It’s easy lately to be depressed.

I’m not just talking about myself here, although it’s always easy for me to be depressed. I’m in a constant fight for my own happiness, and most days, I win. But it’s still a fight, even with some of the incredibly positive turns my life has taken lately.

No, I’m speaking even more generally – I can imagine that its tough for a lot of people to stay hopeful lately. This year has been a non-stop churn of death, for starters. Over the past couple weeks we lost Phife Dawg of A Tribe Called Quest (who was only 45, and died from complications related to diabetes), former Toronto Mayor Rob Ford (only 46, lymphosarcoma), Patty Duke, Andy “Thunderclap” Newman and the great Garry Shandling, among others.

The news is full of hatred and violence, the world seems on the verge of collapse, and a sizable portion of the population seems to actually want to elect Donald Trump president of the United States. Slipping into despair over all this is not only easy, but totally understandable. And if you want to soundtrack that despair, you’re spoiled for choice. If there’s anything art should be for, it’s the ability to express that which, if it goes unexpressed, might kill us.

Sean Watkins has been watching the news. The darkness that pours out of his fifth solo album, What to Fear, is remarkable, particularly considering how happy and contented Watkins has sounded lately. The Nickel Creek reunion was a blast, and recently he’s been joining his sister Sara and a bevy of uber-talented friends in a jocular collective called the Watkins Family Hour. The most depressing thing on their self-titled album was a cover of “Not in Nottingham,” from Disney’s Robin Hood cartoon. (Yes, the one with the fox and the bears.)

So to hear Watkins take such pointed aim at politicians and the media on the opening title track is jarring at first. The song is a pretty minor-key lament for the non-stop fear machine perpetuated by our cable news cycle: “We told you what to fear, and you listened up, we told you what to fear, you’re sticking to your guns and there’s no one in this dark world you can trust, except for us…” It’s one of the most powerful songs he’s ever written, sharp and on point: “There’s a new disease, don’t go away, how to keep your loved ones safe, the answer’s coming right after this break… we’re gonna sell you what to fear…”

The album never aims that wide again, but it remains that dark. Watkins zeroes in on personal failings and heartbreak, and plays the part of desperate, flawed men again and again. On “Last Time for Everything,” he examines mistakes from his past, particularly those he knew he was making at the time. “I Am What You Want” is a vicious stalker song: “I know you, you don’t like me, I know I’m not your type, but I swear you’ll learn to love me…” “Too Little Too Late” finds him examining the wreckage of a ruined relationship and trying to say he’s sorry, knowing there is no reason he should be heard or believed.

There are glimmers of sunshine here, but they are few. “Everything” is about fighting every urge to hold back secrets and to flee from vulnerability: “I’ve never been this far with anyone, halfway there is where I usually run, but I can’t deny you, I won’t turn away, I would give everything to you…” “Where You Were Living” is a splendid tale of breaking free, and looking back gratefully on the moment you did. And Watkins ends the album with a lovely cover of Glen Phillips’ “Back on My Feet,” a song of blessed regret and hope for rebirth.

But mainly, Watkins speaks from a broken and breaking place here, and it’s devastating. “Keep Your Promises II” is a rewrite of a song from his last solo album, and he’s made it somehow even more hopeless here: “What’s made will break, what lives must die, and you’re gonna change your mind, it’s just a matter of time…” Watkins sings so sweetly, and the folksy music (recorded with the likes of Matt Chamberlain, Benmont Tench, Sebastian Steinberg and his sister Sara) belies the difficult nature of the lyrics.

That said, this record is magnificent, a dive into darker places pulled off with perfect form. Sean Watkins is often overlooked in favor of his bandmates (especially Chris Thile), but he’s quite an extraordinary talent, and when no one was looking, he made one of his very best records here. What to Fear is a striking listen, and a splendid one.

But if you really want to wallow in black despair, the album you need is Ephemera, the surprising sophomore effort from Irish band Little Green Cars.

Three years ago, this upstart quintet from Dublin roared onto the public stage with a killer song called “Harper Lee.” That song kicked off their terrific, loud, memorable debut album Absolute Zero, and marked them as a band to watch. Well, Harper Lee died this year, and Little Green Cars have returned with an album so hopeless, so melancholy that it almost sounds like the work of a different band. Most of these songs are slow and acoustic, with chilly clean electric accents straight out of the Cure, and over and over, the lyrics speak of dissolution, of things falling apart and the center not holding.

Opener “The Song They Play Every Night” does a good job of setting the tone: “And every load I took to fill the hole that caved inside just made it deeper, darker, wider than before, don’t make me say it out loud anymore…” “You vs. Me” is the prettiest song about a war between two people I have heard in some time. Those two songs are sung by Stevie Appleby in his soft-spoken tenor. But it’s Faye O’Rourke and her deeply felt wail who truly brings the emotions to the fore. Her first song here is called “Easier Day,” and it’s a stunner, all about the consequences of her mental instability on others. “I’ve been this way for a long time…”

“Brother” is a short film set to music, a family portrait that is burning at the edges. The last verse leaves me empty: “Then last night, I had a dream but it seemed like real life, I awoke with a scream into lamplight, and all was quiet.” Dreams figure heavily in the paranoid “Clair de Lune,” its protagonists constantly asking each other if they’re happy. “OK OK OK” is so dark and powerful that I can barely listen to it – it’s O’Rourke and a piano, dealing with the aftermath of something horrible and finding no support.

And then there are five more songs of heartbreak and pain after that, songs that find O’Rourke admitting she doesn’t know who she’s singing about, and being unable to decide “if it’s you I hate or something inside.” Appleby’s finale, “The Factory,” brings one note of hope: “Jesus Mary mother of God I’m alive again,” he repeats, and I am hopeful that whatever happened to this band in the three years since their debut, this is the start of putting it all behind them. Because while the music on this album is wonderful – it’s one of the prettiest, saddest albums I’ve heard this year – I end it worrying about these people I don’t know, and hoping they will be all right.

Because there is hope. It often grows from small things – lending a helping hand to a neighbor, or paying for a stranger’s cup of coffee – and it blossoms into huge acts. Countering hate with love. Forgiving. Showing grace. These are all powerful things, what Bruce Cockburn described as kicking at the darkness until it bleeds daylight. And sometimes the strongest acts of hope can grow from the deepest tragedies.

If there’s a band that knows all about that, it’s Cloud Cult. This Minnesota tribe is led by Craig Minowa, and 14 years ago, he unexpectedly lost his two-year-old son Kaidin. After writing several cathartic records about the loss, Minowa dedicated his band to basically being the most powerful engine of hope he could create. Cloud Cult albums are sweeping statements of hard-won joy, and none have been more sweeping than their latest, The Seeker. The record is paired with a feature film, which I haven’t seen, but it doesn’t need one – it’s cinematic enough on its own.

Minowa’s songs are sometimes threadbare things, but his band builds them up into monoliths. The two-part opener, “Living in Awe” and “To the Great Unknown,” live up to their titles, the former a massive crescendo (“There will be joy and grief, but live it all in awe”) and the latter a true anthem (“Sometimes this life’s a lonely road, but you gotta find it on your own, so build a happy ship ‘cause this living is a trip, sing the kind of song that you love singing to the great unknown…”). The album follows a man who builds such a ship and heads off in search of the answers to everything, and he learns that the journey itself is the answer.

If all of this sounds hokey, believe me when I say that Cloud Cult makes it work beautifully. You haven’t heard a song of loss and loneliness that will pierce you like “Come Home” will, and it segues perfectly into “No Hell,” a masterpiece mantra about the world: “Someone tell the devil we don’t need no hell, we’re all pretty good at beating up ourselves,” he concludes, and it’s hard to argue. “No Hell” is the darkest this record gets, as the journey picks up from here – “Everything You Thought You Had” is a stunner, a song of love that dances to the infinite. “Everything I wish I’d done, and everything that I’d undo, everything that broke my heart can’t keep me from loving you…”

And I’m full up. The Seeker is an emotional ride, and it ends with beauty and grace. The mostly instrumental “Three Storms Before You Learn to Float” is gorgeous, and it leads into “You Never Were Alone,” a wonderful acoustic piece about seeking faith in the unknown, in the unknowable, in the unpredictable. “When I’ve screamed all my screamings, given up all my grievings, I’ll still love you with all of my being…” The denouement, “Through the Ages,” is so lovely I can’t even stand it. Here is the kicker line: “If ever I can’t see the magic around me, please take my hands off my eyes.”

That says so much. Despair and depression is failing to see the magic around us. I often need someone to take my hands off my eyes, and when they do, when I see all the wonder and beauty everywhere, I can’t imagine why I ever missed it. There is hope all around. There is darkness, yes, but there is more light. There is more light.

There is more light.

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

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I remember wanting to grow up.

This is such an old man thing to say, but I didn’t know how good I had it when I didn’t have any pressing responsibilities. The worst thing I had to do at 10 years old was learn fractions. Now it seems like I need another seven or eight hours each day just to catch up with what I haven’t done. I’m having a pretty busy few weeks at work, which is translating into 12-hour days and a million emails and exhaustion and a chest cough that won’t go away.

What does this mean for you, assuming you couldn’t care less about my health? Well, one thing I haven’t had time to do is listen to and properly absorb new music. It’s coming out faster than I can process it – I have about a dozen albums from the last month that I haven’t heard yet, and this week I know there are about a dozen more coming my way. I’m trying to clear time in my schedule to listen, form thoughts and write about them, but it’s tough.

So I need a get-ahead week, and this is it. I’m going to abandon the idea that I need to be among the first to talk about new music – I have totally missed the conversation about Kendrick Lamar’s Untitled Unmastered, which I still have only heard once. I’m going to get to these when I get to these. Don’t be surprised if you see something from a month ago featured in this column. I didn’t start TM3AM to be on the cutting edge of music criticism, I started it to chronicle my life as an obsessive listener, and right now, that means being honest about getting to things late, and not reviewing them until I’m ready.

