So here’s how good I think the new Keane album, Perfect Symmetry, is.

It doesn’t come out until Tuesday the 14th, but earlier this week, the band kindly made the entire thing available on last.fm for free streaming. Unfortunately, the tracks are all interrupted by “bonus commentary” from the band members halfway through. You’d think it would be one-listen-and-done for me, considering how annoying it is to be grooving along to one of the new songs and have to stop to hear Tim Rice-Oxley babble on about how “different” it all is.

But you’d be wrong. I’ve listened to Perfect Symmetry online probably eight times since Monday, and I’m not tired of it yet. Rice-Oxley’s right, it’s a different kind of Keane album – more fun, more kitschy, less dramatic – but I love it. I absolutely love it. I’ll get you a full review next week, but until then, if you’re not put off by British men nattering on in the middle of each tune, I’d recommend listening to it here.

And if you haven’t heard leadoff track “Spiralling” yet, get ready for your jaw to drop. I’m not surprised much by pop music anymore, but Keane have made something unexpected, and unexpectedly great.

Luckily, I did find some time this week (in between airings of Perfect Symmetry) to listen to four new records. They’re all varying shades of very good. I’m telling you this upfront because I’m trying to be more concise in my writing, and while I hope these shorter reviews will get the point across just as well as the longer ones, I’m hedging my bets. These are all very good CDs, and you should buy them all. Go! Your master commands it!

* * * * *

The best Oasis album in more than 10 years opens with Noel Gallagher’s best single in at least that long. By the end of the snarling “Bag It Up,” if you were ever a fan, you’ll be one again.

I’ll admit that I didn’t go into Dig Out Your Soul, the seventh Oasis album, expecting a whole lot. Quite frankly, the Gallagher Brothers and their semi-anonymous cohorts have been floundering since their fourth, Standing on the Shoulder of Giants, in 2000. (Uncharitably, you could say that every album since (What’s the Story) Morning Glory has missed the mark in some way.)

Also, there’s just the fact that Oasis has become a big joke. Their “better than the Beatles” schtick has always been laughable, but lately, Noel and Liam Gallagher have become known more for their public personas than their music. It’s gotten so bad that a video of Noel getting bum-rushed off the stage a month or two ago became the new “Danzig gets decked” YouTube sensation. And believe me, if you’re trying to avoid becoming ridiculous, Glenn Danzig is not someone you want to be compared with.

But a funny thing happened while Oasis was out of the spotlight. The Gallaghers solidified their lineup, made a couple of workmanlike pop records, and learned how to really write songs again. And now, the payoff: Dig Out Your Soul is a psychedelic rock album that justifies the band’s continued existence, and then some. It is a smart, confident record, and if it doesn’t quite measure up melodically to their early work, it makes up for that in energy and style.

I already mentioned “Bag It Up,” which rocks like nobody’s business. The first batch of songs, through single “The Shock of the Lightning,” play up Oasis as ‘60s-inspired rock band, but the rest of Soul delves into the Beatles’ drug years – it is the trippiest material the band has given us. “Falling Down” is like something George Harrison might have written on his sitar, and Liam’s “I’m Outta Time” is a great Lennon-style ballad.

As they have on the last couple of records, the Gallaghers let new members Gem and Andy Bell contribute to the songwriting here. They get one song each, and even amidst Noel’s best selection of tunes in a decade, those songs stand up. Gem’s “To Be Where There’s Life” is another Eastern-flavored meditation, while Bell’s “The Nature of Reality” is a psych-blues shuffle. The record ends with Liam’s meandering, strange “Soldier On,” and at a compact 45 minutes, the whole thing is just ambitious enough.

Is Dig Out Your Soul a renaissance, a return of a mighty band to fighting trim? Not really. Too many of these songs rattle around looking for choruses, and the overall feel is more sedate than it should be. But from Oasis, a band that better critics than me had written off completely, it’s a pleasant surprise. Hopefully it signals an upswing for a band that has clearly learned that you must scale the mountain before you plant the flag.

* * * * *

Ani Difranco has been around so long now that it’s hard to know what to say about her that hasn’t been said.

That makes reviewing a new record particularly tough. Everything that was true about Difranco last year is still true – she’s still the Little Folksinger That Could, making her own records her own way and touring the hell out of them on her own dime. She’s still fiercely political, still admirably ready to stand up for what she believes. She remains an idiosyncratic, talented songwriter with a supernatural gift for poetry.

And she’s still one of the only artists on the planet that assures you, album after album, that you’re getting the real, unfiltered her. No one tells Ani what to do, and no one ever has. And all of this has certainly been said before, but it’s all worth repeating.

But none of it tells you a thing about Red Letter Year, her 17th studio creation. It’s the fourth installment in her latest direction – short, concise, consistent statements, in contrast to the sprawling records she made in the 1990s. This one clocks in at 47:04, but 6:26 of that is taken up by a horn-driven instrumental jam at the end. The actual songs here are modest – many hover around the three-minute mark. But the sound is wide and vast.

Red Letter Year feels like a culmination of sorts, or at least a penultimate step. It takes in all of Difranco’s musical directions, ending up with a folk-jazz electro-pop goulash with a dollop of funk (“Emancipated Minor”) on the side. It’s miles from the bare acoustic confessions she used to write, but for Ani these days, it just sounds natural. Her band, including longtime bassist Todd Sickafoose and drummer Allison Miller, is tight and expansive, following her down every strange jazz-chord detour she takes.

Lyrically, Difranco is in a different place. Her last record, 2006’s wonderful Reprieve, lamented the devastation in New Orleans, and Difranco returns to that setting for the title track. She takes a couple of political shots, and on “The Atom” she argues passionately against nuclear anything – bombs, energy, anything. But her heart just isn’t in the biting stuff this time. This album is about joy. It’s her obligatory new motherhood record – her first daughter was born last year – and she smiles through most of it, addressing many of the lyrics directly to her baby girl.

Red Letter Year is, in the end, just another Ani Difranco album – different from all the rest, but full of the same fierce honesty and musical adventurousness she’s always had in ample supply. This one’s a little fuller, a little more fun, a lot more sonically immediate, but it’s still an Ani album – dazzlingly creative, intelligent and absorbing. May she never stop making them, never stop chronicling her life year by year, song by song.

* * * * *

If we’re talking about maintaining a fiercely independent career for decades, then we have to bring up Todd Rundgren.

Here’s a guy who has always blazed his own trail, even when it’s been detrimental to his career. For nearly 40 years, he has produced (and, for the most part, completely performed) his own records, slipping blithely from Beatle-pop to Hendrix-rock to progressive suites to novelty songs to synth-pop to Motown soul and back. He once made an album using nothing but the sound of his own voice, and he followed that up with a live-in-the-studio massive pop excursion featuring dozens of musicians. And just for fun, he fronted a side band called Utopia that played nothing but space-rock jams… at least, at first.

The Rundgren catalog is immense, diverse, brilliant and odd. And his fourth decade as a recording artist has been no exception. His last album, 2004’s Liars, was an amazing bit of synthetic soul, performed with nothing but keyboards and vocals. Despite its false-face veneer, the album contained some genuine emotion – mostly rage.

Now, four years later, here’s the about-face. It’s called Arena, and it’s a big, dramatic, guitar-heavy stage play of a record. I honestly don’t remember the last time Rundgren whipped out the six-string this much on an album – every song is loaded with searing, blistering, wonderful guitar work. The drums and other instruments are still electronic, but the screaming guitar here makes the whole thing sound live and organic.

As always, Rundgren has delivered a set of monstrous songs here – poppy, bluesy, soulful, melodic towers of song. Opener “Mad” starts with a circular clean guitar figure, but soon finds Rundgren screaming over thick, distorted rawk noise. Throughout Arena, he balances his more melodic tendencies with his newfound love of the loud. “Bardo” is a long, languorous blues with some fantastic soloing, while “Courage” is a groovy acoustic piece. First single “Mountaintop” is a crunching rocker with a great chorus.

But for much of this album, he’s parodying the worst excesses of rock and roll, and all the macho war mongering that often goes along with it. “Mercenary” and “Gun” are back to back here, and they find peacenik Rundgren playing a Blackwater employee and a young gangbanger, respectively. It’s all irony, but Todd plays it straight. You can tell he’s kidding, though, when he gets to “Strike,” a fiery cock-rock anthem on which Todd unveils a shrieking falsetto to scream, “Strike while the iron is hot!” It’s hilarious.

When he’s serious, though, Arena is marvelous. Rundgren’s powerful, dramatic, soulful voice is in top form here, and he’s given himself chance after chance to stretch out. Dig “Panic,” with its Devo-on-speed beats and lightning-fast chorus. But also check out “Afraid” – Rundgren uses that song’s simple framework to its utmost, singing his little heart out.

It’s been too long since Todd Rundgren has graced us with a new record. I never really know what to expect, but Todd rarely disappoints. Arena is another in a long line of records no other artist would ever make, so thank God Rundgren is still making them. I’m sure in four years or so, he’ll come out with another one, and it will be nothing like this one, but it will be just as good.

* * * * *

Matt Hales performs and records under the name Aqualung. There’s no point getting upset about it or trying to change it at this point. He’s just going to keep on calling himself Aqualung, and we’re going to have to deal with it.

The name, and its Jethro Tull associations, wouldn’t bother me so much if Hales weren’t an extraordinary pop songwriter. I can’t prove that calling himself Aqualung has hurt his chances over on this side of the pond, but I bet it hasn’t helped draw in the audience that would appreciate – nay, love – Hales’ brand of emotional, grand piano-pop.

The last Aqualung album, last year’s Memory Man, is an absolute masterpiece. It hit #3 on my top 10 list last year, for good reason – every second of it is gorgeous. It’s what I call a Very Big Small – the sound is intense, vast, like clouds rushing along an endless skyline, but the songs are, at heart, tiny things with fragile beating hearts. Memory Man sported at least five of the year’s most beautiful moments, and several of its most beautiful songs.

Words and Music, the follow-up, isn’t Memory Man’s equal. But then, it isn’t supposed to be. Where that album was a consistent suite, this is a collection of songs – some new, some old, and one cover. Where the last record was a dynamic production with electronic beats and strings and synths, this one is more simple and organic. It’s like a breather before jumping into another massive project, and as such, it works.

I don’t want to give the impression that Words and Music sounds thrown together, because it doesn’t. About half of these songs are re-recorded oldies, some from his first two albums, which were only released in the U.K. He covers “Slip Sliding Away,” Paul Simon’s classic tune, and makes it his own. And the rest of the tunes are new. But this is remarkably consistent from first note to last. Hales plays piano on every song, and his voice is as naked and unadorned as it has ever been – just listen to the gorgeous “Good Goodnight,” as lovely a ballad as Hales has ever written.

The whole record is warm and inviting, even when it turns Supertramp on “Mr. Universe.” For all of Memory Man’s expanse, the qualities I loved most about it are all here – lovely melodies, sung and played beautifully. Just listen to “Everything Changed,” one of the older songs, and be swept away by the intertwining vocals. Or revel in the British pop grandeur of “When I Finally Get My Own Place,” which starts off achingly normal and becomes achingly wonderful.

Hales saves his best – or at least his most moving – for last. “Arrivals” begins with a string overture, but soars from there on nothing but piano and voice. “Send me, send me over the ocean to find you,” Hales sings, and my heart hurts. It’s a gloriously sad conclusion to this sweet little album, and by the time it ends, I’m certain: if Words and Music is a stopgap, then it beats out many artists’ real records. Matt Hales is so very good at this sort of thing – too good to call himself Aqualung – and this album, which looks backwards and forwards while celebrating the now, is simply superb.

* * * * *

That’s it for this week. Next week, Keane, and maybe Copeland too.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I really hate having to do this.

Writing negative reviews, especially when it comes to my favorite artists, is always a little uncomfortable for me. It’s like having to tell a loved one they have a drinking problem. I feel like I have to be absolutely sure about it – do I really dislike this record, or was I just having a bad day? Did I wake up too late, skip my morning run, and sleepwalk through my first listen? I have to be sure. I have to listen again and again, in optimum conditions, picking apart my own reactions before putting pen to paper. (Or typing out on a screen… you get me, right?)

It’s one thing to come up with a negative review of a band I don’t really like, such as Weezer. I mean, their last album was so insanely bad that to praise it, even a little, would be dishonest. But it’s a special kind of pain for me when I have to attack artists I genuinely love. When an album I’ve spent months looking forward to just doesn’t cut it – in fact, when it’s borderline horrible – I’m not just disappointed, I’m crushed.

And I just have to grit my teeth and tell it like it is.

I’ve known for a while that I would have to do this. Even before laying down my cash for Way to Normal, Ben Folds’ third solo album, I had come to the conclusion that something vital was missing. Ben Folds first captured my ear 13 years ago, with his first smart, smarmy album with the Five, and he hasn’t made a bad record since. He has an uncanny knack for balancing his fratboy side with his inner storyteller, making snotty piano-pop gems that tap into a deep current of emotion.

On his last record, 2005’s Songs for Silverman, Folds upset that balance a bit, but the result was his most mature and beautiful album, full of first-person observations and gorgeous melodies. (And it contained “Gracie,” the sweetest and most genuine father-daughter song I’ve ever heard.) I suppose I should have expected a swing of the pendulum back the other way, but I didn’t think it would swing back this much, especially given Folds’ recent divorce.

Way to Normal is a fun little trifle of an album. Or at least, that’s probably what Folds thinks it is. Many of these songs remind me of the extemporaneous jams he makes up in concert, songs about the town he’s in or a funny sign he saw on the way to the venue. Ben Folds the storyteller is almost completely absent. Ben Folds the social critic is here, sporadically, but his wit has been blunted. The majority of the running time has been given over to Ben Folds the foul-mouthed buffoon, and while that guy’s fun in limited doses – his cover of “Bitches Ain’t Shit,” for example – 40 minutes of him gets wearying.

Way to Normal’s first track, “Hiroshima,” lays down a lame “Bennie and the Jets” pastiche while Folds describes falling off the stage and smacking his head before a concert. It’s almost symbolic – the rest of the record plays like the work of a man with brain damage. The songs are short and stupid and surface-level. “Errant Dog,” “Brainwascht,” “Bitch Went Nuts,” “The Frown Song”… these are all well below Folds’ usual standard, musically and lyrically.

