It’s been an interesting week for the music biz.

First, we get the news that the Raconteurs, Jack White’s other band, plan to release their second album, Consolers of the Lonely, next week. No advance warning, no set-up marketing, nothing, just a full album ready to consume seven days after it’s announced. The idea, the band says, is to make Consolers available in every format at once, with no hype. You can get it on CD and vinyl, or you can download it from a variety of sources.

While this plan seems to be all about stemming leaks, it has another interesting purpose as well – it levels the playing field between the formats. Since albums end up online sometimes weeks before they appear in stores (or become available to download legally), people naturally turn to the ‘net to hear it first. But if the album is suddenly available everywhere, before the pirates can leak it, will most people shell out money for it? We’ll see.

Another thing we’ll see, as I alluded to earlier, is which format walks away with the prize. Will more people buy it as a download, as a record, or as a CD? Part of that answer, I think, depends on what type of download is offered – MP3s, or superior lossless formats like FLAC. (Or both.) But I hope this experiment shows that the CD is far from dead.

That would be a good lesson for Elvis Costello, who announced his new album, Momofuku, at the end of the week. Reportedly, it’s named after a famous New York noodle bar, which in turn is named after the creator of Ramen, but the title works well as an expletive, similar to the one I uttered when I heard the release strategy. Momofuku is out on April 22 as a download, and as a vinyl record. That’s it. No CD.

Momofuku!

This may end up being the first Costello album ever – EVER – that I miss out on. I just can’t support this idea. I think the future of music should be about more choices, not fewer, and Costello is skipping over my format of choice right now. Of course, I say this now, but I’ll probably pony up my cash to download this thing, just because I want to hear it. Which is exactly what Costello wants. He’ll be able to say, “See? We sold as many downloads as we did CDs of the last album!” Of course he will – he’s forcing everyone like me to either buy a turntable or get on board the digital delivery train.

Seriously. What a momofuku.

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I had a rough week, so I’m going to try to be as concise as possible in this column. I have four CDs to review, all of which slipped through the cracks recently, and I’m going to try to quick-hit each one. This also means there’s no Doctor Who review again this week, which I’m sure doesn’t make too many of you sad. But I want to get through them – I’m severely behind right now. Ah well.

We start with Richard Julian, who released his fifth album, Sunday Morning in Saturday’s Shoes, on February 26. Considering that at one time, I never thought we’d see a third Richard Julian album, I was beyond thrilled to plunk down my cash for this. But you may remember I reviewed his fourth, Slow New York, with a bit less breathless enthusiasm than I’d showed for his first three. It was pretty, it was nice, but it wasn’t a great Richard Julian album.

Sunday Morning is a great Richard Julian album.

Here, once again, is everything that makes the man worth checking out. Julian has an appealing sarcastic, cynical worldview, which makes his glimmers of hope shine even more brightly, and a sweet sense of folksy melody that underpins his story-songs perfectly. The cynicism is in full bloom on the opener, “World Keeps On,” which starts with this verse: “They pray in the temples, they pray, sun up, sun down, and what mercy have they found? The world keeps on like this.” It’s harsh and wonderful.

“Spring is Just Around the Corner” sounds like a sunrise in comparison, Julian promising that things will get better, until he gets to the last verse, in which he puts the title phrase into the mouth of the president, and follows it up with a bitter “trust me.” Elsewhere, “Syndicated” bemoans the Americanization of the planet – “We the people, incorporated.” The song is fantastic, a skipping bit of jazz-folk with the unmistakable snap of an acoustic bass beneath Julian’s guitar, and it only gets better when he turns the song on himself – he escapes the planet, only to return because he misses his coffee shops.

The wit of much of this album won’t prepare you for the raw pain of “A Thousand Days,” a personal account of a ruined relationship. “I remember a sadness in her laughter, but the madness that came raging after, it struck without warning,” Julian sings, over nothing more than his mournful acoustic. It’s a difficult listen, but worth it.

There are so many other highlights, like “God III,” which opens with this couplet: “God the third, Jesus’ son, GPA two-point one…” “Man in the Hole” is a classic Julian story-song, this one a parable about a man who digs for treasure until (SPOILER) he finds it, and is unable to climb out of the too-deep hole with it. “If You Stay” is a perfectly blasé plea to a fleeing lover, and closer “Morning Bird” is as pretty as anything he’s ever written.

Sunday Morning was produced by Mitchell Froom, so you know it sounds good, and Froom’s trademark keyboards add a subtle heft to the record. But it’s Julian’s songs that make this as good as it is. After the slight letdown of Slow New York, here is one of America’s most criminally undiscovered talents back at the top of his game. Check him out here. You can click from there to an e-card with four full songs, which ought to be enough to make you a fan.

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Mark Eitzel is another guy more people should know. Perhaps the most genuinely sad songwriter in the world, Eitzel made his mark as the singer and mastermind for San Francisco’s American Music Club. They made seven good-to-great records between 1985 and 1994 before breaking up, and Eitzel was even named Rolling Stone’s songwriter of the year in 1991.

Eitzel embarked on a splendidly random solo career after that, taking on jazz balladry, acoustic folk, electronic soundscapes, covers of old standards, and traditional Greek music. I loved every minute of it, but I can see where he may have left some listeners scratching their heads. Regardless, Eitzel returned to his roots in 2004, reuniting American Music Club and issuing Love Songs for Patriots, a continuation of their dark rock sound.

Now here’s The Golden Age, an album that not only cements the reunion, but elevates it. Where Love Songs was more raucous, Golden Age is a slow hymn of a record, full of gorgeous acoustic ballads and appeals to the lonely soul in all of us. Some have said this sounds more like an Eitzel solo record than a band effort, but I think those people are reacting to the overall subdued feel – this record has a full, glorious tone to it, spare but not sparse.

Eitzel’s songs are like stream-of-consciousness poems set to music, and it’s always amazed me that he’s able to make them memorable despite this. Only the next nine months will tell whether I’ll hear a prettier song this year than “Decibels and Little Pills,” one of Eitzel’s trademark character studies. Although “Sleeping Beauty” comes close, with its delightful harmonies. There are only a couple of uptempo pieces on the entire 13-song affair – the rest is slow, mood-altering, fragile and beautiful.

I was initially suspicious when Eitzel re-formed AMC – reunions are often like trying to go back to high school when you’re 30. But with The Golden Age, Eitzel has proven he’s going to allow his band to age gracefully, and he’s going to write some wonderful little songs as it does. In “Who You Are,” a smooth song of encouragement for a friend, Eitzel laments that “all I can give you is one of my stupid songs.” Well, I don’t know what his friend said, but I’d take it – the songs on The Golden Age are like hazy waking dreams, ones you can’t wait to get back to.

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I have an uneasy relationship with the Mars Volta.

On the one hand, I admire their undeniable musical talent. Omar Rodriguez-Lopez is an incredible guitar player, and he has an epic, progressive sensibility mixed with a hundred other influences. Under his musical direction, the band has pioneered a sort of cross between Yes, early Santana and Frank Zappa. And Cedric Bixler Zavala can really belt out these tunes. On paper, the Mars Volta should be on a short list of my favorite modern bands.

But they’re not. Because, on the other hand, their music is so much sound and fury without any real point to it all. The lyrics never make any sense, and songs start and end without much of a journey in between. I liked the debut, De-Loused in the Comatorium, partially because I’d never heard a sound quite like this before, but also because the songs were memorable. I gave them a pass on Frances the Mute, despite the fact that they’d filled a fourth of that record with godawful noise, because the insane freak-outs there were fun.

But I didn’t even review Amputechture. Hell, I could barely even get through its nearly 80 minutes of wanking solos and needlessly complex riffing. And the live album, Scabdates… hoo boy. What an unlistenable mess.

Lopez and Zavala have done a few things right with The Bedlam in Goliath, their fourth full-length. For one, they’ve pared their epic excursions down – the longest song here is nine minutes, an eternity for most bands but a marvelous display of restraint for this one. (The longest ones from their last two were 17 and 32 minutes, respectively.) They’ve also summarily dismissed the noise experiments and interludes, focusing on the tightly arranged, spastic rock-funk-salsa-metal they’re known for.

But it hardly matters. Bedlam is another 76-minute monster, and another Mars Volta album I can barely sit through. Again, I admire it – it’s explosive, it’s well-arranged, it’s incredibly hard to play, and it barrels along at a brisk pace for its entire running time. I just can’t imagine why I would want to listen to it repeatedly. In fact, by the end of the sixth track, I found myself wondering why I was listening to it at all.

I don’t want to denigrate the skill with which the Mars Volta guys have crafted this album. It’s a powerhouse, honestly – the songs mostly segue, and the tighter arrangements give tunes like “Wax Simulacra” a boost that no 25-minute slog could have.

But it all means nothing to me. This album is complex to the point of headache-inducing, despite some swell moments, and all that flailing about doesn’t seem to serve a purpose. The Mars Volta may very well be the best band on my shit list, and it’s because of their impossible talent and musical ability that I keep buying their records. I’m not sure what it will take to get me to really like one, though – The Bedlam in Goliath sounds like the apex of their journey so far, and if they haven’t sold me with this one, I don’t know how they ever will.

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But that’s okay, because I keep discovering bands I actually do like. Here’s one now: Cassettes Won’t Listen, the one-man project of Brooklyn’s Jason Drake.

I don’t know who originally tipped me off, but it may have been Dr. Tony Shore, so I’ll give him a link just in case. I’m not sure why I’d never heard Drake’s work before, but I can hazard a guess – it’s probably because up until now, everything he’s done has been released digitally through his website. His first foray into CDs is Small-Time Machine, a seven-song EP that, even though it only runs for half an hour, is among my favorite releases of the year so far.

Drake’s work could be called electro, I suppose, but it’s closer to the Postal Service’s brand of electronically-enhanced indie-pop. Opener “Metronomes” sets the stage with its mellow synth tones and clipping beats, Drake’s even voice spinning a memorable melody over them. The song remains somewhat sinister throughout, but it isn’t a patch on the second track, the amazing “Large Radio.” Minor-key synths burble around Drake’s voice at the beginning, but the song builds and builds, until it erupts halfway through. The chorus lyrics are “whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa yeah yeah yeah yeah,” but you won’t care because the song is so cool.

And on it goes. All seven songs on this EP are meticulously crafted, dark and pulsing, and there isn’t a weak one among them. I’m not sure what it says about me that it took Drake’s abandonment of the digital revolution to get me to jump aboard, but I’m glad I did. Check out his work here.

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Next week, the deluge begins. On Tuesday alone, I’m buying new ones from the Raconteurs, Gnarls Barkley, Counting Crows, the Cavalera Conspiracy (Max and Igor together again!), Panic at the Disco, Lindsey Buckingham, and A Silver Mt. Zion. And then there’s April, the most ridiculously rich music month I can remember in the last few years. Buckle up. Oh, and next week, I’ll also include the first quarter report for 2008.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Apologies for the late posting this week – we had a special election on Saturday to select a congressman, and most of my week was spent keeping up with that, capped off by a 14-hour shift on election day itself. I’m dead tired. I do hope I made it up to you by writing extra-freaking-long this week. If you’re still unsatisfied, send me an email, and I’ll read it when I wake up.

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So the big music news this week is Trent Reznor’s attempt to outdo Radiohead.

If you missed it, last Sunday, Reznor released Ghosts I-IV, the new Nine Inch Nails double album, exclusively on his Web site. NIN’s contract with Interscope Records expired after last year’s two Year Zero projects, and he promised then that he’d make use of the world wide web for future releases. Many thought then that he’d be the first high-profile act out of the gate with a whole new paradigm for digital distribution.

And then In Rainbows happened. Radiohead’s seventh album was exclusively released on radiohead.com, with an ingenious pay-what-you-want pricing structure for the download-only version. It took the music biz by storm at first, but after a while, people started noticing the cracks in the firmament.

Radiohead made several mistakes with their maiden voyage into the digital delivery realm. First, they only offered their album download as low-quality MP3s, which upset audiophiles looking for lossless formats. And then, they produced an eight-song bonus disc, but only made it available with the hardcopy version of the album – an $80 “discbox” with CD and vinyl copies of the record, packaged in a massive box. They didn’t make those eight songs available for download, and didn’t produce a standard (read: affordable) version of the album until it came out in stores in January.

And, of course, with the option to pay nothing, many people did, stripping the band of potential revenue with each click.

Reznor, it seems, was taking notes, because he effortlessly vaulted over each of those obstacles. Ghosts I-IV is available in a number of formats, for a number of fixed prices. He’s made the first nine tracks (Ghosts I) downloadable for free, both on his site and on any number of torrent sites. If you don’t like them, fine – your obligation is finished. If you do, it’ll cost you $5 to download the whole 36-track extravaganza, and it’s available in MP3, FLAC and other lossless formats.

If you, like me, still buy physical CDs, Reznor’s got you covered. Ten bucks gets you the 2-CD set and a free download of the whole album. Collectors who like lavish packaging are covered, too – for $75, you can get the deluxe edition, which includes the two CDs, the free download, a DVD with all the songs, and a Blu-Ray disc with the whole thing in digital surround sound. That all comes in a swank hardcover book.

A $300 limited edition version of the album was also available, with everything from the deluxe edition plus the album on four vinyl records, all packaged in a… well, a “discbox,” but that’s sold out now. Sorry, millionaires!

It certainly seems like Reznor’s thought of everything. But there are some snakes in the garden here – namely, it seems the NIN camp wasn’t quite prepared for the interest this move would generate. Their servers were overloaded with orders early on, making it impossible to get to important areas of the website. I tried to order the thing Sunday night, but was unsuccessful – I only managed it Monday morning. I bought the 2-CD edition with the free download, and got my link in my inbox in seconds.

