For the past week, I’ve been trying to gain some perspective on David Bowie’s death.

Which really means I’ve been trying to gain some perspective on his life. I’ve been reading essays and remembrances and think pieces almost non-stop, and I certainly won’t be able to match the heartfelt and witty words that have been written about the man since he left us last Sunday. As I said last week, Bowie has been a constant musical presence in my life, but if I wasn’t aware before, it’s now crystal clear how much he has meant to so many, not just as a musician but as an advocate for the unorthodox, the beautifully weird.

I’ve also been doing something Bowie never did: looking back. I’ve been revisiting his catalog in order, and rediscovering some gems I had forgotten about. The first of them was “An Occasional Dream,” an absolutely lovely song buried on side two of his 1969 self-titled record (often called Space Oddity). But there were countless others. I even rekindled my love for Tin Machine, Bowie’s raucous rock band with Reeves Gabrels, and reminded myself just how awesome Earthling is.

And of course, I’ve been thinking about how widespread Bowie’s influence has been on the music I love. I can see it everywhere, from the obvious (Beck, Gaga, Arcade Fire) to the more obscure (Eric Clayton of Saviour Machine, Jimmy Brown of Deliverance). Bowie even guested on an album by people I know – the long-overlooked Portland, Maine rock band Rustic Overtones. Any artist from the last 30 years who seems to jump styles and identities album to album owes a debt to Bowie. He was the one who pioneered the idea that one could make one’s life a work of art, and one’s musical catalog just a part of that work.

But mostly, I’ve been listening to Blackstar.

Bowie’s 25th and final album was released on his 69th birthday, just two days before he died, and at first, I’m sure most people thought that a coincidence. But according to the people who helped him make the record, including longtime producer and friend Tony Visconti, Bowie had planned Blackstar (and its two videos) as a last grand statement, and timed it with his impending death. The album was meant as a farewell gift, his death as much a part of his art as his life had been.

That revelation, to me, makes Blackstar far more than just a last record from a legend. I can’t fathom the depth of commitment it takes to create a work of art around and about one’s own death, never mind make that death the centerpiece. The album and the haunting video for “Lazarus” play completely differently now than they did just nine days ago, and that was Bowie’s intention. It’s a stunning declaration of the man’s will – he lived and died on his own terms, and made the most beautiful art he could up until the very last day he was able to.

This means that what was, just nine days ago, a strange and wonderful collection of songs is now one of the most painful and powerful records I own. Blackstar was captivating even before its author passed on, but it has taken on new dimensions now that I know that it was consciously the last music of Bowie’s life. I will not be able to adequately explain what listening to Blackstar does to me now. I can’t even imagine what it does to those who invested more of their lives into Bowie’s music than I have.

The reason, I think, is that this is not an album made by someone who is accepting of his own death. It is a record full of turmoil and darkness, roiling with struggle and pain. It is perhaps the darkest of Bowie’s records – he teamed with a group of well-known jazz-influenced musicians, including saxophonist Donny McCaslin, bassist Tim LeFebvre and drummer Mark Guiliana, and the resulting sound is like tumbling underwater into the black. There’s a sense of motion to these tracks, and a sense of fighting to stay where you are.

No song exemplifies that more than the 10-minute title track that opens Blackstar. Shrouded in occult imagery, and centered on the symbol of a candle burning in the darkness, “Blackstar” slithers forward on its belly, its pitter-patter drum beat writhing against the long, drawn-out soundscapes beneath it, Bowie doing a compelling Scott Walker impression. The middle section sounds more like floating in space, which is fitting for a song whose video depicts Major Tom drifting off to his own death. Over that middle section, Bowie declares himself a blackstar, “not a film star, not a pop star,” the first of many lines that seem to predict his own demise.

It is track three, the spacey “Lazarus,” that has drawn the most attention, at least partially because of that video, in which an aging Bowie moves from his sickbed into a cabinet that resembles a coffin. “Lazarus” is absolutely about his death and how he faced it. Its first lines: “Look up here, I’m in heaven, I’ve got scars that can’t be seen, I’ve got drama can’t be stolen, everybody knows me now,” are chilling in retrospect. Bowie kept his 18-month battle with cancer, which left him with invisible scars, a secret from the public. Blackstar is his drama that can’t be stolen, but he knew the secret would be out after his death. At song’s end he dreams of being “free, just like that bluebird.”

The two most raucous tracks on Blackstar are ones we’ve heard before – “Sue (In a Season of Crime)” and “’Tis a Pity She Was a Whore,” from the 2014 compilation Nothing Has Changed. Here they are absolutely awesome, big and chaotic, anchored only by Bowie’s tortured voice. Both songs reference John Ford’s play ‘Tis a Pity She’s a Whore, in which many men bring themselves to ruin while blaming the woman of their affections. Bowie could very well be talking about his own fame here, about chasing any number of things until they bring him low. “’Tis a Pity” also references, in Bowie’s words, the “shocking rawness of the First World War.” The song features McCaslin’s most unhinged sax work, underpinning lyrics both crude and mysterious.

Nothing here is more inscrutable than “Girl Loves Me,” a song that is largely sung in Nadsat, the slang language from A Clockwork Orange: “Cheena so sound, so titi up this malcheck, say, party up moodge, nanti vellocet round on Tuesday…” Translated, it describes a dark and debauched future, full of drugs, illicit sex and blackouts. (“Where the fuck did Monday go” is a repeated refrain.) Bowie whips out a Peter Gabriel-esque yodel-howl to punctuate these lines, and the string section only adds to the hazy grime. While Bowie has rarely cared what the reaction to his work will be, “Girl Loves Me” is further proof that on this album, he spared not a single thought for those who wouldn’t get it.

And then he ends his final record with two of his most beautiful ballads, upending that impression. “Dollar Days” is heartrending, Bowie dismissing thoughts of an afterlife: “If I never see the English evergreens I’m running to, it’s nothing to me, it’s nothing to see…” He spares a thought in the middle for the fans he has been keeping in the dark, telling them, “Don’t believe for just one second I’m forgetting you.” But the song is, now, very clearly about the force of will it took to create Blackstar and stay alive just long enough to see it released. “I’m dying to push their backs against the grain, and fool them all again and again,” he sings, telling us, his fans, how much he wants to keep going, keep on with the show. And he tries: “It’s all gone wrong, but on and on…”

“I Can’t Give Everything Away” is the last song on Bowie’s last record, and though its tone is very different – Bowie’s is an almost danceable major-key ditty featuring the harmonica part from his 1977 song “A New Career in a New Town” – it reminds me of Queen’s “The Show Must Go On.” It’s about keeping his cards close, even to the last, about continuing to make his life his art even as that life slips away. It also calls for us to look beyond the characters, the makeup, the artifice and see that Bowie has been truly putting his heart on his sleeve the entire time: “Seeing more and feeling less, saying no but meaning yes, that’s all I ever meant, that’s the message that I sent…”

Like Freddie Mercury, Bowie took on his illness privately, and faced death on his own terms, refusing to give everything away. His gift to us has always been his art, his life a show he’d been performing for 50 years, right up until his last breath. Blackstar is the final piece of that gift, and it’s difficult and dark and painful and extraordinary. I have always felt like we never knew David Bowie, like his theatrical nature and his tendency to slip characters and identities like robes kept us at arm’s length. But perhaps we did. Perhaps, in not giving everything away, he showed us more about himself than we thought.

Blackstar hurts, in ways I will not be able to explain. But like all important and painful experiences, it is also crushingly beautiful, a testament to an artist and a man like no other. I’m not sure what else to say. I’m not sure what else needs to be said. So I’m going to go back to what I’ve been doing for a week now – listening to David Bowie.

Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Oh, hi! There you are. I’ve missed you.

Welcome to year sixteen of this silly music column. I’m not sure I’m ready to be on the downward slope toward two decades of this thing, but here we are. I was 26 when I started scribbling my musical thoughts down for the internet to read, and now I’m 41. I own a home, I have a good job, and I have a nice life, despite the fact that I still get depressed for no reason. But I’m working on that too. Life is very different than I thought it would be, but I’m in a good place, and I’m glad to be here.

And man, does 2016 look like a good year from where I sit. There are all kinds of life-related reasons I’m looking forward to the next 12 months, but I’ll stick to the entertainment-related ones here. I had some difficulty finding 15 reasons to love 2015 a year ago, but only two of those things didn’t end up panning out, and three of them wound up on my top 10 list. By contrast, I had no trouble coming up with 16 reasons to love 2016, and in fact I thought of more than I needed, and had to leave a couple off this list.

In short, it’s gonna be a good year. Here are 16 reasons why.

1. Megadeth, Dystopia.

Let’s start off with the albums I know are on their way. If you’d asked me back in high school whether Megadeth would still be going when I was over 40, I would have said… well, frankly, I would have said, “Of course they will.” But even my idealistic teenage metalhead self couldn’t have guessed that they would still be this good. Everything I’ve heard from album 15, Dystopia, is that classic blend of melodic and insanely heavy that Dave Mustaine does better than anyone. This one feels like a return to basics after the diverse Super Collider, but that’s OK. The basics are pretty awesome. Dystopia is out this week. (My inner teenage metalhead is also pretty excited about the new Anthrax, For All Kings – it’s their second since reuniting with singer Joey Belladonna, and it’s out Feb. 26.)

2. Shearwater, Jet Plane and Oxbow.

It’s been almost four years since Animal Joy, the last original album from Jonathan Meiburg and his band, and I’m excited to see where they go next. Shearwater has been on a purposeful journey from placid epics to more propulsive material, all of it powered by Meiburg’s unique, haunting voice. Jet Plane and Oxbow, out this week, promises a shift in sound to a more electronic palette, and though that sort of thing usually makes me wary, if any band can pull off that transition and make something extraordinary, it’s Shearwater.

3. Lush box set and new album.

So basically, every shoegaze band that was big when I was in high school and college is now back together and giving us new material. My Bloody Valentine, Swervedriver, Ride and Slowdive have all re-emerged, and now Lush is on the train. Next week, the tremendous British band will grant us a box set called Chorus that includes all of their albums and EPs, and sometime later this year, they’ll release a new record and tour behind it. I can’t wait.

4. Dream Theater, The Astonishing.

It’s been a while since I’ve breathlessly anticipated a Dream Theater album. But then, they’ve never made one like The Astonishing, a 130-minute sci-fi rock opera with a crazy backstory and a goofy power-of-music theme. The whole thing sounds totally ridiculous, which is exactly where Dream Theater lives. This is really their first major piece of work since Mike Portnoy left, and everything I hear about it makes me believe they all truly committed to it. Because if you’re gonna do a two-hour homage to 2112, you can’t half-ass it. This sounds… well, astonishing. It’s out next week.

5. The return of The X-Files.

Here’s a great way to round off January – six new episodes of the best paranoid sci-fi thriller ever. Helmed by creator Chris Carter and featuring some of the best writers of the original run (Darin Morgan!), this new X-Files mini-series will hopefully kickstart a renaissance. Or, at the very least, put a better capper on the show than the second movie did. Trust no one.

