Am I the only person in the world who doesn’t get Frank Ocean?

I’ll admit up front that my usual allergy to hype applies here. I’m struggling to think of an artist who deserves that hype less than Ocean, though. Channel Orange was passable, even if long sections of it felt like an aimless meander, and yet it was hailed as some kind of new-soul masterpiece, and Ocean declared the savior of modern music. All that for a record that I would describe as, you know, fine. Now four years later we have his follow-up, Blonde (or Blond, depending on if you believe the iTunes listing or the album cover), and the hype machine is in overdrive again.

And this one really, truly sucks. Save for a few tracks, it’s devoid of even Channel Orange’s charms. Ocean built this album out of formless acoustic guitar moods and directionless singing, and the result sounds like he worked it up in four days rather than four years. It’s honestly a mess, so I can’t quite understand the four-star reviews and nine-out-of-ten scores it’s been racking up. I’ve even seen people praise Ocean’s “innovative” technique of using pitch-shifters on his voice to sound like different characters, as if Prince hadn’t been doing that for 30 years. Blond(e) might be a particularly personal statement from its author, as some have said. But it’s a chore to get through.

If this were the future of soulful pop music, I would despair. But I know it isn’t. There are much stronger examples all the time of musicians who take the soul template and send it new places. Hell, I’m not the world’s biggest Blood Orange fan – Dev Hynes tries a little too hard to sound like Prince without writing songs like Prince did – but he’s leagues better than Ocean. I have a pair of other examples this week, both British singers who have taken their basic cues from old-school soul-folk music but have put their own distinct stamp on them. And as further proof that this column lives and dies on recommendations, I wouldn’t have heard either of these records without the kind assistance of friends.

It was guitar player extraordinaire Noah Gabriel who turned me on to Michael Kiwanuka. At the tender age of 29, Kiwanuka has landed on a sound that is heavily indebted to Otis Redding and Marvin Gaye, yet thoroughly lush and modern. His second album, Love and Hate, is a massive leap in ambition over his first, yet it still centers on that phenomenal voice, deep and rich and conveying decades more experience than he has. Considering Noah’s recommendation, I wasn’t surprised to learn that Kiwanuka is a very good guitar player, but it’s his ability to transform the old Motown framework into new shapes that truly impresses here.

There is no better example than the opening song, “Cold Little Heart,” which stretches past 10 minutes. It opens with an extended orchestral introduction, building and building, adding in choirs and Kiwanuka’s searing lead guitar, until you might be forgiven for thinking that it’s an instrumental. But it isn’t – about three minutes in, the music crashes down, the acoustic guitar strums and Kiwanuka sings. And when he sings, he’s a commanding presence, taking charge of the intricate tower of sound he’s built as if it’s no big deal. Some singers might be too intimidated by the expanse of orchestral grandeur to take the reins, but Kiwanuka makes it sound effortless.

If you’re worried that there won’t be anything to dance to on this album, fear not. The first single, “Black Man in a White World,” is next, and it’s a relentless stomper. Over funky chords and a handclap beat, Kiwanuka spins a misfit tale with a socially relevant edge, the title phrase repeating like a mantra while disco strings glide in and out. Most of this album, though, is mid-tempo, allowing Kiwanuka to let loose vocally. “Place I Belong” is a Marvin Gaye-style stunner with big strings and unconventional percussion, but the core is Kiwanuka himself on piano and voice. When the high-voiced choir comes in, it’s surprising and beautiful.

Kiwanuka worked with Danger Mouse on much of this album, but you’d never know it. None of the producer’s usual tricks are here, and the album remains gloriously organic from start to finish. Danger Mouse (whose momma calls him Brian Burton) co-wrote several of the best songs here, including the lush title track. Oddly, he had nothing to do with the most Danger Mouse track here, the driving “One More Night,” with its tripping beat and tasty horns. The back third of the album is particularly impressive, beginning with the powerful “Rule the World,” sliding through the simple yet compelling “Father’s Child” and concluding with the sweet, bluesy “The Final Frame.” All of these songs pile on the arrangements, but Kiwanuka’s strong voice rises above them and elevates them, and he gets a chance to solo with abandon in the album’s final minutes.

Love and Hate is a powerfully confident piece of work, a second album that shoots for the stars. Michael Kiwanuka has remained true to his roots, but has used those roots to feed a towering tree, one that expands on and opens up his old-school sound, taking it new places. It’s impressive, and it will stay with you.

Also making her second album is Laura Mvula, who is only one year older than Kiwanuka. I owe Kevin Munday for tipping me off to Mvula’s awesome first album, Sing to the Moon, three years ago. Mvula’s unique style took soulful boomers like “Green Garden” and “That’s Alright” and brought a new worldview to them. Her style is fussy and intricate, yet still full of feeling. I will admit, though, to being initially underwhelmed by her sophomore effort, The Dreaming Room. I found it more fussy and less emotional than I wanted. It came out in June, and it’s taken me this long to review it, which is rarely a good sign.

It is in this case, though. The Dreaming Room is certainly a weirder and less immediate work than its predecessor, and it took time to sink in. The key, for me, was Nina Simone. Specifically, finding out that Mvula had hosted a BBC show about Simone, detailing her favorite songs. Once I knew what an influence Simone had been, everything fell into place. Mvula’s sound is nothing like Simone’s – the jazz great used pianos and organic instruments, while Mvula prefers electronic sounds and thick production – but her songs bear Simone’s fingerprints.

Mvula’s vocal melodies are all over the map, rising when you expect them to fall, jumping intervals, never doing what you think they will. That makes them less accessible, especially on this album, which Mvula co-produced herself. But listen to a song like “Lucky Man” and imagine Simone singing it at the piano, and it clicks. Ignore the waves of synth and the off-kilter percussion and listen for the song. It’s Nina Simone. This time Mvula has even taken to heart Simone’s tendency to be unsettling, to deliver songs that leave you unbalanced. Some of the tunes on The Dreaming Room, like “Let Me Fall” and the first single “Overcome,” are more straightforward. But songs like “Bread” and “Angel” don’t follow those rules, and it takes time to understand why they made sense in Mvula’s head.

Once this album takes hold, though, it stands up with her debut nicely, and even outdoes it in places. She opens things with a brief intro in which she declares her intention to be herself and do what she wants, and she certainly sticks with that throughout. Very few of these songs do what you think they will, but once you have the map of them in your mind, even stranger ones like “Kiss My Feet” (which starts in near-silence and explodes into a percussive flight through mid-air) come alive. “Show Me Love” plays like a hymn for most of its six-minute running time, its chorus shooting for that high falsetto at the strangest moments, and then it slides into an extended playout, Mvula scat-singing over glittering strings. That originally felt to me like unnecessarily extending what could have been one of the songs people gravitated to, but in context, that decision makes perfect sense.

Given all this, perhaps her strangest choice is to place the album’s one straight-arrow pop song, “Phenomenal Woman,” at the very end. On first listen, it felt like a reward for making it through 35 minutes of off-axis, off-kilter music, but now it feels like a planned release. Mvula sequences it after a brief phone conversation with her grandmother, who is clearly the inspiration for the song, and it sends the album off on a positive, danceable note. On an album with very few of those, “Phenomenal Woman” is a treat.

But I don’t want to downplay the rest of the album, which does a lot to define just who Laura Mvula is and will be as an artist. Like Kiwanuka, she’s taken her template – the one laid down by the great Nina Simone – and reinvented it. Now I realize what a beautiful record The Dreaming Room is, and I’d encourage anyone who recoils from it at first to give it a few spins and let it work its magic. You can keep Frank Ocean. This is the future.

Next time, De La Soul. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

My girlfriend really loves Needtobreathe.

I mean, she really loves them. Has called them her favorite band. Has already bought tickets for both of us to see them live in October. (To be fair, I’m making her go see Marillion with me the night before.) Knows all the lyrics, sings along with every song. Can wax eloquent about the deeper meaning behind songs like “Difference Maker” and about which album struck her the most, and why.

As an obsessive music fan, I love this. I can’t get enough of her excitement. I’m finding as I grow older that I don’t need to love what other people love to enjoy their love for those things. I’m also finding value in music I had unfairly dismissed. Thanks to my ever-patient girlfriend, I’m listening more to what she likes and finding what I like in it. (Nickelback would have been a deal-breaker, though. Just saying.)