I’m writing this on Saturday morning, five days later, and I still have not been able to download my copy of Ghosts I-IV. I tried on Monday to make it work, but the server wouldn’t let me get more than nine percent of the way through before kicking me out. And after a couple of tries, the link wouldn’t work anymore – I’d started the download too many times. Three emails to NIN’s support staff have so far yielded no results.

I’ve heard the record, although I had to go to an outside source to get it. And that’s exactly what NIN’s sloppy preparation is going to achieve – it will send people to torrent sites and other methods of downloading the album if they can’t get it legitimately. If Reznor decides to go this route again, I hope he learns from this experience.

There’s another major difference between NIN’s experiment and Radiohead’s. In Rainbows was demonstrably the new Radiohead album – 10 songs, building on what the band had done before, nothing out of the ordinary. If the band had chosen simply to release it to stores on CD, no one would have bat an eyelash.

Not so Ghosts I-IV. This thing could almost be called a side project, if it weren’t such a massive endeavor. This is a 110-minute instrumental album, comprised of 36 unnamed tracks, most of which sound like the interludes between songs on “proper” NIN albums. The liner notes say it was recorded over eight weeks last year, but if I didn’t know that, I’d say this sounds like a collection of experiments and half-finished tunes. It’s certainly not the usual NIN fare, which makes its release this way a lot less risky – if it doesn’t work, Reznor can say it wasn’t a “real” NIN album, and can choose a record company for his next, more traditional release.

None of that should take away from the boldness of his release strategy here, though. I think, if he can get this system working properly, Reznor may have discovered the template for digital delivery that will keep everyone – collectors, audiophiles, budget-minded consumers – happy. I’ll talk about the album itself more when I get a copy in my hands, but for now, let me just say it’s worth the ten bucks I paid.

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By and large, I hate reunion albums.

Whether it’s a two-year hiatus, as with Phish, or a 24-year absence, as with the Who, the reunion album is usually nothing but trouble. When a band breaks up, the reasons for the split are often deeply personal, and those don’t simply go away. The often-trotted-out “creative differences” don’t ordinarily disappear with time either – when artists find that they can work well together, it’s usually because they’re at similar points in their own musical evolutions, and when those roads diverge, it’s time to move on.

But lo and behold, this week brought us a pair of reunion records every bit as good as the legacies they hope to continue. I almost didn’t buy either one – who wants to hear a group of creaky old bastards try to reclaim past glories? – but I’m glad I bit the bullet.

Okay, I’m fibbing a little, because there was no way I wasn’t going to buy Warpaint, the new Black Crowes album. (Although I did purchase with a bit of trepidation, mind you.) I’m on record calling the Crowes the best rock ‘n’ roll band in the world, and I stand behind that statement – you won’t find a better purveyor of beer-swilling, fight-starting, barstool-throwing, tear-the-walls-down rock anywhere. I get a lot of flak for saying this, but real rock ‘n’ roll is a mix of attitude and feeling, and these guys have both in spades.

Warpaint is the first Crowes album in seven years, and their seventh overall. The core of the band is the brothers Robinson – vocalist Chris and guitarist Rich. So much so, in fact, that the ever-changing lineup has become “Chris and Rich and some other guys” to me, and as long as the Robinsons are playing together, I call it the Black Crowes.

But since the existence of the band depends on two hotheaded siblings getting along, you knew they wouldn’t be able to sustain things forever. In 2000, after their sixth record, Lions, was released to no fanfare, they called it quits, and the Robinson brothers pursued solo projects. Family wounds are deep ones, so it didn’t surprise me that it took seven years to get the two of them back together, but blood is blood – you know these two will never break up for good.

So here’s Warpaint, the first on the band’s own Silver Arrow Records label, and the first with Luther Dickinson of the North Mississippi All-Stars on guitar. Just to be funny, I considered pulling a Maxim and reviewing it without listening to it. If I had, I probably would have touted the sharp rock riffs, the full frontal attack that you’d expect from a band that’s been away for seven years. I would have called it a relentless good-time rock record, full of Rolling Stones and Faces licks and just dripping with pent-up energy.

And I’d have been dead wrong.

Despite the title and the rollicking first single, “Goodbye Daughters of the Revolution,” Warpaint is the mellowest Crowes album ever. The other 10 songs range from slow-burners like “Evergreen” to acoustic ballads like “There’s Gold in Them Hills,” and the band never hits a delirious groove like “Goodbye Daughters” again.

Instead, they take their music to new places, something I expected after hearing Lions. Imagine an entire album of “Sometimes Salvation” and “My Morning Song,” and you’ve got a hint of what you’re in for here. “Walk Believer Walk” is a crawling blues stomp that sticks to one riff and one melody for its entire five minutes, but it’s absolutely awesome. “Oh Josephine” is the first of three terrific ballads here, Chris Robinson’s aching voice sitting perfectly next to his brother’s silky clean guitar lines.

Warpaint is a grower, but give it a few listens and it will take hold. The Robinsons stretch out in the back half, delivering the Revolver-esque “Wounded Bird” before launching into an insistent cover of the Reverend Charlie Jackson’s “God’s Got It.” (I like that song because, while it makes plain that God has everything you need, it never explicitly says he’s going to give it to you.) Even more typically Black Crowes songs mix it up here and there – check the piano-vocal conclusion of “Wee Who See the Deep.” (Spelling reproduced intact.)

The album has an endearingly loose feel to it, and it should, since much of it was recorded live with no overdubs. The closing song, the breezy “Whoa Mule,” was recorded outdoors, and you can hear the birds chirping in the background. This is a confident record by a band that doesn’t have to prove itself to anyone, and while some might see the overall mellifluous tone as a risk, I see it as proof the Robinsons will make whatever music they want to make, expectations be damned.

I’m not sure what I was hoping for from the first Black Crowes album in seven years, but Warpaint confounded those hopes, and then exceeded them. This is a great little album from the best rock ‘n’ roll band in the world, a fine addition to their legacy. You’re just not going to find an album like this from any other band, and it’s crafted with heart and a sense of history. Maxim can stuff their two-and-a-half-star fake review. Warpaint is terrific.

But seven years is barely enough time to establish your solo career. If you want to see a real reunion, check out Go Away White, the first album from British goth-rockers Bauhaus in 25 years. And here’s the real kicker – before the album was even released, the band broke up again.

Bauhaus formed in the late ‘70s, and initially gained notoriety on the strength of a nine-minute single called “Bela Lugosi’s Dead.” Their sound was always dark and propulsive, led by Peter Murphy’s creepy baritone, and it set the template for gothic rock from then on. They made four albums before bowing out in 1983, but those four albums are legendary among fans.

I was nine when Bauhaus split, and I wouldn’t buy my first cassette until the next year. (The soundtrack to Ghostbusters, thankyouverymuch.) I came in through the back door, first hearing Peter Murphy’s superb solo stuff (especially Deep and Holy Smoke), then moving to Love and Rockets before hearing Bauhaus. Initially I was surprised at how raw their music was – later goth-rock is lavishly produced, with keyboards and sound effects, but Bauhaus was a moody, brooding punk band.

And they still are. Go Away White was recorded quick and dirty – mostly live, in 18 days, keeping first takes whenever possible. And damn if this doesn’t sound like it was plucked from the band’s repertoire in 1981. Openers “Too Much 21st Century” and “Adrenalin” are thumping single-riff stompers, Murphy’s voice sounding just as grandly silly as it ever has, and third track “Undone” even has that patented tinny, 1980s snare drum sound.

The 10 songs here reach for that classic Bauhaus sound, and for the most part, they get there. The heavy guitar waves in “Endless Summer of the Damned” are there to show disciples like Type O Negative how it’s done, and the sparse, stunning “Mirror Remains” makes perfect use of Murphy’s voice, double-tracked over David J’s slinky bass. But the real stunner is “Saved,” a six-minute ambient excursion with layers of keyboards and chiming bells. It takes two decades of inferior goth-rock and sets it on fire.

I can’t say I’ve ever been a raving fan of Bauhaus, but to my ears, the reunited foursome has done the near-impossible here – they’ve come back together after a quarter-century apart and made an album that sounds as good as their classics. I’m sure more informed fans will tell me where I’m wrong, but I think Go Away White makes for a better-than-expected reunion record, and a fine swan song

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Every Doctor Who fan has their Doctor.

It doesn’t necessarily have to be the first one you encountered, but it’s the one you most closely associate with the role. It’s the one you grew up with, the one whose adventures you remember most vividly. And for me, although Tom Baker was my first Doctor, my Doctor is Peter Davison.

The Davison years get a lot of flak, and not undeservedly, but they’re my sentimental favorite of the original 26-year run. Doctor Who aired every weeknight on our local PBS station, WGBH-2 out of Boston, at 7 p.m. I remember pleading to stay up to watch Tom Baker’s episodes, but not really understanding them, and not having any idea what happened when he turned into Davison at the end of Logopolis.

But by the time WGBH started airing the Davison episodes, my family had its first VCR, so I taped every one of his stories I could, and watched them over and over. I remember individual episode cliffhangers, I recall costume and haircut changes, I remember every cheesy special effect (though I thought they looked pretty damn cool when I was 10).

I remember my mother making fun of the plastic Mara snake at the end of Kinda. I remember that sinking feeling when I realized that the atrocious Time-Flight was four episodes long, not two. I recall my fascination with Davison’s decorative celery – I think I wore one for a while, just around the house – and how amazed I was when I found out the reason for it in The Caves of Androzani. I remember Kamelion, though I wish I didn’t. I remember being gobsmacked by the ending of Enlightenment, one I’m really looking forward to (and dreading) seeing again.

As a 10-year-old American, I had no idea who Peter Davison was. But everyone in Britain knew his name when he took the role in 1981 – Davison was the first honest-to-gosh TV star to take on the mantle of the Doctor. He was famous for his role as Tristan Farnon on All Creatures Great and Small, a long-running and well-liked BBC drama. His acceptance of the role was big media news, partly because Tom Baker had played the Doctor for seven years, but also because of who Davison was.

Oh, and one other thing – Davison, at 29, was the youngest actor ever to take the part. Some thought he was too young to effectively play the Doctor, but it turns out, he was very good – one of the best actors ever in the role – and he used parts of all of his predecessors. He especially incorporated the surliness of William Hartnell, though Davison’s Doctor was so charming and upstanding that I barely remembered how sarcastic he was as well.

In what will soon become a familiar song, though, Davison was a good Doctor in a flailing, cheap show with little quality control. While it got so much worse later on, the rot was beginning to set in by the time Davison donned his cream-colored hat. Producer John Nathan-Turner had this idea that everyone on the show should wear costumes, for example, and that the Doctor’s costume should be the most outlandish of all.

It’s my understanding that Davison mentioned a whisper of a germ of an idea to Nathan-Turner about his Doctor perhaps liking a spot of cricket. The next thing he knew, Davison was dressed head to toe in a cricket outfit – quite like if Jack Bauer walked around dressed in a baseball uniform. His shirts still had the godawful question marks, and by the end of his first adventure, his trademark would appear: a stick of celery stuck to his jacket lapel.

Yes, I said a stick of celery stuck to his jacket lapel. The fact that anyone can take his Doctor seriously is down to Davison’s presence as an actor, and nothing else.

It’s certainly not down to the writing, especially in his debut story. Castrovalva, written by Christopher H. Bidmead, is an extension of the author’s work on Logopolis, which means that a) it continues the theme of matter from math, or block transfer computation, and b) it makes no sense whatsoever. It’s also dreadfully dull and hampered by the usual problems of ‘80s Who, including synthetic music, substandard acting, and cheap-looking effects.

Okay, it’s not all bad. But here’s the basic outline: the Doctor and his three companions (Adric, Nyssa and Tegan) escape from the Master on Earth, but not before the Master captures Adric and replaces him with a block transfer computational double. (Yep, he made an Adric out of math.) This fake Adric sets the controls of the Tardis for “event one,” the in-rush of hydrogen that caused the big bang. This is especially problematic because the Doctor’s regeneration isn’t going very well, and he can’t take charge of the situation.

With me so far? Okay. The Doc gets his wits about him enough to save everyone, but he collapses, and the companions take him to Castrovalva, a place of harmony, to heal. The place does wonders for him, and an entire episode’s length goes by before any kind of plot happens at all. But wait! It turns out that Castrovalva itself is a massive trap set by the Master, who created the city/planet/whatever out of numbers, with Adric’s keen mathematical mind to help.

The Doctor exposes the trap, and escapes Castrovalva, leaving the Master to die with his creations. Cut, print, end. Sounds pretty straightforward, doesn’t it? It’s deadly slow on screen, though, and it’s nearly three whole episodes (out of four) before we start to see a plot forming. The Castrovalvans are boring, and the actors playing them don’t make much of an impression. The regulars are their usual selves – Matthew Waterhouse is awful as Adric, Sarah Sutton is serviceable as Nyssa, and Janet Fielding is best of all as Tegan, when she has good lines to say. Which isn’t often.

Anthony Ainley is back as the Master, and it’s here that his wild-eyed insanity starts to take root. There is nothing even remotely human or sane about his Master – he’s just a pure, cackling caricature. Sadly, Ainley shows once again that he really can act – he spends much of the second half of Castrovalva dressed up as an old man, and his performance is so different that I didn’t realize it was Ainley at first. Otherwise, though, he’s a cartoon.