This also means I’m scrapping last week’s column, which I’ve been working on in bits and pieces for the last eight days, and calling it next week’s column. It’ll be a good one when I finish it – I’m tying together Sean Watkins, Little Green Cars and Cloud Cult into a treatise on hope. (Man, that sounds lofty. It’ll really just be three reviews.) I’m still working on it, but it will get out there. I hope to have reviews of Bob Mould and The Joy Formidable to join those soon.

I don’t want to leave you high and dry this week, so here’s one short review and, because it’s that time again, my First Quarter Report. Hopefully I’ll be back at full strength next week. Thanks for understanding, and for reading.

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As I mentioned above, I’ve been pretty tired of being an adult lately. That’s one reason I have been waiting for the new album by one of my favorite candy-coated pop bands, The Feeling. I’ve been sporadically listening to their first couple – the delightful Twelve Stops and Home and the enormous clockwork bubble gum factory that is Join With Us – in anticipation, and they’ve been filling me with joy, as usual.

But man, has this band grown up. They’ve self-titled their fifth album, and adorned it with a blurry sepia-toned photo, and it’s exactly the mature piece of work such things would lead you to expect. Truth be told, they made this transition an album ago, with the slow and stately Boy Cried Wolf, but here they fully come into their own as a serious band with serious ambitions. And even though I’m not quite in the headspace to appreciate maturity at the moment, this record won me over.

Unlike the meticulously crafted pop with which they made their name, The Feeling was recorded live in the studio, with minimal overdubbing, in only 15 days. That’s really laying it out there – you’re not allowed to suck if you record live – but the energy does these songs justice. Like Boy Cried Wolf, the tunes on The Feeling are often slower and simpler, but here they build to cathartic crescendos, leader Dan Sells pulling out an unrestrained scream on occasion that, surprisingly, doesn’t totally embarrass him.

The new Feeling template takes less from 10cc and more from Neil Finn, which is a nice tradeoff. Opener “Wicked Heart” is so repetitive it’s almost a mantra, but its we-just-started-strumming-this feel gives it a jolt. “Spiralling” is a lovely piece of music, one that could fit on a Crowded House album. The six-minute “Feel Something” is the best example of how recording these songs live has energized them – the song starts as an electric piano lament (“I want to touch, I want to taste, I want to feel something…”), but unfolds, growing and growing without really changing much, until by the end, it’s gigantic, guitars crashing and Sells shouting at the top of his lungs.

Those are the first three songs, and they set the mood – Sells is heartbroken, and the music follows suit. If you know the Feeling from their “Never Be Lonely” and “I Love It When You Call” days, this will be a shock, as will driving-through-dark-tunnels songs like “Real Deal.” The album only rarely quickens the pace, and when it does, it misfires: “Non-Stop American” and “Alien” are slight, if danceable, while “Young Things” is one of the worst Feeling songs – it’s entirely about being out of touch with the younger generation, but instead of coming off as knowingly ironic, it has a touch of creepy grandpa about it. (“I love the shit they say, I love the games they play…”)

Thankfully, there are more than enough terrific, serious-minded songs to make up for those. “Repeat to Fade” is an epic, shifting from slinky piano to crashing guitars in an instant. “Shadow Boxer” is another, this one as beautiful as anything the band has done, and “What’s the Secret” continues the lovely low-key vibe. Closer “Sleep Tight” returns to the dirge-like feel of “Wicked Heart,” but more soothing and easygoing.

It’s an interesting transition from rainbows to rain, but The Feeling have pulled it off. This self-titled album, for the most part, is a great example of how to grow up without growing stale. They were right to self-title it, as it feels to me like the start of the second chapter of this band, a complete change of identity that fits them just as well as the first. And I guess if they can be adults, then I can too, and I hope to do it with as much grace as this band shows in their finest moments here.

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All right, time for the First Quarter Report. This is basically what my top 10 list would look like if I were forced to publish it now. You’ll see a couple in here that I haven’t reviewed yet, so consider this my recommendation. Here’s the list:

10. Shearwater, Jet Plane and Oxbow.
9. The Feeling.
8. Daughter, Not to Disappear.
7. Kendrick Lamar, Untitled Unmastered.
6. Ray Lamontagne, Ouroboros.
5. Sean Watkins, What to Fear.
4. Gungor, One Wild Life: Spirit.
3. Anderson Paak, Malibu.
2. David Bowie, Blackstar.
1. Esperanza Spalding, Emily’s D+Evolution.

That’s a pretty diverse list, and while I don’t expect most of these to hang on for the next nine months, there are some gems here. We’ll see what the board looks like in June.

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

See you in line Tuesday morning.

George Martin was the first producer I knew by name.

The first time I heard Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, I was 14 years old, and I didn’t even know what a producer’s job was. I just knew that there were four Beatles – John, Paul, George and Ringo – and a fifth guy whose name kept popping up in anything I read about the band. Between 1963 and 1969, the Beatles essentially reinvented rock and roll, and their 13 albums and numerous singles and EPs stand as one of the best catalogs in modern music. And George Martin was right there from the beginning, the architect of the Beatles sound in the studio.

I can’t imagine what my world would be like had George Martin not, one day in 1965, suggested to Paul McCartney that “Yesterday” might sound nice with a string arrangement. That started the Beatles’ unparalleled creative streak in the studio, and as their work became more intricate and imaginative, Martin stepped up to the plate again and again. Revolver and Sgt. Pepper remain two of the most astonishing, immaculately produced albums in music history. Listen again to “A Day in the Life,” which may be the Beatles’ magnum opus. Listen as if you’ve never heard it before. Now think about the fact that George Martin pulled that off using less advanced technology than you have on your phone.

Put simply, George Martin made me want to learn how to make records. I learned what little I know about arranging music, about picking it apart and figuring out how it works, by listening to his work with the Beatles over and over again. I can still listen over and over, and hear new nuances, subtle touches that still reveal themselves, 50 years later. And I wasn’t the only one – the Beatles, with Martin, directed the course of pop and rock music from that point on, as innumerable musicians and producers studied and took from his work. Martin was undeniably the fifth Beatle, and though he had a long and illustrious career, it’s those seven years he spent sculpting the Fab Four’s imaginations into sound that will live forever. His work over those seven years has meant so much to me for so long that I don’t think I would be able to put it into words.

George Martin died in his sleep on March 8. He was 90. A good long life, well lived. Rest in peace, George.

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I’m a keyboard player. I tell people I’m a piano player, but I have always been interested in and captivated by the sound of synthesizers. And few people had as significant an impact on that love as Keith Emerson did.

Emerson was the keyboard wizard at the forefront of Emerson, Lake and Palmer, as unlikely a trio as the world has ever seen. I’ll admit to hearing Emerson, Lake and Powell first – specifically, the kickass “Touch and Go,” released in 1986 – but quickly learned where the really insane stuff could be found. ELP were completely, wonderfully ridiculous – Emerson played a piano that flipped around 360 degrees in mid-air, and led the trio through synth-rock arrangements of Mussorgsky and Tchaikovsky. I remember hearing the extraordinary “Karn Evil 9” for the first time and thinking that I had never encountered anything like it. I’m not sure I have, even now.

Emerson kept working well into his late ‘60s – his last album was four years ago, a collaboration with a 70-piece orchestra. (Because of course.) He had been suffering from nerve damage in his hands recently, and on March 10 he apparently took his own life, which depresses me more than I can tell you. Emerson was 71. I hope he has found peace.

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Wow, 2016 is doing a number on us. I think we could use some good news. How about this: I just heard the best album of the year so far.

Like a lot of people, I only became aware of Esperanza Spalding after she won the Grammy award for Best New Artist in 2011. I’m inclined now to declare that award the most accurate Grammy ever given, despite the fact that Spalding was riding her third album, the lovely Chamber Music Society, at the time. Spalding is a bass player from Portland, Oregon, and up until now, she’s worked in a jazz-pop vein, composing lilting melodies for her crystal-clear voice and crafting soulful, café-worthy, sometimes horn-driven tunes to go with them. She’s brilliant, with a sophistication that belies her 31 years, but you’d be forgiven for thinking that her work could find a home at Starbucks.

But holy hell, her new album sets all of that on fire. It’s called Emily’s D+Evolution, and it’s insane. Spalding has retained all of the intricacy and head-spinning musicality of her previous work, but she’s added an edge, an explosive quality that is like lighting a fuse under this record and watching it burst. This is the most alive, most vital, most captivating music Spalding has made, jumping wildly from acid rock to ‘70s pop to Zappa-style jazz-prog to a cappella to pure balladry, and often several of those within the same song. It’s a sure-footed step forward from an uncommonly gifted and visionary artist.

Emily is Spalding’s middle name, and she pronounces the title “D-Plus Evolution,” like one that barely made it to graduation. But nothing about this evolution scores so low. Opener “Good Lava” is so jarring, so fiery, that it will have you making sure Spalding’s name is on the sleeve. Guitars rage, Spalding’s vocal melody juts out at odd angles, drums flail, and the bass – that bass! – is everywhere. From that point on, nothing on this album follows any sort of safe path. Often Spalding seems determined to trip you up – even the catchiest songs here, like “Rest in Pleasure,” are off-kilter, melodies darting and swooping out of nowhere, guitars chiming in where you don’t expect, the band painting with noise. These songs mainly stay within the four-to-five-minute range, but each feels like a journey over light-years.

Spalding never loses her capacity to surprise – dig the harmonized, spoken intro to “Ebony and Ivy,” leading into a Zappa-esque guitar-driven piece of beautiful map-shredding. She’s assembled a power trio here, with drummer Karriem Riggins and guitarist Matthew Stevens, both of whom hail from jazz backgrounds but have experience pushing boundaries. Riggins’ work in hip-hop serves him well here – he probably didn’t bat an eyelash at a bass-driven slice of weirdness like “Farewell Dolly” – and the three of them play remarkably well together.

