By the time you read this, I will have participated in my first panel discussion as a semi-professional music writer.

My friend Benjie Hughes runs a full-service recording studio in Aurora and plays in a band himself. But that’s not enough for Mr. Hughes – he’s taken it upon himself to bring the entire music-making and music-loving community together, in a spirit of community and cooperation, through a number of terrific regular events. And one of them, he calls The Guild – it’s a monthly meeting of those in the biz, comparing notes and talking music.

I’ve only been able to make a couple of these meetings, but they’re always a blast. I sometimes feel like the odd man out – I love music, but I haven’t made my own music in a long time, and I never got paid for it. Likewise, I was the only one on the panel Monday night who doesn’t currently get paid to write about music. I just do it ‘cause I love it, and I’d probably do it anyway.

Through the power of time travel, I am writing this before appearing on Monday’s panel, so I can’t possibly tell you how it went yet. (Update: I thought it went very well. Time travel is awesome!) But if you’re coming to this column for the first time thanks to that discussion, thank you, and welcome. This one’s gonna be a bit random – we’re still waiting for the big spring releases to start coming down the pike – but hopefully not a waste of your time. Come on back. We’ll be here every week.

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I’ve spent the week listening to two records, over and over.

The first of them isn’t out yet, but after years of secrecy, it leaked to an Australian music service last week, and you know, game over. Of course, I’m talking about U2’s No Line on the Horizon. I’ve heard it six times now, and it remains one of the long-running band’s most confounding records for me in this early going – I’m not sure what I think of it from day to day.

My first reaction was almost roundly negative. No Line is a departure from the last two U2 records, 2000’s All That You Can’t Leave Behind and 2004’s How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb. Those albums found the quartet regaining its snarl, its scrappy fire, after a decade of wandering the ironic-pop wilderness. More than that, though, they captured Bono and the boys in a journeyman period, writing the kind of tight, well-crafted pop songs only seasoned professionals can put together. More conservative records? Probably, but they were solid and consistent ones, for the first time in ages.

No Line on the Horizon brings back the sonic experimentation of their Achtung Baby period, but too often marries it to weak, half-formed song ideas. On first listen, my heart sank over and over – the title track has a thick sound but a thin skeleton and almost no chorus, “Moment of Surrender” nearly kills the album dead with seven minutes of go-nowhere repetition, and I still don’t quite know what they were going for on the meandering, half-chanted “Unknown Caller.” I’ve heard “Get On Your Boots” 20 times, and I still don’t like it, but I was surprised what a jolt of energy it delivers to this languid affair. “White as Snow” is very pretty, but takes its central melody directly from “O Come, O Come Emanuel.” I just sighed loudly again and again, thinking, “This is it? Five years, and this is what you’ve got?”

There were highlights, even on that first listen, most notably track two, “Magnificent,” which lives up to its title. Has there ever been a band able to get the most out of a single repeated lick like this one can? “Magnificent” only has the one, but it’s pretty amazing. I also quite liked “Stand Up Comedy” and “Breathe,” two of the more straightforward numbers, and closer “Cedars of Lebanon” is stark, off-kilter and unnerving – it’s taken me some time to realize that it’s exactly right.

The rest is still a struggle, but it’s growing on me. I realize I’m bringing a lot to this album, including a strong desire to like it – U2 has been one of the most important bands of my life, and they’ve been on such a roll lately, I’d hate to watch them flame out with an overthought, underwritten misfire. At some point, though, I may just have to accept that’s what they’ve delivered. No Line is a big, sweeping experience, but inside, it feels oddly empty.

And of course, good ol’ David Fricke gave it five stars…

Anyway, the listening continues. Full review to come after the album’s official release on March 3.

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But I said I’ve been listening to two records, and the other one was a surprise. It’s the 20th anniversary reissue of Paul’s Boutique, by the Beastie Boys, and can I just talk for a minute about how freaking awesome this album is?

Embarrassingly enough, my first Beastie experiences came from my sister, who played Licensed to Ill again and again when we were kids. I was 12, and she was nine, and why my mother let her even have that tape, I don’t know. I was morally opposed to it while mom and dad were around, but secretly enamored with it when they weren’t. I remember joining a few of my friends at summer camp one year in a terrible parody version of “Fight for Your Right,” championing our rights as kids to stay home if we wanted to. I was a nerdy child.

Paul’s Boutique came out when I was 15, and I bought it on cassette. Solid black plastic tape, old-school Capitol Records logo, lyrics printed as one long paragraph, black on sea green, with drawings of fish as decoration. And a panoramic cover photo that just kept folding out and out and out. I didn’t even know what cool was at that age, but Paul’s Boutique was cool.

Here’s the thing, though. Listening to this and Licensed to Ill back to back, it’s hard to imagine now, but everyone – everyone – was disappointed in Paul’s Boutique when it came out. I swear, we were. It’s like we all said, “You know, this insanely clever pop-cultural blender of a head trip of an album is okay, but I’d rather hear ‘Brass Monkey’ again. Where is this album’s ‘Girls’?” That’s just insane. But true story, kids, the album was dead on arrival, and the Beasties written off as a novelty band that just couldn’t keep the joke going.

What the hell were we thinking? Paul’s Boutique is a massive step up in every single way from the frat-boy idiocy of Ill. In fact, even now, there are few albums that sound as cool as this one does. Just about every second of the music has been sampled from other sources, cut and spliced and re-edited into new shapes – Paul’s Boutique joins the first three De La Soul albums as the best arguments ever put forward for sampling as an art form. Classic rock sits alongside Motown soul and jazz and a hundred other things. Lines from other songs and movies are inserted to complete jokes, or finish up rhymes. Years before Quentin Tarantino made his first movie, the Dust Brothers and the Beasties made something in his style, raiding 40 years of pop culture to make something out of time.

I mean, leave aside ass-kickers like “Shake Your Rump” and “Hey Ladies” for the moment, have you heard “Egg Man”? A vandalism party in three minutes, the song is simply dizzying – just try to spot all the samples. If you need a cheat sheet, go here. They sample Public Enemy, Curtis Mayfield, Tower of Power, Cheech and Chong, and the scores to Cape Fear and Psycho, all in the same song. Later they hit Loggins and Messina, the Eagles, the Beatles, a million different movies, Johnny Cash, and every great funk drum beat ever. It’s seamless and brilliant – these are new songs, not stolen hooks.

But that’s not all. The Beasties discovered their a-game on Paul’s Boutique, perfecting their old-school absurdism style of lyric writing. These white guys have, like, no flow at all, but it doesn’t matter – they are brilliant at what they do. Here’s just a sampling of amazing lines, all taken from just the first song, “Shake Your Rump”:

“So like a pimp I’m pimpin, got a boat to eat shrimp in, nothing wrong with my leg, just B-Boy limping…”

“Got arrested at Mardi Gras for jumping on a float, my man MCA’s got a beard like a billy goat…”

“Like Sam the butcher bringing Alice the meat, like Fred Flintstone driving around with bald feet…”

“Running from the law, the press and the parents, ‘Is your name Michael Diamond?’ ‘Nah, mine’s Clarence…’”

And of course, “I got the peg leg at the end of my stump, shake your rump…”

They mean nothing. They are awesome. The whole record’s full of them. In many ways, the Beasties never got this good at this kind of thing again – later records brought in funk instrumentals, punk interludes and a social conscience, leaving less room for this kind of inspired lunacy. At track 13 on this album is perhaps the greatest Beastie song of them all, “Shadrach,” in which these Jewish boys co-opt the names of three friends of Daniel in the Old Testament, and then declare they “got more stories than J.D. got Salinger,” all over samples from “Hot and Nasty” and “Loose Booty.” It’s stunning, even 20 years later.

Paul’s Boutique isn’t perfect – it does end with the still-baffling, 12-minute mish-mash “B-Boy Bouillabaisse,” after all – but it is pretty close, and if you haven’t heard it, you really should. A 20-year anniversary edition of this thing certainly makes me feel old, but the joyous, endlessly inventive music it contains makes me feel young again. I love this album.

* * * * *

And so we wait for the good stuff, but believe me, it’s coming. March, all by itself, is going to set me back about $500, but it’s going to be worth it. Here’s a look at what’s coming:

On March 3, we get new ones from Neko Case, Soundtrack of Our Lives, Robert Pollard’s new band Boston Spaceships, Revolting Cocks, Buddy and Julie Miller, and some little band called U2. (I think they could be big one day. Keep your eye on ‘em.) The next week, look out for Chris Cornell, Cursive, and a reissue of Beth Orton’s still-awesome Trailer Park.

March 17 sees only former Early November frontman Ace Enders’ solo album, When I Hit the Ground, released under the name Ace Enders and a Million Different People. But March 24 hits us with the new Decemberists, Hazards of Love; the new Indigo Girls, Poseidon and the Bitter Bug; new things from Mastodon, Pet Shop Boys, KMFDM and MxPx; deluxe reissues of the first three Radiohead albums and the first Pearl Jam disc; and the first new album from Marillion guitarist Steve Rothery’s side band, The Wishing Tree, in more than 10 years. Whew! Damn.

The last week of the month will brings us the long-awaited second collaboration between PJ Harvey and John Parish, the we-promise-this-time last offering from Ministry (called Adios, because that worked so well for KMFDM), and new things from Bruce Cockburn, Peter Bjorn and John, and Gavin DeGraw. Oh, and Queensryche’s new album, a so-earnest-it’s-probably-awful concept record called American Soldier.

April! We have new records on the way from Doves, Bob Mould, The Hold Steady (their first live document), Fastball, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Depeche Mode, Jars of Clay, Great Northern, and Heaven and Hell, the Dio-era Black Sabbath under their new name. Oh, and Ben Folds will release his University A Cappella project – it’s a collection of renditions of his songs by college a cappella acts. His maddest idea yet? Maybe so…

You already know Green Day’s 21st Century Breakdown is slated for May 5, but you may not know that May will also bring us new Isis, the solo debut from Grandaddy’s Jason Lytle, a two-disc rarities collection from Iron and Wine, and, at the furthest point on my release calendar right now, Veckatimest, the third record from Grizzly Bear. Look back at that list. As spring seasons go, that ain’t bad.

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A couple of random (well, more random) notes before signing off.

I was about 75 percent on my Oscar picks, as it turns out. I was pulling for Mickey Rourke, since I don’t think the Academy is going to have the chance to honor him again for a performance like this. But I wouldn’t have missed Sean Penn’s “you commie homo-loving sons-o-guns” speech. Penelope Cruz surprised me, but I suppose Viola Davis needs a more substantial role to catch the voters’ attention. And it was Kate Winslet’s year, and I feel dumb for not realizing that.

But hooray for Slumdog Millionaire, the little film that could. I think this movie tapped into the cultural zeitgeist in a way no one was prepared for – when Danny Boyle was shooting his Mumbai fairy tale, he couldn’t have known that the U.S. economic situation would soon make the story of a hard-luck kid getting everything he wants seem relevant. But also, there’s a verve, an energy to this movie that none of the other nominees had. It’s joyous, alive filmmaking at its best, and I’m glad to see it honored.

So last week, I took shots at the premiere episode of Dollhouse, so it’s only fair that I mention the second, which was a marked improvement. It still wasn’t particularly engaging, but it was tense, and layered, and made me care a little bit more. It’s telling that this episode did not come from creator Joss Whedon, but from Stephen DeKnight, one of the brightest lights of Whedon’s Angel writing staff. Maybe some of the writers care about this show more than Whedon does, and can ignite his creative spark. We’ll see.

Next week, a look at Steven Wilson’s Insurgentes. And maybe that Colin Baker column. We’ll see. For now, I’m going to listen to No Line on the Horizon again and try to like it more. Thanks for reading.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So Joss Whedon has a new television show. Um, yay.

That’s about all the enthusiasm I can muster after watching the premiere of Dollhouse last week. I know, it’s just the first episode, and it’s Whedon, so I’m going to give it another chance. (As many chances, in fact, as Fox will allow me to give it. My money’s on four.) But speaking as someone who has loved virtually every one of the man’s projects, I have to say, I’m just not feeling this one yet.

Dollhouse is a very good idea for a show that, somehow, just didn’t turn into a very good show. Star Eliza Dushku plays Echo, one of several “actives” who work for this strange corporation. The company rents out these actives to whomever can pay for them, and imprints new personalities each time, turning them into whatever the client wants or needs. And when the mission is over, the actives return to the Dollhouse, their carefully-controlled home base, to have their memories wiped.

Presumably, the show will be about Echo rediscovering who she is, which would make for great drama… if Whedon and Dushku can get me to care about their main character. The first episode just kind of unfolded on screen without any emotional impact, like a standard Fox sci-fi show. The seeds are there, but they haven’t blossomed yet. And I wonder just how long Fox will let this expensive-looking show go on before they do. I found the debut episode half-hearted – I wasn’t drawn into Echo’s world as much as I expected to be, and though the sci-fi trappings are neat, the characters didn’t resonate.

In a recent interview in Rolling Stone, Whedon discussed his future in show business. He claims Dollhouse is his last TV show – he prefers the model he pioneered last year with Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog, an Internet-only event that was written, produced and promoted Whedon’s way. Dr. Horrible made him tons of money, and was an artistically satisfying endeavor. Dollhouse, on the other hand, sounds like it was hell to get off the ground, and will probably be shitcanned in a few weeks. He talks as though Dollhouse is already dead to him, and that comes through on screen, unfortunately.

But I will keep watching. If Dollhouse had been created by anyone but Whedon, I’d probably have given up already, but I can imagine just how good this concept could be, if its creator is allowed to explore it. If he wants to, I hope he gets the chance. If he’s already moved on, then I hope Fox grants this show a quick death.

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I’m usually pretty good at figuring out why I like something.

It’s part of the reason I started doing this music critic thing. Even as a teenager, I was picking apart my own reactions to things, analyzing why certain songs hit me and others didn’t. I can tell you just what it is about OK Computer that I love (complex song structures, alien production that complements the music, gorgeous melodies topped off by Thom Yorke’s plaintive voice and paranoid lyrics), and what it is about Kid A I can’t stand (virtually no songs at all, production that aims for interesting but hits annoying, Yorke yelping like an unrestrained hyena).

What I’m trying to say is, I am rarely at a loss to defend my tastes. I can make good cases for even the strangest stuff I enjoy, like Jandek and Joy Electric. But every once in a while, I will tap into something that I can’t explain, something roundly rejected as empty and worthless. I will find myself loving this music that, under normal circumstances, I would toss aside, and I will be unable to put up a good defense, even to myself.

This is where I am right now with The Fray. I should hate this. I hate things that are exactly like this. But I have been unable to stop listening to their second album. I’ve had since February 3 to figure out why I like this stuff, but I can’t. I reservedly liked this Denver band’s debut album, How to Save a Life, but the flaws were obvious to me too. That’s not happening this time – I just really like this self-titled effort. The band has amplified what they’ve done before, and smoothed out the rough spots. It just really works for me.