There are a few I like. “Cologne” is a sweetly sad tale of separation, with a nice melody, but it’s marred by a dated verse about Lisa Nowak, the astronaut who drove cross-country to kill her boyfriend. (Really, in the middle of this lovely song, Folds sings, “Says here an astronaut put on a pair of diapers and drove 18 hours…”) First single “You Don’t Know Me,” a duet with Regina Spektor, is jaunty and memorable, and closer “Kylie From Connecticut” is the closest this album comes to a classic Folds story-song.

Everything else is just… slight. “Dr. Yang” is fun, and contains a lightning-fast piano solo, while “The Frown Song” has a groovy chorus, despite stupid lyrics about “fucking a guru.” And “Effington” makes the most of its one-note joke – “Effington might be a wonderful effing place” – with the album’s best chorus. But most of these songs just sound easy, tossed off instead of lived-in. His targets are easy, his insults lame, his insights absent.

“Bitch Went Nuts,” for example, has an interesting premise. Ask women why relationships fail, says a man with an exaggerated Asian accent in the intro, and they will give you a hundred different reasons. Ask men, and they will all give you the title phrase. But the song is lousy – “The bitch went nuts, she stabbed my basketball, and the speakers to my stereo…” It contains none of the anger and pathos of “Song for the Dumped,” and its chorus, during which old girlfriends line up at his door with pitchforks and “scores and scores to settle,” is painfully unmemorable.

The shame is that Way to Normal may be Folds’ best-sounding album. You might expect a collection of thrown-together ditties like this to have that ragged, old Ben Folds Five sound to it, but you’d be wrong. This is a gleaming pop record, with some nice steps forward for Folds the producer. “You Don’t Know Me” has a terrific string arrangement, intro “Before Cologne” makes use of scraping piano strings for color, and “Free Coffee” sounds like it’s performed largely on a John Cage-style prepared piano. Everything sounds great, which is why it’s almost tragic when the songs fall flat.

Way to Normal (a reference to Normal, Illinois, by the way) is the first Ben Folds album that has left me indifferent. It doesn’t move me emotionally, it doesn’t knock me out musically. It just kind of starts, and then ends. I don’t think it’s just me, either – I’ve gone back and listened to other dumb-ditty Ben Folds songs, like “Dumped” and “Julianne” and “Uncle Walter.” They have wit and verve. The songs on Way to Normal sound like the cast-offs that landed on Naked Baby Photos.

It really does pain me to write this. Ben Folds has written a good half-dozen of my favorite songs of the last decade, but nothing on Way to Normal comes close. I hope this is just a blip, a series of bad days, a lapse in judgment, a dry spell. The album is kind of fun, no doubt, but it’s like having a master chef serve you a cheeseburger. You know he can do better, that he’s slumming it, and all you can do is hope he’ll dig deeper next time.

* * * * *

Okay, time for the third quarter report. A couple of things. First, this year has been pretty amazing so far. You’ll notice number one hasn’t changed since June, but there are plenty of third-quarter releases in the list this time, all wonderful discs deserving of your attention.

Second, I have decided not to include Marillion’s Happiness is the Road yet, even though I’ve heard it a few dozen times and I’m pretty sure it would rank highly. The official release date is October 20, so it’s technically a fourth-quarter album, and besides, I haven’t even heard the real thing yet, just low-quality downloaded tracks. Expect a review when this thing lands in my mailbox, and count on seeing it in the final list in December.

And now, the Third Quarter Report. If I had to make my top 10 list right now, here’s what it would look like:

10. Death Cab for Cutie, Narrow Stairs.
9. Sigur Ros, Med Sud I EyrumVid Spilum Endlaust.
8. Coldplay, Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends.
7. Amanda Palmer, Who Killed Amanda Palmer.
6. Vampire Weekend.
5. The Feeling, Join With Us.
4. Bryan Scary and the Shredding Tears, Flight of the Knife.
3. Brian Wilson, That Lucky Old Sun.
2. Aimee Mann, @#%&*! Smilers.
1. Fleet Foxes.

Honorable mentions go to Conor Oberst, Randy Newman, R.E.M., Lindsey Buckingham, Counting Crows and Joe Jackson. Expect the list to change in the coming months, of course, but even if I were forced to end the year now and post this as the final draft, I’d be pretty happy. There are some amazing records on there.

Next week, Ani Difranco, Todd Rundgren, and maybe Oasis.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So here is why slotMusic won’t work, and lovers of CDs have nothing to worry about.

You might have heard about this. SanDisk, a company that makes memory cards, has launched a new physical format called slotMusic, that would see albums distributed on thumbnail-sized micro-cards, in MP3 format, with no DRM encoding. (Meaning you can rip it, burn it, and basically do anything you want with it.) They’ve got four big labels – EMI, Sony/BMG, Universal and Warner, who between them own, like, 500 other labels – to sign on, and you’ll start seeing these things in stores next year.

The cards will come with USB sleeves, which will let you plug them into your computers, your phones, your iPods, and (if you have the right hardware) your cars. Sounds good, right? You’re already thinking about selling off your CDs and making way for this new format? Yeah, I’ve had several conversations with fans of the CD, and they’re worried that this will surpass and supplant the shiny little discs before long.

I honestly don’t think so, though, and I’ll tell you why.

Lovers of the physical format want bigger, not smaller, in my view. Vinyl has seen a massive resurgence lately, and it’s not just because the sound quality is warmer and more natural, although that’s part of it. It’s also because vinyl record sleeves look awesome. The artwork is massive and enveloping – it has a physical presence, a context. CDs are similar, if smaller. Even cassettes have that physical presence, although speaking as someone who used to buy tapes regularly, that’s about as small as I’d want to go for my physical product.

And deluxe editions of CD packages for collectors are bearing me out on that – they’re going bigger and bigger. Look at the coffin box for Metallica’s Death Magnetic. Marillion’s Happiness is the Road is shipping as two hardbound books in a slipcase. Big. Hell, look at every box set ever, especially the ones with elaborate packaging, like Tori Amos’ A Piano, or the Doors’ Perception. Collectors of physical products like packaging they can touch and display.

Now imagine the packaging for a thumbnail-sized memory card. I highly doubt the box will be much bigger than the thing itself, especially for standard editions. Artwork? Nonexistent, or it may as well be at that size. The slotMusic card is tiny and disposable and context-free – in fact, you may as well just download MP3s from the comfort of your home.

And I think that’s what digital delivery fans are going to do. For those folks, the physical packaging is disposable, something to be discarded once the music has been transferred to the iPod. There’s no reason to think any physical product is going to sway them from that notion.

Consider this: if I want an MP3 version of Death Magnetic right now, I can either go to iTunes and buy it, or head to any number of torrent sites and steal it, without leaving my chair. Or, when slotMusic comes out, I can get up, shower, get dressed, brush my teeth, get in my car, go to a store and buy a card with those MP3s on it, drive home, open the box, connect it to my computer and rip the music, however that will work. I’d bet option one takes less time, and I know it doesn’t require me to get out of my pajamas.

Option two resembles what I do every week, except I buy CDs I can keep, stack and display, with artwork and liner notes that I value, because I’m a fan of physical products and packaging. I think the labels will need to realize that they’re dealing with two distinct audiences here – old-fashioned music collectors who like the tangible objects, and new-school digital delivery fans who like the immediacy – and slotMusic will likely flop with both of them.

On a slightly related note, anyone interested in gleaning some insight into just how intelligent the major labels really are should read this missive from Justin Ouellette, owner of muxtape.com. It’s quite the tale.

* * * * *

Okay, let’s talk about solo albums this week.

To my mind, there are three different kinds of solo records, and I happen to have an example of each here. Just to be clear, though, we’re not talking about artists who’ve always gone by their own name, like John Mayer or Todd Rundgren, or even artists that go by fake names, like Marilyn Manson. I’m talking about artists that are part of a whole, and then decide to go it alone. Even Conor Oberst, who recently released his first non-Bright Eyes solo album, wouldn’t quite count for what I’m trying to explore here, because for all intents and purposes, he is Bright Eyes. Releasing a solo album is an interesting choice, but not a complete separation from an otherwise viable entity. That’s what I mean – artists who are in a band, but strike out on their own anyway.

And like I said, I think there are three kinds of those albums, each relating to the relative fame of the artist and his/her band. (Whew. You get all that?) Here they are:

1. You are more famous than your band.

In a case like this, staying in the band is the more fascinating decision. If Gwen Stefani, for example, had kept No Doubt going despite the fact that millions of frat boys came out to the shows just to see her, that would have been almost brave. The solo path just made sense for her, and it’s worked, at least commercially. (Listening to Stefani’s solo rubbish, I can scarcely believe I once liked No Doubt at all.)

The same holds true for Jenny Lewis, who is without a doubt the star of Rilo Kiley. Just look at the difference in profile between Lewis’ solo album, Rabbit Fur Coat, and her partner-in-Kiley Blake Sennett’s project, The Elected. Lewis, a former child actor, is the draw – Kiley fans respond to her voice and lyrics more than any other element of that band. (An argument could be made that Lewis fits into category three as well, but cut me some slack. I can only deal with what I have on hand.)

So Lewis making solo records is just a natural progression, I think. But the divergent musical paths her work has taken with and without the band are striking. Rilo Kiley’s latest album, last year’s Under the Blacklight, was a glossed-up pop festival, plastic and funky, fun and lightweight. And now here is Acid Tongue, Lewis’ second solo record, and it’s the exact opposite.

There’s a definite sense of authenticity to Lewis’ solo work, something that has eluded Rilo Kiley. Acid Tongue is an old-time session, a bunch of simple folk-rock songs recorded in three weeks with a slew of guest stars. It was produced by Lewis’ other half, Jonathan Rice, and the whole thing has a natural warmth to it that just radiates from the speakers. This is just as earthy as Rabbit Fur Coat, although it rocks quite a bit more. It’s basically just a nice little record, showcasing Lewis’ fine voice.

The surprises here all come from the guests, in fact. Elvis Costello takes a vocal turn on rocker “Carpetbaggers,” continuing the rootsy vibe of his last few albums. M. Ward and Zooey Deschanel, collectively known as She and Him, add some nice backing vocals and guitar work, as does Benji Hughes. Perhaps the most sit-up-and-take-notice moment of the record is the choir on the title track, which fills up the space left by the sparse arrangement – that choir includes Rice and Black Crowe Chris Robinson.

Lewis acquits herself very well here, though. She strikes a near-Motown vibe on “Trying My Best to Love You,” hits crazy-high notes on “Godspeed,” and turns in an amazing eight-minute, multi-part rock epic called “The Next Messiah.” Acid Tongue is, in its own way, as effervescent as Under the Blacklight, but the sweet acoustic guitars and pianos lend this album a grounded feel – just check out “Jack Killed Mom,” a Dusty Springfield-worthy tale complete with a call-and-response chorus and spoken-word interlude from Hughes. It’s pretty great.

I’m not sure Lewis deserves to be more famous than her band, but records like Acid Tongue prove she has good instincts, writes a decent song, and surrounds herself with the right people. Rilo Kiley has always been an outfit that tries too hard, but Lewis on her own has struck the right notes of authenticity and authority. It’s better than anything she’s done with her band – it seems a solo career is the right move, and I hope she keeps on this path.

2. Your band is more famous than you.

This is kind of the catch-all category. Most solo albums fall here – historically, a solo project has meant some measure of wing-spreading, of taking flight from the nest. It’s easy to stay anonymous, part of a whole, and somewhat more difficult to branch out, own your ideas and sign your name to them. For the most part, that’s a solo album.

Take Lindsey Buckingham, for example. Since 1974 (incidentally the year I was born), Buckingham has been one of the musical cornerstones of Fleetwood Mac, one of the highest-selling bands in pop music history. He’s written half of their hits, and Stevie Nicks has written the other half, with a few exceptions. But the Mac’s band dynamic has never been especially sturdy, and both Buckingham and Nicks had launched solo careers by 1981.

Here’s what I mean when I say the band is more famous than the man: I can all but guarantee you everyone living in the U.S. today knows a Fleetwood Mac song. You know “The Chain.” You know “Landslide.” You know “Go Your Own Way.” Hell, Bill Clinton made sure everybody who lived through the ‘90s knows “Don’t Stop.” You know these songs. But the number of people I meet who think Lindsey Buckingham is the female singer and Stevie Nicks the male one is staggering. People know the tunes, but they don’t know the tunesmiths.

In a very real sense, it’s no longer a risk for Buckingham to make solo albums. He’s seen two of his solo projects cannibalized for Fleetwood Mac sessions, in fact – for 1987’s Tango in the Night and 2003’s Say You Will. But lately, he’s been going through the most prolific period of his musical life. After his brilliant third solo album, 1992’s Out of the Cradle, Buckingham pretty much disappeared for a decade, but the Say You Will sessions have revitalized him.

In 2006, Buckingham released Under the Skin, an aching, confessional, acoustic record that shone twin spotlights on his amazing finger-picked guitar work and his aging, breathy voice. At the time, he promised a more upbeat, electric guitar album would be coming soon, but nobody actually expected it before the next decade, especially since he sweetened the pot with a live album last year.

But holy crap, here it is – Gift of Screws is an odd, mesmerizing, terrific Buckingham album. His voice remains in shaky shape, but everything else here is in fine, fine form. Take opener “Great Day,” for instance. It starts with a drum machine’s skittering beat, an unadorned vocal, and a few guitar flourishes. It slowly morphs into a tour de force, however, Buckingham whipping out a blistering electric guitar solo that proves he hasn’t lost a note.

“Time Precious Time” is even weirder, yet more rewarding. It’s almost entirely finger-picked guitar and vocal, and if you’ve never heard Buckingham play, you’ll be amazed at how fast and how precise he is. The song’s chorus is sung over a blissful ascending and descending guitar pattern that knocks me out. Things smooth out from there, with “Did You Miss Me” standing as one of Buckingham’s catchiest songs in years, and “Wait For You” cranking out a fiery blues.

