In order to tell you about what I have been listening to for the past week, I have to tell you about someone I haven’t spoken to in 20 years.

As most of you probably know, I began this column with Face Magazine in Portland, Maine. Face was an independent music mag that came out every two weeks. it had a gritty, homemade quality to it that mirrored the DIY scene it covered. The Face folks hired me right out of college, and I spent four years with them, asking people what they’ve been listening to and writing features on local artists. Two years in I noticed that while we had a lot of regular columns, none of them were dedicated to the new music that drove my interests. So I started one.

But I don’t want to recount all of that here. I do want to tell you about one of those regular columnists, a guy named Seth Berner. Seth wrote the punk column, called Undertones, and he was pretty much born for that. His tastes tended toward the fast and sloppy and counter-cultural, and he happened to encounter me at the height of my “social context doesn’t matter, it’s the MUSIC, man” late adolescence. I argued with Seth about a lot of things that, these days, I would not, and he was right about much more than I ever told him.

Anyway, the one time Seth ever surprised the hell out of me was when he recommended Gentle Giant. I had been so used to him extoling the virtues of six-minute seven-inches made by people who just learned their instruments an hour ago, and so used to him dismissing the (I thought) extraordinary musical skill of my favorite musicians. I thought I had him pegged. So when he, of all people, introduced me to one of the greatest obscure progressive rock bands in history, I was gobsmacked.

And I remain grateful to him. My two-decades-strong Gentle Giant fandom is entirely down to Seth, who made me cassette copies of his favorite albums. Tops on his list was their fifth, In a Glass House, and I can’t argue. (The fact that it had never been released in the United States at that time, I’m sure, only made Seth love it more.) Glass House was the first one I heard, and frankly, I’d never encountered music quite like it. Can you imagine music that is equal parts Yes and centuries-old folk? I couldn’t either, but that’s what much of Glass House sounds like.

Why am I telling you about a band that broke up in 1980? Well, a couple weeks ago I received something I’d been eyeing for months – an all-in-one Gentle Giant box set called Unburied Treasure. This thing represents the most money I’ve ever dropped on a single item of music, and I thought I’d missed out on it – the first pressing came out in December and sold out almost immediately. The band organized an even more limited second pressing, and that’s the one I picked up.

And I’ve spent the last week or so listening to it. This is no mean feat – Unburied Treasure is 29 CDs, consisting of all 12 officially released albums, 15 full live shows (most of which were unreleased) and a disc of rehearsal recordings. It also includes a gorgeous hardbound book with a full history of the band, a tour book with notes on every show the band played, several other mementos, including a puzzle with a missing piece (produced to promote 1977’s The Missing Piece) and a full giant-head mask. All of this is packaged in a beautiful box that is the largest brick in my collection. Seriously, it’s so much bigger than I expected it would be.

After listening to all of it, I can only say that this extravagant package feels like giving an unjustly ignored band its due, finally. Gentle Giant grew out of Simon Dupree and the Big Sound in 1969. Its core was the Shulman brothers: Derek, Ray and (for a time) Phil, along with Gary Green and Kerry Minnear. There were a few drummers through the years, but when they found John Weathers in 1972, they stuck with him. The Shulmans, Green and Minnear were all multi-instrumentalists, which means on stage they would swap constantly, or bring out the horns or vibes or other orchestral elements.

I can’t say I’m surprised that this music has largely been lost to the winds of time. Almost none of it is what you would call accessible. Gentle Giant began and ended their career playing more straightforward rock, but in between constructed songs like no one ever has before or since. Complex multi-part harmonies, ornate arrangements, demanding instrumental sections, melodies that only step forward and make themselves familiar over time. It’s incredibly demanding stuff, both to play and to listen to, but it’s also immensely rewarding once its contours and shapes map themselves out for you.

I won’t go album by album here, but I will mention some songs that stood out to me this time. Before acquiring the box I’d never heard Acquiring the Taste, the band’s second record, and it’s easily one of their weirdest and least inhibited. But here’s the thing about Gentle Giant – their music never feels self-indulgent. Their records hover around half an hour in length, their songs usually about four minutes. Acquiring has a few longer ones, but the longest is seven and a half. This album is pure artistic freedom, and I’m still parsing it, but the string section on “Black Cat” is a firm favorite already.

