September already?

I work at a particle physics laboratory where we delve deeply into the mysteries of space and time, so I know that the theory that time speeds up as you get older is false. Time moves at the same rate, which is why we call it time. But damn, it certainly feels like the days are zipping past more quickly, the months blending into one another, the years barely distinguishable. I feel like I’m constantly celebrating the 10th, 20th or even 30th anniversaries of things I remember like they happened yesterday. (Are we really about to get a 20th anniversary edition of Jagged Little Pill? Really?)

I’m 41 now. I promised myself decades ago that I wouldn’t turn into one of those old guys who thinks that music peaked the year he graduated high school. I wanted to be constantly seeking out new sounds, new artists, new expressions. I think I’ve done OK, even though my favorite artists still tend to be the ones with extensive catalogs, ones I have grown with over the years. As much as I enjoy hearing a good debut album, I like them mainly for the potential they represent, the idea that someday, this band may put out a fourth or fifth album, and that one’s probably going to blow me away.

Both of the records I have on tap this week come from bands I tried on a whim in 2008, spurred on by good reviews, and have watched evolve over the past seven years. I’m happy with the way both of them have grown – these new ones might be career-best in both cases – and overjoyed that I took a chance on them seven years ago. Results like this embolden me to take more such chances, try more bands and artists I might be hesitant on. I’m hopefully never going to shovel out Pitchfork-levels of new-band hype in this space, but at least in these two cases, the leaps of faith have been justified.

I can’t quite remember why I bought Antidotes, the first album from Oxford’s Foals, but even now I think it’s one of the brattiest math-rock albums ever. It’s intricate, like a puzzle that keeps solving itself, and yet danceable, lead throat Yannis Philippakis (then just 21) pushing things along with his barking, Isaac Brock-esque voice. I think Antidotes is great. I also think it’s fascinating and commendable that the band has never made another record like it. That willingness to experiment is risky, but it’s paid dividends.

Two years ago, I criticized the band for heading in a more accessible dance-rock direction with Holy Fire – much of it sounds like a tribute to modern Modest Mouse. But now that the fourth Foals platter, What Went Down, is here, it’s clear that their previous effort was just a way station on the road they’ve been traveling. Holy Fire scrapped one of the band’s key elements – the sense that each band member was contributing a different interlocking piece that only made sense as a whole – in favor of more straightforward rhythmic foundations. What Went Down does the same thing, but proceeds to build massive, gleaming towers on those foundations.

If you don’t know what I mean, just listen to the title track, which opens the album. There’s nothing immediately intricate about it – the drums pound in 4/4, the bass line throbs, the guitars land on the beats, and Philippakis sings a simple melody with passion. But just listen to how the band builds the song up higher and higher, crashing into that fantastic middle section about three minutes in, breaking it down, and then going even bigger. There’s an intensity to this song that Foals have never injected into their material before – by the end, it’s almost unbearable, and you have to move or do something or you’ll scream. And then the last 30 seconds lets you do just that.

In so many ways, What Went Down sounds like the work of a different band than the one that made Antidotes. Foals have always been more interested in sound than song, in creating interesting sonic sculptures than writing indelible melodies, and while this new album doesn’t flip that script, the 10 songs here are more interesting and memorable. “Mountain at My Gates” is a proper single, one that feels like an honest effort, in contrast to their last stab at radio, “My Number.” It’s obvious in every song here that the band rallied and focused for this one, and the result is simultaneously their most succinct and most ambitious statement.

In short, Foals have grown up here, and they’ve left their brattiness behind. Nothing on What Went Down is brash – it’s all well-considered, strong material. “Birch Tree” is the perfect adult Foals song, its shimmering guitars and gliding chorus almost sounding smooth. “Give It All” is a low-key, subtle bit of hopeful melancholy, with glittering keyboards and a “woo-oo” for the ages. “Night Swimmers” is a delightful update of the band’s old vibe, the only time on the record that the bass and drums do that nimble little dance, but this one is fully written, the groove underpinning a solid song. And epic closer “A Knife in the Ocean” earns all of its seven minutes, finally blossoming into a massive and powerful finale.

I wasn’t sure what to expect after Holy Fire, but with What Went Down, Foals have crafted their best record. They did so not by ignoring the pathways they’d previously taken, even the ones that led to dead ends, but by learning from them and building on them. This album shows a true evolution, and marks a coming of age – they started as a bunch of cocky kids, but What Went Down is the first album they’ve made that can truly be called confident. It’s been a treat to watch them find their way here, and it’s even more of a treat to see them arrive.

I’ve been following Beach House for just as long, but their evolution has been much more subtle. The first Beach House album I bought was their second, 2008’s Devotion, and the main elements were already in place – droning keyboards, pitter-patter electronic drums and Victoria Legrand’s lush, haunting voice. Seven years later, those are still the main ingredients, but they’ve learned to cook more interesting dishes with them. Still, everything they’ve done sounds unmistakably like Beach House.

The duo’s fifth album, Depression Cherry, also sounds like Beach House, but this time, there’s a larger helping of classic shoegaze here – this record sounds gauzier, farther away, more mesmerizing than the comparatively pop leanings of their last effort, the glorious Bloom. The first single, “Sparks,” is the one most obviously inspired by the likes of Slowdive and the Cocteau Twins – Alex Scally’s fuzzy guitar is slathered all over Legrand’s thick organ chords, and her harmonized vocals sound like she sung them down an echo-filled hall from the microphone. It could not sound more like ‘90s shoegaze if Kevin Shields produced it.

The rest of the album doesn’t quite follow suit, but there is a definite focus here on that cavernous sound. As a consequence, while these songs are fine, they’re not as memorable as those on Bloom and Teen Dream – this album is more concerned with mood than melody. That’s not to say there aren’t gems here, particularly the stunning six-minute “PPP” and the delicate “Bluebird.” But Depression Cherry is designed to be taken as a whole, and that whole blurs together into one long, sustained note.

What keeps this record afloat, as always, is Legrand’s voice. She layers it, then sings around those layers, covering the tracks like a warm blanket. On the relatively sparse “10:37” she sounds a lot like Enya, another rich-voiced singer who has mastered the art of the multi-track, and when the arrangements get bigger, like on “Wildflower,” she matches them with lovely, finely sculpted vocal webs. Closer “Days of Candy” starts with a hundred Legrands harmonizing like a choir, providing a supple bed for her shining-light lead vocal. It’s the darkest and dreariest song here, sending Depression Cherry out on a note befitting its title. But Legrand is captivating throughout.

For those who have been following along, this album is a surprising turn away from the bright shimmers of the last few Beach House efforts. (It even comes packaged in a cherry-red felt-like material, further setting it apart.) The essence of the band remains at its center, but they’re looking at that essence in new ways here, refining their sound and taking it places they’ve never been. As the next step along their path, it’s a strange choice. But as a Beach House album, it works very well, and I’m interested to see where they go after this.

Next week, Iron Maiden. IRON MAIDEN. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Last week, I published my 750th column.

It wasn’t really a celebratory affair in my head. In fact, “in my head” is a pretty good description of how it turned out – it was a naked exploration of my own mental issues, set to a soundtrack of raging punk and hopeful anthem-rock. It was very difficult to write, and even more difficult to put out there. One of the reasons I went ahead with it was my perception that, among my friends and co-workers, my silly music column isn’t very well read. I figured number 750 would come and go, like all the others.

But I underestimated my friends. One of them, Javi Terrazas, designed a jubilant piece of art with my column title, my name, the number 750 and a spinning vinyl record on it. Then 20 or so of my friends made that their profile pictures online, and shared the column. At last count, just from Facebook, more than 1,300 people have seen it. I got more than two dozen really nice messages from people going through similar issues, people opening up and talking about their own depression and mental health – in some cases, for the first time, with anyone. It was really lovely.

I make my living with words, and I can’t find any that describes the warmth and wonder I have felt over the past few days. You all took what started out as a very difficult experience and made it not only worth it, but extraordinary. Among the best few days of my year. I’m grateful. Even more than I was a few days ago. It’s a good life, and I’m thankful for it.

So you’ll forgive me, after the emotional roller coaster of the past seven days, if I take it relatively easy this week. The music gods saw fit to grant us a week without many notable new releases – there’s a new (and unremarkable) Spock’s Beard album, and that’s about it. So I’m traveling light this week. Don’t expect much. If you’re new here, this isn’t our usual fare, and I’ll be back to offering long-winded thoughts on new music next week.

This week, in keeping with the running theme of looking forward and embracing life, a bit of a look ahead. We stand on the precipice of six of the greatest new music weeks I’ve ever seen, six weeks that will hopefully leave my soul as full as they will leave my bank account empty. It all starts Friday, with new albums from Beach House, Yo La Tengo, Foals and the Weeknd (yes, the album that includes “Can’t Feel My Face”). I’m particularly interested in the Beach House, since the first single finds them going full-on shoegaze, and the Foals, since they’re one of the most interesting and underrated bands out there right now.

September 4 is a prog-metal extravaganza. We’ll get the sixth album from Polish proggers Riverside, called Love, Fear and the Time Machine. We’ll get the fourth act of the six-part opera in progress from the Dear Hunter, called Rebirth in Reprise. But best of all, we’ll get The Book of Souls, the new album from Iron Maiden. A double album clocking in at more than an hour and a half long, The Book of Souls looks like it will handily continue the momentum Maiden has built up since reuniting with Bruce Dickinson 15 years ago. Every one of their new-millennium albums has been a classic, and early reports on this one are more than positive. I can’t wait. Up the irons!