In 10 songs and 39 minutes, Buckingham covers a lot of musical ground, and he does it all well. Just check out the title track, with its mini-Fleetwood Mac reunion – Mick Fleetwood’s on drums, and John McVie’s on bass. But if you were expecting a polished pop gem from this song, be prepared for an off-kilter garage-rock extravaganza, with yelping vocals and some awesome guitar playing. Two songs later, he’s ending the album with the graceful, almost gospel “Treason,” layering his own voice into a chorale.

A good solo album should give fans of the band, especially fans who don’t give a damn who wrote what song or played what guitar solo, a reason to jump ship and follow it out to sea. Gift of Screws more than does that. At age 58, with a voice that just isn’t what it once was, Lindsey Buckingham has gone and made one of his best solo discs anyway, and Mac fans could do a lot worse than trying it out.

3. Neither you nor your band are famous.

Now, I suppose there’s a fourth category, for solo artists that are equally as famous as the bands they’re in, but honestly, I can only think of one case, and that’s Genesis and Phil Collins. And it could be argued that Collins made Genesis famous, hence dropping this file into category one, but that’s another argument.

Off the top of my head, though, I can think of a dozen instances in which a band and a solo career exist in equal obscurity. (Daniel Amos and Terry Taylor, or LSU and Mike Knott, or more recently, Band of Horses and Tyler Ramsey.) The question then becomes this – if your band hasn’t made its mark in the public consciousness, why launch a solo career? Sometimes the answer is commercial, sometimes personal, but more often than not, it’s because the solo songs don’t sound like the band songs, and wouldn’t fit under that banner.

Here’s a great example: Amanda Palmer. If you know her at all, you know her as the piano-vocal half of the Dresden Dolls, a band that somehow combines the theatrical and the confessional without compromising either one. They’re known for a piano-punk sound with heaping helpings of German cabaret influence, and as you may have guessed, they’re utterly unique. Their two albums (and one b-sides collection) are dense and difficult, but fascinating and rewarding.

So when Palmer found herself with a bunch of drum-deficient pop songs last year, she really had no choice but to make a solo album. Now, I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I’ve known the title of this record – Who Killed Amanda Palmer – for about two months, and I just got the Twin Peaks reference this week. Pity me, I am slow. But I immediately figured out that her choice of co-producer, the great Ben Folds, meant that this would be a different Amanda Palmer on display.

And I was right. Things are different right from the start, as Palmer’s piano gives way to sweet strings on opener “Astronaut.” About half of these songs are pretty ballads, filled out with violins and cellos. I’m especially enamored of “Blake Says,” but the immediate standout is “Ampersand,” as in, “I’m not going to live my life on one side of an ampersand.” Piano, orchestra, Palmer’s surprisingly pretty voice, and that’s all. It’s wonderful.

“Runs in the Family” is perhaps the most Dolls-esque song, rapid-firing five notebook pages of lyrics over 2:45 of explosive music. “Leeds United” finds Palmer’s voice running ragged as she spits out a great melody over a rollicking horn section. “Guitar Hero” teams her with East Bay Ray of the Dead Kennedys for a mid-tempo nod-along, and Annie Clark of St. Vincent joins in for a lighter-than-air cover of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s “What’s the Use of Wond’rin?” (She makes it about domestic violence, just through context, and it works.)

There are two things that haven’t changed, though – Palmer’s voice and lyrics. Her words here are tender and tragic, most often – she even wrings pathos from roadkill deer on “Have to Drive,” and when she takes on self-identity in “Ampersand” and inherited personality disorders in “Runs in the Family,” you can’t help wondering how autobiographical it all is.

Palmer tells stories as well as her co-producer does – just check out “Oasis,” a bluntly shocking tale of teenage life that puts equal emphasis on having an abortion and joining a band’s fan club. And then there is “Strength Through Music,” which isn’t directly about Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris, but may as well be. It’s creepy and bare-bones, Palmer whispering most of the lyrics: “It’s so simple, the way that they fall, no bang or whimper, no sound at all…”

The record closes with a pair of beautiful ballads, Palmer finding new corners to send her strong, rich voice while Folds’ string arrangements surround her. “I’m not as callous as you think, I barely breathe when you are near,” she sings in “Another Year,” and it’s one of the record’s most striking moments.

And when it’s over, there’s no doubt – this is Amanda Palmer’s solo album, and she’s reinvented herself. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see Palmer and the Dresden Dolls continue down parallel, yet totally separate paths, and it’s great to hear such diversity from this talented songwriter. I’m probably as tired of saying this as you are of hearing it by this point, but Who Killed Amanda Palmer is one of the best records of the year.

Next week, Ben Folds, and whoever else I can find time to listen to. Plus, the Third Quarter Report.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

We lost Rick Wright this week.

For those of you who don’t know, I’m a keyboard player. I started at a really young age, teaching myself – my grandmother was a concert pianist, and I inherited at least my appreciation for music from her, if not any real measure of skill or talent. I learned by listening, and by finding keyboard parts to emulate. I learned all the Journey songs. I learned Europe’s “The Final Countdown.” I even learned “Right Here Waiting,” by Richard Marx.

But these were just songs to me. I had no idea who wrote or played the parts I liked, and even as a young pup, I could sense that keyboards were considered a second-class instrument. I think it’s safe to say the first keyboard player I really knew by name, the first one I wanted to be, was Rick Wright. And although my path to Pink Floyd fandom wasn’t a typical one, I like to think I caught up pretty quickly.

I was 13 years old when A Momentary Lapse of Reason came out. You’ll have to forgive me for thinking it was one of the best albums ever – at that time, I had no other Floyd records to compare it to. I also simply didn’t know the history. Momentary Lapse was almost David Gilmour’s third solo album, and it was assembled by Gilmour and a bunch of session musicians. Wright did play on it, but only sporadically, despite being listed in the credits as the primary keyboard guy.

My 13-year-old self didn’t care about any of that, though. He was blown away by the sound – here was a rock band, with a singular guitar player, but the foundation of the whole thing was the keyboard. The album opened with a shimmering synth instrumental, included songs that featured little but keys and voice for long stretches, and used synthesizer voices not as dance-club gloss, but as a serious building block of something massive.

Of course, I soon went back and heard everything else Floyd, and I don’t need to tell you how good it all is. If you haven’t at least heard The Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here and The Wall, you owe it to yourself to hunt down copies right now. Floyd has a reputation for making tripped-out drug soundtracks, but when they were on their game, they made music that enveloped you in a mood, music that took you somewhere else without needing drugs or anything else.

Take Wish You Were Here as an example. Released in 1975, Wish is a conceptual piece about former Floyd singer Syd Barrett, and about the band’s feelings on the music industry following the worldwide success of The Dark Side of the Moon. In 45 minutes, this thing takes you from sweeping and grand, to creepy and sinister, to sweet and nostalgic, and then back to huge and epic. And the twin cornerstones of the whole thing are Gilmour’s guitar and Wright’s keyboards.

There are so many Rick Wright highlights across Floyd’s unique and daunting catalog, but the one you’ll probably hear the most about in pieces like this one is “The Great Gig in the Sky.” This song is amazing – it’s mostly just Wright’s piano and Clare Torry’s soaring, wordless vocal, but it’s transporting. Grand as this song is, my favorite Rick Wright moment on Dark Side comes just a few songs later – “Any Colour You Like” is little more than an instrumental segue between the gorgeous “Us and Them” and the record’s finale, but just listen to the warm, wonderful playing on this thing.

Wright died this week at age 65, after a struggle with cancer. If you’re in a mood to remember just how good he was, you have an interesting opportunity – his final full performance will be released Tuesday. David Gilmour’s Live in Gdansk documents the final show of his On an Island tour, and like that album, the tour featured Wright on keys. All of Island is performed, but the set also includes some real gems from some near-forgotten Floyd records: “Fat Old Sun” from Atom Heart Mother, for example, and “Echoes” from Meddle.

It wasn’t intentional, but Live in Gdansk seems like it will serve as a fitting testament to Rick Wright, the second founding member of Floyd to pass on (after Syd Barrett in 2006). Floyd albums are always going to have a special place in my heart, and Rick Wright influenced my growth as a musician and music lover tremendously. He’ll be missed. Enjoy that great gig in the sky, Rick, and thanks, from keyboard players everywhere.

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I’ve bought a ton of music in the past two weeks, but I haven’t found a whole lot of time to listen to it, unfortunately. And we’re in the middle of the Hurricane Ike of release periods – I’m getting a minimum of four new albums every week until November. Next week I’ll have heard a bunch of them, and I’ll give you my thoughts. But this week, here’s a look at what’s ahead:

September 30 is massive. I’m probably most anticipating and dreading Way to Normal, the new Ben Folds album – nothing I’ve heard has knocked me out, and in fact much of it has turned me off completely. It sounds like frat-boy shenanigans, like he could have written some great songs, but decided to play his PS2 instead, and just made shit up in the studio. I don’t have high hopes. I’m much more confident about Ani Difranco’s Red Letter Year, which sounds like a full band effort again after years of minimalist experimentation.

But wait, there’s more! Neal Morse will release another prog-tastic record, called Lifeline. Todd Rundgren makes his twice-a-decade return with something called Arena, which promises to be a more guitar-heavy excursion. Tom Morello dusts off his Nightwatchman persona again for some more protest folk on The Hidden City, and The Jesus and Mary Chain finally get that four-CD set of b-sides and rarities together. (They’ve given it the delicious title The Power of Negative Thinking.)

The early weeks of October will bring new things from Oasis (Dig Out Your Soul), Ray LaMontagne (Gossip in the Grain), and Deerhoof (Offend Maggie), but you all know the one I’m most excited about. It’s Perfect Symmetry, the third album from Keane, and while the first single (and leadoff track, “Spiralling”) kicks it ‘80s style, the other songs I’ve heard are much more Keane-sounding. Especially the album closer, “Love is the End.” I really like that one. So we’ll see what they came up with.

Here’s just a straight list of the other acts with new records in the first three weeks of October: Of Montreal, Rachel Yamagata, Secret Machines, Revolting Cocks, Sixpence None the Richer, Snow Patrol, Chris Cornell (Produced by fucking Timbaland. Seriously.), the Dears, Hank Williams III, AC/DC (sold exclusively at Wal-Mart, as if that weren’t a sign of the apocalypse), and …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead.

The last week, though, has some big ones. October 28 will see the release of 4:13 Dream, the new Cure album – originally planned as a double, this is technically part one, and contains all the upbeat tracks. The downbeat ones are scheduled for release next year, but I’ll believe that when I see it. Queen and Paul Rodgers piss on Freddie Mercury’s grave with The Cosmos Rocks, and because I am a sucker completist, I will buy it. Starflyer 59 will release Dial M, and Ryan Adams and the Cardinals return with the just-announced Cardinology.

Oh, and somewhere in there, Marillion’s Happiness is the Road will hit my mailbox. I’m loving it more with each listen. The two discs will be released individually to U.S. stores on October 20. If you can only buy just one, get Essence, the first volume.

November brings a ton of stuff as well, including the new Travis (Ode to J. Smith), a new Shiny Toy Guns (Season of Poison), another Tracy Chapman disc (Our Bright Future), Scott Weiland’s second solo album (Happy), and, for some reason, the third Killers album (Day and Age). Autumn will also hopefully bring us Michael Roe’s new solo album, the Lost Dogs’ Route 66 project, and that long-awaited collaboration between Roe and Michael Pritzl.

The farthest outpost on my musical map of the year right now is 808s and Heartbreaks, the fourth Kanye West album, scheduled (for the moment) to drop on December 16. But if the last two months of 2008 fill in the way October has, we could be in for an expensive fall.

Okay, I’m out for the week – going to try to listen to a few CDs in preparation for next week, when I should be able to review Lindsey Buckingham, Amanda Palmer and Jenny Lewis, at least. Thanks for your patience.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

This is my 400th column.

I’m coming right up on the end of my eighth year doing this thing, and if all proceeds the way it’s supposed to, I’ll hit 500 sometime in August of my 10th year. That’s a tremendous amount of time to dedicate to a single project, but when I look back at the best stuff I’ve done here since 2000, I’m pretty proud of it. I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have.

So here’s my semi-annual thank you to everyone who’s been along for this ride. New converts, longtime readers, what have you – I’m glad you’re here. This would be pretty pointless without you, and I appreciate the friends I’ve made through this column, and the letters I receive on a regular basis. Music is the best, as the man once said, and I’m grateful I get to share my love of it with you, and hear about your love of it in return.

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I got the strangest e-mail from Marillion this week.

As any longtime reader knows, Marillion is pretty high on my list of favorite bands. They’re also one of the most forward-looking, all-inclusive, cutting-edge marketing machines on the planet, and they never fail to surprise me on that score. From album pre-orders to concert subscription services to free samplers for new listeners to revolutionary fan-powered enterprises, this is a band that has remained completely independent for many years mainly by being unbelievably imaginative.

Their 15th album, Happiness is the Road, is weeks away from release. Here is a rundown of some of the extraordinary things they’ve done so far to make this an experience for the fans. First, they held another pre-order, and somewhere between 12,000 and 15,000 fans ponied up for the new record before a single note was recorded. They used that money to make the record, and to pay for gorgeous packaging – two hardcover books in a thick slipcase, loaded with images. Then, they listed the names of everyone who pre-ordered in the liner notes.

They held a couple of drawings for pre-orderers, the most interesting of which offered a chance to play on the new album. One lucky woman got to travel to the Racket Club, Marillion’s studio, and play finger cymbals on “Essence,” one of the new tracks. A couple of months ago, the band launched another contest, this one on YouTube – fans were given a new song for free, and asked to create their own video for it and post it online. The video with the most views by the end of the year will get $10,000, and an additional 10 grand will go to the band’s favorite entry.

All of this is brilliant grass-roots marketing, but it wasn’t until this week that I realized just how far outside the box they’ve been thinking. Knowing full well that this new album would hit file-sharing sites within hours of promo copies being sent out, the band decided to distribute the album on those sites themselves. Or, more accurately, they asked us, their fans, to do it.