So it’s because of her that I gave Needtobreathe’s sixth album, Hard Love, more than a cursory listen. In fact, I followed the whole journey of the record, listening to singles as they came out, most of them surprising me. I think the most interesting thing about Needtobreathe is that they seem to comfortably inhabit that space that plagued the 77s for their entire career on Christian labels: they’re too radio for church and too church for the radio.

Considering how much I love the 77s, obviously I think that’s a fine place to be. Most of the music coming out of that corner of the industry these days is simplistic and made for church worship bands to play. But you’ll never hear a church band play “Feet Don’t Fail Me Now,” for instance, or other songs off of NTB’s last record, the raucous Rivers in the Wasteland. And that goes double for most of the tunes on Hard Love, their most adventurous album. In fact, this one errs pretty hard in the other direction, eschewing the band’s Kings of Leon-style guitar-rock for big keyboards and big production.

And they pull it off, mostly. Perhaps the greatest divergence from their usual sound comes on the title track, which kicks off the record. It’s driven totally by synthesizers and electronic drums, much like the recent Tegan and Sara albums, and it reaches for the anthemic: “Hold on tight a little longer, what don’t kill you make you stronger…” It contains the first oblique reference to spirituality, Bear Rinehart singing “a part of you has got to die to change” and “you gotta burn your whole self away.” Save for one song, this is as church-y as the record gets.

Intriguingly, the band’s most mainstream-influenced effort contains several songs about the perils of chasing money and fame. Hell, they even call one song “Money and Fame,” and it’s a horn-driven swagger about finding “the bottom from the top somehow.” “Happiness” is nearly inscrutable, but I think it’s a half-hearted apology from a man choosing riches and security over his loved ones. “Be Here Long,” one of the most successful here, is about grief and realizing that we’re only here for a short time, and we should appreciate it. In a lot of ways, that’s what the lovely “Let’s Stay Home Tonight” and the massive closer “Clear” are about too – living for love, in the smallest and largest moments, and leaving everything else (like money and fame) behind.

In the midst of this there are several songs that are just a good time. “When I Sing” is a slinky piano-pounding love song that makes me bob my head in spite of myself. “Great Night” brings aboard folksy duo Shovels and Rope for a big ol’ rock song about dancing. “Don’t Bring That Trouble” is the most rocking thing here, Rinehart singing about the burden of carrying someone who won’t help themselves. One thing you’ll find about Hard Love is that it’s quick: aside from the single speed bump, the bitter acoustic interlude “No Excuses,” it fires like a bullet and moves like a freight train.

The one nod here to modern worship music is “Testify,” which sounds a lot like the pseudo-Mumford stuff coming out of Nashville. But it would never pass muster – it doesn’t mention Jesus once, using language like “there is a peace, there is a love you can get lost inside” and “mist on the mountain rising from the ground, there’s no denying beauty makes a sound.” I remember a time in the CCM industry when being so oblique – merely pointing in the direction of the answer – was enough to get your album dropped, and coupling that with lines like “we don’t even need to put clothes on” from “Let’s Stay Home Tonight” would have caused a scandal.

It’s clear that Hard Love is an attempt to reach a wider audience, and I hope it works. It’s a solid, well-crafted, fun record that obviously took a long time and a good deal of money to make. But what I like best about it is that, while it is definitely a change toward a more crowd-pleasing direction, it still feels like the album they wanted to make. I’m interested to see where they go from here, and gratified that there still are bands walking that line between radio and church, and doing it as well as they are.

* * * * *

If there’s a band that knows all about walking that line, it’s Switchfoot.

Named after a surfing term for changing directions, Switchfoot started off in the Christian market in the late ‘90s before earning some mainstream success in 2003 with their major-label debut The Beautiful Letdown. Over the next five albums they proved to be masters at the somewhat-spiritual pop song, never writing anything for the worship band but never letting go of their roots either. Their last album, Fading West, was the emptiest and poppiest thing they had done, a clear example of falling off the balance beam.

I’m happy to report that they’re right back on it with their tenth long-player, Where the Light Shines Through. Produced by the band, this one has them sounding more like five guys playing in a room than they have in some time. There’s still a sheen to it, and a bunch of electronic elements, but more of a rock edge than we’ve heard from them in several albums. The pop single, “Float,” is one of the most interesting they’ve given us. It’s in 7/4, an odd time signature, but it’s so well-constructed that you won’t notice.

Much of the rest of the record is made up of strong rock tunes. The title track is a loud anthem of brokenness: “Because your scars shine like dark stars, your wounds are where the light shines through…” “If the House Burns Down Tonight” skips ahead on a double-time beat and a rebel love: “If the house burns down tonight I got everything I need with you by my side, so let the rest burn…” “Looking for America” is a real surprise, a socially conscious state of the nation featuring rapper Lecrae. “The doors are locked where they once stood open, a wound of fear where we once stood hoping…”

There are certainly low points. “Bull in a China Shop” probably shouldn’t have seen the light of day, and “Live it Well” is pretty boring radio fluff. But overall this is a very strong Switchfoot record, and leader Jon Foreman seems to have been emboldened by the material. Foreman is always more ready to frankly discuss his faith on his solo albums (of which he has many), but he’s right up front on this album, singing about his conversion on “The Day That I Found God” and what it all means to him on “Hope is the Anthem,” the closer.

There’s an honesty to it that I love – the band is on Vanguard Records, so no one is making Foreman sing about his faith. For a band that lives in both worlds, though, it’s interesting to hear Switchfoot tackle spirituality in such a forthright way. Not that they’ve avoided it in the past, but their last few efforts seem even more hollow in comparison to this one. Where the Light Shines Through is my favorite Switchfoot album in ten years, and hopefully the start of a new string of good ones.

* * * * *

Unlike both of the above artists, Kevin Max has Christian rock bona fides.

As one-third of DC Talk, Max lived through the stricter, more ridiculous ‘80s and ‘90s in the Christian music industry. DC Talk is best known for a very silly, yet irresistibly singable album called Jesus Freak (and for shedding their hip-hop skin as grunge came along, morphing into a loud guitar band with surprising success). Since the trio’s breakup, Toby Mac has become a terrible Jesus-pop superstar and Michael Tait has stepped in as lead singer of the awful, awful Newsboys.

But Max was always the more artistically driven of the group, and his solo career has been a strange wonder to behold. His voice was always the most interesting of the three, channeling Simon le Bon and other ‘80s new romantics, and over eight surprising records, he’s carved out a fascinating little niche. His latest, Playing Games with the Shadow, dives full bore into Duran Duran territory, and fully explores his ambitions.

And I never would have expected it, but Max has entered that rarified group of artists who grew out of the CCM industry and have transcended it. Much of this record is abstract, preferring to leave snatches of lyric open to interpretation. Plenty of it could be called spiritual, but you have to dig for it and puzzle it out. Max has allied himself here with musicians like John Mark Painter (Fleming and John, Steve Taylor’s band), Steve Hindalong (The Choir) and Lynn Nichols (Chagall Guevara), and while it’s possible he draws inspiration from them, this is the most Kevin Max album yet – he wrote every song and played many of the electronic instruments.

And songs like “Girl with the Tiger Eyes” and “Election” are the best he’s given us. “Election,” especially, is a winner – it stomps along confidently, spinning its tale of insiders and outsiders. “I’d rather hide out in bars with the misfits and ghouls than pretend I’ve found a home in that social club with robotic and judgmental fools,” Max sings, putting quite a fine point on it. He writes a song for William Blake that rivals the one Terry Taylor wrote in 1985, digging into the poet’s tendency to see visions. “Muzick is Magic” sounds like Franz Ferdinand, Hindalong kicking up a storm on drums.

“Panic Button” is the only nod to his Jesus-rock past, with its chorus of “push the panic button, let go and let God in.” But even that is a delightful disco romp, one of the best melodically, and miles away from what you’d find on CCM radio. I have a strange soft spot for this corner of the music world, and for its survivors. I’m gratified that Kevin Max is one of them, and that he’s free to follow his vision. Playing Games with the Shadow is a genuine surprise, a full-blooded, totally weird album from a guy I hope keeps making them.

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

See you in line Tuesday morning.