If I break this music down to its basic elements, it falls apart. The songs are moderately melodic affairs, the ballads sappy and the mid-tempo tunes merely adequate. (Those are your two options here – walking and crawling.) The lyrics are cliched, both in their depression and their hopefulness. Isaac Slade’s voice sounds like a grown-up version of his namesake’s in Hanson, and his piano playing is decent, but nothing extraordinary. The production here is full, but bland and commercial. Every song sounds like it was polished up with hundred-dollar bills. There is nothing about it I should like.

But the opening piano chords of “Syndicate” get me every time. The song has an intriguing three-into-four time signature, but I’m not even listening to that. I’m just drawn in, singing along with the chorus and humming the opening motif every time it comes around. “Absolute” is even better, the double-time drums on the verses providing the album its quickest pulse. And by the time the piano breakdown segues into the chorus, I’m sold.

I know, I should be ashamed. If I really think about it, I can’t imagine why I like “You Found Me,” the single that’s cropped up in ads for Lost all month. It’s musically boring, lyrically trite – especially the stabs at profundity, like “I found God on the corner of First and Amistad” – and spit-shined in the studio to be as inoffensive as possible. But Lord help me, I do like it. It sounds like the kind of song I would have tried to write in 11th grade, all big piano chords in familiar patterns. It has nothing to recommend it, but I sing along with it every time anyway.

I’ve been trying to justify the weird crush I have on this album by pointing out the things it does right. And there are some – “Enough for Now” has a nice melody, the whole of “We Build Then We Break” seems to turn the amps up (at least to five or six), and the second half of “Say When” is a mantra-like crescendo that packs a velvety punch. You know what? I’m listening to “Say When” right now, and though it never jumps out of the speakers and commands your attention, it’s a good little song. It is. Honest.

Why must this be such a struggle? Why can’t I just like what I like? Is it because I’m worried about my credibility? I know people who would rather jump in front of a moving train than admit to liking something like The Fray. Why is that? Is it because the band has sold millions of records? Is it because the music sounds at least partially designed to sell millions of records? How is that different than music that is designed to garner indie credibility? Is writing a likeable piano-pop song less of a laudable ambition than composing a lo-fi garage-folk epic?

Some critics say there’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure. If it makes you happy, you should enjoy it guilt-free. But I don’t think they mean it. I think these people ultimately want you to enjoy whatever you want, as long as you show the proper amount of penance for it. I’ve dutifully done this – I have no idea why I like The Fray, and it weighs on me. “Where the Story Ends” is barely even a song, it’s so simple and slight, but I’m nodding my head as it plays. “Never Say Never” is just sappy, but when Slade repeats “don’t let me go” again and again in its final minute, I’m taken by it.

The problem, of course, is not with the music. The Fray does what they do very well, and they do it better on this album than they have before. The template is basically unchanged from the first record, but the sound is bigger, the songs tighter, the overall feel more complete. This is what they do, and expecting them to do anything else is silly. You like it or you don’t.

I wish I could just like it. Everything in me is yearning to simply embrace it, but I’m not built that way. If I can’t figure out what there is to embrace, and why I’m embracing it, I can’t seem to let go and do it. Rolling Stone panned this album. Rolling Stone, a mag that gives a minimum of three stars to anything, can’t find much to like here. I’m left wondering if it’s me, if my taste has taken a critical blow.

But no. The Fray is an earnest album of mid-range piano pop, not the end of civilization as we know it. Though I can already feel the scorn coming my way from some of my more indie-friendly correspondents, I have enjoyed this record each time I’ve played it, and I don’t see that dissipating any time soon. It is a pleasure, and I am guilty of it. I know why I shouldn’t like it, and I know why many, many others have dismissed it. Thankfully, none of that seems to be stopping me. I keep playing it, and I keep on liking it, and each time, I find myself worrying about it less and just enjoying it more.

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And now for another installment of Stuff I Missed. This week, another record I heard courtesy of Dr. Tony Shore, one I really should have reviewed last week while talking about one-man bands. It’s called Free at Last, and it’s by a guy named Josh Fix.

And it’s a huge, unabashed pop record, performed with astonishing skill. Like Roger Manning, whose new album I reviewed last week, Josh Fix is steeped in ‘60s and ‘70s rock traditions. This means his songs are massive constructions, packed with layers of instruments and vocals. It’s the kind of thing people who don’t like Queen would call over the top. I love Queen, so I call it sonically dazzling.

Aside from a few drum beats here and there, Fix plays and sings everything on this album, and when you hear it, you’ll understand what a feat that is. He’s overdubbed himself again and again, and yet the final product sounds like he assembled the greatest sugar-coated pop band you’ve ever heard. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say there are very few musicians around today who could have made Free at Last this way.

The album kicks off with “Don’t Call Me in the Morning,” which Dr. Shore rightly called one of the best songs of 2008. I’ll retroactively do the same – this song is fantastic. You get a brief overture, verses performed on piano and bass, and then an explosion of vocals over a purely Freddie Mercury bridge. And then that chorus… so sweet. The whole thing is produced in 3-D full color, like an unreleased Jellyfish tune. This is one of the finest pop gems in recent years.

The record never gets quite as good again, but it never gets bad, either – it’s like the difference between A Night at the Opera and News of the World. Both classics, but one’s a bit more classic, if you know what I mean. Anyway, “Jethro” is a nice piano-driven piece that reminds me of The Band, “Whiskey and Speed” is an unlikely (yet terrific) six-minute epic, “The Water in My Brain” (Queen reference!) is a slower, moodier delight, and closer “I Thought About It First” has shades of Kevin Gilbert hiding in its rock-god melancholy.

The whole thing is pretty much super. You don’t hear albums like Free at Last too often, simply because the skill it takes to make something like this is rare. I don’t know where Josh Fix came from, but damn, I’m glad he’s here, and I’m excited to see where he goes. If you’d like to hear Free at Last, the whole thing is streaming here. At the very least, listen to “Don’t Call Me in the Morning” – it’s the first thing that plays when you click on the site. I am ashamed to have missed something this good. Tony Shore has earned his keep once again.

Next week, we’ll still be waiting for the good stuff – the deluge starts in earnest on March 3. I may take the opportunity to ramble about Colin Baker’s run on Doctor Who. Just to warn you.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So right up front this week, I want to revise one of my Oscar picks.

Initially, I scoffed at the idea of Viola Davis getting a Best Supporting Actress nomination for 10 minutes of screen time. How good could she possibly be, I figured. It takes more than one 10-minute scene to cement a character and a performance.

That was before I saw Doubt.

Now, I think that if Davis doesn’t win this thing, that some injustice against God and man will have been done. Yes, she’s in one scene. It is the single best scene in an otherwise decent movie, and Davis, in that 10 minutes, becomes the heart, soul and center of Doubt. She shares that scene with Meryl Streep, and not only holds her own, but blows her fellow actress off the screen. Seriously. In a movie with Streep, Philip Seymour Hoffman and the great Amy Adams, Davis’ brave, heart-wrenching performance steals the show. She deserves this award.

I initially picked Taraji P. Henson, and while I liked her work, I am more than happy to present a slate of predictions freshly scrubbed clean of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Let’s all pretend it never happened.

Thank you for your kind indulgence. Your regularly scheduled music column resumes below.

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I’ve always been interested in one-man bands.

That’s partially, I think, because I am one – my hard drive is littered with songs I constructed from the ground up, playing every instrument. I’ve been doing things that way since I was a teenager. I would spend long hours in the basement, hunched over a four-track recorder, trying to get a bass line to match the piano part I’d already laid down, or stacking vocal harmonies atop one another. It was a lot of work, and the finished products usually sucked, so I can only imagine just how difficult a good one-man project must be.

It’s not that I don’t like interplay between musicians, or live improvisation and collaboration. I do. But there’s something fascinating to me about solo artists who take the word “solo” literally, like Todd Rundgren and Prince. For one thing, the singular vision of the artist remains undiluted – whether you like Something/Anything or not, it’s exactly what Rundgren wanted it to be. And likewise, there’s nowhere else to point the finger of blame – if you hate Rockin’ the Suburbs, it’s all Ben Folds’ fault, since he played (nearly) every instrument.

I like the idea of listening to a single visionary realize every element of a song, but I can understand why some don’t – music often thrives on creative collaboration, on talented players sparking off of one another. Paul McCartney (who will sometimes play every instrument on his albums) has never approached the heights of the Beatles in his solo career. Still, I admire people who will hunker down and do the work themselves, and take full responsibility for the results.

One of those people is Roger Joseph Manning Jr., but of course, I knew of him when he was just Roger Manning. In the early ‘90s, Manning was the keyboard genius in Jellyfish, still one of the finest power pop bands to ever walk the earth. Over two extraordinary (and extraordinarily detailed) albums, Jellyfish brought back the ‘70s Queen sound – oceans of harmonies, dozens of brilliantly arranged instruments – and married it to some of the greatest pop songs you’ll ever hear.

Since Jellyfish broke up in 1994, Manning has worked with Beck, Imperial Drag and the Moog Cookbook, but it took more than 10 years for him to release his amazing solo debut, The Land of Pure Imagination. A complete solo project, that album found him returning to the dizzying pop of Jellyfish, with indelible melodies rendered in candy-coated harmonies over intricate arrangements. But you could still feel that Manning was getting the hang of this one-man thing – the sound was a little thin in places, especially compared with the dense beauty of Jellyfish’s records.

Well, he’s got it now. Catnip Dynamite, Manning’s second solo album, is a massive whirlygig of sound, a fantastic journey through 11 big, big pop songs. Once again, he played every instrument (except for some pedal steel on one song), and I can only imagine how long it must have taken him to put this thing together. Just the harmonies alone would make Brian Wilson smile (pun absolutely intended), Manning’s voice overdubbed dozens of times on each track. The drums are often programmed, but just as often not, and the stacks of instruments on each song would make Axl Rose cry.

Overproduced? Not hardly. Catnip Dynamite is a throwback to a time when artists cared deeply about every element of their music, etching sonic details into every corner. It’s a headphone album, but it’s also tons of fun – Manning was always Jellyfish’s sense of humor, and that comes out more than once on this record. Take the first single, “Down in Front” – it’s a huge boogie-based pop tune, drowned in harmonies, made for dancing, and it’s honestly about people who stand up in front of you at movie theaters. It’s silly, but it’s awesome.

So is “Love’s Never Half as Good,” the second song – Manning establishes pretty early that he’s not taking things all that seriously here, and he drives it home with an out-of-nowhere Vegas-style spoken word section. (“Now, I know there’s plenty of you out there who know exactly what I’m talking about, so if you can dig it, I want you to put your hands together right now and sing along!”) But the song! The song is wonderful, a Rundgren-esque piano ballad complete with acoustic bass thumps, tympani rolls, and (again) some fantastic backing vocals. I haven’t heard a song like this in at least 10 years. It’s just beautiful.

Manning doesn’t always hit the mark, especially in the sillier first half. “My Girl” is just too sunny and plastic to work – most of this song is programmed, and it sounds a bit too Casiotone to soar, despite the vocals. And the production on “Haunted Henry,” the tale of a scary old war veteran and his haunted house, takes its camp-spookiness a tad too far. (The song itself, however, is strong.)

But more often than not, Manning’s complex, immaculately-produced pop makes its own case, particularly when things turn serious in the second half. “The Turnstile at Heaven’s Gate” is a wonder, all ‘70s prog on harpsichords and nasty guitars. But it’s the eight-minute “Survival Machine” that takes the prize – it’s the prettiest, creepiest song here, slowly unfolding over a delicate harpsichord motif to tell the story of the Manhattan Project and its aftermath. When the organs come in, it’s almost a religious experience. And “Living in End Times” is the sprightliest song about the book of Revelations I’ve ever heard.

Of course, Manning can’t help but end on a goofy note. “Drive-Thru Girl” is a faux-live singalong that’s just right. You may chuckle at lines like “I’m placing my order with you,” but believe me, you’ll be humming them for days. It’s pure Roger Manning – a brilliant pop song that pokes fun at itself, and makes you laugh along. When “Drive-Thru Girl” ends, all is right with the world.

Catnip Dynamite is certainly not for everyone. Like a lot of one-man projects, there’s a canned quality to some of it, and Manning’s willingness to be almost ludicrously silly at times may turn some off. But in Manning’s world, music can be smart and fun at the same time, and should be. Catnip Dynamite is a bigger, better, stranger album than Manning’s solo debut, and while it may take a few listens to grasp the full-color world Manning’s building here, it’s worth it.

(Catnip Dynamite came out in Japan last year, but the U.S. release, out last week, includes three bonus live tracks, including a stunning 11-minute version of Elton John’s “Love Lies Bleeding.” It does, however, lop off one song, “American Affluenza” – I imagine Oglio Records didn’t want to offend Americans with it, but I wish they’d let us decide for ourselves.)

A more consistent one-man project is Loney, Dear, whose fifth album, Dear John, hit stores last month. Loney, Dear is the work of Swedish wunderkind Emil Svanangen, who struck gold two years ago when Sub Pop gave his fourth album, Loney, Noir, a wide release. I heard it by accident – my local record store got a promo copy, and one of the counter jockeys randomly played it one night. And everyone in the store stopped what they were doing and crowded around, listening.

Svanangen makes what can best be described as intense delicate music. The songs on Loney, Noir all started with soft acoustic guitars and slowly built up, layer upon layer of instruments filling it out, until by the end the songs burst with life. Svanangen’s high, strong voice is a key selling point too, and he harmonizes with himself beautifully. Loney, Noir is a quietly detailed record of lush pop songs, here and gone in half an hour. It was one of my favorite records of 2007.

But it wasn’t noir, not by any stretch. No, that description more aptly fits Dear John, a darker and fuller album that gives more, but leaves you wanting just the same. You can hear the difference immediately. “Airport Surroundings” kicks things off with a striking electronic beat and a minor-key melody that sounds like streetlights zipping by on a darkened road. The acoustic instruments are gone, replaced by keyboards and whirring beats, but they fit Svanangen’s vocals, especially in the wordless refrain, beautifully.

“Everything Turns to You” is even more of a change-up, setting a spooky melody to subtle yet lightning-fast beats and creepy synthesizer lines. The tension builds up over three minutes until, like most Loney, Dear songs, it ends abruptly. I didn’t mind as much when the music was cathartic, but these songs are taut and pulse-quickening, with no release. We’re in more familiar territory with ballad “I Was Only Going Out” and “Harsh Words,” but “Under a Silent Sea” puts us right back into the darkness. That one is particularly creepy, Svanangen doubling his vocal line through a tone box over a pulsing bass line. When this song blossoms partway through, it’s something to behold.

Throughout, most of the instrumentation is electronic, which seems an easier choice for a one-man band like this one. But it leaves me with the sense that Svanangen just didn’t work as hard on Dear John as he has in the past – that’s probably not true, and the album does open up new worlds of sound for him, but the perception is unavoidable. My favorite moment on this album is the one that breaks his solo album ethos – Andrew Bird adds delicate, gorgeous violin to the brief “I Got Lost.”