Anyone who wants to call 1972’s Octopus the band’s best will get no argument from me. I have loved songs like “The Advent of Panurge” and the insane, harmonically dizzying “Knots” for years, but this time the standout was “Think of Me With Kindness,” Kerry Minnear’s gorgeous song of separation. (I requested a cover of this from my friend Ian Tanner, and he obliged, and it was lovely.) Man, this melody is unbelievable. It’s on Brian Wilson’s level, and if you know me you know what a compliment that is.

I still think In a Glass House may be their best. The folksy elements are played up here, and good lord, does this stuff sound timeless. Out of time, really. There’s never been an album quite like this one, and the band would emphasize the rockier and funkier parts of their sound on subsequent efforts like the great The Power and the Glory. If I had to pick one song from this middle period, I would choose “His Last Voyage” on 1975’s Free Hand, though. Imagine a prog-rock Enya. That’s what this haunting acoustic tune is.

Of course, if I had more to choose, I’d throw in “Experience” and the dissonant “So Sincere” and “On Reflection” and “Timing” and and and. It’s really an unassailable run of records, through 1976’s Interview. This is not to say that the final three albums are bad, they’re just more straight-ahead. The Missing Piece contains a side of rock and a side of proggy folk, and that second side includes “Memories of Old Days,” the band’s last real classic. 1978’s Giant for a Day is the band’s worst, but it’s still a fun rock record, and 1980’s Civilian(which I had also never heard) goes out with a bang, bringing Gentle Giant roaring into the new wave moment. “All Through the Night” should have been a hit.

But it wasn’t. Gentle Giant had no hits, and went away as quietly as they’d arrived, as far as the general public is concerned. Those who got to see them live, however, know that there was nothing quiet about them. The 15 live shows included in Unburied Treasure span their entire existence, and range from audience recordings to the beautiful multi-tracks used for the four shows that were edited into their only official live album, Playing the Fool. Listening to these in chronological order was a treat – they prove beyond a doubt that the albums only tell half the story.

Gentle Giant live was loud and jammy, in ways I did not expect. Much of their more complex material never made it into their setlists, since it would have been nearly impossible to replicate night after night. Instead, the band picked a few favorites and messed with them throughout their live tenure. There are 14 renditions of “Funny Ways” here, for instance, and each one evolves into a fascinating vibraphone solo that is different every time. “Nothing At All” becomes an excuse for the whole band to play drums in an extended midsection. Octopus is mashed together into a 15-minute medley that changes over time, and is just maddeningly complicated.

Above all, Gentle Giant was fun live, something that may not come across on their studio records. They kept the joy of performing all the way to their final show from 1980, documented here on the set’s final disc. The band blasts through the Civilian material and mixes in some older classics (like “The Advent of Panurge,” played in full for the first time in ages), and they sound like they’re ready to go on and on, not call it quits. “We’ll see you again” is the last thing Derek Shulman says before leaving the stage for the final time.

The Shulmans, especially, have gone on to have quite an impact on the music world. Derek Shulman became an A&R representative for PolyGram and Atco, signing (among others) Bon Jovi, Dream Theater, Pantera and Slipknot. (And my boys Enuff Z’Nuff.) Ray Shulman produced albums from the Sugarcubes, the Sundays and Ian McCullough, to name a few. The rest of the band has pursued various and sundry musical projects, but none with the scope and breadth of Gentle Giant.

It would have been so easy for me to live my entire life without hearing a note of this band’s work. I imagine roughly 90 percent of the population remains unaware of them. So I am grateful for a big, lavish box like this one celebrating a catalog unlike any other I’m aware of. And I’m grateful to Seth Berner for making sure I heard In a Glass House all those years ago. My life is richer with this music in it.

There are still copies of Unburied Treasure left. Pick one up from Burning Shed here.

Next week, back to the new stuff. Indigo Girls, Lady Gaga, the 1975. So much to choose from.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I had an interesting realization while listening to the new Jason Isbell album: I am guilty, often, of victimizing artists for their own success.

I can name a million examples. I haven’t truly loved a Radiohead album in 20 years, mainly because I cannot get past how good OK Computer is. Kendrick Lamar’s perfectly respectable DAMN got a lower grade from me because To Pimp a Butterfly was so defining. Do I need to bring up Tori Amos? Three immortal albums that changed my life, and nothing since has measured up for me.

The problem is that I miss a lot of what is good about these later records by comparing them to their authors’ best work. In some ways that’s the job of a reviewer. The number one question I get, when people care about my opinion on things, is some variation of “Is this one as good as the last one?” Sometimes the answer is yes, but sometimes the answer is “no, but listen anyway.” Still, that “no” at the start there, that turns a lot of people off.