Speaking of metal, we get a new Slayer on September 11, called Repentless. It’s the first since guitarist Jeff Hanneman’s death, and since he wrote much of the band’s key material, it will be interesting to see how they do without him. The new Ben Folds, called So There, will be out that day as well, and it includes Folds’ first concerto for piano and orchestra. (The songs I’ve heard have been pretty terrible, so all my hopes are pinned on the concerto right now.) Duran Duran’s new one Paper Gods will also hit stores, as will new things from Low and Craig Finn. And believe it or not, I’m pretty interested to hear the new Jewel, Picking Up the Pieces, which she describes as a sequel to her still-unmatched debut, Pieces of You.

Then along comes September 18, with new albums from Chris Cornell, Battles, Glen Hansard, David Gilmour, Telekinesis and Leigh Nash, as well as the first of a trilogy from Geoff Tate’s new band Operation: Mindcrime. (Yes, he left Queensryche and then named his band after Queensryche’s most successful album. I’m still jazzed for it.) Then along comes September 25, with new things from Disclosure, Chvrches, New Order, the Dears, Silversun Pickups, Patty Griffin, Los Lobos, the Dead Weather and a project from Bat for Lashes’ Natasha Khan called (for real) Sexwitch.

And then! October 2 brings us the first new pop album from Joe Jackson in seven years, called Fast Forward, and the first new album from Squeeze in 17 years, called Cradle to the Grave. Plus we will get new ones from John Grant, Editors, Blitzen Trapper and Deafheaven, and the new Queensryche album, Condition Human. Yes, that means I get new things from Geoff Tate and his old band within weeks of each other. It’s a good year to be an old-school prog-metal fan.

The rest of October is similarly great, with new efforts from Duncan Sheik, Coheed and Cambria, Maritime, Here We Go Magic, Young Galaxy, Sharon Jones, !!! and (at last!) Joanna Newsom, who will follow up her triple album Have One on Me with a single-disc affair called Divers. And sometime this fall, we’re going to get the fourth Mutemath album, Vitals, although I will admit to being much less excited for it now that I’ve heard the first single, “Monument.” Coming soon to a terrible car commercial near you.

But I refuse to be disheartened. Not with so much to look forward to. With any luck, you’ll get nothing but joy from me for the next few months. As the man once said, music is the best. I definitely still believe that.

Next week, Beach House and Foals and maybe a couple others. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

A couple of weeks ago, I took a trip with a bunch of friends to Nashville. We saw some great music, hit some delightful local landmarks, and generally had a tremendous time. I wrote a column about the trip, and you probably thought I’d told you all about it.

Here’s what I didn’t tell you. Sometime on Saturday night, the first night we were there, I got inexplicably sad. The voice in my head – the one that’s always there, the one I’m often successful at drowning out – took a few missed conversational cues and began telling me that no one really wanted me around, and that it would be better for everyone if I just stayed quiet. So I did. The conversation mostly continued around me, and I got silent and still.

By Sunday morning, the feeling had blossomed into full-blown depression. I was sure my traveling companions didn’t want me there. I had attempted to spend the night alone in my car, but two of my friends tracked me down and refused to let me do this. They’d seen this before from me, you understand. It doesn’t happen often – only a few times a year, and usually sparked by some emotional distress – but they were rightly concerned that I’d started digging my way into a tunnel of despair, and they weren’t going to let me be alone while I did it.

Yes, I know this should have contradicted my thoughts – if they didn’t want me around, they’d have let me go off by myself. But depression, even the intermittent kind that envelops me on occasion, isn’t logical. Talking my way out of it is difficult and painful work. I know that on Sunday I clearly annoyed and exasperated my friends, as they watched me silently mope about, trying to be happy and failing completely. It took me hours (and a good nap) to wind my way out of it. You can trust me when I tell you that this depression is a lot better than it used to be. When I was younger I could be desperately sad for days on end, not trusting any social interaction, certain that people were happier without me there.

This voice in my head has been with me most of my life. There’s a real danger in listening to it – it’s only a few short steps from “no one wants you around” to “the world would be better off without you in it.” I’ve only tunneled that deep a couple times, but it was intensely difficult to get out. Most of the time, the voice manifests as a low self-image, or a self-deprecating manner. (I’m pretty bad with compliments.) It’s there all the time, like a dull buzzing. Here’s the thing, though: most days, I’m fine. I’m generally able to be happy, I’m energetic, I throw myself into my work and my friendships. Most days are good days.

I expect the only reason I haven’t been diagnosed with chronic depression is that I haven’t seen a doctor about it. I don’t know what keeps me from therapy, honestly. Whatever my resistance has been, it’s crumbling. I’ve been trying to figure this out myself, to quiet the voice down completely, and I haven’t been able to. I take solace in a couple of things: talking to friends who go through the same thing (this is invaluable), and music. Music has been my life jacket for as long as I can remember, and if I am sometimes obsessive in my pursuit of it, it’s because I’m clawing my way back into the light, and this is one of the ways I know how to do it.

Much like I am drawn to people with similar mental health experiences – I have a support group who helps each other when we’re down, because we know what it’s like – I’m drawn to the music made by those people. Elliott Smith has helped me wallow for more than 15 years. The Cure’s Disintegration remains a favorite, and probably saved my life in high school. (If there’s a finer poster child for manic depression than Robert Smith, I haven’t found one.) I love hearing people struggle and work things out in song – Taylor Muse’s battles with his faith and his own self-worth on Quiet Company’s last few albums, or Ari Picker’s thoughtful and deeply felt examination of life after his mother’s suicide on Lost in the Trees’ monumental A Church That Fits Our Needs. It’s good for me. It reminds me that everyone struggles with something, and the fight is worth it.

Lately, I’ve been immersed in two new records that came along just when I needed them. (That’s usually the way it happens. Brian Wilson’s SMiLE showed up after the worst few months of my life, for instance.) Truth be told, I was always going to buy Titus Andronicus’ The Most Lamentable Tragedy just for its ambition and scope. It’s a 90-minute rock opera from a band known for taking a traditional punk template and building skyscrapers on it. Patrick Stickles is a frontman with a particular sense of abandon – his lyrics are as raw and unvarnished as his voice, and that voice often sounds unhinged, clinging to sanity by the barest of threads. Most importantly, this 90-minute rock opera is all about Stickles’ manic depression, diving deep into his psyche and capturing some eerily accurate snapshots of how I’ve sometimes felt.

The Most Lamentable Tragedy is, like the band’s name, a direct Shakespeare reference, so naturally the album is divided up into five acts. The first two are mirror images of each other, the first depression and the second mania. The Titus template is generally simple songs with amps on eleven and Stickles on emotional overload, and that’s what you get here. This album is also full of references to prior Titus works, and in some ways it’s the Rosetta Stone that explains the band’s entire catalog. “No Future Part IV: No Future Triumphant” hearkens back to its three predecessors while offering a window into the depressed mind: “Some days start with an earthquake, the bed shakes until it breaks and I hate to be awake, most days start with a dull ache, enough weight to crush my face, and I hate to be awake, both ways are about the same…” Stickles spends most of Act I wallowing, hoping to be left alone. It ends with a song called “I Lost My Mind,” which is self-explanatory, and a quick finale called “Look Alive,” the hook line of which is “I look alive but inside I’m dead.”

Act II begins in the exact opposite way, with a brief intro called “Lookalike” introducing Stickles’ manic doppelganger and a cover of Daniel Johnston’s “I Lost My Mind,” just to drive the symmetry home. From there it’s ginned-up positivity. In “Mr. E. Mann” Stickles concludes that “looking on the bright side’s all right,” and on “Dimed Out” he gives in to his own excess. (“Dimed out” is a musical term for cranking everything up to 10, which this song does.) He ends that song by acquiescing to his manic twin’s proposal to let everything buried come to the surface: “Whatever’s inside let it climb out, that was his plan and it’s mine now…”

And it does. Act III is about letting the darkness within take over, Act IV about love and loss (including a great cover of the Pogues’ “A Pair of Brown Eyes”), and Act V about the aftermath. And while I found that I couldn’t relate to the horrid fantasies of songs like “Fatal Flaw” and the incredible “(S)he Said/(S)he Said,” Act V hit home with me. Near the end of the lovely piano ballad “No Future Part V: In Endless Dreaming,” Stickles appears to choose death as a way out: “You’re at peace when you sleep, why not an endless dream, you’re at peace when you sleep, enter the endless dream…” Suicide songs have always left me with chills and an empty pit-of-the-stomach feeling, and I didn’t expect this one. “I heard about a way out, and all you really do is open your mouth…”

I could almost kiss Stickles for the way he chose to end The Most Lamentable Tragedy, however. “Stable Boy,” a title that can be taken a number of ways, is a clear Daniel Johnston pastiche. It was recorded on cassette, just Stickles and a pump organ, as a tribute to Johnston, an artist who also suffered from manic depression, and its conclusion moved through me like a warm wave: “I am your brother, you won’t let me sleep forever, and you are my sister, I won’t let you sleep forever, no never, no sleeping forever…” Listening, I’m overcome with thoughts of my own support group, my own brothers and sisters who won’t let me sleep forever. It’s beautiful and I’m grateful.

And while the earned grace of Act V of The Most Lamentable Tragedy is powerful, it does require me to go through the wallow to get there, and sometimes I just can’t. Which is why I’m also grateful for Frank Turner, England’s patron saint of hard-won positivity. That’s never been more true than on his latest album, winningly called Positive Songs for Negative People. (That, folks, is the album title of the year.) It’s the opposite of Titus’ elaborate work – 12 simple songs in 40 minutes, recorded as close to live as possible, and skipping directly to the therapeutic reassurance that only appears at the very end of Stickles’ epic. There’s something to be said for the direct approach, and often, it’s exactly what I need.