Give Dear John time, though, and it reveals its dark beauty. At its heart, this is still Loney, Dear, and though he’s surrounded by (and often submerged under) new sounds, the songs are still little wonders. Dig “Distant Lights” – it’s marked by a thumping bass beat and droning keyboards, but the melody is tight and Svanangen’s backing vocals are lovely as ever. (Of course, then the synth choir comes in…) There’s nothing wrong with this album, it just gives off a completely different feel than the earlier Loney, Dear records, and that can take some getting used to.

But that’s part of the thrill of a one-man project. If Svanangen wants to completely shift gears, he can, and no one can stop him. I applaud him for taking steps in a new direction, even if the resulting album doesn’t thrill me like his last one did. I’m sure, given repeated listens, I will find much to love about this record – it’s already sinking in, in fact. The closing title track is as beautiful a song as Svanangen has written, proof that he’s still the same man under it all. If it takes a little longer to find him under Dear John’s stormy clouds, well, so be it. I will press play again and again.

Next week… well, I’m not sure. I have several options. Tune in seven days from now to find out which one I picked.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I can’t tell you how glad I am that Duncan Sheik isn’t trying to be a pop star anymore.

He was always uncomfortable in the role. His only pop hits came early in his career, and can be found on his self-titled debut, by far the weakest of his efforts. “Barely Breathing” is a fine song, as is “She Runs Away,” but in the spookier, sparser moments of that album, you could hear Sheik reaching for something deeper.

Ten years later, he seems confident, collected, easy in his own skin. And I think it’s partially because he’s not trying to fit anyone’s mold for him any longer. The last flash of pop star Duncan came on 2002’s Daylight, the flip side of his masterpiece, the previous year’s Phantom Moon. On that record, Sheik compressed his layered compositions into three-minute pop songs (and one glorious two-minute love letter, “For You”), in a bid for radio play and higher sales. He got neither, and since then, he’s graciously waved goodbye to that scene.

If not for that pesky second hit, most would consider Sheik a one-hit wonder. But that doesn’t take into account the Tony awards he won for his score to Spring Awakening – if you follow musical theater, that one was kind of a big deal. What the pop charts didn’t want, Broadway has embraced, and Sheik hasn’t had to change a thing about his sound. He just writes the same kind of haunting folk-pop he always has – it’s too complex and low-key for radio, but it works just fine on the stage.

That’s not to say Sheik has abandoned his recording career, but now he’s merging it with his theatrical ambitions, and the results are superb. His sixth album, Whisper House, consists of Sheik’s full-band versions of 10 songs from a musical set to hit the stage later this year. But don’t fret – there’s no Gilbert and Sullivan-style set pieces here. If not for the lyrical nods to the overarching story, you wouldn’t know this is anything other than the next Duncan Sheik record. And it’s his best and strongest set of songs since Phantom Moon – bleak, wintry and oh so pretty.

The story: Whisper House is about a young boy whose father is killed in World War II. He goes to live with a relative in an old lighthouse, and soon finds out that a band (literally) of ghosts lives there too. The ghosts sing him stories about life’s unremitting darkness, and fill the boy with fear – so much so that he turns in the lighthouse’s keeper, Yasuhiro, as a Japanese spy. He has no evidence for this, just irrational fear, and the story is about how he deals with what he’s done.

See? Dark. And the songs fit the mood perfectly. I’d like to say that the narrative doesn’t matter to the music, but that’s not the case – these songs tell the story, and don’t make much sense without it. For instance, you won’t get the morbid joke behind opener “It’s Better to Be Dead” unless you know that it’s sung by the ghosts haunting the lighthouse. Similarly, “The Tale of Solomon Snell” seems to come out of nowhere, unless you realize it’s one of the stories the ghosts tell young Christopher – the story of a man buried alive.

As those who heard Spring Awakening know, the theater has not altered Sheik’s basic alchemy – you can still expect slowly-unfolding songs, lovely textured guitar, a smattering of other instruments (the muted trumpets in “Solomon Snell” are great), and Sheik’s even tenor above it all. On his first few efforts, Sheik’s thin voice was his biggest weakness, but he’s learned to wield it since then, and some of his best vocals ever are on Whisper House. On this album, he’s enlisted his longtime touring partner, Holly Brook, to sing the female parts, and their voices intertwine beautifully – check “Earthbound Starlight,” or Brook’s spotlight number, “And Now We Sing.”

At its best, Sheik’s music drops the temperature of whatever room you play it in. Whisper House is a sad, even tragic story, and by the end, the music is almost majestically bleak. “Play Your Part” is about immutable destiny – all the world’s a stage, and you can’t improvise. “How It Feels” is perhaps the album’s most fragile song, our ghostly hosts sounding almost sympathetic until the chorus: “You’ll learn how it feels, hearts break and never heal…”

And “I Don’t Believe in You” gets the Justin Currie Award for Most Hopeless Lyric. The song is a rising storm, as the spectral chorus lays it on the line – life is not worth living, the world is not worth saving. “There’s nothing you can do, and we don’t believe in you…” Strangely enough, this is my favorite song on the album, and it contains a striking extended guitar solo from Gerry Leonard – he’s relegated to textures and accents on the rest of the album, but he gets the spotlight here, and he brings out the harshness of the song wonderfully.

In the end, aside from its theatrical roots and narrative drive, Whisper House is a Duncan Sheik album, and a very good one. If you’ve missed the evolution of Sheik the songwriter and record-maker over the past 10 years, it might surprise you, but if you’ve been following along, rest assured this is another dark and dignified piece of work. Sheik’s songs creep up on you, and only take hold over time, but with Whisper House, he’s delivered his most consistently affecting music since Phantom Moon. As the last song says, Duncan, take a bow.

* * * * *

I hear you, though. It’s February, the snow is on the ground, temperatures are low, and that post-Christmas blues just keeps hanging around. Acoustic folk-pop albums about nihilistic ghosts are all well and good, but you want something fun, something that can help you with the mid-winter doldrums. And I have just the thing.

It’s been four years since Scottish wunderkinds Franz Ferdinand released an album. That’s plenty of time to completely reinvent yourself, and re-emerge with a new image, a new sound and a new shot at some kind of artistic respectability. Franz Ferdinand have done none of that. Their third album, Tonight: Franz Ferdinand, is every bit the fun rump-shaker their first two were, if not more. If you liked them before, you will like them again. And if you didn’t, well, they work harder this time to grab your ear.

I have mentioned my Third Album Theory before – it’s the junior effort, more than the sophomore one, that cements a band’s vision. Bands have their entire lives to write their debut, and only a few months (usually) to create the follow-up, which is why most second albums are slapped-together, ramshackle affairs. The smart bands save some of their material for the second album, but that ordinarily means record #2 is exactly the same as record #1. (That’s exactly what happened with Franz Ferdinand’s sophomore album, You Could Have It So Much Better, a clone of their self-titled debut.)

Ah, but the third album, that’s the one to watch. Bands usually have time to craft that third record, and the whirlwind of those first couple of record-tour-record-tour cycles is behind them. The third album, in most cases, is where the ambitions come out, and it most often points towards future directions. The things that haven’t changed by the third album are the things the band wants to keep.

With that in mind, here’s what hasn’t changed on Tonight: Franz Ferdinand. The songs are still jaunty dance-rockers, and they still sound like Morrissey’s disco band. The impressive, creative guitar lines are still here. Alex Kapranos still sounds like the biggest asshole you’ve ever met, particularly on tunes like “Bite Hard” and “What She Came For,” and though I’m certain it’s all an act, I still want to punch him. And Franz still work overtime to pack as much fun into 42 minutes as they can.

Here’s what’s different, and why Tonight is my favorite of the three. While Franz has always been (and still is) a rock band playing dance music, on this album they’ve amped up the keyboard quotient – most of these songs have cheesy-awesome synth parts that just knock them through the roof. Check out “Twilight Omens” – yes, the hook is the fantabulous guitar riff on the choruses, but try to imagine it without the burbling synth orchestra that fills the nooks and crannies. It’s sweet.

The Franzers make a much more concerted push for the dance floor on this album. Dig “No You Girls,” perhaps my favorite thing here – the drum part is almost mechanical, and every element of this tune, from the ‘70s porn bass line and guitar accents in the verse to the elegantly arranged (and totally awesome) chorus, is designed to get your ass moving. It’s just wonderful, and I can’t understand why this isn’t the first single, instead of blasé opening track “Ulysses.”

But they also pack this album full of little surprises. The first one comes at track four – “Send Him Away” is a lighter-than-air waltz that sounds a lot like the Doors to my ears. (Plus, real handclaps!) Otherwise standard sex-rocker “What She Came For” concludes with a levels-in-the-red punk rock jam that comes out of nowhere. (And might damage your speakers, if you’re not ready for it.) And “Lucid Dreams” starts out like any one of these songs, but evolves into an eight-minute synthesizers-and-drums workout – it’s like its own extended dance remix.

And then there is “Katherine Kiss Me,” the gentle acoustic closer, which finds Kapranos’ arrogant mask slipping a little bit. It’s every bit the come-on that most of these songs are, but it recasts the lyrics to “No You Girls” in a gentler light. Seldom has the dichotomy of the wild night and the morning after been rendered so literally. The song is actually emotional in its delivery, so very close to truth that it makes the rest of this album feel like a glittering lie. Which, of course, it is, but it’s a damn fun one.

So what have we learned from Franz Ferdinand’s third album? One, these guys actually deserved the hype that flooded around them five years ago. Two, their sound is now pretty well established – they’re not going to start baring their souls over string arrangements or anything. Three, they’re just going to keep getting better at this. The songs and melodies on Tonight: Franz Ferdinand are their strongest ones yet, and the record just keeps throwing them at you, as if they’ll never run out. And four, if you’re looking for the most fun you can have with 45 minutes and a CD player, this is a pretty good bet.

* * * * *

I can’t believe I’m about to say this, because I’m not at all a fan, but the biggest and most surprising omission from this year’s Oscar nominees is Bruce Springsteen.

The Academy only tapped three nominees for Best Song this year, in a category that ordinarily sports five. That makes the snubbing of Springsteen’s moody “The Wrestler,” written for the film of the same name, even more inexplicable. I’m not going to quibble with the choices that are there. A.R. Rahman’s score for Slumdog Millionaire is fantastic, and “Down to Earth,” written for Wall-E, is typically excellent Peter Gabriel.

But why not Bruce? Especially since he already won the Golden Globe in the same category. Even if he were nominated, I’d still give the Oscar to Rahman’s “Jai Ho,” the musical backdrop to the year’s coolest dance sequence. But hell, Springsteen deserves to be there.

One rant over, another one queued up. I’m doing that thing I do every year now, catching up with all the movies I missed. I’ve seen all five Best Picture nominees (and by extension, the Best Director noms), and most of the nominated acting performances now. And I have to say, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, which leads the field with 13 nods, may well be the worst film of 2008.

Okay, maybe it’s not worse than The Hottie and the Nottie, and it won’t be picking up any Razzies. (Congrats to M. Night Shyamalan, for getting a Worst Director nod two films in a row!) But Button is an even more insidious beast – a terrible, soulless, boring, trite waste of time disguised as an important, insightful work of art. When I first saw this three-hour snooze-fest, it just sort of annoyed me. But now, with all the thunderous acclaim it’s gathered on its race towards Best Picture, it truly pisses me off.

What’s wrong with it? Too many things to mention, honestly. I’ll name a few, though. Aside from aging backwards, nothing interesting happens to Benjamin Button at all over three excruciating hours. He grows up, he fights in a war (for about five minutes), he meets a girl, he likes the girl, they break up, he gets old and dies. That’s it. Button learns nothing from the people around him, is not at all affected by events (such as they are) in his life, and dies the same person he’s always been. He has nothing to teach us.

But director David Fincher (seriously!) believes he does, and he tries to convince us of that by giving every little action or moment INTENSE SIGNIFICANCE. The movie is framed by a sequence that takes place in New Orleans, as Hurricane Katrina bears down on a hospital, and you’d think there would be a reason for bringing up a disaster of this magnitude, but there isn’t. It just Feels Important. It’s a splendidly-shot disguise, a veneer of gravity the threadbare film doesn’t earn.

Brad Pitt, inexplicably nominated for Best Actor, resurrects his performance from Meet Joe Black here. He’s blank-faced and expressionless for most of the film, as life goes on around him, affecting him not at all. By the end of the movie, I felt like Fincher and his team wanted me to really feel something, wanted me to come away with life lessons. But I didn’t find any. I just found a second-rate Forrest Gump knockoff, and I lost three hours I can never get back.

Thankfully, I liked the four other Best Picture nominees, with varying degrees of intensity. I went into The Reader expecting this year’s Atonement, but it’s pretty good. Its uneasy mix of Holocaust drama and soft-core porn never quite coheres, but each half is true to the characters and their experiences, and in the end, the story is one of uncomfortable sadness. (Here’s an interesting bit of trivia – Stephen Daldry has now been nominated for Best Director for all three of the films he’s made. Quite the streak.)

The two biographical pieces, Milk and Frost/Nixon, are excellent. Sean Penn is rightly nominated for his spot-on portrayal of Harvey Milk, San Francisco’s first openly gay city supervisor. The movie is rousing, but never cheesy, and Josh Brolin (also justly nominated) brings assassin Dan White to sympathetic life. Meanwhile, Frank Langella looks nothing like Richard Nixon, but he embodies him in a way no other actor has quite managed. The movie is a delight, a genuinely tense affair, even if you know how it all turns out. My only question is, where’s Michael Sheen’s nomination? He was superb as David Frost, unafraid to show his careless and egotistical side.

But the clear winner for me is Slumdog Millionaire, Danny Boyle’s delirious Bollywood-influenced romp through the streets of Mumbai. Everything – every single little thing – in this movie works, and though it’s a slight fairy tale when slotted next to its competition, its magical qualities set it above the rest. I don’t know where to start with Boyle – he’s never made two films that look and feel alike, and he shoots Slumdog in a kinetic, joyous style that shouts its presence from the mountaintops. In the end, it’s about a kid who goes on a game show to find a girl, but I left Slumdog Millionaire feeling more alive, more in love with movies, than I did after any other film this year.

So that’s the one I want to win. And it has a chance – it did win the Golden Globe, after all. While I think the sweeping sham that is Benjamin Button will probably pull it off, I’m going to go with the audacity of hope (ahem) in calling the Oscars this year. Here are my picks in the major (and some minor)categories:

Best Picture: Slumdog Millionaire
Best Actor: Mickey Rourke
Best Actress: Meryl Streep
Best Supporting Actor: Heath Ledger
Best Supporting Actress: Taraji P. Henson
Best Director: Danny Boyle
Best Original Screenplay: Milk
Best Adapted Screenplay: Slumdog Millionaire
Best Animated Film: Wall-E
Best Documentary: Man on Wire
Best Song: “Jai Ho,” Slumdog Millionaire
Best Score: Slumdog Millionaire

Some of these (Ledger, Wall-E) are no-brainers, but the rest I have obviously weighted in favor of my favorite. I hope I’m not just whistling in the dark, and Oscar night sees a surge of support for the coolest movie the Academy has chosen to nominate this year. (In the absence of The Dark Knight, of course.) I’ll be watching with fingers crossed.