Does anything hold this mess together? Surprisingly, yes, and it’s Peter Davison. His debut performance is immediately strong – we follow the Doctor as he tries to bring his regeneration under control, and Davison whips out perfect impressions of William Hartnell, Patrick Troughton and Jon Pertwee along the way. When he finds the “zero room,” a place of harmony in the Tardis, and his head clears, we see Davison immediately take charge of his performance – this is the Doctor we will see for the next three years, and he’s great.

Most of Davison’s first season (the program’s 19th) is quite good. Next week, I’ll talk about two of the best, from writer Eric Saward: The Visitation and Earthshock. (Which puts me one step closer to having to talk about Time-Flight. Shudder.) I’ve made my way through most of the DVDs of the Davison era, though, and I have to say, he’s still my favorite. He’s still my Doctor.

* * * * *

Next week, the Alarm finishes up their Counter Attack Collective. (Hint: it’s awesome.) Also, I will write less, I promise.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I have never been a big fan of Larry Norman’s work, but I understand his importance.

Norman was one of the first to see the potential in Christian music beyond hymns and straight-up gospel. He wrote searching, scathing tunes that dealt with real spirituality, not trite Bible-isms, and in so doing, he upset most of the Christian music industry. He didn’t conform to the idea that spiritual music should be sedate and preachy – Norman wrote about social issues, and about the real world we live in.

His legacy is far-reaching in my little corner of the world. His sense of depth and questioning nature inspired people like Terry Taylor (whose band, Daniel Amos, was signed to Norman’s label in the early days), Mike Roe, Randy Stonehill and dozens more, artists who are sadly consigned to the “Christian music” ghetto for daring to talk about their faith, but who will never be popular in that ghetto for dealing head-on with their thorny doubts and their real-life struggles.

Larry Norman died last Sunday after a lengthy illness. He was 60 years old.

* * * * *

The Feeling’s second album, Join With Us, is the number one record in the U.K. right now.

This may not seem weird for the Brits reading this, but as an American watching from the outside, I have to say, that’s bizarre. In the best possible way, of course. Some may disagree, but from where I’m sitting, the Feeling is a band that goes out of its way to be uncool, outside the trends, away from the modern music scene.

They would never hit the top of the charts here – which may be why Join With Us isn’t out in the U.S. yet. My mind boggles when I read criticisms of the Feeling as a corporate band with a formulaic sound designed to move units. They’re certainly not moving units over here – just look at the U.S. sales for Twelve Stops and Home, their dazzling debut (and my #3 album of 2006). Dismal.

On this side of the Atlantic, at least, the Feeling is a wonderful anomaly. They draw from four decades of British pop music, picking and choosing some of the most unfashionable elements of each influence, and combining them into a delirious, fizzy euphoria. Twelve Stops and Home picked up bits from Queen, ELO, Paul McCartney’s solo stuff, 10cc, Supergrass – hell, all the way to James Blunt – and yet sounded refreshingly new to these ears.

Most importantly, they write great pop songs, ones that get stuck in your head for days. Twelve Stops contained, minimum, five stone cold classics, as far as I’m concerned: “I Want You Now,” “Never Be Lonely,” “Fill My Little World,” “Sewn” and “I Love It When You Call.” These are the kind of silly, disposable, unremittingly great pop singles that very few bands are writing these days, and though it types me as old-fashioned to say so, I think modern pop has taken some wrong turns. The Feeling is a band trying to steer the bus back onto the road.

That’s a little grandiose for what is, essentially, a throwaway pop album, but then, Rubber Soul was a throwaway pop album, and so was Pet Sounds. A lot more goes into writing an inescapable pop single than people think, and to come up with five of them on one record is pretty damn good. The rest of Twelve Stops is terrific, too – not a single duff track there, even when the quartet waded into more epic-ballad waters. This is exactly the kind of record that I hear once or twice a year, end up loving to pieces, and watch as no one else pays any attention to it.

But not this time. The Feeling is HUGE in Britain, and that kind of popularity brings an interesting side benefit – the record company is suddenly willing to put up much more money for your second record if you’ve sold millions of your first. And if you know how to use that record company budget right, you can use the second record to build on the first, really capturing the sound you want to create. It’s a luxury few bands are afforded, and a chance so many bands blow.

Not The Feeling. Join With Us is a massive, deep, rich, complex, giddy, joyous, sugary pop explosion of a mission statement. It’s a triumph on every level. The songs are better, the production is amazing, and except for a mild disco beat in leadoff track and first single “I Thought It Was Over,” there are absolutely no concessions to anything going on in modern music right now. This is the ultimate throwback pop album, a celebration of everything laughable and lovable about, as McCartney called them, silly love songs.

The craft evident on this record is incredible, especially considering it’s been only 18 months since Twelve Stops was released. The aforementioned “I Thought It Was Over” kicks off with a thumping synthesizer before the drums explode into a club-like beat. But if you think you’re in for a dance number, you’re mistaken – soon the Brian May guitars and Freddie Mercury pianos come crashing in. The bridge section is pure “Seven Seas of Rhye,” balanced out by an ear-tickling synth break near the end. I know I originally panned this tune, but I think I needed to hear it in full digital glory – it’s a fantastic piece, a worthy first single.

“Without You” would make me queasy on paper – it’s a string-laden soft-rock ballad about the Virginia Tech shootings. But hearing it is revelatory. It’s quite beautiful, Dan Gillespie-Sells handling the topic gracefully. (It’s more about Sells, on tour in America, hearing the news about Virginia Tech and missing his home.) As the song builds and builds, the compounding melodies will knock you out.

And then there’s the title track, the album’s most astounding production. This thing goes beyond 3-D – I would kill for a 5.1 mix of this tune. Pianos pound, harmonies stack one atop the other in a seemingly endless series, guitar choirs wail in harmony, and the band effortlessly shifts from one dynamic melody to the next for the whole run of the song. It’s a riveting listen, and it’s so damn much fun.

What’s so amazing about Join With Us is how assured it is. You have to be supremely self-confident to pen a goofball epic like “Loneliness,” with its repeated “right now” refrain, its burbling synth lines and its wonderfully silly chorus (“Loneliness, what is the point of it”). But to meticulously produce this little ditty until it shines like a lost ELO classic, well, that takes total confidence.

It’s not all consistent, as you’d expect from any album that takes this many detours into giddy-land. But the band sells even the least successful of its tunes through sheer belief in what they’re doing. “Conor,” my least favorite song, has a sticky start – the synth strings come in and Sells sings, “You found a way to change the world, a simple gift for every boy and girl, always a piece for everyone, you showed them all that giving can be fun…” I mean, yuck. But then it blossoms into a latter-day Queen masterpiece, soaring melody and lovely pianos and all.

Same with “This Time,” whispering in after an orchestral flourish with an opening verse that rhymes “what’s in your head” with “who’s in your bed.” But the song is marvelous, a grand ballad that the best radio-pop songwriters would sell their souls to be able to write. Thing is, it’s all so determinedly old-fashioned, so focused on melody, that most radio-pop songwriters wouldn’t know how to begin coming up with it.

I haven’t even mentioned some of my favorites, like the skipping, acoustic “Won’t Go Away” (with a totally uncool, and yet completely cool saxophone solo, if you get my drift), the very Queen-like power ballad “Spare Me,” and the mini-epic “I Did It for Everyone,” which starts with a samba beat and ends with a baby’s voice. The album concludes with the stately “The Greatest Show on Earth,” one of the best songs here, which segues into “We Can Dance,” a lighthearted bonus track that ends things on just the right note. The whole thing is truly great.

I should also mention that the deluxe edition of this album is beautifully packaged. It’s a double digipak hardcover book, and the second CD contains acoustic versions of songs from Twelve Stops, b-sides, and a couple of neat covers. One of those covers really says something about the band – they had the entirety of Peter Gabriel’s catalog to choose from, and they picked “Don’t Give Up,” his mushiest song. And they do it brilliantly, turning what was a cringe-worthy bucket of sap into a sweet little tune.

I loved the first Feeling album, but I had no idea that their second would be a direct descendant of one of my favorite albums ever, Jellyfish’s Spilt Milk. I can offer no greater compliment than that, and I have a (ahem) feeling that somewhere, Andy Stuermer and Roger Manning are grinning like proud parents. Join With Us is a jawbreaker-sized confection of pure pop wonderment, a delight from start to finish, and (like it needs to be said) the best album of 2008 so far.

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Next time, the best rock ‘n’ roll band in the world returns. That’s right, the Black Crowes are back with their first record in seven years, Warpaint. I’ll review that, and talk about the first Peter Davison episodes of Doctor Who.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I don’t understand people who say they hate surprises.

I love surprises. They make life worth living, and they certainly make music worth collecting. If a year goes by in which a new band or a previously unremarkable artist doesn’t toss something out there that knocks me out of my chair, I consider it a loss. Luckily, I can’t remember the last year without some pleasant stunner out of nowhere.

Of course, not all surprises are good ones, but that’s the risk. It’s undeniably disappointing when a favorite artist drops something bafflingly average, especially if the album in question came with high expectations. (Can you tell I’m going somewhere with this?) I actually have one of each type of surprises this week, and in typical cynical bastard fashion, I’ll take the bad news first.

The news really isn’t that bad, but I was honestly anticipating Mike Doughty’s second major-label record, Golden Delicious, more than just about anything else in the first third of the year. I’ve been a Doughty fan since the Soul Coughing days (20 percent nation of Casiotone!), but he hit my sweet spot in 2005 with his first full-lengther, Haughty Melodic. Here was the singer-beat poet of one of the most percussive bands in recent memory, delivering delightful pop music while retaining his rat-a-tat vocal style. Sweet, folksy numbers like “Unsingable Name” and “White Lexus” sat alongside rhythmic steamrollers like “Busting Up a Starbucks,” and every tune was a hit with me.

Three years later, here’s Golden Delicious, and it’s not bad, but it’s not a patch on its predecessor. The first half especially is disappointing – the best song of the first six is “27 Jennifers,” and that one’s five years old, first appearing on 2003’s EP Rockity Roll. Opener “Fort Hood” has nice lyrics, about a soldier aching to go home, but its chorus is lifted from “Let the Sunshine In.” Second track “I Just Want the Girl in the Blue Dress to Keep On Dancing” is better, but it rearranges “The Little Drummer Boy.” (Seriously.) And “Put it Down” is a two-chord nonsensical jam.

By the time you get to the filler track “More Bacon than the Pan Can Handle,” you’d be forgiven for thinking Doughty is out of ideas. But hold on past the delightful “27 Jennifers,” because the second half is much better. Doughty has split his album in two, putting the uptempo, percussive tracks up front and the slower, more reflective pieces in the back, and it’s the acoustic numbers that drive it home this time. “I Got the Drop on You” is a particular highlight, Doughty letting the emotion overpower his voice near the end. It’s great stuff.

Better still is “Wednesday (No Se Apoye),” the moodiest piece here. I could listen to this one on repeat for days. The next two tracks are kind of middling ditties, but they’re pleasant enough, especially “Like a Luminous Girl.” But closer “Navigating by the Stars at Night” brings it all together – it’s another phrase you know Doughty picked because of how its consonants sound together, and he manages to make the acoustic shimmer of the song turn into a rhythmic shimmy.

So Golden Delicious isn’t bad, but it does feel half-baked, unfinished, not fully formed. Mike Doughty remains a singular artist, even atop the pop-gloss production of Dan Wilson, and there are moments of excellence here. But as a follow-up to Haughty Melodic, it’s a stumble. I was hoping for amazing, and I got pretty good. Given time and distance, that may be good enough, but for now, I’m disappointed.

I had the exact opposite reaction to Vampire Weekend’s self-titled debut. I picked it up on a recommendation, expecting very little. In fact, I expected to hate it – every year there are a couple dozen of these indie bands that come and go, blaring out their three-chord nothings and then disappearing, and I fully expected Vampire Weekend to be another one of those.

Give me credit for buying it anyway, because damn, this is the best debut album I’ve heard in quite some time.

Imagine a supremely talented college band determined to make the modern indie-pop equivalent of Paul Simon’s Graceland. The four guys in Vampire Weekend are influenced as much by African pop music as they are the American variety, and their sound includes hand drums, high harmonic chanting, and snaky clean guitar lines, right alongside hyper bass lines, organs used as punctuation, and synthesizers. Oh, and on “M79,” a full string quartet, playing lines right out of Johann Strauss.

I like the first three tracks on the record, but I fell in love with “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa” – it sounds like an outtake from Graceland, all hand drums and shakers and nifty guitars. But then they slide sideways into a rhythmically-shifting chorus, complete with Peter Gabriel reference. I’m also in love with “Bryn,” a delightful singalong that makes perfect use of the Paul Simon guitar sound, mixing it with a sharp folk melody.

But there’s nothing bad here at all. In fact, this album is the coolest synthesis of sound I’ve heard in a long time, and even though it sounds on paper like an intellectual exercise, on record it just sounds amazing. I have no idea where they’re going to go with this, and I am usually hesitant to jump on a train with only one car, but I love Vampire Weekend to death. It reads like something a bunch of post-grads would come up with (and it is), but it feels like the soundtrack to our newer, smaller world.

* * * * *

So, speaking of great expectations, I just got my imported copy of the Feeling’s second album, Join With Us. I’ll be doing an in-depth review next week, but I have to say, on first listen, I haven’t heard a pop album with a depth of sound as rich as this one since Jellyfish’s Spilt Milk, or at least Brian Wilson’s SMiLE. It’s more candy-coated wonder-pop, but the overall feel is more complex – it’s a grabber and a grower all at once. And the packaging is gorgeous. More next week!

* * * * *

Lots of Doctor Who below, so apologies to anyone sick of that particular obsession of mine. We’re almost done, I swear. First, though, some quick Oscar picks, just in case anyone thinks I don’t care this year.