Turner is a brash, Billy Bragg-esque anthem writer, and he’s at his most stridently uplifting here. “Get Better” is a mission statement that speaks right to me: “So try and get better and don’t ever accept less, take a plain black marker and write this on your chest, draw a line underneath all this unhappiness, come on now let’s fix this mess, we can get better because we’re not dead yet.” “The Next Storm” is a rollicking metaphor for depression, Turner declaring, “I don’t want to spend the whole of my life indoors laying low and waiting on the next storm.” That’s what it feels like – you wait for it to pass, and then you worry about when it will rise up again. And like Turner, I don’t want to live like that.

Most of Positive Songs finds Turner broken and battered, but standing up, pausing only to offer kind words and support to others (“Glorious You”). “Love Forty Down” takes the tired sports metaphor and breathes life into it, Turner asking the crowd to pray for him “to turn this one around.” “Out of Breath” lives up to its title – it’s a breakneck sprint about living life to the fullest. “Demons” pivots on this line: “At this truth we have arrived, goddamn it’s great to be alive.” And “Silent Key” is quite a thing, using the final minutes of Christa McAuliffe’s life as a springboard for a “hang on to every second of life” message. Every time Turner sings “we’re alive, we’re alive, we’re alive,” I can’t help but sing along.

The heart of Positive Songs comes at the end, with the sparse live recording of “Song for Josh.” Dedicated to Josh Burdette, manager of Washington, D.C.’s 9:30 club (where the song was recorded), who took his own life in 2013, “Song for Josh” is full of guilt and pain, and again makes me think of my own support group: “I too have stood up on that ledge, and I know you’d have pulled me back from the edge, and I let you down in your darkness, I wasn’t there…” The finality of “Song for Josh” puts the entire album into perspective. Life is about getting better, and you can’t get better if you’re dead.

There’s nothing I want more than to get better. I have a lot to live for, a lot of things I’m proud of. This is my 750th column, for example, which means I’ve been doing this for almost 15 years, and I’ve met some amazing people through this endeavor. Among many other things, it keeps me going, keeps me moving. I’m not there yet. But there’s still hope. There’s still help. Life is so beautiful, so precious, so worth it.

No sleeping forever.

We can get better.

Because we’re not dead yet.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

This is not a review of Kevin Trudo’s Water Bears Vol. 1.

Truth be told, I can’t review it with any objectivity. I’ve known Kevin for going on 10 years now, and consider him one of my best friends. We met almost randomly, introduced through mutual friends at an Ani Difranco concert, and I was flabbergasted to hear that he was a fan of this very column. A few nights later I went to see him play with his trio, Meathawk, and came away suitably impressed. We’ve been friends in music and life ever since.

Kevin was the first legitimate musician in my adopted hometown to want to work with me as a musician, and I’ll forever be grateful for that. I sometimes think he likes my piano playing more than I do, which is nice. We did a couple fun covers together – you can find them on YouTube – and when I started working for internet news company Patch, I made him a part of things. He was the star of my Patch site’s welcome video, and I somehow convinced my co-workers that he could write compelling and fun songs each week about the events happening in our coverage area. That feature was called Kevin Sings the News, and it’s still one of my favorite things I got to do as a journalist.

Kevin’s a songwriter. He’s a good one, too – he’s without a doubt the best lyricist I personally know, and one of the best I’m aware of. For the past dozen or so years, he’s been writing a set of songs that he plans to record as a trilogy of albums, and when he finally bit the bullet and started laying down tracks, I was beyond happy to get the call to be part of it. Recording Water Bears Vol. 1 was more fun than I think I’ve ever had making music. Most of the sessions ran from 9:00 p.m. to 2:00 or 3:00 a.m., and though there were some knock-down drag-out arguments about arrangements, the sense of camaraderie was incredible.

The guy at the center of all this is remarkably generous, playing very little on his own record – he made room for spontaneity, gave most of the plum instrumental moments to his friends, and fostered a sense of freewheeling fun. This is an album entirely about the songs and what worked best for them – an out-of-the-blue backing vocal line from Jay Olaszek that is now an integral part of “Gemini,” one of my favorite Trudo songs, for instance. Or a ripping guitar solo on “Part 1” by Noah Gabriel, or the striking tinwhistle work on “Parable” by Matt McCain. Kevin even let cellist Chris Bauler and me completely reinvent “Gemini” for piano and strings, and included the result as the final track.

Make no mistake, though, Kevin is the star of his album. His voice anchors the whole thing, no matter how diverse it gets, and on songs like “Older” and “Polaroid” and “Memory” and of course “Gemini,” he proves his mettle as a writer and a storyteller. Water Bears Vol. 1 can get a bit filthy – “Parable” is about realizing you hate someone half a second after having sex with them – and a bit sad, but it’s a set of songs Kevin is proud of, and rightly so.

But this isn’t a review of Water Bears Vol. 1, for obvious reasons. Instead, I thought I’d just list off a few things I like about it, and let you know where to buy it. So here goes.

I love “Gemini.” It’s a song any writer could be proud of, and the sweet acoustic version that opens the record is pretty well perfect. The cajon work by Matt McCain is a highlight.

I can’t tell you how much I love the zipper choir that opens “Great Liberation While Hearing During the Liminal State.” (Yes, real zippers, attached to real pants.) And the handclaps, and the bizarre mid-section, with its lumbering gang vocals.

The line that anchors “No More” is one of my favorites: “Nothing that will hurt us or help us will ever do either for long.”

“Older” is basically a Paul Simon song, and that is high praise coming from me. The lyric is like a sharp yet gentle knife.

I love how many different instruments sit side by side on the raucous “Parable,” and how it all sounds like a drunken tale told at a bar, which is the point. The opening lyrics still make me blush a little.

Every once in a while, I get a certain moment of “Cold” stuck in my head. Specifically, the wide-and-deep harmonies on the phrase “accidentally right on target.” Listen for it.

The vocals on “Polaroid” might be my favorite thing on this album. The song itself is a bare-bones valentine, but the arrangement makes it. Jake Mack on guitar and Ron Donavon on banjo, intertwining beautifully.

Justin O’Connell’s drumming on “Mathematics” is beastly. The final third of the album is the loudest, and Justin is the backbone of this song. He’s matched by McCain on drums for the Mellencamp-ish “Fear and Trembling,” played live by another Trudo-led band, Small Shiny Things. These songs are what Kevin sounded like when I first heard him.

There are so many things I like about “Memory,” the de facto finale of the album. There’s the backwards-guitar intro, the prog-rock riff that opens and closes it, Kevin’s unpredictable and crazy solos, and what I think is the best line of the album: “Old men shouldn’t write songs, when all we’ve got left is advice and regret…”

And finally, Chris Bauler’s cello parts on the reprise of “Gemini” are exactly right, subtle and moving. Kevin’s cracked and breaking vocal is perfect – when he sang it in the studio, everyone was deathly silent, and when he finished, we applauded.

See, I can’t even talk about it without bringing up the process of making it. This is not a review of Water Bears Vol. 1. But you should hear it for yourself. It’s just been released by Murmur Entertainment, and you can get it for $10 here. I’m very biased, but I think it’s worth your money. I’m proud to have been part of it, and I’m looking forward to Vol. 2.

* * * * *

This is a review of Lianne La Havas’ Blood, and it’s another that I think deserves your time and attention.

Many of you are probably already aware of La Havas’ work – this is another train I am late for. It was Aqualung who brought me here. I’m practically obsessed with 10 Futures, the great new record from Matt Hales’ alter ego, and La Havas sings on “Eggshells,” one of the album’s best songs. Hales has partnered with the 25-year-old La Havas – they write songs together, he produces, she plays and sings – and that partnership resulted in Is Your Love Big Enough, her fine 2012 debut record.

I completely missed it, of course, but I’m on board for Blood, her excellent sophomore effort, and in many ways the superior of the two. La Havas has a strong and soulful voice, and she finds new contexts for it here, working with producers like Paul Epworth and Jamie Lidell and Di Genius. If you think that spells pop, you’re mistaken. Blood is an album even more steeped in old-school soul music. Just listen to opening track “Unstoppable,” co-written with Epworth. This is straight out of Motown, complete with strings and horns, and La Havas sings the hell out of it.

Blood is a more diverse piece of work than her debut. La Havas’ own nimble guitar work anchors “Green and Gold,” a skipping piece of soul-folk, before she deftly switches gears for the straight ‘50s piano-pop of “What You Don’t Do.” (The latter song bears Hales’ stamp most noticeably – he co-wrote and produced about half of these tunes.) She goes for the heart on “Wonderful,” a sad goodbye to a broken relationship, singing softly over ambient guitars and pianos, and then kicks into high gear on “Midnight,” the record’s most extraordinary bit of horn-driven soul-pop. If there’s a song here that should be a massive hit, it’s this one.

“Grow” is similarly extraordinary, its whiplash drumbeat crashing in over finger-picked guitars and strings as La Havas sings with all she has. The chorus of “Never Get Enough” is another surprise, distorted guitars and vocals ripping through the delicate mood set by the verses. The album is full of these ear-catching and unexpected delights, but even when she plays things straight, as she does on the haunting album closer “Good Goodnight,” La Havas is captivating. Blood is a fantastic, confident album from a real talent, and I hope it signals a long and wonderful career ahead.

Next week, punk and positivity. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

What did you do last weekend?

