If you keep track of a number of online reviewers, you’ve probably noticed that I’m usually the last to weigh in on pretty much anything.

The main reason for this is that I like to take my time with music. I usually have strong opinions right away upon first listen, but as often as not those opinions will change with repeated dives through. I maintain that you can tell when I’ve spent the amount of time I want to on something, which is usually a minimum of three listens. This column’s weekly format allows me to do this – I’ve already heard everything I’m reviewing next week, and my job now is to deepen those impressions and come up with cogent criticism. It’s a slower process than I’d like, and certainly slower than our culture of immediacy usually demands.

In keeping with all that, I’m usually the last online critic to post a top 10 list at the end of every year. In fact, I’ve usually read most of the big ones before I start writing mine. This is also about my process, but for a slightly different reason – I don’t want to miss anything. Last year, most of the major lists were out by the first week of December, discounting anything that might come out in the last few weeks of the year. I try to make sure I’ve heard everything a year has to offer before I rank my favorites. It only seems fair.

Now, granted, there’s usually very little risk. Very few important albums are released in the final quarter of the year, and December is ordinarily a no-man’s land. It’s usually safe to just go for it. But last year, something happened that strongly reinforced my decision to wait until the last possible moment, and that something was called Black Messiah.

D’Angelo’s third album came out of nowhere. His last record, the incredible Voodoo, almost predates this column – it was issued in January of 2000, and my copy is an advance promo that I picked up at Face Magazine, my first job out of college. That feels like a lifetime ago to me, so I can only imagine what it feels like to D’Angelo, who has been working on Black Messiah since 2002. In a time when every comeback imaginable is happening before our ears, D’Angelo’s is perhaps the most surprising.

And doubly so given how he chose to release Black Messiah. He confirmed the album’s existence on Dec. 12, sharing first single “Sugah Daddy,” and three days later made it available on iTunes and other digital retailers. In three days, we went from “holy crap, there’s really a new D’Angelo album” to “holy crap, I’m listening to the new D’Angelo album.” It was an incredible testament to our brave new world, especially since D’Angelo reportedly finished the record mere weeks before releasing it. And it clearly threw critics into a tizzy, particularly those who had already declared 10 other records the best of the year.

Because make no mistake, Black Messiah is one of the very best albums of 2014. I knew it when I first heard it, but it’s taken multiple listens over the past few weeks to fully grasp how good it is. Frankly, this is not an immediate record – D’Angelo surprise-released a complex and layered piece of work that takes time to unravel, and in so doing he all but demanded immediate reactions to it. While my first impression was certainly favorable, I’m glad I’ve taken as much time as I have with it. And I expect to take much more time with it in the years to come.

While Black Messiah certainly is the follow-up to Voodoo, it’s very different. Voodoo was a tour de force, and for my money, there hasn’t been an R&B album to rival it since its release. If Black Messiah were consciously trying to match it, there’s no evidence – this new record is looser, weirder and oddly more confident. It’s the kind of record that can only be made after a masterpiece, a record with absolutely nothing to prove. Whether that’s the case or not, D’Angelo certainly sounds like he was completely free on this album to do whatever he wanted.

And what he wanted to do was to go fully analog. Black Messiah is credited to D’Angelo and the Vanguard, and the live band, which includes Questlove on drums and Pino Palladino on bass, gives the whole thing an organic, jammy feel. On first listen, some of these songs can seem like little more than improvised grooves, and it takes time to hear how intricately, how meticulously it is all arranged. Where most modern R&B sounds canned and programmed, Black Messiah sounds marvelously alive.

And where Voodoo was practically a non-stop sex jam, Black Messiah turns its attentions to social issues on several key tracks. In many ways, this is D’Angelo’s What’s Going On, a funky soul record that casts an eye on the state of the world. (The rush release, D’Angelo has said, was in response to unrest in Ferguson, Missouri – he had originally planned to issue it later this year.) Race relations are specifically addressed in “The Charade”: “All we wanted was a chance to talk, ‘stead we only got outlined in chalk, feet have bled a million miles we’ve walked, revealing at the end of the day, the charade…” The bizarre “1000 Deaths,” confidently placed up front on the record, matches lyrics about the horrors of war with a dense, percussive soundscape.