Next week, Roger Manning’s pure pop genius. Yee hah!

See you in line Tuesday morning.

It’s been about a week now since U2’s new single, “Get On Your Boots,” was released. And it’s taken me this long to conclude that I really don’t like it.

The song is the first taste of the new record, called No Line on the Horizon. I’ve been unaccountably excited about this album for a while now – I liked the last two U2 offerings quite a bit, pulsing as they did with the blood of a revitalized band, but this one seemed from the start like a new beast. The last few years have felt like U2 proving themselves again, after their flirtations with irony and trashy pop in the ‘90s, and now that they have, they’re free to stretch out and try some new things. What would this venerated band come up with?

Well, “Get On Your Boots” sounds like “Vertigo” as remixed by Depeche Mode. Really. It explodes to life on Larry Mullen’s drums, but the riff sounds like “rawk mode” U2 on autopilot, and the “sexy boots, get on your boots” refrain is just silly. I admire the chorus more than like it – it doesn’t exactly stick in your head. Sonically, it’s kind of awesome, especially the drum break section, but as a song, the whole thing just sits there. It doesn’t exactly bode well.

But then, I’ve hated most of U2’s singles, and enjoyed the albums anyway. I am still looking forward to No Line on the Horizon, even with song titles like “I’ll Go Crazy If I Don’t Go Crazy Tonight” and “Fez – Being Born.” It’s out March 3, but you can hear “Get On Your Boots” for free here.

* * * * *

I am not sure how to review Merriweather Post Pavilion.

Let me clarify that. I know how to do it – I’ve heard these 11 songs a few times now, I’ve formulated some thoughts about them, and I can easily just type those thoughts down. What I mean is, I’m not sure how to review this without sounding like I’m just adding to the deafening chorus of hype. Ordinarily, I don’t care, but in this case, the thought has me all but paralyzed.

Merriweather, the ninth album from Baltimore’s Animal Collective, has been praised up and down by pretty much everybody. I almost feel bad for the band – this album has been caught up in a hypestorm they had nothing to do with. Chicago’s own Greg Kot called it 2009’s first great album, and several critics have suggested that you won’t hear anything better this year. (Seriously, guys, it’s January. Calm down.) It is clearly the new year’s first Big Deal.

So here is my dilemma. Is this album as good as everyone says it is? Of course not. But it is very, very good, and under normal circumstances, I’d be happy to list off all the things I like about it, all the reasons I expect to keep coming back to it over the next few months. This is the first Animal Collective album I have liked, let alone liked this much, and it deserves all the positive things I’m going to say about it. Unfortunately, I’m feeling this bizarre need to temper my enthusiasm, to let you, dear reader, know that while I like Merriweather Post Pavilion, I don’t think it’s the second coming of Pet Sounds or anything.

You may laugh at the old-guy analogy, but if there’s one touchstone that keeps coming up throughout Merriweather, it’s Brian Wilson. Like every Animal Collective record, this one is drenched in reverb, coated in odd effects, and endlessly sonically manipulated. But at its core, this is sunshine pop – exuberant, tuneful, floating on lush harmonies, just happy to be alive. It’s California pop refracted through a broken, fucked-up prism.

This is not a million miles from the material Animal Collective has given us before, so why does this one work so well? A couple of reasons. First, they reined in their tendency to smear everything they do with ugly noise. There’s still plenty of digital slop on this album, but it’s all useful noise, if that makes any sense. Every element of this album adds to the overall feeling – the droning keyboards, the tape effects, the unutterably bizarre sounds, they all serve to propel this collection down the trippiest of tunnels. Honestly, this is quite the studio production – it will strike your ear as massive and occasionally dissonant, but never cluttered or murky. Well, except when it’s murky on purpose.

The big reason, though, is the songs. These are the most melodic, most – dare I say it – accessible songs of the band’s career. They are tightly arranged, even danceable things, and the choruses bring Brian Wilson to mind more than once. Just about everything is sung in harmony, and when the trio lays on the soaring vocals, it’s pretty magical. Collective member Panda Bear approached this kind of thing on his solo album, Person Pitch, but he wrote drones instead of songs. These, these are songs. You could play “Summertime Clothes” with just an acoustic guitar, and it would still be a good song.

Of course, they never strip things down that far. Or at all, really. Merriweather Post Pavilion maintains a consistent tone throughout, and that tone is huge. Occasionally, you can hear a piano (as on the very Beach Boys “Guys Eyes”) or an acoustic guitar anchoring things, but most of this record is both submerged in and enveloped by pure, beautiful sound. Keyboards, effects, strange bits, samples, loops, drones, and general weirdness abound, and the vocals, intertwining and spinning skyward, fill in all of the nooks and crannies left. It is one of the strangest-sounding records I’ve heard in a while, and yet, it all works.

Are there problems with it? Of course. Some of the songs in the second half drag a little – the buzzing drone in “Lion in a Coma” doesn’t do the threadbare melody any favors, and “No More Runnin’” doesn’t seem to know where it’s going for the majority of its running time. But these minor issues are easily forgiven when the band can come up with something as consistently thrilling as the closing track, “Brother Sport.” It’s like a campfire round in South Africa, backed by a chorus of computers, percussion pounding as the voices climb higher and higher. It’s simply splendid.

You see where I’m struggling, though? I like Merriweather Post Pavilion a lot, but everything I’ve said here sounds like that tsunami of hype swirling ever closer. I want to reach the people who, like me, are naturally averse to that kind of noise – who don’t, as the man once said, believe the hype. I want to reach those people and get them to try this record, not because I think it’s the Best Album Ever, but because it’s actually a unique and interesting disc.

Hype has a way of turning people off, and Merriweather Post Pavilion is good enough that it would be a shame to oversell it. That ship has probably sailed, but it’s worth a try anyway. This is a very good album that should be given a chance to breathe and connect with people. Ignore the noise, tune out the buzz, and just listen.

* * * * *

I somehow missed Bon Iver’s terrific debut, For Emma, Forever Ago last year.

It’s not that strange for me to miss something, but this record was such a conversation piece for so many months, and on so many people’s best-of lists, that I feel pretty dumb for not having picked it up sooner. It’s everything people say it is – a gorgeous, snow-capped paean to loneliness and despair that somehow avoids every cliché it should fall into.

By now you probably know the story, but here’s a recap in case, like me, you missed out on this. Songwriter Justin Vernon saw his band and his relationship evaporate, and came down with some kind of liver disease at the same time. Broken, he moved into his father’s cabin in Wisconsin, and spent the next few months alone, writing and recording songs. He called his new project Bon Iver, a bastardization of a French phrase meaning “good winter.”

The resulting album was For Emma, performed entirely by Vernon. While this is a sparse collection of folk songs, it’s not some bare-bones affair – Vernon overdubbed himself a hundred different times, giving his little tunes a vast, yet intimate scope. The record bleeds heartbreak, but it never sounds mopey or contrived. It just sounds real.

Almost from the moment For Emma came out, though, people have been asking The Question. For artists with any ambition at all, there’s only one: “What’s next?” But for Vernon, The Question takes on new meaning – without For Emma’s backstory and legend, would another Bon Iver album connect the same way with people?

He’s gone some distance towards answering The Question with a new Bon Iver EP, Blood Bank, out last week. The good news is, these are new songs, mostly divorced from the For Emma project. The bad news is, there are only four of them, and one of them comes from the Emma sessions. This is a step forward for Vernon, but not a big one – he still needs that proper follow-up.

But for now, this is what’s next, and it’s very good. The title track is first, and this is the one that hails from the previous album sessions. As you might expect, it retains the same sound – strummed acoustics, oceans of harmonies, lyrics about devotion and loss. One gets the sense that this is Vernon holding his audience’s hand, leading them away from For Emma and into new worlds.

And from there, Vernon does start exploring. “Beach Baby” is the kind of unadorned acoustic piece he’s largely stayed away from, but the results are so pretty, it makes you wonder why. Vernon’s voice is high and fragile here, a singular instrument. “Babys” is a complete turnaround, comprised of mantra-like pianos tumbling into one another while the stacked harmonies carry it forward. Halfway through the vocals encounter a deep valley of nothing, and it’s a breathtaking moment.

And then there is “Woods,” which will shock you like nothing else here. It’s a four-line poem, repeated over and over, entirely a capella – Vernon starts off warping his voice through a vocoder, Kanye style, and then adds layer after layer of that voice, through half a dozen different effects. The result is mesmerizing and unforgettable – it sounds so thoroughly wrong that it’s exactly right, and it’s as haunting as anything he’s made, if not more.

There isn’t quite enough music here to determine just what kind of artist Justin Vernon is going to be, now that he’s past his For Emma stage. But the risks he takes, especially on the last two tracks, bode well for the future. I’m more curious than ever to hear the next Bon Iver album, but the baby step forward that is Blood Bank will do for now.

* * * * *

And now, the first installment of a new semi-regular feature called Stuff I Missed.

There’s a lot of music out there – dozens of albums come out each week. And while I try to hear as much as time and finances will allow, sometimes, well… I miss stuff. So here’s where I try to catch up, reviewing the records from years past that I just didn’t hear in time.

The first Stuff I Missed is dedicated to Dr. Tony Shore, one of my most faithful friends and musical compatriots. Tony runs ObviousPop, a blog-slash-podcast all about new pop music. He loves big choruses, sweeping backing vocals, and (yes, I will say the word) quirky production. If you like the Beatles, Jellyfish, Ben Folds or They Might Be Giants, you’ll find a lot to love on Tony’s site. I’ve known him long enough to know not only what he likes, but that I will most often like the same things, so I rarely regret taking one of Dr. Shore’s recommendations.

If you click over to his site, you’ll notice he’s listed his favorite albums of 2008 over on the left hand side. And you’ll see a strange choice at number one – an unknown band from Ann Arbor, Michigan called Tally Hall. Who the hell are Tally Hall?

For some reason, I took way too long answering that question for myself. Who are Tally Hall? One of the oddest, funniest pop bands to come along in ages. If you remember Moxy Fruvous, you’ve got the idea – they’re five guys who sing like a barbershop quartet, but play a hundred different kinds of pop music, mostly with wry, ironic smiles on their faces.

Yes, Tally Hall is a gimmick band – they wear matching white shirts with individually-colored ties, and refer to each other by those colors. (“Green’s got keys,” for instance, or “Give Blue the bass.”) And yes, the title of their debut album is seriously Marvin’s Marvelous Mechanical Museum. And you really have to see the detailed cartoon artwork that graces their cover. They’ve made it a little too easy to dismiss them as a joke band, a novelty act.

But man, these boys can play. And sing! I could tell just from the first few moments of breathtaking harmony on opening track “Good Day” why Dr. Shore loves this band. The song starts as a simple piano number, but quickly blossoms into a massive pop wonderama. It’s deceptive – the theatrical aspects overshadow the strong melody at first, but given time, you can hear just how well-written this song is.

No one song is big enough to hold Tally Hall, though. Their album is bursting at the seams with variety, like an old-school Queen record, and while that naturally leads to a lack of consistency, the trade-off is a wild ride of a listening experience. The ground drops away beneath your feet again and again on Marvin, and by the end, you’ll scarcely believe this is all the work of the same five guys.

They follow “Good Day” with “Greener,” a Barenaked Ladies-style pop-rocker that could almost be described as normal, but one track later, they hit you with their tongue-in-cheek ode to themselves, “Welcome to Tally Hall.” If the rest of the album weren’t so strong, this song would fall flat on its face – it’s a mock rap over lounge-style pianos that really reminds me of Fruvous. I’m especially fond of the verse rapped in an awful British accent: “I might rap like an English chap, take you by the knickers and I’ll bum your slap!” I bet this is a riot live.

But, you see? They make it easy to dismiss them, when the next few tracks show undeniably why they should not be dismissed. “Taken For a Ride” is like the welcome return of the Buggles, until the crazy horns come in, and the band breaks down into a Polyphonic Spree-style sunshine chorus. “The Bidding” is a brief but memorable flirtation with dub-style funk, while “Be Born” is an unironic folk ballad with a sweet refrain.

And on it goes. There are silly novelty tracks like the ukelele-fueled “Banana Man” and the creepy-yet-so-very-funny “Two Wuv,” a love letter to the Olsen Twins. (Both of them. At once.) But then there are genuinely terrific pop songs like “Just Apathy” and the kind-of-astonishing “Spring and a Storm.” And then there are seriously clever ditties like “Haiku,” in which every verse is an attempt at… you guessed it. But the song is about the songwriter’s inability to write a haiku for the woman he loves – despite nearly managing it in every single verse, he finally settles on “Lah dah dee diddum, Lah dah dah dum doo ditto, Dum doo lah de doh.”

The members of Tally Hall shoot themselves in the foot as often as they hit the target, but the result is a crazy patchwork of pop goodness – it’s not a masterpiece, but it is a lot of fun, and it’s crafted with great skill. I’m interested to see where they go from here, and whether they can balance out their silly and serious tendencies. I’m glad I finally heard this, and although it wouldn’t have made my top 10 list, I can see why it made Tony Shore’s. Thanks for the recommendation, Doc.

Next week, Duncan Sheik and Franz Ferdinand. Hey, for all you potheads out there, this is column number 420! Sweet! Or something.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Whose House?

When I initially wrote this column a few days ago, I kicked it off with a snarling diatribe about George W. Bush. We bid goodbye to King Bush II this week, and I originally was going to use this opportunity to point out, in exhaustive detail, just why I consider him the worst president of my lifetime.

But then I saw Barack Obama’s inauguration speech, and that all seems pointless and churlish now.

I spent much of Tuesday talking with local people who trekked to Washington, hoping to join in the national celebration. And I can tell you, many of them were taken aback a little by the speech itself. For them, it was three days of euphoria followed by 20 minutes of sobering, yet hopeful reality. Rather than use his inaugural address as a capstone to his historic election, Obama chose to talk about just how difficult the next four years are going to be, and how he expects each of us to dig in and do our part to remake America.

As one man I talked to put it, he talked about the state of the country, not the mood of the crowd. It was a bold and difficult choice, and I applaud it.

Obama’s right, America’s in a terrible state right now. Our economy’s in shambles, jobs are evaporating, foreign oil suppliers have us by the throat, and we’re arguably less safe now than we were on September 11, 2001. I don’t know why Obama wants this job, but he has it now, and he’s going to need all the help he can get to turn this ship around. And he knows it.

It would have been easy for him to do what I did initially, and point fingers of blame. Much of the mess we’re in is George Bush’s fault, but I think Obama tried to tell the nation that we’re well past that now. This isn’t the time for recriminations, or for keeping people out. It’s a time for extending a hand, for building the future together. I hope the strong yet welcoming way Obama chose his words Tuesday is a sign of things to come.

Here’s to the next four years.