OK, I admit it. I don’t care that much about your weekend. I only asked that question to prompt you to ask it back, because I had an adventure and I wanted to tell you about it. I know, that was selfish of me, and I’m sorry. Please. Tell me about your weekend. I’m serious this time, I’m really interested.

You did what? That sounds like fun. Oh, no way! Hilarious. I’m glad that happened, and I’m sorry that other thing happened.

What’s that? How was my weekend? I’m glad you asked.

So I’m a big fan of Nickel Creek, as you all probably know. Their new album, A Dotted Line, came awful close to my top 10 list last year, and the band’s mandolin maestro, Chris Thile, is all but guaranteed a spot on this year’s list with his other band, Punch Brothers. Thile gets a lot of the attention (even from me), but I’m also over the moon about his Nickel Creek bandmates, Sean and Sara Watkins. And when I heard that the siblings would be touring with a veritable who’s who of outstanding musicians as the Watkins Family Hour, well… you can guess my reaction.

I wasn’t alone. Several of my group of friends here in Illinois felt the same way about possibly seeing the WFH, but when we looked into tickets for their one Chicago stop, they were already sold out. So we did the next most logical thing – we bought tickets for their show at City Winery in Nashville. And then four of us clambered into my car and drove the eight hours down to Music City, met up with five other friends (two from Nashville, two from Illinois and one from Georgia) and saw what was one of my favorite live music experiences.

So let me tell you about it.

We started our drive on the Saturday morning of the show. We would have left on Friday night, except Hall and Oates were playing my home town on that night, and I didn’t want to miss it. That’s almost another story in itself – they were really good. They had a top-notch band with them, and they performed for more than two hours, playing nothing but instantly recognizable hits. When you can open with “Maneater” and “Out of Touch,” and then close with “Rich Girl,” “You Make My Dreams,” “Kiss on My List” and “Private Eyes,” all in a row, must feel amazing.

So anyway, there was that, and then about five hours of sleep, and eight hours of driving, so I was a bit bleary-eyed when I walked into City Winery. But I quickly woke up. The venue is absolutely beautiful, and because we had bought early, we were right in front of the stage. I don’t mean we were up front and yet some reasonable distance from the stage. I mean a few of our party could lean on the stage without getting up from their chairs.

If you’ve never been to a City Winery, they’re extraordinary places to see live music. They treat the performance like the work of art it is – they ask for silence, and demand you shut your cell phones off. Flash photography is also frowned upon. The venue in Nashville was full-table seating, with a full menu and delicious desserts, and the acoustics were to die for. It’s a place that appreciates the importance of live music, the reverence of it. It treats live performance like the one-time magical act of creation that it is.

The Watkins siblings have been playing as the Watkins Family Hour in Los Angeles for more than a decade. (“We’ve been doing this show for 12 years,” Sean Watkins said, and without missing a beat, his sister quipped, “This exact show. We’ve really zeroed in on it over the last 10 years.”) Their musical collective includes drummer Don Heffington (known for playing with Emmylou Harris, among others), bassist Sebastian Steinberg (former Soul Coughing member and longtime session player) and piano wizard Benmont Tench (of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers). Yes, I was only a few feet from Ben Tench, and yes, I took full advantage, watching his every roll and solo. He’s awesome.

Oh, and then there’s Fiona Apple. She’s certainly the thing-not-like-the-others in this group, and it’s almost hard to imagine how she hooked up with them all. (Steinberg played bass on Apple’s latest, The Idler Wheel…, but that’s the only obvious connection.) At our show, Apple looked like she was on a day pass from the mental hospital, wearing grungy clothes she might have slept in and sporting freshly drawn magic marker tattoo sleeves. But man, that woman can sing. Early on, the band performed Skeeter Davis’ 1961 hit “Where I Ought to Be,” and Fiona just nailed it.

The whole night was full of interesting surprises like that. Sean Watkins took lead on a song he introduced as one close to his heart – “Not in Nottingham,” a lament written for the 1973 animated Robin Hood film. (Yes, the one in which Robin is a fox.) The Family Hour’s performance of it was subtle and lovely. Traditional song “Hop High” was a highlight, Tench and Sara Watkins trading off piano and fiddle solos. (Watkins is a wonder on the fiddle, playing with fire and grace.) Apple sang lead on a couple old-time murder ballads, then put her distinctive stamp on the Grateful Dead’s “Brokedown Palace.”

And then there were the guest stars. As I understand it, the Family Hour picks up different special guests in each city, and man, I’m glad we went to Nashville. I was introduced to the Secret Sisters, a strong-voiced duo with a pair of fine albums – their original “Bad Habit” was a dark and delightful ride. And I got to see Buddy Freaking Miller play guitar and sing on half a dozen songs. Miller is a long-time Nashville guru – he’s played on a million records, made a good number of his own, and produced some of the biggest names in town. (Most recently, he was part of Robert Plant’s Band of Joy.) His voice is fantastic, his playing even better, and hearing him do “That’s How I Got to Memphis” was one of the undisputed high points.

After the show, the band (save Fiona) just hung out, ready and willing to talk to anyone. The whole thing had an intimate family feel to it. I bought the collective’s self-titled album, because of course I did, and found it to be just as enjoyable as the show. Like the concert, it opens with Robert Earl Keen’s “Feelin’ Good Again,” on which the Watkins siblings harmonize like angels. Pedal steel god Greg Liesz was part of the recording band, and he shines on the old-school country songs included here, like “Prescription for the Blues” and “She Thinks I Still Care.” “Not in Nottingham” is here, as is “Brokedown Palace,” and “Hop High” provides the clear highlight, Ben and Sara stealing the show.

What else? While in Nashville, we visited the Johnny Cash museum, and Third Man Records, and the Opryland Hotel and Gardens, where I fell asleep near a waterfall. We visited Robert’s Western World, home of the legendary BR-549. We had drinks on a rooftop overlooking downtown, and lingered outside several honky-tonk clubs, taking in the music. Then I drove another eight hours home. Adventure!

In summary, it was an exhausting weekend, and I’m grateful for good friends who shared it with me. Nashville is a fun place to visit, and City Winery an incredible place to see a show. And as for the Watkins Family Hour? If they are anywhere near your hometown, do yourself a favor and go see them. In fact, you should do that even if they’re nowhere near your hometown.

Next week, someone I know and someone I just met. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

The first electronic album I ever bought was Dig Your Own Hole by the Chemical Brothers.

Actually, that’s not true at all. I owned plenty of electronic music before “Block Rockin’ Beats” was a thing, from the likes of the Pet Shop Boys and the Art of Noise and New Order and Gary Numan and on and on. I just didn’t think of it all as electronic music until the ‘90s electronica movement took hold. And the first electronic – not electronic pop or electronic rock, but electronic – album I consciously decided to try was Dig Your Own Hole.

I’ve never regretted it. Dig is a monumental album, a watershed moment for the popularity of big-beat dance music. It’s grand and grimy and uncompromising, and it ends with the nine-minute “The Private Psychedelic Reel,” the first of the Chems’ many attempts to update “Tomorrow Never Knows” for modern audiences. I’ve been a Chemical Brothers fan ever since, sticking with them through ups (like Surrender and Further) and downs (like Push the Button). Furthermore, the Chemical Brothers opened up my ears to intelligent and interesting electronic dance music, a genre that includes now-favorites like Aphex Twin and Four Tet and Flying Lotus.

For all of their longevity, the Chemical Brothers have barely changed at all, and their stasis continues on their eighth album, Born in the Echoes. There’s nothing at all wrong with it – it’s just another Chemical Brothers album, full of thundering beats, repetitive vocals and strong hints of psychedelia. If you’ve liked them before – and I certainly have – you’ll like this. The band is tonally consistent, so the only question each time is whether they hit on the good kind of consistent, or the kind that makes you wonder when they’re going to evolve.

For the most part, Echoes stays on the good side. Opening track “Sometimes I Feel So Deserted” is classic Chemical Brothers, mechanical synths giving way to stomping drums and mantra-like vocals by Daniel Pearce. The hook is simple, and repeated until it lodges directly in the pleasure center of your brain. The song never quite explodes, building up and building up for most of its run time, but the catharsis comes next with “Go,” a marvelously danceable tune. It’s a spotlight for guest rapper Q-Tip, who crushes it, and its chorus is the album’s most infectious. (Although – and this will ruin the whole song for you – I can see a laxative company using “we’re only here to make you go” as a slogan.)

As with many Chemical Brothers albums, the thrill of this one lies in its guest spots. St. Vincent stops by “Under Neon Lights” to sing in a robotic monotone, and it works wonderfully. Saxophone wunderkind Colin Stetson adds organic intrigue to “Reflexion” and “Radiate,” while Cate Le Bon brings the title track home. But the award for best guest appearance here has to go to Beck – his tune “Wide Open” sounds like a genuine collaboration, like a track from “Morning Phase” given a skipping synth treatment. It ends this album gracefully.

Unfortunately, the songs on which Tom Rowlands and Ed Simons go it alone here are the least successful. I could live without ever hearing “Just Bang” again, and “EML Ritual” pounds its one melody into the ground. “I’ll See You There” is another one inspired by “Tomorrow Never Knows,” and it’s awesome for what it is – giant beats supporting wild backwards-sounding noises and huge torrents of effects – but it’s nothing new for them, and fails to recapture the thrill of “The Private Psychedelic Reel.”

But that’s all right. It’s now been 20 years since the Chemical Brothers burst onto the scene, and by this point, most of their contemporaries have run out of gas. The Brothers are still here, and as evidenced by the best moments of Born in the Echoes, they still have ideas worth exploring. I’m hopeful that “Go” will be a decent-sized hit for them, but even if it isn’t, I remain interested to hear whatever they do next.