The top prizes belong to the Coen Brothers – they’re gonna get Best Picture, Best Director and Best Adapted Screenplay for No Country for Old Men, and they’re gonna deserve them. Javier Bardem will also pick up Best Supporting Actor for No Country, for his unforgettable portrayal of pure, implacable evil.

So what does that leave? Well, no one’s beating Daniel Day-Lewis for bringing the year’s most despicable character, Daniel Plainview, to life in There Will Be Blood. Sadly, I think that’s the only award Paul Thomas Anderson’s film will pick up – he just released it in the wrong year.

I think Julie Christie will probably win Best Actress – her performance in the unspeakably sad Away From Her was dazzling. Although Ellen Page may have a chance for Juno. And I’m going to go out on a limb and say the Academy will reward the 83-year-old Ruby Dee for a lifetime of work by giving her Best Supporting Actress for American Gangster. And Best Original Screenplay will go to Diablo Cody for her awesome Juno script.

I have hopes, not predictions, in other categories. I think Brad Bird deserved a Best Director nomination for the astounding Ratatouille, but he’ll have to settle for Best Animated Feature. I sincerely hope No End in Sight wipes the floor with Michael Moore’s Sicko for Best Documentary. And if “Falling Slowly” from Once doesn’t beat out the songs from Enchanted (all THREE of them!), then I might lose hope in the goodness of the world.

Anyway, that’s my slate of predictions. Tune in Sunday night to see how I did.

Update: Not too badly. I missed Best Actress and Best Supporting Actress, and I didn’t see the winning documentary, so I couldn’t have anticipated that one. And I’m very pleased that “Falling Slowly” won – it truly was the best song, and Marketa Irglova getting to deliver her speech after the orchestra cut her off was my favorite moment of the Oscars this year.

* * * * *

The original run of Doctor Who was on for 26 years and seven Doctors. Watching it in some semblance of sequence, a funny thing happens to actors who play the Doctor for a long time: the show changes around them, to the point where they become out of place.

It happened to William Hartnell, the first Doctor. The cracks started showing when Carole Ann Ford left the show after the 10th story, The Dalek Invasion of Earth. The rest of the original four-person crew exited six stories later, in The Chase, and Hartnell’s Doc was never the same. As the third season wore on, Hartnell looked more and more frail, and the show morphed into a monster-of-the-week extravaganza behind him. His last story, The Tenth Planet, is much more in keeping with his successor Patrick Troughton’s time on the show, and Hartnell himself isn’t even in the third episode.

It happened to Jon Pertwee, who played the Doc for five years. The middle three seasons have an appealing family atmosphere to them, with Katy Manning’s Jo Grant and the rest of the UNIT bunch appearing regularly. Even Roger Delgado’s Master felt like part of the clan. But Manning’s departure and Delgado’s death made the job less fun for Pertwee, and you can see it in his final season – he’s haggard, he’s uncomfortable, and he knows the show isn’t for him anymore. When Tom Baker arrived, it was like a jolt of adrenaline.

But it happened to Baker, too. When he first bounded into the role, Baker was all teeth and curls and witty exuberance. Seven years later, he looked tired and old, his hair ragged and his face cragged. Off screen, Baker had been through three production teams, six companions and an ongoing power struggle over the vision of the show by the time he started Season 18. On-screen, the effect was one exhausted Doctor, ready to shuffle off this mortal coil.

I’m not sure at what point in planning the 18th season the production team found out that Baker was leaving, but they seem to have (consciously or unconsciously) centered the entire set of stories around that theme. Age, decay and death are constant companions in Season 18, the most downbeat of Baker’s seven. We have a machine in The Leisure Hive that ages the Doctor hundreds of years, and that machine is at the heart of an enclave clinging to the last embers of their dying world. In Meglos, we have a fading power source for an entire planet – a world on the brink of death.

I’ll discuss the landmark E-Space Trilogy when it’s released on DVD, but suffice it to say the allusions to entropy and decay continue. Baker’s final two stories are on DVD, however, as the first two-thirds of a box set called New Beginnings, and it’s a fitting title. Tom Baker, after 42 stories (counting the unfinished Shada), bows out quietly, with one of the most somber tales in the program’s history, and his replacement, Peter Davison, immediately gives the show the same infusion of youthful energy Baker had seven years before.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. First up is The Keeper of Traken, a somewhat stilted realization of a pretty decent idea. The Doctor is fresh back from E-Space, with stowaway Adric in tow, and he’s left Ramona and K-9 behind. It’s clear Doctor Who is already becoming a very different show, even by this point, and though Baker gives it the old college try, he can’t muster the same enthusiasm for this era.

And looking at it, I hardly blame him. Under John Nathan-Turner, the show has become oddly plastic. The all-synths-all-the-time music doesn’t help, but the effects are cheaper-looking, the costumes less convincing, and the overall look and feel is shabby. I know the budget had started its inexorable shrink by this point, but it really seems like no one cared how the final program turned out.

The Keeper of Traken is about a world held together by goodness. Anyone arriving on Traken with the intent of doing evil is immobilized by the planetary forces, and turned into a stone-like Melkur. Traken is overseen by the Keeper, who has access to a massive power source called (naturally) the Source. It turns out, the Master (last seen in The Deadly Assassin, four seasons earlier) has made his way to Traken to steal that Source, and has become a Melkur.

There’s some potential there, right? Well, the final product is kind of… boring. It’s like B-grade Shakespeare, people in fancy clothes with no personalities, trading proclamations. The Keeper warns of a great evil, and naturally the fine Traken people think the Doc and Adric are that evil. Our heroes are helped by new regular companion Nyssa, daughter of Tremas, the man who will be the next Keeper. And together, they defeat the Master (spoiler!) before he can complete his plan. It all kind of lays there, though, with no energy behind it at all.

But The Keeper of Traken is essential Doctor Who because of its final scene. The Master, nearing the end of his final regeneration, kills Tremas and takes over his body. (Note the anagram – clever clever!) This ushers in the Anthony Ainley era of the Master. Ainley brings a more over-the-top theatricality to the character – his portrayal is not fondly remembered, but a lot of that isn’t his fault. During his time, the Master was written as completely bugfuck insane, killing people for no reason and hatching one stupid, nonsensical plot after another.

But Ainley proves in Traken that he can act – his Tremas is subdued and likeable. It’s a genuine shock when the Master kills him and steals his face, ending up looking like a younger, flashier version of Roger Delgado’s Master. He slips into his Tardis and takes off, leaving Nyssa calling after her father in vain.

And then we’re into Logopolis, Baker’s last story. I have a lot of conflicting thoughts about this final four-parter. It was written by script editor Christopher H. Bidmead, the man who wanted to bring more actual science to Doctor Who, but under his tenure, the “science” turned even more ridiculous. Bidmead’s plots rarely make a whole lot of sense, and they’re complex enough that it takes three or four viewings to be sure they don’t make sense.

He also has little idea how to pace his scripts. Very little happens in the first two episodes of Logopolis – the Doctor’s Tardis accidentally materializes around the Master’s Tardis, causing a loop of police boxes inside police boxes. All well and good, but it goes on forever. The Master kills a couple of people just because he can – in fact, from this point on, most of the Master’s plans will be undone because he can’t stop killing people for no reason – and the Doc realizes his old enemy is aboard his ship, leading to the stupidest idea he’s ever had. (I can’t even bring myself to write it, it’s so dumb. Thankfully, it doesn’t work.)

Midway through the second episode, you’ll be wondering if Bidmead realizes this is Tom Baker’s last story. Director Peter Grimwade certainly does – Logopolis has a hushed, funereal tone, aided by the presence of the Watcher, a strange man in white who appears from time to time, unnerving the Doctor.

Atmospherically, Logopolis is great, but it could use a plot with some momentum – we don’t even arrive on the titular planet until the end of episode two. Logopolis is a planet of mathematicians, performing complex equations and logic problems too advanced for computers. They have mastered something called block transfer computation, which means matter from mathematics, and as the story progresses, we learn they have been using this computational method to literally hold the universe together.

Here comes the entropy theme again, full force – the universe long ago passed the point of total collapse, we are told, and Logopolis has been keeping it from dissipating for decades while the mathematicians there try to work out a permanent cure for decay. They’ve almost got it when, you guessed it, the Master starts killing people again, bringing Logopolis to a halt and sending a wave of black nothingness through everything.

This is, to put it mildly, awesome. The third episode is riveting, as we discover just how screwed everything really is. It concludes with the Doctor and the Master shaking hands, forming an unholy alliance to rescue the universe. As Tom Baker’s final cliffhanger, it’s pretty powerful.

It’s too bad that Logopolis, perhaps a victim of its own entropy field, simply falls to pieces in its final episode. The Doctor and the Master travel to Earth, to borrow a deep-space transmitter and use it to broadcast the final computations of the Logopolitans – a sequence of numbers that will stabilize the universe. This should be pulse-pounding, but it’s kind of lame – it relies on cheap-looking location footage too much, and as a last struggle for the survival of everything, it’s a little too easy. They evade some guards, hook up a machine, press some buttons and that’s that.

But then everything goes pear-shaped. The Master comes up with an amazingly stupid plan to hold the universe hostage, broadcasting a threatening message out to the stars. Never mind the fact that it would take millions of years for his threats to reach any waiting ears, even assuming that every listening alien speaks English. How does he expect them to respond? It’s just retarded.

What happens next is even worse. Instead of just laughing at the insane man and his dumb-looking beard, the Doctor takes the threat seriously, and resolves to DISABLE THE TRANSMITTER. You know, the thing that’s HOLDING THE UNIVERSE TOGETHER! After a cheap-looking tussle on the satellite dish’s scaffolding, the Doc yanks out an all-important cable, then falls to the ground. He’s apparently doomed the universe, but Bidmead completely ignores this, and we never mention it again, because it’s time for Tom Baker to regenerate. (Yes, the fall apparently mortally wounds him. Just go with it.)

This is the first regeneration I can vividly remember from my childhood. Baker lies on the ground as his companions surround him, and the faces of friends from the last seven years swirl around his head. The Watcher shows up, and it turns out he was a future version of the Doctor or something – even Bidmead can’t explain it – and they merge, and seconds later, the Doctor sits up, now a twenty-something blond guy. It sounds stupid, but I still get a little bit emotional at this scene – I remember how it felt to watch it the first time, and to know that irrevocable change was coming.

My love for Doctor Who started with stories like this, when I was a wee lad. By the end of Logopolis, it almost doesn’t matter to me how dumb the preceding 90 minutes has been – I’m seven years old again, watching one of my Doctors change into the other. Viewed from my current vantage point, Logopolis is a terrible mess of a story, not a fitting finale for the great Tom Baker. But I still love it.

Next week, some music, I promise.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I really am going to keep it short this week. I’m still sick, believe it or not – my persistent cough just won’t go away, and I’m tired all the time – and I’ve rented five movies to help me catch up before Oscar time. I’m hoping to spend my weekend prone, unmoving, and resting the remainder of this vile disease out of my system.

Next week, I have a longer extravaganza planned – three albums that take wistful looks at the past. Some might say my regular Doctor Who reviews (which you will not find here this week) are wistful looks at the past themselves, and I’m trying to tie in Tom Baker’s final stories as the Doctor with the theme of romanticizing the past. I’ll let you know how it goes.

But this week, I have an album that does the opposite, one that stomps all over the past and would be very happy if you never mentioned it again. I’m talking about Nada Surf, that much-maligned and much-improved New York trio that infected radio waves with one of the most retarded hunks of crap to come out of the ‘90s. And I’m sure they’d be very happy if I just ignored it, but I can’t. You don’t write something like “Popular” and then get to disown it easily.

You remember “Popular.” Sure you do. It was an ironic list of ways to get ahead in high school: “If you want to catch the biggest fish in your pond, make sure to keep your hair spotless and clean. Wash it at least every two weeks…” I can still hear Matthew Caws delivering these platitudes in an oh-so-sarcastic monotone over feedback squalls right out of the Thurston Moore handbook, and the chorus – “I’m head of the class, I’m popular” – is seared into my brain like an itch that won’t go away.

“Popular” was on Nada Surf’s 1996 debut High/Low, and all by itself, it assured that I didn’t listen to that record for years. It wasn’t until I heard “80 Windows,” a song from the band’s underrated and ignored second album, The Proximity Effect, that I started to care if I ever heard another Nada Surf song again. “80 Windows” is no masterpiece, but it’s a finely crafted piece of guitar-pop, and it signaled the start of a serious upswing.

Here we are, 10 years later, and Nada Surf is still together, and still knocking out records. The big difference is, nowadays, they’re really good. Album four, 2005’s The Weight is a Gift, truly shone, thanks in part to the clean and meticulous production of Death Cab for Cutie’s Chris Walla. But the album also sports a set of solid, thoroughly hummable pop songs, with not one dud track. To say this band has come a long way is to understate things by a considerable margin.

Nada Surf hasn’t exactly taken a Great Leap Forward with Lucky, their fifth record. But they’ve refined and perfected the style they’ve been working on, and the result is a catchy, quick, consistently enjoyable pop album, one that just begs to be played over and over again.

I dare you to listen to all five minutes of “See These Bones,” the opening track, and not come away a fan. The song starts simply enough, Caws’ clean guitar tones ringing out solo before the rest of the band slides a feather-bed of support beneath them. This song has such a wide-open heart, it’s unreal – it’s sung from the old to the young, but it’s no warning, it’s a soft acceptance of foibles and fate. And by the end, four different melodies are intertwining, spinning upwards to the sky. It’s just beautiful.

