It’s my sister Emily’s birthday this week. She’s 29.

This seems impossible to me, because if she’s 29, then I’m almost 32, and that’s… wrong. It has to be. I spend a lot of digital ink here bitching about how old I am, and I won’t do that again, but seriously. My little sister is 29? What the hell?

I don’t feel to bad about it, though, because I know age means nothing. It’s all attitude. And like a musical miracle, just when I’m feeling down about my advancing years, here come a couple of actual old people, partying like it’s 1982. Granted, neither of this week’s contestants are as old as David Gilmour and Ray Davies (and thank God neither of them sound as old as Gilmour), but still, we’re not talking young, fresh fellows here. And yet, if you didn’t know it, you’d never guess.

Start with Mike Peters, all of 47 years old. I can’t overstate just how important Peters’ band, the Alarm, was to my formative years. Some people glommed onto U2’s The Unforgettable Fire and The Joshua Tree around the same time, but I identified more with the expressive anthems of Eye of the Hurricane and Strength. I can’t tell you why, but the Alarm moved me more.

I’m beginning to think that it may be because I sensed the absolute earnestness and strong integrity of the band’s leader. Peters gets compared to Bono all the time, but while the erstwhile Paul Hewson hides behind a fake name, wraparound sunglasses and an undeniable messiah complex, as well as heaping tons of irony, Peters has never been anything but straightforward. The Alarm, during their time, wrote nothing but anthems, every song reaching for the brass ring, every song a showstopper. And it’s become obvious to me in the intervening years that Peters believes every word of them, and that lends them power.

Put simply, I don’t trust Bono, but I believe in Mike Peters.

I do realize that I just spent three paragraphs propagating the Alarm-U2 comparison, which has always been an unfair one. The Alarm lived in U2’s shadow, especially after touring with them in 1987, but since the ‘80s, Peters has stayed the course and turned out one great record after another, while U2 has gone astray (for 10 years!) and come back again. In terms of consistency, there is no contest. And in terms of personal importance to my life, there is again no doubt – the Alarm is one of my very favorite bands, and Peters one of my heroes.

In recent years, Peters has resurrected the Alarm name, despite the fact that three-fourths of the band are gone. His new band, including guitarist James Stevenson, ex-Cult bassist Craig Adams and Stiff Little Fingers drummer Steve Grantley, is all wrapped up with his old one, and has as much of their blessing as Peters could expect. And he certainly isn’t doing the name wrong – in 2003, the Alarm released In the Poppy Fields, a five-CD, 54-song opus that contained nary a weak moment.

They even hoodwinked the music industry, releasing the first single from the album under the name The Poppy Fields and hiring teenagers to fill in on the video, to prove a point about image and popularity. It worked – the song, “45 RPM,” hit big in Britain, and the music press fell all over themselves praising it before discovering its true authors. It was the most revealing scam I can remember, and slightly out of character for the ever-honest Peters, who quickly revealed the truth.

Life seemed good for Peters, until December of last year. While working on the follow-up to Poppy Fields, he was diagnosed with chronic lymphocytic leukemia, a form of cancer. His prognosis is favorable, but since this is his second bout with cancer, the outcome is never certain.

But here’s why Peters is my hero – he gets hit with cancer, and it barely even slows the man down. Since the diagnosis, Peters finished Under Attack, the second album by the new Alarm. He booked an extensive tour on two continents, and shot videos for every song on the record (included on a bonus DVD). And now he’s out promoting it, and playing his heart out every night, as is his custom. I have missed several opportunities to see the Alarm live, but I’m going to try not to miss this one.

Part of my determination here is that Under Attack is absolutely awesome. I paid import price for it (it doesn’t come out here until May 30) because it’s the Alarm, and I couldn’t wait for it. It was worth every penny, the most furious and committed album Peters has made in many years. For all its sprawl and stylistic breadth, In the Poppy Fields now stands as the timid first step of this new incarnation. Under Attack makes it sound like a James Taylor album, so wonderfully loud and bracing is this new music.

Under Attack kicks off with “Superchannel,” the first single, currently doing gangbusters across the pond. It’s an explosive way to start, a caustic indictment of modern culture with a great hook. From there, the record never falters – it’s one anthem after another, each one immensely singable and uplifting. Peters sings semi-trite lines like “Everyone is someone to somebody” and “You only get one life” from the heart, elevating them from cliches to truisms to rallying cries. And pretty much every song contains at least one “Whoa-oh,” an Alarm tradition that still never fails to make me smile.

Under Attack contains four songs from the full Poppy Fields (the album was released commercially with only 12 of its tracks), and they’re completely different. Especially re-worked is the great “Rain Down,” an acoustic ballad on Poppy Fields that bursts forth here as a jagged rocker with a terrific arrangement. Also fantastic is the new “Be Still,” faster and louder and more stirring than the original take.

But it’s the new songs that shine. “Without a Fight” is a perfect Alarm anthem, its title preceded by “I’m never giving up,” and it takes on new meaning in the context of Peters’ medical condition. “It’s Alright/It’s OK” should be a hit – in fact, each of the first six songs could be hits, I think, and they ought to be. The album gets deeper and more minor-key after that, reaching its volcanic apex with “Something’s Got to Give,” which could be this band’s “Bullet the Blue Sky.”

But thankfully, it ends on a perfectly positive note with “This Is the Way We Are,” another in a series of semi-acoustic epics like “Spirit of ‘76” and “The Drunk and the Disorderly.” This one will stay with you, a decidedly Alarm-ish sendoff that feels absolutely right. And that’s the best part of Under Attack, to me – even though the amps are cranked for this one, and the punk influences are more evident, all of these songs sound like the Alarm to me, and like classic Alarm at that. You can’t ask for anything more than that. Even though Peters still hedges a bit by adding the date next to the band name – this one’s billed to the Alarm MMVI – I have no problem thinking of this as the next Alarm record, and a damn good one at that.

And I hope the relentless positivity, the all-out go-for-brokeness of this album is a good sign, both for the Alarm and for Peters in his fight with cancer. It would be more than a shame to lose a musician this passionate, this committed, this important, especially since he’s as good now as he’s ever been. Under Attack makes me feel 16 again, ready to take on the world, and to say that it’s a feeling I need right now would be an understatement. So thanks, Mike, and here’s to your health and a long life.

* * * * *

It seems weird to switch gears like this, to go from talking about a guy with not one trace of artifice to a guy who spent most of a decade using an unpronounceable symbol for his name. But if we’re talking about ‘80s artists experiencing a renaissance in the Aughts, well, we have to mention Prince, don’t we?

Prince is 47 as well, and he’s transformed himself in his old age from randy soul-funker to classy master of his craft. In the late ‘90s and early ‘00s, Prince explored jazz and funk like never before, expanding his sound with strange, beautiful records like The Rainbow Children and NEWS. In 2004, though, he staged a massive career comeback, releasing Musicology, his most popular and acclaimed album in many years, and launching an incredibly successful tour.

Musicology was old-school Prince, a timid attempt at commerciality, and it left me sort of cold. I knew what he’d left behind to make this record – most notably his amazing band, the New Power Generation – and I couldn’t jump on the bandwagon. It was a decent, funky, unremarkable Prince album, and while I was glad for his renewed success, since I think he’s a stone genius, I haven’t really played Musicology since it came out.

So now here’s comeback part two, 3121 (pronounced “thirty-one twenty-one”), and I was expecting more of the same. In a way, I got it, but where Musicology sounded rote, this one sounds inspired. This is a great Prince pop album, and while his flights of fancy are reined in, his melodic sense and gleaming production are at full force. There are 12 songs on this album, and at least eight of them are hits, and better than anything on pop radio at the moment.

Start with the title song, a classic Prince track, with a relentless beat and processed, sped-up vocals. Prince self-harmonizes, but uses variable pitch effects, so it sounds like he’s singing with munchkin and demon versions of himself. He played all the instruments on most of this album, once again forsaking his terrific band, but I don’t miss them as much this time, for some reason. Part of it is the dark, spacious production – it’s as minimalist as his best ‘80s work, and yet as full as it needs to be.

This record is much more varied than Musicology, too, including Latin-tinged balladry (the single “Te Amo Corazon”), guitar rock (“Fury”), and sweet soul-pop (“Beautiful, Loved and Blessed,” a duet with Tamar, his new protégé.) “Lolita” is like stepping in the wayback machine, so ‘80s are its grooves and drum fills. And closer “Get on the Boat” is a jam and a half, a great funk workout with horns by, among others, the awesome Maceo Parker.

For all that, it’s the atmospheric spiritual piece “The Word” that really does it for me here. With a tough beat and an appealingly dark acoustic guitar part, the song expresses Prince’s always-present faith through one of the best melodies on the record. It’s a bit of an island amidst all the love and sex songs – 3121 is Prince’s most sensual album since becoming a Jehovah’s Witness in 2001 – which only adds to its impact. It’s the kind of moment that was sorely lacking on Musicology, and only one of the reasons that this is a superior effort.

If Prince is going to make pop records – and it seems like he is – then I hope he keeps making ones as good as 3121. It’s a varied, versatile album that finds him at the top of his game, and it betrays not one trace of his age. For nearly 30 years, Prince has forged a career path unlike anyone else’s, and he refuses to slip into mediocrity. Credit his restless artistic spirit, and his devotion to his craft, for making even a stab at pop radio like 3121 sound fresh. Forget Musicology – this is the commercial comeback, and a welcome one it is.

Next week, I catch up on a ton of 2006 records, before the spring flood hits on April 4. Operation: Mindcrime II, baby! Really, how bad can it be?

See you in line Tuesday morning.

For all you movie fans, there’s some spoilerific stuff ahead regarding V for Vendetta and Match Point. Just to warn you, if you haven’t seen these movies and want to be surprised. I would also direct your attention to the archive, where you’ll find a second column this week. Thanks. – A.S.

When I reviewed Woody Allen’s Match Point, I compared it to his 1989 film Crimes and Misdemeanors, with which it shares a plot skeleton. In both films, we follow men of privilege as they engage in dangerous affairs, and we watch as the relationships crumble. In both films, the men turn, in desperation, to murder in order to keep their affair quiet. And in both movies, it works – the mistress lies dead, the adulterer (pulling the strings in one film, and pulling the trigger in the other) is free from suspicion, and no one is the wiser.

They’re very similar works, but Allen, in his inimitable way, uses the parallel structures to say two very different things. Crimes and Misdemeanors is about the cruelty of God, the indifference of the almighty to what we do down here. Match Point, on the other hand, is about luck, and about how random our lives really are. The films are both about bad people getting away with bad things, but they are very different at the core – Crimes is theological, probing the question of God’s fairness, while Match Point is nihilistic, beginning with the premise that there is no God, and everything is down to chance.

I get much the same impression from the book and film versions of V for Vendetta. The big screen treatment of Alan Moore and David Lloyd’s gripping graphic novel opens this weekend, and while it shares a basic plot structure and characters with the book, it uses that skeleton to say something utterly different from Moore and Lloyd’s original intent. And it raises the question – if an adaptation revises the point of the source material, so much so that the message is altered completely, is it still an adaptation?

Not that Alan Moore has had any luck in this arena. He’s revered among lovers of comic books (like me) as one of the most thoughtful, skilled, and downright magical writers currently working. In the 1980s, he helped kick open the door to What Comics Can Be with work like Watchmen, Swamp Thing (really), and of course, V for Vendetta. In the 1990s, he focused on deep artistic statements, including his masterpiece, From Hell. And in this decade, he’s worked overtime to return the joy to comics through sweet undertakings like Tom Strong and Top 10, while literally bringing the magic to Promethea, a major, major work.