* * * * *

Broken Home

Well, it’s been an eventful week here. In addition to scrambling around trying to cover the inauguration of a former senator from my adopted home state, I’ve had to deal with a burst water pipe in my basement. Luckily, the explosion and subsequent rush of water was loud enough that it was caught pretty early, but there’s still damage to the ceiling and north wall of the basement, and a lot of it is going to have to come down.

The plumber thought he had a quick fix for the problem. You see, the burst pipe is one that never gets used – it leads to an outside spigot for a hose. So we figured we could just install a cutoff valve into that pipe, close it off, and not worry about it for a while. It was only after the plumber had finished up with the valve and turned the water on to test it that we discovered he’d cut off the wrong pipe. It was an honest mistake, and I still don’t see how the pipe he needed could have been any other than the one he chose, but unfortunately, once he’d started testing it, water cascaded through the burst pipe once again, sopping the insulation and running down the wall.

In the end, I watched helplessly as the plumber cut a hole in the ceiling to find and fix the leak. The drywall was soaked, as was the carpet. You probably know me well enough to know I own a lot of easily damaged stuff, so I was furtively boxing things up and carting them out of the basement. Nothing was destroyed, thankfully, even when water started pouring out of the smoke detector, dangerously close to my DVD shelf.

The crisis is over, but now I’m left with the cleanup. My father is suggesting the two of us could fix this ourselves, an idea I am so far rejecting. (He actually said one of those “famous last words” phrases: “It will be easy.” That’s almost as bad as, “What could possibly go wrong?”) I’ll keep you posted.

All of this reminds me of a story that I’m sure I’ve told everyone I know, but have never related in this column. About five years ago, I lived in Maryland, just outside Baltimore. In two years there, I was totally unable to find work as a writer, so I was stuck taking temporary (and then, permanent) menial labor jobs to make money. I signed up through Manpower, the temp service, and one of the first people they put me in touch with was a guy who owned a drywalling business. I helped him for exactly one day, holding up heavy sheets of drywall while he stapled them in, and I hated every second of it.

About two hours into our task, this guy, apparently noticing that I have no affinity for hands-on work, asked me what I normally do. I told him I was a writer, looking for work at a newspaper. A strange smile crept over his face, and he walked up to me and said this:

“Son, I’m going to teach you how to hang drywall today. And when I’m done, you’ll never have to write for a living again.”

I’ve laughed about that for years, but now, as the journalism industry crashes around my ears and my sopping basement needs a full overhaul, I kind of wish I’d paid more attention.

* * * * *

So Many Doogie Howser Jokes

While I was away, the BBC cast the eleventh Doctor.

(Yes, it’s my first Doctor Who reference of 2009, but don’t worry, it’ll be a quick one. Although I do have a full-length column on the tenure of Colin Baker brewing, just to warn you. You know what? Hell with that. I’m not even going to warn you. I’m just going to drop it on you when you least expect it.)

Anyway, the new guy is Matt Smith. He’s 26 years old, he’s been in a grand total of 15 hours of television, and he looks kind of like the Frankenstein Monster’s emo grandson. Okay, that’s mean, but he is much less traditionally handsome than David Tennant, who will bid goodbye to the role at the end of 2009. And in the clips I’ve seen of Smith in action, he doesn’t exactly leap off the screen. But apparently Smith’s unique interpretation of the Doctor impressed new producer Steven Moffatt.

As I haven’t seen that interpretation yet, I’ll reserve judgment. But I liked the idea of an older Doctor, and this young’un has me a little concerned. Funny fact – he’s the first Doctor younger than the show itself. (The original series ran for 26 seasons, and the new series for four so far – put ‘em together and you get 30 years.) I do trust Moffatt – he hasn’t let me down yet, and his most recent two-parter, Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead, is his strongest, so with him at the helm, I have high hopes for Season 31. As for Smith, we’ll see…

Part of my concern is that Season 30 was the best since the show returned in 2005. Departing producer/head writer Russell T. Davies penned three superb episodes and one smash-bang two-part season finale, and then got out of the way as his team came up trumps again and again. In particular, Gareth Roberts impressed with his Agatha Christie comedy The Unicorn and the Wasp, and James Moran made a splashy Who debut with The Fires of Pompeii. (Okay, I teared up a bit at the end of that one. Leave me alone.) I also enjoyed this year’s Christmas special, The Next Doctor. If Davies can keep this up through the remaining four specials this year, he’ll go out on a high note.

And then he’ll hand the keys over to the boy genius and his scruffy kid Doctor. Should be interesting, to say the least.

* * * * *

People I Know

If you don’t have a local record store, you really should get one.

In addition to getting, like, every CD you could ever want all in one place, you also get a music-friendly atmosphere. You get the opportunity to meet fascinating people with different musical tastes, and they will turn you on to things you’ve never heard before.

Case in point: Andrew Lanthrum. I met this soft-spoken, wild-bearded chap while he worked behind the counter at my local record store, and he would indulge me endlessly with conversations and arguments about new (and old) music. Andrew and his brother Nate were in a popular semi-punk band called Troubled Hubble – Andrew plays bass, Nate plays drums – and though I wasn’t a huge fan of that particular outfit, they’re both terrific players.

If you want a sense of just how good they are, check out their new band. First off, they’ve picked one of the five or six best band names I’ve ever heard: Kid, You’ll Move Mountains, referencing my hero and yours, Dr. Seuss. And second, this new group’s sound is wider, more expansive, more gosh-darn epic than anything Hubble did. Their debut album, Loomings, is pretty great, an atmospheric rock record with a genuine sense of drama about it, and some top-notch production.

That last is the most impressive to me, since this disc wasn’t recorded in a studio. Andrew and Radiohead-loving guitarist Corey Wills put it together at home, but you’d never know it – Loomings sounds like the band spent thousands of dollars on it. The drums are crisp, the instruments are all clean and clear, and there’s a real sense of space between them – quite often, the rhythm section is pounding away while Wills and guitarist/singer Jim Hanke are weaving gorgeous yet unrelated lines on top, and pianist/singer Nina Lanthrum is adding glistening accents, and you can hear every note. Nothing is muddy, nothing sounds recorded on the cheap.

You can hear what they’re aiming for in the first moments of “Inside Voice.” It crashes to life with a genuinely anthemic set of chords and a piano melody, before everything goes away except a strummed guitar and Hanke’s voice. Seconds later, that voice intertwines with Nina Lanthrum’s, and when the whole band comes back in, the effect is somehow fuller and more majestic. This is a big sound, but the band is never afraid to take you behind the curtain and show you how it’s constructed. And it’s often jarring when they choose to simply rock, as they do at the beginning of “Volts.”

My favorite here also has my favorite title: “I’m a Song From the Sixties.” It opens with a neat syncopated section, with some elastic bass work, and then evolves quickly into a memorable anthem with some Jonny Greenwood-style guitar and impassioned vocals from Hanke. But it keeps building from there, through an awesome stop-time section, a floor-dropping-away breakdown, and a brief but massive finale. This one’s terrific.

Few songs on Loomings can match up – the band seems more about the sound they make than the songs they write, which is a slight problem for a melody addict like me. “West,” for example, reminds me of Natalie Merchant’s three-chord compositions, and “No Applause” doesn’t really kick in until the riveting finale. But for every songwriting moment that fails to capture me, there’s a sonic one that does the trick. And I dare you not to sing along with the piano-fueled finale of “An Open Letter to Wherever You’re From”: “Midnight, my house, last one out of the city burn it down…”

Yeah, some of these Kids are acquaintances of mine, but I’d like this record just as much if I’d stumbled on it randomly. Loomings is the first new album I bought in 2009, and hopefully it will set the tone for the 12 months to follow. Hear and buy Kid, You’ll Move Mountains here. And for another, more effusive take on Loomings, check out another acquaintance of mine, Derek Wright. His writing and podcasts can be found here.

* * * * *

Next week, the first flood begins. We’ll talk about Animal Collective, Coconut Records, Bon Iver and Fiction Family, most likely. Or, I might hit you with a Doctor Who column. You’ll never know!

See you in line Tuesday morning.

You know what sucks? Not running for three weeks, and then running again. It’s so tempting to just say the hell with it, but I persevere.

But absence has only made the heart grow fonder when it comes to writing this column. Hey, everyone, I’m back! Did you miss me? (Say yes, or my fragile ego will implode. Go on, say it. I’m waiting. SAY YOU MISSED ME!) I took my longest paid vacation ever this year – three solid weeks, which I spent mostly on the east coast. I saw people I hadn’t seen in a while, and a couple people I hadn’t seen in almost a decade. I ate all the time, and gained about six pounds. Hence, the running.

While I enjoyed the rest and relaxation, part of my brain has just been itching to get back into it. This column kicks off year nine of my online experiment. Hard to believe I was 26 when I started this thing, but here I am, staring over the precipice at 35, still cranking it out. Why do I do it? Well, to be honest, I’d probably be writing my thoughts on new music down every week anyway, so I may as well put them out there for everyone to see.

Of course, it goes deeper than that for me. I love music – it makes life that much more worth living to me. Part of being an obsessive music fan for me is the constant anticipation. Every month (and often every week), there’s something new I can’t wait to experience. I’m already ticking down the seconds of 2009 – even the first few months are chock full of promise. In keeping with my standard giddy optimism when it comes to all things musical, here are Nine Reasons to Love 2009:

1. Next week.

Usually, it takes a couple of months for a new year to really kick into gear, but 2009’s off to a sprinting start. January 20 sees a whole bunch of stuff. Here’s Carl “I call myself A.C. on my solo records” Newman of the New Pornographers, dropping another dozen pop gems on us. He’s titled his second solo album Get Guilty, and it includes my current pick for song title of the year: “All My Days and All My Days Off.”

Here’s Animal Collective, that loose assemblage of noise-loving experimenters, back with their umpteenth record Merriweather Post Pavilion. This one already has the hipper critics salivating, and although I wasn’t too thrilled with Strawberry Jam, I’m interested to hear it. And here’s Robert Pollard, back with his 9382nd album, The Crawling Distance. Here also is Fiction Family, a collaboration between Jon Foreman of Switchfoot and Sean Watkins of Nickel Creek. I know what you’re thinking, but the single is a swell pop song. Here, listen.

Here is Jason Schwartzman, the erstwhile Max Fischer himself (and former drummer for Phantom Planet), back for a second round under his Coconut Records guise. If you think Schwartzman’s old band has gotten a bit too raw and loud lately, you want this album. It’s called Davy, and the single is called “Microphone.” Check it out here.

But with all that, the disc I’m most interested in is a four-song EP called Blood Bank, by Bon Iver. I was late to this particular party – I only heard the fragile, gorgeous For Emma, Forever Ago in November of last year. I’m hooked now, and it’s partly because of the story behind it – Justin Vernon got dumped, moved into a cabin in the woods, and poured out his pain and loneliness into this sparse, haunting album. Like everyone else, I’m wondering whether Vernon can stand on his own and make compelling music without a film-script backstory to help. Blood Bank should give us some idea.

Yes, that’s all next week. Pretty good start, huh?

2. The week after that.

That’s right, January 27 is just as good – in some ways, even better. Start with Franz Ferdinand, back for a third round of their Morrissey-does-disco guitar-pop. Their new one has the faux-arrogant title Tonight: Franz Ferdinand, and while I’m not thrilled by “Ulysses,” the leadoff track, I am looking forward to this. I’m also anticipating A-Lex, the new Sepultura – it’s a concept album based on A Clockwork Orange, which sounds like it should be shit, but I hold out hope.

Ah, but from there, it just takes off. We get the new Loney, Dear, which you might remember from 2007’s great Loney, Noir – it’s the stage name of Swedish musician Emil Svanangen, and he’s amazing. Expect more ornate midnight-folk-pop, delivered in the highest male voice you could imagine. Of Montreal returns as well with The Jon Brion Remix EP, and hopefully a master like Brion can improve on the sleaze-funk of Skeletal Lamping.

And then there’s Duncan Sheik, one of the most underrated songwriters working right now. Most remember him for “Barely Breathing,” and if you’ve heard of him recently, it’s for his Tony-winning score to Spring Awakening. But I think of him as the man behind Phantom Moon, and Daylight, and the underappreciated White Limousine. His new one, Whisper House, is made up of songs from another theatrical project, all performed by Sheik himself. Expect the prettiest thing you’ve ever heard.

To wrap things up, you can buy Brian Wilson’s That Lucky Old Sun DVD, and watch the man and his incredible band run through a modern pop masterpiece.

3. Lost Season Five.

While wading through the oceans of great music coming this month, take some time out to catch television’s best show as it makes its triumphant return January 21. Season Four was this show’s finest hour so far, rushing headlong into new directions while tying up loose ends – I am more certain than ever that the Lost crew knows exactly where their labyrinthine story is going. This has been a thrilling ride so far, and the second-to-last season looks to be a corker.

I’m trying not to spoil anything for those of you who aren’t hooked yet, but trust me on this – you need to start from the beginning. Rent the first season, block out some time, and prepare to be sucked in.

4. Lumpy Money.

I know, I know. I promised a Frank Zappa buyer’s guide years ago, and I still haven’t gotten around to writing it. But the Zappa family has kept on pumping out the posthumous releases, and most of them are fantastic, worthy of the legacy Frank left behind. I’ve just pre-ordered the latest, Lumpy Money – a three-CD audio documentary chronicling the making of 1968’s We’re Only In It for The Money and Lumpy Gravy, two of Zappa’s finest. Unreleased Zappa is always welcome in my house, and this set sounds like the motherlode. Go here.

5. Roger Joseph Manning Jr., Catnip Dynamite.

I’ve been a Roger Manning fan since his time with Jellyfish, and he’s never let me down. His new record, Catnip Dynamite, came out in Japan last year, but it gets its stateside release on February 3. What I’ve heard has been nothing short of amazing – pure pop goodness, fabulous melodies, and production to die for. Manning is one of my heroes – he makes pop records that sound the way I want all pop records to sound. Cannot wait for this.

6. The Lonely Island, Incredibad.

Yes, I’m really looking forward to this. The Lonely Island is Andy Samberg’s comedy team – they do the digital shorts on Saturday Night Live. The album includes the best of these – “Lazy Sunday,” “Dick in a Box,” and the jaw-dropping “Jizz in My Pants.” (Look here, but not at work…) You also get a DVD of the digital shorts, so you won’t need to pick through the SNL DVDs to get them. The funniest album of 2009? We shall see.

7. Watchmen.

Whether this adaptation of one of the best graphic novels ever turns out to be good or godawful, I’m still looking forward to it. I first read Watchmen in college, more than 10 years ago, and it’s captivated me ever since – I just re-read it over Christmas, and saw new things I hadn’t noticed before. It’s an amazingly sophisticated story, one that uses the language of comics like few books before or since. Which makes it nearly impossible to faithfully adapt to the screen.

But I’m encouraged by a lot of what I’ve seen from Zack Snyder’s film. The look is exactly right, the cast of (mostly) unknowns certainly looks the part, and Snyder has managed to get dozens of little details down. The movie runs more than two and a half hours, which is encouraging, and though I’ve heard that the ending has been changed, it sounds like Snyder understands the point behind that ending. The mechanics are not as important as the message, and if that remains, I will be okay with this Watchmen movie.