This is my 800th Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. column, and I have nothing special planned.

That’s kind of fitting, though, I think. When I started this silly music column back in November of 2000, I didn’t even think I’d still be doing it six months later, let alone nearly 16 years. I’ve never had a life plan, never really thought things out too far beyond the year I’m in. There are certainly flaws in that philosophy. I could be saving more for retirement than I am, for instance. But having no plan has led me on a fascinating journey so far, culminating in my current job as part of the communication team at the country’s biggest and best particle physics laboratory. Be honest, those of you who knew me when: could you ever have predicted that? Me neither.

In fact, the area of my life for which I do the most advance planning is music. I have a cultural calendar that stretches out a couple years, full of albums and concerts I’m anticipating. I started keeping track as a way to stave off depression – “Look! Tori Amos will have a new album in September! Don’t be sad!” While it still somewhat serves this purpose (though I don’t need it to nearly as much as I used to), now it’s a series of milestones I look forward to. (There are other non-musical things on there as well. Doctor Who returns in December, for example.)

In the absence of any other plan for this column, I figured I’d take a look at that cultural calendar and point out some things still to come this year that I’m excited about. For me, that’s what this is still about – staying excited about music. I promised some time ago that I would never turn into one of those old people who only listens to the music that made him feel good at 17. Granted, I still do listen to a lot of that, but I’ve kept my vow to try new things, to stay as close to the curve as I can, to listen without prejudice.

And yet, the records I am most looking forward to before the end of the year are mainly longtime favorites making long-awaited returns. That’s just the way the calendar has shaken out. Here are six upcoming albums that have me doubled over in anticipation, counting the days until I can hear them. Here are six upcoming albums that I hope will be good enough to make it to my list in December. Here are six upcoming reasons to love life.

De La Soul, And the Anonymous Nobody, Aug. 26

You can keep your Drakes and your Kanyes. The hip-hop album I am most looking forward to this year heralds the return of the daisy age. Posdnous, Mase and Dave are always worth hearing – even their most fallow records, like AOI: Bionix, sport some strong rhymes and some creative production. This new one, though, promises to be something special. Funded through Kickstarter, this album represents a new lease on life for the trio, and the songs I’ve heard are remarkably weird, jazzy and interesting. When they’re at their best, De La is unstoppable. Here’s hoping And the Anonymous Nobody finds them at their best.

The Dear Hunter, Act V: Hymns for the Devil in Confessional, Sept. 9

I love surprises. The fact that Casey Crescenzo recorded the fifth act of his six-act story at the same time as the fourth, and didn’t tell anyone, only heightens my anticipation for this thing. If you’re not familiar with the Dear Hunter, mastermind Crescenzo has been telling a long and complex story over multiple albums full of riveting, intricate, lushly orchestrated music. At this point, the story has such a narrative force that I’m almost more excited to hear what happens next than to hear what new melodic wonders are in store. Luckily, Crescenzo has delivered both, if the first two singles are any indication. There’s nothing like the Dear Hunter, and I’m thrilled that we get a new chapter so quickly.

Marillion, Fuck Everyone and Run, Sept. 23

Probably my most anticipated album of the year. Marillion never sits still, and never makes the same music twice. As you can tell from the album title, they’re also pretty fearless, and from all accounts they’ve made a strongly political piece of work here. This album’s five songs stretch to 70 minutes, with multiple movements and sections, and I’m expecting a difficult and bold effort, one that will probably take me several listens to appreciate. (I supported this on PledgeMusic, and the band has already let backers hear the 16:45 “The New Kings.” It’s about the one percent, and it’s definitely taken many listens to really dig into.) Marillion is one of my very favorite bands, and they seem proud of this one, both for the music and for what it says. Very much looking forward to seeing the band in Chicago in October as well.

Bon Iver, 22, A Million, Sept. 30

Speaking of never sitting still, is there another musician harder to get a handle on than Justin Vernon? He started out as a backwoods folkie, tore that image apart with his self-titled album, made a bunch of unlikely guest appearances (he’s on two Kanye West albums), then disappeared for a few years. Now he’s back with the oddly titled 22, A Million (with its even odder tracklist), and the two songs he’s let slip from this project are unlike anything he’s done. Bizarre in an almost off-putting way, yet somehow exactly right, these new songs are barely there, held together by threads. That they’re the first two songs on the record only makes me more curious. I never know what to expect, and that’s thrilling for me.

S U R V I V E, RR7349, Sept. 30

This is a brand new discovery, and I’m not alone, I’m sure. If you watched Netflix’s Stranger Things, you’ve heard S U R V I V E. Their distinctly ‘80s synth score is one of the most important elements of that show, and naturally I’m salivating to hear a full album of this stuff from them. The sounds this band conjures up take me right back to my youth. Like the show, I predict this album will be the surprise hit of my year.

Tom Chaplin, The Wave, Oct. 14

I spoke last week about things I never expected to hear, and this solo album from Keane’s golden-voiced frontman is one of them. Since leaving the band, Chaplin has been drowning in addiction, and after getting clean, he wrote this record to tell the tale. I’ve heard a couple songs, and while they don’t scale the same melodic heights as Keane, they’re dark and memorable pop tunes. Most of all, I missed Tom Chaplin’s voice, and I’m glad he’s righted his ship and given me this chance to hear it again. I expect an emotional trip.

There’s more, of course – I am planning to buy sixty-some new records before the end of the year, and I hope many of them will surprise me. (New things by Suzanne Vega, Devin Townsend, Flock of Dimes and that collaboration between Rostam and Hamilton Leithauser lead the second tier.) There’s always more music, always more hope.

When I started TM3AM, I intended it as a travelogue, a recounting of the journey of an obsessive music fan. I began writing it for me, and I still do. I have a nice comfortable readership, but I don’t do any promotion, and I expect the people who are reading now are the same ones who have been reading for years. I’m immensely grateful for all of you, and for the friendships I have made through writing this thing. While I still think of this as my musical diary, it’s not a closed system, and I wouldn’t have made it through 800 of these things without you. So thank you.

Next week, number 801. True to form, I have no plan. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I have a pretty long list of improbable things I expect I’ll never hear.

The Cure’s 4:14 Scream, the “dark” half of their bubblier 4:13 Dream? Probably never happening. Another 50 States album by Sufjan Stevens? Unlikely. Saviour Machine’s Legend III:II? I would bet money that I will never hear that. And until a couple weeks ago, the return of Peter Garrett was on that list.

Like a lot of people, I figured I’d never hear Garrett’s singing voice again. I was an enormous fan of his band, Midnight Oil. I came aboard at the same time most people in this country did: with the video for “Beds Are Burning,” off of their landmark 1987 album Diesel and Dust. I was 13 years old and just gaining an appreciation for a well-written, hard-charging song, and “Beds Are Burning” is certainly that. I didn’t know at the time that it was a calmer piece of work for the band, nor did I fully grasp its political and ecological themes. But the song was great.

As my experience of the world grew, so did my appreciation for Midnight Oil. They were, unequivocally, one of the best political rock bands ever. Even their more placid material – and there’s plenty of that on Diesel and Dust and its follow-up, Blue Sky Mining – is propelled by an urgency, a sense of purpose, a clear and present message. Much of that urgency is wrapped up in Garrett, their imposing bald frontman, a wild presence with a voice that only works by sheer force of will. It’s a powerful, unconventional thing, cutting through even the loudest din the rest of the Oils made, and really shining in a live context.

I stayed with Midnight Oil past the point where many left them behind, and it was very much worth it. 1998’s Redneck Wonderland is a powerhouse, incorporating the electronic elements in vogue at the time without losing what made the band special, and 2002’s Capricornia took a softer tack, providing a quiet capper on their career. When the band broke up, Garrett became one of the few political singers to truly put his money where his mouth is: he served in the Australian House of Representatives from 2004 to 2013. For much of that, he was the Minister for Environmental Protection, Heritage and the Arts, continuing the environmental work he undertook as president of the Australian Conservation Foundation.

And I figured that was it. Garrett would live the rest of his life in politics, never venturing back into music. As the years ticked by, the possibility of a Midnight Oil reunion or a new Garrett project grew dimmer. The man is 63 this year, and he seemed quite happy with his second act. I couldn’t possibly begrudge him that, no matter how much I wanted new music from him.