Comics love Alan Moore. Movies, not so much. The celluloid versions of League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and From Hell were godawful, and what the producers, writers and director of Constantine did to Moore’s bastardly mage (John Constantine is British, nearly 50 and blond, for one) should be a crime. Constantine is a good example, actually – if you’re going to change something so much that it becomes unrecognizable, then why pay good money for the source material?

Moore has never seen Constantine, nor the League movie, nor From Hell. And I think he’s probably a better person for it. He has a standing policy of asking that his name be removed from movies made of his works, and all money due him for such adaptations be distributed among his collaborators, like Lloyd. That’s why, when you see V for Vendetta, you will notice the credit which reads, “Based on the graphic novel illustrated by David Lloyd.”

Moore says he’s not going to watch this one, either, and for the first time, I think that might be a shame. V is the best translation of Moore’s work to the screen thus far, even though it still misses the mark by several miles, and I’d be interested in his take on it, considering that the revisions this time are not plot related, but thematic. In its original form, V for Vendetta was a violent reaction to Margaret Thatcher’s Britain, a call for anarchy in the face of totalitarianism. The book’s assertion was that oppression of the depth and power depicted in its pages could only be dealt with from the top down – remove the boot, and the people can breathe.

The film, however, dispenses with anarchy as a solution, and concentrates much of its efforts on mobilizing the people of its fictional future Britain into toppling the government themselves. This new V is a defense of terrorism against tyranny, like the book, but it is also a rallying cry, a call for the people to unite in revolution. In the book, unity is the last thing on V’s mind – he’s about disorder, disunity, about bringing everything crashing down so it could rise up again.

V is an uncomfortable book – its hero is a masked man who demolishes buildings and kills people for a political ideal, the dictionary definition of a terrorist. V is a faceless icon, anarchy personified, driven by single-minded resolve, and yet his motives are clouded by personal vengeance. It’s never clear whether Moore takes V’s side. He merely presents him, a character that sees himself as the only alternative. The book ends before we see the fruits of the new world V creates, one he himself does not live to experience.

The movie is touchier, mostly because of the current political climate it works so hard to relate itself to. The film’s V, played by Hugo Weaving, still kills people and blows up buildings, but he does so to stir the populace. This V is the self-styled leader of a revolution, mailing out Guy Fawkes masks like the one he wears, encouraging people to follow him. There is a scene in which V takes over the state-controlled airwaves, and in the book, the point was disruption and chaos, but in the movie, the point is to issue a challenge to the citizens – rise up and meet me. And wear your mask.

The film, then, is less explosive, yet somehow more relevant. The book’s solution is a difficult one to grapple with, and those who still believe in the system will find it defeatist and irresponsible. The film’s message, on the other hand, is ever-so-slightly more palatable – give the people a reason to revolt and a symbol to unite behind, and they will replace tyranny with democracy. In the book, the people of Britain are too far gone to revolt, and they must have change thrust upon them if they are to be free. In the movie, all it takes is a couple of explosions and some masks to organize a revolution. It seems too easy.

The problem is, the framework of V for Vendetta, the novel, is predicated on that original premise. Pieces of it now sit uncomfortably on screen with the new agenda, and some elements now tie in a little too neatly. Nowhere is the clash more evident than in the relationship between V and Evey, the heart of both the book and the movie. The film is pretty pat – V finds a young, strong, capable woman and opens her eyes to the world, all the while (gag reflex imminent) falling in love with her.

But in the book, the relationship is deeper and trickier, and ultimately more satisfying. Evey, at the start, is a 16-year-old girl, lost and alone. V finds her, and rescues her, but the trust she develops for him is all a product of manipulation. Evey is a microcosm of the people, trusting and helpless, and V of the government, controlling her with a smile. V then puts Evey through the most unimaginable torture, and teaches her self-reliance, and it’s the microcosm all over again. V plans to put the people of Britain through the wringer, upending their lives, and when they emerge, they will be individually strong and responsible, so much so that government will be unnecessary.

None of this is in the film, and yet the methods remain the same, so now the prison torture sequences and the incredibly well-filmed Valerie scenes ring somewhat hollow. Evey, as played by Natalie Portman, didn’t need such extreme measures – she was three-quarters of the way there on her own, before even meeting V. And the end result is not a thorough reinvention of what she is, as it was in the book, but merely a shift in her political thinking.

All well and good, for what it is. The film also takes more steps than the book does to humanize V, sometimes to the point of silliness, and spends a lot of time justifying his actions. For those seeking good guys winning out over bad guys, these little revisions should help. But the book does no such things – V is iconic, not human, and his actions are justified because he says so. It’s a more difficult work to pin down and simply enjoy, and it cuts deeper and hits harder. The film has the skin of an Alan Moore work, but not the soul of one.

So the question, then: is this a genuine adaptation of V for Vendetta? It’s certainly more of one than League of Extraordinary Stupidity, but in the end, I have to say no. Alan Moore is a master of theme, of spinning a statement through story, and if that statement is changed, even though the story (by and large) isn’t, then the work has not been captured.

My bet is that Moore’s work never will be adapted fairly – he’s such a complex writer, and his comics utilize the medium so perfectly that even a faithful translation would lose the spirit of them. V for Vendetta is a step in the right direction – at least this one’s set in the proper country – but it still sidesteps Moore’s intent, and mischaracterizes his story. It’s smarter than the average popcorn movie, but its ambitions end there, whereas Moore’s are limitless.

There’s a legend about Raymond Chandler – when someone asked how he could stand what Hollywood has done to his books, the author pointed at his collection of his own works and said, “Hollywood hasn’t done anything to my books. They’re right there on the shelf.” I think that’s a healthy attitude. If you catch V for Vendetta at your local multiplex, and see within it a glimmer of something deeper and more interesting, I’d urge you to seek out Moore and Lloyd’s book. It’s always in print from DC/Vertigo, and should be at your local bookstore.

One more thing, because I’m sure I’ll get emails about this if I don’t mention it – my recommendation of Alan Moore’s books does not equate to an endorsement of their messages, whatever you may find them to be. That’s especially true if you read V for Vendetta as an argument in defense of terrorism, which is easy to do. I’m only advocating reading a book that will challenge your ideas and make you think. I’m not advocating dressing up in a mask and blowing up the houses of Parliament. Dig?

All right, then.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Some thoughts on first impressions:

A first single is, traditionally, meant to give some small taste of a forthcoming record, and to entice listeners to pick up the disc when it comes out. Sometimes it’s representative, though, and sometimes it’s not. Now, I haven’t been swayed one way or another by a first single in many, many years – I’m so addicted to music that I usually just buy and experience the whole album, sound unheard. But even I can’t resist that first sample, especially for records I’m looking forward to.

A slew of first singles have hit the airwaves and the web recently, and almost universally, they have me anticipating their respective albums more than I already was. Here’s one you have to check out: “Going Against Your Mind,” the nine-minute opening track from Built to Spill’s You in Reverse, out April 11. “Conventional Wisdom” is also available there, and it rocks, too, but “Going” is pure BTS, and perhaps the most enjoyable two-chord song I have heard in years. After a couple of good-but-not-great albums, I’m excited to hear Built to Spill sounding like their old selves again.

Also surprisingly good is “I’m American,” the first tune to hit from Queensryche’s Operation: Mindcrime II. I am dreading the April 4 release of this album, but the song is old-school ‘Ryche, down to the double-time metal break in the middle, and while my sense of impending disaster isn’t completely abated, it is eased a bit. Sequels always suck, but this could defy the odds.

Less exciting is “World Wide Suicide,” the boring new Pearl Jam song. The problem with Pearl Jam is that they always sound like Pearl Jam, and they haven’t shaken up their style since No Code, 10 years ago. Hopefully this song isn’t a fair representation of their self-titled album, out May 2, because it could fit snugly on Riot Act, or Yield, or any other of the forgettable records they’ve made since their heyday. Consistency is one thing, but with this song – their first in three years – Pearl Jam sounds stuck in a rut.

* * * * *

First impressions are, of course, easily influenced by hype, one of my favorite pet subjects. It’s one that keeps coming up, though, thanks to the British press and their tendency to crown any young band with a few chops and an attitude the Best Band Ever in the History of the Fucking Universe. I just can’t stand that sort of thing, and I wish I were less annoyed and turned off by it. I missed out on the Franz Ferdinand Bandwagon, for example, and probably undervalued their debut album, because I was so repulsed by the hype that buzzed around them like bees.

So here’s my New Year’s resolution in effect again. I promised myself that the next time NME and the other Brit mags fell all over themselves praising some baby band as the second coming, I’d ignore the hype and pick up the record, and judge for myself. Well, that time has come – if you’re even the slightest bit tuned in to the Grand Rock ‘n’ Roll Machine, you’ve heard of the Arctic Monkeys. Even their stupid name can’t hold this band back.

For years, it was the thing to crown some band the New Radiohead, and then the New Coldplay. Now, apparently, the times have shifted again – the Arctic Monkeys are the new Franz Ferdinand, according to Brits in the Know, a pedigree that evidently is supposed to mean something besides coattail-riding. The two bands even share a label – Domino – and I can’t see the New Franz thing as anything but cynical marketing in action, and another example of Frank Zappa’s theory of death by nostalgia.

But anyway.

I deliberately heard nothing from the Monkeys’ intensely praised debut, Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not, before buying it. (I think the title’s a little ironic, considering that all I’ve heard people saying is that the band is brilliant, fantastic, superb, etc. Too bad that’s what they’re not, then.) It was easy enough, not living in Britain, to avoid “I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor” and “The View From the Afternoon” in heavy rotation, and approach this thing fresh.

And you know what? I like it.

Understand, there’s a world of difference between “I like it” and “This will change music forever, and add meaning to my miserable life.” But this record has a relentless, stomping sense of fun, especially in its first half, that is undeniable. The New Franz moniker is accurate, in a sense – the styles are similar, and the angular chops of guitarist Jamie Cook are very reminiscent of Ferdinand. But Cook also takes from the Clash and the Jam, and the Monkeys in general have a more street-level, less theatrical feel than Alex Kapranos’ bunch.

The real difference, however, is in the voice. The Monkeys are also led by an Alex, this one named Turner, while Kapranos indulges the preening art-rock quality in his vocals, Turner has an appealingly brash, sneering, everyman tone to his singing, one part Liam Gallagher and one part Johnny Rotten. He’s the most enjoyable part of the mix, especially considering the jovial, sarcastic nature of the lyrics. What else would you expect from a song called “You Probably Couldn’t See For the Lights But You Were Staring Straight At Me” but sarcasm, and Turner sells it.

Unlike Franz, too, the Monkeys realize that their one trick can get wearying over the course of a whole album, so they’ve varied the pace here and there. “Riot Van” is a tender piece about being rousted by the cops, while closer “A Certain Romance” is a ska-inflected mid-tempo epic. But for the most part, the band sticks to tight corners, fast beats and shouted choruses, and they’re right – it does get tiring. Whatever People Say I Am is only 41 minutes long, but it’s about all I need, and it doesn’t leave me wanting more.

Still, I think the band is on a decent track. They do have miles to go before they deserve the hype, and I wish the music industry was willing to let them mature a little before shoving them down our throats. In five or six albums, the Arctic Monkeys will probably be terrific, but given the hyperbole surrounding this frenetic debut, there really isn’t anywhere for the critical acclaim to go. This is live-in-the-moment music for a live-in-the-moment world, and it never reaches deeper nor promises a continuing journey.