Their e-mail, sent just to those of us who pre-ordered, offered a chance to download the entire new album (all 110 minutes of it) for ourselves, and then download and distribute separate specially-coded files of all of the songs. These files will direct downloaders to another site, where they will be asked to enter an e-mail address, and be given the option to pay for the track. They don’t have to pay anything, but the files they download are heavily DRM-encoded, which means they can’t be burned to a disc or transferred to an iPod.

The idea, apparently, is to flood file-sharing sites with these files, so they will drown out the inevitable DRM-free leak of the album. At the very least, the band reasons, they’ll get e-mail addresses out of it, and can hopefully encourage those people to buy a concert ticket, or another album from the band’s site. The decision to let the pre-orderers download clean copies for themselves must have been a difficult one – the band knew just how upset some fans would be if they gave the new record away for free to everyone who wanted it, so this is a courtesy if anything, but they must also know that these clean files will find their way to the same sites as the encoded ones.

It’s a bold idea, though, and I hope it works for them. The publicity it’s generated can be a good and bad thing – it’s drawn more attention to the little band that could, and hopefully will drive up sales from people like me who hate file-sharing and all it represents, but now that the freeloaders know these files are out there, they’ll likely find them a lot easier to avoid, especially if clean files are on the same sites. I wish Marillion every success with what could not have been an easy course to chart.

As for me, I wouldn’t know how to upload files if you paid me, so I just took my free download and left it at that. I hope that’s okay with the band – I’ve pre-ordered Happiness twice, actually, to have it in deluxe and standard packaging, and I promise all I’ve been doing is listening to the clean files, not sharing them. (Well, I’ve been playing them for people too, but not sharing the files… you know what I mean.) I thought about waiting for my pre-order to arrive, but I’m a weak, weak man. And besides, I could get into some freak accident and die before it shows up, missing my chance to hear it at all.

Does that rationalization work for you? Because it worked for me.

I’ll give a full review of Happiness is the Road next month. I’m grateful for the extra time with it, honestly, because in six or so listens, I’ve gone from “This is monotonous, boring dreck” to “This is one of the best albums they’ve ever made,” and I think it’s slowly starting to click. It’s a Marillion album unlike any other, and at the same time, it’s very much what they do. I can’t wait to hear the real thing.

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This one’s for Steve Pelland.

I was 14 years old when …And Justice for All, the fourth Metallica album, was released. It was one of the first albums I remember waiting for, and buying as soon as it came out. It was also the first Metallica album I heard all the way through – I’d heard scattered songs, like “Fade to Black” and “The Four Horsemen,” but never an entire record. And as a church-going teen, it was something of a scary endeavor. I actually hesitated pressing play that first time, but I’d heard over and over again that Metallica was the best band in the world, and I had to find out if that was true.

If you’ve never heard it, …And Justice for All is an amazing, oppressive, dark, difficult, poorly-mixed album of intensely complicated metal. It was Metallica’s first record after the death of their original bassist, Cliff Burton, and they clearly felt they had something to prove – there is nothing fun about this album at all, and it’s 65 minutes long. It’s a punishing experience, an exhausting first go-round for a newbie.

But it led me to the Holy Trilogy, the Burton albums: 1983’s Kill ‘Em All, 1984’s Ride the Lightning, and 1986’s incredible Master of Puppets, considered by many the best metal album ever made. It’s hard to argue – Puppets is a progressive masterpiece, as complex and beautiful as it is heavy and angry. Metallica gets credit for being louder and faster than most other bands, but they’re not usually thought of as melodic, and they never really get props for the prettier moments on their records, like the intro to “Battery” and the glorious middle section of “Orion.”

Anyway. As I was absorbing these monumental records (and finding more artists like Metallica to enjoy), I met Steve Pelland. He worked with me at a local grocery store while we were both in high school, and we bonded over (you guessed it) Metallica. And Megadeth, and Testament, and a few other bands too, but mostly Metallica. He was my best teenage metalhead friend. So when Metallica announced their new album in 1991, a self-titled affair with an all-black cover, well, Pell and I had to hear it together.

We’d heard “Enter Sandman,” of course, and while we made excuses for it, we knew it wasn’t the Metallica we loved. The rest of the Black Album was the same – simple songs, often based around one riff, most of them around five minutes long. I can say this now, although I couldn’t say it then – it was boring. There were good points: the riff on “Sad But True” remains a monster, and “Nothing Else Matters” is still the prettiest thing the band has done. But it was lacking, and we were disappointed.

Steve and I went our separate ways when I took off for college, and I never really got to hear what he thought of where our favorite band went after that. It turns out, the Black Album was the template for everything else for more than 10 years. Load and ReLoad were simplistic boogie-rock, taking much of their sound from ‘70s radio. They were probably fun to make, but they weren’t much fun to listen to.

And St. Anger, the “comeback” album from 2003, clearly wasn’t a good time for anyone. That record brought back the aggressive vibe of the old days, but crippled it with terrible songs, insanely bad production and the incredible decision to excise Kirk Hammett’s solos from the process. It’s still the Metallica album I play the least.

It’s fair to call me a long-suffering Metallica fan, and I’d bet Pell feels the same way. I approach each new Metalliproject with skepticism and cynicism now – I’ve been burned too many times. Will I buy every new album from the band? Sure. Do I expect to enjoy them? Not really.

I can’t say I went into Death Magnetic, the just-released ninth Metallica record, with any real hope. Our boys are old now – they’re all in their mid-40s, even new bassist Robert Trujillo, and long past their metal sell-by date. Then there’s that title. Death Magnetic doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. It’s certainly not a statement like Kill ‘Em All or …And Justice For All. And then there was the St. Anger experience, which has taught me to ignore any and all claims that the band has “recaptured their old fire.” My mantra has become “I’ll believe that when I hear it.”

Well, sit down, Metallifans. I’ve just heard it, and I believe it.

Death Magnetic is the best Metallica album in 20 years, the best thing they’ve done since Justice, easy.

I know, I know, hard to believe. But they’ve done it. They’ve made a stone cold classic album, two decades after their last one. Credit producer Rick Rubin, who unfailingly brings out the best in his clients. But also credit James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich, who turned in their best batch of songs since the Reagan years, and credit the whole band for playing these songs so tightly, so powerfully. I hope it’s not an insult to say they sound half their age on this thing.

Just listen to opener “That Was Just Your Life,” and your faith will be restored. After a lengthy, doomy intro played on clean guitars, that riff starts up, and Ulrich hammers his drums, first in straight time, then in “FUCK YEAH!” thrashy double-time. The song takes a hundred hairpin turns – it’s as progressive as anything on Justice, and as heavy. Despite their reputation as speed-happy screamers, Metallica has always been a melodies band, and they don’t disappoint here – these explosive metal epics have choruses and hooks, too, and this one’s is awesome.

And then, of course, there is Hammett. He’s unleashed here for the first time in a decade, and his solos are massive. The brief one in “That Was Just Your Life” ends with a classic Hammett whammy-bar divebomb, and I couldn’t keep the goofy grin from my face. My inner metalhead’s favorite band is so very, very back.

The rest of the album is, astonishingly, just as good. I chuckled a bit at the title of “All Nightmare Long,” but it turned out to be my favorite thing here. The chorus is somewhat nu-Metallica, but the verses and instrumental sections are right out of the classic era. “The Day That Never Comes” resembles “One” a little much, but its second half shreds. Most of these songs break seven minutes, and unlike the endless dirges on St. Anger, they deserve that length. Hell, there’s a 10-minute instrumental (“Suicide and Redemption”), on which you can really hear how good Trujillo is, and it rocks.

There is one speed bump, and if you’ve glanced at the track list, you can probably guess what it is. “The Unforgiven III” is a slower power-ballad kind of thing, and it doesn’t quite belong amidst all these complex epics. I have not yet (ahem) forgiven the original “Unforgiven” for inspiring Nickelback’s whole career, and the sequel (on ReLoad) wasn’t worth my time either. Happily, the third one is the best of the bunch, but its orchestral touches and slow power chords drag the record down.

It’s not fatal, however, and it is the only low point on an album full of highs. Even simple pieces like “Cyanide” drip attitude and confidence, two things missing from every album since 1988. And trickier ones, like “The End of the Line,” sound so damn good you’ll think you’re listening to some mythical lost album from the golden years. They couldn’t have picked a better closing song than “My Apocalypse,” sort of a five-minute coda – it fills the same role as “Damage Inc.” and “Dyer’s Eve,” bringing the album to a crashing, heart-stopping halt.

I don’t know if Steve Pelland’s bought this thing yet, but he’s going to love it. I know, I know, I didn’t believe it either, especially after the band whined their way through Some Kind of Monster and started suing their fans. But somehow, they’ve done it. For the first time in 20 years, Metallica has made a great album, and as a long-frustrated fan, I’m pleased to report that it’s safe to come back now. Is it as good as the Holy Trilogy? Of course not. But you won’t believe how good it actually is.

Pell, let me know when you’ve heard it. I can’t wait to hear what you think.

Next week, Lindsey Buckingham and Amanda Palmer.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I only bought one CD this week.

My usual average is about four, and sometimes I buy as many as eight or nine, but this week… one. I didn’t plan it, it was just an accident of the calendar. And it was just a trick of fate that the one album I wanted this week was Brian Wilson’s That Lucky Old Sun.

I say this because my normal propensity towards buying lots and lots of new music leaves me little time each week to fully absorb each new nugget I bring home. But this week, I’ve had days and days to listen to nothing but That Lucky Old Sun, and I’ve been grateful for them. I have probably heard it 15 times by now, and I suppose the first of many nice things I plan to say about this new album is that I’m nowhere near sick of it. I’ve tried listening to other things, in fact, and I’ve come back to That Lucky Old Sun again and again.

I really didn’t expect that would be the case. Quite honestly, I’ve been dreading the release of this album ever since it was announced, and living in fear of it for a month, especially as I watched the release calendar take shape and realized I’d have nothing else to write about this week.

What do I mean? Well, in order to answer that, I have to delve into Brian Wilson’s incredible history, and talk about his masterpiece, SMiLE. Wilson, as everyone knows, led the Beach Boys through one golden-throated good-time single after another in the early ‘60s before evolving into possibly the greatest pop genius America had yet produced.

In the beginning, they were the “no. 1 surfing group in the country,” as the cover of their second album, Surfin’ USA, proclaimed. But it was always the harmonies of the Wilson brothers – Brian, Carl and Dennis – with their cousin Mike Love that set them apart. “I Get Around,” for example, is a very simple little song, but the vocal arrangement is amazing. Beach Boys songs were all about sun, surf and fun, and practically created the image of southern California as a surfer’s paradise. It was a formula, but it worked, and the band did it well.

But then, in 1966, Wilson unveiled the songs that would become Pet Sounds, the Beach Boys’ ninth album, and nothing would ever be the same. Pet Sounds is, in a word, perfect. It’s a sumptuously arranged, sad and beautiful pop record, and it includes a few of the greatest songs ever written, including “God Only Knows” – that song alone would have earned Wilson a place in the pop pantheon. This was not mindless surfin’ fun, this was deeply considered music, the work of a master.

Emboldened by his success with Pet Sounds (and challenged by the Beatles’ Revolver, released the same year), Wilson started working on his masterpiece, a “teenage symphony to God” called SMiLE. This album would take the pop-as-orchestral-composition leanings of Pet Sounds further – it would be a seamless suite of sometimes zany, sometimes heartfelt songs that would stretch Wilson’s talents as producer and arranger. It would have been astonishing.

But it didn’t happen. At least, not in 1967, when it was supposed to.

Wilson finished “Good Vibrations,” the first single, and it was released to great critical acclaim. But under pressure from his bandmates, his label and others, Wilson crumbled, and left the studio sessions unfinished. In May of 1967, SMiLE was called off. The Beach Boys continued on, but never made another album like Pet Sounds. And Brian Wilson slipped into depression, drugs and mental illness, none of it helped by his relationship with controversial therapist Eugene Landy, and didn’t come out of it until the 1990s.

Wilson’s music suffered tremendously in that time. He contributed to Beach Boys projects, but only sparingly. His first solo album, self-titled and released in 1988. was weak, save for the fantastic “Love and Mercy.” His second proper album of new stuff, Imagination, came 10 years later, and wasn’t a lot better. It seemed we had lost one of our only true geniuses, as Wilson struggled just to be happy from day to day.

So the news that a reinvigorated Wilson, at 62 years old, had decided to finally finish SMiLE was met with understandable skepticism. Hell, I was certain it would be crap, especially considering the mediocrity of Gettin’ In Over My Head, Wilson’s 2004 solo disc. Sadly, that album contained some of Wilson’s best songs in more than 30 years, and they were no great shakes. Could Wilson finally drag himself out of decades of depression, overcome his paralyzing fear of the music on SMiLE, and deliver?

Hell yes, he could. The finished SMiLE, released near the end of 2004, is quite simply one of the best albums ever made, by anyone. I do not say that lightly. It is joyous and brilliant and melancholy and goofy and complex and perfectly arranged. It is the work of a fearless young composer, finished and spit-shined by his grand master elder self. And if you don’t want to take just my word for it, look at the album’s Metacritic page. It scored an impossible 97 out of 100, and is the site’s highest-regarded album ever.

The triumph of SMiLE has a lot to do with the obstacles Wilson was working against – he had to crawl back into his 1967 mind and complete a long-lost project that had grown mythical in its stature, he had to conquer his own terror in doing so, and he had to whip his ruined voice into shape to sing the complex melody lines he’d written as a 24-year-old. It should not have worked. It worked magnificently.

The problem is this – as soon as the glow of SMiLE faded, the eternal question of “what’s next” began cropping up. How do you follow up one of the best albums ever made? Do you even try?

I’m not sure I would have, if I were Brian Wilson. Having vaulted over the biggest musical and personal hurdle of my life, I think I’d probably have taken it easy for a while, retired to an island somewhere. As a Brian Wilson fan, I can think of nothing more dreadful than him following SMiLE with album after album of withering returns, blasé and mediocre records like Gettin’ In Over My Head.