So when Garrett dropped his first solo album, A Version of Now, out of nowhere, it was one of the best surprises of my year. I paid import price for it – 25 dollars for 35 minutes – and as Garrett himself sings here, I’d do it again. In fact, I’d have paid that price just for the first song. “Tall Trees” is as swaggering a return as I could have hoped for, Garrett declaring “I’m back” while his crack band (including Oils guitarist Martin Rotsey) sways behind him. It’s loud and abrasive and catchy as hell, and sets the tone nicely for the rest of the record.

A Version of Now was clearly made quickly, in a rush of creativity. Its seven new songs detail where Garrett is now, and they do it loudly and proudly. “I’d Do It Again” serves as a look back at his political career: “While all the glory hunters were basking in fake smiles, twisted egos and ambitions mile after mile, I went to find a quiet place away from the madding mob, to try and make a difference, get on with the job…” “No Placebo” indicates his commitment, his promise not to walk away: “Mixed up nation, no deceiving, high land dry land I’m not leaving…” The punky “Kangaroo Tail” is a love letter to the Blue Mountains in Australia: “So many places I wanted to know, ended up dreaming of you, so many places I happened to see, ended up thinking of you and me…” “Only One” is a clear indication of Garrett’s confidence – it’s a slinky blues, and if there’s anything he’s not known for, it’s being slinky. But he pulls it off.

The album also includes two older Midnight Oil songs that never saw the light of day. The best of them is “Great White Shark,” written with Rotsey and second Oils guitarist Jim Moginie. All of these songs have hooks, but this one has the magic of Garrett’s old band, jumping from one hummable moment to another, wrapped up in biting guitars. Garrett’s voice hasn’t aged a day here – if anything he sounds better, more controlled, and when the gang vocals come in (“I want to be there and I want to breathe, I want to be whole and I want to be free”), it’s very much like listening to a great lost Midnight Oil track. The other, “Homecoming,” doesn’t quite hit those heights, but it’s a swell song that fits in nicely here.

I would be willing to wager that even if this record went through a hundred permutations in its short gestation period, it always opened with “Tall Trees,” and it always closed with “It Still Matters.” The closing anthem is so good, so perfectly Peter Garrett after all this time, that I smiled for an hour and a half after hearing it. The song’s spoken verses restate Garrett’s belief in his environmental and political causes (“Across a windswept open plain some still go against the grain…”) and ties it into a bow in the best way: “There is dignity, there is hope, there is light at the end of the road, and it still matters to me, I hope it matters to you…”

It does, Peter. More than it did when I first heard that voice. I’m pretty grateful for a lot of things this year, musically speaking, but “Tall Trees” and “It Still Matters” may be two of the songs I am most grateful for. I hear now that Midnight Oil may be reforming next year, and as much as I love A Version of Now, that news does my heart good. I’m still in disbelief that I lived to hear Peter Garrett’s voice again, and now I might get to hear the full band? Life is beautiful. Welcome back, Peter. Welcome back.

Next week, my 800th column. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

A couple weeks ago I waxed ecstatic about Steve Hindalong and his new solo album The Warbler. This week I’m going to do the same for his longtime partner in crime, Derri Daugherty. Not to be outdone, Daugherty has three new albums out this week, and they’re all wonderful.

I’ve been in love with Daugherty’s voice since I first heard it at age 16. I’ve mentioned the Choir’s phenomenal Circle Slide so many times in this space, but it all comes back to that album for me. I bought it on a whim, and my life has never been the same. The first thing you hear when you cue up Circle Slide is a quick Hindalong drum roll, and then Daugherty’s guitar just fills up whatever room you’re in. It’s thick and dripping with reverb and impossibly huge. And then his voice comes in, clear and high and dreamy. “Imagine one perfect circle above the stratosphere…” That’s literally all it took.

And over the next 26 years, Daugherty has remained one of my favorite singers and guitar players. The Choir has made 14 albums, and there isn’t a catalog in modern music I like more than I like this one. Daugherty has given us two solo projects, joined fellow spiritual pop luminaries in the Lost Dogs for ten records, and recently started a side project called Kerosene Halo with guitar god Mike Roe of the 77s. There’s a lot of Derri Daugherty material out there, is what I’m saying, and I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend virtually all of it.

And that absolutely holds true for his three new releases, all of which are out on Lo-Fidelity Records, run by my friend Jeffrey Kotthoff. The first two resurrect Kerosene Halo, Daugherty’s traditional country-pop duo with Mike Roe. The new full-length Kerosene Halo album is called House on Fire, and was funded through a successful Kickstarter campaign. The first Kerosene Halo record was a quiet acoustic affair, full of beautiful covers. (Hearing Daugherty and Roe sing Tom Waits’ “The Bottom of the World” and Richard Thompson’s “The Dawning of the Day,” though? Amazing.) This one is almost entirely original tunes, and it features a full band, including the great Phil Madeira on guitar.

The difference is immediately striking. House on Fire is rich and full, like a great Buddy Miller album. It’s soaked in traditional country, with glorious harmonies and fiddles and mandolins, but it also sounds right now, vital and lively. Before the Lost Dogs, I never thought Daugherty’s voice would fit this kind of material, but it does brilliantly – his high tenor complements Roe’s darker, lower tones, and when they sing together it warms my little heart. Old-school songs like “Hear That Whistle Cry” sit next to pop wonderamas like Hindalong’s “Sweet Girl” and louder, swampy numbers like “Bring It On.” (I’m a huge fan of the moments when Roe and Daugherty sing sweetly over abrasive, charged music. There’s something about the contrast that kills me.)

There are two songs here that might be familiar. First is “Beautiful Girl,” which the Choir recorded as a bonus track on their last album Shadow Weaver. This version suits the song a lot more, giving it an acoustic lilt and some swell pedal steel accents. It works as a heartland love song. The other is a gorgeous cover of Steve Earle’s “Every Part of Me” – Roe sings it from the heart. “I can’t promise anything except that my last breath will bear your name…” The other cover is more obscure: Chris Taylor’s “Goodnight Goodnight,” from his 2014 album Daylight. (Taylor’s another of those undeservedly obscure songwriters, and I’ll talk more about him in a week or two.)

It’s the originals here that really make it, though, particularly those co-written by Madeira. I’m especially fond of “Come On Out,” a classic tale of old west spirituality that sounds like the Firefly score, and is perfect for Mike Roe. My favorite may well be “The Ghost of Johnny Cash,” which was previously recorded by Shawn Mullins. It’s similar – lots of fiddles, sung by Roe – but it’s deeper somehow, more meaningful. Roe sings of a trip through hell, and the guide bringing him through: “Sitting in the stern singing hymns and talking trash is my broken guardian angel, the ghost of Johnny Cash…” It’s dark and hopeful and mesmerizing. “He’s still flipping off the Pharisees and laughing at Ol’ Scratch, and he haunts the halls of Heaven, the ghost of Johnny Cash…”

I’m beyond happy with House on Fire – it was worth the wait and then some. But the band didn’t stop there. One of their Kickstarter reward levels allowed funders to choose songs for them to cover, and they’ve compiled those covers on an entirely separate album called Live Simple. Roe and the 77s did the same thing a couple years ago on an album called Gimme a Kickstart and a Phrase or Two, and that was terrific. Live Simple isn’t as vast, but it’s easily as lovely. It’s mostly Roe and Daugherty and a couple acoustic guitars, going full Everly Brothers.

As usual in these situations, there are some fascinating choices and some perplexing ones. Among my favorites are a moody version of Echo and the Bunnymen’s “Bring On the Dancing Horses” and a strange yet winning take on “Bendy Line,” a song on the Prayer Chain’s unjustly obscure album Mercury. I couldn’t imagine the Kerosene Halo versions of these songs before I heard them, but now they make perfect sense. I also love what they did with Future of Forestry’s “If You Find Her” and Ryan Adams’ “La Cienega Just Smiled.”

I’m not sure I needed another version of Tom Petty’s “Learning to Fly” or the Beatles’ “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” and closer “That’s Where Jesus Is” seems particularly strange considering it’s a Lost Dogs tune, so we’ve heard Roe and Daugherty sing it before. But I’ll definitely praise their take on T-Bone Burnett’s “River of Love,” and when Roe cranks up the electric guitars on a stonking version of Buddy Holly’s “Not Fade Away,” it’s a nice surprise. Live Simple is more like the first Kerosene Halo album, all covers and all performed by Roe and Daugherty, and it’s a delightful little bonus to the main record.

