’” and on and on.

The songs, of course, are his legacy, as well as his ability to provide exactly what those songs needed. He’s not listed among the flashiest or most adored drummers of all time, but he was one of the first to make it into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and there’s a reason for that. A couple hundred reasons, in fact.

Blaine died Monday of natural causes at age 90. May he rest in peace.

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I know most people buy music online these days, but if you happen to see Weezer’s new self-titled album on CD or vinyl in an actual record shop, you’ll see it’s adorned with a sticker. And that sticker is adorned with a pull quote: “They’re doing some cool things right now,” credited to Todd, Weezer Ride or Die.

Who is Todd, you ask? He’s Matt Damon’s character in this absolutely hysterical Saturday Night Live sketch about the implacable divide between Weezer fans. I have probably watched this sketch 30 times, and the last time (a few minutes ago) was just as enjoyable as the first. It’s also given me a new shorthand for my thoughts on the band: I’m Team Damon. Which is a pretty lonely team, most of the time, since almost everyone I know is Team Jones.

If you don’t have time to click on the link, let me explain. The sketch accurately depicts the central argument between fans of this band. One faction – the larger, louder faction – believes Rivers Cuomo and his merry men made two classic albums at the start of their career and have produced nothing but garbage since. The other faction will defend almost everything the band has done. In my case, I’m willing to go to bat for every record except Make Believe and the Red Album, and I like parts of both of those.

I used to stake out some middle ground in this debate, suggesting that Weezer’s first two records – the Blue Album and Pinkerton– are wildly overrated, while their later work is wildly underrated. I still agree with this, but as the post-Pinkerton catalog continues to grow, I find it harder to consider that a middle-ground statement. Blue and Pinkerton are now looked upon as life-changing masterpieces of perfection, when they are manifestly not that. They are very good pop albums that have been elevated to godlike status for some reason.

And they’re no better or worse than a lot of what the band has done since. Suggesting that only Blue andPinkerton should count dismisses a dozen albums – a dozen! – as lacking any value. I see the issue as one of mischaracterization. Weezer has always, always been just a pop band making catchy pop songs (often with cringe-worthy lyrics), and fans on Team Jones believe they used to be something more than that. Somehow they listened to “Undone” and “Buddy Holly” and “Say It Ain’t So” and heard the voice of a generation.

When really, it’s always just been the voice of Rivers Cuomo, and he has always just done what he wants. No two Weezer albums are alike, save for the abundance of catchy choruses on each of them. Lately, though, Cuomo has truly buckled down and delivered a series of records that stand tall with his best work. I’m willing to say the hot streak started with 2009’s Raditude, a knowing, winking collection of teen-pop anthems, but as that one’s a bit controversial, I’ll play it safe and say the renaissance began with 2014’s Everything Will Be Alright in the End.

If you haven’t heard that one, you’re missing a classic, full of strong power-pop hooks and beautifully written songs like “Cleopatra” and “The British are Coming.” Since then, Rivers has delivered some superb work, from the sun-dappled Brian Wilson-isms of the White Album to the perfect pop of Pacific Daydream. I listened again recently, and I think Pacific Daydream is the most underrated Weezer record – its grand pop sheen gussies up some of Cuomo’s most hummable tunes.

And honestly, that’s all I want from Weezer – catchy, hummable tunes. Cuomo is a master of them, and each time out he gives me just what I want. The band’s latest self-titled effort, colloquially called the Black Album, is no exception. It’s one of the oddest records the band has created, thanks largely to producer Dave Sitek of TV On the Radio and to Cuomo’s adventurous spirit. But even with all the bells and whistles, it’s an album full of catchy, hummable tunes.

Naturally, the Team Jones-ers hate it. They were primed to hate it when the band surprise-released the Teal Album a couple weeks before, writing aghast think-pieces about the sheer audacity of a once-beloved-by-them band turning out covers of old radio hits because their fans on Twitter asked them to. I mean, the nerve, right? (I kinda love the Teal Album, especially the band’s takes on “No Scrubs” and “Billie Jean.”) But the actual Black Album itself didn’t help matters, as it’s about as far away, stylistically speaking, from the first two records as this band has ever journeyed.

If you’re expecting darkness from something called the Black Album, you’re gonna be disappointed. Rivers swears here, for the first time on record, but that’s about as dark as things get. Instead, he’s turned out ten fun tunes, adorned with computer-enhanced beats and synth horns and all sorts of other pop accoutrements. Opener “Can’t Knock the Hustle” is probably the record’s most intricate production, a tale of life on social media set to a danceable beat, a vaguely Mariachi feel, and a refrain of “hasta luego, adios.” By the end, I can’t help singing along.