6. Kanye West, Swish.

So Yeezus wasn’t very good, and the songs I’ve heard from Swish have been a mixed bag, and I liked the previous, more humble title – So Help Me God – a lot better. Still, I’m quite looking forward to hearing Kanye’s seventh album. He’s one of the most talented record-makers in rap, and everything he’s done has been a grand departure from its predecessor. He’s spent a long time on this one, and I hope it’ll be worth it. Swish is out Feb. 11.

7. Nada Surf, You Know Who You Are.

This year is the 20th anniversary of Nada Surf’s debut, which featured their one and only hit (“Popular”). Frankly, it’s amazing that they recovered from that song at all, considering how little it sounds like the rest of their output, but it’s equally amazing that they’ve slowly transformed into one of the best pop-rock outfits around. You Know Who You Are, out on March 4, will be the band’s eighth, and if it’s even half as good as their last one, 2012’s The Stars Are Indifferent to Astronomy, it’ll be very good indeed. I’m always happy to see one-hit wonders survive and thrive, and Nada Surf is one of the most deserving examples of that I can think of.

8. A new Marillion album and tour.

There are few phrases that get me more excited than “a new Marillion album,” but one of them is “a new Marillion album and tour.” Marillion is one of my very favorite bands, and that they’ve remained incredibly creative and self-sufficient for as long as they have is completely remarkable. Their new, as-yet-untitled album will be their 18th – yes, 18th – and reports from the studio are encouraging. (Three epics!) The band funded this one through PledgeMusic, remaining their own bosses, and once it’s out this spring, they’ll be launching a world tour. They’ll be in Chicago for the first time in four years in October, and nothing will keep me away.

9. Bryan Scary’s Birds.

Speaking of independent musicians working through PledgeMusic, there’s Bryan Scary. He’s an absolute genius, having penned some of my favorite pop records of the past decade. Last year, he concentrated on his wonderful new band, Evil Arrows, issuing five terrific EPs before diving into Birds, his first new album in four years. I’ve pre-ordered, but I have no idea what to expect, other than brilliance.

10. The Nice Guys.

Seriously, have you seen that trailer?

11. A new Nine Inch Nails album.

Believe me, I’m beyond overjoyed that Trent Reznor has found a second career as an Oscar-winning composer. His film scores are dark and moody wonders, and I’ve often enjoyed them more than the films themselves. But nothing beats a new Nine Inch Nails record, and Reznor has promised one for 2016. This will be the follow-up to 2013’s Hesitation Marks, which updated and expanded the NIN sound nicely. Reznor’s body of work is remarkably consistent – more so than I would have expected 20 years ago – and I’m looking forward to where he goes next.

12. Circle of Dust reissues and new album.

Speaking of ‘90s industrial bands, here’s your chance to hear one of the best and most overlooked of them. Like NIN, Circle of Dust was a one-man project, and that one man now creates full-color electronic wonders under the name Celldweller. Circle of Dust made three albums, and all three of those, plus remix project Metamorphosis and side effort Argyle Park, will be released on Klayton’s own label with hours and hours of bonus material. I’m excited to see this chapter of industrial music’s history get the treatment it deserves. And he’s hinted at a new Circle of Dust record to accompany all the old stuff, which would just be marvelous.

13. James Blake, Radio Silence.

I feel like we’ve known the title of James Blake’s third album for years now. It’s been a long wait, but Blake is always worth it. He has a voice like no one else, and a minimalist sensibility that somehow finds the perfect almost-there backdrops for that voice. Evidently Kanye West is somehow involved with this one, which makes it even more intriguing… and makes waiting for it even more difficult.

14. Radiohead’s ninth album.

It’s been five long years since the relatively underwhelming The King of Limbs, and Radiohead has never taken this much time between albums. The stars are aligning, though, and they’re saying that the band’s ninth effort isn’t far off. I expect another surprise self-released effort, but what the music will sound like I have no idea. Will it be closer to the warm pop of In Rainbows or to the colder, more exacting jigsaw of Limbs? As usual, the band is telling us nothing.

15. U2, Songs of Experience.

Yes, this was on the list last year – it was one of the two predictions that didn’t pan out. (The other involved the Cure.) I’m hopeful, though, that the follow-up to the excellent Songs of Innocence will be with us this year. The fact that I’ve included this two years running should tell you how psyched I am for it. I hope we get to hear it in 2016.

16. Rogue One: A Star Wars Story.

I’ll close this list the same way I closed last year’s: with a new Star Wars movie. I enjoyed The Force Awakens at least as much as I expected I would – I have problems with it, but then I have problems with all of them, and this movie kickstarted the franchise in style. That’s what Star Wars is now, for better or worse – a franchise – and Rogue One should make that clear. The first movie set between episodes, this will be the story of the brave band of rebels that stole the plans for the original Death Star and got them to Princess Leia before the start of Episode IV. That’s a great idea for a movie, but even if it doesn’t work out, Episode VIII will be out five months later. We will soon double the number of existing Star Wars movies, and that thought thrills and chills me in equal measure. Like my other obsession, Doctor Who, Star Wars is going to outlive me, but I’m going to enjoy what I get to see.

And we’re off and running. Next week, I will review the first great album of 2016, and I bet you can guess what it is. Thanks to everyone taking this journey with me. Year sixteen! Hey ho, let’s go. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So listen. This is not how I wanted to start the year.

I had another column ready to go. In fact, it was my annual list of reasons why the next year will be the best one ever. It’s completely written, and I had planned to post it today and kick off my 16th year of this silly music column with a burst of hope.

And then we lost David Bowie.

And suddenly the wide-eyed optimism of that particular column just doesn’t seem right.

I was always more of a Bowie admirer than a Bowie fan. But for my entire musical life, he’s been there, often at the margins, making strange and beautiful music. I will admit here that the first Bowie album I heard all the way through was 1995’s Outside, not counting his stint with Tin Machine, which I loved before I even really knew who Bowie was. It’s usually overlooked, but Outside is amazing, as is its follow-up, Earthling, and those two records hooked me.

Coming in so late, it was easier for me to get a grasp on the sheer scope of the man’s talent and influence. There aren’t very many legends walking the earth – and now there is one less – but Bowie certainly fit that bill. There isn’t a corner of the musical world he hasn’t impacted in some way. Bowie made it not only acceptable to be a theatrical musical chameleon, he made it awesome. You never knew what Bowie would sound like, look like or act like, and that was thrilling, exhilarating.

Perhaps best of all, he remained a strong creative force until his final days. I’ve been reading a lot today about how Bowie timed the release of his final album, Blackstar, and his final video, “Lazarus,” with his own death, making that part of the performance. It’s incredible, and I will have a lot more to say about that next week, when I review the album. But even at 68, ravaged by a cancer he kept secret from the world, Bowie kept his astonishing musical imagination at full bloom.

I will not be able to articulate what a loss Bowie is to the world. So I will not even try. I’ll save my words for next week, when I will post both the column that was supposed to run in this space and my Blackstar review. For now, I’m going to stop talking about David Bowie and listen to some. I’m not sure where I’ll start, but it hardly matters. The journey isn’t about where it starts, or even about where it ends.

Rest in peace, David. And though it doesn’t seem like nearly enough, thank you.

Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

This is Fifty Second Week.

And this is the bit where I explain Fifty Second Week for those who haven’t heard of it. If you’re not one of those, feel free to skip to the reviews. If you’re new round these parts, first of all, welcome and thank you for reading. Fifty Second Week is an annual tradition, a way of closing out the old year and welcoming the new one. Here’s the fifty-second explanation.

I buy a lot of music. I try (and fail) to hear all of it, but I know I will not be able to review everything I buy and hear. The column is something of a final level for me – if I really like something, or really hate it, or for some reason feel obligated to review it, it goes there. And if I can’t come up with a good reason to review it, it goes in a different pile, and waits until the end of the year. Fifty Second Week is my way of getting through that pile, as quickly as I possibly can.

So, in honor of reaching the 52nd week of the year, I give myself fifty seconds to review each CD. I have a timer, and I strictly adhere to it – if I’m in the middle of a sentence (or a word) when the buzzer goes off, oh well. The review stands as it is at the end of fifty seconds. This is always a lot of fun for me to do, and I hope it’s fun to read as well. There are some real gems here this year, and some real clunkers. If it’s OK with you, let’s get started.

This is Fifty Second Week.

Ryan Adams, Ten Songs from Live at Carnegie Hall.

Ryan Adams had a great year, and this set of selections from his multi-record set is pretty terrific. It’s just Adams and a guitar, playing some great tunes from his catalog. I love how much better the songs from his self-titled album are in this setting. Excellent.

Alabama Shakes, Sound and Color.

The reason to like Alabama Shakes is extraordinary singer Brittany Howard. She’s fantastic, and she elevates even the weirdest of the experiments that make up her band’s shaky second record. I must confess to not being a big fan of this one.

The Amazing, Picture This.

I wanted this to be amazing. It got rave reviews. But I found it to be something of a slog, especially the songs that were much, much longer than they had to be.

And So I Watch You From Afar, Heirs.

I should have reviewed this. I reviewed Battles and not this. Weird. This record is similar, in that it’s kinetic, frenetic, mostly instrumental material played with verve and vigor. The vocals on this one, still a novelty from this band, work wonderfully. It’s really good stuff.

Seth Avett and Jessica Lea Mayfield Sing Elliott Smith.

There were a few tributes to Elliott this year, but this may be my favorite. Avett (of the Avett Brothers) and Mayfield sing these songs reverently, not adding anything new, but digging deep into their respect for my generation’s finest songwriter.

The Bad Plus Joshua Redman.

This is really cool. A meeting between saxophonist Redman and the best prog-jazz trio around, this album revisits some old Bad Plus tunes and gives us a few really good new ones. Love.

The Bird and the Bee, Recreational Love.

Despite loving The Bird and the Bee’s cute synth-pop act, I didn’t review this, and I think it’s because it just didn’t stay with me. I’m looking at the track list now and I don’t have much to say about any of these little songs. Sorry.

Leon Bridges, Coming Home.

Bridges has a great voice, and his record sounds like an old-school soul platter. I just wish his songs were stronger. I expect they’ll get there, and when they do, he’ll make an album worthy of that buttery voice of his.

The Church, Further/Deeper.

I didn’t review this because I’m not sure there’s anything new to say about the Church at this point. This is another fine slab of reverbed widescreen shoegaze pop that sounds like the Church. It’s great, just like the last one, and the one before that, and…

Kurt Cobain, Montage of Heck: The Home Recordings.

Bought it for completeness’ sake, will never listen to it again. This is what lies beneath the bottom of the barrel. It’s literally shitty home recordings of Kurt messing about on guitar, and there is no way in hell he would have wanted us to hear any of this.

Collective Soul, See What You Started By Continuing.

This took a few years to come out, and I’m not sure why. It sounds like all the other Collective Soul albums – crunchy riffs, kinda poppy melodies. It’s not bad for what it is, but what it is isn’t worth writing home about.

Shawn Colvin, Uncovered.

Shawn Colvin is as much an interpreter as she is a singer/songwriter. This is her second album of covers, and I like it as much as her first. She picks some interesting tunes here, most notably for me Crowded House’s “Private Universe.” Nice stuff.

Harry Connick Jr., That Would Be Me.