Of course, I don’t want to just be okay with it, I want to love it. We’ll see on March 6 (hopefully, if Fox and Warner Brothers come to some kind of legal settlement in time).

8. The Decemberists, Hazards of Love.

Okay, I wasn’t that fond of The Crane Wife, the Decemberists’ major label debut. But I’m still breathlessly awaiting this new one, a 17-song rock opera about… well, I don’t know yet. I’m more than willing to go along for the ride – I don’t know another band quite like Colin Meloy’s merry men, equally steeped as they are in centuries-old folk music and indie-pop. I’m always on board for an ambitious, album-length statement, and this one, out March 24, sounds fantastic.

9. U2, No Line on the Horizon.

And finally, the biggest band in the world. Do I really need to tell you this is coming out? (March 3, in case you’re living under a rock.) Many critics disliked the last couple of U2 albums, dismissing them as radio-ready affairs, but to me, they represent both a return to form for this band, and a summation of lessons learned. Two discs of tight, yearning pop songs is probably enough, though – we’re ready for U2’s next step, and this promises to deliver. And even if it doesn’t, the thrill is in the anticipation, isn’t it?

There’s more, of course, including new ones from Neko Case, M. Ward, The Bad Plus, Dan Auerbach (of the Black Keys), Steven Wilson (of Porcupine Tree), the Indigo Girls, PJ Harvey and Ace Enders (of The Early November). And there’s a four-CD, five-DVD box set from Coheed and Cambria aptly titled Neverender, which I will buy despite still (still!) not making it all the way through the multi-disc sets I bought last year.

The aforementioned Frank Zappa was absolutely right, though. Music is the best. Year nine! Here we go.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

This is Fifty Second Week.

In what’s become an annual tradition, I’m about to burn through quick reviews of 52 albums that slipped under the radar this year. I hear a lot of music each week, and there often isn’t time to a) form coherent thoughts on all of it, and b) write those thoughts down in this column. Usually I’m obligated to just pick one or two discs and ramble on about them, and some weeks, that’s a tough call.

What you’re about to read was created in real time. I have a counter on my desktop set to 50 seconds. That’s how long I’ve given myself to talk about each of these albums. If I’m in the middle of a sentence, or even a word, I stop when the buzzer rings and move on. If I do this right, the whole column should take me just about an hour to finish up.

Of course, I’ve been thinking about some of these records for months, which helps. But this year, there are some I simply don’t remember, and some I just heard this week, so we’ll see how I do. I’m going to be reviewing these discs alphabetically, and this year we’re literally going from A to Z. Hang on, dear reader. This is Fifty Second Week.

Adem, Takes.

Bought this on a recommendation, and it’s pretty sweet. Adem is a member of Four Tet, and here he turns in acoustic versions of some interesting songs, like PJ Harvey’s “Oh My Lover.” Best of all is his acoustic rendering of two Aphex Twin (!) songs.

Beach House, Devotion.

A critical darling, this album is hazy and lazy and lovely. The music is dreamy and, yes, a little like watching the waves come in on a beach, despite the cheesy electronic percussion. The vocals make this thing, though.

Big Blue Ball.

I can’t believe I never reviewed this. Something like 17 years in the making (Chinese Democracy!), this is Peter Gabriel’s multi-artist, multi-cultural project. And the songs are very good, thanks to Gabriel and Karl Wallinger of World Party. Recommended, highly.

Bonnie “Prince” Billy, Lie Down in the Light.

I remember pretty much nothing about this album, except that it’s very pretty, and pretty dull. Will Oldham writes some traditional-sounding folk songs, and gets some friends to help him record them. That’s it. There isn’t much to it, but I remember liking it, at least briefly.

Blind Melon, For My Friends.

Now this one I remember. The first non-Shannon Hoon Blind Melon album is just as good as the two they did with their now-deceased singer, and new guy Travis Warren makes a good showing for himself. These are typically hippie-dippy tunes, but just as complex as ever.

Bon Voyage, Lies.

Album three for Jason Martin (Starflyer 59) and his wife, Julie. This is more electronic and dark than the previous records, but Martin’s gift for a strong pop hook is all over the place. Plus, they do “Girlfriend in a Coma”!

Billy Bragg, Mr. Love and Justice.

Been a long wait for Billy’s new one, but it was worth it. Here are 12 more righteously pissed-off folk songs, performed with a band on disc one and with just Billy and his electric on disc two, just like the old days. He hasn’t lost a single ounce of his pent-up anger, and you can hear it most effectiv…

Jonatha Brooke, The Works.

Brooke pulls a Mermaid Avenue, writing music for lost Woody Guthrie lyrics. To her credit, she doesn’t try to write Woody Guthrie songs – tunes like the opener “My Sweet and Bitter Bowl” are pure Jonatha pop, complex and literate.

David Byrne and Brian Eno, Everything That Happens Will Happen Today.

Two words: Bo. Ring. I don’t get the acclaim at all. Is it just because of who these two guys are? They’ve made a gauzy, simplistic pile of mush here with none of the hooks I’ve been told are here. I doubt I’ll ever play this again.

Alice Cooper, Along Came a Spider.

Am I really going to give a good review to Alice Cooper after trashing Byrne and Eno? Yeah, I think so. This is another rock opera from Cooper, and it’s full of glammy little treats. It’s a disturbing/fun look at a serial killer, and another chapter in the Steven epic. What more do you want from Alice?

Rivers Cuomo, Alone II: The Home Recordings of Rivers Cuomo.

It’s funny just how much more I enjoy these home recording compilations than I do Weezer’s actual albums. Here Cuomo gives extensive, probing liner notes, putting these strange, romantic songs in context. We get three more bits from Songs From the Black Hole, and a cover of “Don’t Worry Baby” to boot.

Cut/Copy, In Ghost Colours.

This is actually really good, a seamless hour-long blend of club beats and ‘80s melodies that works from note one. I ended up buying it because of Pitchfork’s review, but I enjoyed it a lot more than you’d expect, given that.

Department of Eagles, In Ear Park.

This is one of the ones I’ve just heard, so bear with me. This is a side project for one of the guys in Grizzly Bear, but it sounds a lot like that band to me, mixed with some clanging pop. If Michael Penn were more relaxed and ambient (and indie), he might sound something lik

Filter, Anthems for the Damned.

Because nobody demanded it, Richard Patrick comes back for a fourth round with Filter. And you know what? He made a pretty good record. This one is based around the horrors of war and the perspectives of soldiers, but it has what Filter has always had – beefy guitars and some good hooks.

Jon Foreman, Fall and Winter.

The first half of a season cycle by the frontman for Switchfoot, Fall and Winter finds Foreman stripping down to acoustic guitars but keeping his finely honed sense of melody. I was a little unprepared for just how Christian the lyrics would be, but the songs are very good.

Jon Foreman, Spring and Summer.

And here’s the other half, the brighter and poppier half. This set is worth buying for “Instead of a Show” all by itself, a scathing indictment of Christian opportunism. Plus, the four CDs total come packaged in a very neat digipak diorama.

The Gaslight Anthem, The ’59 Sound.

Imagine Bruce Springsteen fronting the Alarm from 1985, and you have some idea what this sounds like. It’s all fist-pumping stuff, quite like the Hold Steady, but after a while, it all starts to sound the same to me. But the first few tracks are great.

Hoss, Love Takes a Holiday.

This is a local band, and I’ve owed them a review for months now. This is their second album, I think, and it’s a big step up. If you like Ryan Adams-style country-flavored rock, this is right up your alley, particularly the dynamic “You Said.” Go here.

Freedy Johnston, My Favorite Waste of Time.

Freedy does covers, and his influences are exactly who you think they are. Marshall Crenshaw, the Beatles, the Eagles, Tom Petty, etc. He even covers Matthew Sweet’s “I’ve Been Waiting,” a song that dips into the same well he’s always visiting. Good stuff, but predictable.

Joy Electric, My Grandfather the Cubist.

Never got around to this one either, but it’s just as well. After a string of excellent releases, Ronnie Martin strikes out with this overlong, over-simple effort. Some of the songs are good, but all of them are too long, and Martin’s vocals are the weakest they’ve been in some time here. Try The Otherly Opus instead.

Judas Priest, Nostradamus.

A two-disc concept album from Judas Priest? That sounds impossibly, epically bad, doesn’t it? Well, it’s not. Oh, it’s not good, but these plodding, just-barely-over-the-top songs are more boring than anything else. Priest should not take themselves seriously.

KMFDM, Brimborium.

A remix album from last year’s Tohuvabohu, this sounds exactly like you’d expect. KMFDM has been doing the exact same thing for more than 20 years now, and when it works – as most of this record does – they still pack a punch unlike virtually anyone else out there. No pity for the majority, indeed.

Mark Kozelek, The Finally LP.

The former Red House Painter and current Sun Kil Mooner runs through a bunch of fascinating covers, mainly with just voice and guitar. He makes AC/DC sound beautiful and puts the saddest spin ever on “Send In the Clowns.” Kozelek is awesome.

The Lassie Foundation EP.

Three songs from a band I thought dead. Wayne Everett’s Lassie Foundation puts on a more ambient edge this time, but they still can turn out a killer melody, as they do on “Three Wheels.”

The Last Shadow Puppets, The Age of the Understatement.

This was a surprise. A side project for Alex Turner of the Arctic Monkeys, this band combines the snotty attitude of that one with some wondrous textures. It helps that these are also pretty good songs. I like this more than Turner’s main band.

The Listening, Transmission 1.

A very welcome four-song return from this band. This time they’ve opened up and warmed up their sound, taking a bit from Mute Math (and their producer, Tedd T.). The first song, “The End,” is simply unstoppable. Can’t wait for the full-length.

Gary Louris, Vagabonds.

The former Jayhawk makes an appealing country-tinged solo album – again, if you like Ryan Adams, you should really like this. The songs are tight, particularly my favorite, “To Die a Happy Man,” and the pedal steel guitars complement Louris’ voice nicely.

Gary Louris, Acoustic Vagabonds.

And here he is doing six Vagabonds songs with nothing but acoustic guitar and voice. It’s nice, but I hate feeling like I’ve shelled out cash for something that should have been a bonus disc.

Mates of State, Re-Arrange Us.

Man, this is happy stuff. Mates of State is a husband-wife duo, and they make clap-along, hummable pop music, mostly with pianos. I like it quite a bit, especially the repetitive shout “Now,” but about half an hour of this is just enough.

Eric Matthews, The Imagination Stage.

Poor Matthews gets ignored everywhere, even this column. Here’s another hour of complex, well-produced pop music from a guy who should be much better known. He’s even dabbled with electronic sounds on this one, in addition to his usual plethora of instruments. Very good record.

Motley Crue, Saints of Los Angeles.

Well, they did try. This album reunites the original fearsome foursome, but the results are a bit tepid, and too concerned with sounding “modern.” The song titles are often better than the songs: “Chicks = Trouble,” “Motherfucker of the Year,” “White Trash Circus,” etc.

Mudcrutch.

Tom Petty puts his old band back together after, like, 30 years. And what do you know? It’s the best thing he’s done in many, many moons. There’s a looseness to this album that’s been missing from Petty’s work since Jeff Lynne got ahold of him, and the interplay is great. It’s an old-time rock record.

Mudcrutch, Extended Play Live.

And here they are doing four songs live. Only four songs? I don’t get it either. But I do like the 15-minute take on “Crystal River.” Mudcrutch, far from being a gimmick from an aging rocker desperate for ideas, is actually quite a good rock band.

Nas.

I bought two rap records this year – Kanye West’s, and this scathing thesis on race relations in America. Nas is on point throughout – you can tell that this album was originally given a much more provocative title. The word in question is the focal point of the whole thing, and Nas’ conclusions, delivered with his trademark skill, are thought-provoking.

Old 97s, Blame it on Gravity.

Another appealing slab of country-rock from Rhett Miller and his compatriots. I remember liking this just as much as I always like the 97s, but I don’t recall much more about it. Deserves another listen, which it will get.

One Day as a Lion.

Zach de la Rocha makes his long-awaited reappearance on this five-song EP from his new project. And it’s basically Rage Against the Machine with no guitars, just an indomitable drum machine and some low, low, LOUD bass tones. It’s pretty much what you’d expect, given that description.

The Orb, The Dream.

Alex Patterson returns to making trippy ambient electronic wonderfulness, after too many years of trying to write pop songs. There’s some classic Orb stuff on this one, but it’s still nowhere near the high points of Orbus Terrarum and Orblivion.

The Presets, Apocalypso.

Really, there’s only one way to describe this, and that’s electronic cock-rock. The synths make like sleazy guitars, the vocals dare you to come out and challenge them, and the whole thing has a masculine swagger that you just don’t find in this style of music that often. I ended up liking this more than I expec

Ra Ra Riot, The Rhumb Line.

Energetic, Arcade Fire-style rock with cellos aplenty. Apparently this album is a eulogy for one of the band’s members, who died before recording sessions started. Given that, it’s amazingly upbeat, and very enjoyable stuff.

Retribution Gospel Choir.

After putting together Low’s nightmarish dreamscape, Drums and Guns, Alan Sparhawk got himself a ROCK band. This pulses with life – the tempos are slow by anyone else’s measure, but by Low’s, this is positively quicksilver. And it rocks!

She and Him, Volume One.

This is the cutest thing ever. Actress Zooey Deschanel and musician M. Ward got together to cut an old-time session, full of romantic longing. It’s mostly Deschanel originals, and they’re sweet and sunny, but the covers are well-chosen too. It’s just… so cute!

South, You Are Here.

A sparkling return to form for this British band, after stumbling last time out. This is well-written acoustic pop music, with a few nice twists and turns. I’m especially fond of “Better Things,” but this is the best South album yet, in my opinion.

Ty Tabor, Balance.

The guitarist for King’s X goes it alone for the fifth time, and makes his best showing yet. This album is surprisingly slow and emotional, but it showcases Tabor’s gift for a melody, and his high, appealing voice. Best one here: “Maybe Crazy.” Only available here.

Teddy Thompson, A Piece of What You Need.

I thought it was too soon for Thompson, son of Richard and Linda, to have a new album, and I was right. This sounds rushed together, and the songs aren’t a patch on the ones he wrote for Separate Ways. It’s not bad, but it’s nothing special either – just another country album with a big voice.

Thrice, The Alchemy Index, Vols. I and II: Fire and Water.

The four-disc Alchemy Index outed Thrice as possibly the most ambitious modern rock band around right now. Fire is all screams and incendiary guitar, of course, but Water submerges things under a deep electronic

Thrice, The Alchemy Index Vols. III and IV: Air and Earth.

bed. Air is ambient and, well, airy, while Earth brings things to a close with a dirty acoustic sound. Taken as a whole, this shows off so many different sides to this band that it’s hard to believe they started off with such a limited screamo sound. This is mostly great stuff.

The Verve, Forth.