And maybe it’s just that I’m older now. When I was 17, I would have responded to this, but I need a wider perspective these days, something that convinces me that I should remember the band’s name (no matter how stupid it is) because they’ll be around 15 years from now. There’s none of that here. Whatever People Say I Am is a fun little bottle rocket of a record, and I admit that hearing Turner shout the chorus to “Perhaps Vampires is a Bit Strong But…” is thrilling, but I know that next year will provide a similar set of thrills from an entirely new band just like this one.

Which brings us back to hype, and my biggest problem with it. The Arctic Monkeys are a blast, and they show some potential in their hooks and humor, but they will never get any better if the world keeps telling them they’re brilliant now. So seriously, world, stop it! Turner and his boys have so far to go, but they’ll never take one step if they feel they don’t have to. This album is at best a C+, but if everyone tells them a C+ is good enough, then we’re in for carbon copies of this record the next few times out, and a slow fade to an episode of Where Are They Now. Is that what you want?

The question the Arctic Monkeys ought to be asking themselves is, can we do better than this? Where can we go now? What can we explore? How much more interesting can we make our sound? The question I’m asking myself, as I do with every new band that’s hyped to the skies, is, will they? Is the band worth following, and investing time in, or are they headed nowhere? Nothing on their debut makes me think they’re in it for the long haul, but you never know. Perhaps they’ll surprise me. Perhaps ephemeral, trendy and disposable is just what I say they are, and that’s in fact what they’re not.

We’ll see.

Next week, speaking of longevity, there’s a new Alarm album.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I spend a ridiculous amount of time worrying about being old.

I know I’m not – at 31, I’m no young’un, but I’m not ready for the retirement home just yet. But I worry about it. I work in an office full of young people, all dreamy-eyed and ready to take on the world, and pretty much every day, I’m reminded that I used to feel that way. I feel ancient, dust and bones.

So it’s good to remember that there actually are old people in the world, and they think I’m barely out of the womb. Take, for example, David Gilmour, who just turned 52 last week. Gilmour is best known as the guitar player for Pink Floyd, a band who put out perhaps their most acclaimed album (Dark Side of the Moon) before I was born, and did what I consider their best work while I was learning to read and finger-paint.

By the time I was 10, it was all over for the Floyd – their visionary, Roger Waters, had departed for a bizarre solo career, and Gilmour had taken the reins. He led the remaining band through a couple of pale imitations of Floyd albums, including the first one I ever heard, A Momentary Lapse of Reason, which came out when I was 13. I’m ashamed to admit it, but my teenage self thought Gilmour a genius and Waters a hack because the former could sing on key and jam out a 10-minute solo.

It took a while, but I came around.

Put next to works like Animals and The Wall, those last two Floyd albums are comparatively lifeless, especially The Division Bell. Neither one pushes beyond the “Comfortably Numb” template – slow songs, full of spacey keyboards, Gilmour’s serviceable voice getting out of the way of his guitar more often than not. It’s a wonder that Bell took seven years to make, but you could chalk that up to the difficulty involved in getting the remaining trio (including drummer Nick Mason and keyboardist Richard Wright) together to record it.

But there’s no excusing the 12-year delay between Bell and On an Island, Gilmour’s new solo album. For one thing, even though it’s billed as a solo record, it sounds exactly the same as recent vintage Floyd, if not a little more laconic. The songs are all slow – and not even slow burners or slow builders, but just slow – and Gilmour’s guitar rules the day, taking long expanses of sound to say very little. If you liked the last two Floyd albums, you will like this. There’s almost nothing to distinguish them.

The physical sound of On an Island is as glorious as anything Gilmour has done. In their day, Pink Floyd broke new ground in sound design, and really opened up what you could do with standard stereo. Records like Dark Side presented an almost unheard-of depth of field, which works even if you’re not stoned, and it was this kind of restless experimentation that made even their early stuff shine. Somewhere in the ‘80s, though, Gilmour settled on a sound, and this is it – thick, rich, deep and clear, but front-and-center. The mystery Floyd wove so well is gone, and in its place are synth washes.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but these are lazy, contented synth washes. On an Island wafts in like a summer breeze, and occasionally whips up into an actual wind, but not often enough to notice. It’s an old guy’s record, no doubt about it – the title song is the soundtrack to a walk on the beach, and the whole album (save “Take a Breath,” which we’ll get to in a second) sounds like one of those new age discs with the pictures of sunsets on the covers, the ones you find in the nature stores.

The best word, in fact, for this is “soothing.” It’s the sound of fading out gracefully, of dying in your bed at 98, surrounded by family. It’s nice and all – practically every song has an orchestral backing, and some of the arrangements are sweet – but it all drifts by. The first time I listened to it, I didn’t know when it was over – I only realized it minutes later. The sound here is just a few steps above silence, which may have been the intention, but it doesn’t make me want to listen to it again.

That’s not to say that none of it is effective. The closest this record comes to rocking is the mid-tempo, occasionally silly “Take a Breath,” which incorporates actual rhythm guitar crunch. That one is over way too quickly, but thankfully “This Heaven” is only two tracks away, with its slinky acoustic riff. I like the half-melodies in “A Pocketful of Stones,” the best of the eight (!) ballad-things. The rest of it blends together, a long sustained note with an echo-laden guitar solo over it, interrupted occasionally by a strummed acoustic with an echo-laden guitar solo over it.

The easy blame for this is Gilmour’s age. These are sweet lullabies for the rest home, the work of a guy who is content with his life. I would never even suggest that 52 is old – look at Paul McCartney, making some of his most vital solo music at 63 – but rather that age is a state of mind. Gilmour has decided to be old, and to make happy and pleasant music for those who don’t want to be challenged or moved. It’s wallpaper, background noise, something to put on while ironing, and it’s a shame. With Waters composing operas and Gilmour giving us this ambient nothing of an album after more than a decade, it seems there’s nothing left of the Floyd we knew.

Ray Davies fares better with his first solo work, but mainly because he’s Ray Davies. At 61, he’s a rock and roll legend, the leader and visionary behind the Kinks. In his day, he wrote catchy, complex pop songs like nobody’s business, one after the other in a seemingly unbreakable streak. He dove into conceptual works in the ‘70s, and fell apart completely in the ‘80s, but for a while there, he was almost unbeatable.

So now here’s Other People’s Lives, amazingly his first solo album in 42 years of recording, and the first we’ve heard from him in about a decade. And it’s probably not what you’d expect. It’s a big production, a chamber-rock album with pianos and horns and, occasionally, big guitars. It’s also a collection of sometimes twee pop songs that wipes its arse with most of the Kinks’ ‘80s work, and if it’s not quite a return to form, it is a reminder of his considerable skills.

Other People’s Lives is a darker album than you might think, too, opening with a torrent called “Things are Gonna Change” that puts its narrator through the wringer, ending up on the other side with a defiant “I bloody well will.” Some of it’s a little standard, like the Tom Petty-ish “Run Away From Time,” but for every one of those, there’s a minor-key twist like “Creatures of Little Faith.” Davies stumbles on an amateur clod like “Is There Life After Breakfast,” but shines one track later on the shuffling “The Getaway.”

His lyrics have deteriorated over time, and I wish someone had advised him against lashing out at the internet on the title track – that’s a sure fire way for a 61-year-old to appear desperately out of touch. But Ray Davies fans won’t be disappointed in this record – spotty as it is, it’s the best thing he’s done in ages, and he certainly doesn’t sound ready for the shuffleboard court here. Listen to the booming backbeat on “Stand Up Comic,” one of the best tracks here, and try to imagine yourself at 61, and tell me if you’ll even want to listen to stuff like this without saying, “Turn that down, kids!” It’s not genius, but it does rock.

Davies even manages to sound as contented as Gilmour without sacrificing energy, or sounding ready for a nap. The closing track is the title number from last year’s EP, Thanksgiving Day, and it sounds just as good here, celebratory and sweet. It seems to me that there are two types of aging musicians – those who slowly fade into irrelevance, and those who keep fighting and pushing themselves, even into their golden years. That second group includes folks like McCartney, and Todd Rundgren, and thankfully, with this record, Ray Davies.

Next week, the mirror image of this week, as I try to jump aboard the Arctic Monkeys bandwagon.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’m not really a betting man.

I don’t play the lottery, I don’t go to the track, and I never put money on sporting events. Luckily, I didn’t inherit the gambling gene from my dad, who signs up for the Mega Millions every week, and has never won a thing. He also bets on the Boston Red Sox to win it all every year, and they’ve only come through for him once in his whole life. I’ve watched this behavior intently over the years, and learned not to emulate it.

No betting for me.

Oh, sure, there’s that weekly poker game with my office-mates, but that’s just fun. It’s a $10 buy-in Texas Hold-‘Em game that’s usually a lot more fun than anything else I might do with that same 10 bucks, so on the risk-reward scale, I can’t really call it gambling so much. Even so, I’ve figured out by this point which of my fellow players poses the biggest threat, and I often back out of games they’re in.

I’m just generally a cautious person. Uncertainty is my natural state. I’m also usually wrong – the last bet I made concerned Harriet Miers, whom I was sure would be confirmed as a Supreme Court justice. Call it an episode of rampant cynicism, one that cost me a whole dime. It’s funny now, but imagine how much funnier it would have been if I’d won…

Anyway, the point of all this is, I have to be pretty damn sure about something to wager anything of value on it. Either that, or exceedingly foolish. I’ll let you be the judge – I’ve just made another bet, and I want you all to be my witnesses.

Okay, you all know that I’m hooked on Lost, and if you didn’t know, now you do. The show has proven frustrating in its second year, and I am more certain than ever that the writers only have the barest of notions regarding how it all wraps up. Episodes this year have played to me like a relay race between the writers, one finishing an episode and handing it off to the next without any real connecting threads or narrative drive. It’s been, in short, disappointing and head-scratching, and I hope I’m wrong, and that the whole thing will pay off in the end, because God knows I’m not going to stop watching.

Fans of the show will know what I mean when I say that I’m like Jack, suspicious and skeptical, and without faith. And my friend Mike Ferrier, he’s Locke – he believes with all his heart that the writers know where they’re going, and that everything means something in the intricate tapestry they’re weaving. He believes all the dangling plot threads and little mysteries are part of a grand plan set forth by J.J. Abrams and Damon Lindelof, and that his faith will be rewarded – there will be nothing left hanging, unexplained, at the show’s conclusion.

He is clearly wrong, which is why I suggested betting on it. But rather than leave what constitutes “completely explained” up to interpretation, we picked one of those little elements. We chose something that I believe will have no logical explanation at all, and which he contends is part of the deftly woven whole. Why else, he says, would it be there, if they couldn’t explain it?

We picked the numbers.

Now, I’m not stupid. I do think there will be some explanation behind Hurley’s magical numbers, the sequence of 4-8-15-16-23-42 that brings all manner of bad luck with it, and apparently keeps the world from blowing up every 108 minutes. But sharp-eyed viewers may have noted that those numbers crop up a lot in the show – on speedometers, on clocks, and in one case, on the jerseys of a soccer team, all lined up. They’re scattered throughout the show like Easter eggs.

So here’s the bet. Mike believes there will be a reason behind the numbers appearing so frequently, often only for seconds when the camera pans by them. I think the inclusion of the numbers is a recurring gag by the writers and directors, one designed for the sole purpose of making the fanbase on the internet explode with nerdy delight, and that the appearance of them on various clocks, calendars, and (especially) soccer jerseys will never be explained at all.