Harry’s been on a pop trajectory for some time, and here’s where he takes the plunge. That said, these are strong songs, and he sings them well. I mean, of course he sings them well, he’s Harry Connick Jr. But if you don’t mind your jazz crooners going pop, this is fine.

Danzig, Skeletons.

Hahaha. Oh Jesus. Danzig covers all kinds of people on this record, and his voice and the production haven’t sounded this lousy since his Samhain days. Aerosmith’s “Lord of the Thighs” as sung by Danzig. I mean, good lord. And he covers a song called “Let Yourself Go” without any irony.

Def Leppard.

I have always liked Def Leppard. This self-titled effort is uncommonly strong for latter-day Leppard, and it rocks and rolls convincingly. It’s also generously long, which makes the fact that it’s actually pretty good even better.

The Dodos, Individ.

More strong guitar-rock from this outfit. I remember liking this, I remember rocking out to it, but I can’t remember much more about it. I should listen to it again, but there’s just so much I want to listen to more. Which, in a way, is its own review.

Bob Dylan, Shadows in the Night.

Hahaha. Yeah. Dylan sings Sinatra songs with his usual band, from “Autumn Leaves” to “That Lucky Old Sun.” I think I’d prefer a similar project from Cookie Monster. This is dire.

Enya, Dark Sky Island.

Despite a title and cover that seem to promise darker overtones, this is just another Enya album. What she does is pleasant enough, and I like some of this quite a bit, but if you’re expecting any kind of departure, you won’t get one.

Craig Finn, Faith in the Future.

Second solo album from the Hold Steady frontman, and it’s better than the first. Finn casts his unique voice and sharp poetry against more acoustic backdrops here, and it works well. He still only writes the one kind of song, but if you like that kind of song, here are ten more you will also like.

Four Tet, Morning/Evening.

Two tracks, one called “Morning” and one called “Evening.” Together they add up to 40 minutes of blissful electronic atmosphere. I’m not sure why I didn’t review this one. It’s one of my favorite electronic projects of the year.

Rachel Grimes, The Clearing.

Pianist Grimes has made a beautiful record here, one that combines classical overtones with a sense of the joy in repetition. These songs blend perfectly with one another, and the result is an instrumental suite for the ages.

Gungor, One Wild Life: Soul.

First of a three-album project from the makers of my favorite album of 2013. This one is not as ambitious or interesting, but still sports some really good songs. The sequels are Spirit and Body, and I’ll delve more into this once they’re out next year.

The Juliana Hatfield Three, Whatever, My Love.

First album in ages from these ‘90s stalwarts, and it’s pretty damn good. It includes a sort-of cover of “I Don’t Know What to Do With My Hands,” a song from Hatfield’s project with Nada Surf’s Matthew Caws. I liked it.

Jandek, St. Louis Friday.

Jandek’s entire recorded output for 2015 is two live albums. This one, recorded in 2014, is the more rock-oriented one, starting with a couple acoustic numbers but bringing on a full band. The keyboardist seems a little off, even for Jandek, but the Rep wails and bangs his guitar like always. It’s a glorious racket.

Jandek, Brussels Saturday.

This one’s a single disc where the last one’s a double, but I like this one better. It veers from an atmospheric 36-minute piece to a more explosive rock show in the second half. Jandek has been using female singers a lot more, and both these albums have good ones.

Lifehouse, Out of the Wasteland.

I keep buying Lifehouse albums hoping that they’ll impress me again. I have really only liked one song of theirs – “Simon,” from the first album. Nothing here is that good, nor is it as experimental as the last release. More of the same.

Lord Huron, Strange Trails.

There’s a delightful woodsy-ness to this second album by Lord Huron. It’s mainly acoustic, and it’s fun and swampy. The segues between tracks really make this – it feels like a unified whole.

Mini Mansions, The Great Pretenders.

Again, don’t know why I didn’t review this. It’s a pretty cool ‘60s-inspired pop album, wide and diverse enough to accommodate guest spots by Brian Wilson and Alex Turner (of Arctic Monkeys). This is pretty damn enjoyable and I should have said so.

Kevin Max, Broken Temples.

I supported this on PledgeMusic, for some reason. Kevin Max has a spotty solo career, but this is on the better end of that scale, even though it slides into generic pop for much of its running time.

Mother Mother, Very Good Bad Thing.

I like this one too. I got into Canada’s Mother Mother thanks to Nickel Creek covering one of their songs. This new record is just as loud, raucous and herky-jerky as I was hoping it would be.

Of Monsters and Men, Beneath the Skin.

Here’s another one I definitely should have reviewed. It’s a more succinct, more accessible second album from Iceland’s other great atmospheric rock band. Especially enjoyed the rising tension of “Thousand Eyes.”

Richard Page, Goin’ South.

Mr. Mister’s main man has been all over the map with his solo career. I’m not too fond of his latest left turn into Nashville-style pop country. The first track here is worthy, but everything else is pretty generic.

Pain of Salvation, Falling Home.

This acoustic record from the Swedish prog-metal titans could have felt like a stopgap. But it’s intricately arranged, just like their last acoustic affair, and it breathes new life into a lot of the songs from their Road Salt double album. New stuff soon, please.

Panda Bear, Meets the Grim Reaper.

Panda’s solo material away from Animal Collective all follows the same formula, but it remains an interesting one. His Brian Wilson-esque harmonies float above his electronic squiggles, and the whole thing feels kaleidoscopic.

Periphery, Juggernaut Alpha.

How do you get me to listen to your band? Be ambitious. This prog-metal outfit is reminiscent of Thrice and Vanden Plas, and here they stretch that sound over two tight, powerful discs. And they give them matching cover art. I’m sold.

Periphery, Juggernaut Omega.

The second half of this double album project is more ambitious than the first, particularly when you get to the extended tracks near the end. This isn’t an original sound, but they do it well, and I’m interested to hear more.

Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross, Gone Girl.

Oscar-winning composer Trent Reznor (I will never get tired of saying that) presents his third score to a David Fincher film, and it’s similar to the other two – dark and moody and prickly and really good. Much like the movie.

Riverside, Love, Fear and the Time Machine.

This Polish progressive band deserves more love than they get from me. This is their sixth album, and it’s excellent – somewhat more concise and welcoming than their others, but full of lovely textures and beautiful playing.

Todd Rundgren, Global.

More diminishing returns from Todd’s Liars template. This is Rundgren alone again with his synthesizers, and the songs are pretty good, and his voice is always strong, but the plastic production gets in the way again. I don’t mind this, but I miss Todd playing with a band.

Todd Rundgren, Emil Nikolaisen and Hans-Peter Lindstrom, Runddans.

Of course, when Rundgren does collaborate with other musicians, it’s a trippy, druggy mess of a thing that feels like someone got very high in the editing room. This is a curiosity, but won’t make you want to listen more than once.

The Silver Lake Chorus.

This has to be the most star-studded choral record ever imagined. The Silver Lake Chorus is just that – a chorus – but here they sing new songs by Justin Vernon, Tegan and Sara, Aimee Mann and others. Fascinating.

Sunn O))), Kannon.

Sunn O)))’s monolithic guitar noise is deeply diminished on this 30-minute record, to the point where it feels like they may have done this in a weekend. It’s pretty disappointing considering the power this band has shown it can wield.

The Sword, High Country.

This album is absolutely bugfuck. The Sword forsakes their typical stoner metal for a more diverse set of crazy experiments with keyboards and other things. It’s a wild ride, but I’m not sure any of it is what you’d call good.

James Taylor, Before This World.

It’s the first album from Sweet Baby James in a long time, but he still has that signature sound. If you enjoy his mellow stylings, you’ll like this one too. I was pretty happy with the Red Sox anthem “Angels of Fenway.” And the rest of it too.

Telekinesis, Ad Infinitum.

Michael Benjamin Lerner trades in his guitars for a laptop, but he doesn’t lose his sense of melody and his skillful pop songwriting. This album worked far better than it had any right to, considering what a cliché move it is. Quite good.

They Might Be Giants, Why?

How great is it that one of the world’s cleverest bands has carved out a second career making intelligent music for children? This is their fifth kids’ record, and it’s marvelous. It’s funny for both kids and adults, and you won’t mind your children singing along with it.

Toto, XIV.

Uber-commercial progressive pop band reunites after a long hiatus, and they give us more of the same. This certainly isn’t awful, and “Burn” is actually quite good. But it does get bogged down in its own sap too often.

Van Halen, Tokyo Dome In Concert.

Van Halen’s first live album with David Lee Roth comes from last year’s Different Kind of Truth tour, and it’s exactly what you hope and fear it is. Roth sounds like a crazed Vegas singer on a sugar high, but the Van Halens do their thing well. It’s a nice selection of new and old material, too. Inessential, but fun.

Chris Walla, Tape Loops.

Thoroughly unexpected ambient electronic album from the former Death Cab for Cutie guitarist. While this is nice and soothing, I can’t imagine this is what he left the band to do. It’s very curious.

Chelsea Wolfe, Abyss.

More self-consciously goth-y darkness from Wolfe, who comes off as particularly humorless. It’s interesting to me that this received so much critical acclaim. I don’t hate it, but I don’t get what’s so special about it either.

Youth Lagoon, Savage Hills Ballroom.

Third album from this one-man show is not as expressive as his last one, but is still appealing. This is a more stripped-down affair, and the songs are pretty good. The instrumental tracks sound like they’re from a different album, but they’re pretty wonderful.

And that is that. Hope you enjoyed it. I’m off to bed.

Next week, I’m taking a break, but I’ll be back in a couple weeks to start Year 16. Thank you, all of you, for sticking with me this year and for reading this silly music column. It’s been a great ride so far, and I’m excited to continue it. I’ll catch you all next year. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’m writing this in the house in which I grew up, during my annual sojourn east to mark the passing of the year. 2015 seemed to disappear before I even knew what was happening, but there were some fantastic moments (including trips to Montreal and Nashville to see some great music) and I met some wonderful people. This year wasn’t as cruel to me as it was to some of my friends, but for their sake, I’m glad to see it go, and glad to ring in the promise of a new one.

So far, my vacation has been anything but relaxing. I drove 16 hours to Massachusetts, then two days later took another six-hour road trip to see friends I haven’t seen in years. We’re just now entering the do-nothing part of my two weeks off, and I’m quite grateful for the chance to just be. I have found the time to see Star Wars: The Force Awakens twice now, and it’s pretty much what I expected: a straightforward and reverential kickstart to a new story set in the same universe. There aren’t a lot of new ideas in this movie, but it does what it needs to, and gives us the best dialogue of all seven films, so that’s nice. I’ll gladly see it a few more times.

But you’re not here to talk about Star Wars. You’re here to join me in an annual tradition, looking back over the past 12 months of music and counting down the best they had to offer. This column is my part of the conversation – what follows is a list of my 10 (well, 11) favorites, but it was a strikingly diverse year, and I’d be very surprised if your favorites matched mine. So when you’re done reading this list and mentally insulting my taste, use that email button to the left there and let me know what you liked from 2015.

My list has very specific rules, which I recap every year. Basically, only new full-length studio albums are eligible – no live records, no compilations, no EPs, no covers projects (which means that Ryan Adams’ reinvention of Taylor Swift’s 1989 is a no-go). For the first time ever, I have a tie for the number one spot, and if you’ve been following along this year, you know what two records placed neck and neck. I simply could not decide, for reasons that I hope will be obvious.