Speaking of bonuses, we have my hands-down favorite of the three. While finishing up House on Fire, Daugherty recorded a whole new solo album called Hush Sorrow. He kept it under wraps, as did everyone he worked with – my good friend Jeff Elbel, who produced parts of it and played on other parts, didn’t breathe a word of it to me. It was a complete surprise, and a wonderfully welcome one. Hush Sorrow combines three ambient instrumentals with seven glorious covers, all soaked in reverb and led by Daugherty’s heart-melting voice.

More covers, I hear you cry? But these work to a theme, and together they are remarkably moving. Hush Sorrow is about dealing with loss and finding solace in spirituality. It opens (after the first instrumental) with one of the most stunning things I’ve heard this year: Daugherty’s cover of “All the Right Reasons,” by the Jayhawks. It’s nothing like the country-folk of Kerosene Halo – this (and all of Hush Sorrow) incorporates Daugherty’s trademark ambient, floaty guitar, and it sounds like it’s levitating six inches off the ground, weightless. And yet, it packs an emotional wallop.

Throughout this album, Daugherty chooses songs about rising up through pain, dealing with misery, leaving burdens in the hands of God. The title track is a Buddy and Julie Miller song, from the album Written in Chalk, and it’s about silencing dark feelings. Daugherty sings it with grace, and he brings that same grace to “I Still Believe,” an anthem originally by the Call. That may be my favorite thing here, but then it might be the version of Richard Thompson’s “Withered and Died,” or the plaintive plea that is Mary Gauthier’s “Mercy Now.”

Hush Sorrow gets a lot of mileage on its cumulative effect, and on the fact that it’s Derri Daugherty playing and singing these wonderful songs. I’m not sure what inspired this, or how it came to be, but I’m incredibly grateful that it exists. Daugherty is working on another full solo album now for release next year, and given that he made Hush Sorrow quickly and it’s this good, I can’t wait for the real deal. Derri Daugherty remains one of my very favorite singers and players. I like a lot of music, but for more than two decades, Daugherty has made the music I most want to hear, the music that speaks to me most, and I feel very lucky to have found him.

You can buy all of these records from Lo-Fidelity here. As a small note here at the end, you’ll also find a brand new live album from Mike Roe called Gothic at that link, and it’s also fantastic. It documents a night with a crack band in Denver in 2001, which was preceded by exactly no rehearsal. It’s loose and fun and shows what a great guitar player Roe is. There are three new studio tracks (two covers, one original) at the end, too. I’d recommend it, along with all the Mike Roe and 77s material you find on sale from Lo-Fidelity.

And I should probably mention that the Choir, Derri Daugherty’s main band, has just released their definitive live album and DVD, called Live and On the Wing in Music City. I’ve seen a lot of Choir shows, and this is a very good one. If you want a quick way to find out what I’ve been talking about all these years, you could do worse. Buy it from the Choir site here.

Next week, the legendary Peter Garrett returns from exile. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

It’s genuinely difficult to pick a favorite member of Nickel Creek.

Chris Thile is a once-in-a-generation musician, of course, able to do things on a mandolin that even the creators of the instrument couldn’t have foreseen. His band Punch Brothers is one of the most impressive collectives of progressive-minded bluegrass players ever assembled. You’d think he would be the easy favorite, but no. The Watkins siblings, Sean and Sara, may not be as supernaturally talented, but they are superb songwriters, players and singers, and their individual takes on the style of bluegrass-folk-pop that Nickel Creek traffics in are refreshing, shorn of some of the off-putting complexities of Thile’s work.

Both Sean and Sara Watkins have released solo albums this year, and both of those albums are splendid, while being markedly different from one another. Sean Watkins’ dark and brooding What to Fear is his best, a moody affair about liars and philanderers and the state of the country. Now here is Sara Watkins with her third solo effort, Young in All the Wrong Ways, and it’s bold and ambitious and hopeful, even when it’s angry. It’s an album that effortlessly straddles all the different types of music Watkins has made in her career, melding them into a vision of pop music that is thoroughly organic.

Within the first three songs, in fact, Watkins jumps from the loud electric explosion of the title track to the slow and peaceful “The Love That Got Away” to the more bluegrass-inflected “One Last Time,” and remarkable as it may seem, all three share space on this record with ease. “Move Me,” the soaring first single, is a gloriously loud pop tune, and Watkins’ voice is passionate and strong. “I want you to move me, but you just keep the peace…” It’s an awesome song, a true standout here, and yet it fits nicely between “One Last Time” and the quiet, simple “Like New Year’s Day.”

Watkins sounds comfortable, even energized, by the different types of music she tackles here. Perhaps her finest moment is “Say So,” a song co-written by the great Dan Wilson. It’s one of the poppier songs, led by a strumming acoustic and a shimmying beat, and her vocals here are delightful. It’s also one of the most hard-won: “Hope is where you say it is, deep as you can dig for it, when you’re ready to begin, say so, just say so…” That hope suffuses the record. Yes, there are lost-love stories like the traditional country number “The Truth Won’t Set Us Free,” but they’re matched and outshone by lovely pieces like the closer, “Tenderhearted,” a paean to those who let love in: “They’ve had loss and been broken, more than we will ever know, but it’s the tenderhearted who let life overflow…”

Part of the reason Young in All the Wrong Ways impresses is the team Watkins has assembled to help her realize it. She’s been in the game a long time and developed relationships with some of the best players around: Jay Bellerose, Jon Brion, Aoife O’Donovan, Sarah Jarosz, Jim James, Benmont Tench and Punch Brothers Gabe Witcher, Chris Eldridge, Paul Kowert and Noam Pikelny. Witcher produced the album, and Watkins co-wrote with Wilson and Switchfoot frontman Jon Foreman. But the truly impressive part is that it’s Watkins – her songs, her voice – that holds this dream team together, and molds them into a perfect portrait of her own talent and vision. I may never be able to pick a favorite member of Nickel Creek, but as long as all three keep putting out music of this caliber, I’m happy I don’t have to.

* * * * *

Speaking of individual visions, there’s Natasha Khan. Her one-woman project Bat for Lashes has always been fascinating, marrying a strong Kate Bush influence with an affinity for grand concepts. This has never been more true than now, on Bat for Lashes’ fourth album, The Bride. I’m not sure I’m ready to call it her best – that honor probably still goes to the glorious Two Suns – but The Bride is a beautiful and tragic piece of work, an exploration of heartache, loss and healing.

Yes, it’s a concept album, the story of a bride whose fiancé dies in a car crash on the way to their wedding. She decides to honeymoon alone, and spends the second half of the album learning to cope with her loss and her new life. The record begins and ends at peace, but Khan puts you through an emotional wringer in between. Her voice, always haunted and forlorn, is in top form on this album, making you feel every painful and longing word.

As you might expect, none of this is subtle. The album opens with “I Do,” a brief moment of bliss on the eve of the bride’s wedding. “In God’s House” finds her waiting at the church for her fiance, and receiving the news of his death. “Honeymooning Alone” begins the emotional heart of the record: “Your empty seat by my side, if I drive far enough, will I find my love?” “Sunday Love” is the most propulsive piece here, the closest thing to a single: “Even though I’m falling apart, I want Sunday love in my heart…” The song skips forward on a trippy beat and glittering synths, yet Khan’s voice keeps it melancholy.

As much as I like the concept, and the forward momentum it provides the first half of this record, I also like that it’s basically an excuse for Khan to write six songs in a row about losing someone you love, and working through the pain. These six songs are the core of the album, and among the best that Khan has ever penned. They’re whispers, barely-there things that are bursting with feeling. “Never Forgive the Angels” is powerful, a single unmoving bass line with thick keyboards, Khan grieving in song: “Nightmares come and they don’t go, for my love is gone, and I will never forgive the angels for that…”

“Close Encounters” follows suit, but removes the bass line, leaving Khan to sing over her bed of sad strings and keys. “Widow’s Peak” is a spoken descent into the heart of darkness, the bride trying to outrun the widow that she knows she will have to be. The spare “Land’s End” and “If I Knew” feel like climbing through fog toward the light, and the light breaks through on “I Will Love Again,” a song that resonates even more fully at the end of this record. “I will turn it back around, I’ll be homeward bound,” she sings, and then with the peaceful “In Your Bed,” she proves that love is not out of her reach, that her hard battle with grief and loneliness was not in vain.