By the final episode, one of us will be right, and one will be wrong.

Here’s the stipulation – the show has to conclude on its own, not be canceled. There must be a proper, planned finale. Abrams, Lindelof and his staff must have every opportunity to write their final chapter, or there’s no point to the bet. But given the ratings thus far, I don’t think that will be much of a problem.

We’ve chosen to bet the final season DVD set. Whoever wins must purchase it for the other, whenever it comes out. And the winner can then bask in the final proof of his superiority, over and over again, and perhaps even force the loser to watch it with him, and point and mock and laugh.

So here it is, in digital semi-permanence – as long as this site is up, the text of the bet will be here for all to see. And that means that as the show spirals into what I believe will be a morass of incomprehensibility, headed towards its unsatisfying and unfulfilling finale, Mike can’t weasel his way out of paying up. I kind of hope I’m wrong about this one, too, because I’d like to enjoy the next however-many years of Lost. But I don’t think I am.

* * * * *

A quick shout-out before we continue.

Longtime readers of this site might know the name Shane Kinney. I met Shane while working at Face Magazine, and he’s a great guy, and an outstanding drummer. He played in a band called Broken Clown for years, and they were an incredibly heavy, slow-moving thunder machine with song titles like “No, I’m Laughing at Your Silly, Bedwetting, Vegetarian Children.” Broken Clown broke up some time ago, and Shane has continued with his comedy career since then, doing very well.

Those same longtime readers may recall a band named 6gig, another Maine conglomerate led by a guy named Walt Craven. I didn’t get to know Walt very well during my time there, but I became a fan of his voice, guitar playing and songwriting. 6gig didn’t last long after the untimely death of their drummer, Dave Rankin – who, incidentally, was one of the nicest guys I met in Portland.

Proof that you can’t keep good musicians down – Kinney and Craven have joined forces, this time with a couple of guys from a Boston band called Chaos Twin, to form Lost on Liftoff. Their four-song EP just came out, and it’s great melodic rock. Craven’s influence is obvious, but the other guys really make themselves known here, too – this is not 6gig redux, it’s brighter and more energetic. This record is all about the songs, and they’re catchy and concise.

You can get the CD at CDBaby (for only four bucks!) here. You can listen to the whole thing, too, and if you come away from it without thinking, “This band should be huge,” I’ll be surprised. Good show, guys.

* * * * *

Is there anything in rock more controversial than the string section?

The uneasy relationship between the rock band and the orchestra goes back to the beginning of popular music. Rock ‘n’ roll, in the 1950s, stripped pop down to its basic elements – a 4/4 beat, some repeated chords, guitars, bass and drums. Before Bill Haley, though, the charts were dominated by show tunes and crooners, backed by orchestras.

Since that schism, just about every important band has tried to bring the two together again, however fleetingly. The Beatles used orchestras extensively, and the Rolling Stones followed suit here and there. In the ‘70s, orchestral arrangements were considered the height of pomposity, reserved for the likes of Yes and the Moody Blues – you won’t hear the Sex Pistols using strings. (But then, you won’t hear the Sex Pistols playing their instruments well, either…)

Punk was the breakaway, the we-mean-it-this-time split point between the guitars and the violins. It’s become the accepted notion since then, in some circles, that using strings means you have Sold Out, and you are now Unbearably Pretentious. These are the same people who believe that if your record sounds like you spent more than three days and $50 on it, it is Not Cool Enough. But I digress. The point is that orchestras are usually associated with prog and/or adult contemporary music, and stepping into such territory is looked on with suspicion.

But hell, everybody seems to be doing it. I’ve always liked string sections – they provide different colors than the usual guitar-buzz gray, and they present an altogether different challenge for the songwriter. Sure, your tune sounds good when four people are banging it out, but how about trying it with 80? Does it still hold up?

Ben Folds is a guy who uses strings all the time, to great effect. Some will point to the arrangements on his later records as proof that he’s over the hill, musically speaking, but even the first Ben Folds Five album contained “Boxing,” a show tune with a string quartet. Folds has a new DVD that contains a concert with the West Australian Symphony Orchestra, and his songs are a perfect fit. Guys like Folds and Rufus Wainwright are making the orchestra cool again.

Which might be why we’ve seen a virtual explosion of new projects with strings attached. First up is the Eels, the collective name for Mark Everett and whoever he brings on stage with him. For Everett, working with strings is definitely not a stretch – some of his best songs have violins and violas on their studio versions. But after last year’s massive Blinking Lights and Other Revelations double album put him firmly in the ambitious-as-hell category, Everett figured he’d drive the point home by touring with a string quartet.

The results can be heard on Eels With Strings: Live at Town Hall, or seen on its accompanying DVD, and it’s just as cozy as you’d expect. For all its sweep, Blinking Lights is a collection of very small, intimate songs, and the arrangements on Live at Town Hall stick to that intimacy. Often it’s just Everett and the quartet, although Chet crashes in on drums once or twice, and the focus is on his ragged, perfectly imperfect voice.

You’d think that the Blinking Lights material would suit the setting best, but you’d be wrong. Eels classics like “My Beloved Monster” and “It’s a Motherfucker” shine here, and Everett even finds a way to incorporate the free-jazz breakdown that always happens during live reads of “Flyswatter.” His choice of covers is interesting, too – Bob Dylan’s “Girl From the North Country” is great here, and Everett breathes new life into the Left Banke’s 1966 hit “Pretty Ballerina.”

The standard Eels limitations are in evidence, too, however. Everett’s songs are nice, but mostly pretty basic, and he chose several sound-alikes for this show. And then there’s his voice, a definite acquired taste. This is not the album from which to acquire it, though – he sounds hoarse and throaty, especially on “Bus Stop Boxer,” and there’s nothing for him to hide behind. You either like his vocals (which I do, for some reason) or you don’t.

Overall, Live at Town Hall is a successful experiment, one that has the air of something special from the first notes. Everett ends with some of Blinking Lights’ most contented material, choosing to bow out with the same finale he gave the album, “Things the Grandchildren Should Know.” On the album, it sounded like a coda, an afterthought, but here, it’s the summation – Everett’s in a good place right now, and it’s likely that his ability to arrange and execute projects like this has added to his joy. Here’s a guy who deserves to be happy, and I’m glad it’s happening for him.

It also seems to be happening for Collective Soul, one of the biggest bands of the ‘90s, although few would likely remember them as such. They managed the neat trick of scoring hit after hit while being essentially faceless, and after a while, all of their stuff just blended together, the product of one big glossy factory.

But a funny thing happened on the way out of Atlantic Records. Collective Soul have found their experimental side, and thanks to a new label (El Music Group), they’ve been exercising it. 2004’s Youth, their first album since leaving the majors, was more glammy and shone a bit brighter than most of its predecessors, and last year’s From the Ground Up reinvented some of their songs in an acoustic setting. And now they’ve taken on the orchestral live album with Home.

You can use strings a number of different ways, of course – in small doses, like a quartet setting, they add texture and intimacy, but in large numbers, strings are most often arranged for maximum power. Metallica’s S&M project proved to many skeptics that an 80-piece orchestra is a heavy, heavy thing, and that’s the effect Ed Roland and company have gone for here. Home was recorded with the Atlanta Symphony Youth Orchestra and the full band, and the new arrangements dart around and fill out the originals, rather than recasting them.

The best things here are the faster ones, like “Precious Declaration,” the strings doubling that killer opening riff, or “Better Now.” Slower songs like “The World I Know,” sweet as they are, already had string arrangements in their studio renditions, for the most part, and these new ones add nothing. I like that they break for “Pretty Donna,” an instrumental from their first album, here given the full orchestral treatment. I don’t like that they felt compelled to include “Shine,” their ubiquitous first hit, and still the worst song Ed Roland has ever written.

The problem with Home is the same one that has plagued Collective Soul from the beginning – their anonymity. After a while, all these songs start to sound the same, like they were spit out of a machine, and the string arrangements, while helpful, don’t relieve the tedium as much as they could. Collective Soul is a workmanlike band, one that doesn’t sit well next to majesty and grandeur, and their songs are just a little too simple for this setting. Only the diehards will love this, and while it would be incorrect to call this a failure, it won’t change anyone’s mind about the band. Orchestra or not, they sound the same.

Which can’t be said for Elvis Costello, the final of our contestants this week. 20 years ago, if you tried to convince Costello fans that one day he would release an album of orchestral jazz with the Metropole Orkest, a 50-piece concert band, they’d have thrown vinyl copies of Get Happy at you. That was when the chamber-pop of Imperial Bedroom was considered a one-off, not a first step toward a second career.

But the angry young man has become quite the composer and arranger in his later years, spinning off of The Juliet Letters (with the Brodsky Quartet, and due for a double-disc reissue later this month) and into collaborations with Burt Bacharach and the London Symphony Orchestra. He’s appeared on Marian McPartland’s Piano Jazz program, and composed a full-length ballet, Il Sogno, released in 2004. Through all that, he’s kept his guitar-rock combo, the Impostors, and continued on two parallel lines.

My Flame Burns Blue, that aforementioned live record, blurs those lines a bit. The Metropole Orkest is a string section and a jazz combo in one, and Costello uses them to tackle not just his more recent ballads, but some of his more famous pop tunes. And they do it brilliantly. My Flame Burns Blue (and don’t think the similarity to My Aim is True, the title of Costello’s 1977 debut, is accidental) serves as a nifty late-career summary, and as a damn fine hour of listening time in its own right.

It opens with “Hora Decubitus,” an old Charles Mingus tune to which Costello has added lyrics. It’s an amazing start, part jazz groove, part pop song, and it leads into “Favourite Hour,” the closing track from 1994’s Brutal Youth, and then into a cover of Dave Bartholomew’s “That’s How You Got Killed Before.” Three songs, three styles, all played beautifully by the Orkest. Costello’s voice is in fine form, spitting venom one second and spinning velvet the next.

For Costello fans, the sweetest moments on this record are the bottom-up reinventions of classics like “Clubland” and “Watching the Detectives.” The latter is aptly described in the liner notes as “in the style of a 1950s television theme.” Also surprising is the Orkest’s read of “Episode of Blonde,” one of the most ragged, Dylan-esque songs on 2002’s When I Was Cruel. Costello still shout-sings it like the Impostors are playing behind him, but the strings and horns give it an entirely new flavor.

And yeah, maybe in this case the strings are a sign of middle age, but to my ears, My Flame Burns Blue rocks more than anything the Eels or Collective Soul have ever done. Costello has learned to make the orchestra work for him, rather than with him, and he doesn’t treat it like a novelty. For the past 10 years or so, he’s fully immersed himself in this style, which allows him to bridge the gap between his chosen genres so nimbly. Like anything else, you only get out what you put in, and Costello has made the effort here to embrace the orchestra, not just utilize it. That makes all the difference.

Next week, hopefully that damn Beth Orton album, and a few other things. Remember to check out Lost on Liftoff.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’ve been doing a lot of reporting recently that (coincidentally or not, depending on your view of things) has dealt with the collision of faith and commerce.

And it’s got me thinking about it.

Professionalism keeps me from being too specific about things here, but the clash between honest expression and exploitative marketing, especially when it comes to matters of faith, has been illuminated on a couple of occasions for me this past week. I expounded at length on the subject in my Cornerstone column last July, and it just keeps cropping up, especially considering that some of my favorite artists are consigned to the aptly nicknamed Christian music ghetto.