“Funk the Fear” may be the most straightforwardly rock thing on the album, the trio locking into a slippery, complex groove that brings Living Colour to mind. The song is about being fearless, and that’s a quality that lives in every pore of Emily’s D+Evolution. Even Spalding’s most fervent fans will not be expecting an album like this, one that ends by extending its most accessible song (the gorgeous “Unconditional Love”) to a mind-melting nine minutes of spacey rock. Hell, she covers “I Want It Now” from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory as a demented acid show tune. That’s the kind of album this is.

Spalding is a brilliant original, and this is her finest and fullest album, one that leaves no doubt of her vision and her ability to realize it. I can’t get enough of this record, and I doubt I’m going to feel any differently in December, when it comes time to pick the year’s best.

In summary, she’s awesome, this record is amazing, and you need it in your life.

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Next week, maybe The Feeling, and perhaps Little Green Cars, Grant-Lee Phillips, Jeff Buckley and Sean Watkins. And hopefully, no more death. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

It’s true what they say: you wait 20 years for a new Steve Taylor record and then two come along at once.

Taylor is becoming the ultimate comeback kid. I’ve loved his work since I was a teenager – his three early albums for the Christian market are more like smart bombs, blowing up the very idea of what can be done inside that box, and his incredible one-off band Chagall Guevara made one of the best and least appreciated albums of the ‘90s. After gifting us one last incendiary device with Squint in 1993, Taylor left music entirely to make movies and run a record label. (You may have heard of one of his signees: Sixpence None the Richer, whose big hit “Kiss Me” Taylor produced.)

And lo, there was much lamentation among his fans (myself included), much crying into the wilderness for Taylor’s return. And just when it seemed all hope would run out, return he did – in 2014 he teamed up with three top-notch musicians to form Steve Taylor and the Perfect Foil, and with the help of Kickstarter, they made the fantastic, raucous, biting Goliath. This record, in all honesty, is tremendous, a rocket ride of riffage that found Taylor charging back to the front in top form.

If that had been it, I still would have been happy. But Taylor and the Foil had to go and team up with Daniel Smith (of Danielson fame) for 15 more minutes of crunchy, melodic goodness. The new EP is called Wow to the Deadness, and like Goliath, it was funded through an extremely successful Kickstarter. I supported it, of course, despite my reservations – I’ve never liked Danielson, and Smith’s yelping voice gives me hives. It took me a while to get used to that voice sitting alongside Taylor’s rasp on Deadness, but if you can do that, this is a strong miniature whirlwind of a record, a quick blast that still manages to provide an amalgam of the Perfect Foil’s power and Danielson’s whimsy.

Wow to the Deadness was recorded in Chicago by Steve Albini, and if you recognize the name, you already know how this sounds – raw and tough. Jimmy Abegg’s guitar playing has never felt this sloppy before. It splashes all over everything here, all but drowning out the subtleties in a song like “Wait Up Downstep.” “The Dust Patrol” is the perfect example of the two styles colliding in Albini’s accelerator. It begins and ends as a propulsive punk song, but Smith sandwiches in an interlude straight out of the Danielson handbook, complete with flugelhorn. The song is two minutes long, even with all that, and it works surprisingly well.

“Nonchalant” is my favorite, which may be because it is the most obviously Steve Taylor song here, a mid-tempo, melodic delight. “A Muse” is the rougher cousin of Taylor’s “Moonshot,” and it visits several interesting back alleys in 2:17. Albini draws volcanic vocal performances from Taylor, and the band sounds like they did when I saw them live – invigorated, powerful and loud. Even Smith’s unchained howl can’t ruin this completely for me, although I could have done without his grating contribution to “Drats,” the most Danielson song here.

I’m in this for Taylor and the Foil, and on that score, thankfully, Wow to the Deadness does not disappoint. What looked a year ago like a great capper to a legendary career now feels like an opening salvo, and I hope this means that Taylor is back for good. My world can always use more of what he’s offering.

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It’s hard to say Anthrax was in need of a comeback, since they never really went away.

But I think people have forgotten what a top-notch metal band they are. They were one of the Big Four in the ‘80s, alongside Metallica, Megadeth and Slayer, and their run of albums from 1985 to 1990 (including the I’m the Man EP) is one of the most solid in metal history. Yes, they’ve stuck around, but the five albums they made with John Bush in the 1990s and 2000s failed to connect, partially because metal went out of style, but also because they weren’t quite as heavy-hitting as Anthrax can be.

But reuniting with original singer Joey Belladonna has done this band a world of good. For All Kings is the second album with Belladonna back behind the mic, and it’s a flat-out ballsy piece of work. Gone are the flirtations with acoustic folk and grunge that marked the John Bush years, and in their place are 11 slabs of furious awesome. The album opens with a brief fanfare, one that sounds a little out of place given what follows, but when the six-minute “You Gotta Believe” kicks in, there’s no doubt you are listening to a classic metal band at the height of its powers.

The thrashy vibe prevails over most of For All Kings, and even the somewhat slower ones (like the powerhouse “Monster at the End”) take energy from that vibe. “Breathing Lightning” is one of the few respites, starting slow but building into an epic anthem with a light, folky coda. But don’t get comfortable – “Suzerain” and “Evil Twin” will bowl you over with double-time drums and thick guitars. Belladonna sounds fantastic here, proving he can carry a band this forceful even at 55. The eight-minute “Blood Eagle Wings” slows things down without losing an ounce of that force, and from there it’s a race to the end, burning through killers like “All Of Them Thieves” and what promises to be a new signature song for the band, “This Battle Chose Us.”

And just as they used to do in the ‘80s, they save the loudest and fastest song for last. “Zero Tolerance” may seem on the surface like your typical hate-the-world stomper, but it’s a feint – the verses are meant to contrast with the chorus, which hides a message that resonates these days: “Zero tolerance for extremism in the name of religion, zero tolerance for racial hate… and on the day you meet your god what will he say?” It’s a shock-and-awe capper to what is one of the most solid Anthrax albums ever, one that makes me feel like I’m fourteen again, listening with headphones in my room and headbanging.

It’s also another piece of what is shaping up to be a Big Four renaissance, with Slayer’s Repentless and Megadeth’s Dystopia. Now we just need Metallica to put out something respectable again and all will be well with the world.

* * * * *

Anthrax may not have needed a comeback album too badly, but Ray Lamontagne sure did.

I’ve been a fan of Maine’s own wonderful warbler since his first record in 2004. His voice is a stunning instrument, haunting and unforgettable, and over four swell efforts he married that voice to a lovely and spare style of folk and low-key rock. For 10 years, he hit whatever he swung at, from the gorgeous ambience of “Be Here Now” to the horn-driven wedding song that is “You Are the Best Thing.”

And while it would be an exaggeration to suggest that 2014’s Supernova derailed his career, it certainly dampened my enthusiasm for it. Supernova was an attempt at mass appeal – Lamontagne enlisted Dan Auerbach of the Black Keys to produce, and they created a short record of short songs infused with blues and ‘60s psychedelia. It was, at best, underwhelming, and it never once played to Lamontagne’s strengths. I like it more now than when I first heard it, but it still sounds more like Auerbach, like the producer decided more of what the record would be than the artist.

Which is why Ouroboros, Lamontagne’s just-released sixth effort, is such a pleasant surprise. It should be another Supernova – he hired another famous singer from a blues-rock band (Jim James of My Morning Jacket) to produce this one, and he amped up the psych influences, leaving his past even further behind. But it’s captivating, mesmerizing, convincing in a way that its predecessor wasn’t. One reason for that is its structure – this is two side-long suites, Pink Floyd style, with segues and a sense of working for the whole. There aren’t any radio singles in sight, and Lamontagne sounds committed to making something unlike anything he’s done.

Most importantly, Ouroboros (a symbol depicting a snake eating its own tail) brings back the atmosphere, an essential element of Lamontagne’s work. Opener “Homecoming” is a cousin to “Be Here Now,” its pianos and acoustic guitars buoying a journey into space, led by Lamontagne’s sweet, breathy voice. When the guitars kick in on “Hey No Pressure,” it’s jarring, especially since the tone is so thick and tactile – Lamontagne has never played with sounds like this before. “Hey No Pressure” is exactly the kind of bluesy song Auerbach would have ruined, but here it sounds alive, spacey and sloppy and real.

Ouroboros was recorded in a mere 15 days, which gives it a more spontaneous feel, even when it gets enormous, as on “The Changing Man,” which slides so beautifully into “While It Still Beats” that you won’t even notice. The second side is even more connected and even more Floyd – the lilting “In My Own Way” gives way to the Syd Barrett-like “Another Day,” with “A Murmuration of Starlings” an instrumental bridge to delightful closer “Wouldn’t It Make a Lovely Photograph.” Lamontagne sounds in control of all of this, and excited to bring it to fruition. It’s a marked difference from the static Supernova.

Ouroboros is vibrant, alive and awake, and even though it sounds nothing like anything he’s done, it feels familiar. “When I am with you, I am right where I belong,” Lamontagne sings on that closing song, and I couldn’t agree more. Welcome back, sir.

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This is a column about comeback records, but one of these things is not like the others.

That thing is Nada Surf, a band that has been remarkably consistent for about 15 years, ever since leaving the notion of stardom behind and signing up with Barsuk Records. Despite a run of records since then that would be the envy of most power-pop bands, Nada Surf is still somehow living in the shadow of their one hit, the acerbic “Popular,” from two decades ago. In that sense, I guess, every album they make is a comeback album, because people are surprised at how good it is when they hear it.

At this point, though, they shouldn’t be. Album eight, You Know Who You Are, is another gem, a brief yet impressive trip through ten jangly, swaying, upbeat guitar-pop songs played with no frills and no distractions. Former Guided by Voices guitarist Doug Gillard is now officially in the band, and he and frontman Matthew Caws gel perfectly, their twin tones dancing around each other. Everything is in service to the song, and these songs are as hummable and memorable as anything this band has done.