The Bride is not an easy album to listen to. It’s a difficult and painful journey, and Khan gives you no outs, no asides, no respites. It hurts. But it’s worth it. I don’t know what kind of loss Khan herself suffered that inspired this album, but she’s invited us to travel with her during her healing process, and undertook that process with searing honesty. This might very well be her best work, and I hope its quiet, understated nature doesn’t lead to it being ignored when it comes time to tally up the year’s best. It’s haunting and utterly captivating.

* * * * *

I’ve been waiting months for the Sara Watkins and Bat for Lashes albums, but my third contestant this week was a complete surprise.

Lauren Mann is a delightful songwriter I discovered at the Cornerstone Festival in 2010. In 2011, I bought her second album, Over Land and Sea, and loved it to pieces. Mann’s piano-led pop is unfailingly tuneful and memorable, romantic and optimistic. You can’t listen to Over Land and Sea and not come away with a song in your heart. Blessedly, the same is true of her third album, Dearestly, which she surprise-released online about a week ago. In fact, this one’s even better, even more soul-enriching.

I’m a fan of these surprise releases. In about 15 minutes I went from not even knowing that Lauren Mann had a new album in the works to enjoying it on my laptop, and that’s a completely different experience than anticipating and longing for a record you know is coming. It’s even better when the surprise album turns out to be not only excellent but so damn optimistic that you feel even more like dancing. I don’t think I’ve heard a more upbeat, pure-joy one-two-three punch this year than the one that opens Dearestly. “New Beginning,” “Brave Face” and “Beautiful Place” are all nimble, full-hearted tunes that will make you smile and sing along.

The rest of Dearestly is just as pretty, as in love with life, as its opening trilogy. I wouldn’t hesitate to use the word “dreamy” for much of this material – just listen to the long piano-and-backing-vocals coda on “Talk of Leaving,” and try not to get caught up in it. The wonderful chorus of “Hibernate,” the disco-inspired groove of “Make it Smooth,” the gorgeous piano and organ atmosphere of “Oregon,” the killer Suddenly Tammy-esque riff of “Show Me the Way,” the soaring “You Are Fire,” and on and on. There are just too many high points to mention. To my ears, the only misfire is the goofy “St. Lawrence,” and I even like that one.

I know, you’ve never heard of Lauren Mann. Well, you should fix that. You can download Dearestly for as much as you want to pay, or buy it on CD and vinyl, here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

When I was a kid, there was this bookstore called Bibles, Books and Things just two towns north on the highway. It was a Christian bookstore, but I was a Christian kid, one who hadn’t quite learned to feel out of place in environments like that. I don’t remember why or how I first was taken to this store, only that I was young enough to need to be taken. What I do very much remember is seeing the huge selection of music on cassette and CD, and knowing that this was music I couldn’t find anywhere else.

You see, for me, the bibles and the books were much less important than the things, and the things were cassette tapes. I must have bought 300 tapes from that store over the years, trying out bands and special-ordering and filling in holes in my collection. As far as I knew, Bibles, Books and Things was the only place on earth to get music by the likes of Daniel Amos or Bloodgood or Barren Cross or my once-and-forever favorite, The Choir. That this was an industry geared toward a customer base never entered into my head. For all I knew, these bands were making music just for me.

I should explain that in the ‘80s and ‘90s, so-called Christian music was much different than it is now. Sure, there have always been the saccharine purveyors of encouragement-pop, geared toward moms in their minivans (or whatever moms drove in the ‘80s and ‘90s). But there was also an extraordinary diversity outside of that mainstream, a creative and artistic freedom that some of these bands would never have been granted anywhere but this industry. That many of them also thoughtfully talked about faith and doubt and pain and redemption was a bonus for a kid just learning to do that himself. What I liked was the music.

And this was music no one else had heard. I admit to feeling some pleasure at that. I knew that when I brought Tourniquet albums to my metal-loving friends, there was no way they’d ever have heard of them otherwise. When I let my college-radio-loving friends hear the Choir and the Prayer Chain, two bands matching or outshining most of independent rock in those days, I knew I’d be the one introducing them to something amazing. It was so fulfilling. I felt like an explorer tasked with visiting uncharted lands and bringing back treasure.

I was also beginning my lifelong obsession with hearing new music, and it was at Bibles, Books and Things that I really decided to try everything I could. I listened to demos and bought cassettes in all genres, and that scattershot approach absolutely paid off. I once bought a PFR album called Goldie’s Last Day just because the title was fascinating, and they turned out to be a great pop-rock band with Beatlesque overtones. And as I’ve mentioned here before, I bought Circle Slide by the Choir just because I fell in love with the cover. (I just received the remastered Circle Slide on vinyl, and it came with a print of that cover, and I plan to frame it for my wall soon. It means a lot to me.)

That give-me-everything approach has been the defining characteristic of my musical life. It’s how I have heard every one of my very favorite bands, and how I discovered all of the spiritual pop (and rock and metal and ambient and and and) that I love. I can’t imagine my life without Adam Again or the 77s or Steve Taylor or any of the other truly wonderful artists I found in that cassette rack in Milford, Massachusetts. Those cassettes are the reason I first went to Cornerstone, and now go to AudioFeed. They’re the reason I have been in a position to find artists like Timbre and Josh Garrels and Hushpad and Von Strantz and so many others.

It’s also the reason I know who One Bad Pig is, and that I was one of 317 people who helped them make their reunion album this year. When I say that ‘80s and ‘90s Christian music had a lot more diversity, I mean it. One Bad Pig was one of the pioneering Christian punk bands, and their snarky, funny, spunky records were released by one of the biggest labels in the scene. It was a time when this industry not only allowed but invited self-criticism, and One Bad Pig joined the likes of Steve Taylor in critiquing the public face of the church.

Their three main albums – Smash, Swine Flew and I Scream Sunday – ran the gamut from thrashy punk to mid-tempo guitar-pop, led by Carey Womack, a frontman who shouted and squealed more than sang. Perhaps the apex of their output is a frankly astonishing cover of “The Man in Black” with guest vocals from Johnny Cash himself. I play it every once in a while just to remind myself that I didn’t hallucinate it.

While I have personal and theological problems with some of One Bad Pig’s output (“You’re a Pagan” is hard to listen to, as is “Bowl of Wrath”), I still find them fun. The song of theirs that has made the most lasting impact is a 30-second bit of weirdness called “Pad Thai.” It consists of the band members yelling “Pad Thai!” over and over, and I can’t eat the titular food now without hearing that in my head.

That alone, I figured, was worth pitching in for their Kickstarter. Like a lot of bands from this corner of the music world, One Bad Pig has reunited 25 years after their last album, and they turned to crowdfunding to pay for a new one, called Love You to Death. And because they are One Bad Pig, they refused to take themselves too seriously, offering some hilarious incentives, which fans took them up on. Someone named Mitch Connell, for instance, paid to be the one who “presents” the album on the front cover, so everyone’s copy of the album reads “Mitch Connell presents One Bad Pig.”

As a fan of crowdfunding, I think that’s kind of awesome, and it already put me on the band’s side. The album itself is pretty good. Though all the band members are in their 50s now, they don’t seem to have lost much of their youthful energy. Love You to Death is a slightly more mature One Bad Pig album, with slightly more to say than their primary-colored early work. Womack still sounds like Johnny Rotten mixed with a terrified swine, and his voice is an acquired taste. (I’m glad I acquired it when I was 15.) The band gets serious on songs like “Heads Will Roll” and “Straitjacket,” both about religious persecution, a topic on which I now disagree with them. They also lose me on “What Does the Fool Say,” with its paean to intelligent design. But they make fine points about faith without works on “Get Your Hands Dirty,” a nifty tune that features Les Carlsen of Bloodgood and his ridiculous high voice.