And so I shivered a bit when I heard earlier this year that Wilson had premiered a new work in London, a 38-minute suite of songs meant as the successor to SMiLE. I literally shivered. When I then heard that Wilson was recording That Lucky Old Sun for release in 2008, my heart stopped. Here was What’s Next, and would it live up? Was SMiLE a creative rebirth for America’s greatest living songwriter, or was it an aberration? Could a 65-year-old Wilson possibly compete with his 24-year-old self? Would it even be fair to judge this new album against SMiLE?

See? Paralyzed with fear. I bought That Lucky Old Sun on Tuesday, and took it home, performing ritual prayers over it. “Please don’t suck,” I chanted. “Please don’t suck.”

Thirty-eight minutes later, I exhaled. And then I let out a whoop of joy. And then I pressed play again.

And again.

And again.

And I haven’t stopped yet.

Let me be absolutely clear right at the outset. That Lucky Old Sun is not SMiLE. Nothing else is, frankly. But remove that album from the equation, and Lucky Old Sun is Brian Wilson’s finest, deepest, catchiest and best work since Pet Sounds. It is a love letter to life, an examination of California culture and Wilson’s place within it. It is, in many ways, the most important album Brian Wilson has ever made, and he’s bravely met the challenge head on.

That Lucky Old Sun is a 38-minute seamless suite, as promised. Wilson has based it around the title song, a Louis Armstrong hit from his childhood, and its hook line – “That lucky old sun’s got nothing to do but roll around Heaven all day” – gives him the chance to mold the album around his two favorite subjects, California and God. He’s also incorporated four spoken narratives into the framework, written by SMiLE collaborator Van Dyke Parks.

But the real wonder of this album is Wilson’s own contributions. Technically, there are 11 new Brian Wilson songs here, most co-written with Scott Bennett, although they all wrap together into a cohesive whole. And they’re great little songs. You can immediately hear the difference between a Brian Wilson going through the motions, and a Brian Wilson fully engaged in his work. Put simply, the songs on Gettin’ In Over My Head could have been written by anyone. The songs on That Lucky Old Sun could only have been written by Brian Wilson.

After stating the theme with the title song, Wilson kicks off the proceedings proper with “Morning Beat,” a simple rocker buoyed by the glorious “maumamayama glory hallelujah” refrain. I quite like this one and “Good Kind of Love,” a goofy little tune with a catchy chorus, but things really take off with “Forever She’ll Be My Surfer Girl.” A sequel to 1963’s “Surfer Girl,” this is the first hint you get that this album is going to be about looking back and looking forward at once. It’s also a fantastic song, pure golden pop.

I can’t understate just how great Wilson’s backing band, including members of the Wondermints, is. Though these songs are less complex by far than SMiLE, they are no less intricately put together, and the band is up to every challenge Wilson throws at them. And they harmonize like a choir of angels. Even middling tunes like “Mexican Girl” come alive with this band, and gleaming gems like “Live Let Live” are wonderful to behold. Wilson’s voice isn’t what it used to be, and he sometimes has trouble hitting the notes, but he’s surrounded himself with generous musicians committed to doing justice to his songs, and making him sound good.

As much as I love the first two-thirds of That Lucky Old Sun, if it had merely gone on like that for all 38 minutes, I would have called it better than expected and filed it away. But the last third… I can barely find the words, honestly, I’m so moved by it every time I hear it. While much of the album sets the scene, the last six tracks give you the story, and it’s about Brian Wilson himself.

For the first time, Wilson has taken a long look at his lost years, and here, he bravely sings about them. It sounds like the final step in his recovery, the last few paces on the road to joy. “Oxygen to the Brain” is a delightfully goony fable about waking up, on which Wilson sings, “I wasted a lot of years, life was so dead…” Over a very silly (and very Wilson-esque) backdrop, he comes to: “I’m filling up my lungs again, and breathing in life…”

A snippet of old song “Can’t Wait Too Long” paves the way for “Midnight’s Another Day,” the emotional heart of the album. A gorgeous piano ballad, “Midnight” is a song of regret and recovery. “Waited too long to feel the warmth, I had to chase the sun,” Wilson sings, tying the record together with a master stroke. His voice is as strong as it’s been in years here, but its weaknesses only enhance the song – you really feel like he’s lived this piece. “Lost in the dark, no shades of gray, until I found midnight’s another day…”

Nothing, then, will prepare you for the pure and unrestrained joy of “Going Home,” the penultimate track. A monstrous boogie layered with Beach Boys harmonies, the song finds Wilson returning to California and breathing it in for the first time in ages. “I heard my sound, I found my smile,” he sings, cleverly nodding to his masterwork as the backing vocalists sing snippets from “Roll Plymouth Rock.” The bridge is a heart-stopper: “At twenty-five I turned out the light ‘cause I couldn’t handle the glare in my tired eyes, but now I’m back drawing shades of kind blue skies…”

If the album had ended there, I would have been happy, but “Southern California” is an even better finale. It’s back to the piano, but this time, it’s sweet and major-key. Try not to get goosebumps at the opening lines – while the backing vocalists “ooh-ooh” like it’s 1963 again, Wilson sings, “I had this dream, singing with my brothers…” Both Dennis and Carl are gone now, and you can hear how much he misses them. The song is a lovely reminiscence, bringing the album’s themes together with a lovely flourish. “When you wake up here, you wake up everywhere,” Wilson sings, looking up at the lucky old sun as it rolls around Heaven.

Here’s the kicker: “Oh, it’s magical, living your dreams, don’t want to sleep, you might miss something…”

This, from the saddest man in pop music, the one who wrote “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” and “In My Room” and “Caroline, No.” The real theme of That Lucky Old Sun is that Brian Wilson is finally, after decades of struggle, a happy man. And I’m happy for him. This album is a joy to listen to, and was clearly a joy to make. Most importantly, it shows beyond a doubt that SMiLE was no fluke – it was the opening of the floodgates, perhaps the start of a renaissance for this gentle genius.

I’m trying not to oversell That Lucky Old Sun, but it’s hard – I love it very much. It’s not SMiLE, but it is one of the most conceptually and musically rich albums of the year, and what’s wrong with it pales into insignificance when stacked next to what’s right with it. Brian Wilson is alive and awake, breathing in life and making great music, and right now, I can’t imagine anything more beautiful. That Lucky Old Sun is a triumph, perhaps even more than SMiLE was – if a lesser work musically, it’s a deeper one personally, an emotionally bold album that sums up Wilson’s career, and looks forward to new wonders on the horizon.

It’s a beautiful thing. I feel as lucky as the sun to have heard it.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

“I have yet to find a way to describe what Joanna Newsom does and make it sound appealing.”

That’s my friend Michael Ferrier talking, and sadly, I agree. I’ve come up with a dozen different ways to explain her music – it’s epic harp-prog-folk with chirpy vocals, for example – but I’ve never found one that makes people say, “Yeah, I want to hear that.”

In fact, even playing Joanna Newsom songs for people often has a detrimental effect. When I named her second album, Ys, the best record of 2006, many just shook their heads in confusion. Many more thought I was kidding, pulling a large-scale prank on my friends and readers. Ten-minute songs, harp and strings, that childlike voice – most people I know just couldn’t wrap their heads around it, which I totally understand.

So for them, sitting third-row-center in Chicago’s Symphony Hall for two and a half hours as Newsom plays most of her ouvre might seem like torture. But to me, it was a magical Friday night. For the first half, Newsom, looking absolutely radiant, played all of Ys in order, backed by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. The shortest song on this album is seven minutes, and the longest is 18, but that hour just flew by. It was almost sensory overload, trying to watch Newsom deftly pluck her harp while catching drummer Neal Morgan rearranging his kit to add subtle shadings, and taking in the whole orchestra all at once too. It was amazing.

For the second half, Newsom returned with just her three-piece Ys Street Band – Morgan, violinist Lila Sklar and guitar/banjo/tambura player Ryan Francesconi. They played almost all of The Milk-Eyed Mender, Newsom’s 2004 debut. The quartet harmonized beautifully, adding so much to the old songs – “Bridges and Balloons” was particularly beautiful, and “The Book of Right-On” took on a sinister edge. They slammed through “Colleen,” the new song included on last year’s live EP, and I think that was my favorite of the set. But it’s hard to choose.

Newsom also played a selection of new songs, and they were all old-time folk numbers. I suspect, in reaction to the massive Ys, she’s planning her third album as a small, simple set, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she used her touring band in the studio. The new tunes were very old Americana, and while I don’t know the names of any of them, I was especially thrilled with the final encore, a sweet, direct love song.

I learned, watching her play, that Newsom is in complete control of that high, idiosyncratic voice – what sounds random and surprising on record comes off as meticulously arranged live, her mouth contorting to get different sounds out at exact times, and she’s really learned to use her voice as an instrument in the years since Mender. I also learned that playing the harp is hard – Newsom’s hands were flying at all times, and it looked like a pretty good cardio workout.

The show was magical, and I’m very glad I got to see it. Thanks to Mike and Joyce for coming with me – seeing something this wonderfully odd is always better when you’re with people who get it too. I’m excited for Newsom’s third, and for the opportunity to play her bizarre, beautiful work for more people, despite the head-scratches and quizzical looks I’ll no doubt get.

* * * * *

It seems like every week now, there’s something new to download. New singles from bands like Coldplay and Keane, whole albums from Nine Inch Nails and Radiohead – it seems like the movement is growing daily, with more and more bands getting into the act.

The latest is Bloc Party. The cleverly-named British quartet released their third album, Intimacy, online last week for a cool ten bucks. (If, like me, you enjoy packaging and want the hard copy, that’s 20 bucks, and you have to wait until October. But the download is included, and you get that now.) If nothing else, this plays up the immediacy of the web – according to band members, Intimacy was finished about two weeks ago. Most revenue-eating leaks take place in that four-to-six-month lead time the record companies need to set up packaging, marketing and distribution, so releasing something online days after it’s finished heads that off at the pass, too. Hard to leak something if you don’t know it exists.

Oddly enough, though, Intimacy feels like an online-only release, a transitional experiment on the way to a real third album. Maybe it’s just my bias towards tangible context coming out, but these 10 songs don’t hang together as an album to me, and taken all at once, they depict a band still searching for a new direction, instead of a band confidently striding off in one.

About half of this album sounds like Bloc Party. The jittery rock explosions of Silent Alarm are here (“Halo,” “One Month Off”), as well as the expansive ambient balladry of A Weekend in the City (“Biko,” “Ion Square”). The other half, though, brings in a new big beat influence, and concentrates on electronic texture rather than melody. Opener “Ares” sounds like Run-DMC (really) before sliding into a spectral middle eight, and “Mercury” may as well be its own dance remix, singer Kele Okereke repeating “My Mercury’s in retrograde” over a thumping beat until you want to smack him.

Some experiments work better, though. “Signs” is lovely, opening with chimes right out of Peter Gabriel’s “San Jacinto” and building up to a trance-like synthesizer cloudwalk. “Zepherus” is even better, floating on what sounds like a full choir (hard to tell without liner notes), electronic beats skating in and out – it’s like a lost Bjork production.

Still and all, there aren’t a lot of captivating songs here, and the emotional heft of Weekend is all but missing. Perhaps the most memorable thing here is “Biko,” which is not the famous Peter Gabriel song, but another one (seemingly) about the anti-apartheid activist. Over glorious atmospheric guitar and a skittering beat, Okereke sings, “Biko, toughen up, I need you to be strong for us.” Of all 10 songs here, this is the only one that has stayed with me for longer than a few minutes.

In the same way that digital distribution is still feeling its way around, trying to choose one of the 20,000 forms it could take, Bloc Party is trying to decide what kind of band it will turn into next. Intimacy is the sound of the chrysalis slowly pushing open – it’s not fully formed, but you can see the shape of the wings, and feel its desire to fly. The fourth album is going to be fascinating, but for now, Intimacy is just a rest stop on the way there.

* * * * *

I can count the number of Matthew Sweet songs I don’t like without running out of fingers. Considering he’s made 10 albums and an EP over 22 years, that’s a very good average.

Unfortunately, about half of those lousy songs can be found on Living Things, Sweet’s last album, released in 2004. A gloopy, pseudo-psychedelic, melodically-challenged mess, Living Things dimmed my hope for Sweet’s post-label career, and the fact that he’s only surfaced for a light, breezy covers album with Susannah Hoffs since then has done little to change that impression.

Sweet didn’t necessarily need to return to form – some people liked Living Things, and it was a minor speed bump in an otherwise exemplary pop career for me. But he has anyway with Sunshine Lies, his 10th album, which takes all the psychedelic touches of his last few records and marries them to a) terrific songs, and b) loud, crunchy guitars.

Lies most resembles 1999’s In Reverse, which is a good thing for me – I think that’s Sweet’s best album. Sunshine Lies isn’t quite as good, but amidst the looping backwards guitar noise and the oceans of often random-sounding backing vocals are some excellent songs. “Time Machine,” the opener, is a bit sing-songy, but the album really picks up with “Room to Rock,” with its stomping, dirty-ass riff.

The album goes back and forth like that for most of its running time, alternating gentle moments with rock and roll gems. “Byrdgirl” lives up to its name, with its ringing Roger McGuinn guitar sound and soaring melody, and it’s followed immediately by “Flying,” which pushes Sweet’s “rawk” voice to its limits. The louder songs benefit most from the trademark Sweet production – feedback and noise are accentuated, lead guitars toppling over one another in a seemingly haphazard fashion.

That said, my favorites here are the softer numbers. The title track, featuring Hoffs on backing vocals, sports one of Sweet’s more indelible tunes, and “Pleasure is Mine” is a delightful little song without, it seems, a trace of irony. The album ends with “Back of My Mind,” an epic ballad that will keep on playing in your head after its 5:07 has run out.

Sweet made a huge splash in the ‘90s with a simple (and simply great) little record called Girlfriend. He’s never captured the public’s attention in quite the same way since, and that’s the public’s loss. Sweet’s catalog is overflowing with masterful pop songs, and Sunshine Lies fits right in. It’s another splendid Matthew Sweet record, and it’s been too damn long since we’ve had one of those.

* * * * * *

It’s been a while since I enjoyed a Levellers album.