Opener “Cold to See Clear” is probably the best, or at least the most immediate – its chorus was stuck in my head the first time I heard it. But subsequent listens have revealed the beauty of less punchy songs like “Believe You’re Mine” and “Rushing.” The latter is a particular delight, an acoustic strummer with glittering accents and a sweet chorus (“You come rushing at me, and I forget my worries…”). This album is relentlessly positive, in love with the world, and yet never corny or syrupy. Nada Surf music puts a big, un-ironic smile on my face every time.

The title track reminds me of the Replacements, with its rollicking electric guitar and shout-along chorus. “Gold Sounds” feels like driving down a highway into the sunset, wind rushing by. And closer “Victory’s Yours” is as triumphant as its title, Gillard’s chiming guitars pushing it over the finish line. Like all Nada Surf albums, my main complaint with You Know Who You Are is that it’s too short – I could use another ten songs as tight and infectious as these. But knowing Nada Surf, if I wait another couple years, I’ll get them.

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Next week, Esperanza Spalding, who has just made my favorite record of 2016 so far. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

The bloody 2016 struck too close to home this week.

I never really got to know Dan Waitt. By the time I started working at the Beacon-News in Aurora, he had been there for decades already. He was a quiet soul, and a kind one, willing to work extraordinary hours and pull off heroic efforts to get the paper out the door, without asking for an ounce of credit. He also had a wry humor – he didn’t crack jokes, per se, more like subtle commentary with a grin and a twinkle in the eye. Dan was an absolute staple of that newspaper, shouldering more and more of the burden as our co-workers left or were let go due to budget cuts, and doing it with a gentle demeanor that endeared him to everyone. A couple years after I left, Dan was the victim of one of those cuts, but he found another journalism job at a smaller organization and kept on going.

Talking to those who did know him better, I definitely wish I had been one of them. Dan died of lung cancer on Friday at the age of 55. The outpouring of tributes from my Beacon colleagues has been heartening to read. Dan was loved. I loved the guy, and I only knew him a little. I can only imagine how much I would have loved him if I’d really gotten to know him. Rest in peace, Dan. You were taken far too young, far too soon.

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I am obsessive about release dates.

I have an extensive calendar of those dates that I update every few days, as new albums are announced. I like to know exactly what’s coming, and exactly when it will be in my hot little hands. The furthest out my calendar goes right now is June, as I only include albums when a release date is firmly announced. But there are 54 entries on the calendar over the next four months, culled from a variety of sources that I check regularly. When I walk into the record store each week, I have a very good idea of what I’ll be walking out with.

And yet, it’s usually the surprises that make my year. If a great album appears out of thin air, grabbing hold and rewriting my life for a while, that’s just the best. If I don’t have time to anticipate it, I don’t have time to build up expectations for it, which helps. But also, I thrive on discovery. If something lands in my inbox, or is recommended to me, or appears suddenly on a band’s website, there’s a thrill in that which can’t quite be matched by updating a calendar months in advance. (Beyonce knows what I’m talking about.)

Case in point: Two weeks ago, I didn’t know that the new Gungor album even existed yet. And since then, it’s taken over my stereo. I’ve listened to other things, certainly, but I keep coming back to this one. It’s addictive. Gungor, as you may know, is a husband and wife duo (guess their last name!) who, for several albums, wrote liturgical pieces and modern hymns. In 2013, they smashed their own template, releasing I Am Mountain, a glorious mess of an album that leapt from style to style, landing at the top of my list that year.

Last summer, the duo announced One Wild Life, a trilogy of new albums to be released six months apart. The first one, Soul, landed in June of last year, and was, I thought, a pretty significant step back. An album of airy ballads with only a few standouts, Soul failed to make much of an impression, and I basically forgot to count the months until its sequel. Eight of them have gone by, which only made it more surprising when I received an email telling me Spirit, the second of the trilogy, would be available for download in a matter of days.

Even then, I didn’t have particularly high hopes, but Spirit is absolutely wonderful. It’s a more compact record, 43 minutes to Soul’s 57, and it just explodes with life and ideas. The diversity I love is back, buoying a newfound ‘80s pop influence that makes this probably the most fun you can have listening to a Gungor album. Opener “Magic” will make you want to do cartwheels wherever you are – it has that widescreen run-for-the-horizon feeling of the best orchestral indie pop. “Anthem” keeps the ball rolling, with its danceable groove right out of 1985. If you’re not at least tapping your foot by the time Lisa Gungor sings “my heart starts beating like an anthem,” I don’t know how to help you.

Every ounce of life I felt was absent from Soul is here in abundance. “Whale” is one of the weirdest things here (and in Gungor’s catalog), Michael decrying unnecessary division over a blaring synth klaxon. “Kiss the Night” is killer, a glittering pop song with a soaring chorus. Michael Gungor has a reputation for talking directly to his fellow Christians, telling them things they need to hear, and he does that here, urging them to leave their comfortable churches and be part of the world. “Consonance isn’t always peaceful, dissonance isn’t always evil, cross the line, listen to me people, seek and you shall find…”

That’s nothing compared to “Let Bad Religion Die,” a full-on treatise about hatred masquerading as faith. The song specifically references the Crusades, condemning them and all similar modern impulses. It’s a wonderful thing to hear from a Christian songwriter: “If it spreads violence more than peace, God let religion cease.” It’s a stark and sobering piece of work, and I applaud its boldness – this may not seem like a big deal to say outside the church, but inside, where Michael and Lisa Gungor live, it’s huge. That they follow it up with the soulful “Love is All” speaks volumes.

Spirit has a delightfully off-kilter conclusion. After the solid and uplifting “Hurricane” and “We Are Alive,” the Gungors break into a mostly instrumental Middle-Eastern-sounding affair called “Body and Blood.” It’s the longest song on the record, beginning with two minutes of Lisa Gungor’s wordless vocals over a synth dirge and hand percussion. It stays in dirge mode throughout, Michael’s heavily processed voice pushing it along, his lightning-fast guitar accents decorating the edges. It is, again, unlike anything they have ever done, and the choice to end this record with it was a brave one.

Of course, they didn’t need a grand finale, as this will lead into the third One Wild Life album, called Body, which will be out this summer. The chances of me forgetting about Body are slim, given how good Spirit is. It recaptures everything I loved about their hairpin turn three years ago, and has me anticipating the final installment of the trilogy. Spirit is the very definition of a pleasant surprise.

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You never know when a new Jandek album is going to drop.

Someday soon, I will write my epic column about Jandek, a strange and fascinating anti-musician from Texas. I’ve mentioned him here before, and my odd obsession with his output, but here is a quick primer. Since 1978, a man we think is named Sterling Smith and we think lives in Houston has been making some of the most utterly strange music you’ve ever heard. For a quarter-century, he was a complete mystery, issuing these records on his own Corwood label, offering them through mail-order only, giving no interviews and making no public appearances. The albums themselves contain no information whatsoever, except song titles and track lengths.

This would be interesting enough, but the music is its own brand of enigma. It is not so much incompetent as it is defying competency. It is entirely improvised by a man who cannot play guitar or sing in the traditional sense, and yet his apparent lack of skill actually adds to the atmosphere he generates. At times, Jandek makes the loneliest, most heart-drowning music ever. The words are often about isolation and pain, about crying out for love (or at least contact), and the bitter howls of his unrestrained voice, atop the chaotic mess of his playing, truly bring that across. I’ve never heard anything quite like it.

In 2004, Jandek began playing concerts. Now he plays a dozen or so times a year, all around the world, teaming up with local musicians and painting his vision on a larger scale. The music is all still improvised, and he still cannot actually play the instruments he performs on (including acoustic and electric guitar, bass, piano, keyboard and drums), but every live album is different. Lately he’s been releasing studio box sets alongside these live records too – the most recent sports six hours of piano and theremin improvisations. His vast catalog is like no other I have heard, and his commitment to this particular aesthetic is baffling and admirable. It’s been 38 years, so I’m pretty sure at this point that it’s not a joke. This is just how he hears music.

There is a Jandek website now, and you can order Jandek albums online, which is still a weird experience for me. And every once in a while, a new one will just show up at the bottom of the list, without any announcement or fanfare. It’s always a surprise. About two weeks ago, a new one appeared, and it arrived at my house few days ago. It’s his 82nd, and I’m just going to repeat that for effect: he has made 82 albums. This new one documents a 2008 concert in Dublin, one of the few he has played solo.

And maybe I’m just used to Jandek’s thoroughly unconventional style, but I really like this one. The representative from Corwood plays acoustic guitar and sings, and he performs an eight-part suite called “He Said Nothing.” It’s a long (63 minutes!) and winding tale about miscommunication and missed opportunity, and the Rep plays it in a subdued style, for the most part, on a guitar that is in standard tuning. The result is actually pleasantly hypnotic, and I’m left thinking that I know very few musicians able to weave a spell like this. For all his lack of technical prowess, Jandek has harnessed this style he’s created into something thoroughly unique.

This might mean my critical faculties are on the blink. I’ve been following Jandek for ten years now – the first new one I bought was 2006’s The Ruins of Adventure – and I’ve grown accustomed to what he does. As always, every time I hear a new one, I start waiting for the next one. I’m hoping he hits 100 albums someday. I’ll keep checking the Corwood website, and anticipating that little thrill I get every time a new one appears on the list.

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And then there are the surprises I’d have no way of anticipating.

These usually arrive in my life thanks to a well-made recommendation, and I have Mike Messerschmidt, of my favorite record store Kiss the Sky, to thank for turning me on to GoGo Penguin. I never in a million years would have randomly bought an album by a band called GoGo Penguin, but I’m very glad that Mike urged me to, because they’re fantastic.

GoGo Penguin (I will never get tired of typing that) is a British instrumental trio with a jazz lineup: piano, stand-up bass and drums. But like the Bad Plus before them, they play more of a progressive pop version of jazz. And in GoGo Penguin’s case, it’s progressive pop informed by late-period Radiohead more than anything else. Drummer Rob Turner is the most obvious Radiohead fan – his skittering beats resemble Phil Selway’s more often than not, and he guides these often-simple songs into more complex directions.