It might be no surprise that my favorites here – the songs that make me glad I backed this – are the more fun ones. One Bad Pig was never scared to seem like a novelty act, and here they embrace that side of their image with gusto. They cover “The Lust, the Flesh, the Eyes and the Pride of Life,” an absolute classic by the 77s, and Piggy it up. (I really wonder what Mike Roe thinks of it.) “Sunday Skool Rawk” is a thrash-y medley of songs anyone who went to Vacation Bible School will recognize, played for laughs. And perhaps my favorite thing here is “Ben Moors,” a song written as a Kickstarter reward. Ben kicked in the required amount to have a song about him included on the album, and it’s a hoot. They even refer to him as “Ben Moors the Kickstarter funder” in the chorus.

There’s enough whimsical frivolity here to offset the moments that make me squirm. I get the sense, though, that like all punk bands, the members of One Bad Pig want me to squirm, want to confront, want to put their beliefs square in my face. And I’m less interested in that kind of Christian music than I used to be. I’m happy I contributed to a new One Bad Pig album, partially because it’s just fantastic and ridiculous that One Bad Pig has a new album in 2016. Love You to Death was worth hearing, and much of it is worth owning. I feel differently about them now than I did when I was 15, and it was worth the investment to find that out.

There are very few bands I feel the same devotion to in my forties as I did in my teens. But one of them – perhaps the most important of them – is the Choir. Buying Circle Slide, their extraordinary fifth album, on a whim at Bibles, Books and Things is one of the best musical decisions I have ever made. For 26 years the Choir has soundtracked my life, draping it in gorgeous sounds and thoughtful spiritual insights. The voice of Derri Daugherty singing the words of drummer Steve Hindalong has pulled me through many a dark time.

In many ways, the Choir is the antithesis of One Bad Pig, and of most heavy-handed Christian music. Hindalong writes about his life, seen through the prism of his faith. He never preaches, and when he hits you with a message song (like “It Should Have Been Obvious” or “The Word Inside the Word”), the message is one of love, acceptance and grace. If more Christian music were like the Choir, I would like more Christian music.

It’s a great time to be a Choir fan. Since 2010, the band has been on a roll, giving us four swell albums (including Shadow Weaver, one of their very best) and a just-released definitive live album. Daugherty released an instrumental ambient album, and has a new solo album coming soon. (He’s also about to release two records with side project Kerosene Halo, and I’ll get to those in a couple weeks.) And now, for the first time in nearly 20 years, Hindalong has made a solo album. It’s called The Warbler, and it’s a thing of beauty.

Hindalong spoke at AudioFeed about songwriting and his life in music, and one thing he kept returning to was friendship. He’s been making beautiful sounds with his friends for more than three decades, and both of his solo albums are like a who’s-who of this corner of the music world. Choir bassist Tim Chandler, Hammock guitarist Marc Byrd, his wife Christy Byrd, guitarist and organist Phil Madeira, cellist Matt Slocum, guitarist Lynn Nichols, singer Kevin Max and Steve Taylor’s guitarist Jimmy Abegg all appear here. The sound of this record is tremendous, full and rich and beautiful.

Hindalong’s voice takes some getting used to – it has a high, pinched quality that isn’t immediate. I’ve grown to love it over years of hearing it on Choir albums, and he’s evolved as a singer tremendously since his first solo album. Here he sings with confidence, sounding better than he ever has. He rises to the challenge of the full-blooded music here, but even when he’s surrounded by very little – just acoustic guitars and a few embellishments on “Into the Drink,” for example – he delivers. I’m predisposed to be on Hindalong’s side, but I quite like his voice on this album, more than I expected to.

It’s the songs that win the day, though. Hindalong dug deep here, setting some of his most beautiful melodies to some of his most personal lyrics. There are barbed love songs (“I need more sorrow like I need more bad religion,” he sings on “Love You Bad”), odes to old friends (“O Jimmy A,” one of my favorites), prayers for healing (“Shellie’s Song”), promises of devotion (“That’s How It’s Gonna Be,” “For a Lifetime”) and moments of contentment (“Lucky and Blessed”). I would say it’s an uncommonly good set of songs, but this is Steve Hindalong, and for him, it’s not uncommon at all.

There are some exceptional moments on The Warbler, songs that rise above the already high standard. “Oblivious” is the first of those, a gorgeous drawl with lovely harmonies by Christy Byrd. “Sorry lovers caught in a rain storm, oblivious to the thunder, deaf to the cannon roar…” It’s a world-class song, one Jason Isbell would have been proud to write. It’s an abstract piece, in direct contrast to another amazing moment, “Into the Drink.” This spare song takes an unflinching look at Hindalong’s own alcoholism. He premiered this song a couple years ago at a Choir show I attended, and I’m so proud of him for including it here. “Blessed oblivion save me, morning sun be damned, the demon in my head won’t know me if I forget who I am…” It’s a brave piece of work, and a riveting song.

The Warbler ends with a pair of Choir songs, recast in new lights. The title track, originally released in 1996, is one of Hindalong’s best songs, and where it once rose and fell on Daugherty’s velvet guitar chimes, here it feels earthy, dark, down in the mud, looking skyward. Most of it is Hindalong and his electric guitar, but when the full band erupts to life a couple minutes from the end, it’s thick and unstoppable. Christy Byrd uses the backing vocals to correct a mathematical error in the original, too. “The Antithesis of Blue” first appeared on Shadow Weaver, an inversion of blues clichés celebrating true love. This version is a down-home hoedown, with Justin Cary on bass, Nichols on guitar and Abegg on banjo. It’s a fun way to end things, a total reinvention of a pretty cool tune.

Whenever I hear a new piece of music from Daugherty and Hindalong, whether together or solo, I think about how lucky I am to have even stumbled upon them at all. Twenty-six years of joy, with no end in sight, and it all grew from that one decision to try the lovely-looking record with the tire swing on the cover. Twenty-six years. Bibles, Books and Things is no longer in business, so I can’t go back and thank them for making this music available to a hungry 15-year-old. But I can thank Hindalong and Daugherty and every other brilliant musician I discovered by accident, just by being open to them. I listen to The Warbler’s rhapsody, and I can’t imagine my life without this music.

Buy One Bad Pig music here. Buy Hindalong’s album and the Choir catalog here.

Next week is ladies’ choice with Sara Watkins, Bat for Lashes and Lauren Mann. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

The story of my AudioFeed 2016 is one of things going wrong.

For starters, I wasn’t even supposed to be there. I was scheduled to be in London, working a particle physics conference (and seeing as much of the country as I could). I would have been sad to miss AudioFeed for the first time, but hell, I would have been in London. I think I would have survived. But when those plans were abruptly changed, I had to scramble to secure a ticket and lodging for the festival.

Then my car broke down. If anyone reading this owns a Ford Focus manufactured earlier this decade, you know exactly the trouble I was having. The bizarre manual/automatic transmission in the Focus (and the Fiesta) just doesn’t work, and Ford knows it – they have kindly extended the warranty on them to 150,000 miles, meaning they expect the transmission to act up for the life of the car. I didn’t have to pay for repairs, which is nice, but it’s still a headache. I was without my car for 11 days, and unsure whether it would be ready in time for my annual trip to Champaign.

And then, on the first day of AudioFeed, I had to work, I dealt with a broken garage door opener, and I got stuck in a terrible traffic jam on the way to the fest, the result of a truck taking an exit ramp too quickly and flipping over. I missed most of the first day, including three sets featuring my friend and constant AudioFeed buddy, Jeff Elbel. By the time I’d checked into our hotel and made my way to the festival grounds, it was close to 7 p.m.

It would have been very easy for me to be frustrated and sad about all that. But then, I walked onto the grounds and I was at AudioFeed, and it’s impossible for me to feel anything but elated while I’m there. The first band I saw, quite by accident, was called Comrades. They’re a female-fronted metal trio sporting some beautiful textures and vocals, and they were incredibly loud, and I loved every minute of their set. And as I looked around, I realized I was the oldest person in the Black Sheep tent (the designated space for metal bands) by about 20 years, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

And then I saw Brian Smith and Kevin Shafer and the aforementioned Jeff Elbel and Matthew Welchel (and his sons Jack and Nick) and Jim and Jennifer Eisenmenger and John Thompson, and I met Nancy and Richard Lindsey and Matthew Hunt and several other people from a discussion group I frequent. It didn’t take long to feel like I was home, and that feeling remained for the entire weekend.