Aside from that, I think it’s a pretty straightforward list this year. Let’s get into it.

#10. Joanna Newsom, Divers.

The first of two harp-playing women to grace this list, Newsom is a world unto herself. While in the past Newsom has given us fully orchestrated fairy tales and, most recently, a hugely ambitious triple album, Divers is the first since her debut that is just an album, just 11 songs on plastic. But while this may be her least flashy effort, it may also be her deepest. With ensembles large and small, and wielding that love-it-or-hate-it voice, Newsom sings of the pain of loss and the joy of living, often in the same song. The final three tracks comprise her strongest run, from the gorgeous “You Will Not Take My Heart Alive” to the rousing, exultant “Time, As a Symptom,” and listening to all three in a row will make you want to raise your hands to the air and shout. Some people still think I’m kidding about my love for Newsom, but like Divers, I couldn’t be more serious.

#9. Jason Isbell, Something More than Free.

I boarded the Isbell train too late to put his masterpiece, Southeastern, on the 2013 list. I won’t make that mistake again. Free is, in many ways, an even more stunning set of tunes – it’s more varied, it takes us more places, and it states its case more confidently. Isbell gives us plenty of his gritty troubadour, from “24 Frames” to the title song, but also explores more epic terrain with “Children of Children” and “Hudson Commodore,” among others. As always, it’s Isbell’s lyrics, and the fascinating characters who populate them, that make this record. “Speed Trap Town” may be the most incisive lyric of the year, while “Flagship” may be the prettiest. Jason Isbell remains one of the most impressive songwriters we have, and I have no doubt his next efforts will land on this list as well.

#8. Bjork, Vulnicura.

It’s been nearly 20 years since Bjork made it onto this list. I’ve found her output since Homogenic to be curious and interesting, but not compelling. But Vulnicura is absolutely devastating. Bjork bravely details the dissolution of her long relationship with artist Matthew Barney, with whom she has a child. The first six songs on Vulnicura, in fact, dissect that separation with horrible precision, beginning nine months before and ending 11 months after. The centerpiece is the 10-minute “Black Lake,” simply one of the most aching dark holes of song I have heard in years. This album returns Bjork to the fertile ground of Homogenic, with full string arrangements atop crackling electronics, and digs deeper. It’s a powerful, painful, unflinchingly honest work, and while it is difficult to listen to, it draws you in like little else Bjork has done.

#7. Frank Turner, Positive Songs for Negative People.

If I have a sentimental favorite this year, it’s this one. While Titus Andronicus depicted my form of depression accurately and epically on The Most Lamentable Tragedy, it is Frank Turner who made the album I most needed to hear this year. Positive Songs is about fighting through sadness and pain, and never giving in. “Get Better” became my anthem this year, its rousing refrain (“we can get better, because we’re not dead yet”) ringing in my ears. “The Next Storm” is about not allowing depression to rule your life, about getting back up and living. Song after song, Turner spins positivity through his English-folk-meets-Social-Distortion sound, and he ends it with a tribute to a friend who took his own life, as a reminder that every day is precious. Positive Songs may not be the best record of 2015, but to me, it was the most important.

#6. Timbre, Sun and Moon.

Here is the second harp-playing woman on this list, and one of my favorite discoveries in recent years. I paid for Sun and Moon two years before I received it, but it’s clear that Timbre Cierpke spent that entire time working on this intricate, masterful record. Matching one disc of rhythmic full-band songs with a second disc of fully orchestrated pieces, and connecting them as a single two-hour journey, Timbre realized her ambitions brilliantly here, and revealed herself as a tremendous composer in the bargain. There’s a lot to absorb on this record, from the more accessible pieces like “Song of the Sun” and “Your Hands Hold Home” to the 16-minute strings-and-all finale “Day Boy,” and all of it is beautifully realized. That it is all wrapped together with a George MacDonald fairy tale only adds to the magic. This record is brilliant, in every sense of the word. You can hear it and buy it here.

#5. Aqualung, 10 Futures.

For a few months there, I was absolutely obsessed with this record from Matt Hales. He’s long been one of my favorite songwriters, and on this effort (which still hasn’t made its way to the states), he breaks his own mold again and again, fracturing himself into new, fascinating shapes. Every song here is an experiment, and every one of them works. Hales invites more guests onto this record than he ever has before, from Joel Compass, who elevates the electro-pop “Tape 2 Tape,” to Lianne La Havas, who duets on the lovely “Eggshells,” to Sweet Billy Pilgrim and Kina Grannis and others. And yet, even through the buzzing new sounds and the layered song structures and the go-for-broke sensibility, this is still clearly an Aqualung album. In fact, it may be the best Aqualung album.

#4. Punch Brothers, The Phosphorescent Blues.

This one came out early, before the first month of the year was over, and it took hold and never let go. Like Aqualung’s record, Blues is full of experiments, of Chris Thile and his merry band pushing themselves to new places. There is almost nothing holding these 11 songs together as a unit, save sheer force of will – the record begins with a 10-minute progressive epic, includes readings of pieces by Debussy and Seriabin alongside traditional bluegrass like “Boll Weevil,” slips drums into the mix for the first time, and concludes with a choral chant. Throughout, the Brothers demonstrate yet again that not only are they among the best bluegrass players on the planet, they’re beyond even that, smashing down genre walls and delivering an argument for pure music, drawn from all sources. And also, “Magnet” just kicks ass.

#3. Quiet Company, Transgressor.

It’s hard to believe that I’m just now getting to praise Transgressor as one of the best albums of the year. It seems like forever ago that I first heard this tumultuous, agonizing, thoroughly pummeling fourth record from this Austin band that is near and dear to my heart. These songs are like old friends now, which hasn’t taken away an ounce of their power. Frontman Taylor Muse laid himself bare here, like he always does, detailing one of the most difficult periods of his life with a steely gaze. It’s hard to listen to him so uncertain, so doubtful, in such turmoil. Thankfully Muse’s songs, and the thunderous band playing them, make it easy to love QuietCo. Here are 11 more of the sharpest, most melodic rock tunes you’re likely to hear anywhere, and many of them (“A Year in Decline,” “The Virgin’s Apartment,” “The Most Dangerous Game”) are among the very finest this band has yet given us. Quiet Company remains the best band you don’t know, but should.

#2. The Dear Hunter, Act IV: Rebirth in Reprise.

Every time I listen to Act IV, I can’t believe how good it is, and how close I came to missing it completely. I’ve been interested in Casey Crescenzo’s ongoing tale of terrible choices and their consequences for years now, but it was only upon this album’s release that I truly dug in. What I found was a conceptually daring and musically stunning piece of work, a six-album story in progress that is bigger and bolder than I imagined. This fourth act is the biggest and boldest so far, sending the narrative in fascinating directions while calling back to previous chapters in ingenious ways. Along this path, Crescenzo writes three of the most indelible pop songs of the year (“Waves,” “The Squeaky Wheel” and “King of Swords”), juxtaposing them against fully orchestrated progressive epics like “A Night on the Town” and the next two chapters of “The Bitter Suite.” The thing I want most from music is to feel like I’ve been somewhere, on some kind of journey, and the Dear Hunter’s ongoing saga gives me that in spades. Act IV is the best sequel of the year, in any medium, and is a remarkably confident and brilliant album in its own right. I can’t wait to hear how Crescenzo wraps this up.

Which brings me to the tie. Again, no surprises for anyone who has been following along at home.

#1. Kendrick Lamar, To Pimp a Butterfly; Sufjan Stevens, Carrie and Lowell.

Here’s the thing: these two albums could not be less similar. Kendrick Lamar’s Butterfly is a powerhouse hip-hop extravaganza that stretches nearly to 80 minutes, and delivers a sweeping examination of black America, institutional racism, personal responsibility and the need for black role models to lift up the community. Stevens’ Carrie and Lowell is an almost impossibly intimate, hushed and spare dissection of Stevens’ relationship with his mother and stepfather, and of his feelings of grief and self-loathing upon his mother’s death. They both affected me in different ways, too – Lamar’s record struck me on an intellectual level, giving me pause and filling me with admiration for the way he structured and presented his album-length message, while Sufjan’s is so emotionally overwhelming that it makes me cry each time I listen.

But both of them are so extraordinarily successful at what they try to do, even if they’re trying to do completely different things, that I can’t choose between them. Lamar’s album is certainly the more important of the two – it’s a thesis statement on the black American experience, and the impact of that experience on Lamar as an emerging artist with a responsibility to his people. It’s about how centuries of racism and oppression have led to black self-hatred, and how Lamar works to overcome that in himself and lead by example. It’s about staying true, about not misusing one’s influence, and it ends with a beyond-the-grave appearance by Lamar’s idol, Tupac Shakur, that it completely earns. It weaves Lamar’s thesis through some of the most inspired hip-hop you’re likely to hear, much of it played by a live band, and brings the idea of a hip-hop concept album to new heights. It is the most ambitious album of the year, and carries off that ambition with a swagger. (It is also the most confident album about insecurity I have ever heard.)

But Stevens’ is the more focused and direct, the one that speaks to me on a deeper level. The lyrics are full of personal references to his mother, who abandoned Stevens when he was a young child, and to the complicated emotions he feels at her passing. Over little more than an acoustic guitar and some muted electronics, Stevens lays bare his pain, his suicidal thoughts, his inability to stop loving his mother even through his feelings of anger and abandonment, even after the ripple effect her treatment of him had on his life. There are some songs on Carrie and Lowell, like “Fourth of July” or “The Only Thing,” that I can barely listen to, so raw and difficult are they.

These albums are united by the fact that their authors are among the best, most vital musicians of their generation. Lamar is just starting out – Butterfly is his second major album – and already his remarkable skill and conceptual genius have vaulted him into the same league as the rappers he idolizes. Stevens is a comparative veteran, but consider this: Carrie and Lowell marks his third appearance at the top of my year-end lists, and none of those three albums sound even remotely alike. In 50 years’ time, the works of both artists will be studied, spoken of in reverent tones, and these two albums will be among the ones most lauded.

I honestly could not pick one of these two for the top honor if you paid me to. But while they have very little in common, together they paint an interesting picture of 2015, a year that has been difficult for many reasons, public and private, large and small. All you can do is stare these difficulties in the face with honesty, and without flinching. Lamar and Stevens can show you how, and give you hope. This is the first time I’ve had a tie, but I couldn’t imagine two better albums to share the top spot. Though we tear our hearts out, it’s gonna be alright.

Next week is Fifty Second Week. Thank you all very much for being with me for Year 15. I’m grateful for all of you. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning… and to all a good night.

School was a cliquish sort of place, and I was always many shades of uncool. I was so uncool that in seventh grade, for my own sense of self-esteem and safety (I got pushed around a lot), my parents enrolled me in a private Catholic prep school. I was still uncool, but at least I would have the chance to not impress an entirely new set of people, and feel really bad about it.

One of the first people I met at the new school was Bruce Lerch. He was one of the cool kids – everyone liked him – and I imagined he’d want nothing to do with me. But Bruce wasn’t like that. He was the first popular kid pretty much ever to actually like me – to listen to me, to hang out with me, to talk music with me, etc. And he was always full of encouragement. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t like myself, but never lost patience.