Holy reverb, Batman! The fourth album from these reunited anthem-poppers is a widescreen epic windblown masterwork of repetition. The songs are no great shakes, but man, this sounds big and important.

Martha Wainwright, I Know You’re Married But I’ve Got Feelings Too.

Why the hell didn’t I review this? In addition to coming up with the year’s best album title, Rufus’ sister crafted a superb orchestrated pop album. Her voice reminds me of Joanna Newsom’s in places, but her melodies are pure Broadway pop. This album is very good, and deserved better from me.

The Walkmen, You & Me.

A surprisingly gentle outing from these New Yorkers, You & Me glides by on dark atmospheres and a hushed atmosphere overall. It’s impressive stuff, even if it never quite lifts off, and Hamilton Leithauser has learned how to make the best use of his unconventional voice. Recommended.

Whitesnake, Good to be Bad.

Yes, a new Whitesnake. No, it’s not terrible. This is a return to Zeppelin-esque epic rock for David Coverdale, easily the best of the Robert Plant imitators. Nothing here is going to shake your world, but for what this is, I liked it. It’s a lot more impressive than I expected, particularly the slower songs.

Frank Zappa, One Shot Deal.

One of two posthumous Zappa releases this year, One Shot Deal is a mish-mash of things that somehow captures the anarchic spirit of a lot of Frank’s work. The first few tracks are utterly bizarre, but stick around for “Occam’s Razor,” a great guitar solo, and some new renditions of old favorites.

Frank Zappa, Joe’s Menage.

And finally, the latest in the Joe’s Corsaga, a full raw live album from 1975. The sound is rough, but it works for this material, and the rock versions of ’60s songs are worth the cover price. But you’ll most want to hear the 14-minute “Chunga’s Revenge,” including what Frank calls a “rhythm guitar solo.” Choice stuff.

And that’s that for another year. Thanks very much to everyone who’s stuck with me since 2000, and to everyone who’s joined the ride since then. I’ll be taking next week off, to recuperate a little bit, but on January 14, year nine begins. I am sincerely grateful for all the support, and for the good friends I’ve made through this column. You’ve all enriched my life, and I’m thankful.

Happy new year!

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Welcome to the 2008 Top 10 List.

Last week, I droned on and on about the numerous honorable mentions this year – a total of 30. If that didn’t convince you that 2008 was a great year for music, I hope the following 10 selections will. But if nothing else, I think this year’s list speaks loudly about my own taste – I’m an old-fashioned melody guy, a sucker for a well-written song, and I’m not looking for a whole lot else.

I think the reason some of my contemporaries have proclaimed 2008 a down year for music is that many critics are on a constant search for the new. They want sounds and styles they’ve never heard before – anything that sounds like last year, or last decade, is chucked out on its ear. And I think that mentality leads to a focus on sound instead of song. This year’s critical darling, TV on the Radio, is a good example – the sound is unique, whirring electronics meshing with horns and soulful vocals, but the songs just aren’t there, at least to my ears.

What I’m looking for is simple – great songs, performed really well. Throw in a dash of ambition (make me an album-length statement full of great songs) and you’ll get even more of my love. I want a melody that kicks my ass, and a performance that makes me feel where you’re coming from. I want you to throw everything you have into writing the best songs you possibly can, learning from everyone who came before you. And I want to feel like you, the artist, are in the grooves of your record.

That seems easy. But I listen to so much mediocre music each and every day. Here’s the same three chords and vocal melody I’ve heard a hundred times. Here’s studio trickery in place of songwriting. Here’s music that just sits there, empty, with no life to it at all. Worst of all, here’s music crafted to make money, with no soul and no skill.

Ah, but every once in a while, I hear something magical. And this year, I heard more than the average share of magical stuff. Seriously, listen to Aqualung’s “Arrivals,” which I previously mentioned is my pick for the prettiest song of the year. When you’re done, breathe in – you’ll have forgotten to do that during the final chorus – and then consider: the album “Arrivals” is on, Words and Music, did not make this list. Every record listed below moved me and wowed me more.

The rules, for newbies: only new studio albums, comprised mainly of original songs, count for this list. No covers albums, no live records, no best-ofs, no remix compilations, no EPs. To qualify, the album in question has to come out on CD sometime during the year. And to make this list, I have to like it. A lot.

Shall we begin?

#10. The Feeling, Join With Us.

America just doesn’t know what to do with this band. After Cherrytree Records thoroughly botched the U.S. release of their debut, Twelve Stops and Home, this follow-up still hasn’t been released over here. Which is a real shame, since it’s a bigger and better effort. Where Twelve Stops was full of perfect pop singles, Join With Us is a fully cohesive album, with one studio-tastic epic after another. I haven’t heard a pop album this stuffed full with ear candy since Jellyfish’s Spilt Milk, 15 years ago. The Feeling take from 40 years of British popular music here, but the key to their success remains the same – they write outstanding songs. And they are unabashedly, purely pop.

#9. Amanda Palmer, Who Killed Amanda Palmer.

It took me way too long to get the Twin Peaks reference in the title of Palmer’s solo debut. It took me a lot less time to realize that the piano half of the Dresden Dolls has stepped outside her comfort zone and made a great little album here. Very little of this sounds like the cabaret punk the Dolls are known for. Instead, Palmer’s written some lovely pop songs, and sprinkled them with deceptively shocking lyrics. She paired up with Ben Folds here, enlisting him for some sweet strings and horns, and his production gives her a sheen of accessibility she’s never had. But the songs are purely Palmer, especially introspective rants like “Runs in the Family” and heartbreakers like “Blake Says.” Plus, she manages to make Rodgers and Hammerstein’s “What’s the Use of Wond’rin” about domestic abuse, purely through context. That’s a kind of twisted genius worth praising.

#8. Coldplay, Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends.

I hear you snickering. Stop it. Yes, this is how you know I’m gay. But you know what? The guys in Coldplay are already millionaires, and they don’t have to take risks, but they did here. They made a bold record that sounds like nothing they’ve done before, incorporating influences like Peter Gabriel and David Byrne. The resulting album is a grower, to be sure, but once it’s hooked you, it doesn’t let go. The secret, of course, is great songs – “Cemeteries of London” has the best “la-la-la” refrain of the year, “Violet Hill” is a dark wonder, and both title tracks are extraordinary. They sound like a million other bands here, but the one they rarely fall back on is Coldplay. They’re transitioning here, pushing open their cocoon and yearning to fly free. The next one should be amazing.

#7. Keane, Perfect Symmetry.

Oh, what a surprise, Keane on my Top 10 List. But I will tell you, no repeat performer on this list surprised me more this year than these guys. It’s a little too simplistic to say they’ve “gone ‘80s,” but it gets the idea across – leadoff track “Spiralling” starts with a jubilant “Woo!” and a synth line right out of the Thompson Twins. But keep listening, because Keane has taken these Devo-era influences and married them to what they do. Sure, there’s the David Bowie keyboard on “Better Than This,” and “Pretend That You’re Alone” is pure Talking Heads, but they somehow retained their essential Keane-ness, something Coldplay didn’t quite do. Perfect Symmetry is a minor miracle – the Keane boys dove into this new sound with both (well, all six) feet, and still retained their identity. Oh, and they wrote some of the best songs of their lives as well.

#6. Death Cab for Cutie, Narrow Stairs.

Completing the trilogy, here’s another band caught in mid-metamorphosis. I was initially disappointed with this one, since it fails to pack the cumulative punch of Plans, still Death Cab’s high water mark. These are short stories, where Plans was a novel. But what stories they are, little tales of love and loss wrapped up in glorious pop melodies. You’ll hear things here you’ve never imagined would be on a Death Cab album before, from the thumping bass mantra of “I Will Possess Your Heart” to the Krautrock beat of “Long Division,” but the heart of the album is in sublimely sad sketches like “Cath” and “Grapevine Fires.” The band has never sounded better or more diverse, and even though it’s not as devastating as Plans, it leaves its mark.

#5. Vampire Weekend.

For a while, the best debut album I heard this year. Vampire Weekend is what happens when indie kids discover Paul Simon’s Graceland – a seamless fusion of ragged pop smarts and African rhythms. It’s the one “new” sound you’ll find on this list, but it works so well because every one of these 11 songs is tightly written and unfailingly melodic. “Bryn” is a master class on shifting rhythmic beds that connect without a hitch, but you don’t notice because it’s so much fun to sing along with. Ditto “Oxford Comma” and “A-Punk,” one of the best one-two punches of the year. This album’s just a blast, and it points forward without sacrificing the lessons of the past. I’m not sure how they’re going to follow it up, but for now, this is a hell of a first shot.

#4. Brian Wilson, That Lucky Old Sun.

Is it as good as SMiLE? Of course not. But in many ways, That Lucky Old Sun is the more important album for Wilson. No longer can he rely on material he wrote when he was 26. That Lucky Old Sun is what he’s doing now. And it’s fantastic, easily the best non-SMiLE solo album he’s made. Again, Wilson decided to compose a symphonic suite, but this time, he’s looking back on his own life, reflecting on the decades of madness and inactivity that followed the original SMiLE sessions. These are the most open-hearted songs of his life, especially the killer concluding trilogy, and most especially “Midnight’s Another Day,” a stone Wilson classic. But it’s the way Wilson and his amazing band wrap all of this together into a flawless whole that makes this album so magical. It is an old-age symphony to God, to re-coin a phrase – at 66, Brian Wilson has reclaimed his place as one of the world’s best.

#3. Marillion, Happiness is the Road.

This seems like obvious advice, but you need to listen to Happiness more than once. This is the least immediate music this long-running British quintet has ever made, but give it time, and the sheer depth of emotion in these songs will reveal itself. Happiness is really two albums, which makes ranking it difficult. Essence, the first disc, is a 50-minute suite, and stands as one of the most beautiful pieces of music in the Marillion catalog. Disc two, The Hard Shoulder, is all the other songs, and as such, it’s not as successful – it rocks more, but its pleasures are more oblique. Essence would be higher on this list by itself, I think, but taken as a 110-minute whole, this album is a remarkable achievement, even from this remarkable band. All that would mean little if the music didn’t move me, but it takes me places most music rarely does. I’ve said it before, but Marillion makes head music that you feel, deeply and intimately. This is intensely emotional stuff, with one magic moment after another – even after 15 albums, Marillion can still surprise me and affect me like few other bands can.

#2. Aimee Mann, @#%&*! Smilers.

Every year Aimee Mann releases an album, I save a spot on the Top 10 List for her. She has never failed to earn it. One of the finest songwriters on the planet, Mann has outdone herself here, turning in some of her saddest and most beautiful work. The sound is different – she’s taken out the electric guitars and replaced them with synthesizers. But the songs are still as perfect, as impossible to improve, as they always are. Don’t believe me? Take any one of these 13 songs and try to make it better. Go on, try. They are traditional verse-chorus pop songs, but they are perfect verse-chorus pop songs. Mann’s world is unremittingly bleak – check out the slit-your-wrists lyrics to “31 Today” – but her melodies are sweet, and her voice sweeter. In an age where bombast and excess is often used to mask lack of talent, Aimee Mann is waging a one-woman battle for sublime, economical, emotional songwriting, and she’s doing it brilliantly.

Which brings us to the top of the heap for another year. I groused a couple of weeks ago that I would probably be alone in this pick, and since then, I was gratified to see that Billboard, Mojo and most amazingly Pitchfork jumped on board with me. (Pitchfork! I agree with Pitchfork! I owe somebody $100.) I suppose it’s not that strange a selection, but nothing else transported me quite like this album did:

#1. Fleet Foxes.

The second you press play on this thing, it envelops you. You’re greeted by a chorus of down-home harmonies, which sounds for all the world like it was recorded with one microphone in a cabin in the woods. And then the acoustic guitars start, and the harmonies come in, and for the next 39 minutes, the music wraps you up like a warm blanket.

Fleet Foxes sound both timeless and out of time. I described them once as Brian Wilson’s 18th Century English folk band, an attempt to encapsulate both their sun-dappled California harmonies and the ancient, woodsy feel that permeates every pore. I still can’t do much better than that, but words are inadequate when you’re dealing with something this authentic, this seeped in musical history. It is folk music, it is pop music, it is communal brotherhood music. These are songs that could have been performed by traveling minstrels in olden days. These are tunes you will swear you’ve known all your life, because they tap into an inborn sense of song we all carry with us.

Flowery hyperbole? I don’t know. When I listen to Fleet Foxes, I feel I’m experiencing something that runs deeper, something that connects to timeless mysteries. This says nothing about the actual songs, I know, but how to describe something like “Tiger Mountain Peasant Song”? I could tell you it’s entirely comprised of two sparse acoustic guitars and Robin Pecknold’s lovely voice, and that its melody is haunting, stunning, chilling. I could tell you that no melody maker could come up with one as pitch-perfect as the vocal line in “He Doesn’t Know Why,” or that “Your Protector” is a somewhat spooky minor-key wonder, one that makes the best use of the mellotron since Led Zeppelin.

But this tells you nothing – you have to experience it. In the end, Fleet Foxes is merely 11 songs played by five people, then etched onto a piece of plastic. But more than anything else this year, this album sounds bigger, more important than that. I can’t explain it, I can’t contain it. Listening to this album makes me feel a part of something endless, and it makes me want to keep listening to unravel this something and understand it.

Fleet Foxes fits my criteria perfectly – these are great songs, performed very well, particularly when it comes to the vocal harmonies. They are amazing. But I feel drawn to this music for a larger reason. It moves me like nothing else I’ve heard in 2008. It is quietly powerful stuff, certain of its own importance, but the farthest thing from arrogant you could imagine. It is the discovery of the year, and the first time I have awarded a debut the top spot. And astoundingly, Fleet Foxes are getting better – their EP Sun Giant was recorded after the album, and I like it more.

I’ve been a little cryptic here, but that’s just because I haven’t yet found the words to explain just why I like this album so much. This is pure music, and I can dance about architecture all I like, but it won’t replace the experience of just hearing it. My language is inadequate, my speech incapable. Quite literally, I don’t know what to tell you. You must hear this. I have said enough. I can never say enough. This is why I listen – to feel this sense of connection with an inexplicable magic that is all around us, yet rare and fleeting. I am left suspended by the final notes, yearning for more. I wish this for you.

In seven days, Fifty Second Week. Happy holidays, everyone.

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

“Here’s a joke. How do you make God laugh? Make a plan.” – Eric Stoltz, Kicking and Screaming.

Hello and welcome. Plans have changed a bit. Pull up a chair, I’ll tell you all about it.

Initially, I had hoped to wow you with my final two new reviews of 2008 in this space. And they were going to be doozies, too – I was all set to share my thoughts on a pair of new live boxed sets, just in time for the holidays. First up was Marillion’s six-CD Early Stages collection, documenting five shows from the first few years of the band’s career. This thing’s a treasure trove – it contains a couple of shows that took place before the band’s first album came out, and an early version of what would become side one of 1985’s Misplaced Childhood.