* * * * *

There are really only two ways you can go from the Chemical Brothers, when it comes to electronic music. The first is to become more compact and poppy, focusing on melody and structure while still creating danceable music. That’s the path taken by the likes of Passion Pit and Imogen Heap, and also by Kevin Parker, who goes by Tame Impala. Live, Tame Impala is a full-on danceable rock band, but on record Parker generally plays every instrument – he’s a one-man show, and with 2012’s Lonerism, he created a tremendous ‘60s-inspired dance album that drew critical acclaim.

I was rather looking forward to Parker’s third, Currents, and now that it’s here, I’m somewhat baffled by it. It’s fine, but it sounds very much like Parker reined in his cornucopia of sound to focus on just one or two patches and tempos. The first song, “Let It Happen,” is the best, Parker developing a strong melody over nearly eight minutes, dropping out instruments and swapping in others while the main through-line stays constant. It’s a height of compositional agility that the album never hits again – unlike on Lonerism, where songs evolved beyond their basic ideas almost as a matter of course, most of the songs on Currents stay grounded. There are several half-formed interludes, too, which only weakens Parker’s case.

This is a strikingly sad album, and I think Parker chose a monochromatic wash of tones for it on purpose – it certainly fits with the theme of loss and futility. “I know that I’ll be happier and I know you will too, eventually,” Parker sings on the vaguely Brian Wilson-esque divorce song “Eventually,” and it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. The painful sentiments of closer “New Person, Same Old Mistakes” rub up against the minor-key bassline, concluding things on a desperate yet resigned note.

Currents isn’t an awful album, but it is a surprising one on the heels of his earlier, more kinetic efforts. It feels like a Tame Impala album with all the air sucked out of it. Currents leaves the impression that Parker is going through a difficult time, and I hope things get better for him. I’m still looking forward to another Tame Impala album, but I’m not sure I’m going to listen to this one too many more times.

* * * * *

The other option for electronic music is to go further into abstraction, which has been the path taken by the Orb for more than 20 years. Alex Patterson’s indefatigable project has always taken the more meandering, ambient route, filtering in dub influences and echo-y sound bites and coming up with the most eerie sorta-dance music you’ll find anywhere. My favorite Orb album came out 20 years ago – Orbus Terrarum is one of the most abstract pieces of electronic music I know, its interlocking gears forming something massive yet, in the end, barely there.

It’s that sound that Patterson has returned to on the new Orb album, Moonbuilding 2703 AD. Over four long pieces, Patterson and co-conspirator Thomas Fehlman weave a lovely tapestry of skittering drums and long washes of sound, growing and changing each piece over its extended running time. It’s the most subtle piece of work the Orb has given us in many years, and a refreshing return to form after their recent collaborations with David Gilmour and Lee “Scratch” Perry, which resulted in decidedly un-Orb-like music.

At its best, the Orb’s work defies description – I could tell you that “God’s Mirrorball” morphs through two dozen sections and flows like liquid from one end to the other, or that “Lunar Caves” maintains a spooky atmosphere for all of its nine minutes, or that the closing title track is where it all comes together, with a more propulsive (yet still subtle) beat. But none of that will really tell you what it’s like to listen to this. Moonbuilding is the first Orb album in a long time to give me the same feeling that radiated out from their earlier work, and I’m overjoyed at its existence. It’s not one of their very best, but it is music that will widen your mind and make you feel like you’ve been somewhere entirely other. And for that, I’m happy to have it.

Next week, I go to Nashville and tell you all about it. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but we’re a few weeks into the new global release date system.

For my entire life, new albums have hit stores on Tuesdays. I vividly remember lining up late on Monday nights to get the new albums at midnight in the ‘90s. In fact, I named this column after that very experience – at its best, I think, this column feels like the excited ramblings of an obsessive music fan who has just returned from a midnight sale, spun his new albums and typed up his thoughts just in time for 3 a.m. I’m happy to say I did this more than once during my college and post-college years.

It really should seem like the end of an era, then, as this month saw the global release date for new albums move to Friday. The idea, as I understand it, is to cut down on international piracy – if an album comes out in the U.K. on a Monday, but doesn’t come out in the U.S. until Tuesday, that’s a full 24 hours during which fans in London can upload the music to the internet and fans in Detroit can download it for free. Or so the thinking goes, and I guess if I were a record executive, that might make sense to me. But I’m not, so it doesn’t.

Let’s say all the other issues are beside the point, including that those who would buy the album anyway don’t mind waiting another day to do so. Let’s also ignore the fact that it’s not the extra day that would lead me to download an album from the U.K., it’s the fact that records sometimes come out there more than a year before they come out here. (The excellent new Everything Everything album is a great example.) No, the real problem with this way of thinking is that it assumes that corporate-dictated release dates mean a damn thing anymore.

The internet has turned everything into a free-for all. Not only do albums routinely show up online weeks before their intended release date, but bands can choose to ignore the Friday release date entirely and get their music into the hands of their fans directly, if they so choose. (The losers in this case, as in most cases, are brick-and-mortar record stores, and their continuing demise is a tragedy.) Radiohead has been working on a self-release-online model for more than a decade now, and fans rarely know more than a week in advance when that band issues an album. D’Angelo’s Black Messiah just kind of… showed up at the end of last year, on a Monday at midnight.

And just last week, Wilco joined the club, giving us their ninth studio album as a free download through their website. (That was on a Thursday.) The new Wilco was all anyone could talk about last week – it overshadowed more traditional releases by the likes of Tame Impala and Jason Isbell. It’s an attention-grabbing strategy: 11 new songs in exchange for an email address. The fact that the album is called Star Wars and its cover image is a curious painting of a cat only served to fuel interest in this move. This is how albums are going to be released in the future. Not all of them, and certainly not for free, but this will become more and more frequent.

It’s too bad, then, that Star Wars is awful. I’m not a Wilco fan in general – I’ve flat-out loved only one of their albums, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, and admired a few others, including the most recent, The Whole Love. Mostly, though, Jeff Tweedy’s mumbly, melody-deficient songwriting leaves me cold. This new one revs up the volume – it’s the most rocking record they’ve made in some time – but dials back all the interesting leaps forward Tweedy made with The Whole Love. This sounds like a more raucous version of his solo record from last year, and even though I’ve heard that four times, I couldn’t hum a single song for you.

Same with Star Wars. Most of these songs are two-chord jams with muttered lyrics that go nowhere in particular. It starts with an ungodly long 76-second noisy fumble that masquerades as track one, then slides into song after song of forgettable nothing. “You Satellite” captured my attention by dragging on for five minutes, and my ear was tickled every once in a while by some stabbing guitar line or another. But the songs are just boring – “Cold Slope” and “King of You,” right next to each other, are even the exact same kind of boring. I’ve heard it multiple times and the best I can say about it, still, is that it’s only 34 minutes long. It might be a grower, but I doubt it.

Naturally, critics across the country are praising Star Wars as a little masterpiece, and as usual, I am wishing I could hear in Wilco what others do. To me, this sounds like something the band threw together in about 45 minutes to pump up their mailing list. The clickbait title and album cover (It’s a cat picture! The internet loves cat pictures!) only add to the sense that we’re not supposed to be taking this thing very seriously. Star Wars will, however, see release on CD and vinyl (on a Friday, naturally), so it will soon become a thing they want money for. Suffice it to say that right now, it’s priced pretty fairly.

A global release date also fails to take into account the phenomenon of crowdfunding, which is how many artists are choosing to create and release their music. In 2015 so far, I have contributed to more Kickstarter and Pledgemusic campaigns than in any other year, and I expect that will keep on growing. Crowdfunded albums come out when they’re ready, regardless of what record companies want – I’ve received download emails from artists on every day of the week, and it’s always a nice surprise.

Crowdfunding also allows bands that might not otherwise be able to afford the expense of making a record to do so and get it directly into the hands of their fans. Record companies need not apply – it’s a new world. In many ways, even though the technology is new, these bands are doing things the old-fashioned way: they’re playing live, recording and releasing their own material. Case in point – last year, I saw Marah in the Mainsail play at the AudioFeed Festival, and their set was so good that I immediately bought their self-issued EP. And when the band asked me to pony up months in advance through Kickstarter for their first full-length, I did without hesitation.

That album, Thaumatrope, fulfills all of their promise and then some. Marah is a six-piece playing what they call “cinematic indie,” and what I call dramatic acoustic rock. At their best, they are what I wish Mumford and Sons could be – they’re wildly energetic folksters with a powerful sense of arrangement and scope. Their sound includes a little Decemberists, a little Levellers, but it’s mainly their own. Put it this way – when Charon welcomes you to his boat and ferries you across the river Styx, these guys will be the ship’s band.

These 10 songs show off everything great about this band. It opens with 30 seconds of haunting trumpet, which leads into the dazzling “The Traveling Man” – a skittery drum beat supports a dark choir pulling back the curtain before the guitars and horns kick in. Austin Durry has a growly, gravelly voice that he uses to tremendous effect, and Cassandra Sabol counterpoints it nicely with her angelic tones. That push-pull works wonders on the single, “Your Ghost,” propelled by a massive low horn part that will jump up and grab you.