So my initial take on Reunions, Isbell’s seventh album (and second in a row to be credited to him and his band, the 400 Unit), was disappointment. Isbell is one of the best songwriters in the game right now, and his last three records, starting with the incredibleSoutheastern and continuing through 2017’s great The Nashville Sound, have been pretty close to perfect. I could name highlights, but I’d just be copying and pasting full track listings. These three records have been showcases for a songsmith at the absolute height of his powers.

Reunions isn’t quite on that level. I posted my first-blush opinion online, and it got a lot of pushback. That opinion was that when a writer as good as Isbell makes something that is merely great, instead of transcendent, it feels like a dropoff. I tried to emphasize that Reunions is really good, but some still took it as a harsh criticism. So let me be clear now: Reunions is really good. Nashville is full of songwriters who will never make a record this good. These ten songs would be the envy of most people with recording contracts. It’s honestly really good.

We can talk highlights of this one, no doubt. Start with the overall tone – Isbell’s guitar has rarely sounded better, and the 400 Unit has rarely sounded more live on record. The first song is a six-minute mantra called “What’ve I Done to Help,” about the personal responsibility we all share to make the world a better place. (It’s one of the songs here that I think is a little simple and a little on-the-nose for Isbell.) The highlight of this track is how it takes its three-chord structure and makes something gripping out of it. And man, don’t even get me started on the lead guitar work on “Overseas” and the slinky Tom Petty groove of “Running With Our Eyes Closed.” Mwah. Beautiful.

“Running” is another example of a song that could have used more – the chorus repeats the title four times, the exact same way, and I get that the music Isbell is homaging here does the same thing, but I wanted it to go a few more places. I know Isbell can give us perfectly formed songs, because he does it here several times. “It Gets Easier” might be the album’s masterpiece. It finds Isbell looking back on his own alcoholism – he’s been sober for years – and admitting that it’s a daily struggle. “It gets easier, but it never gets easy, I can say it’s all worth it but you won’t believe me…”

I’m a huge fan of “Be Afraid,” which treads similar ground. “Every one of us is counting dice that we didn’t roll and the loser is the last one to ask for help,” he sings, before hitting the hook line: “Be afraid, be very afraid, but do it anyway.” The band is on fire on this one. “Overseas” tells two stories about people in different countries, and Isbell melds these tales expertly. “St. Peter’s Autograph” is a delightful love song (“What can I do to help you sleep, I’ll work hard and work for cheap”), and the closing track “Letting You Go” travels with Isbell as he brings his newborn daughter home from the hospital and imagines the day he will have to give her away. (“It’s easy to see that you’ll get where you’re going, the hard part is letting you go…”)

These are all great songs, and the rest of Reunions is very good as well. Taken on its own, and not compared with Isbell’s past musical miracles, it’s excellent. So what’s the point of comparing it, then? I don’t really know anymore. Everything I’ve said is true, but it all kept me from really digging into Reunions and hearing it on its own terms. It’s a lesson I need to learn. I can get caught up in the rankings, in the which-one-is-better game, and miss the charms of the music in front of me. Don’t let any such comparisons stop you from hearing Reunions. Even if it isn’t Isbell’s best, it’s well worth your time.

* * * * *

If you think I hold Isbell to a high standard because of his past work, you can imagine my expectations for a Jellyfish reunion.

For those who know, you know. For those who don’t, Jellyfish was one of the best pop bands to ever walk the earth. I don’t say that lightly. I own very few perfect albums, ones about which I would change nothing. Jellyfish’s two records – 1990’s Bellybutton and 1993’s Spilt Milk – are perfect. They are perfectly written, they are perfectly arranged, they are perfectly performed and recorded. My sole complaint about Jellyfish’s output is that there is not more of it.

Alas, the band broke up in 1994 after touring Spilt Milk, a tour I got to see as a very excited 19-year-old. I’ve followed the musical adventures of the Jellyfishers through the years, always getting a little thrill when I see Roger Manning’s name pop up on an album, or see that Jason Falkner has released another record in Japan. It’s been 26 years, and the possibility of a reunion grows ever dimmer. And I wonder if a reunion could even live up, honestly. Jellyfish was a once-in-a-lifetime lightning-in-a-bottle kind of thing, and comparing anything to the two records they made together would be a fool’s game.

But of course I’m doing it anyway. Three months ago I heard about The Lickerish Quartet, a trio (ha!) named after a 1970 erotic movie from Italy. The three members of the trio are Roger Manning, Eric Dover and Tim Smith, all former members of Jellyfish. This is probably the closest we will ever get to a true-blue Jellyfish reunion, a truth only magnified by their first EP, Threesome Vol. 1. These four songs come nearer than almost anything I’ve heard since to capturing the spirit, sound and style of that band.