I have the same trouble with “Zombie Bastards,” which starts out sounding like something Sugar Ray might have turned out, but ends up an infectious singalong. One read of this song is that it’s a smack-back at Team Jones, people who only want to hear the first two records, when Rivers is more interested in uncharted waters. “We know what you want,” he sings, before turning introspective in the bridge: “If I die it means that I lived my life, and that’s much better than hiding in a hole…” He follows it up with a classic: “High as a Kite” is a McCartney-esque ballad about leaving the pressures of life behind, and I think it’s one of Cuomo’s best songs.

It’s also the last bit of real emotion on the record, which I’m sure will annoy people looking for the next Pinkerton. The next five songs are all fun slices of electro-tinged power pop, from the super-danceable “Living in L.A.” (with its obvious Police tribute on the line “I’m so lonely”) to the dumb-clever “Piece of Cake” to the killer “Too Many Thoughts in My Head,” on which Cuomo rhymes “Mary Poppins” with “Netflix options.” “I’m Just Being Honest” is a good tune hampered by its lyrics, which depict Cuomo dissing a young band’s demo before uttering the title phrase, and I’m not sure what he’s getting at with his tribute to the Purple One, “The Prince Who Wanted Everything.” But the latter song’s glam-rock riffs are convincingly crunchy.

The last two songs are surely destined to drive Team Jones nuts. “Byzantine” is a folksy wisp of a thing, co-written with Laura Jane Grace of Against Me, and its bongos-in-a-box beat and goofy melody find Cuomo jumping from Brian Wilson to Mike Love. (Repeat listens have elevated this one in my mind, I must say.) And closer “California Snow” is kind of… Drake, maybe? It’s the most hip-hop song here, Rivers half-rapping lines like “This is the definition of flow” before launching into (you guessed it) another super-catchy chorus. It’s the least convincing thing here, and I still like it.

The Black Album is weird, certainly, but Cuomo’s penchant for well-crafted, memorable tunes keeps all of his (and Sitek’s) experimentation grounded. His mission statement is the same as it’s always been: here are ten more songs you will get stuck in your head. That is all he’s trying to do, whatever form his songs take. Purists and Team Jones-ers will balk at the pop sounds here, and at Rivers’ attempts at sounding hard. (His “don’t step to me, bitch” on “Hustle” is just funny.) But those of us on Team Damon, who approach each new Weezer album with an open mind, will find a lot to like here. The Black Album is fun and catchy, and if that’s all you want from Weezer – and it should be – you’ll enjoy it.

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Next week, the extraordinary Amanda Palmer. Also looking forward to writing about Foals, Jonathan Coulton and a few others. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Mark Hollis died last Monday. I found out while at work, and was immediately stricken with the strange sadness I detailed last week. And when I arrived home, through sheer coincidence, I found Peter Mulvey’s gorgeous new album There Is Another World waiting for me.

I don’t want to suggest that Mulvey was influenced by Talk Talk, though I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he was. His work doesn’t immediately suggest it – Mulvey is a folk singer with a deep, sonorous voice and a strong command of the acoustic guitar. But there’s something about There Is Another World that just fits perfectly with my mood since I learned of Hollis’ death, something about this 33-minute suite that feels in line with the otherworldly sounds conjured up on Laughing Stock.

And it may just be that mood talking, but I think There Is Another World is one of Mulvey’s very best efforts. I’ve been a fan for a long time – since his then-label, Eastern Front, sent me Mulvey’s third album, Rapture, in the mail in 1996 – and I’ve been with him through the ups and downs (though mostly ups) of his discography. He came close to losing me with 2014’s slight Silver Ladder, but then he connected with fellow folkie Ani DiFranco, signed to her label and asked her to produce 2017’s Are You Listening. And the results were revelatory. Listening is a superb record from start to finish, a return to form (and an exploration of new forms) for this always-intriguing songwriter.

He’s kept it in the DiFranco family for the follow-up – it was produced by Ani’s longtime bassist, Todd Sickafoose, who basically takes Mulvey’s sparse acoustic sounds and adds interesting sonic atmospheres to them. He knows the basics of these songs are worth leaving alone, and that Mulvey’s performance will carry them. The songs on There Is Another World grew out of a hard winter, and the record has the feel of a snow-covered landscape, and a wind that makes you pull your coat tighter. It’s hard for me to call it dark, though, as there’s a lovely vein of hope that runs through all of it.

But it is a record of hardship and heartbreak, and though I cannot directly connect it to the horrors of the outside world, it feels the way I feel. “Who’s Gonna Love You Now” is one of the most hopeless songs in Mulvey’s catalog, leaving the title as an open question: “When there’s no way through, the only way is out, when it’s all over but the shouting and you’re too tired to shout, who’s gonna love you now?” Both “Fool’s Errand” and the amazing “To Your Joy” are about the pain of regret, and the brief “Nickel and Dime” puts a cap on that theme with these lyrics: “All those years I had in my pocket, I spent them, nickel and dime.”