Nothing else here is quite as spectacular as “See These Bones,” but it’s all very good. The electric guitars come out for “Whose Authority,” a simple yet satisfying rocker that includes a cheeky Led Zeppelin quote, and they stay for power-pop gems like “I Like What You Say.” “Beautiful Beat” is catchier than whatever has made me sick this week, and the brief “Here Goes Something” is a minor delight. Through it all, the album remains upbeat, optimistic and embracing of life. For a band that could be bitter about its one-hit-wonder status, Nada Surf seems to be genuinely graceful, and grateful.

“Ice on the Wing” concludes with a brief horn fanfare, and it may as well be signaling the end of the album proper, since the last two songs are so different in tone. “The Fox” is a creeping, minor-key beast, the one sign on this record that everything might not come out all right. “If you don’t hold the rope, you’ll go alone,” Caws warns at the end, and it sounds like being marooned at sea. Lucky concludes with a cover of “The Film Did Not Go Round,” written by fellow New Yorker Greg Peterson, and it’s almost a nursery rhyme lullaby to sing you to sleep. (If, that is, you can ignore the specter of death that hangs over the song.)

Lucky is another lightweight, earnest and lovely effort from Nada Surf, a band that is its own story of redemption and persistence. The trio seems comfortable on Barsuk Records, far from the glare of their major-label days, and they’re producing richer work than they ever have. If you’d told me in 1996 that I’d one day not only be enjoying Nada Surf albums, but eagerly anticipating them, I’d have choked you with my regulation flannel shirt. But Lucky is yet another great little album from the band that (happily) didn’t go away when they were supposed to, and we’re (ahem) lucky to have it.

Bonus review! Chris Walla didn’t help out with Lucky, partially because he was busy with his own record, the recently released Field Manual. It’s the very definition of a vanity project – Walla can sing, but not very well, and he’s much better at backing up Ben Gibbard than trying to carry an entire album all by his lonesome. But his songs are sweetly played and full of rage and love.

Walla attacks the Bush administration a few times on Field Manual, but if you’re not reading along and looking for the political barbs, they’ll float right by you. His production is clean and dreamy, as always – the album opens with the three-part Walla harmony of “Two-Fifty,” as he sings, “All hail an imminent collapse,” but the song drifts by on a breeze.

“Everybody On” is my favorite, a plea to hang together amidst tough times. Walla’s chiming guitar work is at its best here, especially in the post-chorus instrumental breaks. Still, as the album’s best track, it’s nothing special, and the entire enterprise seems like something I’ll play only a few times. With Death Cab, Walla made my second-favorite album of 2006, Plans, and I’m excited to hear Narrow Stairs, their latest work (out May 13). Field Manual is nice, but not a patch on Walla’s main gig.

Okay, I’m headed to my couch to watch No End in Sight and Once. Next week, three backward-looking albums, and the last Tom Baker stories. And hopefully, 100% less coughing.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’m coughing my wet lungs up right now, so I’m going to try to keep this one brief. But considering I’m going to be talking about the best album I’ve heard in months, it’s going to be hard.

I’ve been a fan of Joe Jackson’s work for as long as I can remember. When I was eight years old, he made his masterpiece, Night and Day, and I can remember hearing “Steppin’ Out” and “Breaking Us in Two” on the radio as a young kid. I actually remember seeing the video for “Steppin’ Out” on MTV in the ‘80s – for a very brief period, it was everywhere.

Of course, as a young pianist, I was drawn to Jackson’s playing. (But then, I liked Yanni too, so what the hell did I know.) Amazingly, though, I’ve stuck with Joe Jackson, and my appreciation for his music has grown with me. Many years after I first heard his songs, I learned the historical context – Jackson was one of the progenitors of British new wave in the late ‘70s, along with folks like Elvis Costello and Paul Weller. His first three albums are still considered among the best of the angular, punky pop of the time – so much so that many people just can’t get beyond them.

Okay, Look Sharp is a terrific album, no question. Jackson’s debut was out-of-the-box electric, and spawned the hits “Is She Really Going Out with Him” and “Sunday Papers.” And the next two records, I’m the Man and Beat Crazy, were also swell. Jackson had made his name as a tie-wearing, sneering, sarcastic pop songwriter with a cynical take on relationships, and it worked. But he wasn’t satisfied.

I have probably said this every time I’ve talked about Joe Jackson, but he is one of a triumvirate of late-‘70s British songwriters who evolved into three of the most diverse and accomplished recording artists of my lifetime. It’s Jackson, Elvis Costello and Andy Partridge of XTC, and while each of them are brilliant pop songsmiths, they’ve all explored different musical colors. Costello is infamous for his moves into jazz and orchestral music, while Partridge has guided XTC through “orchoustic” chamber-pop.

Jackson, however, has probably stepped the farthest off the beaten path. His fourth album was called Jumpin’ Jive, and was a collection of big-band Cab Calloway covers, and his fifth, the aforementioned Night and Day, dispensed with guitars entirely and incorporated world music influences. From there, all bets were off as he dabbled in orchestral music (Will Power), small-ensemble instrumental pieces (Night Music), rock operas (Heaven and Hell), and even a bizarre symphony (Symphony No. 1) for acoustic and electric instruments.

But he never left his pop music roots behind. In between the above experiments, he made superb pop records like Big World and Laughter and Lust, glittering collections that show off just how good Jackson is with a melody and a quip. And recently, after the mediocre Night and Day II in 2001 (sequels are never a good idea), he’s been self-consciously reviving that side of his musical personality.

Three years ago, he reunited the Joe Jackson Band, the quartet that made those first three revered albums, and produced Volume 4. It was very good – the most energetic and spunky Joe Jackson album in a decade or more, although it fell short of being a full-blown revelation. But it turns out, that was just the start of the revival.

Jackson’s 16th album, out this week, is called Rain. And this one’s the revelation.

It’s another stylistic left turn – Jackson has ditched the guitars again, but retained his long-time rhythm section, drummer Dave Houghton and incredible bassist Graham Maby. The result shows why Ben Folds is such a Joe Jackson disciple – this is a piano trio album of near-perfect (and sometimes absolutely perfect) pop songs. Ten of them, in and out in 47 minutes, no dead spots, no holes. Rain is an old-time pop album that takes its melodic responsibility seriously, and delivers in spades.

I do have some problems with it. For one, Jackson isn’t Ben Folds – he was obviously classically trained, and his piano playing is sometimes more sedate than it ought to be. I wanted to hear him let loose with a ripping solo, but then I remembered Jackson has never really played like that. He’s got precision, but he doesn’t have an improviser’s soul. Also, Jackson unveils his falsetto more than once here, and while it works sometimes, it’s shaky in others.

But that’s it. From the first notes of “The Invisible Man,” Jackson is in top form. While the repeated four-chord verses are a little simple, check out the Partridge-esque vocal melody. Then hang on as Jackson dives into an intricate piano bridge and a superb harmony-laden chorus. The song is a wry, autobiographical look at a diminishing pop star – “Hey, can you hear me now as I fade away and lose my ground,” Jackson sings at the beginning, before embracing the freedom his anonymity offers: “You can’t stop the invisible man…”

Rain is an even mix of rockers and ballads, as we used to say in the ‘80s. The slower ones include “Too Tough,” a simple crawl with a singable chorus, and “Wasted Time,” a soulful Todd Rundgren-esque weeper with some of the strongest falsetto work here. But the up-tempo ones carry the day, including the blistering “Citizen Sane” and the bass-driven “King Pleasure Time.” Graham Maby really shines on the latter track, making it plain why Jackson has retained his services for 30 years.

The first half is good, but peters out a little with “The Uptown Train,” a too-tasteful jazz-pop tune with a Steely Dan lilt. But the second half is flawless. The aptly titled “Solo (So Low)” is just Jackson and his piano, and it sounds like a classical aria, a lament fit for a royal audience. And then the man swings and hits three home runs in a row to bring things home.

“Rush Across the Road” may very well be the sweetest song in this grouchy cynic’s entire repertoire. The melody is lovely, and the lyrics even lovelier – the entire song takes place in the second before the singer decides to pursue the girl of his dreams on the street. Everything about this song works, from the key change in the chorus, to the bit where Maby’s bass takes the melody, to the wonderful instrumental coda. It’s simply great.

“Good Bad Boy” is the most rock-and-roll song here, and the one on which Jackson comes closest to wild abandon. It’s also an intricate composition in its own right, and it rocks without needing guitars. And “A Place in the Rain” is perfect, a fine waltz about leaving all the accepted things behind. “It’s amazing what crazy can do when every good citizen’s sane,” Jackson sings. “When Heaven’s a desert, we’ll go to our place in the rain…” The record ends with about a minute of rain sounds, lulling you to sleep.

As you might imagine from a guy with a 30-year recording career, Joe Jackson’s discography has its ups and downs. But Rain is a highlight, a top-of-his-game piano pop album from a genuine master. When an artist gets to Jackson’s advanced age – he’s 53 – it gets tempting to offer back-handed compliments, comparing his latest work only to his recent ones. (Cassandra’s Dream, for example, is good late-period Woody Allen.) But Rain would stand out even if he’d recorded it 25 years ago. These are great songs, and their author sounds reborn through them.

With Elvis Costello off writing operas and Andy Partridge practically missing in action, someone needs to keep the art and craft of literate pop alive. Joe Jackson does that and more with Rain, his best in ages, and the first truly great record of the year.

* * * * *

There is no more divisive figure in Doctor Who fandom than the late John Nathan-Turner.

Troll the Who message boards for any length of time, and you’ll see JN-T (as he’s known) blamed for everything that went wrong from 1980, when he took over as producer, to 1989, when the show was canceled. Nathan-Turner is on the hook for the scripts, the acting, the sets, the lighting, the music, the costumes, everything. Some people even blame him for global warming and the economic recession.

And Nathan-Turner isn’t even around to defend himself against these charges – he died of liver failure in May of 2002. Again and again in DVD commentaries and documentaries, folks like former Script Editor Eric Saward light into Nathan-Turner, with no voice of dissent. He’s the easy scapegoat.

That’s not to say he’s not responsible for a lot of things that went wrong with late-period Who. Nathan-Turner’s a guy who worked his way up through the ranks of the show, starting as a member of the ground crew in 1969. He became a production unit manager, and then finally a producer for Tom Baker’s final season as the Doctor. And unlike most producers, he didn’t just run with the ball, he changed the game completely right out of the gate.

Nathan-Turner was always a visible producer, known for his trademark Hawaiian shirts and his love of public discourse. When I was watching the show on PBS as a kid, I think I knew three or four names from the creative and production crew, and John Nathan-Turner was one of them. I’d never heard of Phillip Hinchcliffe or Robert Holmes or any of the other leading lights of the stories I loved, but I knew who JN-T was, and I vividly remember him enumerating the changes he made to the program in a documentary that PBS showed one pledge drive week.

It was these changes that pulled the rug out from under fans, and he made them all for his first story, 1980’s The Leisure Hive. First off, he changed the title music and graphics – gone were the classic Delia Derbyshire theme and the swirling tunnel effect of Baker’s golden years, and here were an exploding starfield and a souped-up electronic version of the theme by Peter Howell. The opening titles had evolved through the years, but this was the first time they completely changed, without warning.

Second, Nathan-Turner fired Dudley Simpson, the man who had provided the show with its incidental music for more than a decade. Simpson had scored 61 Who stories, counting the incomplete Shada, and he liked to work with a small ensemble of acoustic musicians. But Nathan-Turner envisioned a more “modern” feel for the music, so he enlisted the BBC Radiophonic Workshop to synthesizer it up.

Third, JN-T changed Tom Baker’s whole appearance. He convinced his sometimes insufferable leading man to wear makeup for the first time, and the painted-on look is jarring. Also, he updated the Doctor’s costume – and from here on out, the Doc doesn’t wear clothes, he wears a costume – by giving him a maroon coat and a shirt with question marks on the lapels. The question marks would stay until the end of the classic series, and would be most irritating during the Sylvester McCoy years, when the Doc wore a pullover with the offending punctuation all over it, and carried an umbrella in the shape of – you guessed it – a question mark.

Oh, and fourth, he decided to kill K-9, the robotic dog that had accompanied the Doctor for four years. I stated in an earlier column that Elisabeth Sladen’s Sarah Jane Smith was the longest-serving companion, but not so. Not if you count the several models of K-9, who appeared in 22 stories from 1977 to 1981. Nathan-Turner’s attempt to do away with the robot dog in The Leisure Hive was unsuccessful, but four stories later, the dog was written out of the classic series for good.

So anyway, this is what viewers of Doctor Who got when they tuned in on August 30, 1980 to watch The Leisure Hive, the start of the show’s 18th season.

First came the exploding starfield with the pulsing new theme music. It’s actually pretty cool, with the stars slowly forming Tom Baker’s face before dissipating, but it must have been a genuine shock. Then came That Tracking Shot – director Lovett Bickford chose to open his tale with a two-minute pan across Brighton Beach, with fluttery synth music playing in the background. Seriously, this goes on forever.

Then we see Tom Baker’s new costume, and we get the assassination of K-9 – the robot dog stupidly chases a beach ball into the ocean and shorts out. Seriously. And this is played for full drama, with slo-mo running after the dog, and a funereal shot at the end. All the while, the new music makes its presence felt, plastic and goopy and seemingly random. You get used to it, but it’s a shock at first.

New theme. New music. New costume. Strange direction. The apparent death of K-9. And The Leisure Hive was just getting warmed up.

Actually, that’s not true. The story is awful, and isn’t helped at all by the plastic production. It’s about a tourist attraction on an otherwise unlivable planet, and a hostile business takeover, and a machine that can rip people apart, and a whole bunch of terrible computer graphics. The cheesy effects (quite fine for the time, I’m sure) seem to be the raison d’etre for this story. There certainly isn’t a lot of story here – the episodes are a paltry 18 to 20 minutes long each. (Standard Who runs about 25 minutes.)