After that, I was going to discuss Live at the Roxy, the eight-CD set from Phish, containing three complete shows from 1994. This one I was really excited about – the early ‘90s were the Vermont foursome’s compositional and improvisational peak, in my opinion, and this set concentrates pretty heavily on that year’s Rift, still my favorite Phish album. Over time, the band let their Grateful Dead influence come to the fore a bit much – their post-reunion shows are mainly boring affairs – but in ’94, they were still mixing the Jerry Garcia with a healthy amount of Zappa. This was a guaranteed hit with me.

But then two things intervened. Anyone who knows me can guess the first one – I just ran out of time. Looking back, I’m not sure how I expected to listen to and absorb 14 CDs of music while working my final few days before vacation, but that was the plan. And it failed miserably. I’m through four of the six Marillion discs, but only three of the Phish ones, and while I can guess that these bands didn’t suddenly start sucking during the latter shows, I haven’t heard them. So no reviews from me yet.

The second was surprising to me, though. As I’m sure you know by now, the Top 10 List column hits next week, and while the list itself has been set in stone for a while, it wasn’t until this week that I started putting my honorable mentions list together. I knew it had been a damn good year for music, but I wasn’t quite prepared for just how good it was, in the final analysis. Ordinarily, I’d have about 12 or 15 honorable mentions to hand out.

This year, I have 30.

So I figured they deserved their own column. Think of this as a teaser for next week – by process of elimination, sharp-eyed long-term readers can probably figure out just which 10 albums made the list. Tune in next week to see how you did.

* * * * *

2008 was a pretty great year, as you’ll see. But like all years, it had its share of surprising disappointments. In fact, there were enough this time that I’ve given them their own section. In a year marked by artists old and new reaching deep and delivering stunning efforts, these seven simply fell down on the job.

Start with Beck, whose Modern Guilt was obviously rushed together to complete the artist’s contract with Geffen Records. At a scant 30 minutes, it hardly even qualifies as an album, and despite production by the great Danger Mouse, the grooves are limp and the songs threadbare. It’s not terrible, you understand, but after the one-two punch of Sea Change and Guero, to get two mediocre efforts in a row (this and last year’s The Information) is just unfortunate. Beck can do better than this.

Kevin Barnes took his Of Montreal project as far away from its giddy pop leanings as he’s ever gone with the mostly embarrassing Skeletal Lamping. Even Prince, this album’s most obvious influence, was never this self-indulgent. And speaking of self-indulgent, there’s the Fiery Furnaces, whose long-awaited live album, Remember, was just an unlistenable mess. Rather than document a full live show, the Furnaces cut and spliced several together – often in mid-song, repeatedly – and ended up with a landfill-sized disaster.

It’s somewhat hard for me to call Weezer’s sixth album a disappointment, since they’ve been going downhill steadily for years. But this one, affectionately called the Red Album, is the absolute nadir of their career, at least for now. Simplistic, frat-house-level songs with lyrics that sound like they were written for a junior high class project, three songs written and sung by people who are not Rivers Cuomo, and a cover picture that truly exemplifies the puerile shit you will find within. Alas, it also contains the most insanely brilliant Weezer song of all time, “The Greatest Man Who Ever Lived,” so I guess this album doesn’t totally suck. But it comes awfully close.

Also coming awfully close is Mike Doughty, whose second full-lengther, Golden Delicious, isn’t fit to shine the shoes of his first, Haughty Melodic. Most of it sounds half-finished, limp and listless, and considering how long it takes you to get to the good stuff (“Wednesday,” “Navigating By the Stars at Night”), I wouldn’t blame you for giving up.

I suppose I’m not exactly disappointed in The Cosmos Rocks, by Queen and Paul Rodgers, because I fully expected it to be crap. And it is – unmitigated, absolute crap. But I remain disappointed in Brian May and Roger Taylor for resurrecting the Queen name and pissing all over Freddie Mercury’s grave with this thing. The fact that it’s terrible is almost beside the point. The Cosmos Rocks should never have happened.

But it’s still not my disappointment of the year. That honor goes to Ben Folds, who, with Way to Normal, released the first album of his career that’s just plain… bad. The record’s best songs (“You Don’t Know Me,” “Effington,” “Cologne”) can’t even hold a candle to the b-sides from Songs for Silverman, and its worst, like “Free Coffee” and “Bitch Went Nuts,” make me want to claw my eyes out. I understand it’s supposed to be fun, but it doesn’t have to be brain-dead too, and there’s just no excusing the stupidity of most of these songs. Particularly from an artist like Folds, who just deep-sixed his perfect record. It’s a real shame.

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Okay, enough with the bad, let’s get to the good.

There are three categories of honorable mention this year – the Also-rans, the Awesomes, and the Number Elevens. I’ll explain each as we go, but before we get to that, I want to talk about three bits of wonderful that don’t qualify for the Top 10 List. Longtime readers know the rules – only new studio albums, made up mostly of original songs, need apply. No live albums, no best-ofs.

And no covers albums, which leaves out the Seventy Sevens. Mike Roe and his band returned this year with a powerhouse collection of old gospel and blues tunes called Holy Ghost Building, and it’s terrific, but it’s almost all covers, so it doesn’t count. But that shouldn’t stop you from checking it out. Go here to pick it up.

I also have a rule that only full-length records are eligible for the list, which excludes Cassettes Won’t Listen’s EP Small-Time Machine. But with these seven songs, Jason Drake makes his name – these are melodic and memorable bits of electronic wizardry, and I’m already excited for a full record from this guy.

And finally, there’s the Alarm, and I’m still back and forth on this one. The new Alarm album, Counter Attack, is actually eight CDs – six studio EPs, one live EP, and a full-length album. The dilemma is this: seven of these eight CDs came out in 2007, but the two-and-a-half-hour collection is clearly meant to stand together as a unit. It even comes with a handy case to put all the discs in. Counter Attack is one solid piece of music, but it’s not a 2008 release, and it’s not a 2007 release either. It’s in this weird little limbo area.

Still, it’s pretty great stuff – the modern Alarm rocks a lot harder than its ‘80s counterpart, and takes much more from the Clash. The majority of these 55 tracks are excellent, and they’re packaged like old-time punk seven-inches, in DIY-looking sleeves. The CDs themselves are black and grooved like vinyl, which is too awesome for words. Mike Peters continues to deliver the goods, nearly 30 years after the Alarm first hit the scene. I highly recommend this – if you don’t want to shell out for the whole thing, the single-disc compilation Guerilla Tactics is solid through and through. Go here.

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The Also-Rans. There’s nothing whatsoever wrong with any of these records, they’re just not at the top of the heap. But every one of them is worth owning.

We begin with Matthew Sweet, who returned from limbo with Sunshine Lies. His new record label, Shout Factory, called it a “psychedelic masterpiece,” and I can’t argue with that – here are classic melodic Sweet songs, recorded as oddly as he’s ever recorded anything. I would have bought this just for the title track and “Back of My Mind,” but it’s all good. Phantom Planet rocked back onto store shelves as well with Raise the Dead, the album on which they finally harnessed both their syrupy pop and abrasive rawk sides. “Dropped” was one of the coolest songs of the year.

Ray LaMontagne, that folksy wonder from Maine, released his third album, Gossip in the Grain. When he’s not giving Van Morrison a run for his money on “You Are the Best Thing,” he’s spinning gossamer beauty on “Winter Birds,” and his voice is one in a million. The original Little Folksinger, Ani Difranco, continued her string of modest yet superb records with Red Letter Year, a short jazz-folk-pop encounter that’s pure Ani.

Here’s a few oddball entries. Kanye West threw a fascinating curve ball with the chilly 808s and Heartbreak, all brittle drum machines and Auto-Tuned vocals. It’s something of a new model blues album, full of pain and regret, with some knockout songs. Metallica went in a new direction too, by actually making a good album with Death Magnetic. It’s their best since the ‘80s, and breathes renewed fire. And Kip Winger delivered a diverse collection of complex, mature pop music with From the Moon to the Sun. If you’re still not trying out Winger’s music because you remember him writhing about in leather pants in the late ‘80s, you’re doing him (and yourself) a disservice. His solo work is excellent.

Conor Oberst, the sole member of Bright Eyes, put out a ramshackle little record under his own name, and it was a hoot. Oberst finally let his hair down, zipping through barnburners like “I Don’t Want to Die (In the Hospital)” with abandon. Elbow won the Mercury Prize for their fourth album, The Seldom Seen Kid, and rarely has that prize gone to a more deserving disc. Elbow plays slowly-unfolding, perfect British pop, and they’ve never done it better than they do here.

Richard Julian, a songwriter I discovered while working at Face Magazine, rebounded nicely from the somewhat bland Slow New York with a witty, sarcastic winner of an album called Sunday Morning in Saturday’s Shoes. His melodies are back on form, but more than that, Julian’s lyrics are top-notch here, whether lamenting American influence around the world in “Syndicated” or ripping his own heart out on “A Thousand Days.”

And finally, there is Chinese Democracy. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Axl Rose’s 15-years-in-the-making epic deserves an honorable mention. It’s massive, over-worked and a smidge under-written, but it’s grand rock and roll, the kind nobody makes anymore. I have no idea what kind of album Rose envisioned when he started this process, but the finished Chinese Democracy is more of a Queen album than the Queen album this year, and a marvel of ambitious record-making. We’ll probably never hear another new album like it.

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The Awesomes. These are mostly albums that have shown up on various drafts of the Top 10 List throughout the year. You can’t go wrong with any of them.

We begin with the year’s first great record, Distortion, by the Magnetic Fields. I’ve been a Stephin Merritt fan for a long time, but with this album, he may have outdone himself. Here are 13 perfect little pop nuggets, recorded like the Jesus and Mary Chain just nipped out of the studio for a moment without resetting their dials. Listen through the noise and you’ll hear brilliant, witty gems like “Too Drunk to Dream” and “The Nun’s Litany” alongside genuine heartbreakers like “I’ll Dream Alone.”

The Black Crowes returned from exile with Warpaint, but it ain’t the balls-out rock record you’re expecting. It’s mostly slow burners and bluesy excursions, but the brothers Robinson sound as good as they ever have. Portishead also returned from an astoundingly long absence, and their third one, cleverly titled Third, is a baffling, off-kilter thing that demands repeated listens. And, thankfully, rewards them.

R.E.M. recaptured their old fire with Accelerate, their finest album in years. It’s loud, it’s sharp, and it goes by like a bullet train. Even the spate of slow songs in the middle doesn’t drag the record down, and closer “I’m Gonna DJ” may be the most fun this band has ever had in two minutes. Nada Surf defied expectations as well – if all you expect of them is “Popular.” With Lucky, they continued a streak of very good jangly pop records.

The best music is often completely unexpected, as is the case with Pretty. Odd., the beautifully Beatlesque second album from Panic at the Disco. You may laugh, but don’t judge this until you’ve heard it – these boys turned out some fantastic songs here, and sweetened them with all the accoutrements of classic pop. Also completely unexpected, for me anyway, was Shearwater’s Rook, a hushed and glorious suite of songs I picked up on a recommendation. And I’m glad I did – “On the Death of the Waters” is one of the most chilling songs I’ve heard in a while, and the rest of this lovely record follows suit.

Counting Crows put out their best album ever with Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings, in many ways two EPs in one. The loud half is the most raucous material Adam Duritz and his band have ever written, and the quiet half is stripped-down, bare and beautiful. Duritz sings his little heart out on piano number “On a Tuesday in Amsterdam Long Ago,” possibly the most heart-wrenching song in his catalog – worth the price by itself.

The Levellers got angry again, and came up with their strongest work in years, Letters From the Underground. These 11 songs burn past you like a pissed-off comet, striking its target with unerring accuracy, and yes, the fiddle is back at center stage, keeping pace with the furious guitars. And Tod Ashley returned from his sojourn in the Middle East with an amazing new Firewater album called The Golden Hour. Ashley assembled this travelogue from performances recorded with native musicians in four countries over two years, and the result is a fiery melting pot of awesome.

Which brings us to Randy Newman, and his splendid Harps and Angels. Last time Newman put out an album, I was 26 and living in Portland, Maine. I’ve changed dramatically in the past eight years, but Newman’s exactly the same – cranky, sarcastic and brilliant. This new album is just as good as anything he’s done, and gems like “A Few Words in Defense of Our Country” and the title track rank among Newman’s best. If you thought he only wrote Disney soundtrack songs, think again, and buy Harps and Angels.

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And finally, The Number Elevens. These are albums that caused me physical pain to exclude from the Top 10 List. Even now, I’m back and forth on a few of them, and any of these could slip onto the list without any effort at all.

Sigur Ros are a band demystified after their revealing documentary Heima, and they sound like it on Med Sud I Eyrum Vid Spilum Endelaust, the most organically gorgeous album this Icelandic outfit has made. The otherworldly sound of their prior discs is here, but scrubbed clean – acoustic pianos and guitars reign here, and Jonsi Birgisson’s high, quivering voice is often unadorned. The last few songs are minimal, sparkling clouds, culminating in “All Alright,” the first Sigur Ros song in English. The whole thing is as welcoming and warm as a summer day.

Robert Smith, God bless him, has led The Cure through some rough patches in the past decade and a half, but with 4:13 Dream, all is forgiven. Here is the band I loved in high school – the dark pop songs, the chiming guitars, and Smith’s still-remarkable voice. Cure fans lost in the wilderness, it’s safe to come back home. And even better, this is the pop record – the so-called “dark” album is still to come in 2009. If it’s half as good as 4:13 Dream, I will be ecstatic.

Dr. Tony Shore, of ObviousPop, got me into Bryan Scary and the Shredding Tears, and I of course resisted for a while because of the name. But Flight of the Knife is a stunner, chock full of dazzling musical inventiveness, with new head-spinning melodies every few seconds. It’s a pop record for sure, but labyrinthine pop songs like “Venus Ambassador” and “Imitation of the Sky” are rare beasts indeed. This was Tony Shore’s big score with me this year – he always has at least one. So thanks, Doc.

Matt Hales, also known as Aqualung, wrote the prettiest song I heard all year. It’s called “Arrivals,” and it’s the final track on his fourth album, Words and Music. In contrast to last year’s studio wonder Memory Man, this album is practically naked – virtually every sound is organic and acoustic. Much of this disc is so beautiful it hurts, and even though it’s a mix of new and old tunes (and one Paul Simon cover), it further cements Hales as one of the best of the current crop of British songwriters. You have to hear “Arrivals” – it will melt your heart. The rest is pretty terrific too.

And finally, an album that hung on to the Top 10 List longer than any other – Joe Jackson’s Rain. This was the year Jackson showed his acolyte Ben Folds just how it’s done. Rain is entirely piano, bass, drums and vocals, and it showcases 10 of the finest songs of Jackson’s late career. For a while, it seemed like Jackson had lost his way, abandoning his gift for the perfect pop song, but with this delightful record – equal parts social criticism and soulful crooning – he cemented his comeback. Songwriters like Joe Jackson are rare indeed, and it’s so good to have him back.

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I can’t believe how many words that took. Next week, more words! Come back here in seven days for the 2008 Top 10 List.

See you in line Tuesday morning.