But don’t despair, because Mulvey ends this suite with light peeking through. “All Saint’s Day” takes the Yeats line that gives the album its title (“There is another world, but it is in this one”) and uses it to beckon us outside, into the hard cold, to face the day. “The Cardinal” wraps all of the album’s themes of loss and regret and turns them around with one line: “You must change your life.” These five words feel like the record’s mission statement, pulling itself up and dusting itself off, and heading into the snow-covered distance.

It’s lovely, and the beautiful journey of the album is only enhanced by the production. Mulvey has called it the most striking soundscape his songs have ever had the privilege to receive, and he’s not wrong. There are violins, organs, accordions, prepared pianos, water glasses and clarinets here, but you’d be hard-pressed to notice how intricate the sound really is, since it is all in service to the songs, the voice and the guitar. The clarinet arrangements in particular make me think of Mark Hollis, but there’s a real sense of wonder and patience to the sonics on display here that feels right in line with Talk Talk’s influence.

Regardless of whether Hollis was on anyone’s mind when making There Is Another World, it was exactly the album I needed at exactly the right time. Even a week later, this suite of songs is still resonating, still taking me places. It’s yet another high point in a catalog full of them, and further proof that Peter Mulvey should be much more widely known. There Is Another World is a crisp chill wind of an album, perfect for this lingering winter, and I’m grateful it arrived when it did.

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Of course, sometimes I want to shatter whatever mood I’m in, and this week two progressive metal albums helped me to do that. Both are new efforts from long-running bands that I have loved since high school, which certainly makes me feel old, but would probably make the band members feel older.

Luckily neither of these acts sound past their prime here, although Dream Theater comes closest. A new DT album used to be an event in my house, but since original drummer (and band visionary) Mike Portnoy left, their output has been a little lacking. New drummer Mike Mangini is very good, but he clearly doesn’t control the creative side the way Portnoy did, which leaves guitarist John Petrucci in the driver’s seat.

Last time out, Petrucci led the band through a 130-minute pastiche of Broadway musicals called The Astonishing. I was fascinated by it when it came out – I mean, who wouldn’t be – but it hasn’t held up. It’s the DT album I reach for the least. Clearly their attempt to shake things up didn’t go as planned, so now it’s time for the retrenching: Distance Over Time, the band’s 14th album, is a conscious return to prog-metal with big riffs and head-spinning instrumental prowess.

Which means that some of this sounds generic, particularly the first few tracks. “Untethered Angel” could be on any DT album, so obvious is its thudding riffery. But as Distance moves on, it gets more exploratory. “Barstool Warrior” and “S2N” are intriguing shifts in sound, while bonus track “Viper King” is nearly full-on blues-rock. No song here breaks 10 minutes, which is a rarity for DT, and the two more compact epics, “At Wit’s End” and “Pale Blue Dot,” earn their space. This isn’t an amazing, career-defining work for Dream Theater, but it’s much better than I expected, and hopefully bodes well for their future.

As long-running as Dream Theater is, Queensryche has run even longer. Two members of the band are originals from 1983, and with the introduction in 2013 of new singer Todd La Torre, the band has only felt more alive and more vital. The Verdict, their 15th album, is the strongest of this new-model Queensryche, and now that they’ve put all the ugliness with previous singer Geoff Tate behind them, they’re clearly ready to get on with the business of being a great metal band.

I remain gobsmacked by La Torre’s voice – it’s high and powerful, like Bruce Dickinson in his prime, and surprisingly supple for a guy who is my age. (He also played all the drums on this record, which, wow.) He just nails it on opener “Blood of the Levant,” about conflicts in the Middle East, and never lets up. The band is clearly inspired by his presence. “Man the Machine” is their sharpest single in years, “Dark Reverie” is the kind of crawling work the band used to be known for, and with “Bent,” “Inner Unrest” and “Launder the Conscience” they’ve turned in one of their best three-song stretches in ages.

My main complaint about The Verdict is the same one I’ve had since La Torre joined: without distinctive melodies these songs all kind of run together. But that’s long been a Queensryche problem, and this new incarnation knows enough to solve it with sheer heaviness. If all you remember Queensryche for is “Silent Lucidity,” the speed and power of this record will surprise you. Speaking as a longtime fan, I am enjoying the heavy direction Queensryche has chosen, and I hope they keep it going.

Speaking of keeping it going, I’ll be back next week with some thoughts on the new Weezer. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.