Their golden age, for me, started with 1991’s awesome Levelling the Land and ended with 2000’s studio masterpiece, Hello Pig. Those five albums (excluding the disappointing self-titled effort from 1993) firmly established their punk-pop-rock-with-a-fiddle sound, and then obliterated it, ending up in a psychedelic ‘60s pop place that suited them brilliantly. Since then, Levellers albums have been restrained affairs, hearkening back to Levelling without capturing that fire.

It turns out, all they needed was to get really, really angry. That’s the secret behind Letters From the Underground, the best and most incendiary Levs record this decade. The album is a 36-minute double-barrel barrage, loud and pissed and spitting vinegar, and the band sounds revitalized, as if they’ve awoken from a coma. Staying with that image, it’s almost as if the band woke up, took a look around, found the world had gone to shit, and immediately vomited up these 11 songs.

You can hear the change right away. “The Cholera Well” will knock you over if you’re not careful, Jon Sevink’s blistering fiddle kicking things off before the thunderous guitars crash in. The song is a two-and-a-half-minute scathing indictment of U.S. and U.K. foreign policies, and the genocides and terrorist acts that grow out of them. “By night the U.S. planes descend, deals are struck with payroll friends, an arms bazaar that never ends, and the Russians land by morning,” spits Mark Chadwick over the most awesome musical firescape the band has laid down in years.

The tone remains constant, even when the music slows down. “Burn America Burn,” the first single, takes aim at school shootings, calling them a symptom of America’s disease. (You know the song isn’t going to be subtle when it starts with, “There’s a shooter in the school, keep your fucking heads down…”) The devastating “Behold a Pale Rider” (the album’s epic at 4:50) references the London bombings and ties them to the war for oil, culminating in a long look in the mirror: “And millions cried sweet Mary, a million more cried tears of shame, when they saw what they had done in the name of all their hopes and fears, when they realized what they’d became…”

The band’s hearts are with the soldiers and the searchers throughout this album. “Heart of the Country” is about looking for the titular core of one’s homeland, and only finding “restricted zones,” while closer “Fight or Flight” depicts a man pushed to the brink: “Can you help me, ‘cause I need to understand the truth behind the plan…” Even the album’s one love song, “Before the End,” is relentlessly dark, lamenting the “one kiss to build a dream upon.”

But if I’ve made it sound like this album is no fun, I’m telling it wrong. Letters is a bullet – it’s over before you know it, a flurry of drums, guitars and fiddles burning up the sky. The songs are all tight, and none is longer than it needs to be – it’s the closest the Levs have come to a punk album in years, maybe ever. And while the wonderful pop sound they discovered in the late ‘90s is absent, for the first time, I don’t miss it – this is a perfect mission statement for the Levellers, an important dose of social criticism wrapped up in some of the most fiery music they’ve ever made.

It’s been a while since I enjoyed a Levellers album, but with Letters From the Underground, they’ve stormed the hill and held it. It’s their best record in nearly a decade. Try it here.

* * * * *

We begin and end with Mike Ferrier, who originally got me into Girlyman. Mike saw the golden-voiced trio open for the Indigo Girls, and loved them straight away. He bought me their debut album, Remember Who I Am, and I liked it quite a bit. But subsequent albums sounded much too similar to me, and I never even got around to reviewing Joyful Sign, their third effort. I admit I’ve never really heard what Mike heard in them, and I was about ready to give up trying.

And then, they went and wowed me. Somewhere Different Now, the trio’s first live album, is in many ways the only Girlyman album you’ll ever need. (That’s a compliment, but I doubt the band will take it as such.) At 29 tracks and 77 minutes, it looks exhausting on paper, but it’s a joyous breeze, an old-time hootenanny.

About half of those 29 tracks are snippets of between-song banter and Nate Borofsky’s infamous tuning songs – little ditties he makes up while his bandmates Ty Greenstein and Doris Muramatsu tune up their guitars. And they make the album. The bit about cannons in pop songs is priceless, the running gag about “Hava Nagila” is a riot, and the spontaneous “Let’s Go to Church” is hilarious. Girlyman concerts are, clearly, just a chance for these three friends to hang out on stage together, and the atmosphere is loose and light.

And then there is the music, which for some reason sounds so much better on stage than in the sterile confines of the studio. The Girlyman secret is, of course, the three voices, intertwining and dancing together, and live, they play off of each other, not just harmonizing (which they do beautifully) but flying around each other, arcing skyward with unrestrained joy. I’ve rarely heard three voices that belong together more than these – Nate, Ty and Doris are all good singers on their own, but together, their voices are impossibly beautiful. They’re like Voltron – the lions are formidable on their own, but when they combine to form the giant robot, they are unstoppable.

Girlyman songs are generally simple and understated, focusing on the voices. “This is Me,” early on, sets the tone – strummed guitars, harmonies, autobiographical observations. They just work better live for some reason. Songs that didn’t grab me on the records, like “Storms Were Mine” and “Say Goodbye,” are captivating on this collection. That humor is everywhere, though – halfway through “Hey Rose” they slip into Christina Aguilera’s “Genie in a Bottle” without warning, and the audience reaction is hysterical.

As expected, there are some covers here, but they’re fascinating choices, making a case for AM radio. Here is “All Through the Night,” a Jules Shear song popularized by Cyndi Lauper, and it’s lovely. Here as well is “Angel of the Morning” – yes, that one, written by Chip Taylor and sung by Juice Newton. And here is “Son of a Preacher Man,” the Dusty Springfield classic, used here as the punchline to the “Let’s Go to Church” gag. But the version here is a serious homage, and a terrific one.

And nestled at track 23 is the title song, a Ty Greenstein piece that has never appeared on a studio album. It may be the most beautiful Girlyman song I have heard, a simple coming-of-age ballad with some incredible harmonies. I’m not sure why this song has grabbed me so much, but it’s taken up residence in my head, and it won’t leave. For this song alone, I’m glad I didn’t give up on Girlyman.

If you’ve never tried Girlyman before, this is the one to get. Somewhere Different Now proves that Girlyman is a live act more than a studio one, and that I misjudged them just from their recorded output. There are more sides to this band than I suspected, and they’ve got me for at least the next couple of records. Meanwhile, you can buy this one here.

* * * * *

Next week, Brian Wilson. I’m equal parts excited and terrified for this one.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’ve just heard about LeRoi Moore’s death.

I first became aware of the Dave Matthews Band in 1994, a few weeks after the release of their breakthrough album, Under the Table and Dreaming. I was browsing in a record store (which is pretty much where I am when I’m not working) and I started feeling this nudge. There’s a part of my brain that is always attuned to what music is playing, wherever I am, and that part sometimes has to smack the rest of my brain to get it to listen.

I remember it was “Jimi Thing” that finally grabbed my attention. Now, you have to remember, in 1994, no one had ever heard a sound like the one the Dave Matthews Band concocted. Acoustic guitar, bass, violin, saxophone and drums? In the age of Nirvana, what the hell kind of band was that? But it worked. It was part jazz, part folk, part jam band, and all awesome.

This was months before Under the Table and Dreaming exploded all over the scene, turning the South African folkie and his band of jazzheads into unlikely superstars. It was actually permissible, in those days, to write about the Dave Matthews Band and just concentrate on the music, and the music was always good. I like the first three studio albums a lot, but best of all, I think, is 1998’s Before These Crowded Streets. It’s the one studio record that really captures how aggressive the band could be live – just about every song evolves into an extended jam, arcing higher and higher as it goes.

And there, in the thick of things, was Moore, wailing away on his array of saxophones. He was a hell of a player, even in the studio, but you had to hear him live to really get it. In fact, the whole band shone on stage, a five-piece that moved and thought as one. I know it’s not fashionable to praise the Dave Matthews Band, but if you can listen to just one of their many live albums all the way through and not agree that they’re great musicians, I don’t know what to tell you.

LeRoi Moore was in an ATV accident in June, during which he punctured a lung and broke a few ribs. He was released from the hospital days later, but readmitted in July for related reasons that remain unclear. On Tuesday, he died from his injuries, at the young age of 46. I’m glad I got to see him live, but I’m sad the original Dave Matthews Band will never play another gig, or make another record. Rest in peace, LeRoi. You’ll be missed.

* * * * *

This week I got to talk to D.L. Hughley.

Aw, who am I kidding? It was the undisputed highlight of my week so far. I GOT TO TALK TO D.L. HUGHLEY! Very nice guy, and he was absolutely up for what I hoped he’d be: a philosophical discussion on the state of modern comedy, and the art form he’s dedicated his life to. It was a good conversation, and he gave me innumerable great quotes. Plus, he called me from a golf course in Los Angeles, which I thought was kind of awesome.

So we started talking about Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, Aaron Sorkin’s latest show. Hughley played Simon Stiles, one of the stars of the show-within-a-show, and a bracing advocate of racial equality in comedy. It was a very good performance, but come to find out Hughley wasn’t thrilled with the writing on the program. He called the show “highbrow to the point of being exclusionary,” and we joked about needing to reference Wikipedia just to get all the jokes.

That got me thinking. I loved Studio 60, but Hughley’s right – occasionally the show just got too clever for its own good, which minimized its audience. Still, I’d never argue that anything should be dumbed down to suit the people watching it, or listening to it. I wondered, though – is there a point where complexity just translates into being difficult for its own sake? Sure, you’re impressing yourself, but who else is listening? And does it matter?

Take the Fiery Furnaces, for instance. The siblings Friedberger (singer Eleanor and mad genius Matthew) started out as a likable garage-blues band, but quickly transformed into this insane, schizophrenic, junk-prog outfit. Ten-minute songs, ever-changing sonic landscapes, songs with no melodies, songs with 500 melodies, songs that retain that punk-ish minimalism while being frigging impossible to play. Plus, they’re astonishingly prolific – they’ve turned out six studio records since 2003, and Matthew Friedberger found time to produce a double-disc solo album in there too.

I’ve been along for the ride, for the most part. I’m one of the few critics who thought Rehearsing My Choir, the 2005 album the Friedbergers made with their grandmother, was riveting. But lately, it’s started to sound a bit samey to me – listening to last year’s Widow City, I actually kind of longed for the simple bluesy stretches of their early stuff. But the further you tunnel up your own ass, the harder it is to back out again.

Case in point – here is Remember, the first Furnaces live album, and the most insane thing they’ve ever released. It is 130 minutes long, contains 51 tracks, and will give you a headache pretty quickly. There’s actually a warning on the back of the case: “Please do not attempt to listen to all at once.” I laughed at first, but they’re right – this is sensory overload, too much crazy to take in one big chunk.

I’ve actually been waiting for a Furnaces live album, since their concerts are legendary. Using a shifting lineup, the Furnaces go to great lengths to make sure no one show is the same as any other. While some bands will use their recorded versions as a jumping-off point, the Furnaces almost entirely disregard them. They rearrange the songs completely, often stripping them of anything recognizable. I’m not sure how they do it and keep it all straight on stage, so I was eager to hear a live document.

Remember is a live album the way Frank Zappa’s live albums were. Matthew Friedberger took four tours’ worth of live tapes and spliced them together, apparently at random. You’ll get 40 seconds of one song, then it will abruptly cut to two minutes of another, and so on. It gets worse – the four tours were not recorded at the same quality, so the splices are obvious. Eleanor will be singing with crystal clarity one moment, then sound like she’s in a cave five miles away the next. It’s jarring.

Even more ridiculous is the decision to splice together bits from the same song. I know, Zappa used to do this too, but you couldn’t really tell unless you were listening for it. Opener “Blueberry Boat” is about eight minutes long here – a little shorter than its studio counterpart – but it consists of the same bits of song repeated, played by different Furnaces lineups in different venues. Eleanor takes solace in her blueberry cargo four or five times here, and you’ll think your CD skipped backwards.

I have listened to all of Remember, and I don’t really understand what it’s trying to do. Sure, it’s complex, and there are nifty sections – there’s a great version of “Teach Me Sweetheart” on disc one, and a medley of songs from Choir on disc two that works well – but as a whole, it’s a bloody mess. Inaccessible isn’t even the word – Remember is impenetrable, and while I admire the musicianship and the time it must have taken to edit this thing together, I doubt I’m going to listen to it very often.

So where is the line? Where did the Furnaces finally lose me, on their journey towards unlistenable complexity? Can something be dazzlingly complicated and still musically moving?

Of course it can. Let me present the best example I’ve heard this year: Flight of the Knife, by Bryan Scary and the Shredding Tears. Right now, you are likely asking, “Who the fuck?” It took me a minute to get past the name, too – Bryan Scary immediately made me think of Richard Scarry, and the Shredding Tears? Um, what? But when the music is this good, who cares what the band is called?

Flight of the Knife sounds to me like Zappa joining Wings. The album is full of these incredible, memorable, melodic pop songs, like Jellyfish-quality pop songs. But it’s also astonishingly technical, complex music – time and tempo changes, musical reversals, moments where the band whips the rug out from under you. The opening title track is an epic piece, the longest thing here at 5:38, but amidst the Zappa-isms (the quick, random fills, the crazy tempos) are enough glorious melodies to fill three songs.

“Venus Ambassador” is even better. It starts with a piano-vocal overture, like something floating out of a cartoon sky. The song proper is a Paul McCartney special, with a melody line that never quits. The falsetto section over the arpeggiated piano and whirling bass, the shuffling chorus, the “ay-ay-ay” harmonies – it’s just fantastic. And then! It explodes into a barrelhouse two-step, pianos pounding, and finally disintegrates. All this in 4:21.

I could talk about each song this way, so brilliant is the writing on each of them. I think my favorite is “Imitation of the Sky” – if the Ben Folds Five who made their first album learned everything they knew from Electric Light Orchestra, it might sound like this. “The Curious Disappearance of the Sky-Ship Thunder-Man” is an incredible title for a very 1970s prog-rock-meets-Elton-John wonder. And “Mama Waits” is the coolest two-minute pop song you’re likely to hear in 2008, its creeping “ooh-ooh” opening finally morphing into a killer chorus.

See, I’m doing it – I’m talking about every song, because they’re all so damn good. This album is a perfect example of harnessing jaw-dropping musical talent in service of a set of delightful songs. There’s more than a little Freddie Mercury here (“Heaven on a Bird” especially), tons of McCartney, and oodles of pop songwriting genius. Flight of the Knife not only proves that complexity doesn’t have to be a bad thing, it stands as one of the finest albums of the year, easy.