The one triumph of production is the Doctor’s makeup. Tom Baker has to age about 50 years (human time) in this story, and the long beard and wrinkles look pretty good. They’re offset by the ridiculous monster, which looks like something your mom might have sewn for you to wear on Halloween.

Yeah, The Leisure Hive is terrible. It’s actually pretty close to unwatchable, and while the season (and JN-T’s reign) gets better, it was a disastrous start for the longest-serving producer in the show’s history. Nathan-Turner’s tenure spanned four Doctors, and gave us some of the silliest-looking monsters and effects the show had ever seen. But, to be fair, it also gave us some real gems, stories like Kinda and Revelation of the Daleks and The Curse of Fenric that would never have happened in earlier, safer eras. Nathan-Turner went out on a limb a lot, and sometimes the limb broke, but sometimes the risks yielded surprising rewards.

Just not in The Leisure Hive. Hack. Ptoo. We shall speak of it no more.

* * * * *

Yeah, I kept it short… Next week, the new Nada Surf album, Lucky, which you can hear right now in its entirety here. And also, a look at the last Tom Baker Doctor Who stories, and the first Peter Davison.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

When I was 14 years old, my family adopted a cat named Pebbles.

Her mother’s name was Marblehead, so calling her Pebbles just seemed to make sense. She was a rambunctious little kitten, the runt of her litter, with black, brown and white fur, and I fell in love with her immediately. Which was weird, because only a week earlier, I had been arguing passionately against getting a cat at all.

I had a bunch of primitive recording equipment set up in our basement, you see, with cables and wires and tape everywhere, and I was certain – certain – that any cat we brought into our home would chew through those wires and cables, and piss all over those carefully labeled tapes. The cat, I thought, would be the ruination of my budding recording career, always underfoot, spoiling important sessions, meowing during vocal takes.

Yeah, I was an idiot. Pebbles was a great cat, and my recording career went along its natural course. Many years later, in fact, I named my little record label after her – Pebbles the Cat Records.

As the years went by, we all marveled at how well Pebbles was holding up. She turned 19 last May, and seemed as healthy as a kitten. According to a handy chart I just found on the Internet, that made her 92 in human years, with no end in sight. I saw Pebbsy at Christmastime, and she was as affectionate and wonderful as ever.

Pebbles the cat died on Sunday, at 19 years and nearly six months. She’d had a series of small strokes, and lost the use of her back legs (and, by the end, one front one). This was all within a week’s time. She was helpless, and probably in a lot of pain, so the vet agreed that the best thing to do was put her to sleep. I wasn’t there for any of this, sadly. But on the bright side, I never had to see her at less than full health.

Nearly 20 years. That’s a long time for a cat. I’ll miss her.

* * * * *

The big news out of Hollywood this week is, of course, the death of Heath Ledger. I don’t have a lot to say about that – I liked him in Brokeback Mountain, and I’m looking forward to seeing him in The Dark Knight. Interestingly, Ledger was filming Terry Gilliam’s new movie, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, when he died. Man, Gilliam’s just cursed, isn’t he? Anyway, Ledger was a good actor just coming into his own, and it’s a shame to see him die so young.

The other big news, of course, is the Oscar nominations, and there are a few surprises this year. For a movie that came and went without much hoopla, Michael Clayton did very well. And while I’m not surprised at all that There Will Be Blood and No Country for Old Men will be duking it out for the most honors, I’m beyond pleased to see a strong showing for Juno, one of my favorites of the year.

I’m not sure which of the two front-runners I like more. Both are mesmerizing, difficult efforts with dark overtones. Both have endings that have left audiences confounded, but which made me love the films more. Both movies have as a central message that the world is beyond redemption, a theme I respond well to. And both are anchored by devastating performances – Javier Bardem in No Country, as the ruthless Anton Chigurh, and Daniel Day-Lewis in Blood, as the ever-descending Daniel Plainview.

Both movies were justly rewarded with best picture nods, and with nominations in acting, writing and directing categories. For me, it’s a toss-up, I think – both films are astounding works of art. Of course, my heart lies with smaller, quirkier fare like Juno and Waitress, but I won’t be disappointed no matter which of the frontrunners wins.

Other things I was pleased to see: Persepolis snuck into the animated feature category, and while I haven’t seen the film, I love the books. Jason Reitman got a nod for directing Juno, which brought a smile to my face. Michael Moore has some real competition in the documentary this year with No End in Sight, an actual scholarly examination of the Iraq War. And Brad Bird’s brilliant Pixar film, Ratatouille, was honored several times, most notably with an original screenplay nod.

I do have one major quibble, though, and that’s the fact that Jonny Greenwood’s incredible score for There Will Be Blood is ineligible for the nomination. Apparently, his score uses some elements of prior pieces Greenwood had written – it’s all original, but some passages are not new. I bent this very rule to award Brian Wilson’s SMiLE the best album of 2005, so I don’t know why the Academy can’t do the same. But even so, I would highly recommend picking up the score on CD. It’s amazing stuff.

I’m not even going to predict this year. The race is so wide open in so many different categories that I don’t know where to start. Well, Day-Lewis is a shoo-in for best actor, and Bardem should win supporting actor. (Thankfully, they’re not going up against each other – it’s a win-win for both actors.) But other than that, I have no idea. All I know is I have a bunch of movies to see, and about a month to see them.

* * * * *

I’m wary of progeny albums.

Despite popular belief, musical talent is not hereditary. You need look no further than the Zappa family. Dweezil is a pretty good guitarist, but isn’t a patch on his father, and has spent most of his career imitating Frank’s sound. Ahmet can sing, but that’s about it. And as for Moon and Diva, well, if you can’t say anything nice…

The record industry loves a good father-son story, no matter the musical content. Sometimes they luck out, as they did with Julian Lennon – the guy’s a good musician, and his last album, Photograph Smile, was excellent. And sometimes they strike out, as they did with Sean Lennon. Two albums in, and he’s becoming the poster child for misplaced nepotism.

So it’s with trepidation that I approach any record by the child of an artist I admire. The question I’m constantly asking myself is, would I buy this if not for the familial connection? Here’s a f’rinstance: Liam Finn. He’s the son of Neil Finn, one of my favorite songwriters and the man behind Crowded House and Split Enz. The elder Finn’s melodic gift is a rare one, and even though it’s not fair to compare the son with the father, you can see my hesitation.

Gladly, Liam Finn’s debut album, I’ll Be Lightning, is very good. And it’s very good on its own terms – there’s very little of Neil Finn here, aside from a definite focus on melody and songcraft. Liam’s sound is much more scrappy, with traces of Elliott Smith here and there. The younger Finn’s voice is lighter and more supple than his father’s, and his songs float in the air a bit more. A song like “Remember When” is a solid melodic effort, though, and “Second Chance” makes an indie-pop racket light years removed from Neil’s more sedate work with Crowded House.

The more I listen to I’ll Be Lightning, the more I like it on its own terms. “Fire in Your Belly” is a sweet song, and it’s followed up by the even-sweeter a cappella “Lullaby.” “Wise Man” is a miniature epic, with a swiftly-strummed crescendo chorus and an extended coda. And the delightful Beatle-isms of the title track (with Neil Finn on bass) are a highlight. But it’s the dreamy “Wide Awake on the Voyage Home” that steals the show for me, Liam wearing his Elliott Smith influence on his sleeve.

So, would I buy this even without the Neil Finn collection? I think I would. This is a promising start for Liam Finn, who establishes himself here as a good songwriter in his own right. The sticker on the front of the CD makes no mention of his famous dad, and that’s how it should be – this album is good enough to stand on its own merits. Hell, I’d say it’s even better than that new Crowded House album…

I think I’ll save my examination of John Nathan-Turner and Doctor Who for next week. Also, January 29 marks the first great new music day of the year, or so I expect, with Joe Jackson, the Mars Volta and Chris Walla. Be there.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

There’s nothing I like better than a good curve ball.

Some people like knowing what they’re going to get when they buy a CD (or download an album, as the case may be). I’m not one of those people. I love to be surprised. It’s like with movies or TV shows – there’s nothing worse than sitting there watching, knowing exactly what’s coming. Predictability is the leading cause of death among promising works of art.

As someone who hears a lot of music, most of it depressingly similar, I can tell you that when artists veer off their well-worn paths, it’s kind of thrilling. There’s something to be said for consistency, but if an artist puts out 15 very good albums, one after another, and they’re all basically the same, I find I have nothing to say about any of them after the third. However, if a songwriter takes risks, and drives his train right off a cliff just to see if the wreckage is interesting, I’m there. I’m fascinated.

All this is a way of leading up to the point: Stephin Merritt has just delivered the first great curve ball of 2008. It’s the eighth album by his main band, the Magnetic Fields, and it’s called Distortion – an apt title, if a bit on the nose.

If you know the Magnetic Fields, you likely associate them with a bygone era of pop songwriting. Merritt, the band’s mastermind and sole true member, learned from the best – his songs are usually reminiscent of Cole Porter, George Gershwin, Irving Berlin and the like. Many of his tunes sound lifted from some lost classic stage musical, especially the ones that dot his masterpiece, the three-CD 69 Love Songs. Merritt is among the cleverest lyricists currently working as well, and his turns of phrase are often funny and sad at the same time.

So what to make of Distortion? Well, let’s start by describing it. On the one hand, it’s a typical Magnetic Fields album – the songs are slight yet memorable, the lyrics are witty and wonderful, and the jaunty melodies are sung by a rotating cast of characters, including Merritt himself, with his striking baritone. But there’s one major difference: every inch of this album is covered in sheets of noise. From loud guitars to squalling feedback to electronic frippery, the record is practically drowning in abrasive sounds.

My first impression still stands – this is like My Bloody Valentine doing the Magnetic Fields. The more I listen, the more Jesus and Mary Chain I hear, too. But Distortion represents a huge stylistic shakeup for the ordinarily sedate Merritt. This is not a raw, garage-rock album, like some have suggested. The production was clearly labor-intensive – a lot of work went into making Distortion sound like this, and it’s obviously exactly what Merritt intended.

But does it work? After a few listens, yeah, I think it does. The secret, of course, is that Merritt didn’t sacrifice his melodic songcraft for the sake of the sound. The songs on Distortion could sit on any other Magnetic Fields album, given a thorough scrubbing and sanding. But the production gives them an extra edge, and makes it much harder to dismiss them as 13 more too-clever pop gems from a guy known for them. On first listen, fans of Merritt and his work will probably be repelled by the sea of noise, and if they make it to a second and third, they’ll learn to hear the tunes beneath the feedback. But trust me, by the fifth listen, the noise becomes an indispensable element.

What of the songs themselves? Distortion opens with a semi-surf-rock instrumental called “Three-Way,” its jaunty melody punctuated by shouts of the title phrase, but it’s with the second track, “California Girls,” that things get rolling. A tale of disgust, envy and revenge, “California Girls” works out some anger issues towards the impossibly beautiful denizens of the left coast, girls who “breathe coke and have affairs.” “Eating non-food keeps them mean,” Shirley Simms sings under a roiling sea of guitars, and in the final verse, she takes her vengeance:

“I have planned my grand attacks
I will stand behind their backs
With my brand-new battle ax
And they will taste my wrath
They will hear me say as the pavement whirls
I hate California girls…”

It’s kind of awesome. The first half stumbles a bit with a series of slow numbers – although there’s nothing wrong with “Old Fools,” “Xavier Says” and “Mr. Mistletoe,” they probably shouldn’t have been sequenced back to back. But with “Drive On Driver,” the album takes flight. It’s a sweet little number about the moment when one realizes one’s been stood up, and Simms sings it beautifully.

I’m very fond of “Too Drunk to Dream,” which begins with a chant: “Sober, life is a prison. Shitfaced, it is a blessing. Sober, nobody wants you. Shitfaced, they’re all undressing…” The song itself is, naturally, about getting too inebriated to think about your lost love, and Merritt really nails the bridge section: “So why do I get plastered, and why am I so lonely? It’s you, you heartless bastard, you’re my one and only…”

But I think I am fondest of “The Nun’s Litany,” a sprightly, filthy song about the things a nun wishes she could do with her life. The list: Playboy bunny, topless waitress, artist’s model, cobra dancer, brothel worker, dominatrix, porno starlet and tattooed lady. The lyrics are a riot, and Simms again delivers a perfect vocal. This song more than any other benefits from the sticky grime Merritt has covered it with, the lovely melody battling it out with the noise like the main character’s sweeter and seedier natures. My favorite bit is when she muses about becoming a porno star, and then quickly adds, “For that I’ll wait ‘til Mama’s dead.”

You may expect this surly little record to end with a burst of guitar fury, but you’d be wrong. “Courtesans” is the prettiest song on the album, sung from the point of view of someone wishing they could flit from one guy to another, instead of “taking love very hard.” It’s sad and funny and desperate and everything that makes a good Magnetic Fields song, and it ends this strange and wonderful little album on a graceful note.

Merritt has certainly taken a risk with this album, and chances are a good chunk of his fanbase will be put off by the gritty surface. But stick with it, dig deeper, and you’ll find a pop album worthy of anything Merritt has done. Distortion is the year’s first pleasant surprise, and may be the year’s first great album. At the very least, we’re off to a promising start.

* * * * *

Longtime readers of this column will know how much I love the work of Douglas Adams.

If all you know of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is the recent movie with Mos Def and Sam Rockwell, you need to read the books. So much of the success of these stories, despite their origins as radio plays, lies in the complexity and wit of Adams’ language. Who else would describe a hovering spacecraft as hanging in the air “in much the way that bricks don’t?”