To be clear, this is not Jellyfish. You’d need the voice and drums of Andy Sturmer for that, at the very least. But this is lovely, silly, ornate pop music, made with undeniable skill and a sense of history, just like Jellyfish. This EP is beautifully arranged, candy-coated and sparkling. In true Jellyfish tradition, opening track “Fadoodle” makes me think about how much painstaking work went into constructing a song this silly. It’s about a guy asking for sex, but it’s charmingly ridiculous. You could listen to just the backing vocals (“Buzz buzz! Beep beep!”) and have a great time.

The rest of Threesome is more serious in tone, but no less glorious. “Bluebird’s Blues” is a gorgeous pop song. Those harmonies! Those guitar lines! The vibes! It’s all wonderful. “There Is a Magic Number” is a dark and terrific strummer, Manning providing keyboard accents over a swaying groove. And the EP concludes with its finest moment, the six-minute epic “Lighthouse Spaceship,” which is like Queen, ELO and Stevie Wonder all at once. It’s amazing, and it catches the spirit of Spilt Milk wonderfully.

I had very high expectations for Threesome Vol. 1, and even though it’s not Jellyfish, I loved it anyway. My main complaint about it is a familiar one – there isn’t enough of it. Four songs is barely a taste. I’m hopeful that there will be further volumes, and that the Lickerish Quartet spins this melodic gold for a long time to come. Listen and buy here.

Next week, a deep dive into the catalog of an obscure ‘70s prog band. That sounds exciting, right? If you answered yes honestly, come back in seven days.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

We lost Little Richard this week.

If your tastes tend toward the more theatrical side of rock ‘n’ roll, you owe Little Richard basically everything. While Chuck Berry and Fats Domino pioneered the art form, Richard Penniman was the one who gave rock its wild and unpredictable quality. He himself once said that if Elvis Presley was the king of rock ‘n’ roll, he was the queen.

Dressed to the nines, Little Richard burst out of nowhere (actually Macon, Georgia) with “Tutti Frutti” in 1955, playing piano like a wild man. Imagine hearing “a-wop-bop-a-loo-bop, a-wop-bam-boom” on the radio for the first time. It must have been like hearing a bomb go off. Richard had hit after hit in the late ‘50s, from “Long Tall Sally” to “Good Golly Miss Molly,” and earned the nickname “the architect of rock ‘n’ roll.” Certainly no one else from those early days embodied the danger and freedom of rock the way he did.

You can draw a straight line from Little Richard to Prince, with a million little points in between. Like Prince (and like James Brown, who counted Richard as an influence), Richard was an electrifying live performer. Like Prince, he was sexual while also being sexually ambiguous. Like Prince, Richard struggled with the ramifications of his Christian beliefs, taking a hiatus from music in the ‘60s to become a traveling preacher. That struggle felt intrinsic to his music, which paired the energy of black gospel with the down-and-dirty feel of the blues. He was a man torn between two worlds.

His influence is undeniable and wide-reaching. Every flamboyant rock ‘n’ roll performer owes him a debt, for starters. His songs landed him in the Songwriter’s Hall of Fame, and Paul McCartney has said that “Long Tall Sally” was the first song he sang in public. (The Beatles’ version of it came out on an EP of the same name in 1964.) He’s in the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame. But more than that, I think, he crossed racial and sexual lines, bringing people together over music that was deeply fun and immensely historically significant.

Little Richard died of bone cancer on Saturday, May 9. He was 87 years old.

* * * * *

I mentioned this last week, but for real, I don’t have anything in particular to talk about this week. It’s one of those rare weeks in which I didn’t buy a single new album. I’ve been listening to old stuff while I work – I made my way through Suzanne Vega’s whole catalog in two days, for instance. My major recent purchase was the Gentle Giant box set Unburied Treasure, but I just received that on Friday and haven’t even begun to explore its riches.

So I guess I can talk about what’s coming up, as a way of rounding off this week’s missive. I’ll contain myself to five or six things, but there’s quite a lot of interesting music coming our way in the middle third of 2020. A balm for the continued insanity that is our world. (Murder hornets? I mean, of course there’s murder hornets now.)