I’ve spent a lot of words in this space trying to explain AudioFeed to people who haven’t experienced it. I’m not sure it’s possible. Some may remember Cornerstone, the legendary Jesus-centric hippie music festival that ran in Bushnell, Illinois for 29 years, and may expect a similar atmosphere at AudioFeed, its natural successor. But to me, it’s very different. Perhaps it’s that I came in on the ground floor – I’ve been to all four AudioFeeds so far. As someone who doubts as often as he believes anything, I felt like an impostor at Cornerstone, but I feel welcomed and loved at AudioFeed. I’ve never once felt out of place.

For three days (four if you arrive early for camping), the Champaign County Fairgrounds is basically turned into a commune where everyone is just incredibly nice to one another. And there is music! I contend that, pound for pound, there are more phenomenal bands at AudioFeed every year than any other fest I could name. These bands, even the ones that have been around for 30 years, are usually unjustifiably obscure. Many are just starting out, trying to make a name, but many have been toiling in anonymity for most of my life, and AudioFeed is one of the only places each year to hear them play.

At first glance, the lineup this year didn’t give me many reasons to expect greatness. But I found it anyway, at least partially by being willing to try new things. Rapper Jackie Hill-Perry, for example, is terrific, spitting spiritually minded rhymes with speed and skill. Singer Chris Dupont reminded me of James Taylor, but then he threw in a healthy dose of ambient music and guitar wizardry. I bought his album Anxious Animal, and I would have bought his new one, Outlier, had it been available on CD. But Anxious Animal is excellent, full of deceptively well-written songs with delicate arrangements, driven by his even, clear voice.

The Mailboxes are one of my favorite new discoveries. Essentially the project of songwriter Jillian Spears, the Mailboxes are whimsical and piano-driven, like a less angsty Fiona Apple at times. Their album Red Flags is delightful. I love all of it, but I’m particularly taken with “The Way It Is,” an honest song about messed-up love and how that can be just right. It’s beautiful. I was similarly happy to discover Tow’rs, an Arizona five-piece anchored by a husband and wife who harmonize together beautifully. They play expansive yet catchy indie-rock with horns and strings, and their new album The Great Minimum (named after a G.K. Chesterton book) is wonderful.

On the louder end of things, I was pleased to see Analecta again. They’re a duo made up of a drummer and a multi-instrumentalist who swaps out instruments, playing them through a looping pedal to create massive post-rock atmoscapes. Their new record is called Aes Sidhe, referencing Irish mythology, and is a mammoth wallop of a thing, dragging you along on an emotional journey. And while I didn’t hit the metal tent quite as often this year, I did discover Death Therapy, the new project by Jason Wisdom of Becoming the Archetype. My first visit to Cornerstone was in 2001, and Wisdom was there on the side of the road handing out the first Becoming the Archetype demo CDs in white sleeves. I got one, and have been following them ever since. Death Therapy is a big departure, an electronic groove-metal duo, and it’s really neat stuff.

Mike Mains and the Branches played a blistering set near the end of the final Cornerstone in 2012, and I somehow failed to buy their record or see them since. But here they were, playing the Radon Lounge (ostensibly the acoustic stage, but more often than not accommodating loud, powerful bands), and they tore it up again. Mains is a hell of a frontman, his songs are driving and explosive, and his band is on point. I rectified my previous error by buying both of Mains’ albums, Home and the awesomely titled Calm Down, Everything is Fine. While they lack the sweaty energy of the live set, they’re both swell collections of punky pop.

Of course, while I always stumble on these delightful new discoveries at AudioFeed, it’s the familiar favorites that I look forward to the most. Jeff Elbel, my roommate and the busiest musician at AudioFeed, played eight sets with various bands and lineups, and it’s always a joy to see him do what he does best. His own band, Ping, is on the verge of releasing a new album called The Threefinger Opera. It’s a conceptual piece about Jeff’s struggles with a pinched nerve that cost him the use of the last two fingers on his left hand. (Important fingers for a guitar player.) He’s had to re-learn how to play while he heals, and as therapy both physical and mental, he wrote a new set of songs about the experience. Ping played most of the songs on The Threefinger Opera> during two terrific sets, and I’m quite looking forward to hearing the real thing.

Jeff also played with Cornerstone legend Harry Gore as he ripped through a set of songs by Larry Norman, one of the pioneers of spiritual rock music, and with The Wayside, John J. Thompson’s Americana rock outfit. It was perhaps the swampiest Wayside set I’ve ever seen, crawling and laced with feedback. Late on Friday night, John and Jeff joined Brian Healy in the latest incarnation of Dead Artist Syndrome, one of the first goth bands on a Christian label. That show took place in the Asylum tent, which I had never ventured into before. To get to the stage, you had to duck into a small opening and walk through a corridor of Christmas lights and dark imagery, and it was like stepping into another world entirely. Healy is older and in poor health, but on stage he was oddly magnetic, skewering himself and his bandmates with his signature wit and pelting the audience with silly string.

Perhaps Jeff’s highest profile set came on Saturday as he backed up Steve Hindalong, drummer with the Choir. Steve has a grand new solo album called The Warbler, which I will talk about in more detail next week, and while the set was plagued with technical problems, it was still fun. Steve’s voice has improved since his first solo record in the ‘90s, and his songwriting has skyrocketed. The Warbler is full of folksy gems and earnest, honest looks at life, and I was happy with how much of it I got to hear live.

There were a few other more well-known acts on my AudioFeed lineup this year. Scream-fueled rock band Emery played all of their second album, The Question, and impressed greatly. Josh Garrels, who I discovered at Cornerstone near the end of the festival’s run, delivered his usual mix of breezy guitars and that powerful, sweeping voice. I was particularly impressed that he sung all of the high notes in “The Arrow” without faltering. Glenn Kaiser, one-time leader of the pioneering Rez Band, dropped another set of blues played on cigar box guitars, with harmonica prodigy Joe Filisko accompanying him.

And then there was One Bad Pig. As a kid growing up in church, I loved One Bad Pig, one of the first Christian punk bands. They made three studio albums of funny, sharp punk rock, lead throat Carey Womack squeal-screaming his way through most of them, and for some reason that music is imprinted on me. When I heard that the band had reunited to play AudioFeed, I confess I laughed. But damn if they weren’t fantastic. The Pig played two sets, and while I missed much of the first one (in the metal tent), I saw the entire second one (in the Asylum), and it was so much fun. I’ll talk more about them and their reunion record next week.

I was also very happy to see some of my AudioFeed discoveries once again. Listener, for example, is a band like no other – imagine Shellac fronted by a heartland poet who speak-screams insights and encouragements in a wild cadence. Harp player Timbre enthralled with a late-night set on Saturday, bringing the orchestral flourishes of her extraordinary double album Sun and Moon to life with only a couple musicians. Jason Barrows drove us through songs on his Springsteen-meets-Ryan-Adams debut album Islands of My Soul, and since he is Garrels’ guitar player, he had the strange experience of having his boss open up for him.

Barrows closed out the main stage on Sunday night, but he wasn’t the last band of the festival. That honor went to the always-wonderful Hushpad, led by my friend Matthew Welchel and his two sons. Hushpad plays an ever-unfolding brand of shoegaze pop, and their new six-piece lineup fills this sound out marvelously. I think it was my favorite experience of the festival. There were probably 20 of us, staying past midnight to hear a band we love play music we adore, and in that moment, I felt bonded to this place and this fest like never before. Hushpad’s album Helas is available now on iTunes and other digital distributors, and I think it’s superb. But it won’t capture that experience of seeing them play these gorgeous songs on a warm summer night with such great people.

I think I’ve proven that I also can’t capture the experience for you. In trying to cover all the bases here I fear I’ve written a rambling, uninteresting list. Here’s the thing: AudioFeed has truly come into its own as a festival unlike any other, and I’ll never be able to tell you what it’s like to be there. In that moment, watching Hushpad bring another terrific weekend to a close, I knew that nothing had gone wrong, that everything had worked out and I was where I was supposed to be. And I’ll be back next year, too.

Next week, a deeper look at some new AudioFeed albums from One Bad Pig and Steve Hindalong. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you in line Tuesday morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Bruce Hornsby is one of my piano heroes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you in line Tuesday morning.