After high school, Bruce and I ended up going to the same college, where we drifted apart. It’s been 20 years since I’ve seen or spoken to him. Earlier this week, I read the news that Bruce had died after a short fight with cancer. He had spent the last decade-plus working for the Boston Herald, covering high school sports, and I’ve been reading the tributes those kids and coaches have been writing about him. Their experience of him mirrors mine – he was always, unfailingly encouraging, and he just liked people, whoever they were.

Bruce was only 42. I wish I’d known him better, and I hope he rests in peace.

* * * * *

Can we talk for a second about how fantastic Doctor Who was this year?

This was the second season for Peter Capaldi, who is not only settling in but has well and truly made the part his own. It’s the fifth season for showrunner Steven Moffat, who is hitting a phenomenal stride, and has done more over the past three years to unite the old and new eras into a single glorious whole than anyone else. And it was the last for Jenna Coleman, who played Clara Oswald for two and a half seasons, touching all eras of the Doctor’s life while creating riveting chemistry with Capaldi. This dream team turned in one of the very best run of episodes this show has ever seen, and given we just finished season 35, that’s impressive.

What worked this year, besides damn near everything? A return to the two-part-story structure of prior years offered room to delve deep, and the writers took advantage. Moffat’s opening epic gave us more in 90 minutes about the Doctor’s relationship with Davros, creator of the Daleks, and Missy, his oldest Time Lord frenemy, than ever. Peter Harness’ Zygon story was able to create a striking, disturbing parallel with ISIS and the ongoing refugee crisis. And over four episodes, Moffat shepherded Maisie Williams’ guest character, Ashildr-who-calls-herself-Me, into one of the most interesting aspects of the season.

Nearly everyone stepped up their game this year. Moffat called in new writers, including Sarah Dollard (whose “Face the Raven” was a Harry Potter-ish highlight) and Catherine Tregenna (author of several swell Torchwood episodes whose “The Woman Who Lived” gave us piercing insight into immortality), and brought back last season’s wunderkinds, Harness and Jamie Matheson. The weakest story of the bunch came from longtime scribe Mark Gatiss, but even “Sleep No More” had several interesting ideas, and it’s miles above the dreck we used to get under Moffat’s predecessor.

And speaking of Moffat, he saved his finest work for his endgame. “Heaven Sent” was one of the most jaw-dropping episodes in the show’s 52-year run, a solo spotlight for Capaldi that found him turning in a performance you couldn’t take your eyes off of. Finale “Hell Bent” bid farewell to Clara Oswald in the best possible way – by essentially turning her into a Doctor, and giving her adventures of her own, an incredibly empowering message for young kids watching the show. Both of these episodes were an extraordinary dance between Moffat, Capaldi, Coleman and director Rachel Talalay, who turned in some of the most visually and emotionally impressive work the show has ever seen.

I’m totally gushing, but good lord, we’re in a golden age. The show remains a globally popular phenomenon while producing drama that can stand proudly next to any other you could name. We’re 52 years in, and we have an extraordinary writer guiding the adventures of possibly the most accomplished actor to ever play the Doctor. It doesn’t get better. But then, I said that last year too, and it totally got better.

And we get another at Christmas, which promises to be a romp. I’m not sure there’s ever been a better time to be a fan. I worry that next year could be Moffat’s last, but I’m going to enjoy what we get while we get it. Thanks to everyone involved for another superb season of a show I’ve loved since I was six.

* * * * *

Next week’s column is the annual top 10 list, so this week is where I would normally spend hundreds of words listing the honorable mentions. Truth be told, though, there aren’t all that many this year. The highs this year were very, very high, as you’ll see next week, but most of the rest of the music I heard left me somewhat cold and indifferent. That said, there were some records that left a strong impression, and there were a few Number Elevens jockeying for the list. Here’s a quick rundown of the also-rans.

First, a couple special mentions. If not for the fact that it was released a few weeks before the end of last year, D’Angelo’s Black Messiah would absolutely be on this list. It’s a complex yet slinky collection of socially conscious grooves and love stories, all performed organically, and it was well worth the 14-year wait. Similarly, Copeland’s Ixora ended up on a few prior iterations of my top 10 list, despite the fact that the main album came out in 2014. I justified this because Twin, the album’s mirror image, didn’t hit until this year, and the complete experience (the album, its twin, and the two together) really make this what it is. But that ended up not being enough to land it on the list, despite it being one of my favorites.

I also contributed to an album that means a lot to me – Kevin Trudo’s Water Bears Vol. 1 – and even though it’s ineligible for the list, for conflict of interest reasons, I wanted to mention it here. It’s a strong, diverse set of songs by a guy I love very much, and if literate, passionate writing is your thing, you should hear this.

The honorables begin with They Might Be Giants, who had a banner year. They resurrected Dial-a-Song, released their fifth album of children’s music (which I will get to shortly), and gave us their finest record in some time with Glean. Guy Garvey, lead singer of Elbow, also had a good year, issuing his first solo album, Courting the Squall. It’s passionate, lovely stuff. Fellow Brits Everything Everything made a superb herky-jerky third album with Get to Heaven, which very few people over here heard. But you all should.

Steven Wilson, mastermind behind Porcupine Tree, gave us one of his most emotionally affecting concept records with Hand. Cannot. Erase. I continue to be amazed at both the pace and the quality of Wilson’s output. One of my favorite songwriters, Joe Jackson, made a comeback this year with the all-over-the-map Fast Forward, recorded in four cities with four bands. And believe it or not, Celldweller’s End of an Empire stands tall here, a fine example of how to crush musical boundaries in richly detailed and intricate ways. Celldweller is here because I listened to Empire more than anything else this year, and I’m still finding new things to like about it.

Two albums mirrored my own mental health struggles better than anything else I could have hoped for. One of them, Titus Andronicus’ double album The Most Lamentable Tragedy, sounds like manic depression, from the highest heights (“Dimed Out”) to the lowest lows (“No Future Part V”), and it ends with an emotional plea against suicide. It’s quite the roller-coaster listen for me. The other one made it onto the list, so you’ll hear more about that next week.

Finally, here are the Number Elevens, the four albums that nearly made the top 10 list. As always, if you don’t like the ones that actually made the list, feel free to swap them for any one of these. I won’t put up an argument.

Lianne La Havas’ excellent sophomore album, Blood, is a soulful delight, her simple yet splendid songs practically a vehicle for her wonderful voice. On the other end of the musical spectrum, Marah in the Mainsail’s Thaumatrope fulfilled their promise, offering ten songs of dark, high-energy folk that stood above similar efforts by the likes of the Decemberists. Foals came into their own with the awesome What Went Down, my second-favorite full-on rock record of the year. (My first favorite is at number three on the top 10 list.)

And finally, Sara Groves has deeply enriched the end of my year with her wonderful new album Floodplain. She’s up there with some of the best songwriters you could name, and this record sparkles, from the depression metaphor at the heart of the title track to the perfect song of contentment that is “Enough” to the most moving spiritual song of 2015, “My Dream.” Only a couple weaker tracks kept this from being on the list, and I’m still not sure it shouldn’t be there. Which is a very strong recommendation.

That’s it, that’s all, there ain’t no more. Next week, my ten favorite albums of 2015. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’m the guy who defends Coldplay.

That’s sort of become my role among my friends. I’m the guy who won’t join in on the routine bashing of Britain’s favorite punching bag. I liked them when they were sorta-sappy piano brit-pop, and I’ve really liked the places they’ve gone since, starting with 2008’s Viva la Vida. My standard defense: Coldplay is one of the richest and most successful bands in the world. They don’t have to be as weird as they are apparently determined to be. But their desire to not be Coldplay each time out – and to not be Coldplay in a new way each time – is what I like about them.

Last year, as a case in point, the band released Ghost Stories. It was unapologetically singer Chris Martin’s breakup album with ex-wife Gwyneth Paltrow, and as such it was Coldplay’s most hushed, atmospheric and experimental album. The three pre-release singles – the ambient-electro whisper “Midnight,” the simple slow-build “Magic” and the all-out blissful “A Sky Full of Stars” – left no real impression about the direction of the album. In fact, it seemed poised to go ten directions at once, and the fact that it hangs together as a single affecting piece of music is remarkable.

But it is pretty dour stuff, so I wasn’t surprised when the band announced they’d headed back into the studio to record a happier album. Now, just more than 18 months since Ghost Stories, we have A Head Full of Dreams, Coldplay’s seventh long-player, and it certainly lives up to its billing. It’s almost deliriously joyful, when it’s not being wistful, and it very much feels like the mirror image of last year’s mopefest. But I’m having a much harder time defending this one, despite the exuberant tone. For the first time, Coldplay has gone backwards, and this rushed, goopy effort fails to live up to the trajectory they’ve been on.

When I say they’ve gone backwards, what I mean is that A Head Full of Dreams is a second-rate Mylo Xyloto. It’s another big pop record with some big pop guests, and the band only sporadically tries to break new sonic ground for them. I give them credit for the all-inclusive diversity of their guests – not many records I could name would feature Beyonce, Tove Lo, Merry Clayton, Noel Gallagher, poet Coleman Barks and President Barack Obama, the latter singing “Amazing Grace.” That this roster is in service of a record this bland is a real shame.

Dreams peaks early, with its title track and “Birds,” two of the band’s most obvious U2 pastiches. Then Beyonce shows up on “Hymn for the Weekend,” and things start to fall off. “Hymn” is basically “Princess of China” again, a modern radio single with electronic drums and blaring synths. Beyonce’s contributions are surprisingly subtle, but the whole thing feels like a retread. “Everglow” is a piano ballad that pinches the sound of Bruce Hornsby at his cheesiest, and it might be the sappiest thing in Coldplay’s catalog, which is saying something. “Adventure of a Lifetime” pairs a Steve Howe-esque guitar line to a joyous, yet threadbare dance track, in what is simultaneously a) one of the most successful sonic experiments here and b) reminiscent of Maroon 5.

And yet, I like all those songs, at least a little. From there, the record disintegrates, and it becomes clear that the band should have taken more time. “Fun” is nostalgic, yet almost completely unremarkable. “Army of One” is “Lost” again, adding nothing new. “X Marks the Spot” is a hidden track that should have stayed hidden, Martin half-rapping over a hip-hop beat. “Amazing Day” is awful, treacly and boring, while grand finale “Up&Up” builds its Raffi-level chorus (“We’re gonna get it, get it together I know, get it together somehow and fly up and up…”) into a six-minute anthem, Gallagher just shredding away, and it reaches for a catharsis the record hasn’t earned.

Throughout all this, there is Chris Martin, one of the world’s worst lyricists. He is the band’s biggest drawback, and their most commercial decision – without Martin’s good looks and appealing, wavery voice, Coldplay wouldn’t be as popular as they are. So Martin gets to write the words, and they’re unfailingly banal. Most of the time, if the music is interesting – as it has been sporadically their entire career and consistently since Viva la Vida – I don’t care that much. I paid attention on this album, though, and they’re pretty spectacularly awful. (“An angel sent from up above, you know you make my world light up…”)

I respect the decision to make a positive album after Ghost Stories, and I wish I liked it more. But the whole thing feels cloying and fake, aiming for hits and the Super Bowl halftime show rather than honest, earnest expression. I know it may seem silly to some that I’m chiding Coldplay for making a pop album, but they’ve trained me to expect more at this point. I don’t hate A Head Full of Dreams – much of it manages to avoid sounding like Coldplay, and “Birds” and “Adventure of a Lifetime” rise above the mire. But I wish it were more like the work of the band I’ve been defending for the past seven years.