Next week is the new Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit album Reunions. I’ve liked what I have heard, especially “Be Afraid,” though some of it seems like a different style for him. Isbell is one of the most consistently satisfying songwriters we have, and I’m hopeful that streak will continue. Speaking of great songwriters, one week later we’re getting Look Long, the 15th Indigo Girls album. Emily Saliers’ songs from this one have hit me so far, from the pensive “When We Were Writers” to the timely “Country Radio.”

There’s lots of stuff coming in the following weeks, from Lady Gaga to Haken to the Magnetic Fields, but I’m probably most excited about Sarah Jarosz’s new one, World on the Ground, out on my birthday, June 5. Jarosz is a stunningly good songwriter – her last album, Undercurrent, made my top 10 list – and while I liked hearing her in I’m With Her, I’m jazzed to get another ten songs from her.

I suppose I should mention Bob Dylan, who announced his 39th album (and first in eight years that isn’t a collection of Sinatra covers), Rough and Rowdy Ways, out June 19. As many of you know, I struggle with Dylan, both as a writer and a performer. I’ll buy this and try it, but I have to say I made it only a few minutes into his 17-minute ramble about the Kennedy assassination, “Murder Most Foul,” before having to shut it off. Thankfully that song is on its own disc here, so I can safely just ignore it.

I’m very much looking forward to the return of Rufus Wainwright, though, whose tenth album Unfollow the Rules hits on July 10. It’s been a long eight years since Out of the Game, Wainwright’s last pop record, and I’m very much looking forward to another set of ornate, glittering orchestral wonderment from him. We’re also getting a new Jayhawks, a new Margo Price and the second album from Chip Z’Nuff’s incarnation of Enuff Z’Nuff on that day, so it’s a pretty good one.

For archival material, you can’t beat the recent announcement of Mothers ’70, a four-disc collection of unreleased material from Frank Zappa’s 1970s band. This lineup was the first to feature Flo and Eddie, and the only released remnants from them ended up on Chunga’s Revenge. This set is four and a half hours of live and studio tracks, another treasure trove of Zappa vault material. I am also giddily anticipating the 17-disc Book of Iona box set, including every album and hours of unreleased stuff from one of the most overlooked progressive folk bands to ever walk the earth.

But all that’s in the future. For now, listen to what you can find, stay safe and be good to one another. Next week, Isbell. And probably one or two others.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

We’re in a bit of a dry season this week and next. There was some decent new music out last week, including the new Man Man and ten new songs by Damien Jurado, but nothing to get the pulse quickening. And I currently have nothing slated for this week at all.

As always when I hear a great, year-defining record – and Fiona Apple’s Fetch the Bolt Cutters is certainly that – new music has to fight for space in my consciousness. So even if I were expecting some revelatory new works over the next couple weeks, chances are good that I’d only half-heartedly listen anyway, intent on returning to the seismic powerhouse Apple has delivered. So in a way, this is a good thing – had the universe chosen this week to give me something world-class, I may have missed its magic.

I’m glad to have the opportunity instead to point out a couple records that may have slipped through the cracks, but which brought me (and continue to bring me) joy. I’ve been thinking about the first one I have for you because I’ve been reminiscing about the two times I have seen Fiona Apple live. (Aw, remember concerts? Remember seeing other people in person?) The first was just after her debut album Tidal came out, when she joined Sarah McLachlan and others on the inaugural Lilith Fair. I liked her performance a lot, and enjoyed that she and her all-male band all wore dresses.

The second time was five years ago at City Winery in Nashville, as part of the Watkins Family Hour. Sean and Sara Watkins are two-thirds of bluegrass wonders Nickel Creek, and the Watkins Family Hour was their traveling sideshow of like-minded performers. They played mostly covers, as heard on their eponymous debut album, and Apple was one of the singers they tapped. (Others at the show I saw: the great Buddy Miller, the great Benmont Tench and the Secret Sisters. It was awesome.)

It also felt like a one-off, with both Watkins siblings exploring solo work in its wake. (Sara is also in supergroup I’m With Her.) So imagine my surprise when a second Watkins Family Hour album, called Brother Sister, showed up on my radar screen. This one is a lot different – where the first record felt more freewheeling, more ramshackle, this one plays like a polished suite of songs. Where the first record dove into influences, this one is mostly original songs. Where the debut was often more about the guest players, this one is about the Watkins siblings and how they work together.

But forget all that, because this record is gorgeous. However we get these songs, under whatever name the Watkinses want to give them to us, it’s a beautiful gift. “Just Another Reason” is a perfect reason all by itself to treasure this record. Written by the siblings and featuring drums by the superb Matt Chamberlain, the song is a sprightly ode to burning down what holds you back, and leaving it behind. Sean and Sara intertwine their voices beautifully. This one takes flight at the first note and never comes back down.