Many of these songs are about haunted people, wanderers lost and at the end of their tethers. I heard “Wendigo” live last year, and its first lines still make me stop short and listen: “I keep my pistol under my pillow and a rifle beside my bed, don’t keep it loaded for self-defense, just one bullet for my own head…” The song’s narrator is terrified of the monster within, and his desperation comes through in Durry’s voice. Your first real chance to catch your breath is “See No Evil,” a lilting acoustic number led by Sabol, but its tone is the same: “I see no evil, I’ve been the problem all along, darling I was wrong…” The spooky “Graveyard” finds the two singers floating above an ever-building acoustic dirge, praying for rest for their troubled souls. The drunken waltz that finishes this song off is magnificent.

“Holy Water” is the noisiest and scariest thing here, like Nick Cave after a particularly bad dream. Less abrasive but no less powerful is “Clockmaker.” Over five minutes, Marah inexorably builds this strummy wonder, carrying it through wave after cresting wave. When it finally breaks, it leads into the carnival-esque closer “Your Work Isn’t Done,” and the band chooses to leave you with perhaps its most riveting and evocative song, the tale of a beaten and bloodied man hoping in vain for a rest. “Though you think your time has come, the wheels of fate have spun, death has declared your work isn’t done…” It’s dark and riveting stuff.

A thaumatrope is a toy that plays with persistence of vision – a two-sided piece of cardboard with a picture on each side. When you spin the cardboard, the two pictures blend into one before your eyes. The cover art of Marah in the Mainsail’s album is a working thaumatrope, showing a bird and its cage. It’s a really nice touch housing an album full of them. I’m quite glad that I supported this album, and quite pleased with the finished product. You can hear it here, and buy it directly from the band. Whether or not it’s Friday.

Next week, three new electro-pop records. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I nearly missed one of the best records of 2013.

I’m still upset about it. In a lot of ways, I’ve organized my life so that sort of thing doesn’t happen. I hear as much music as I can in a given year, even things I think will probably be awful, on the off chance that I will find the one album that changes everything for me. My best discoveries have all been by accident. I liked the cover of the Choir’s Circle Slide, for instance, and bought it on a whim. I remembered Aimee Mann from that one Til Tuesday song I liked years before. (No, not that one.) I had my ear to the ground in time to not only hear Sufjan Stevens’ Illinois before a lot of people, but to snag a Superman cover before DC Comics found out about it.

So when an artist as superb as Jason Isbell passes right by me, I feel like I haven’t done my job. I vaguely knew of Isbell as a former member of the Drive-By Truckers, a band I can mostly take or leave, and I read some pretty good reviews of his earliest solo efforts. But I didn’t hear Southeastern, Isbell’s fantastic fourth album, until late November of 2013 – five months after it was released, and too late to make my annual mix CD of the year’s best tunes. (“Elephant” and “Cover Me Up” would have been on there without a doubt.) I snuck the album into my top 10 list, but I still wish I’d heard it when it came out. (I owe my good friend Tony Scott for raving about it to me until I gave it a shot.)

I was determined, then, not to miss Isbell’s follow-up, to be in at the start of the cycle this time. I’m glad I did, because while Something More Than Free isn’t quite the immediate classic Southeastern is, I’m growing to love it just as much as its celebrated predecessor. It’s a different kind of album, softer and wider in scope, but it again offers up a remarkably consistent set of songs with lyrics to die for. Where Southeastern dipped into autobiography more often than not, Something More Than Free is a storyteller’s record, and Isbell paints a picture like few of his peers.

My favorite lyrics here concern people finding their way out of difficult and oppressive situations. Opener “If It Takes a Lifetime” is the story of a man who “thought the highway loved me, but it beat me like a drum,” but it’s a story of awakening, of realizing that there is a path out. “A man is the product of all the people that he ever loved, it don’t make a difference how it ended up, if I loved you once I can do it all again, if it takes a lifetime…” The title song is the dark flip side of this one – the narrator feels defeated by his endless treadmill of waking, working and sleeping, but he still has hope. “The day will come, I’ll find a reason, somebody proud to love a man like me, my back is numb and my hands are freezing, but what I’m working for is something more than free…”

Best of these is “Speed Trap Town,” a vivid portrait of a life collapsing, and a man escaping, leaving behind an ailing family member and a broken relationship. “It never did occur to me to leave until tonight, when there’s no one left to ask if I’m all right, I’ll sleep until I’m straight enough to drive, then decide if there’s anything that can’t be left behind…” The final refrain finds him on the open road, free: “Road got blurry when the sun came up, so I slept a couple hours in my pickup truck, drank a cup of coffee by an Indian mound a thousand miles away from that speed trap town…”

Southeastern also kept largely to country-inflected rock, with traditional chord structures, and while Something More sometimes stays in that vein – check out the great “24 Frames,” or the aforementioned “Speed Trap Town” – the songs Isbell has come up with here just as often break out of that mold and strike out for somewhere new. Most arresting is “Children of Children,” an epic acoustic lament with a walking bass line and some terrific Mellotron strings. It’s a dark piece of work – “I was riding on my mother’s hip, she was shorter than the corn, and all the years I took from her just by being born” – and the big, bold two-minute guitar solo that closes it out matches its majestic sweep.

Similarly, jaunty pop songs like “The Life You Chose” and the wonderful “Hudson Commodore” head down melodic avenues you won’t expect. “Palmetto Rose” starts off like an electric blues song, but soon blooms into something with more on its mind, with flourishes from Isbell’s wife Amanda Shires on fiddle. Closer “To a Band That I Loved” is a delightful singalong with a great little melody, sweet and sad. “I’ll be guarding your place in the lights, on the stage, in my heart, I guess we’re all still finding our part…”

For all of the ambition on Something More Than Free, my favorite moment may be the simplest: “Flagship,” one of the few indisputably autobiographical songs. It’s a feather-light, delicate acoustic number about a couple seeing the run-down, used-up world and pledging never to be like it. “Baby, let’s not live to see it fade, I’ll cancel all the plans I’ve ever made, I’ll drive and you can ride in the back seat, we’ll call ourselves the flagship of the fleet…” It’s the slightest thing here, but in many ways it’s the most beautiful.

For all the praise I’m lavishing on it, Something More Than Free is a grower, much more than Southeastern was. With every listen, it grows ever more impressive – it might be his best work, and I might be ready to call it that after a few more spins. Jason Isbell has become the face of the younger alt-country movement, and he lives up to that and more on this record. I’m glad to be in on it from the start this time, and I’m never going to miss another one.

* * * * *

The possibility of missing another Southeastern drives me to hear as many new records as I can. From there, of course, my compulsive collector gene takes over, and I need to have every album by an artist I end up liking. Even when I’m sure what I’m going to get is absolute crap, I need to find out for myself, and add even the worst of those records to my collection. I know, it’s a sickness.

So that’s how I ended up with Mobile Orchestra, the godawful fifth album from Owl City. I used to like Adam Young, and I would vociferously defend him from those who called Owl City a cheap knockoff of the Postal Service. I still think I’m right – the similarities are superficial, and Young’s early work contains a go-for-broke whimsy that the dour Postal Service would never dream of. But I’m tired of defending him. Young has succeeded in sucking all the joy out of Owl City, turning it into a hollow shell of blandly commercial electro-pop, and with Mobile Orchestra, he’s added that extra whiff of desperation. This is about moving units, nothing more and nothing less.

Like its predecessor, The Midsummer Station, this one’s for the record label, and Young has tried to craft hit singles in as many markets as he can, hoping that one of them will stick. Opener “Verge” tries to replicate the success Avicii had with “Wake Me Up,” including guest vocals by Aloe Blacc. It’s pretty shameless, and ironic, considering this lyric: “For the rest of my life I will make a promise, to be true to myself and always be honest.” There’s nothing genuine about this – the oddball honesty that first interested the general public is entirely missing from this generic effort.

“Verge” is one of the record’s best songs, sadly. Young makes a bid for the country market by teaming up with Jake Owen and adding pedal steel guitars to “Back Home,” turns in some simplistic dance-pop for the clubs with “Can’t Live Without You,” and most dispiritingly, fires off two trial balloons in the direction of the contemporary Christian audience. These songs are just awful, sitting nicely with the worst synth-happy Jesus music, and featuring faceless CCM pop songstress Britt Nicole on one of them. This is probably a big step for Young, plainly stating his faith instead of dancing around it, but it’s so generic and sappy that it makes me want to vomit.

Really, there isn’t much here for even Young’s staunchest defenders to enjoy. It’s shallow, soulless and empty, begging for your cash. (I’m beyond sad that Hanson, a band that has fought against a reputation for making similarly awful pop, is wrapped up in this mess – their featured song, “Unbelievable,” is pretty lousy.) Listening to Mobile Orchestra, I am longing for the days of silly lines like “with fronds like these, who needs anemones.” Owl City used to be goofy, joyous fun. Now it’s like listening to Adam Young begging to be liked, no matter what he has to change to do it. It’s deflating. It makes me hate even the thought of buying another thing from him, and makes me question whether I ever really liked him in the first place. That’s a pretty bad result for 10 songs. But then again, these are 10 pretty damn bad songs.

* * * * *

Next week, more good and more bad. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Last weekend, while I was enjoying the third annual AudioFeed Festival in Champaign, several of my friends were at Soldier Field watching the final shows of the assemblage calling itself the Grateful Dead. They posted pictures of the thousands and thousands of people crowding the stadium, and uploaded snippets of songs. Some people I know paid hundreds of dollars to be there, and while it looked like a good time, all I could think about was this:

I’m so glad I’m at AudioFeed.

For a fraction of the cost of a single Grateful Dead show, I had another glorious three-day music extravaganza in the company of marvelous people. I’ve written before about all the things AudioFeed does right – its roots are in the late, lamented Cornerstone Festival, but it’s smaller, the main stage is indoors, the other stages are within easy walking distance, the mix of new bands and old favorites is just right, and (this is very important) the bathrooms are indoors and have working toilets. In just about every way, it’s an improvement for me over Cornerstone, wonderful as that festival was.