* * * * *

Not long ago, I gave the Decemberists a huge ration of grief for releasing the also-rans from their latest album as a separate EP. I mention that because Punch Brothers, who made one of the finest albums of 2015, have just shown that it’s possible to compile your leftovers into something worthwhile.

Of course, Chris Thile and his merry band are always worthwhile. The Wireless is a new five-song offering that collects three of the bonus tracks from The Phosphorescent Blues with two other songs from the session. One of those songs, “In Wonder,” is the equal of almost anything on the album proper – it’s an epic piece in 5:46, proving once again that Punch Brothers’ brand of progressive bluegrass pop is unlike any other. The five Brothers harmonize beautifully as the song builds and glides through ever-higher air. It’s splendid, and it could have easily been a highlight on Blues.

The rest of the EP doesn’t reach quite as high, but it’s still a treat. “The Hops of Guldenberg” is an instrumental stomp with a few quieter interludes, and it’s especially compelling when bassist Paul Kowert and fiddle player Gabe Witcher duet with their bows. “Sleek White Baby” is a shuffle that makes room for bizarre spoken interludes by Ed Helms (yes, that Ed Helms), while second instrumental “No More, Yet” is more luxurious. The disc is capped off with a lovely cover of Elliott Smith’s “Clementine,” and it’s so nice to hear Smith’s work respected and reinvented this way.

So yes, The Wireless is a collection of runners-up. But it demonstrates just how good a record The Phosphorescent Blues is, and just how fruitful the sessions that birthed it were. There is still no other band like Punch Brothers, and this concise statement is stronger than it first appears.

* * * * *

Is there any artist more closely identified with his father than Dweezil Zappa?

To be fair, it would be nearly impossible to step out of Frank Zappa’s shadow. He was one of the most prolific and prodigious composers of the 20th century, smashing genres as if they never existed while creating 100 albums of often-extraordinary work. Frank Zappa also played guitar like no one else ever on the planet, and his sculpting-notes-from-the-air style is as much a signature as his ability to write insanely complex music for five players or 75.

For the past 10 years, Dweezil has been leading a project called Zappa Plays Zappa, dedicated to properly performing Frank’s music around the world. (I say “properly” because this is not easy material to play accurately, and Dweezil has been an absolute stickler for accuracy, God bless him.) I’ve seen the tour three times, most recently when they played all of the great One Size Fits All album, and I give Dweezil enormous amounts of respect for not only learning how to play some of Frank’s most maddeningly difficult music, but for bringing that music to a public that may not otherwise get to experience it.

The most stunning thing about Zappa Plays Zappa has been Dweezil himself, who had to re-learn the guitar to play like his father. Before ZPZ, Dweezil was an Eddie Van Halen acolyte with a bizarre streak, but his lead playing on Frank’s songs was something else entirely. You’d almost think Frank was there, guiding Dweezil’s hand. It was the most exciting musical transformation I’d seen in some time, and I’ve been curious as to how it would affect Dweezil’s own music.

And now we know. Via Zammata’ is Dweezil Zappa’s sixth solo album, and his first since touring his father’s material. It is also easily his best, the album on which he most firmly establishes his own musical identity. Dweezil has never hid from the massive influence of his father’s work on his own, but here he incorporates that influence without relying on it. Opener “Funky 15,” for example, sports a very Frank melody line, darting hither and thither without an immediately apparent grounding. But it also includes some very un-Frank arrangements (wacka-wacka guitar, cellos), and when Dweezil takes the solo, you can hear how he’s tried to blend his style with the one he’s been adapting for a decade.

From there Dweezil shifts between more traditional rock and some of his most out-there material, much like his father did on Weasels Ripped My Flesh. “Rat Race” is a shuffling rocker with a double-time beat and some delightful backing vocals, and it leads into “Dragon Master,” for which Dweezil wrote thunderous metal-tinged music to his father’s unreleased lyrics. Even that won’t prepare you for “Malkovich,” featuring its namesake reading utterly bizarre monologues between choruses of his name. “Malkovich, Malkovich, what the fuck are you talking about…”

Via Zammata’ (the title references a road in Sicily named after Frank Zappa) moves down similar paths for the rest of its running time. Dweezil shows his guitar chops on “Nothing,” tells a jazzy tale of a kid with bad luck on “Hummin” and gets serious on “Truth” with a string quartet. It’s a varied listen, and Dweezil never runs out of ideas. I’m pleased to see that, in the midst of keeping his father’s legacy very much alive, Dweezil Zappa is still finding time to create his own music, especially when the music is this good.

* * * * *

That legacy is still important, though, and new Zappa albums continue to be released. The latest, the 101st, is a bittersweet affair, but an extraordinary one.

In 1971 Frank Zappa made an absolutely mental and nearly unwatchable film about life on the road called 200 Motels. The parts were played by his band at the time, the Flo and Eddie incarnation of the Mothers, and the visuals were cheap and psychedelic. But the music was amazing. Zappa spent the majority of his budget hiring an orchestra to play the astonishingly complicated pieces he had composed for the film. In a clear example of Zappa’s mix of highbrow and lowbrow, those pieces had titles like “Penis Dimension” and “Shove It Right In,” and featured former Turtles Howard Kaylan and Mark Volman singing scatological lyrics atop them.

Zappa’s full orchestral score for 200 Motels had never been performed live until 2013, when Gail Zappa commissioned the Los Angeles Philharmonic for a one-time show. That show is documented on 200 Motels: The Suites, a new two-disc live record, and it’s fantastic. The scores are performed with full cast on stage, with Matt Marks and Zach Villa taking the Volman and Kaylan roles, respectively. The orchestra sounds insanely good. The music has been rearranged into lengthy suites, but is essentially the same as the film score. (Minus the pop songs, like “Magic Fingers” and “Lonesome Cowboy Burt.”) There’s even a guitar solo at one point. It’s great.

It’s bittersweet, though, because not only is this the first Zappa album that Frank was not involved in (besides composing the music), this is the last album Gail Zappa worked on before her death in October of this year. The legacy is fully in the hands of Dweezil and his siblings now, and I have no doubt those are good hands. But this is the end of an era, and as much as an album that includes a song called “This Town is a Sealed Tuna Sandwich” can make you sad, this one does for me. Nevertheless, it’s a stunning document of an overlooked period in Frank Zappa’s composing career, and a pretty tremendous listen. So thank you, Gail. May you rest in peace.

* * * * *

And that was the last new music review of 2015. Next week I’ll hit you with the honorable mentions from the year, and then the top 10 list and Fifty Second Week. Hard to believe the year is almost over. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year. The time when I can finally listen to Christmas music.

I have certainly mentioned this before, but for the benefit of people who don’t hang on my every word: I love Christmas music. Love. It. But I have a difficult time listening to it outside its proper season. To my mind, that season begins the day after Thanksgiving and ends the day after Christmas itself. (I’ve occasionally extended it to new year’s day before, but that’s it.) Radio stations that start playing Christmas music around Halloween baffle me.

But within that short window, I revel in Christmas music. This year I’ve already pulled out my favorites (Timbre’s Silent Night and Sufjan Stevens’ two Christmas box sets) and cued up the Violet Burning, the Choir and even Harry Connick Jr. However, I realized just the other day that I’ve only bought one Christmas album this year, and I don’t see any other interesting new ones scheduled. Not cool, 2015.

I will say, though, that I thoroughly enjoyed the one I did buy: It’s a Holiday Soul Party by Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings. Jones lends her powerful, soulful voice to horn-drenched Dap Kings arrangements of “White Christmas,” “Silent Night,” “Please Come Home for Christmas” and “Silver Bells” and funks her way through Saundra Williams’ (of Saun and Starr) “Big Bulbs.” My favorite here, though, is an original, a bluesy number called “Ain’t No Chimneys in the Projects” that brings a hard-luck grit to a familiar story. It’s a Holiday Soul Party is short – only about half an hour – but it’s predictably great.

That’s it for this year’s new Christmas music, though, as far as I can see. Even Trans-Siberian Orchestra released a non-Christmas album. If anyone has any recommendations for me, I’d love to hear them. If not, it’s back to Sharon Jones for me.

* * * * *

New music or not, it’s Christmastime, which means there’s a flood of new multi-disc DVD-and-Blu-Ray-enhanced live packages in the stores. Because what better gift to give someone than a reminder that they didn’t get to see an amazing show?

I’m not too upset that I didn’t get to attend the final Grateful Dead shows, even though they happened just up the road at Soldier Field in Chicago. (I was attending the third annual AudioFeed Festival in Champaign that weekend. I got to see dozens of bands for a sliver of a fraction of the cost of one of the Dead shows.) But now I can see and hear what I missed – the band has issued their last show in a number of formats, and called it Fare Thee Well.

The final show, from July 5, is available on CD, DVD and Blu-Ray, and a two-CD compilation of highlights from all three nights can also be obtained. I went with the highlight reel, and it’s pleasant enough – the vocals are generally weak, but the band sounds good, especially on extended jams like “Shakedown Street” (from the second night) and “Truckin’” (from the last one). Phish guitarist Trey Anastasio steps into Jerry Garcia’s shoes nicely, and piano god Bruce Hornsby slips back into the keyboard role he held with the Dead in the ‘80s and ‘90s.

In all, it’s pretty interesting, if not quite an epic end to the long, strange trip. While I’m not sad that I missed it, I’m glad I get to experience it anyway, although the overpowering sense I get from Fare Thee Well is that it would have been a lot better in person.

I am sad that I’ve never seen Roger Waters perform The Wall, despite a couple chances here in Chicago. I know several people who went to these spectacles, and even one person who attended multiple times. Now, with the release of Waters’ The Wall on CD and DVD, I get to see what they’ve been talking about. I’ve loved the album since I was a teen – Waters’ dark fable of isolation and paranoia struck a chord with me then, and I still respond to the suffocating atmosphere it conjures. And Waters, who toured The Wall for four years, has expanded it into a tremendous audio-visual treat.

This new live document draws from the most recent year of this tour, and presents The Wall as it exists now. Waters has restored “The Last Few Bricks” to the running order (it didn’t make the original album), and has added a new song: “The Ballad of Jean Charles de Menezes” is an acoustic coda to “Another Brick in the Wall Pt. 2” with a verse about London police killing de Menezes, a Brazilian man, after wrongfully suspecting him as a terrorist. This sort of integrates into the story, but it does feel pulled from another time.

The rest of The Wall is performed faithfully by a crack band, including former Saturday Night Live and Hall and Oates guitarist G.E. Smith. As an audio document, this is fine. But The Wall is a show you really need to see – it’s a full-on spectacle, and the music is only a part of it. And now you can.