You can hear some of the best Knife songs here. “Imitation of the Sky” is a must.

I might not have heard of Bryan Scary at all without Dr. Tony Shore, who is constantly recommending wonderful records to me. Check out his blog – he’s trying to review an album a day lately, and as someone who knows how hard a daily deadline can be, I know he needs all the encouragement he can get. Thanks, Doc!

That’s it for this week – I’m going to see Joanna Newsom with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra on Friday, and friends I haven’t seen in months are flying in for the occasion, so I need to wrap this up. Next week, Matthew Sweet, and probably a few others.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

In high school, I knew as little about good music as I did about life.

The real music nuts in my high school were miles ahead of me. They were listening to R.E.M., the Violent Femmes and Public Image Ltd. while I was obsessing over Warrant and Slaughter. I went from a contemporary Christian phase right into a metalhead phase, passing over the good stuff in the process. My record collection at the time included Carman and Ride the Lightning, and little between those two extremes.

And by the time I was a sophomore in high school, if you had long hair and could shred on a guitar, I probably owned your tape. Trixter. Tora Tora. Badlands. Kik Tracee. Britny Fox. Dangerous Toys. Band after terrible band found its way into my plastic cassette-carrying case, and virtually none of them have survived the switch-over to CDs. Here’s another one: Steelheart. Who the hell are Steelheart and why did I listen to them? I have no idea.

The change in formats has really shown me the nuggets of corn floating in that ocean of shit. I would never buy Hurricane’s old albums in pristine digital editions, but I have snapped up CD copies of the bands that, to me, stood out. And one of them was Boston’s Extreme, one of the most ambitious and talented acts of the hair metal era.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. “More Than Words,” right? It’s the only Extreme song most people know, a wimpy acoustic ballad that sounds like the Everly Brothers with a bad hangover. It’s not that awful, but it took me years before I could play it and enjoy it again, so thoroughly did it infect the airwaves in 1991 and 1992. Things you should know: “More Than Words” was an anomaly on an otherwise pretty heavy record (1990’s Pornografitti), and to the band’s credit, they never wrote another one like it.

Extreme started out as a funky metal band, writing little ditties about cannibalism and pedophilia. In Gary Cherone, they had a strong vocalist with a flair for off-the-beaten-path lyrics, especially in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. And in Nuno Bettencourt, they had a guitar player who would make Eddie Van Halen weep. I’m not one for flashy playing much anymore, but when I was, man, they didn’t come flashier than Bettencourt. Blistering solos, syncopated riffs, just an all-around mastery of pop-metal guitar heroics, and to top it off, he could play piano too. His versatility blew my 16-year-old mind.

Earlier, I called Extreme one of the most ambitious bands of the era, and no album exemplifies that more than 1992’s III Sides to Every Story. It’s just about 80 minutes long, divided into three sections – a heavy, funky powerhouse of an opening act, followed by a clever, mainly acoustic middle eight, and a grand finale. The last section is called “Everything Under the Sun,” and it’s a 20-minute epic performed with an 80-piece orchestra, arranged by Bettencourt. It’s amazing, still.

Naturally, with Saint Cobain’s Flannel Army routing all competition on the airwaves at that time, III Sides flopped. Extreme made one more album, 1995’s live-in-the-studio Waiting for the Punchline, then broke up. Cherone joined Van Halen for a disastrous album and tour, then formed Tribe of Judah. Bettencourt made a solo album, then recorded with three other bands, mostly flirting with a dark industrial sound. And famously, he was the holdout on VH1’s Bands Reunited, the one who wouldn’t agree to get the band back together.

Yes, I know a little too much about Extreme, but I liked them a lot, and still admire their records. Which is why the news that after 13 years, Bettencourt had at last agreed to make another Extreme album filled me with giddy joy. I can’t explain it. Extreme were silly and often laughable, but they also helped a 16-year-old kid see beyond hair metal to other types of music, so they have a special place in my heart. And also, III Sides is still an amazing piece of work.

I can’t say I knew what to expect from Saudades de Rock, the reunion album. But you know what? It’s great, probably Extreme’s second-best record. The title is Portuguese, and loosely translated means “a nostalgic yearning for rock.” Dumb title, I agree. But the record lives up – this is a ROCK RECORD, loud and tight and melodic, with virtually none of the sugary pop-metal of the band’s past. Seriously, just give a listen to “Comfortably Dumb,” the second track. It’s like Audioslave, if they were awesome.

Bettencourt, bless his long-haired heart, hasn’t lost a note – he still plays these lightning-fast solos that easily type him as a child of the ‘80s. But he also brings his trademark versatility to bear on Saudades. Sure, “Star” and “Comfortably Dumb” are pretty typical riff-rockers, but “Take Us Alive” is almost a hillbilly shuffle, and “Last Hour” is what critics in the ‘80s used to call “power blues.” “Learn to Love” combines a whip-smart metal riff with a southern rock chorus, then segues into a tight, technical, almost progressive middle section. Check out new drummer Kevin Figueiredo – Extreme has had more drummers than Spinal Tap, but they’ve found a good one here.

There is no “More Than Words” on this record, either, thank God. The closest is “Interface,” a mid-tempo love song with those Cherone-Bettencourt harmonies, but it isn’t drippy. The closing song, “Peace,” nearly steps over the line into goopy sentiment, but a long, joyous coda rescues it. Best of the slower songs is “Ghost,” which starts as a piano ballad but evolves into a U2-style minor-key anthem.

I would never suggest that Saudades de Rock is one of the best albums of the year, but I quite like it. As a reunion album for one of 16-year-old me’s favorite bands, it exceeds all of my expectations. As much as I like more “serious” music, bands and albums championed by the likes of Pitchfork, some part of me has a nostalgic yearning for rock too, and this album does it for me. It’s more than just a rock record, though – Saudades de Rock ably shows just how versatile and ambitious Extreme were in their day, and apparently still are.

* * * * *

I was hoping to review the Levellers, another band I loved in high school, but as of yet, their new album Letters From the Underground hasn’t hit my mailbox. (The perils of still buying physical CDs, I guess…) So instead, I’ll talk about something else I loved during my younger years.

I’m still plowing through my Doctor Who DVDs, but in addition to watching the last few Doctors chronologically, I am picking up the new classic series releases as they come out, and slotting those into my viewing pattern. I’ve kind of put off diving into Colin Baker’s tenure as the Doctor until his final batch of stories, under the heading The Trial of a Time Lord, hits stores in October. So it’s Doctors one through five for me for a while.

Luckily, DVDs are coming out at an amazing rate these days. We’re on pace to have 13 classic stories released this year, not counting the modern series stuff, and I’ve been frantically trying to catch up with the flurry of Time Lord goodness. Back in June, the Beneath the Surface box set… well, surfaced, and I’ve finally made my way through all three stories in this collection. Two of them star Jon Pertwee, the third Doctor, and the other features my Doctor, the fifth, Peter Davison.

These three stories are linked by their villains, the Silurians and the Sea Devils. They are two species of prehistoric reptiles that once ruled the world, and they’ve come out of hibernation to discover that the apes have evolved into these two-legged resource hogs, running rampant over the planet they still consider their home. The Silurians live in caves, the Sea Devils in underwater caverns, but their motivation is the same.

And it’s a neat one. As early as Jon Pertwee’s second story as the Doctor, the production team was finding new ways to do alien invasion stories – Pertwee’s Doc, you’ll remember, was exiled to Earth by the Time Lords, leaving the writers very few Who-ish story types to choose from.

That second story is called Doctor Who and the Silurians, though not really – that was a mistake the credits producer made, appending the series title to the real name of the story, The Silurians. It’s a seven-parter, a hallmark of Pertwee’s first season, and as such it’s a slow build. It starts in a nuclear power station, one that has been experiencing strange power drains. The Doctor and UNIT are called in when a pair of scientists explores the caves under the station, and encounters… something.

Over two long episodes, the Doc picks up clues, then heads into the caves himself, meeting a cheap plastic reptile… I mean, a fearsome monster. After that, the story picks up steam – the opening episodes are painfully slow, but important, and the buildup is masterful. By the end, the Doc has met the Silurians, and discovered their claim to the Earth, and he tries to broker peace between them and the humans, who are itching to drive what they see as invaders from their lands. Things boil over when a rogue Silurian infects a human prisoner with a deadly virus, and releases him back to the surface.

Overall, this is a successful story, although it’s marred by the squonking music. Pertwee’s on form, Nicholas Courtney as the Brigadier is typically excellent, and Caroline John proves that her Liz Shaw should have remained as a companion after the seventh season. Director Timothy Combe wisely keeps the cheap rubber Silurian costume out of view for four whole episodes, as the story suffers once the screen is crawling with the buggers. It’s seven parts, meaning almost three hours long, but it deserves it, and the final shot, as the Doctor watches the Brigadier blow up the Silurian caves, is devastating.

Initially, there doesn’t seem to be much connection between The Silurians and the season nine story, The Sea Devils. For three of its six episodes, in fact, the story could have been titled The Master (And Also Some Sea Devils). This tale is a showcase for Roger Delgado, the first and best Master – you’ll remember, he’s the renegade Time Lord who plays Moriarty to the Doctor’s Holmes. At the start of the story, the Master’s been locked up in an island prison, but of course, not for long…

The Doctor and Jo Grant, his bubble-headed assistant of the time, sail out to see the Master, and to investigate a series of attacks on ships near there. Slowly, we learn that the Master has taken over his prison, playing the warden like a piano, and has plans to contact the Sea Devils, the prehistoric race of amphibians that has been attacking those ships.

It takes a long time, but we finally learn that the Sea Devils are cousins of the Silurians, and want the same thing – they feel they have a legitimate claim to the Earth, and the Doctor agrees. The British military, on the other hand, doesn’t, and treats the Sea Devil attacks as an act of war. Of course, just as the Doc is brokering a peace treaty, the military attacks, blowing up the Sea Devils’ underwater base. Mayhem ensues from there.

Yes, it’s essentially the same story again, and yes, both The Silurians and The Sea Devils came from the pen of the same writer, Malcolm Hulke. But this one is better, by far. For one thing, there’s Delgado, slippery and stylish as ever, stealing every scene he’s in. For another, the production team lavished a ton of money on this story, gaining the cooperation of the Royal Navy and using real military equipment and soldiers. The battle sequences in episode six are among the best Doctor Who ever put on screen, and while the story has a similar ending – the Sea Devils’ invasion is routed, with much loss of life – it benefits greatly from the telling of it this time.

So the stage is set, then, for the two prehistoric races to combine their forces and engage humanity in one last, fantastic battle for the planet. Right? Um, right?

Yeah, there are many words to describe Warriors of the Deep, the premiere of the show’s 21st season, but “fantastic” isn’t one of them. On paper, it’s exactly what you’d hope it would be – the Silurians and the Sea Devils team up to attack an underwater base on future Earth, the first step towards wiping out the humans and taking back the world. The plan, actually, is a good one – they will use this underwater base to launch nuclear missiles, igniting another world war, and then rise from the depths when humanity has finished obliterating itself.

Of course, the Doctor, here played with trademark energy and wit by the great Peter Davison, gets caught in the middle, and tries valiantly to save the day. As this is the final season of Davison’s run, however, things go badly, and by the end, both prehistoric races lie dead, victims of the humans’ last resort weapon against them. The story should have been an emotional buildup to the towering last line – “There should have been another way,” delivered with great feeling by Davison. It should have been a triumph.

Sadly, this is yet another of those stories for which nothing, absolutely nothing, went right. The seabase sets are well-built, but astonishingly overlit. The Silurian and Sea Devil costumes have been redesigned, and somehow look cheaper than their 1970s counterparts. The entire guest cast has the acting chops of a block of wood. The script is painful – writer Johnny Byrne often had great ideas regarding character motivation and back story, but they never translated to the page, and hence never made it to screen.

And then there is the Myrka. It’s supposed to be this gigantic reptilian beast, a last-resort secret weapon, a terrifying monster from the depths. In reality, it’s two guys playing pantomime horse under this green latex and rubber thing, with a googly-eyed head and ineffectual little arms. It’s unintentionally hilarious, and because the set is so overlit, we get to see it in all its glory. It’s amazingly bad. You hear a lot about the cheapness (or, as Frank Zappa would say, cheepnis) of ‘80s Who, and it doesn’t come cheaper than the Myrka.

At least, I hope not.

And then there is the bit where Ingrid Pitt’s character tries to stop the Myrka with awful martial arts moves. I can’t even describe this scene, it’s so godawful. Warriors nearly pulls it out in the fourth episode, which actually lets the prehistoric reptiles give their side of the story, but by then it’s too late. At only four episodes, Warriors of the Deep is at least an hour too long, and sitting through it is sheer agony punctuated by moments of hysterical laughter.

Taken as a trilogy, Beneath the Surface starts strong, gets stronger, and then sticks the landing. You’ll enjoy the slow burn of The Silurians, cheer the great performances and storytelling in The Sea Devils, and then want to throw Warriors in a landfill. It’s an intriguing reversal of the alien invasion story, all told, but I wish the ‘80s team had let it lie. As Davison’s Doc said, there should have been another way.

One last note – I took my Doctor Who fandom to a new level this month by obtaining all the Loose Cannon reconstructions. There are 108 episodes missing from the BBC archives, the tapes wiped simply because television was more ephemeral in those days. But off-air audio recordings exist, and photographs from the set, so we have an idea how these stories may have looked and sounded. Well, there’s this crazy group of fans called Loose Cannon who have taken it upon themselves to reconstruct the episodes, using every available tool.

And trust me, these things are awesome. Far from being boring slideshows, the Loose Cannon recons are fascinating glimpses at episodes I never thought I’d see. I’ve watched Marco Polo, the fourth-ever Doctor Who story, and even though my copy’s audio is very soft, the recon is amazing. (The story, as well, is fantastic.) And I’ve seen Galaxy 4, a William Hartnell story with a lousy reputation. It’s not bad as a story, and the recon is unbelievable – for this one, the Loose Cannon team built props (including the robot baddies) and shot new scenes. It’s a wonderful labor of love, and I’m grateful for all their work.