People get all twitchy when I mention Christian music, expecting that I’m going to start handing out copies of the Watchtower and smack them over the head with the King James Bible. It’s a tiresome, yet perfectly understandable attitude, and it’s mostly Nashville’s fault – most of what gets bandied about under the term Christian is target-marketed crap, assembly-line garbage that meets a certain corporate Jesus-per-minute quota. It’s wretched stuff, soulless and useless, and it does more to turn people away from whatever message it’s so relentlessly selling.

I’m honestly not religious at all, and I am no more interested in that kind of music than I am in the so-called mainstream equivalents, the likes of Jessica Simpson and most rap, which just as cynically appeals to a pre-selected market solely to make oodles of cash. Thing is, to me, music is not a tool, or a means, or a method – it is the goal, the end, the thing all of this should be about. To use it as a means of selling anything, be it beer or cigarettes or Jesus or Satan or anything else, is just repulsive to me.

And the Christian music industry is guilty as hell of this. The worst part is that young musicians who snap at the chance to sign with a Christian label are often forever branded with that stigma, and consigned to the Jesus-music racks at Sam Goody. Just look at artists like Mike Roe – one of the best guitar players you’ll ever hear, prolific and proficient in a number of styles, and an honest and heartbreaking songwriter. But he’s relegated now to playing Cornerstone and churches and that’s it, because of his lengthy history (and friction-filled relationship) with the Christian music industry.

Guys like Roe and Terry Taylor worked hard to change that industry from within, infusing their work with honesty and humor and artistry, but it didn’t work – Nashville now pumps out the same crap it always has, servicing the Family Christian Bookstores and the faithful who line up for “safe” product. And Taylor, Roe and his ilk have been abandoned, left to start their own labels and take to the internet just to pay their rent.

For the life of me, I don’t know why anyone interested in making genuine art would sign with a Nashville Christian label.

And apparently, the guys in Mute Math agree with me.

Last year, I saw Mute Math play at Cornerstone, and it was a revelation – here is a band doing something no one else is doing, and even if there were others playing in this style, they’d still be the best there is at it. How depressing, then, to find out that they were signed to Word Records, and that their debut EP, Reset, failed to capture the extraordinary sound this New Orleans foursome created on stage. Reset isn’t bad, really, but the inclusion of the sappy ballad “It’s OK” and the overall glossy sound served to obscure what makes this band special.

But hang on. Their self-titled full-length, out last month, corrects all of the mistakes of the EP. It’s fully formed, the sound is amazing, there isn’t one embarrassing moment on it, and it’s refreshingly sap-free. Oh, and it’s not on Word Records – it’s self-released, on the band’s own Teleprompt, and you can only get it from them here.

Wanna know why? Well, it turns out that Mute Math has sued Warner Bros. and Word for trying to force them into the Christian market. According to a statement by lead singer Paul Meany, the dispute is over “how Mute Math should sound and be marketed,” and that Word Records is “the last place in the world [he] ever wanted Mute Math to end up.”

Here’s my favorite sentence from his statement: “There was no way I could bear the thought of seeing the new album stamped with the ‘W’ and confined to being promoted in a manner I consider nauseating.”

That’s respect. Respect for the art, respect for the music. Rather than watch this collection of songs they labored on be tampered with to meet some Christian corporate idea of sellable, and then see it consigned to rot in select stores and cutout bins at festivals, the band took it back, and they’re bringing it to the fans, one at a time. They’re on what they call the Album Release Tour now, setting up little CD parties in every city they hit. As Meany said, they’d rather do it this way, getting their music out on their own terms, than be labeled and sold as something they’re not.

I just think that’s beautiful, and even if I hadn’t been excited to hear the record before, the lengths the band has gone to protect it would have had me jumping out of my skin to get a copy.

I’ve absorbed Mute Math about 15 times now, and I honestly think it’s the best thing I’ve heard so far this year (sorry, Belle and Sebastian), and I will be surprised if this isn’t standing as one of the 10 best albums of 2005 in 10 months. Bold statement? Sure. Here’s another one – if I could buy copies of this CD for everyone I know, I would do it. Obviously, I can’t, but I will try the next best thing, which is convincing you all to give this band a shot.

So, the sound. Imagine if the Police, circa Zenyatta Mondatta, decided to make Kid A. That doesn’t quite sum it up, but it comes close – this is a dense, dazzling record, full of electronics and trippy beats (mostly played on real drums), but with insanely catchy songs, great riffs, and soaring vocals. It is 13 tracks – nine songs, four interludes – that play like one massive, beautiful whole. The sound is often unearthly, full of electronic pianos and backwards tones and treated guitars, but the songs are beautifully realized and grounded. And Paul Meany often sounds just like Sting – Police-era Sting, not solo-era, rapping-in-French Sting.

The album opens with its most typical song, fittingly called “Typical,” all crashing guitars and shouted chorus lines, but one song later, Mute Math takes flight. “Chaos” is incredible, jagged and kinetic, like a long-lost 1980s classic re-recorded in the rings of Saturn. “Noticed” is just as cool, with a great chorus and some Stewart Copeland-esque hi-hat work. Really, these two songs would be enough to convince me to buy the record for twice what I paid, and lo and behold, you can hear them both on their MySpace site.

But they’re not done. Mute Math dives into spacier waters from here on, the band couching their fantastic melodies in more ambient sounds. “Stare At the Sun” is a superb examination of doubt, set to an otherworldly waltz right out of the second half of OK Computer. It leads into “Obsolete,” the longest of the interludes, taking the sound and the beat to more alien places. “Break the Same” is the most singable seven-minute song you’re likely to hear, and “You Are Mine” comes closest to ballad territory, but deftly avoids it with its gorgeous production.

They saved the best for last – “Stall Out” is where William Orbit meets Brian Wilson, in a way. It’s seven minutes of glorious atmosphere swirling around a stratospheric melody. The final minutes repeat the line “We are still far from over,” and I only hope it’s the truth, because this is one fantastic album. Every few seconds of it holds something new – it’s as layered and meticulous as Dark Side of the Moon, yet as accessible and tuneful as a U2 record.

I just will not accept that only a few hundred people will get to hear this. It’s been a while since I’ve been faced with something this excellent, this instantly likeable, and this depressingly obscure. This is music to be shared and reveled in, music to be played before 50,000 people, not 50. If you’re worried about the Christian content, well, remember – it apparently wasn’t “Christian enough” for Word Records, and if you bought How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb and were okay with it, this is even less evangelical. It’s just honest, searching, wonderful work, and I recommend it unreservedly to absolutely everyone.

It will cost you nothing to check Mute Math out. If you like what’s there, you will like the rest. You have nothing to lose, and perhaps a new favorite band to gain.

* * * * *

And speaking of great bands that the Christian industry doesn’t know what to do with, there’s the Violet Burning.

A full disclosure up front – I interviewed Michael Pritzl, the leader and visionary of the Violet Burning, for HM Magazine last month. I’ve also had their new album, Drop-Dead, for more than two months now, and I’m so glad I can finally talk about it. I just wanted to mention that now, before anyone accuses me of bias, and say that I jumped at the chance to interview Pritzl and hear the album early because I’m a fan, and I came out the other side of all that still a fan. This review would be the same had I never spoken word one to the man.

I got the chance to meet Pritzl after TVB’s fantastic show at the Warehouse in Aurora last week. A grand total of about 30 people showed up, and the sound problems were numerous, but Pritzl and his band still played like they had sold out Wembley. That’s just what he does – you will not find a more emotionally invested singer, player or artist anywhere. Pritzl has been giving all of himself to his music for more than 15 years, before audiences large and small, and he’s never less than entrancing to watch and listen to.

TVB’s sound has adapted over the years, going from the worshipful rock of the early records, to the dreamy expanses of the self-titled album, to the trashy glam of much of Demonstrates Plastic and Elastic. But in 2003, Pritzl threw the biggest curve ball of them all – This Is the Moment, a compressed, glossy album of mainstream Christian pop. I damned it with faint praise at the time, saying that I hoped such a blatant stab at radio play worked for both Pritzl and his label, tiny Northern Records.

I mostly said that because, while worship music has been a big part of what Pritzl does for his entire career, Moment seemed almost a forsaking of his sound. Come to find out that this is a perfect example of that faith-art-commerce thing: Moment was the album Northern asked for, designed to help them sell it to Christian outlets, and Pritzl gave it to them in the spirit of cooperation. When it didn’t set the gospel charts on fire, Northern decided to let him make the album he wanted to make as a follow-up.

Hence, Drop-Dead, a classic and welcome return to the expansive, glorious sound of TVB. The Cure and U2 influences are in full flower here, and the production is huge and dynamic. A voice like Pritzl’s, aching and emotional, sounds best over a bottomless pool of sonic depth, and that’s what you get here. Opener “Humm” states that case brilliantly – a bed of synth bass and chiming guitars surround him as he sings, “Hold me now, I think I’m breaking” over and over. It’s graceful and beautiful, and everything I’d hoped.

But wait, because the album starts rocking with the next track. “All I Want” is a chart-topping hit in a perfect world, a nimbly melodic anthem, and Pritzl hasn’t turned in a trashy rocker like “Do You Love Me” since “Berlin Kitty.” There is a definite new wave element to virtually everything here – keyboards color every track, and drummer Jason Lord Mize plays along with a drum machine more often than not. It’s most obvious on “Rewind,” a clever dance track that throbs and pulses, the backing vocalists delivering the coup de grace with their “no, don’t stop, rewind.” It’s great fun.

Elsewhere, the album takes on more serious overtones. “More” is pure Cure, especially the extended intro with its echo-laden clean guitar lines. The final two tracks are grand and sweeping, separated from the rest of the record in a way by the brief drone “Trans.” “The Ends Begin” is dynamic, the intense arrangement backing out several times to focus on Pritzl’s aching voice. And “One Thousand Years” couldn’t have been anything but the closer, its U2-esque grandeur leading to a stirring refrain: “Yeah, you’re my heart, you’re my home…”

Many have mistaken Drop-Dead for an angry record, because of the title, but notice the hyphen – it’s meant as an adjective, not as an exhortation. The lyrics are basic, universal, and endlessly romantic. This is an album about love, and about yearning. (Fittingly, it was released on Valentine’s Day…) It is, as Pritzl says, all romance and tragedy, with frequent looks skyward, pleading for grace.

Truly, it’s all good – this is the most consistent Violet Burning album since Plastic and Elastic. But you don’t have to take my word for it. Pritzl has such faith in this material that he’s letting you hear the whole thing – just launch the ecard and listen. Again, it costs you nothing to check it out. If you ever liked the Violet Burning, this record will thrill you. If you’ve never tried the Violet Burning, this is a great first taste. This is another album that very few people will get to hear, which is a shame. Pritzl is a powerful artist, both live and on record, and Drop-Dead is one of his best.

* * * * *

Next week, a look at the recent spate of live albums with string sections. And perhaps the week after that, I’ll finally review that Beth Orton album. I’m taking over a much more work-intensive beat at the newspaper on Monday, which will give me even less time to devote to this column, unfortunately. But I have no plans to abandon it, and I’ll do the best I can to not miss a week. Wish me luck.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Things I am looking forward to, February 2006 edition:

Last year, I pronounced Mute Math the discovery of my Cornerstone Festival trip. Their live show was amazing, and while their debut EP, Reset, didn’t quite capture it, I could see and hear that these guys have something.