For its third year, AudioFeed didn’t change much of anything, and that’s perfectly fine. The Champaign County Fairgrounds remains the perfect venue for an intimate fest like this, and I wouldn’t trade the family atmosphere for anything. Because truth be told, what I love about AudioFeed has very little to do with the comfort of the air-conditioned main stage or the fact that the toilets flush. It’s the fact that this gathering of people has become special and important to me. Unlike Cornerstone, I’ve been there from the start with AudioFeed, and I’ve watched it come into its own. I have no doubt I’ll still be attending this festival in 20 years, and we’ll be talking about the bands I saw this weekend in the same hushed and reverent tones we use for those who were there for Cornerstone’s early days.

And that’s the last time I will mention the predecessor festival, because AudioFeed is absolutely its own thing. While there are always the requisite headline acts to bring in the old-school fans (like me), this fest belongs to the younger artists. For me, AudioFeed is about finding new bands to obsess over as much as it is enjoying my favorites. The festival’s hit rate is pretty amazing so far – I maintain that there are more great bands per capita at AudioFeed than at any other festival I’ve been to. This year I found several terrific acts I hadn’t heard, from the brooding American Wolf to the Ryan Adams-y Jason Barrows to the dexterous prog-rock-y Narrow/Arrow.

But while the music is the draw, it’s not the reason I choose this festival over any other. I think my friends have stopped expressing surprise that I would not only attend but look forward to a fest dedicated to a faith I don’t share. As longtime readers no doubt know, spirituality is something I wrestle with, and something I’m fascinated by. And while Cornerstone sometimes felt like a club I wasn’t in, AudioFeed continues to be a place where I can just be who I am. There are die-hard Christians and atheists and those who aren’t sure, and everyone is welcome and respected. The vibe is never preachy, always open. And there are so many great people – this year even more so, as a couple of my old Cornerstone buddies made the trip. Getting to see them again while watching some of our favorite bands was a treat.

As usual, the musical lineup broke down into new discoveries, returning AudioFeed staples and classic bands. Here are some highlights:

My AudioFeed began on Thursday, July 2, with my good friend Jeff Elbel and his band Ping on the main stage. Ping is a lot of fun, and Jeff is never happier than when he’s performing – it’s always nice to see. The six-piece lineup tore through some new songs and some tunes from the latest Ping album, Gallery, before launching into what ended up holding the top spot for most unexpected cover of the festival: “Can You Picture That,” by Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, from The Muppet Movie. Yeah, it was awesome.

Also on Thursday I saw the aforementioned Jason Barrows, whose moody and guitar-heavy set sold me on a copy of his album, Islands of My Soul. It’s a brooding collection of meditations with a couple terrific rockers, particularly “Up From the Sea.” The legendary Harry Gore played a blistering set on the main stage, at one point continuing to solo while walking through the audience and standing on chairs. (Harry also, as is his tradition, set up a portable PA and jammed for a bit outside on Saturday. He covered a 77s tune while its author, Mike Roe, was walking by with Derri Daugherty and Steve Hindalong of the Choir, and all three rushed over to join him on the chorus. I saw a bit of that from afar, and it was great.)

Waterdeep, a husband-and-wife duo I haven’t had much time for, thoroughly charmed me with their acoustic set – so much so that I bought their new self-titled double album, and enjoyed it completely. The album is technically a pair of solo records – disc one features songs written by Lori Chaffer, disc two songs written by her husband Don – but it seems to present a coherent picture of this winsome act. I’ll be exploring further. On the other end of the spectrum were Phinehas and Silent Planet, two of the bands I caught on the metal-oriented Black Sheep stage. Both were inventive and interesting.

I’m going to try to be kind to Burlap to Cashmere, since their set was so good. This long-running quartet plays a truly progressive mix of wrist-breaking acoustic rock and world music, and they do it very well. But I have to say I wasn’t impressed with their attitude – they sound-checked for 40 minutes, then played for 90, including three encores, although they were only scheduled to play for 75. This massively truncated the set of the band ahead of them. And since that band was Hushpad, one of my favorite AudioFeed discoveries, I wasn’t pleased. Hushpad did take the stage close to midnight and played a few songs, and their expansive lineup – including Von Strantz violinist Kelsey Horton – sounded amazing. I wish I could have heard more from them. A more compact version of Hushpad played a tremendous set of shoegaze pop on Saturday, though, so that’s OK.

Speaking of Von Strantz, they were the first act I caught on Friday, July 3, and holy hell, are they great. Every time I have seen them, they’ve had a different lineup – this time they were a duo, singer/guitarist Jess Strantz and Horton on violin and cello. It’s the songs that make them for me – Strantz’ tunes are tremendous, melodic and joyful and always memorable. Their debut album Narratives is excellent, and you should buy it. They were followed on the main stage by Narrow/Arrow, the new project of Cody Nicolas, formerly of the La De Les. I’d never seen Nicolas play live, and he knocked me out – he played two electric guitars at once, one flat and one strapped on, while singing, with N/A’s ridiculously good rhythm section weaving and winding behind him. It was groove-oriented prog-rock, very well represented on their debut EP Middlechildren.

I got to see Noah James sing three times over the weekend, and they were all worth it. James has a big, soulful voice, and he writes acoustic folk-gospel tunes that tackle themes as big as that voice. His EP Sun and Moon is worth checking out. I told him that I will never get tired of hearing him sing, and it’s true. I also got to see the incredible Timbre perform songs from her amazing double album, also called Sun and Moon. Timbre plays harp and writes from both a progressive rock and a classical standpoint, composing eight-minute epics of grandeur and scope. Nicolas joined her on stage for a superb rendition of the harp-guitar duet “Of Cloudless Climes and Starry Skies” that took my breath away. There’s almost no way Timbre’s album will not be among the 10 best of the year, so you should definitely hear that.

Duo Analecta impressed with their loop-heavy post-rock wonderment. They’re working on a new record now, but I bought their previous one, Janusbifrons, and enjoyed it immensely. The previously mentioned American Wolf stands as my discovery of the festival. They play a dark and moody brand of atmospheric rock, with a high-voiced singer and some glorious guitar textures. Their set was one of my favorites of the weekend, and they’re from Chicago, so I have no excuse – I’ll be seeing them again soon. After them, The Soil and the Sun hit the stage, and they are seriously one of the best live bands you’ll ever see. Their extraordinary music takes from a hundred different sources and blends them together with a sweep that would make Sufjan Stevens proud. Their new record Meridian is fantastic.

The main stage closed on Friday with a set by Christine Glass Byrd, one-half of GlassByrd, performing gauzy pop along with a lovely cover of the Choir’s “A Sentimental Song.” That wasn’t randomly chosen – her band included Choir drummer Steve Hindalong and bassist Mike Roe, along with Christine’s husband Marc Byrd, known for his work with the Choir and Hammock. Christine has a high, lovely voice – you can hear it on many Choir albums – and her set was pretty great. Once they finished up, I wandered over to the metal tent to hear the last few songs from My Epic, simply the loudest worship band on the planet. They have a cracked and broken quality I respond to. It was a fine way to end my night.

As good as the previous two days were, Saturday stands as my favorite. I began it with a seminar, the first one I’ve ever attended at AudioFeed. John J. Thompson is a living legend in this corner of the music world – he ran True Tunes in Wheaton, IL for years, plays guitar in the Wayside, and just wrote a book called Jesus, Bread and Chocolate that details his time in the industry. He joined Aaron Lundsford, drummer of As Cities Burn, for essentially a history of Christian music, and a meditation on what it means to keep faith through everything that industry throws at you. Really interesting discussion.

And the music on Saturday! So much. Mike Roe played a swell set of 77s tunes with Steve Hindalong on drums. The legendary Glenn Kaiser ripped through his usual sterling gospel-blues tunes, but I ducked out early to catch Ravenhill, a quintet that plays a fierce mix of southern rock, gospel and metal – think Black Sabbath goes down to Georgia. I snatched up their album, Soul, and it rocks like crazy – this band has three guitar players and four vocalists, so their sound is thick and powerful. Their album closes with the same song their set did: “Blood on the Church Floor,” a jaw-dropping piece full of new resonance in the wake of the South Carolina shooting. Just great stuff.

The most pleasant surprise of the day was seeing Mike Stand. Back in the ‘80s, the Altar Boys were the prototypical Christian punk band, with simple lyrics, three chords and super-catchy melodies. Mike is in his 50s now, but he looks like he’s in his 30s, and he has the energy of a man in his 20s. In the afternoon, he played a fun set of old Altar Boys songs acoustically – I came in late to that band’s story, so I wasn’t as emotionally attached to those tunes as many of the older folks in the audience. But then at night, Mike unveiled the Altar Billies, his new trio with acoustic bassist Johnny X and (I keep saying this word) legendary drummer Chuck Cummings. They’re a rockabilly punk band, and their set was the most fun I had all weekend.

Lauryn Peacock is a piano-playing songwriter with an elaborate new album called Euphonia. She held a record release party on Saturday afternoon, playing a strong set with a full string section. I’m still digesting Euphonia, but it’s lovely stuff. I also caught a bit of Muir‘s set – they’re an instrumental trio and their self-titled album is a big, loud, crashing post-rock album with what sounds like a hundred guitars on it. Muir was the last new band I saw this year, and theirs was the last album I bought. It was well worth it.