Loose Cannon recons are free, and only available on VHS – otherwise, the BBC would probably crack down on them. I wouldn’t recommend these to any but the hardest of hardcore fans, and I suppose having written that, I now number myself among them. I’m not thinking about it, though. I’m off to watch Mission to the Unknown, lovingly reconstructed for my viewing pleasure.

Next week, some of the most complex pop you’ll ever hear.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

It’s just a fact of my personality that I’m constantly finding myself excited for new albums without hearing a note of them. If an artist I love has something new for me, I don’t even need to read more than the album title to start anticipating it, clearing room on my shelf for it, imagining what it will sound like and how it will rewrite my life.

Often, though, there’s nothing like actually hearing a song or two to dampen than excitement. And it’s happened to me twice in one week now.

First up was Keane. You all know how much I like Keane – their first two albums both made my top 10 list (top two, actually). They have a reputation for being soggy milksops, but I think they write amazing pop songs, and they never treat their guitarless-trio format as a novelty. Keane’s third album, Perfect Symmetry, comes out in October, and you can download the first single, “Spiralling,” now at their site.

Within 48 hours last week, I went from not even knowing that Keane’s third album might be on the horizon, to salivating over the title and the spine-tingling countdown posted to their website, to counting the seconds as the single downloaded, and then to taking my first listen of what I hoped would be one of the best albums of 2008. And then I listened again. And again.

I’ve heard “Spiralling” about 12 times now, and I still don’t know what to make of it. First, let me say that the Keane boys have the reputation they have because they’re usually serious to a fault. They play a stately form of piano-pop with nakedly emotional (sometimes cliched) lyrics, and not a hint of self-deprecation. The dance mixes I’ve heard of their songs are so bizarre because the loose-limbed attitude of club music is a thousand miles removed from the stand-straight-and-sing style they’ve perfected.

So imagine my shock when I heard the start of “Spiralling” for the first time. It begins with a jubilant “Woo!” and a synth line right out of the Thompson Twins. The whole thing is a throwback to ‘80s dance-pop – this is a song Hugh Grant’s character in Music and Lyrics would sing. It’s very Wham, honestly. I have no idea if they’re serious – the rhetorical questions in the middle (“Did you want to be a winner? Did you want to be an icon? Did you want to be famous?”) make it hard to tell. They sound tongue-in-cheek, but the whole production is such a loving homage to 1983 synth-crap, and they play it so straight…

Apparently, the whole album carries an ‘80s vibe – one advance review compared it to Prince, which would be such a stylistic reinvention for this band that it beggars belief. I think I quite like “Spiralling,” for what it is – a catchy slice of retro-kitsch with a great chorus – but as a new direction for one of my favorite new bands of the decade? I’m not so sure. I am still curious to hear Perfect Symmetry, but I’d be lying if I said I was still breathlessly awaiting it.

And then came Ben Folds, another piano-pop favorite of mine. Ben’s new album is called Way to Normal, and it’s out September 30. He’s gone out of his way in interviews and press releases to quell any expectation of a bitter divorce album – Way to Normal is, apparently, a rock record through and through, snarky and fun. That’s okay with me, but I liked the more serious direction Folds had taken on the highly underrated Songs for Silverman, an album that I thought came closest so far to that great record Folds still has inside him somewhere.

There are two songs from Way to Normal up on Folds’ MySpace page: leadoff track “Hiroshima” and “Bitch Went Nuts.” They are, not to put to fine a point on it, awful. “Hiroshima” is an homage to Elton John’s “Benny and the Jets,” and tells a story about Folds falling on stage and hitting his head. “Bitch” is not an all-encompassing relationship smackdown, like “Song for the Dumped,” but is, instead, a long joke about dating a left-wing conspiracy nut. Both are lazy, neither one has any melody to speak of, and rather than being fun, which I think is what Folds is aiming for, both are terribly boring.

Often, during his concerts, Folds will make up songs on the spot. These will be funny, vulgar little ditties about things that happened to him that day, or stories he’s heard, or the audience in the theater that night. They’re funny, for what they are. The two tracks I’ve heard from Way to Normal remind me of those extemporaneous nuggets that have been, somehow, treated as real songs in the studio. It’s disappointing. I hear that “You Don’t Know Me,” the actual first single, is much better, and I still have hope that this album isn’t a throwaway clunker. But I’m not impressed so far.

* * * * *

Okay, enough griping. If you want an example of an album that lived up to all expectations, you have to hear Harps and Angels, the new one from Randy Newman.

It’s hard to explain Randy Newman to those unfamiliar with his work. Many people, if they know him at all, only know his songs for children’s movies. (Toy Story’s “You’ve Got a Friend in Me,” for example.) What they don’t know is this creaky-voiced little man is one of the bleakest, funniest, most black-hearted songwriters around. Honestly. Just listen to “Rednecks” and “Political Science,” and get back to me. Newman has made the transition from angry young man to bitter old man look easy – he’s been bitter for decades.

It’s been nine years since Bad Love, Newman’s last album. That one was quintessential Newman – political and harsh (“The Great Nations of Europe,” “The World Isn’t Fair”), self-aware (“I’m Dead But I Don’t Know It”), and often pretty (“Going Home”). The same template applies to Harps and Angels, but this one skips the stylistic deviations – it’s all piano and orchestra, slipping from New Orleans shuffles to lovely ballads to old-time movie musical numbers. It’s consistent, rather than boring, and Newman’s sing-speak ramblings keep things moving along.

And, oh, the lyrics. These are classic Newman verses, taking aim at some standby targets and some fresh new ones. The standout here is “A Few Words in Defense of Our Country,” which turns out to be anything but. Newman reaches back through history to find leaders that make George W. Bush look good in comparison – Hitler, Stalin, Caesar. “The leaders we have, while they’re the worst that we’ve had, are hardly the worst this poor world has seen,” the apologist narrator sings, and then takes comfort in the Spanish Inquisition: “I don’t even like to think about it. Well, sometimes I like to think about it.”

“Piece of the Pie” is even more merciless. Over a galloping, dissonant orchestral backdrop, Newman paints a picture of a crumbling America, and then takes a stunning lyrical turn, putting himself at the top of the heap: “The rich are getting richer, I should know, while we’re going up, you’re going down and no one gives a shit but Jackson Browne…” This song contains my favorite verse of the bunch, which I will present in full:

“There’s a famous saying someone famous said
As General Motors goes so go we all
Johnny Cougar’s singing it’s their country now
He’ll be singing for Toyota by the fall…”

It’s not all bitching and moaning, of course – “Piece of the Pie” is followed up by “Easy Street,” an appealing amble with some nice saxophones. The title track is a funny recounting of a near-death experience, delivered as if you’re sitting next to Newman in the bar. “Laugh and Be Happy” is a joyous pro-immigration song. And “Potholes” is a delight, all about how forgetting makes it easier to forgive. “God bless the potholes down on Memory Lane,” Newman sings, before asking for “real big ones” to open up and “take some of the memories that do remain.”

The most politically incorrect thing here is “Korean Parents,” in which our narrator sets up a shop selling… well, Korean parents, playing off the notion that Korean children are smarter by saying they just get more discipline at home. The song, however, is a smack to the current generation – Newman believes that anyone can succeed if they’re given the right motivation, and by acknowledging the racial stereotype, he bursts through it. “Sick of hearing about the greatest generation,” he spits at the end. “That generation could be you, so let’s see what you can do…”

Newman saves one of the biggest laughs for himself – the end of “Only a Girl” is priceless. The song is about an old man talking to a friend about his new flame, a young, pretty girl, and wondering out loud why someone like her would be with someone like him. Here’s how it ends: “Maybe it’s the money. Jeez, I never thought of that. What a horrible thought. God damn it.”

But maybe Newman is mellowing with age, as Harps and Angels concludes with its prettiest song, “Feels Like Home.” It’s a straight-up love song, with no irony and no bitterness, and Newman even tackles a sweet melody with his creaky voice, and pulls it off. It’s a gentle finish to a terrifically dark and funny album, a latter-day Randy Newman classic. Harps and Angels is worth the nine-year wait, and while I’d like another one sooner rather than later, these 10 songs show why every Randy Newman album is an event.

* * * * *

Maybe I’m dumb, but I honestly didn’t expect Amy Ray’s solo career to keep on trucking the way it has. Ray is best known as one-half of the Indigo Girls, and if ever there were two people born to sing together, it’s her and Emily Saliers. Together, the pair took their musical collaboration in the ‘90s from acoustic folk to full-blown Crazy Horse-style rock, building and building album after album – they sounded like they were headed somewhere, a perfect synthesis of Ray’s love of rock and roll and Saliers’ gift for surprising pop melodies.

So when Ray issued her solo debut, Stag, in 2001, I thought this was just something she had to get out of her system. But no – shortly thereafter, the Girls abandoned their louder side, settling down into a pleasant, mainly acoustic pop-folk milieu. And Ray kept rocking out on the side, as if keeping the angrier, more distorted songs for herself.

Now here we are, seven years later. The last Indigo Girls album, Despite Our Differences, was so pleasant that I don’t even remember it. And Amy Ray’s third solo album, Didn’t It Feel Kinder, kicks its ass all over the place. I’m not sure what happened here, but I’m much preferring the work Ray is doing on her own. It’s like the Girls have become comfortable, while Ray is still searching, and the journey is always more interesting than the destination.

Kinder is a little quieter than Ray’s prior efforts. It opens with “Birds of a Feather,” all creeping atmosphere, but soon picks up with the Clash-inspired “Bus Bus.” The songs are simple, but simply effective, and Ray’s band is tight and energized. “Cold Shoulder” pivots on a simple acoustic riff – one of the simplest and most overused riffs in pop music history, honestly – but it works, especially since the lyrics invert the typical boy-meets-girl scene one might find over this riff: “See that girl over there, she’s gonna give me the cold shoulder, she may be straight tonight but last night she let me hold her…”

The loudest thing here is the almost-punk “Blame is a Killer,” a song that just wouldn’t work under the Indigo Girls name. But several of these songs are softer and gentler, and I can picture Ray and Saliers singing them together. Closing song “Rabbit Foot” especially sounds like something that would fit on Swamp Ophelia, with its sparse guitars and “Biko”-like toms. I would never begrudge Amy Ray the chance to make her own music her way, but I often miss the other voice when listening to this.

But that’s just my own prejudice, as a long-time Indigo Girls fan. Didn’t It Feel Kinder is a fine album, and Amy Ray is a fine singer/songwriter in her own right. Ray’s solo career is starting to feel less like a diversion and more like her primary focus, and with records like this one under her belt, I can see why. If you think the Indigos have become a little too soft-focus lately, Didn’t It Feel Kinder will feel like an oasis after a long crawl through the desert.

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Before I heard it, I didn’t quite understand why Conor Oberst had a) recorded a solo album, and b) named it after himself. Now that I have, it makes a lot more sense.

For more than 10 years, Oberst has been recording as Bright Eyes, a veritable one-man show based on his songs and voice. Letting Off the Happiness was as much a solo album as Conor Oberst is – more so, in fact, since the number of musicians lending a hand on the new record far outnumbers the “band” lineup on most Bright Eyes records. It’s all Conor, so why switch up and use his real name after so long?

The answer is pretty obvious, really – 10 years ago, Conor Oberst would have been a Bright Eyes album, but in the ensuing decade, Oberst has built up his band effort far beyond its humble acoustic beginnings. Last year’s Cassadaga was the apex of this evolution, a massive sonic production 20 million miles removed from the sparse folk Oberst started with. The lyrics have remained constant, literate and difficult and frequently brilliant, but the sound has exploded.

Conor Oberst, on the other hand, is a throwback, a quick and dirty folk album that brings the focus right back to that guitar and that voice. It’s simple, it’s often a lot of fun, and it’s great. You can hear the difference right off the bat – “Cape Canaveral” is a sparse, slow, gorgeous piece featuring nothing but acoustic and vocals. On subsequent tracks, Oberst assembles a ramshackle band, but rather than the studio creations of recent Bright Eyes albums, these songs sound thrown together in a few drunken weekends.

Let’s be clear – none of these songs sound like they were made up on the spot, but rather written over time and then recorded quickly and simply. The whole album has an appealingly loose feel, especially ditties like “I Don’t Want to Die (In the Hospital),” a riotous freight train of a song that brings back Oberst’s throaty, warbling over-singing, judiciously excised from the past few Bright Eyes records. Here, though, it sounds right, like Oberst unfurling his wings and letting it fly.

The album even includes a couple of minute-long diversions, bits of fun that would have hit the cutting room floor during the Cassadaga sessions. But I don’t want to make it sound like this album is just a rushed-through sideline, because it contains some excellent songs. “Eagle on a Pole,” for example, sits between two sillier numbers, and flourishes, its pretty melody giving way to a brief, glorious guitar solo while Nate Walcott’s electric piano keeps things moving. “Lenders in the Temple” is wonderful, Oberst’s voice and guitar buoyed by subtle organ, and closer “Milk Thistle” is another sparse wonder.

It’s as a whole, though, that this album works. The quieter, more serious pieces rub shoulders with their more joyous cousins, and the complete record plays like a travelogue, full of rest stop stories and road songs. This is a Bright Eyes album, but it isn’t, and as much as I like the recent work Oberst has done under his band name, these 42 minutes under his own sound much more honest and real. Oberst has taken all the songwriting lessons he’s learned in the last 10 years, and made an old-school record, one that feels both off-the-cuff and lived-in. At age 28, Conor Oberst is coming into his own, and living up to his hype.

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Before I go, a quick personal thank-you note to Jeffrey K. of Lo-Fidelity Records. This week, Jeffrey pointed me to a dirt-cheap eBay listing for the 77s’ 123 box set, and I jumped on it. It should be winging its way to me in a few days, and though I was prepared to pay about $100 for it, I ended up scoring it for a lot less. So thanks, Jeffrey! And everyone else, go pick up the new 77s album, Holy Ghost Building. It rocks.

Next week, more things I liked in high school.

See you in line Tuesday morning.