Pianist Chris Illingworth is less flashy, preferring block chords and never taking anything that could be considered a blistering solo. The contrast with the hyperactive drums works well – it keeps the focus on the songs. A piece like “Weird Cat” isn’t hard to play, from a piano perspective, but Illingworth and bassist Nick Blacka keep things grounded while Turner shoots for the moon. The result is like Aphex Twin-style ambient electronic music played on acoustic instruments.

New album Man Made Object is the trio’s third, and on it, they sound like a refined and confident unit. Every song is terrific, but I am particularly partial to “Smarra,” with its smattering of electric piano, and “Surrender to Mountain,” a stately mini-epic. This record has been fighting with Gungor for control of my stereo since Friday, and I’m thrilled to have it in my life.

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Next week, Anthrax, Nada Surf, Ray Lamontagne, and maybe a few other things. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

If it wouldn’t have spoiled my movie reference, I would have phrased the title of this week’s column as a question. Do we need to talk about Kanye?

Because it seems like that’s all we do anymore. For the past few weeks, I haven’t been able to go online without seeing a new headline about something Kanye West said or did. Between proclaiming Bill Cosby innocent, starting and ending fights with other rappers, blowing his top backstage at Saturday Night Live, and for some reason deciding to upset Taylor Swift again, West’s well-documented boorish public persona is dominating the entertainment news. Some have suggested we’re watching his sanity erode before our eyes.

I don’t know about that. I don’t know West, so it would be difficult for me to say what his actual mental state is. I do know that if you took his Twitter account away from him, he’d probably be a lot less interesting to a lot of people. It certainly would have made the process of completing and releasing his seventh album, The Life of Pablo, a less fascinating one. Had West simply finished this record and put it out, it would probably not have been labeled a confounding mess before anyone had even heard it.

Instead, West gave us an inside look at the last-minute changes and seeming confusion that surrounded Pablo’s birth. Multiple track lists surfaced, and the title changed three times, from So Help Me God to SWISH to Waves to its current moniker. (For the record, though the original title was my favorite, I like the one West settled on, with its references to both Picasso and Escobar.) The album’s release was delayed for days while West added one more track, at the behest of Chance the Rapper. When the record appeared on Tidal, Jay-Z’s fledgling online music service, you could download it for $20. Within hours, that option was removed – you can only stream The Life of Pablo, and only from Tidal.

And now comes word that the album may not even be finished. West has promised to “fix” one of the songs, and though he’s pledged never to offer it for sale, rumors of a wider release continue to rumble. No one has any idea quite what to think at the moment, which I imagine suits West just fine. There’s a calculated edge to a lot of these moves, one that may serve as a counter-argument to the accusations of insanity. The Life of Pablo did dominate news cycles for weeks as West messed about with it, and it certainly brought more attention to Tidal than anything else released on the platform.

There’s a canniness to his egotistical boasting, too. One of my favorite moments of the pre-release madness was when West walked back his zealous pronouncements about the album, downgrading it to “one of” the best albums of all time. West walks an interesting line. Had he released this album with no fanfare, some people might have liked it more, but West is also aware of the backlash to his own hype, which lowers expectations. And when The Life of Pablo turned out to be a messy yet surprisingly heartfelt affair, I think those expecting a vile trainwreck were pleasantly surprised.

I know I was. The Life of Pablo is a tonally jarring piece of work that examines West’s own struggles with his ego and his public persona, but taken as a whole, it makes the case for his sanity. Yes, there are certainly moments when West slips into Yeezus mode and says something outrageous and sickening just for the shock value, and those moments mar the record like adolescent scribbles all over a Picasso, to pick a Pablo. But there’s a lot here about West trying his hardest to grow up, and a lot about the solace he finds in his family. So much of this is so arresting, so unlike anything we’ve heard from West, that I find myself wishing he would shut down the old Kanye completely.

The album opens with a terrific case in point. “Ultra Light Beam” is a gospel song, sparse and almost sacred. It’s so threadbare it almost doesn’t exist, West’s auto-tuned voice leading a choir over virtually no instrumentation, the song a prayer for salvation. “This is a God dream, this is everything, I’m trying to keep my faith, but I’m looking for more,” West sings, leading into a mini-sermon from Kirk Franklin: “This prayer’s for everyone who feels too messed up… you can never go too far where you can’t go back home again.” This is a recurring theme of the album – how one gets back over the lines one crosses.

“Father Stretch My Hands Pt. 1” begins similarly, a slow beat introducing a lovely chorus from Kid Cudi, and then the old Kanye shows up and ruins it: “If I fuck this model and she just bleached her asshole, and I get bleach on my t-shirt, I’m’a feel like an asshole.” I hope he does. With one verse he rips “Father Stretch My Hands,” a minor-key, melancholy suite, to shreds. It’s still a surprising piece of music, but it never comes back from those four misjudged lines. So the album is already in the position of the singer on “Ultra Light Beam,” needing forgiveness.

And on it goes like that. “Famous” contains that creepy Taylor Swift verse (“I think me and Taylor might still have sex”) roughly juxtaposed with Rhianna singing Nina Simone’s gorgeous “Do What You Gotta Do.” The all-over-the-place production is amazing as always, jumping from sample to sample with supple organ backup. All of these songs are short, and they sound half-finished on first listen – as soon as West finds a groove to ride, as he does on “Feedback” (with its shout-out to Black Lives Matter), he cuts it short.

The whole record is like driving over potholes. West jumps from “Low Lights,” a sampled prayer about the endless acceptance of God, to “High Lights,” a song on which he wishes his dick had Go-Pro and suggests that his wife is only with him because he’s rich. “Freestyle 4” is the worst of the lot, a full return of the Yeezus personality. It’s just wretched, an open door to West’s adolescent id. And yet, one song later, he’s presenting us with the most self-aware 44 seconds of his career: “I Love Kanye” is an a cappella verse about the old and new Kanyes, stabbing his own ego: “What if Kanye made a song about Kanye called ‘I Miss the Old Kanye,’ that would be so Kanye, we still love Kanye and I love you like Kanye loves Kanye…”

This is what makes me think that all the scribbled vulgarities and moments of outrageous stupidity are calculated. West knows what we think of him, and with the more mature moments of The Life of Pablo, he’s telling us that he’s not like this, or at least not all the time. The final third of Pablo (not counting the five bonus tracks) bears this out, containing as it does the most straightforward and sentimental material I’ve ever heard from West. “Waves” is remarkably pretty (Chance was right to fight for it), while “FML” is the closest to a confessional piece West has penned. It finds West reminding himself not to jeopardize his family for anything, knowing that people are waiting for him to stumble. It’s as sparse as “Ultra Light Beam,” with a strong chorus from The Weeknd.

Pablo ends with “Real Friends,” a low-key piece about getting what one deserves (with a self-indulgent verse about a stolen laptop), and “Wolves,” one of the most effective songs here. The airy melancholy that has pervaded the album is in full force, West returning to his 808s and Heartbreak mode for the vocals, and ending things with a strange verse about Joseph meeting Mary in the club, segueing into a final thought about protecting his family: “Cover Saint in lamb’s wool, we’re surrounded by the fucking wolves.” Frank Ocean drives it home with an atmospheric coda: “Life is precious, we found out, we found out…” It’s one of West’s most thought-provoking tracks, so naturally it’s the one he’s promised to “fix.”

As you may have surmised, I’m of the opinion that the album proper ends here, with an intermission and four bonus tunes tacked onto the end. These are the ones old-school fans are most likely to enjoy, and if you’re looking for pure hip-hop, “30 Hours” and “No More Parties in L.A.” will be like an oasis for you. (Kendrick Lamar is, as usual, excellent on the latter track.) For me, these are less interesting and less successful – they’re pretty typical, and the yin and yang of the old and new Kanyes is completely absent. “Facts” is a song about his shoes. “Fade” has virtually no lyrics. On this album these are bonus tracks, and I would think so even if West didn’t say so in “30 Hours.”

But The Life of Pablo itself is a thoroughly self-indulgent, often frustrating, yet always compelling document of a man at a crossroads. As usual, it’s not as brilliant as West thinks it is, but it’s still strong and fascinating enough that he can’t be dismissed. I’ve been pulling for him for years, hoping that his words would catch up to his musical skill. He has an ear like few others, and an artistic fearlessness that I have always admired.

The Life of Pablo will remind you at times of other albums he’s made, but it isn’t quite like any of them. It’s an impressive work, musically speaking, so I’m inclined to keep pulling for him, to celebrate the moments of growth and maturity here, and urge him away from his worst impulses. I can feel him wanting to be a better person throughout this record, and I hope he gets there, the words of Kirk Franklin reverberating in his ears: “You can never go too far where you can’t go back home again.”

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

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I have been an introvert all my life.

As a kid, I spent a lot of time alone, reading and listening to music. (And I mean listening to music. Intently. With no distractions. The kind of listening I long for now.) I had few friends, and wasn’t particularly good at talking to people. And while I’m much better at interacting now, and I’ve somehow managed to attract a good many wonderful people to my life, I still often need to be alone.

You can laugh all you want to at those “introverts are” memes, but they often serve as a much-needed reminder that I’m not an outlier. Introversion is a real thing, a personality type that millions of people share. Sometimes it’s equated with shyness, and I can tell you in my case that’s not really true. I talk to everyone, and I’m pretty good in social situations, now that I’m past the more awkward teenage years. But I can only do that for so long – my limited supply of energy runs out, and I need to be back home with a book or a movie or a record, recharging.

As glad as I am that I know more about introversion more now, I’m doubly glad that it’s becoming more widely understood. (Seriously, thanks, Facebook memes.) When I tell my friends that I need to spend a weekend alone, they get it. When I leave a party early, they understand why. Being an introvert doesn’t mean I crave human connection any less, but it does mean that, as much as I crave it, I can only take so much of it.