And then there was one more show. I could not have picked a better way to close out my third AudioFeed than to see The Choir. They’re still my favorite band, and for this show, they were joined by both Marc and Christine Byrd, along with Mike Roe on bass. And yes, they played all of Circle Slide, my favorite of their albums. What is left for me to say about the Choir? They were magical, extraordinary, beautiful. Saxophonist Dan Michaels bounded off the stage and played the middle section of “Circle Slide” while walking through the audience. Marc Byrd and Derri Daugherty entwined their ringing, gorgeous guitar tones like a ballet. Crashing finale “Restore My Soul” was an extended, explosive wonder. I left walking on air. It was perfection.

Many thanks to Jeff Elbel for again being my roommate, for heading to Merry Ann’s Diner at 2 a.m. for the unhealthiest food on the planet, and for making it possible for me to go to this festival. I hope we can keep doing this. I have no doubt at this point that AudioFeed will continue, will grow, will thrive. Three years in, it’s my favorite thing I get to do each summer. I’m so grateful.

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

See you in line Tuesday morning.

This week we said goodbye to Chris Squire.

I can tell you exactly which Yes song I heard first, but it’s a pretty clichéd answer for a child of the ‘80s – it was “Owner of a Lonely Heart.” The spooky video, featuring blank-faced men in suits forcing someone off the roof of a building, is still permanently etched on my memory. My first Yes album was 90125, of course – I was nine when it came out, so I can’t imagine I bought it myself, but I have the original cassette. I know I bought Big Generator in 1987, and Union in 1991, and every Yes album after that.

And I know eventually I drifted backwards through their catalog, finally hearing masterpieces like Close to the Edge and Relayer. It took a long time and a lot of musical study to become comfortable with 30-minute pieces with multiple movements, but once I was in, Yes did it for me like few other bands of their stripe. Even among 1970s progressive rock acts, a bold statement like Tales From Topographic Oceans – a double album with one 20-minute song per side – is rare. In many ways, Yes was the Platonic ideal of progressive music.

They also hold the record for most lineup changes in a single career. You never knew, album to album, which version of Yes you were going to get – in the ‘90s they careened from the Trevor Rabin-led pop lineup to the Anderson-Wakeman-Howe reunion to the Billy Sherwood days, all the way up to an album with no keyboard player and a full orchestra. Vocalist Jon Anderson has come and gone – he’s been gone lately, and the last two Yes albums included new singers.

But the one stalwart, the one musician who has been in every single lineup of Yes since 1969, was bassist Chris Squire. His fat tone and nimble playing provided the bedrock of every song, and even when the flights of fancy flew too close to the sun, Squire was there to ground them. He was seemingly up for anything, comfortable playing epics like “The Gates of Delirium” and pop tunes like “Rhythm of Love.” It is no exaggeration to say that without Chris Squire’s involvement, it would not be right to call it Yes.

Which is why it’s so difficult to imagine a future for this band without him. In May of this year, Squire took a hiatus from the band when he was diagnosed with leukemia. His battle with the disease was relatively short – he died on Saturday, June 27, at age 67. He leaves behind quite a legacy – his first solo album, Fish out of Water, joins all those Yes albums as classics of the genre. Whether Yes moves on from here or not, Squire will be sorely missed.

* * * * *

In many ways, Venus is Joy Williams’ debut album.

It’s not her first record – she has three prior collections of sanitized gospel-pop on Reunion Records, having started her recording career at age 19. Nor is it her first foray into mainstream music, as you all probably know – her project with John Paul White, the Civil Wars, was ridiculously popular. But Venus is her first post-Civil Wars project, her first as a fully fledged musician and songwriter, her first real grown-up record. In a lot of ways, it’s the first time we are getting the real Joy Williams.

I always thought Williams’ work with the Civil Wars was overrated. I liked the band, but their simple folk music drew a lot more attention than I thought it deserved. I heard their 2012 breakup described as a tragedy, a painful snuffing out of a creative light, and I wondered what those people heard in them that I wasn’t hearing. Venus, on the other hand, is a smart, daring, memorable pop album that leaves both Civil Wars records in the dust. It hurts when it has to, stands up defiantly when it must, and delivers one great, intricately produced song after another until its end.

As much as I liked Williams’ voice atop the spare acoustic musings of the Civil Wars, I like it much more in this context. Venus is a thick and cloudy record, full of synthesizer washes and electronic beats, big strings, layers of harmonies and plenty of ambience. “Before I Sleep,” the big wave of an opener, should let you know what you’re in for – crashing drums, onrushes of keys, and Williams’ high and clear voice steering it home. These songs are patient – it takes a full minute of strings and beats for “Sweet Love of Mine” to kick in – and the album as a whole is confident in its more intricate instrumentation, most of it courtesy of producer Matt Morris.

If you’ve heard the first single, “Woman (Oh Mama),” you know what a departure it is for Williams. It’s bold and bluesy, all handclaps, foot stomps and staccato acoustic guitars, with a choir of low-moan backing vocals. The record doesn’t quite get this brassy again, but it’s a nice statement of intent for a woman stepping out on her own. Much of this record is about recrimination and regret, and the temptation will be to read it as a commentary on the breakup of the Civil Wars, the specifics of which neither Williams nor White have discussed publicly. A song like “Not Good Enough,” for example, plays right into that, as do laments like “One Day I Will”: “I’d love to write a happy song, one day I will, I’d like to feel a little less alone, one day I will…”

There is one song here that is absolutely about the Civil Wars, though, and that’s “What a Good Woman Does.” This is quite a crafty piece of work – it delves into everything but the specifics of the split. It opens with a cheeky reference (“I can’t carry the weight of this war”), and hints at a bigger story, at deeper secrets: “Hear me, haven’t lost my voice without you near me, and I could tell the truth about you leaving, but that’s not what a good woman does…” It’s simultaneously soul-baring and canny, a vague pointed finger that preserves the mystery. It’s a lovely piano ballad thing, and Williams sings it marvelously, but I’m still not sure how I feel about it.

I have no such conflicts about the final tracks – Venus ends with grace and acceptance. “You Loved Me” is a pretty tale of unconditional love, with a simple yet heartrending chorus: “I tried, and I failed, and you loved me.” “Till Forever” might be the record’s most gorgeous song, delicately played on piano and cloud-like guitars. It’s like a warm embrace: “Lover, find me underneath the covers, we will stay here until we discover all that we have to give to each other…” Closer “Welcome Home” is just as warm, Williams greeting a long-lost loved one over supple strings. “I’ve been waiting here,” she sings, a tremble in her voice, and it’s simple and splendid.

Venus is, in many ways, Williams’ first album. I genuinely hope it is not her last, because this strong collection of confident and lovely little songs points toward an equally strong solo career. This is one of those modest yet powerful records that grabs hold of you and keeps you close. If the Civil Wars had to break up to get Williams to this point, then it was absolutely worth it.

* * * * *

It seems like lately many of my favorite albums stubbornly refuse to come out in my home country.

Last year’s marvelous Husky album, Ruckers Hill, finally made its way to these shores this month, where of course it died a quick death. Two of this year’s most interesting albums, Aqualung’s 10 Futures and Daniel Johns’ Talk, are only available as imports from the UK and Australia, respectively, with no plans to release them here. And now there’s the third album from awe-inspiring UK art-rockers Everything Everything, only available across the pond. I don’t know that the coming global release date will do anything to fix this. As of right now, some of the year’s best records aren’t making any impact in the U.S., and that’s unfortunate.

It’s especially galling in the case of Everything Everything, who have moved mountains to be more accessible on Get to Heaven, their new record. The quartet has always balanced their powerful, catchy melodies against their more angular and progressive tendencies, but on this album, they’ve amped up both, and wound up with their most explosive and immediate collection. Particularly in the first half, these songs are all about their choruses, and they’re just wonderful. Jonathan Higgs has a strange, off-kilter voice, but a dynamite range, and when he lands these melodies, he really lands them.

This band has never given us a one-two punch like they have here – opener “To the Blade” wafts in on shivering synths and Higgs’ falsetto, but when the guitars kick in, the song turns massive, leading into the most danceable number here, “Distant Past.” Amid some odd samples and Higgs’ surprisingly effective rapping, the chorus burst forth like light through the trees – “Take me to the distant past, I want to go baaaaaaack…” I first heard this song three months ago, and it’s been in my head ever since.

Much of the record follows suit – interesting, bizarre grooves that explode into big, lovely refrains. EvEv retain their penchant for abrasive, almost new-wave guitars and winding songs that don’t go where you’d expect, but the results here are more compact and instantaneous. As the album goes on, the balance shifts more toward the progressive – the instrumentation of “Blast Doors” reminds me of Minus the Bear, but the speak-shouting, high falsetto pre-chorus, and tremendous, smooth chorus mark it as the work of this band alone. Only closer “Warm Healer” stretches out – the nimble, complex riff fuels a six-minute powerhouse, but one that doesn’t skimp on the melody.

I’ve been hoping Everything Everything would make an album like Get to Heaven, one that retains all they’ve been good at, yet packages it in a more accessible way. “Distant Past” should be the hit of the summer, and maybe in the UK it will be. Those not inclined to pay import prices will be missing out on a tremendous step forward for a truly unique band, and on a bunch of wonderful melodies that would be bouncing around their heads for months. Get to Heaven is worth the extra cost. It is everything, everything I wanted it to be.

* * * * *

This weekend, I am headed to the AudioFeed festival for the third year in a row. I’ll have thoughts about it, of course – maybe next week, maybe the week after. I still have a few more albums to get caught up on. Be here in seven for one or the other. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.