I’d long known of Adams’ association with Doctor Who, but it wasn’t until I started delving into the old series that I found out the shape of that association. Adams wrote only three stories for the series, two of which were completed. And only one of those bears his name – The Pirate Planet, which I reviewed as part of the Key to Time saga. The Pirate Planet is a splendid idea for a story, massacred by a cheap and ill-conceived production and one incredibly bad acting performance. Adams deserved better.

The next year, Adams took over as script editor on the series, under producer Graham Williams, and the show immediately took on a lighter tone. It’s been years since I’ve seen stories like The Creature from the Pit and The Horns of Nimon, but I remember a few things about them – they were funny, and Tom Baker’s Doctor was even funnier. Season 17 was the height of Baker’s improvisational antics, and it’s not an unfair assessment to say Doctor Who transformed into The Tom Baker Show, for better or worse, under Adams and Wiliams.

Adams wrote two scripts for Season 17: the ill-fated Shada, never completed because of a workers’ strike; and the undisputed highlight of the era, City of Death.

You may be confused to note that City of Death’s script is credited to David Agnew. This is a pseudonym for Adams and Williams, and it’s fairly common knowledge that Williams’ contributions to the final draft amounted to leaving well enough alone for a weekend while Adams hammered the thing out. The finished product, directed beautifully by Michael Hayes, is the closest I’ve seen anyone come to capturing the essence of Douglas Adams on screen.

For one thing, as you might expect, it’s screamingly funny. Tom Baker’s on his game from moment one here, and the script simply crackles. The story is a fairly complex one: Scaroth, the last of an alien race called the Jaggaroth, was caught in an explosion during the early days of Earth’s history, and found himself splintered and scattered throughout time. He decides to use his different identities, sprinkled through human history, in a grand plan to bring himself backwards in time and stop the explosion that fractured him and killed his race.

How does he do this? Well, for one thing, as captain of a guard during Renaissance times, he gets Leonardo Da Vinci to paint a dozen different copies of the Mona Lisa, then hides them for a future self, Count Scarlioni, to find and sell, in order to fund a time machine. (With me so far?) The Doctor and Romana stumble onto this plot, and attempt to thwart it in three different time periods.

Sounds deadly dull, right? Not to worry. City of Death has two things going for it right off the bat. One is the location filming – the story largely takes place in Paris, and the production team makes sure you know it, with lots of sumptuous shots of the Doctor and Romana traipsing through the Parisian streets. Whatever else it may be, City of Death looks beautiful.

The other thing, of course, is Adams’ dialogue. The whole thing is stuffed with one-liners and quips, clever turns of phrase that are pure Adams. Tom Baker shines with this material, especially in a scene early in the second episode in the Count’s drawing room. “What a wonderful butler! He’s so violent!” “You’re a beautiful woman, probably.” Seriously, the whole thing is great, and it culminates in this terrific exchange between the Count and the Countess, regarding the Doctor:

Countess: “I don’t think he’s as stupid as he seems.”
Count: “My dear, nobody could be as stupid as he seems.”

As great as Baker and Lalla Ward are in this story, though, the secret weapon of City of Death is Duggan, played by Tom Chadbon. A stereotypical shoot-first, hard-nosed detective, Duggan is a terrific foil for the Doctor, knocking people out at the most inopportune times and completely failing to understand what’s going on. (One of my favorite parts of the story comes near the end, when the Doctor, Romana and Duggan have traveled back to the dawn of history to stop Scaroth from lifting off in his alien craft. While the two Time Lords discuss their plan, Duggan, obviously six pages behind them, points in astonishment and says, “That’s a spaceship!” It’s perfectly delivered.) While the whole story is great, Duggan just lights up the screen whenever he’s around.

One more Douglas Adams special? Okay, how about this exchange between Duggan and Romana:

Duggan: “You know what I don’t understand?”
Romana: “I expect so.”

So we have a well-plotted story, some splendid acting, a nearly bulletproof script bursting with wit, a couple of very cheesy effects and masks, and on top of all that, a cameo in episode four by John Cleese. Asking for more than that from 1970s Doctor Who seems churlish. This is absolutely one of the best stories in the show’s history, and I’d bet that even if you’ve never seen the series, you’ll like this. If I had to pick just two stories to represent Tom Baker’s mammoth seven-year run, it would be this and The Talons of Weng-Chiang. Sadly, it’s all downhill from here, from what I understand.

Next week, we get into the John Nathan-Turner era of the show. Nathan-Turner had the longest and most maligned tenure of any producer in Doctor Who history, and from what I’ve seen so far, that reputation is mostly deserved. So next week, The Leisure Hive, and the dawn of a brave new world.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

All right. 2008.

Hello again, everyone. Did you miss me? I managed to arrange a lengthy vacation from work this year, and to coincide with that, I decided to take last week off from this column, too. That’ll likely be the only week off I allow myself this year, although now that I’ve typed that sentence, I am sure I’ll live to regret it.

Thanks again to everyone who’s been reading this column for the past seven years. With this installment, I’m beginning my eighth year writing tm3am online, and my 10th full year overall, counting the Face Magazine incarnation.

The first CD (well, cassette, actually) I reviewed under the Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. banner was Genesis’ Calling All Stations, way back in 1997. It was an unpopular start – I liked the album then, and I like it now, despite the accepted “wisdom” that it’s among the band’s worst. I wish they’d gone on with Ray Wilson, as he had a gritty voice that added weight to Tony Banks’ sometimes inscrutable compositions.

But it’s 2008 we want to talk about. This is my annual beginning-of-the-year ramble, since the flood of new music doesn’t really start for a couple of weeks. I have high hopes for 2008, and that’s partially because the lineup so far is less than spectacular.

Wait, what? Let me explain. 2007 came out of the gate like a firecracker, firing off one terrific album after another in the first four months. But after that, it was like the year was spent. A sizable percentage of my top 10 list last year, including my entire top four, came out in the first quarter of the year. (Hell, three of the top four came out in March.) The remaining nine months paled in comparison, and I don’t want to see the same thing happen this year.

Which is why I’m happy that the first few months of ’08 seem like they’re going to be good, but not amazing. Still, I’ll be happy when the long year-end drought is over. I’ve bought three CDs so far in 2008, which might seem like a lot for anyone else, but for me, that’s like having only one meal a week. The first one I picked up, of course, was Radiohead’s In Rainbows on January 1 – it came out on December 31 everywhere else, which is why I considered it a 2007 release. The packaging is neat, and includes an element of interactivity, while the album itself sounds better than the download version. If you missed the free download, it’s worth picking up the disc – this is Radiohead’s best album in 10 years, easy.

The second one I bought was Panda Bear’s Person Pitch. I always like to check out the number one choice of the year on Pitchfork, just to see what I’m missing. Some of my friends consider me ahead of the curve when it comes to new music, but I’ve rarely heard the top choices on Pitchfork’s list – they’re at least three curves ahead of me. I also rarely agree with their choices, and this year is no exception.

Panda Bear is a member of Animal Collective, and I didn’t quite love their 2007 album, Strawberry Jam, so I avoided Panda’s solo project. Turns out, his record is better, but only just. His music sounds like electronic nightmares with Brian Wilson harmonies on top of them, but he declined to write any melodies, the defining element of Wilson’s genius. The songs are often very long without earning it, and while I like it as a sonic experiment, Person Pitch fails as an album for me. Sorry, Pitchforkers.

And finally, I picked up my first new album of 2008, Sia’s Some People Have Real Problems. The folks who picked Person Pitch as the best record of 2007 are going to hate me for this, but I liked Sia’s effort better. I first heard the former Zero 7 singer the same way a lot of people did, I imagine – I watched the series finale of Six Feet Under, the last scenes of which were scored to her “Breathe Me.” What a great little song. The album it’s from, Colour the Small One, is nice too.

The new one doesn’t stray too far from that territory. I’ve been calling it a mix of Aimee Mann and Macy Gray, but I don’t want to deter you with that description. Sia has a soulful voice, but she writes slow, lovely, traditional pop ballads with subtle instrumentation. My favorites are first single “Day Too Soon” and “Playground,” and she does a neat cover of the Kinks’ “I Go to Sleep.” 2008 has its first very good album.

And “very good” is about what I expect from virtually everything else I’ve heard about for the year. We start next week with the new Magnetic Fields, called Distortion. I love Shephin Merritt’s work, but he’s promised a shakeup of the Fields sound here – more loud electric guitar, more electronic noise – and I have a feeling this will be a transitional work. The Eels will also release a two-CD set of b-sides and rarities called Useless Trinkets, and while I don’t expect it to live down to its name, I’m not reserving the accolades, either.

January 22 sees new ones from Eric Matthews (The Imagination Stage) and Drive-By Truckers (Brighter Than Creation’s Dark), as well as the U.S. release of I’ll Be Lightning, the debut from Liam Finn, son of Neil. Let’s hope it’s better than his dad’s latest work with Crowded House. I still can’t get all the way through that one without wanting to die.

2008’s first great album may well be Joe Jackson’s Rain, out January 29. He recorded it in a piano-bass-drums trio format, and the songs I’ve heard have been excellent, especially “Invisible Man” and “Rush Across the Road.” Hear for yourself here. Also out that week: the Mars Volta’s follow-up to the ridiculous Amputechture, called The Bedlam in Goliath; Robert Pollard’s 947th album, Superman Was a Rocker; and Death Cab for Cutie guitarist Chris Walla’s solo debut, Field Manual.

February will see new discs from Lenny Kravitz, Bob Mould, Nada Surf (another one I’m expecting great things from – dig the single “See These Bones” here), American Music Club, the great Mike Doughty, the Kinks’ Ray Davies, and Richard Julian. Also, on February 26, the Cowboy Junkies take a second crack at their most popular album with Trinity Revisited – the same songs, the same old church, but 20 years later. Should be interesting.

March brings us Warpaint, the reunion record from the Black Crowes, as well as the new one from the Counting Crows, Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings. And further out in the year, we’ll hear from R.E.M., Moby, the Black Keys, Billy Bragg, and hopefully the 77s. Sometime in the summer or fall, we’ll also get Marillion’s 15th album, a double disc set written and recorded sporadically over six years. Here’s hoping that one, at least, is brilliant.

And that’s all I know so far. See? It’s a pretty good lineup, but nothing extraordinary so far. And that’s the way I like it – 2008 leaves lots of room for surprises and unexpected flashes of excellence. Hope you’re along for the ride.

Next week, the Magnetic Fields and the Eels. And I’ll resume my Doctor Who reviews, much to the chagrin of most of my friends, with the awesome City of Death. Year eight, here we go.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

This is Fifty Second Week.

Hope you all had a good Christmas. Welcome to the third annual year-end roundup column, where I try to zip through just about everything I heard and didn’t review over the past 12 months in about an hour. I call it Fifty Second Week for a couple of reasons. First is the obvious pun – it’s the 52nd week of the year. But also, to maximize the number of reviews and minimize the time I spend on them, I give myself 50 seconds to set down my thoughts about each one. When the timer rings, I stop typing, mid-word or no.

I’m staring right now at a pretty daunting stack of CDs – 56 of them, in fact. These aren’t new records, but rather ones that I bought, listened to, mentally filed away, and then for whatever reason completely forgot to review. But all of them are worth at least a mention in this column, so here we go. The forgotten albums of 2007. This is Fifty Second Week.

Ryan Adams and the Cardinals, Follow the Lights.

The second Adams release of the year is a seven-song EP that strikes me as a stronger work than Easy Tiger, his middling full-length album. His take on Alice in Chains’ “Down in a Hole” is a keeper, and the live-in-the-studio stuff is very good.

Animal Collective, Strawberry Jam.

Everyone loved this noisy pop excursion from this band, so I bought it to see what all the fuss was about. Turns out, not too much – it’s got a nice foundation, but it’s a little too poorly thought out, and the production is a bit too self-consciously noisy for me.

The Bad Plus, Prog.

I owe Erin Kennedy for this one. Imagine a jazz trio doing takes on Tears for Fears and Rush songs, and you have the right idea. They aren’t a cheesy lounge act, though – their versions of these songs rock, particularly their take on David Bowie’s “Life on Mars,” and the originals are just as strong.

Band of Horses, Cease to Begin.

Another critical favorite, but this one left me mostly cold. It’s got a bunch of boring one-four-five ballads on it, and one extraordinary song, the superb third track, “No One’s Gonna Love You.” Buy that song off of iTunes, and leave the rest behind.

Battles, Mirrored.

Don’t even try to tell me prog rock is dead. Not after hearing this percussive, complex, mostly instrumental and totally awesome album. I feel ashamed that I didn’t review Mirrored during the year, and even more ashamed that I didn’t give it the honorable mention it so richly deserves.

Beastie Boys, The Mix-Up.

I may have listened to this once. This album is entirely made up of the jazz-funk instrumentals that have peppered the Beasties’ albums since Check Your Head, but by themselves, they don’t inspire much of a reaction. Blah.

Cartel.

Some pretty standard melodic modern punk, which means this isn’t punk at all, but rather loud pop. That having been said, there are some good tunes here, but there isn’t anything on this album that makes Cartel stand out. Which is probably why they resorted to a reality TV show to draw some attention.

Chemical Brothers, We Are the Night.

The Chems have their thing down by now, and there are very few surprises on this album. You get the minimalist dance stuff, the psychedelic stuff, and the jokey song, this time called “The Salmon Dance.” Not bad if it’s your first and only Chemical Brothers album, but nothing special.

Paula Cole, Courage.