I feel like music exhibits these same qualities of introversion and extroversion. If there’s a poster child for musical extroverts, it’s probably Elton John. Over nearly 50 years in the music biz, he’s been that gregarious, outgoing, big personality, the guy everyone wants to talk to at the party. And he seems to feed off it, playing to the crowd, remaining a showman even into his late ‘60s. Even when Elton gets introspective, his music is still big and welcoming, rather than insular. I could never imagine him wrapped in a blanket, refusing to go out and play a show. (That doesn’t mean he isn’t this way – I don’t know him – but his public persona is very much an extrovert.)

And he clearly doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him. Just look at the cover of his new album, Wonderful Crazy Night – it looks like it was taken with an iPhone, and it captures him at his goofiest. The slapdash nature of the cover might make you worry about the album, but there’s no need. Wonderful Crazy Night, Elton’s 32nd, follows up on the organic and inspired The Diving Board, and injects a nice dose of fun.

In fact, where the previous record was often ponderous and self-serious, this new one is just a blast. The Elton John/Bernie Taupin collaboration is still going strong after five decades together, and quite often this album recaptures the classic feel of their mammoth sprint through the 1970s. Elton’s on piano throughout – there isn’t a cheeseball synthesizer to be found – and his melodies are sprightly and bouncy. The title track sets the right tone, bounding in on a galloping piano figure, Elton looking back on his career as if it were a single night, and celebrating it. It’s simple and forthright and just what it needs to be.

Elton again produced this record with T-Bone Burnett, and the live, organic feel he brings serves these songs well. I’m a particular fan of the stomping “In the Name of You” and the delightful “Blue Wonderful,” but there isn’t anything here that stops the train. Even when he slows it down for “A Good Heart,” which teeters on the edge of mawkish, it works – the horns and harmonies bring it home. The album flies by in 41 minutes (49 if you buy the version with the two swell bonus tracks), and when he gets to the heartfelt finale, “An Open Chord,” he’s built up such a head of sincerity that he makes you feel the key line: “You’re an open chord I want to play all day.”

Perhaps the most striking thing about Wonderful Crazy Night is how joyous it all is. Elton isn’t wrestling with anything here, the heavier themes of The Diving Board all but forgotten. That makes this a slighter record, and probably a more forgettable one, but the major-key contentment that powers it is infectious. It’s an album that makes me want to go out and have fun.

And when I’ve done that and I’m completely out of energy, I’ll always have introverted musicians like Elliott Smith to come back to. Last year I had the pleasure of seeing Heaven Adores You, a superb documentary about the man I consider one of the best songwriters of my generation. Elliott was the ultimate introvert, a shy and quiet loner crying out for connection, yet unable to take it in for very long. The arc of the movie is, of necessity, a tragedy – a genius creating fragile, gossamer art who was suddenly thrust into the spotlight, found it too much, suffered from depression and alcoholism and drug addiction, and ended up killing himself at the age of 34.

Smith never shied away from these themes in his music. His songs, both with his band Heatmiser and on his own, are full of loneliness and rejection and compulsion. He wrote beautiful, complex melodies and bled all over them. Sometimes listening to Elliott Smith is like eavesdropping, so honest and raw are his words. The relative trickle of posthumous material proves that this was a consistent quality, his work an emotional exposed nerve. I’ve gratefully taken everything of his I can get.

What might be the final piece of unreleased Elliott Smith music is now here in the form of the soundtrack to Heaven Adores You. Thankfully, we haven’t reached Montage of Heck levels of bottom-scraping here. With a couple exceptions, this is a strong and consistent alternate look at Smith’s musical life, from his earliest recordings to his moment in the sun, and to his struggles after that. There are numerous highlights on this soundtrack – hearing Heatmiser bring muscle to “Christian Brothers” while Smith’s solo band tackles “Plainclothes Man” is revelatory, the numerous in-progress pieces give insight into Smith’s process, and hearing early versions of “Waltz #1” and “Coast to Coast” is a pleasure.

And hearing the audio of Smith’s performance of “Miss Misery” on Late Night with Conan O’Brien brings back so many memories. This performance, his first on national television, was so wavery, so deer-in-the-headlights, that it was clear to anyone watching how uncomfortable Smith was with his newfound fame. From there we get a few cuts from the final album he released when he was alive, Figure 8, and that’s all, since his final years are well documented on other posthumous records.

That’s all, that is, except for one thing, right at the end: “I Love My Room,” a song Smith wrote when he was 13 years old. It’s clear, even from this, that the man was destined to be a phenomenal writer. The song takes so many turns and detours, while never feeling self-indulgent. It’s beyond the talents of most adults, and it makes my heart ache just thinking about what could have been. He never really stopped loving his room, and the glare of the spotlight turned out to be blinding. Hearing so many unfinished pieces so full of potential here is heartbreaking, knowing that all of that potential is gone.

But it’s just so wonderful to hear Elliott Smith sing and play guitar that I’m happy and grateful for one more chance to do it. Smith’s music is like a warm cocoon, a blanket of isolation keeping the rest of the world out. In this cocoon, you can be as hurt and as empty as you want, you can feel any way you need to feel until you’re ready to face the outside again. It’s no wonder I’ve resonated so strongly with it for nearly 20 years. Listening to this, I’m sad all over again that Elliott Smith has left us, but grateful all over again that he was here at all, making his honest, powerful, introverted music.

Next week, who knows? Maybe Kanye? Maybe not? Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

The first thing you should know about the new Bloc Party album is that it’s not really a Bloc Party album.

In fact, if you’ve followed frontman Kele Okereke’s solo work, you’ll probably find more in common here with that than with Bloc Party’s more popular records, like Silent Alarm. The new album is called Hymns, and it’s mainly a collaboration between Okereke and the band’s guitarist, Russell Lissack. They’re all that’s left of the original Bloc Party, and while they’ve hired a new bassist and a new drummer, the former appears sparingly on Hymns and the latter not at all.

So what we have here is a transitional album, a stopover in bedroom pop territory. Which comes as a real surprise after the band’s explosive 2012 reunion, the raw and live-sounding Four. This new effort is almost entirely electronic, like Okereke’s two solo discs, and feels like it was assembled rather than played. If you liked Four, this is its exact opposite, in other words. I like curve balls (and I especially like using baseball imagery while writing this on Super Bowl Sunday), but even I can see how this might feel like messing one’s audience around.

But that’s not the only thing about Hymns that might surprise longtime listeners. Okereke digs deep into religious faith here for the first time – many of these songs, like “Only He Can Heal Me,” are straight-up gospel. If you’ve heard the first single, “The Love Within,” you know what I’m talking about. “Pull back the veil, let your eyes meet this world, the love within is moving upwards,” Okereke sings over a pulsing, joyous electronic bed. The religious imagery continues in “The Good News” and bonus track “Eden,” songs that sit awkwardly next to the usual Okereke fascinations with drugs and sex.

I can absolutely understand if all of these swerves leave people feeling confused about what they’re hearing. I spent a lot of my first listen to Hymns waiting for the guitars to kick in. But I stuck with it, and ended up liking it a great deal. This album is quiet and contemplative, juxtaposing songs of salvation with songs of isolation, all wrapped in chilly synths. “The Love Within” is the goofiest thing here, particularly that wah-wah-wah keyboard sound, but it works, if only just. I much prefer “Fortress,” which is as minimalist as The Weeknd, Okereke singing in a fragile falsetto over a barely-there beat, an organ and some clouds. “Pull me under, under the ocean, cover my mouth with yours,” he sings, and it’s chilling and lovely.

Okereke is the focal point of this album, in a way that he hasn’t quite been on other Bloc Party records, and he remains a compelling singer and wordsmith. Even he can’t save something as amelodic as “Different Drugs,” though the song does sport a nice crescendo, but give him a slinky groove like “Into the Earth” and he nails it. The songs on which new bassist Justin Harris and session drummer Alex Thomas join in are all tucked in the second half, but they actually slide into the running order nicely. Hymns gets quieter as it goes, ending with “Living Lux,” a beat-free dirge. (Or with “Evening Song,” a similarly haunting track, if you get the deluxe edition. And you should, particularly for “Eden,” which should have made the album proper.)

I can definitely understand approaching Hymns with caution and skepticism. Bloc Party is half the band it used to be, and this is an album full of sounds and textures we’ve never heard from them. But as a portrait of an always-interesting singer and artist in a period of uncertainty and upheaval, it works well. I expect the sixth Bloc Party album will sound more like we expect. Until then, I’m enjoying this one a lot more than I thought I would.

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I’m prepping for a business trip to Washington, DC, so I’m going to cut this one short. Just a couple quick reviews of new-to-me artists, and I’ll be done.

One reason I keep going to my friendly neighborhood record store, Kiss the Sky in Batavia, Illinois, is that the owners consistently recommend excellent music. A week ago, one of them suggested I give Anderson .Paak a spin, and I’m pretty grateful. .Paak’s second album, Malibu, is excellent. I like his work so much that I don’t even mind that pretentious period before his last name. (Though I may call him Anderson throughout this mini-review, just to keep my OCD from freaking out.)

Imagine if Stevie Wonder and Kendrick Lamar made an album together, and you’ll be on the right track. Malibu is a delightful mix of the modern and the vintage, dipping back into a soulful well while keeping it raw. “The Waters” is a great example – there’s a modern pop beat, a lovely choir of backing vocalists, and a spitting rap verse by BJ the Chicago Kid. It all sits nicely next to each other. Anderson’s voice is strong, but his songwriting voice is even stronger – this album jumps all over the map, from the spectal soul of opener “The Bird” to the two-part hip-hop epic “The Season/Carry Me” to the moody, Prince-like “Parking Lot” to smooth hands-in-the-air closer “The Dreamer,” featuring Talib Kweli.