Speaking of things I loved in high school, there’s Rush. I’ve never seen Rush live either, and was seriously contemplating heading out for the R40 anniversary show this year. But I didn’t, for reasons financial and otherwise. This despite the fact that the Canadian institution is on a creative roll – 2012’s Clockwork Angels was one of their best albums, and the subsequent tour one of their most fiery. Life is full of regrets.

But thankfully, I get to pretend I was there with the new R40 Live album and DVD. Yes, it’s another Rush live album – I think there are ten or eleven of them now – and yes, Rush remains Rush in any setting. They perform their songs with faithfulness and alacrity, which doesn’t detract from the purely amazing musicianship on display. They’re over their ‘80s reliance on keyboards and their ‘90s tendency toward the meandering – the new Rush sound is a throwback, a guitar-heavy power trio progressive rock powerhouse at the top of their game.

The conceit of R40 is a trip backwards in time – it begins with the Clockwork Angels material, most effectively “Headlong Flight,” and tumbles down their catalog, visiting the likes of “Roll the Bones” and “Subdivisions” and, yes, “Tom Sawyer” on the way back to their truly prog early days. Hearing “Cygnus X-1” and “Xanadu” and the opening to “Hemispheres” is pretty special, and they conclude with the raw rock of their first efforts. The closing track is a medley of “What You’re Doing” and “Working Man” that lasts a joyous 10 minutes.

The 3-CD set even includes a bunch of bonus tracks, arranged in no order, but including some of the best Clockwork Angels material next to “Red Barchetta” and “Distant Early Warning” and “The Camera Eye.” I wish I’d seen this show – the band sounds amazing, absolutely on fire, and it’s a fine way to celebrate 40 years (!) of their fantastic work.

Then there are the shows that I never could have seen without an enormous outlay of time and cash, but wish I could have. Earlier this year Devin Townsend staged a full theatrical performance of Dark Matters, his second album starring his tyrannical puppet creation, Ziltoid the Omniscient. Ziltoid is a war-happy alien in search of the universe’s best cup of coffee (really), and Dark Matters introduces us to his warrior princess and her spawn, the Poozers, in an intergalactic battle for supremacy. Yes, it’s completely ridiculous, and yes, Townsend knows this.

Townsend, in many ways the next generation of Canadian progressive rock, performed this show at the Royal Albert Hall in London, and it’s… something. The new 3-CD/DVD set captures the show in its entirety as Townsend, his incredible band and a handful of actors in crazy costumes burn through Dark Matters in just over an hour. This is incredibly complex music, a mix of thunderous metal and ambience and hairpin-turn arrangements with huge vocal parts and orchestrations, and the band pulls it off with style.

And like The Wall, though on a smaller scale, this is a show you need to see. Hearing it is one thing, and the music is excellent, but seeing the full stage show is something else. Once the Ziltoid portion of the program is done, Townsend and his band get to performing an hour and a half of his most popular songs (“Supercrush,” “Christeen,” “Lucky Animals”) and an extended, extraordinary take on “The Death of Music” before calling it a night. There’s never been anyone like Devin, and the Ziltoid show is unlike anything else he’s done. That alone should make it a must-see.

But the live album I’ve been spending the most time with lately documents a set of songs I couldn’t have experienced live this way even if I’d wanted to. (And I would have wanted to.) 10 Years Solo Live is a four-CD box set from pianist Brad Mehldau collecting, as the title suggests, solo live renditions from the past decade. And if you’ve never heard Mehldau before, this is a slightly overwhelming but absolutely amazing way to find out what he does.

What he does is reinvent songs through interpretation. Mehldau is a tremendously skilled and original player, and if that were it, he’d still be thought of as a leading light of the modern jazz scene. But Mehldau has an exceptional gift for embracing and revealing music from all corners of the canon. Just on the first disc of 10 Years Solo Live he covers Jeff Buckley, Radiohead, the Beatles and Rodgers and Hammerstein. Elsewhere he interprets Nirvana, Massive Attack, Brian Wilson and the Kinks alongside Brahms and Thelonious Monk. Jazz standards like “On the Street Where You Live” and Coltrane’s “Countdown” sit next to Sufjan Stevens’ “Holland” and Pink Floyd’s “Hey You.” It’s a massively inclusive list of songs, and a strong argument for the idea of music without boundaries.

It’s what Mehldau does with these songs that is truly remarkable, though. His playing is not just technically marvelous, it’s endlessly inventive. He begins this set with a 13-minute take on Buckley’s “Dream Brother,” and whenever you think he’s spun off into the realm of complete improvisation, he’ll work in a facet of the original song again and build off of it. I have no idea how much of what Mehldau does exists in his head before he plays it, but he always seems to know exactly when to remind you of the song he’s performing, and how to dig deep into it.

These four discs are themed – one is entirely in E major and E minor, for instance, while another is arranged like a single concert. As a listening experience, the entire set is surprisingly accessible. There are too many highlights to list, and in fact it’s all spectacular, but I will note a couple things I particularly enjoyed: the superb 16-minute mashup of the Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony” and the Kinks’ “Waterloo Sunset,” the truly great quarter-hour deep dive into the Beatles’ “And I Love Her,” and the closing number, a sweet version of “God Only Knows.”

Mehldau really is one of a kind, and to hear him work his magic alone is a beautiful thing. Away from other instruments, he has to carry the entirety of the sound, and he does so brilliantly, ducking down corners and allowing passages to blossom. It’s wonderful stuff, and I can’t recommend it enough. If you know someone who likes piano playing, or in fact likes music at all, this would be an excellent gift. I already think of it as one, and I’m grateful for it.

Next week, the final reviews of 2015, starring Coldplay and a few others. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’m trying to think of what Adele could do to make me hate one of her records.

Perhaps go full reggae? Honestly, there doesn’t seem to be much. By now you’ve all heard “Hello,” the first single from her third album, 25. It’s an incredibly simple song – a few slow piano chords, a less-than-sophisticated story about a woman hoping to get back in touch with an old lover who doesn’t care about her. Rinse, repeat, end. But when Adele sings it with that force-of-nature voice of hers, I’m swept away. I expect I wouldn’t like this song nearly as much from another singer – in fact, I may not like it at all. But Adele elevates everything she sings, even songs that don’t quite deserve her.

My first reaction to 25 was that Adele’s voice is the best thing about it. I meant that as a criticism, but then, of course her voice is the best thing about it. It’s one of the best things in music right now, and it has been ever since “Chasing Pavements” brought her onto the world stage. It’s hard to even describe that voice. It’s impossibly powerful and soulful, almost as if her voice is singing her, but at the same time Adele is in total control. (My earlier complaint that she has “one setting” seems churlish, and totally inaccurate now.) At times on 25 she channels Whitney Houston, but most of the time she just sounds like herself, and quite unlike anyone else around.

The main difference is in the songs this time. She approaches this material with more maturity, which sometimes feels like resignation and sometimes like blossoming perspective. 25 has been described as a make-up record, in contrast to the break-up record that was 21, but all that really means is she’s less angry, and there’s no “Rumor Has It” to be found. It’s is a slower, more patient record, and songs like “Remedy” offer healing balms instead of fire. It’s not a revolutionary shift, but Adele sounds more at peace on this album, which is nice. Even the songs riddled with jealousy, like “Send My Love (To Your New Lover),” or concerning breakups, like “Water Under the Bridge,” are gentler this time.

Adele worked with a cornucopia of pop producers, including Max Martin, Shellback, Greg Kurstin and Ryan Tedder, many of whom were responsible for synth-ing up Taylor Swift last year. That Adele remains seemingly committed to an organic feel is refreshing. Only a couple songs here sound like the work of these producers – most notably “River Lea,” her collaboration with Danger Mouse – and nothing sounds particularly modern. This is the right call. She has such an old-school welcome-to-church kind of voice that anything she sings is going to sound timeless, and surrounding that voice with too many flashy touches would detract from it.

And nothing here detracts from that voice. I keep going back to her singing here, but it’s just that captivating. The songs here that strip everything back to pianos and vocals (and occasional strings), like “Love in the Dark” and the aforementioned “Remedy,” truly shine a spotlight on that voice, and really, there isn’t anything like it. I’m not sure what Adele would have to do to get me to stop listening, but I know she didn’t do it on 25.

* * * * *

Speaking of remarkable voices, there’s Guy Garvey.

The frontman for Elbow, Garvey’s honeyed tones are reminiscent of Peter Gabriel at times, and suit his band’s patient, low-key ambient pop perfectly. As with most great singers, part of the thrill is hearing them in new contexts, and Garvey’s first solo album, Courting the Squall, provides those in spades. A harsher, looser and more fun record than Elbow’s usual fare, Squall finds Garvey lending that voice to tumbling, percussive rockers and horn-driven workouts, as well as a fair helping of glorious balladry.

The first song, “Angela’s Eyes,” serves as a fine warning that you’re not in Elbow territory anymore. Shambling drums, scratchy guitars, thumping stand-up bass and a screechy lead keyboard shuffle behind Garvey as he sings a rubbery blues from Mars. It’s a strong opener, and even if the record slides into more familiar territory with the title track and the lovely “Unwind,” it’s a good flag-planting song. While Garvey proves adept at shout-alongs, when he croons some of the more slowly unfolding songs here, he demonstrates that there are few who can deliver material like this as well as he can.

A good case in point is “Juggernaut,” a plaintive dirge built on three circling piano chords and a lilting melody. There isn’t much to this song, and it repeats itself often, but as a vehicle for Garvey’s smooth tenor, it’s delightful. While some of these songs would fit on Elbow albums, they’re performed here with a looser abandon (by members of I Am Kloot and The Whip), so a shuffle like “Yesterday” sounds like it could fall apart at any second. “Electricity” is a convincing slow jazz ballad, a duet with Jolie Holland, complete with shambolic saxophones. One track later, those saxes are getting a full workout on the stomping, Morphine-esque “Belly of the Whale,” a true surprise. (Even more surprising: the hat tip to “Careless Whisper” in the breakdown.)

Courting the Squall manages to be reminiscent of Elbow and to set up shop in a different town, selling different wares. Garvey’s voice is the key element, of course, and hearing it in these different settings is remarkable. Garvey proves his versatility here, and even if he doesn’t bring any of this looseness back to his band, he’s made a terrific down-to-earth detour here, one well worth picking up.

* * * * *

There are different kinds of voices, of course. A strong songwriter or record maker doesn’t even need to sing all that well to have his or her voice come through loud and clear. Take Jeff Lynne, for instance – here’s a guy who will never be lauded as a crooner, but whose voice as a songwriter and a producer is as distinctive as a fingerprint.

For the first time since forming Electric Light Orchestra in 1971, Lynne has put his name on the band’s latest album, Alone in the Universe. He didn’t really need to, though. All it would take is 30 seconds or so of opening track and first single “When I Was a Boy” to realize that this is pure Jeff Lynne. In fact, though billed to the band, Lynne played almost all of the instruments on Alone in the Universe, and produced it himself at his home.

Sometimes it sounds like it – Lynne has substituted dollops of synth strings for the more expensive real thing – but for the most part, this is what you’d expect. That’s no bad thing. Lynne is on form as a songwriter, and his signature is all over this album, from the chiming guitars on “Dirty to the Bone” to the lovely major-key shift near the end of the bluesy “Love and Rain.” This is a quick record, here and gone in 32 minutes, and it doesn’t offer any new insights into Jeff Lynne or his work. But it is an enjoyable slice of pure pop, and if you’ve missed Lynne’s songwriting voice, you’re going to like this.