I suppose releasing this dreck was sort of courageous. I used to like Cole, but here she imitates Norah Jones a little too much, and a little too poorly. This is somnambulant jazz balladry at its worst, guaranteed to cure insomnia and stop her career comeback cold.

Collective Soul, Afterwords.

Tony Shore really likes this one, and I can’t figure it out. It doesn’t strike me as any better or worse than any record they’ve done, really. Ed Roland is in his groove, and the only difference I can tell between this and their last four albums is that I had to go to Target to get this one. Damn exclusive deals.

Nick Drake, Family Tree.

Let the exploitation of Drake’s legacy begin. Here’s a hodgepodge collection of tape scraps and demos and basement recordings, some sung by his mom, and none of it really adds to the perfect three-album catalog he left behind. Skip it.

Eagles, Long Road Out of Eden.

Holy shit, this is lousy. You think you’ve heard lousy before, but if you haven’t suffered through more than an hour and a half of over-the-hill soft rock mixed with subtle-as-a-brick environmental statements, you really haven’t. Thank God you can only get this at Wal-Mart.

Feist, The Reminder.

Everyone liked this one too, and I don’t really get it. The Reminder reminds me of nothing more than Sade, and I don’t recall her being this critically adored. This is pretty good stuff, and some of it is memorable, but most of it just lies there.

The Field, From Here We Go Sublime.

I like this one, but not as much as many other critics seem to. This is nice, passable techno-ambient instrumental stuff, but nothing makes me want to throw away my old Orb albums. I dig it, though.

Field Music, Tones of Town.

Now this one, I really like. Imagine if Gentle Giant had gone pop, like they did anyway, but had retained a lot of their bizarre song structures and instrumentation along the way. This is a brief little record, but it packs a punch. Very good.

The Flower Kings, The Sum of No Evil.

In which Sweden’s best prog band ditches the jazz and fusion elements that have characterized their recent material and strikes gold with a classic prog sound. Especially excellent is the 24-minute “Love is the Only Answer,” a classic Flower Kings tune on a classic Flower Kings record.

Girlyman, Joyful Sign.

For me, this is the last album Girlyman gets to make like this. Their third album is exactly the same as their first and second ones, centered on the trio’s heartrending vocal harmonies and their down-home songwriting. But there isn’t much growth here at all, and I think they need to shake it up next time.

Great White, Back to the Rhythm.

I admit it, I like this band a lot. They’re a holdover from my long-hair days, but Great White has always been more of a straight-up rock band with Zeppelin overtones. This reunion album is exactly what I’d hoped for – a bunch of solid songs played and sung with conviction. If you ever liked them before…

Hanson, The Walk.

It’s a function of the alphabet that my two guilty pleasures are right next to each other. Hanson has finally made the album they’ve been trying to make for years. This is a mature pop record that leaves memories of their teen pop past in the dust. There are some especially good songs on here, and they deserve a chance to impress.

Emerson Hart, Cigarettes and Gasoline.

The solo debut from Tonic’s frontman is straightforward and earnest, just like his band was. Hart has a few solid songs here, but overall, it’s pretty unmemorable stuff. His voice, though, is terrific, as always. I give it about a C+.

Darren Hayes, This Delicate Thing We’ve Made.

I’m a sucker for double albums. I should learn my lesson. The Savage Garden frontman’s solo effort is a synth-heavy excursion that is sometimes effective and sometimes very, very bad. There’s a decent single album in here, but it would still not rate very highly.

Bruce Hornsby/Christian McBride/Jack DeJohnette, Camp Meeting.

The first of two devilish surprises from Bruce Hornsby in this list, this is a straight-up jazz trio album that gives Bruce the chance to show off just how good he is. And what can you say about McBride and DeJohnette – they wouldn’t play with Hornsby if he weren’t worth their time.

Kaiser Chiefs, Yours Truly, Angry Mob.

Second album by these modern popsters, and it’s not much better than the first. It’s okay, especially the first couple of tracks, and most especially the hummable single “Ruby.” But there ain’t much here to sink your teeth into.

King’s X, Live and Live Some More.

Superb live album from the venerable Texas trio, who seem to be on a bit of a comeback streak. This is a 1994 show, and proves that King’s X are a force to be reckoned with on stage. “Moanjam” is particularly awesome.

KMFDM, Tohuvabohu.

I’m not really sure why I buy KMFDM albums anymore. They’re all the same, and this one is no exception. Here are the martial beats, here are the samples, here are the synths, and here are the typical fight-the-power lyrics, shouted out over and over again. This is a band that hasn’t changed in 20 years.

Mark Knopfler, Kill to Get Crimson.

I love Knopfler’s work, so I’m not sure why I didn’t get around to reviewing this during the year. It’s another sterling solo album from the former Dire Straits guitarist, full of slow burners, lovely ballads and some of his trademark lead playing. I could listen to Knopfler play all year and not be bored.

Omar Rodriguez-Lopez, Se Dice Bisonte, No Bufalo.

Not so the Mars Volta singer/guitarist, who drops another slab of guitar jams and fusion workouts here. What once dropped my jaw now bores me to death, and I’m not looking forward to the new Volta next month at all.

Lyle Lovett and His Large Band, It’s Not Big, It’s Large.

Truth in advertising alert: the Large Band is only on one song here. The rest is standard Lovett – jazz-country gospel with a healthy dash of clever and wry. It’s a good record, but I was hoping for more horns.

Marilyn Manson, Eat Me Drink Me.

Manson ought to be stuck in a rut by now, but he keeps coming up with new twists on his sound. This album is a slow, creepy piece that eschews the industrial noise of the past in favor of a more Alice Cooper-esque sound. Which fits, since he stole his whole shtick from Cooper.

Scott Matthews, Passing Stranger.

A genuine surprise. Matthews’ work bears a strong Jeff Buckley influence, and his debut is full of little interludes and detours. The result is a fully enjoyable disc. As much as I don’t need another musician named Matthews in my life, I really like this album.

Nellie McKay, Obligatory Villagers.

This mini-album is actually McKay’s best effort yet, from the sarcastic feminism of “Mother of Pearl” to the wonderful horn and string arrangements throughout. McKay can be tedious in large doses, but this 30-minute effort is just right.

Megadeth, That One Night: Live in Buenos Aires.

What’s surprising about Megadeth’s second live album is how much crap Dave Mustaine resurrected for this 2005 show. There are classics here, like “In My Darkest Hour,” next to shit like “She-Wolf.” It makes me wonder if he has any sense of quality control at all. Thankfully, his last two albums prove he does.

Thurston Moore, Trees Outside the Academy.

Another one that probably deserved an honorable mention. This is a surprisingly pretty album from Moore, the astonishing guitarist of Sonic Youth. This record sounds like Moore aging gracefully. You probably won’t believe it’s the same guy.

Meshell Ndegeocello, The World has Made Me the Man of My Dreams.

Wow, this is a crazy record. It’s a headphone trip, a soul workout, an ambient soundscape and a pop record all at once. Ndegeocello has never been a pigeonhole kind of artist, but this is her most out-there (and artistically successful) record yet.

Joanna Newsom, Joanna Newsom and the Ys Street Band EP.

I love Joanna Newsom. This three-song EP documents her Ys tour, for which she employed a host of musicians to replicate the string arrangements of the album. New song “Colleen” is a thigh-slapping highlight, and the new take on “Cosmia” is amazing.

Sinead O’Connor, Theology.

O’Connor produced two versions of this collection of spiritual songs, one on acoustic guitar and one with an array of studio musicians. Comparing the two is fun, and O’Connor certainly has a captivating voice. But the songs are kind of mediocre throughout.

Dug Pinnick, Strum Sum Up.

Second solo album for the King’s X bassist, and it’s much like the first – low-down grooves, repeated lyrics, not a lot of imagination or beauty. This record includes some extended jams, and they’re the best part, except for the 11-minute “Coming Over,” which is like Chinese water torture.

Queensryche, Mindcrime at the Moore.

A live album containing both Operation: Mindcrime and its sequel, and putting a cap on the project. Here you can really hear just how inferior the second installment is, and Geoff Tate’s voice has definitely seen better days. But it’s nice to have this as a memento.

Qui, Love’s Miracle.

I love me some Jesus Lizard, and David Yow’s new band is just as fucked up as his old one. This is slow, loud, explosive stuff, with an unhinged rabid dog at the microphone. And they do a fantastic version of Zappa’s “Willie the Pimp.”

R.E.M., R.E.M. Live.

The honorable Georgia band’s first live album documents their worst tour ever, and is chock full of lousy late-period songs, especially from their latest snooze-fest, Around the Sun. What I really want is a document of some of their early shows, not this Bill Berry-less waste of time.

Rush, Snakes and Arrows.

Another one I can’t believe I didn’t review. This is Rush’s most energetic and best studio album in a long, long time. Even the instrumentals pulse with life, and Alex Lifeson hasn’t sounded this alive in more than a decade. Rush fans, pick this up. (Like I need to tell you.)

Shellac, Excellent Italian Greyhound.

It takes Steve Albini and his band an awfully long time to make records, considering they all sound about the same. You know what to expect from Shellac by now – pounding, slow, drum-heavy minimalist rock, punctuated by bursts of abrasive guitar. You either like it or you don’t. I do.

Ricky Skaggs and Bruce Hornsby.

Here’s the other stunner – a bluegrass-jazz combo that works miraculously. The new versions of Hornsby songs here are terrific, Skaggs’ high and lonesome voice working very well with Bruce’s new arrangements. And you haven’t lived until you’ve heard these two whiter-than-white guys slam through “Super Freak” on piano and banjo. It’s awesome.

Spoon, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga.

Another one the critics went – pardon me – ga ga over. This is probably Spoon’s best album yet, and it still sounds sort of unfinished, like the band came up with a few good grooves, some smart piano parts, and a few stray melodies, but didn’t fashion any memorable songs from them. Alas.

Bruce Springsteen, Magic.

There’s precious little magic here, unfortunately. This is Springsteen’s most compact-sounding album in a long time, his standard reach-for-the-sky anthems compressed within an inch of their lives. It’s okay, but it sounds like a pale imitation of The Hold Steady, one of Springsteen’s acolytes, and that’s a shame.

Stars of the Lid, And Their Refinement of the Decline.

This is excellent stuff. Two CDs of constantly blossoming instrumental ambient drones with great titles like “December Hunting for Vegetarian Fuckface.” Play this loudly in the car while driving at night. It’s pretty amazing.

Symphony X, Paradise Lost.

Hey, remember Yngwie Malmsteen? If you think he was the shit, you want to try Symphony X. Their latest is a screaming collection of power prog-metal, with a firmly ‘80s mindset. It’s loud and cheesy and proud of it.

Serj Tankian, Elect the Dead.

Solo debut by the frontman for System of a Down, and it’s about what you’d expect. That is to say, it’s awesome. It’s intelligent, crafty metal with a hundred different musical surprises buried along the way, and Tankian brings all his cartoony voices with him. It’s like a metal band fronted by Mel Blanc.

Richard Thompson, Sweet Warrior.

Thompson’s so consistently excellent that it’s almost hard to praise him anymore. This album finds him plugging in his electric guitar again and letting rip, and he pisses all over Eric Clapton with every note. Especially fine is “Dad’s Gonna Kill Me,” about a soldier in Baghdad. (Dad for short, get it?)

K.T. Tunstall, Drastic Fantastic.

Tunstall’s second album is neither drastic nor fantastic, alas. It is a pretty solid slab of tuneful pop music, sung in her husky voice. I quite like “Hopeless” and “I Don’t Want You Now.” I don’t really remember much of the rest.

Various Artists, Instant Karma: The Campaign to Save Darfur.

Let’s hope this collection raised some much-needed cash for the effort to halt the genocide in Darfur, ‘cause it’s not much good as a piece of art. These are John Lennon’s solo songs, performed (and often massacred) by a smattering of pop stars young and old. Not so good.

Eddie Vedder, Into the Wild.

A brief soundtrack piece from Vedder, who shines on a cover of “Hard Sun” but comes off as slight pretty much everywhere else. The packaging is much better than the record, unfortunately, and from what I hear, Sean Penn’s movie is better than them both.

Rufus Wainwright, Rufus Does Judy at Carnegie Hall.

I’m sure Wainwright loves the double entendre in that title. This is a faithful recreation of Judy Garland’s 1961 concert at Carnegie Hall, with a full orchestra and some special guests (his mom, his sister). It’s fun stuff, and Rufus resists the camp urge – this is all played straight and respectfully.

Waking Ashland, The Well.

I’ve heard this second album from piano-poppers Waking Ashland probably six times, and I can’t remember a note of it. I like to think that has more to do with the poor quality of their songs than the poor quality of my memory. I wonder if a seventh listen will do the trick.

The Weakerthans, Reunion Tour.

Very successful comeback record for this band, who impressed with Reconstruction Site a few years ago. This is heartfelt indie rock of the highest caliber, with clever lyrics and good melodies. It will fly by without sticking unless you really concentrate, but let it in and it’s pretty great.

Kanye West, Graduation.

Last but not least, here is West’s third album, which isn’t quite the masterpiece his second, Late Registration, was, but is still a pretty damn good hip hop album. You’ve heard “Stronger,” I’m sure – that’s the best song, and it gives you a taste of the synthesizer sound of the whole thing. This is good, if not brilliant stuff.

And that should do it. One hour, 20 minutes. I’ve grown to enjoy this annual tradition – it’s a good way to cap off the year. I’m writing this on December 22, and I’m flying out to the East Coast tomorrow. There will likely be no column on January 2, but I’ll see you all a week later.

Thanks for sharing my 2007. Year eight, here we come.

See you in line Tuesday morning.