Malibu is a strikingly confident record, one that is still unfolding for me. There’s a lot here, and surprises keep presenting themselves. Anderson .Paak has crafted a perfect hybrid of the old-school and the cutting edge, standing on the shoulders of giants and seeing to the horizon. He is what I wanted Frank Ocean to be. I’m looking forward to hearing more.

A Facebook friend of mine called Daughter’s Not to Disappear the first great record of 2016. I’m certainly inclined to give that nod to David Bowie’s Blackstar, but I won’t disagree that this English trio has crafted something compelling. This music exists at the intersection of shoegaze and post-rock, like the quieter moments of Explosions in the Sky records given an expansive, epic scope, and topped off with hushed and harmonized vocals. It’s enveloping, like running through a forest at night.

Elena Tonra’s voice is pretty, but her words are disturbing, heartbreaking and melancholy, and they add a personal edge to this wider-than-the-sky sound. “I feel numb in this kingdom, make me better,” she pleads on “Numbers,” over tribal drums and piercing guitar waves. “Doing the Right Thing” is about a woman suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, and it’s poignant and difficult: “I’m just fearing that one day soon I’ll lose my mind, then I’ll lose my children, then I’ll lose my love, and I’ll sit in silence, let the pictures soak out of televisions, float across the room…”

“Alone/With You” uses its mirrored structure effectively, detailing the pain of loneliness and of being with the wrong person. “I hate dreaming of being with you, terrified with the lights out,” Tonra sings in one of the few moments of the album that could be called harrowing. Two songs later she is defiantly shouting, “I don’t want to belong to you, to anyone.” While the first half of the album conjures a dark mood and builds on it, the second half, starting with the electronic rhythm of “Alone/With You” and continuing with the more aggressive “No Care,” rips that mood apart. It’s a nice dichotomy, a journey I’ve enjoyed taking. While I may not call Not to Disappear a great record, it is certainly a very good one, and one I’d recommend.

Next week, probably Kanye, once he decides what to call his album. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I have a long history with musical theater.

The first musical I acted in was called Kidsville U.S.A. I was in the first grade, and I played Mayor Arthur Apple. It took place in a town where all the parents disappeared, leaving the kids to fend for themselves. They decided to select the mayor alphabetically, of course. Then they all ate as much candy as they wanted and got sick. There were songs, there was dancing. It was awesome.

I’ve been in or worked on many musicals since then, despite a less-than-amazing singing voice, and have always been a fan of the art form. I saw Phantom of the Opera twice in Boston, like you do when you’re young and don’t know any better, but my experience working on a college production of Into the Woods ignited a Sondheim fascination that hasn’t died out.

Our local historic theater, the Paramount, has as its flagship a Broadway series that has brought top-notch Chicago actors and musicians to the suburbs, and I’ve enjoyed every one of those I’ve seen. Spring Awakening and The Book of Mormon are more modern favorites, and yes, what I’ve heard of Hamilton knocked me out. All that said, I clearly wouldn’t call myself an expert, or even an aficionado. But I definitely like musicals, and know the format well enough to enjoy it when it’s being homaged or mocked.

I also have a long history with progressive rock. Ever since I started dissecting music and figuring out how it all fits together, I’ve been fascinated by long songs with complicated passages. I think my gateway drug was Genesis, who, even in the later Phil Collins years, never stopped writing 10-minute songs with tricky structures. That led to old Genesis, and Yes, and (thanks to the prodding of a cranky music columnist named Seth Berner) to Gentle Giant. That led to the mighty Marillion, one of my favorite bands on earth.

Of course, I’ve always liked the louder side of prog as well. You don’t even have to stretch the definition of “progressive” to consider Master of Puppets a prog album, and I’ve loved that thing for almost 30 years. Iron Maiden remains a favorite, even now – their album covers drew me in, but their penchant for lengthy, complex opuses made me stick around. I’ve been a prog-metal fan for my entire adult life, from Pain of Salvation to Fates Warning to Between the Buried and Me to Opeth to Tourniquet to Coheed and Cambria. And of course, the big dog on the scene, Dream Theater.

Here’s the thing, though: I don’t know how much overlap there is between the prog-metal and Broadway musical audiences. So when I listen to Dream Theater’s latest effort, The Astonishing, I find myself wondering who – besides me, of course – will enjoy it.

The Astonishing is completely ridiculous. It’s a 130-minute musical spread over 34 tracks, telling the story of a futuristic kingdom that is saved by the power of music. It is 2112 or Kilroy Was Here extended to endurance-test lengths, with wailing guitars and cheeseball ballads. It is basically a prog-rock Les Miserables with flying robots, and while at times you hope that the band is approaching this tongue in cheek, the overall tone is very, very serious. Which, of course, makes it even more ridiculous. It’s taken me a long time to decide if I even like it, and I’m still not 100 percent sure.

One thing you have to admire is the band’s chutzpah. They did not half-ass this thing in any way. They even hired an orchestra and a choir to give it that extra push into epic silliness. There are eight characters and a narrator, and singer James LaBrie plays them all, affecting different voices. Evil Emperor Nafaryus gets his sneering metal snarl, while the princess Faythe gets an airy falsetto. He pulls it off, but it’s just one more example of how completely the band committed to this idea.

The Astonishing was the brainchild of guitarist John Petrucci, who wrote all the lyrics and co-wrote all the music with keyboardist Jordan Rudess. Petrucci used to be one-half of the artistic push and pull of Dream Theater, but with drummer Mike Portnoy’s departure a few years ago, he’s stepped into the role of creative director. (New drummer Mike Mangini is very good, but not the creative force Portnoy was.) This is his big coming-out party, his first solo conceptual piece, and while there’s plenty here I expect Portnoy would have argued against, Petrucci obviously gave this thing his all. I have to respect that.

But I’m still not sure if I like it. Let me tell you about the story, because the fact that you cannot divorce the music from the book is the album’s biggest stumbling block, and yet its most defining characteristic.

So. The Astonishing takes place in 2285, in the Great Northern Empire of the Americas. It is a land ruled by the aforementioned Emperor Nafaryus, and overseen by the NOMACS, flying robots that make the only music allowed by law: a whirring, computerized noise. Nafaryus gets word of two brothers, Arhys and Gabriel, the latter of whom has rediscovered real music, and is using it to draw people to the revolution his brother is leading. Nafaryus brings his son Daryus and his daughter Faythe to the town where the brothers live, to see this “chosen one” for himself. (Yes, it’s cheesy enough that there is a “chosen one.”)

Long (very, very long) story short, Gabriel falls in love with Faythe, Nafaryus threatens to destroy the rebels and the innocent people hiding them, Arhys makes a deal to betray his brother, and all the major players meet at a place called Heaven’s Cove for a violent denouement. The whole thing follows the structure of musicals to the letter, including the big, triumphant ending that brings the whole ensemble to the stage. Of course, music saves the day, the dead live again, Nafaryus sees the evil of his ways, and everyone lives happily ever after.

Are you still on board? Because yes, that’s all really, really silly, and if you’re looking for a deeper meaning, it is only that music, as a wise man once said, is the best. In a way, it does remind me of Zappa’s Joe’s Garage, except that Zappa was always up front about how inane the whole concept was, taking the piss out of it at every opportunity. Petrucci, on the other hand, is completely earnest – he obviously thinks this story is important, its message profound. He pens verses like this: “In this fleeting life we can sometimes lose our way, but night is always darkest just before the new day.” And he means them, and LaBrie sings them without laughing.

The lyrics on The Astonishing are awful by any measure other than Broadway musicals. If you’re familiar with shows like Miss Saigon and Rent, you won’t find any of this any more egregious. These songs – the longest of which is barely seven minutes – are pure Broadway. There are numbers that serve as exposition, and numbers that are clearly intended as breakaway pop hits (“Chosen,” “Begin Again”), and an overture at the top of Act One and an entr’acte at the start of Act Two. The whole thing is over-the-top theatrical, and meant for the stage.

In fact, the moments when this sounds like Dream Theater feel the most out of place. Not counting the overture, you have to wait until track 19, “A New Beginning,” for one of the band’s trademark instrumental workouts, and it comes off as obligatory, like throwing a bone to the hardcore prog-metal fans. I much prefer when they work their musical prowess into the format they’ve chosen. “A Life Left Behind” is a wonder, as expansive a song as DT has ever written, with a sinister twist at the end. “Lord Nafaryus” and “Three Days” are complicated pieces that move the story forward, guitars wailing the whole time.

Like any good musical, the first act sets up the situation and the second act builds on it, racing toward resolution. The music in Act Two is superior, I think, because it’s able to call on themes we know and associate with certain characters. The most effective moment concerns the surprise death of one of the characters, and if you’re even a bit invested in this story by that point, it will work on you. Even before that, though, the band takes some nice chances with the spooky “Heaven’s Cove,” and the climax of the second act is a rousing pop song called “Our New World” that is the catchiest thing here. The title track ends things by bringing back several recurring themes and wrapping them up into a crescendo. The final moments are screaming for an ovation.

With all that, The Astonishing is an exhausting listen, perhaps too much work for what you get out of it. I’ve heard it four times through, and I’m still not sure what I think. So much work went into this, and yet, with all that labor, the end result is still so cheesy. If Petrucci was aiming for an accurate homage of most big musicals, he nailed it. That doesn’t necessarily make for the best Dream Theater album, and songs like “Chosen,” while similar to pop hits like “Defying Gravity” from Wicked, are riddled with clichés. (“But I can’t climb this mountain without you…”)

That’s why I’m wondering who the audience for this mammoth undertaking is. Dream Theater’s fanbase probably won’t quite grasp what they’re doing – how perfectly “Brother Can You Hear Me” apes Les Miserables, for instance – and musical theater fans probably won’t be drawn to a 130-minute prog-metal album. They’re trying to bridge an interesting divide here, and I can see their usual fans crying out for long solos and progressive instrumental sections, and getting this. That’s one reason I admire the band for jumping into this thing with both feet.