Well, now I’ve heard a few tracks off of their self-titled full-length (and you can, too), which slipped out last month without my noticing it, and all the excitement of that first show is back. It sounds superb, and “Chaos” and “Noticed” have quickly become two of my favorite songs of the year. Imagine if the Police were still playing, but instead of the glossy pop direction they took on Synchronicity, they stuck to the progressive nature of Zenyatta Mondatta and pushed it forward. That’s what you have here – 10 different musical styles sitting next to each other and working together in the service of some great songs.

The album is only available from the band right now, for reasons that I’ll get into once I review it. It’s on the way to me, and I haven’t been this psyched to get something in the mail since… well, Tuesday, when this week’s review subject showed up.

Anyway, in between playing the Mute Math tracks over and over, I’m also anticipating new records and box sets from… geez, loads of people. The year is officially in full swing. Next week, new stuff from the Lilys, Teddy Thompson, Ray Davies and the Eels (a live album with a string section), and the week after that, there’s Elvis Costello (continuing the live-album-with-strings theme) and Rhett Miller.

But beyond the immediate horizon, there are some things set for this year that have me counting the days. (I am not an addict, I can quit any time I want…) For instance, Michael Roe is right now recording the follow-up to Say Your Prayers, his intimate acoustic album from four years ago. I loved Prayers almost more than any other project by this prolific and astounding guitarist – it will make you weep, it’s so lovely. Hopefully the sequel will be just as good, but even if it isn’t, it’s always a joy to hear Roe in any setting.

Speaking of sequels, I am simultaneously awaiting and dreading Operation: Mindcrime II from Queensryche, one of the most important bands of my teen years. The band sounded revitalized on Tribe, their last record, and if they can carry that over, this will hopefully be a worthy second chapter. On the other hand, the first record is pretty much perfect, as far as metal-rock operas go, and a poor sequel can only diminish it. The addition of Ronnie James Dio as the voice of Dr. X doesn’t bode all that well, and the songs I’ve heard have been average, but with a project like this, it’s the cumulative effect of the music and the story. I am taking it way too seriously – I feel like I’m 16 again, poring over the lyrics to the original Mindcrime, looking for clues. It will be worth my $15 to recapture that, I think.

On the subject of quitting while you’re ahead, though, there’s Grandaddy, whose Just Like the Fambly Cat is rumored to be their swan song. It’s apparently really long, and thoroughly produced – huge and epic. I love huge and epic, and as sad as I am to see such a great band throwing in the towel, I’m fascinated by any band’s final album, especially if they’re aware of their fate while recording. What does the specter of finality do to the process of creation? In Grandaddy’s case, we’ll find out on May 9.

Then there’s new things from Built to Spill, the Fiery Furnaces, Eric Matthews, the Elms, Glen Phillips (already?), Ministry, and a double record from the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Plus, I hear there’s going to be a new Hammock album this year, which is always good news. And a new Marillion in 2007. And I just got the four-CD Rarities/Revelations set from art-goth wunderkinds Saviour Machine in the mail – gorgeously packaged, stuffed with more than five hours of rare and re-arranged tracks, and collectible, since there were only 500 made.

Oh, and my health insurance kicks in on April 1, which means I can get a physical for the first time in four years. Everything works if you let it.

* * * * *

It’s always interesting to me when something moves from my “I want it” list to my “I have it, now what do I think of it” list. Especially if it’s something I’ve been waiting for, working over in my mind how it will sound, what it will do to my life once it arrives. The reality is rarely what I expected, and it’s always a process extricating the record itself from my hopes for it. My initial reaction is almost always disappointment (and when it’s not, as with the Choir’s new album, then I know it’s something special), and it usually takes several listens to get over it and just review the album.

To say that I’ve been waiting for Ross Rice’s Dwight is to severely understate the situation. Let me set the scene. Now, I’m not the kind of guy who hangs on to favorites from the past, illogically ranking them above superior artists of today. I like Great White, for example, and I have since high school, but I wouldn’t ever call them a great band like, say, Keane or Muse. However, there are three albums that came out in 1990, when I was 16, that still reside in my all-time pantheon, records I still reach for and hold up as examples of brilliance.

The first is the Choir’s Circle Slide, still their best work.

The second is Bellybutton, by the late, great Jellyfish.

And the third is Human Radio. That this perfect, cynical, melodic work of genius hasn’t launched a thousand cults is just criminal. Ten terrific songs, ones that sound like Mr. Mister playing Beatles songs with violinist Sugar Cane Harris, only a hundred times better than whatever image that poor description may evoke. Between “I Don’t Wanna Know,” “Hole in My Head,” “These Are the Days” and “My First Million,” Ross Rice earned a place in my personal songwriters’ hall of fame.

And then he went away. Human Radio was dropped from Columbia shortly after recording their unreleased, excellent second album, and they broke up. Rice made a solo record called Umpteen in 1997, which I bought with breathless excitement, but it just wasn’t all that great, and I figured that would be the last we’d hear of him. I found the second Human Radio album online, and it’s swell, especially “While You Were Sleeping,” perhaps my favorite of Rice’s songs, period. But the future looked bleak.

Nine years is a long time to wait for something, but now that Rice’s second album, Dwight, is here, I feel like I’ve been hanging on and hoping for it since my early ‘20s. In that time, I got a great job at a magazine, gave it up, flitted around the country for a couple of years, dated some interesting people, watched them leave me, got cheated on, lost everything, and slowly put my life back together. I’m happy now, in a job I love, with great friends – oddly enough, I am in the same position, mentally speaking, that I was last time I heard a new Ross Rice album.

But past the “Hey, how was your decade?” pleasantries, the experience couldn’t be more different. Umpteen started off disappointing, and stayed there, only a couple of songs rising above the overall average. Dwight, on the other hand, underwhelmed me on first listen, but over the last few days it has grown into a near-classic. These are Rice’s best songs since the first Human Radio album, although they sound nothing like that band’s work. This is a whole new thing, a diverse and mature Ross Rice, one that gives every indication that he’s gone through as many changes as a musician in nine years as I have as a listener.

The album title is a nickname – Rice cut his teeth in Memphis, and when he played with bassist Duck Dunn’s band, they would refer to him as “d’white boy,” or “Dwight” for short. It kicks off with “Hard Times for the Revolution,” a modern classic, all spit-shout vocals and buzzing guitar. And it sets the tone – it’s about a guy who has held strong to his rebellious ways while everyone around him has taken “a nice straight job and a nice straight life,” unable to “get off the couch and fight the power.” It’s sarcastic, cynical, and wonderful, and the first thing he’s done since that stands with the best Human Radio songs.

If that were it, I would still be happy, but Rice went and wrote a few more stunners, too. “Blindman” is a slow creep with a soaring chorus, almost King’s X in its grungy prog tone. “Mr. Anti-Sunshine” sounds like the offspring of old Elvis Costello and Del Amitri, if you can picture that. “Words Fail Me” is an update of Human Radio’s “Hole in My Head” lyrically, and a Glen Phillips special musically, an appealing, jangly delight. “…And After All” closes the record proper, a deep ballad with a great string outro.

Rice’s gift for lyrics is in full force here, although not as upfront and witty as it was in the Human Radio days. But lovelorn laments like “Happy?” and “Beautiful Ghost” explore more grown-up territory, which suits me fine these days. Human Radio is a young person’s album, all anger and funny despair, but Rice is older now, and Dwight reaches for more personal and emotional themes. Just check out “Over Arizona,” a tune about getting over your fear of flying to go see the woman you just might love. The music is more subdued and less immediate here, which matches the lyrical tone perfectly – it takes time to sink in.

“Mr. Anti-Sunshine” even seems to take aim at his former self, the bitter, conquering swagger replaced with a weary knowledge and, oddly, more hopeful demeanor. “Where is all your talent now, but just a seedling, a spark, half forgotten until now?” he asks, before repeatedly chastising, “You got messed up like it was something to believe in.”

And fittingly, Dwight concludes with a sweet little coda called “I Just Wanna Hang With My Baby.” I initially rejected this song, with its falsetto soul and Prince-like instrumentation, but like the rest of the record, it’s grown on me, and now I try to sing along when it comes on, reaching for those high notes. The song is happy, calm and settled, and hopefully its author is, too. Every time I hear new stuff from Ross Rice, I feel like it will be the last hello and goodbye. But while Umpteen would have left me hanging, unfulfilled, Dwight leaves me contented. If this is the last chapter, it’s a good one, one that will let me close the book in peace.

But I hope it isn’t the last chapter. Rice remains one of my favorite songwriters, and his voice hasn’t lost a note, and his knack for catchy, memorable tunes is obviously still with him. Even if it takes nine more years, I want more Ross Rice albums, dammit. It’s sad that so few people know of his work, because in my world, he’s written five or six of my favorite songs, and one or two of my favorite albums. I suppose I should be content with that, but I’m not as grown-up as Rice is, apparently, because I still want more.

In the meantime, we have Dwight, and you can get it here. While you’re there, download the second Human Radio album, particularly “While You Were Sleeping” and “15 Million Worlds Apart.” It’s free, and you won’t regret it. Special thanks again to Dr. Tony Shore for giving me the heads-up on this.

Next week, hopefully a few things, but definitely Beth Orton.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

The race for the best album of 2006 is officially on.

Now, to be sure, there are some hefty competitors throwing down within the next few months. No less than Ray Davies of the Kinks makes his solo debut on February 21, and new records are expected from the likes of Matthew Sweet, Eric Matthews, the Elms, Grandaddy, the Lilys, and Michael Roe. Plus there’s a special bonus contender, and I’ll get more into that later, and next week.

But for now, the field is wide open, the title for the taking. And Belle and Sebastian have taken it.

I am, admittedly, late to the party on this band. I jumped aboard in 2000, with Fold Your Hands Child, You Walk Like a Peasant, and found it pleasant, if unremarkable. There’s such a cult, such a legend around this band, and I didn’t get it. Further exploration only confused me more – If You’re Feeling Sinister, one of those records around which the word “masterpiece” floats like a cloud, left me somewhat cold. They were nice songs, but nothing to get worked up over.

And I’m afraid I have concluded that I just disagree with the cult. Part of it must be that I wasn’t there at the beginning – I didn’t track down and trade bootleg cassettes of Tigermilk before it was released in the U.S. I didn’t spend college nights dissecting the stories and images on Sinister. I don’t have any particular attachment to the early albums, which makes it easier, I’ll grant, for me to disregard them. I’m not, of course – I like the first four records, especially The Boy With the Arab Strap, but they don’t sound like my life, which seems to be the separation point.

Another disagreement: many seem to think that Belle and Sebastian (named after a French television show) have been on a downward slide since Sinister, with some suggesting that the later albums are almost parodies of the early ones. I’m not hearing it. In fact, I think they’ve been getting better and better, expanding on the simple folk-pop of the first two records. Stuart Murdoch, the band’s visionary, has even learned to sing, something he hadn’t quite perfected on his first few tries.

Even so, I had written them off – the best record of theirs I had heard was Peasant, and it still didn’t thrill me. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I missed Dear Catastrophe Waitress, their 2003 transformation, and I’m indebted to Matt DeFour for bringing me back. What I expected would be just another Belle and Sebastian album was, in fact, a huge upheaval in the sound. Stuart Murdoch took over, bringing with him a huge eraser and some fascinating influences.