The seven original songs on Brother Sister run the gamut of emotions. Opener “The Cure” is a slow, folksy number about rising up despite oneself. The wonderful “Lafayette” aches with nostalgia and regret, the harmonies slipping right into your heart. “Fake Badge Real Gun” is as angry as its title, taking on vigilante justice with some sharp verses: “You only see a battle won, you’ll never know the damage you’ve done…” And there are two instrumentals, which showcase the siblings’ interplay on their instruments, Sara’s fiddle snaking around Sean’s guitar, the two acting as one. (There’s a jam at the end of “Miles of Desert Sand” that shows this off as well.)

Three covers round things out, and my favorite of them is Warren Zevon’s classic “Accidentally Like a Martyr.” Zevon’s version is rougher around the edges, but somehow Sara evokes more emotion from one of Zevon’s best lines: “The hurt gets worse and the heart gets harder.” The siblings close things out with Charley Jordan’s “Keep it Clean,” which has the live-in-a-room feel of much of the first record. This one even brings John C. Reilly (yes, Dewey Cox himself) in to shout along.

Brother Sister is short – just over half an hour – but it covers a lot of ground, and by the end of it I’m ready to take the ride again. If this is the start of a new collaborative effort between Sean and Sara, focused on their own songs and performances, consider me on board. I love to hear these two play and sing together, and these songs are so good that I want more right away. I hope we get more soon.

I’ve also been thinking about artistic evolutions, and about songwriters who grow up before our eyes. Naturally I’m referring to Apple again, who has come to her own summit with Bolt Cutters, maturing as a writer and producer in surprising and delightful ways. But I’m also thinking about our second contestant this week, Vanessa Carlton. Among my friends I have a reputation for sticking with artists long after most people forget about them, and I do that to track evolutions like the one Carlton has undergone. In this case it has been more than worth it.

Eighteen years ago, Carlton burst onto the scene with “A Thousand Miles,” as perfect a pop single as I have ever heard. She was 22 at the time, and from the evidence of her lavishly produced debut Be Not Nobody, she was intent on making a splash. And I think she kept that idea of her own work in her mind through her third album, the energetic Heroes and Thieves, five years later. Her first three records are of a piece, and while they are fine slices of piano-pop, she hasn’t sounded like “A Thousand Miles” since.

No, since then, Carlton has focused on making strange, intimate, singular albums of uncommon beauty. Her sixth, Love is an Art, is one of her strangest, most intimate and most beautiful. Produced by Dave Fridmann, who has spent much of his career capturing the odd whimsy of the Flaming Lips, Love is an Art takes a few listens to truly sink in. Nothing here does what you expect it to, songs are built on the smallest and most minimal of foundations, then build to towering climaxes. Carlton’s still-youthful voice never drives this thing – her vocals blend into the beds of pianos and synths, part of the sound instead of apart from it.

In short, it sounds nothing like anything she’s done. But sink into it, allow its many detours to map themselves for you in your mind, and it reveals itself as her finest work. Its songs are small things, tiny dollops of wisdom with strong melodies that don’t trumpet themselves. If you’re looking for a pop hit, there isn’t one. But if you want little moments of stunning beauty – the harmonies on “Back to Life,” for instance, or the swirling crescendo in “I Know You Don’t Mean It” – well, this album is full of them.

The individual songs are much less emphasized than the whole experience here – witness the minute-long “Patience,” and how it leads perfectly into the pretty “The Only Way to Love” – but multiple listens will show the songs to be uncommonly strong too. I’m a fan of “Die Dinosaur,” her fierce anti-boomer anthem, but I’m more a fan of the in-love-with-life pieces here, like “Companion Star” and the title track. The aforementioned “The Only Way to Love” has one of the record’s most soaring choruses, but a song like the closing “Miner’s Canary” ends up sticking with you just as much.

Carlton will be 40 this year, and she has grown into an artist who doesn’t care whether you like her work or not. You can hear that freedom from expectation all over this record – she’s grown beyond the twenty-something pop star she once seemed to want to be. You just don’t make a record like Love is an Art if you’re invested in popularity or acclaim. You make a record like Love is an Art for yourself, because you have to, because this is how the world sings its song through you. I’m so glad she’s following her own muse, and I hope to follow her for many years to come.

Next week, I have no idea. It’s the rare week with no new music I’m interested in. We’ll see what I come up with.

See you in line Tuesday morning.