Another reason, though, is that Dream Theater has been in a rut for a long time, churning out the same 20-minute epics and blistering solos, and they needed to shake themselves up. The Astonishing absolutely does that. The last time the band made a concept album, they delivered Scenes from a Memory, one of their very best. While The Astonishing may not rank up there with that masterpiece, it certainly breaks their samey-sounding streak, and gets them back in the game. They sound more alive, more committed here than they have in ages, even if what they’re committing to is a strange sci-fi story about the magical power of music.

The Astonishing, then, is an impressive deep dive into a form of music Dream Theater have never explored, with enough high points to deserve praise and enough cheesy moments to earn derision. I still don’t quite know what I think of it, both as a musical and as an album, but there’s no doubt the band poured everything they have into this, and if the end result is a revitalized Dream Theater, then it will have been worth it.

As a side note, while the story is, in the main, capably told in song, some aspects of it will need some further explanation. The band has provided that here. It’s recommended reading if you plan to take this ride.

Next week, Bloc Party and two new discoveries. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

January isn’t even over yet, and I’m having trouble keeping up with all the deaths. Just a few quick tributes before we get started.

Alan Rickman was always, in everything, an absolute joy to watch. I’m pretty sure I first saw him in Die Hard, but I first became aware of him as someone I enjoyed in the otherwise terrible Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. After that, I saw just about every film he made. I was especially pleased when Kevin Smith cast him as the voice of God in Dogma (I was a big Kevin Smith fan at the time), and by Grabthar’s hammer, I couldn’t get enough of him in Galaxy Quest. He was the perfect Marvin in that lousy Hitchhiker’s Guide movie, and the perfect Severus Snape in eight Harry Potter films. Rickman’s death at age 69 of pancreatic cancer was a total shock, and it made me as sad as I’ve ever been at an actor’s passing.

Glenn Frey was a founding member of the Eagles, and an accomplished solo artist. In fact, it was his solo work that I heard first – “The Heat is On,” from the Beverly Hills Cop soundtrack, was one of my favorite songs as a kid. I’ve never quite connected with the Eagles, though I think they’re one of those bands you grow to appreciate as you get older. But there’s no denying their accomplishments, or their place in musical history. (And man, they could sing together very well.) Frey died at age 67 from complications following surgery, just a few years after releasing his first solo album in two decades.

David Bowie, Alan Rickman and Glenn Frey are just three of the many people death has claimed in the past month. On top of all that, Steven Moffat has quit Doctor Who. This is really not the best way to start things off, 2016. I hope you have better plans ahead.

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When people have asked me which new records I am most looking forward to this year, I have not hesitated to name Megadeth’s Dystopia.

Longtime readers know this, but it always surprises people who don’t know me all that well: I’ve been a Megadeth fan for more than 25 years. In a lot of ways, part of me is still living my teenage metalhead phase, and when I am in the mood for technically powerful yet still melodic metal, most of Megadeth’s output fits the bill nicely. Rust in Peace remains one of the finest metal albums I own, right up there with Ride the Lightning and Reign in Blood – just a complete classic of the genre. And in recent years, Dave Mustaine and his rotating cast of characters have kicked things into high gear, rivaling their earlier material. Mustaine sounds older and crankier now, but still hungry, which is fantastic.

Dystopia is the band’s 15th album in 31 years, and in all that time, the only stumbles they’ve made have come when they’ve wandered off the heavier path. Fans still look askance at 1999’s Risk, a detour into FM pop territory, and they have the same concerns about 2013’s Super Collider, a diverse collection of more tuneful material. I must be getting old, because I liked Super Collider, and I’m starting to appreciate Risk. But if Dystopia proves anything, it’s that Megadeth is at its best when Mustaine chucks all that experimentation in the bin. The new album is a blistering return to straight-up metal that focuses on Mustaine’s strengths: there is no one else able to be compact, heavy and melodic in equal measure as well as he can.

Mustaine is joined this time by longtime bassist Dave “Junior” Ellefson and two newbies: Angra guitarist Kiko Loureiro and Lamb of God drummer Chris Adler. Together they’ve made a 47-minute burst of classic Megadeth – this album can sit proudly next to anything bearing the band’s name. None of it is flashy – this is a record that gets the job done in four-minute hits, Mustaine and Loureiro taking plenty of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it solos, but never at the expense of the song. These tracks are technically complex, but don’t call attention to themselves – they’re nimble, fleet-footed and direct. The longest of them, “Poisonous Shadows,” is the only nod to experimentation – there are strings, and a slower, more contemplative tone. But that’s it. The rest are quick and pummeling, and the record even ends with a light-speed cover of Fear’s “Foreign Policy.”

Time has done no favors to Mustaine’s voice – his range has deteriorated, leaving him with a sour, curmudgeonly scowl in audible form. Sadly, that fits his lyrics well. On Dystopia, as he has for a while, Mustaine comes off like a grumpy old man watching Fox News from his underground bunker. Opener “The Threat is Real” is his most xenophobic, making the fear-driven argument for turning away refugees: “Messiah or mass-murderer, no controlling who comes through the door.” (The 20 seconds of Middle Eastern soundscape at the beginning drive the point home, and leave me wondering if Mustaine told Jordanian singer Farah Siraj what the song was about before she laid down her haunting vocals.)

“Death From Within” has the same point to make, and “Post American World” is full-on Fox jingoism: “What will we look like in a post American world, why cower to all those who oppose the American world?” “Lying in State” lays it out upfront: “What we are witnessing is the decline of western civilization.” When Mustaine isn’t grousing about the state of the country, he’s complaining about women who abandon him. It’s pretty standard stuff for him, and Dystopia, like other recent Megadeth albums, is an exercise for me in appreciating (even loving) the music while disagreeing with the sentiments it expresses.

Luckily, I’m good at that, and Dystopia‘s music deserves that particular skill. It is one of the strongest records Mustaine has given us, and not just recently – this one can honestly shine in the same orbit as his more revered works. Mustaine will be 55 this year, and even though he’s turned into a paranoid, crotchety geezer, he’s still delivering with no sign of slowing down. There aren’t many bands who, 30-plus-years into their career, can make something as tight, powerful and just plain killer as Dystopia. I honestly didn’t think Megadeth would be one of them, but here we are.

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If you want a real trip into the heart of darkness, though, you should check out Savages.

This London band crashed out of nowhere two years ago with Silence Yourself, an album that felt like a rawer Siouxie and the Banshees to me. Now they’re back with their second effort, Adore Life, and it’s much darker, a bit scarier, and certainly less concerned with whether you or anyone else will like it. For the record, I definitely like it.

The touchstone this time is Patti Smith – the songs on Adore Life are doused in feedback and noise, some of them rushing forward like a tidal wave, some crawling like a tar pit. The (almost) title track is pure Smith, inching along a pitch-black hallway on a wary bass line, leader Jenny Beth embracing both fatalism and joy: “Maybe I will die, maybe tomorrow, so I need to say I adore life…” In one of my favorite moments on the record, the band drops out entirely before the title phrase, and then builds and builds to a powerful conclusion.

In truth, the record is full of moments like that. Savages sound like they’re right on the edge of losing control of this powerhouse they’ve conjured, but they never do. The album is tightly arranged under all that feedback, and Gemma Thompson knows how to drape her sheets of guitar over the rhythm section in a way that feels haphazard, but clearly isn’t. “I Need Something New” is a great example, Beth kicking things off with a Bjork-like caterwaul and the band basically delivering a one-note groove for four minutes, with Thompson spinning out galaxies of noise. At first it sounds like something they threw together in 10 minutes, but upon repeat listens its more complicated structure becomes clear, especially as it slides into delirious cacophony.

Adore Life takes the ball Savages were tossing around two years ago and runs with it. It’s an inky whirlwind of a record that will leave you a little dazed, but in a good way. I’m glad to see them going further into their dark, twitchy, less accessible side – it proves they’re in it for the long haul, and makes me excited to follow along.

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Megadeth was number one on my list of reasons to love 2016. Number two was Shearwater, a far less well-known outfit from Austin, Texas. I’m very happy to report that both of my first two anticipated records have delivered, and delivered strong.

I didn’t have any doubt, though – Shearwater has never let me down. The brainchild of Jonathan Meiburg, who possesses one of the most original and captivating voices I know, Shearwater specializes in the massive and the sweeping. They’ve been changing up their formula lately – after expanding their sound on a trilogy of records at the end of the last decade, they released Animal Joy, their loudest and most guitar-oriented gallop forward, and then Fellow Travelers, a superb set of (mostly) obscure covers.

Now, with their ninth album Jet Plane and Oxbow, they’ve woven in electronic textures. Which, granted, is a bit of a cliché, but don’t worry. Meiburg and company are subtle about the electronics they do use, and by the album’s midpoint, they’re all but gone. And blessedly, they’re just textures – the real meat of this album is the songs, which, as usual, are magnificent. Shearwater were always good at orchestrating dramatic moments, but they’ve become masters at it here, arranging songs around a single sustained note breaking through the clouds, or around a mesmerizing harmony.

The effect, then, is an album whose closest touchstone is probably Echo and the Bunnymen: propulsive, bass-driven, synth-inflected, expansive and aiming to scrape the sky. The singles are up front – “Quiet Americans” is as clear-eyed a pop song as Meiburg has written – but the best material is the spacier, more open anthems in the later going. “Filaments” is six minutes of thumping bass and driving-through-tunnels atmosphere. “Glass Bones” is wicked, its tricky guitar rhythm never sitting still, its final minutes a celebration.

Best of all here is the penultimate track, “Radio Silence.” Over a wonderful six and a half minutes, Meiburg and his band give us an insistent rock song that explodes into a wonderful refrain around the three and a half minute mark. The song takes time to breathe and explore the space it’s been given, and I didn’t want it to end. Jet Plane and Oxbow continues Shearwater’s winning streak, managing to push their evolution forward while retaining everything that makes them special. While this year has already taken its toll, I’m beyond pleased that its music, at least here at the start, is making the grade.

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Next week, Dream Theater goes insane. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.