Same goes for the new Squeeze album, Cradle to the Grave. Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook haven’t made an album together as Squeeze since 1998, but listening to this, you’d never know it. The two British gentlemen honed their distinctive sound together for more than 20 years before their hiatus, and it all comes flooding back within seconds here. The title track of the new album is a delirious barrelhouse dance-along that runs on pure optimism, and they start as they mean to go on.

There isn’t a weak song on Cradle to the Grave, and it’s clear that working together again has energized Difford and Tilbrook. “Happy Days” is almost giddy, a celebration of joy, and “Open” is a wedding song without any bitterness. The familiar Squeeze twisty-turny melodies are in full effect, and Tilbrook’s voice sounds the same as it did in the ‘80s and ‘90s. If anything, the band is wiser and more philosophical, more content. The last line on the album is “there’s nothing I would change,” and that sentiment breathes through these 12 songs.

I don’t have much to say about Cradle to the Grave, other than to say that it’s excellent. Squeeze has been away too long, and the pop world has been poorer for it. Difford and Tilbrook are fine on their own, and each has made worthy solo records. But there is something unique about their work together as Squeeze, something that speaks to that idea of a songwriting voice, and you can hear it all over Cradle to the Grave. And you should.

* * * * *

One last songwriter, and we’ll put this one to bed.

I’ve been a Sara Groves fan for all of four years now, which means I was a miserable 13 years late for this train. I came aboard with her seventh album, Invisible Empires, and I only picked that one up at all because Steve Hindalong of the Choir produced it. But what I found when I did was something remarkable – a songwriter working within contemporary Christian music, yet creating strikingly honest songs about the pain and wonder of life. When I venture into this corner of the music world, Groves is what I’m looking for – someone who isn’t trying to change my ideas about faith, but is singing from her own, viewing life through her particular prism without coloring it a shade of rose.

I liked Invisible Empires a great deal, particularly since it was a primarily piano-based affair. Groves’ eighth album, Floodplain, isn’t that at all – it’s mainly guitars, and is much more folksy – but it’s another beautiful collection of thoughts and observations, set to lovely music. Floodplain is about feeling all the difficulties of life, and diving right in anyway. It’s about connecting, about loving even the worst parts, about being grateful while still grasping on to every experience. “Expedition” is the mission statement – “Meet me at the river, I’ve fashioned us a raft and oar, we’re going on an expedition looking for lost time…”

“Second Guess Girl” is about trying to love through uncertainty: “It’s a hard world for a second-guess girl, with one hand and another, I try to take it in and it leaves me spinning, trying to love my sister and brother.” Groves sings this one over a skipping acoustic strum that only adds to its Indigo Girls feel. “I’ve Been Here Before” is about remembering that doubt and pain ebb away, and looking for grace. “On Your Mark” is about waiting for life to begin: “Tomorrow never really comes now does it, it’s always sailing up ahead, the SS Good Intention full of everything you said you ever wanted…” The album ends with a perfect pair – “Your Reality” is a love song dedicated to her husband, and “My Dream” is a gorgeous, allegorical tale of God and forgiveness as recounted by her grandfather.

All that is great stuff, but Groves actually made me cry twice on this record, and those two songs are the heart of Floodplain for me. The title track is an extraordinary metaphor for depression and anxiety: “Some hearts are built on a floodplain, keeping one eye on the sky for rain, you work for the ground that gets washed away… and the river it rushes to madness and the water spreads like sadness and there’s no high ground…” Somehow she transforms this into a song about reaching out past this pain and helping others through it, and it’s beautiful. One song later, on “Enough,” she’s acknowledging the hardship and misery and yet expressing gratitude: “In these patches of joy, these stretches of sorrow, there’s enough for today, there’ll be enough tomorrow…”

If a songwriter can make me cry, I’ll be in for life. I’m so happy I found Sara Groves. I’m happy whenever I find a songwriter of her caliber, one who can express faith and joy and sadness and love, always love, with an unflinching clarity and grace. She reminds me of Shawn Colvin – she’s at that level. I’m in love with Floodplain, and sad that I missed so many years of her work. I can’t wait to hear what she does next.

* * * * *

Next week, live albums galore. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Let me start off by saying unequivocally that I love it when artists radically change.

In fact, I demand it. My favorite artists are restless, like sharks, constantly moving forward, looking for new territory. While I appreciate the value of consistency – and there are some very good bands who have plied the same trade for 20 or 30 years, and you know what to expect from them – I’m a sucker for risks. If you’ve decided to do something that sounds kind of insane, and could completely derail your career if it fails, I’m in. I love that kind of reckless artistic drive.

So when I say that the new Mutemath album, Vitals, is a wretched example of a band giving up on everything that made them special, believe me that it’s not the idea of radical change itself that I’m railing against. I actually respect Mutemath for knowing that what they were doing wasn’t working, and that they needed a reinvention. But Vitals is the absolute worst reinvention they could have made. It will probably do very well for them, but as a piece of art, it’s empty and hollow.

Let’s start from the beginning.

I first saw Mutemath perform their traveling musical carnival act at the Cornerstone Festival in 2005. They were amazing – doing somersaults on stage, swapping instruments, playing with a fire that I’ve only rarely seen. And on top of that, they wrote terrific songs, merging the punk attitude of early Police albums with a soaring and hopeful pop sensibility. Their self-titled debut album was one of the most perfect first efforts I’ve ever heard. It was instantly memorable while being remarkably progressive and complex, and held together as a single unbroken unit. It was astonishingly confident, given that it sounded like nothing else on the market.

Every subsequent album has been a baffling step further away from the brilliance of the first one. 2009’s Armistice was essentially the debut again, but worse. 2011’s Odd Soul, the first without founding guitarist Greg Hill, incorporated a Black Keys-style classic rock influence while failing to include many songs that rose above the din. (“Prytania” remains great.) My biggest problem with Odd Soul is that I couldn’t hear the band I fell in love with. Subsequent listens showed that they were still in there somewhere, crying out with weak voices, but it took a while to find them.

And now here is Vitals, the biggest break yet from the band they used to be. That’s not in itself a bad thing, but they’ve settled on a synth-driven simplistic pop style that sounds alternately like Maroon 5 and a remix record from the ‘80s. The whole thing sounds like it’s crying out for placement in commercials about luxury cars and skinny jeans. I knew things were headed off the rails when I heard “Monument,” the painfully cheesy first single, of which the band seemed inordinately proud. Seriously, replace Paul Meany with Adam Levine and no one would really notice.

“Monument” is on the low end of the album, thankfully, but even the songs I like (“All I See,” “Stratosphere,” “Remain”) are saddled with simple arrangements and plastic production. The band’s finest asset has always been drummer Darren King, and it’s hard to hear his influence here at all. He’s replaced by machines half the time, and never allowed to truly cut loose. This one, much more than the previous effort, sounds like the band lost a guitar player, which is odd since this is their first with newbie Todd Gummerman. There are guitars here, just as there are organic drums, but they’re largely buried under all the synths.

And again, the fact that this music is synth-driven isn’t really the problem. The problem is that the songs are lacking and the production does them no favors. Opener “Joy Rides” is a goofy dance-a-thon that throws you right into the deep end of this new sound. In some ways it’s similar to Keane’s “Spiraling,” which opened their own stab at changing things up, Perfect Symmetry. Except that “Spiraling” is a really good song, and “Joy Rides” is the soundtrack to a Lexus ad. Even goofier is “Best of Intentions,” which tries on an ill-fitting Hall and Oates impression.

Mutemath fares better when they try to sound like Mutemath. “Used To” is no great shakes, but it has that Darren King slow-thump backbeat going for it, and a nice sense of resignation. There are two instrumentals, both pretty good but pointless – on the debut, the instrumentals extended or linked other tracks, and these are just… there. Still, it’s a welcome throwback. And the band is at its best here when embracing the dreamy side of what they do. “All I See” is quite beautiful, a successor to “You Are Mine” from the debut, and the layers of keyboards fit in well here.

The album’s best song is its last, “Remain.” It is here that the band remembers how to write a lovely closer like “Stall Out,” building their rainclouds of synthesizers into a massive wave over six minutes. “Just keep trying, just keep fighting, just keep going, just keep surviving,” Meany sings atop this wave, and for the first time in 47 minutes, I feel something. Most of this record keeps me at a distance, particularly when it sounds like Meany’s home demos (“Composed”). On this one track, Mutemath taps into something special, pulls from something real, and as the final strains fade out, I find myself wondering why they couldn’t do that eleven more times.

Vitals is one of the biggest disappointments of my year. It’s the furthest this band has fallen, the worst music they have made. It’s still Mutemath, so there are certainly good songs and certainly strong moments. But in their zeal to redefine their sound, they’ve lost most of what I loved about them. Perhaps this will be like Odd Soul, and with further listens I will hear the band I once knew submerged in there somewhere. Perhaps it will grow on me. I certainly hope so, because I hate feeling this way about artists I adore. I’ll keep listening.

* * * * *

If you want an example of a band successfully reinventing themselves between albums, check out Birds Say, the sophomore LP from Darlingside.

I had two people I’ve never met (Alex Caldwell and Shawn McLaughlin) recommend Darlingside to me, and it took only a cursory listen to convince me that I had to own everything this band has done. This Massachusetts band has a great way with a melody and four singers who harmonize like angels. Their 2012 debut, Pilot Machines, established them as a propulsive folk-rock group with some truly wonderful songs (“The Woods” and “Blow the House Down” are favorites). Three years later, their second album has arrived with a completely different conception of the band, and a totally transformed sound.

The main difference is the departure of drummer Sam Kapala, who took with him all notion of Darlingside as a rock band. Birds Say is a primarily acoustic affair, with the focus on the quartet’s gorgeous, intertwined voices. They announce this change in style by reprising a song from Pilot Machines right up front – “The Ancestor” is a deliriously lovely anthem of hard-won hope in either version, but as the opener of this new record, it glides in delicately and sweeps the clouds away. It also perfectly sets the tone – Birds Say is a gentle delight, sunny and warm.

An early highlight is “Harrison Ford,” a kinetic tale of an odd meeting with some wonderful cello flourishes. “Clay and Cast Iron” is a bittersweet fable set at a skating rink. “Go Back” makes fantastic use of those harmonies to tell a story of retreating into the past. “The God of Loss” is stunning, its lyrics based on a book band member Auyon Mukharji was not allowed to read as a child. “She’s All Around” brings in a delicate electric guitar, adding texture behind the acoustic and the mandolin, and making space for those dreamlike voices. Closer “Good For You” is one of the band’s best songs, a searching and probing piece of work that ends the album on a questioning, yet hopeful note.

Really, I’m just listing and describing songs now, which does you no good. Birds Say is a wonderful listen, a tremendous example of committing to a new identity and making it work. I’m grateful to both Alex and Shawn for turning me on to this band. You can hear them and buy their stuff here. You won’t regret it.

Next week, catching up with a bunch of new releases. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.