What emerged was not so much a reinvention as a revelation – a melodic monster of a pop record. The opener, “Step Inside My Office, Baby,” was the most complete and electrifying song Murdoch had written, all bright and beautiful, and the album followed suit. Now, I will grant you, quite a bit of my love for this record comes from Murdoch’s musical choices closely mirroring my own preferences – he had to pick a direction, and he picked ‘60s pop, one of the keys to my heart. But a lot of bands try to do ‘60s pop, and they discover that it ain’t easy. B&S pulled it off winningly.

Their sixth full-length, The Life Pursuit, follows the same Sloan-esque path, but if Waitress was their One Chord to Another, this is their Navy Blues. It’s somehow stripped down and yet bigger-sounding, and the songs are more rock-oriented and less immediate. In essence, though, this album is the final nail in the coffin of the band’s old sound. There’s nothing about a song like “White Collar Boy” that you could describe as twee, one of the most commonly used adjectives in early reviews. “The Blues are Still Blue” sounds so much like the Steve Miller Band, in fact, that I can imagine fans of Sinister shivering in disgust.

Credit must go to the producers the band has chosen for their one-two punch. Waitress was sculpted by Trevor Horn, perhaps best known for Yes’ 90125 and Seal’s first two albums, and for Pursuit, the band worked with Tony Hoffer, the man behind Supergrass’ phenomenal Life on Other Planets, among other retro-cool records of note. Hoffer’s sound here is pure 1960s, but less glossy than Horn’s work. The embellishments are just as numerous here – there are horns, clarinets, bassoons, and oceans of backing vocals – but they’re not as up-front and ear-grabbing. It takes a few listens to really hear everything that’s going on in this record.

Like Sloan’s stuff, this album sounds to me like the band built a time machine and slipped back a few decades. It’s an old-time, well-crafted pop album, the kind that makes me want to turn it over after six songs. This record is absolutely in sides, as well – side one, which ends with “Sukie in the Graveyard,” is the more straightforward half, the more rock ‘n’ roll stuff, whereas side two finds Murdoch stretching out a bit to incorporate sunshine pop and bouncy funk. “We Are the Sleepyheads” makes even me want to dance, and trust me, I should never dance. But just try to stay still while this kinetic gem is playing, the backing vocals echoing off the walls. There’s even a couple of searing guitar solos in it.

As much as I appreciate and love the energy on this record, it’s the slower, more thoughtful ones that move me this time. “Dress Up in You” might be the prettiest thing in Murdoch’s catalog, despite the tenderly delivered vulgarities, and the trumpet solo is right out of Burt Bacharach’s handbook. “Song for Sunshine” has overtones of Marvin Gaye and Stevie Wonder, until it blossoms into a glorious chorus. And the album ends gracefully with “Mornington Crescent,” an acoustic piece that is the closest this album comes to the band’s wistful folk of old.

Many will say that I have no right to call The Life Pursuit a great Belle and Sebastian album. They may be right, and I won’t deny that my perspective is not as nuanced as those who were there from the start. Those same people have been decrying the later albums as empty, and I think what they mean is that they don’t mean to them what Sinister does. I know that feeling, and I can relate. I can only like what I like, though, and the songwriting and production of The Life Pursuit sounds miles, light years ahead of the group’s humble origins to me.

Hopefully the cult will come around, because I doubt they’re going back to four-tracks and furtive secrets, and The Life Pursuit is a great record. Like I said, the race is on, and it is incredibly early, but for right now, Belle and Sebastian have the album of the year.

* * * * *

Next week, I hope, a special treat. I am once again indebted to Dr. Tony Shore (which means I’m gonna have to link him again) for giving me the heads-up on this.

Once upon a time, there was a band called Human Radio. They made an incredible debut, a perfect progressive pop masterpiece, in 1990. They made a terrific follow-up the next year that was never released. And then they went away. Singer/songwriter Ross Rice made a decent solo album in 1997, but aside from that, nothing. Still, I scour the internet constantly for news about Rice, because those two Human Radio albums are enough to put him in my pantheon of pop songwriters.

How I missed the release of Ross’ second album, Dwight, is beyond me, but Dr. Shore has kindly filled me in with a typically ecstatic review. The disc is on its way to me, and if it’s half as good as Tony says it is, then I can’t wait. These are the moments I live for.

Next week, obviously, Ross Rice, if it gets here in time. If not, there’s always Beth Orton’s great new one, Comfort of Strangers, to discuss.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I love it when my favorites get recognized.

Some people hate that – they want to keep their little secrets to themselves, fearful of too many bandwagon-jumpers. I’m not one of those people. I want everyone to like what I like, by force if necessary. I’m like a pusher who never charges after that first free taste. Just about everyone who knows me (and doesn’t object for moral reasons) has received a mix CD at one point, and been annoyed by my near-constant request (nay, demand) for thoughts and opinions and affirmations on the selections.

So it’s with great joy that I greet any news of wider exposure for my personal pantheon of artists. To wit: News came this week that Noah Baumbach, the writer/director of perhaps my favorite film ever, the non-Will Ferrell Kicking and Screaming, shall now forever be known as Academy Award Nominee Noah Baumbach. Yep, his The Squid and the Whale picked up an Oscar nod for Best Original Screenplay, and I apologize to my co-workers, who had to deal with my spontaneous squeal of delight when I found out.

Baumbach won’t win, of course, but in his case, it truly is an honor to be nominated. Squid is an intimate, harsh little film that seems to be connecting with audiences not because of star power or marketing budgets, but the honesty with which it was rendered. It’s a tough movie, one that makes you feel its pain. It is Baumbach’s most accomplished effort, and although K&S still means more to me, it was definitely the rough draft for much of Squid.

So I’m glad he’s sitting pretty with his nomination. I hope this means two things will happen. First, that Baumbach will get more work, and get to make more films. He’s already working with Wes Anderson on an adaptation of Roald Dahl’s The Fantastic Mr. Fox, and while I think they make a good team, I want more Noah Baumbach films.

And speaking of, there’s the second thing – I want Kicking and Screaming on DVD. I would even accept a straight transfer with no extras, just to have the movie in its original form (the only copies that exist are pan-and-scan VHS). It’s an 11-year-old film at this point, there would be no additional production costs, and get this, DVD makers – you can splash “From the Oscar-Nominated Creator of The Squid and the Whale” right across the front cover. What would be the downside? Honestly, there’s no excuse now. Let’s get this done, people.

Otherwise, the Oscar nominations were pretty predictable, much like, I expect, the actual awards. It’s gay cowboys all the way this year – Brokeback Mountain is the only one of the five Best Picture nominees I still haven’t seen, but I plan on rectifying that shortly, since it’s a near-guaranteed winner. I had a discussion with a co-worker this week about the Best Picture nominees, and how it’s the most politically charged slate of films either of us could remember. In addition to the this-won’t-play-in-the-red-states Brokeback, there’s Crash, Good Night and Good Luck, and Munich, all films with serious, controversial and relevant themes. When your least political movie is Capote, then you’ve got a thoughtful, divisive and aware set of statements to choose from. And I couldn’t be happier – not a King Kong or a Cinderella Man in the bunch.

Plus, Jon Stewart is hosting, just to add to the political bent of this year’s awards.

Anyway, official predictions, for those who care.

Philip Seymour Hoffman owns the Best Actor award, and if he doesn’t win, it’s just down to ignorance of the film. Heath Ledger could get it as part of a Brokeback sweep, but I think Hoffman deserves it, and I think everyone knows it.

I’m going to vote for Reese Witherspoon for Best Actress, because I think the voters will want to give Walk the Line something. It was a well-received film, and Witherspoon was very good as June Carter Cash, except when she was singing. Felicity Huffman probably deserves it, but like most of the Academy, I haven’t seen Transamerica yet.

I think Paul Giamatti might get Best Supporting Actor, as penance for his double-snub of the last two years. (American Splendor and Sideways, two riveting performances that were completely overlooked.) If not, count on Jake Gyllenhaal to ride the Brokeback train to victory.

Best Supporting Actress is pretty wide open, but the most buzz seems to surround Rachel Weisz in The Constant Gardner. I would love to see Catherine Keener get this – she is always awesome, and her turn as Harper Lee in Capote was typically terrific. But I think Hoffman’s absurdly good performance in that movie may overshadow any other element that deserves notice, unfortunately. And there’s always Michelle Williams, earning raves and possibly participating in a Brokeback sweep. So no prediction here, but I’m leaning towards Weisz.

Ang Lee will win Best Director. The Academy loves him, and he rebounded nicely from the disaster that was Hulk. Once again, Spielberg will be left out in the cold, despite making one of his finest films with the stunning Munich. I have been assured that Brokeback Mountain is beautifully shot and directed, which, considering Lee’s track record, I do not doubt for a second.

I was originally told that March of the Penguins was ineligible for Best Documentary, since the filmmakers did some digital tweaking. I’m happy to see I was wrong – I don’t think I saw a better, more lovely movie all year, to tell you the truth. And it will win.

Brokeback Mountain wins for Best Adapted Screenplay, no question. Although Capote and Munich should give it a run for its money, and I’m glad to see them both represented.

Best Original Screenplay is a different story, and more complicated. I’d love to see Noah Baumbach win, but I think we can safely count him out. Woody Allen is here because he’s Woody Allen, not because he has a chance, sadly. Syriana was a mess, and I wish Stephen Gaghan had been given an extra 45 minutes of screen time to flesh it out. Good Night and Good Luck is perfectly paced, but half of it is old footage, and it was more a matter of assembly than writing. That leaves Paul Haggis for Crash, and it would be deserving, although he won last year, too. We also have five films here that won’t win anything else, so it might be down to which one has the most admirers, in which case Good Night will probably take it.

I know that’s not a real prediction, but I’m completely unsure in that category, and I hope to be surprised.

Oh, and Brokeback wins Best Picture, without much of a fight. And then I spend the next two months yelling at people for blaming the “gay agenda” and the “liberals” for the triumph of what is, no doubt, a deserving and lovingly made film. Really looking forward to that.

* * * * *

Full disclosure, before we get going: the subject of this week’s review, Richard Julian, reads my column. Or at least, I think he does – I send it to him every week, and he hasn’t asked me to stop. But what he does with it once it lands in his inbox is up to him. I just wanted to mention that, and reassure anyone who thinks that I’m doing publicity for a subscriber – I honestly like Julian’s work, and would recommend it even if he had never written me.

My history with Julian’s music is a series of accidents. When I wrote for Face Magazine, I received literally hundreds of free discs a month, and nearly all of them were crap. Major labels, minor labels, local guys – Sturgeon’s Law applied to all of them, except more so. I liked maybe one out of every hundred I heard, and I can barely remember the names of most of the artists trying and failing to catch my ear.

But I remember Richard Julian. His label, the now-defunct Blackbird Records, sent me his self-titled debut, and it was like giving cookie-dough ice cream to a low-sugar diabetic. Snarky, finely wrought, folk-inflected, and full of just great songs, Richard Julian was among my favorite discoveries at Face. One year later, there came Smash Palace, the second record, which was just as good, if not better, and totally different from the debut in all the right ways. Promising career? You betcha.

And then the long silence. By 2001, I had relegated Julian to the ever-growing list of artists I loved, but who just didn’t catch the right breaks.

Turns out, I had underestimated Julian’s tenacity. Another happy accident – I stumbled onto his website just as he was pulling together Good Life, his stripped-down, independently released third effort. And it was so good that I even bent the rules a little and allowed him a spot on the 2002 Top 10 List, arguing that his distribution deal didn’t kick in until ’02, so the album officially appeared in stores during that year, and blah blah bitty blah. Flimsy excuse, but the record deserved its spot, and I regret nothing.

Good Life, swell as it was, had the feeling of a last gasp to it, kind of a kitchen sink, I’ll-never-get-to-do-this-again atmosphere, and the long silence that followed seemed to bear that out. So it was with much rejoicing that I greeted the news that Slow New York, Julian’s fourth record, would be released by EMI/Manhattan. That’s a big deal for a guy who was stuffing envelopes with his indie CD only a few years ago, and a testament to his talent.

One might expect that Julian’s major-label effort would be elaborately produced, like his first couple of records, but Slow New York is just as stripped and intimate as Good Life. It is his most straightforward and acoustic set of songs, clocking in at a scant 41 minutes, and none of the tracks are cluttered – everything here contains as many instruments as it needs, and no more. Four songs were co-produced by Norah Jones, who also offers backing vocals here and there, and a nice quote for the front cover sticker. And this is exactly the kind of record that her fans would probably dig – low-key, occasionally jazzy, and mostly sweet.

That’s not to say it doesn’t pack a punch, but Julian has taken pains here to ease the prickly nature of his past work, perhaps so as not to scare the wider audience a major label will bring, most of whom will think this is his debut. “Love of Mine” slides in on delicate finger-picks, and the record doesn’t pick up speed until the zydeco-influenced “If a Heart Breaks.” There’s a blues in “Cheap Guitar,” a piano-powered jazz number in “A Short Biography,” and a trademark story-song in “End of the Line,” but otherwise, this is the softer side of Richard Julian, traditional and laid-back.

One thing that hasn’t changed at all is his gift for lyrics, his penchant for little snapshots that convey rich emotions. “Love of Mine” sounds like longing, until he concludes, “I need this like I need a hole in my brain, like a downtown track needs an uptown train.” On “Don’t Wait Up,” he declares, “I’m half mad, let’s hope that means I’m half sane,” before telling the object of his affections, “I want your flu, baby, not just your cough.”

Pretty as much of the opening salvo is, Slow New York kicks into gear with “Cheap Guitar,” a rollicking blues that’s every bit as snarky and bleak as Julian’s best work: “Sometimes love is just a rank motel, springs in the mattress are all shot to hell, but it’s late and you’re low on fuel so you might as well…” “A Short Biography” is next, and it’s even cooler, a sidelong glance at his own life that erupts with Dred Scott’s piano work. Best of all, I think, is “End of the Line,” a short story in song form that takes a sarcastic look at customer service, and ends with a gasp-worthy line.

But Slow New York has its share of warm-hearted moments, more than usual for Julian. The title track is lonesome and pleading – “I’ve been up all night having a ball, staring at the view of my brick wall,” Julian sings, before offering, “If you wanna come home like you once said, I’m still on the same side of the bed.” “Photograph” may be his saddest song, and it suits him perfectly, a writer of snapshots reflecting on a single frame from the past. “I prefer the memory to the photograph,” he sings, “one world is round and the other flat.”

Still, I admit a tinge of disappointment with this album – it is comparably straight-ahead, and I miss the eclectic, anything-goes approach of his earlier work. There is no funky “Siberia” here, no explosive “Love is the Only War,” no captivatingly abrasive “Your Friend John,” and nothing as funny as “Florida.” Slow New York is consistent, and consistently good, but it’s streamlined, and has less personality than the earlier records. Where Good Life was like spending a long weekend with Julian, talking late into the night, Slow New York is like a chance meeting and a warm handshake. If it’s your first run-in with him, you’ll be pleased to meet him, and you’ll want to spend more time, but if you know his work, you can tell he’s holding back a little.

But trust me that Julian’s work is worth getting to know, and every album he’s made is worth owning. They are all different, and yet all bound by a common sensibility, one that’s delightfully harsher than most singer-songwriters offer. Slow New York is a good first impression, full of decent songs and produced beautifully, but here’s hoping that next time out, Julian stretches out a bit more, and really lets loose. Consider the new album a gateway drug, and if you dig it, check out the other three here.

Next week, Belle and Sebastian.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

A brief follow-up on last week’s rant:

I watched the second episode of Love Monkey, just to see if it would get better, but alas, it got worse. Absent even the minor wit of the pilot, the focus switched to the musical content, which, to be frank, pissed me off. I don’t think I’ll be watching again.

This is a look at the music industry as written by people who have done no research at all, and seemingly have never met anyone even sort of connected to the business. I’m not even connected to the business, and I know just how lazy, wrong and stupid this show’s view of it is. Let’s start with the fact that a tiny indie label in New York has no way of booking the Black-Eyed Peas or U2 for anything, let alone a benefit concert in a tiny little hall. But then let’s also mention that no tiny indie label in New York would want to book either act for anything.

Nor would they want to book a teen-pop starlet like Zoe, the show’s obvious Britney pastiche, even if they could get her. What kind of label is this? It’s depicted as an anti-corporate, music-loving haven, but the only artists they have discussed so far are mega-corporate superstars, either real or fictional. Many of the real ones, by the way, are on labels owned by Sony, the same company that owns Sony Pictures Television, one of the show’s producers. Which explains the product placement last week.

But it also leads me to the main reason I will never watch this stupid show again. For two episodes now, the industry folks played by Tom Cavanagh and Eric Bogosian have been fawning and fighting over this John Mayer soundalike kid named Wayne, despite the fact that he exhibits no more label-worthy talent than anyone you could catch at any open mic night anywhere. It turns out that Wayne is played by Teddy Geiger, a real-life Mayer clone who does his own singing and guitar playing for the show. Geiger releases his debut album, the laughably titled Underage Thinking, next month. Guess which major label he’s on?

That’s right, this supposedly anti-corporate show is really a giant ad for one of Sony’s new artists, designed to do nothing but increase sales for yet another mega-corporate star in the making. In a sterling example of synergy, Wayne’s songs for the show are actually Geiger’s, and appear on his forthcoming album. It’s no wonder the show seems so out of touch with real music and real music fans – it’s a product of the ad and marketing departments of exactly the kind of soulless company it half-heartedly rails against.

Love Monkey is trying very hard to appear like the exact opposite of what it is, and it’s not working. Part of the problem is the laziness of the writers, who could do just a little research, but given the corporate premise of the show, I doubt the producers could entice any real music fans to work for them. I was angry at Ben Folds for whoring himself out for a quick cameo in this week’s episode, until I remembered that he’s a Sony/Epic artist himself, and probably was forced to do this. And hey, Leann Rimes is distributed by a Sony label, too! Gee do you think that every star cameo and placed product will be from Sony? I wonder…

It’s not very often that I take stands like this, but then, it’s not often that I find something that is so completely opposed to what I stand for. Love Monkey is not only insulting to people who genuinely like independently-produced music, it’s pretty much the enemy, dressing up its money-hungry, stock-price agenda in music-fan clothes. Here’s hoping it dies a quick death.

* * * * *

One of the problems with major labels is that if they don’t know how to market you to a set demographic, they’ll chew you up and spit you out.

Take Duncan Sheik, for example. He had his major label go-round in the early ‘90s, scoring a huge hit with “Barely Breathing,” still his poppiest song. But when Atlantic Records realized that he didn’t want to write that song again and again, they lost interest. They shunted his masterpiece, 2001’s Phantom Moon, off to Nonesuch Records, despite its fragile brilliance, and when he returned with a terrific, breezy pop album called Daylight in 2002, they had already moved on.

Three years later, Sheik appears done with his major label days. He’s just released his fifth record, White Limousine, on Zoe, an imprint of Rounder Records. As you may expect, without the multi-billion-dollar marketing department trumpeting it, few have even noticed that the album is out. No one is talking about it, and there is no buzz, as the industry wags might say.

On the other hand, there are no expectations, either, which may be how Sheik likes it. His brand of slowly-unfolding, epic-scale folk-pop is blissfully out of sync with popular culture. His work has always moved at its own pace, but since Phantom Moon, it has become deeper and richer than even his most ardent supporters would have predicted. To type him as the “Barely Breathing” guy is to do his lovely, layered recent work a huge disservice.

White Limousine is another record without a hit, another wispy song cycle that reveals new wonders over time. It’s an album that no one else would make, grounded in Bryter Layter-era Nick Drake, and yet restlessly reaching for new atmospheres. The songs here recall Phantom Moon, while the production is pure Daylight. Half the songs feature the London Session Orchestra, and all of them are wrapped in Gerry Leonard’s swirling electric guitar flourishes. Everything is slow and luxurious – the title track is the one song that might be considered up-tempo, and it’s the first single.

I admit disappointment the first few times I spun White Limousine. I liked the extremes of his last two records, and this one is a 50-50 mix, one that, I thought, failed to be as beautiful as Phantom Moon or as effortlessly catchy as Daylight. Over time, though, the album reveals its own character, separate from its predecessors. This one definitely takes repeated listens to cozy up to – most of the songs eschew cleverness and immediacy, but they radiate warmth.

The inviting production is deceptive, as well – it’s only through repeat plays that the cynicism and bitterness of this album comes through. The title song is an accusatory glance at popular culture: “America, America, and this is our reward, everything is boring, everyone is bored.” “Star-Field on Red Lines” might be the prettiest anti-Bush song yet, all acoustic guitars and strings, over which Sheik sings, “Strong-arm Christians oiled up and fed, safe as houses in aprons of lead, and sanctified…”

Even with all that, “Shopping” may be the most cynical song in Sheik’s catalog. It starts with him receiving a letter from a fan, asking him why he writes the songs he sings. In merciless language, he lays it all out – music pays the bills, and feeds the consumer culture. “Rock and roll,” he says, “is built on shopping.” The album itself puts lie to that notion – Sheik is relentlessly artistic, and if he’d wanted to, he could have played the game and made untold millions in the ‘90s, but he didn’t. Still, “Shopping” is a stunning bit of bile, its characters soulless and aimless – “Let’s go shopping together, so we can find ourselves, so we can buy ourselves.”

But elsewhere, Sheik spins romance, and love of life. The closer, “Hymn,” is gorgeous, the story of a couple watching a sunrise and wondering how many more they will live to see. “Fantastic Toys and Corduroys” is similarly warm-hearted, a sweet song from a wayward son to a faithful mother. And “So Gone,” one of the album’s delicate highlights, captures the moment when one wakes into redemption, wondering if one will be forgiven.

Time has only strengthened Sheik’s even tenor. It was once his biggest liability, but on this record, it’s one of his greatest attributes. As a songwriter and producer, Sheik only stumbles a couple of times – “I Wouldn’t Mind,” a laborious waltz set to plucked strings, should have been a b-side, and “I Don’t Believe in Ghosts” lacks melody, fading to nothing between some of the stronger tracks. But otherwise, this is a strong outing, a pure Duncan Sheik album – no commercial potential, just some well-written songs produced like daydreams, making up a record that a major label wouldn’t know how to handle, and probably wouldn’t release.

A special note about the package – White Limousine comes with a CD, labeled Mine, and a DVD-ROM, labeled Yours. The DVD includes pre-mixed tracks for every song on the record, so you can create your own remixes. It’s also a neat way to learn the ins and outs of recording. You can play each track separately, and hear what was laid down on each, from bass to guitar to backing vocals to strings. It gives you some sense of just how hard it is to make a record sound this good. It’s not an essential piece of this package, and you can enjoy White Limousine without it, but it is an interesting addition, and I wouldn’t have expected it from Duncan Sheik.

Next week, either the great Richard Julian, or the great-in-a-different-way Ester Drang.

See you in line Tuesday morning.