The extraordinary “Till It’s Done,” dedicated to Bishop Desmond Tutu, takes stock of the world: “Clock ticking backwards on things we’ve already built, sons and fathers die, soldiers, daughters killed, question ain’t do we have the resources to rebuild, do we have the will?” And “Prayer” is a cry to the heavens for determination and peace. “Oh you got to pray for redemption, Lord, keep me away from temptation, deliver us from evil and all this confusion around me, give me peace…”

Most of Black Messiah, however, is about love. Opener “Ain’t That Easy” finds D’Angelo layering that high, striking voice atop a Prince-like groove, pleading with his woman not to leave him. (D’Angelo sings all the vocal lines on this record, most of which are in multi-part harmony. His style takes some getting used to, but the arrangements are quite impressive.) “Sugah Daddy” is sparse and bouncy, little more than a circular piano figure over some minimal bass and percussion, and is about exactly what you’d expect it is. But he digs for deeper emotions on the gorgeous, Flamenco-tinged “Really Love” and the phenomenal closing song, “Another Life.”

The snaky, slinky guitars on this record, many of which were played by D’Angelo himself, are wonderful, and never more so than on “Betray My Heart,” my favorite song here. Everything comes together on this one – the jazzy beat, the walking bass line, the soulful organ, and D’Angelo’s marvelous melody and lyric: “Like the breeze that blows in June, I will steady keep you cool, this I swear with all that’s true, I’ll take nothing in place of you…” Oh, and then there are those tasty horns. If there’s an all-time, world-beating classic on this album, this is it.

And perhaps one reason I think so is that “Betray My Heart” is one of the most immediate tunes on offer here, in contrast to more complex pieces like “Prayer” and “1000 Deaths.” Even bloozy interlude “The Door” takes a couple listens to truly unravel. Black Messiah is a confident puzzle, but one that is worth taking the time to get to know. It reveals itself gradually as the work of a true artist, one who redefined his chosen field 14 years ago and has suddenly returned, messiah-like, to put it back on track.

I certainly hadn’t spent enough time with this record at the end of last year (hence the non-committal honorable mention), but now I feel like I know it well enough to say this: if there’s a better R&B record released this year, I will be stunned. Black Messiah is just that good.

* * * * *

Of course, D’Angelo wasn’t the only one to slip new records out in the waning weeks of 2014. I’ve got time and space to talk about two more. (A third, Copeland’s Ixora, will get a review in the coming weeks, once the CD arrives.)

Back in July, I attended the second AudioFeed Festival in Champaign, Illinois, and for the second year in a row, I made several new musical discoveries. The best of those, I said at the time, was Von Strantz – I caught both a solo show by leader and mastermind Jess Strantz and a full-band blowout, and both impressed the hell out of me. At the festival I picked up their EP, Narratives Chapter One, and liked it a great deal.

Now here’s the band’s full-length bow, naturally called Narratives, and it fulfills the promise of the EP and then some. I get the sense that Von Strantz is more of a collective, and can feature any number or combination of musicians alongside Strantz. Narratives is a lush record, with strings and drums and synths and pianos, everything arranged in service of these marvelous little songs, each one getting exactly as much sonic love as it needs.

The focus, as it should be, is on those songs. It’s difficult to sum up just what Von Strantz does, since every song on Narratives has its own distinct identity. Some are poppy, some are folksy, some are down-home epics, and one of them is a bluesy sea shanty. The songs range from glorious declarations of devotion (the lovely “Fields”) to dark examinations of emotional infidelity (“The Line”) to Fiona Apple-esque laments about materialism (“1818”) to simple prayers (the wonderful closer “All I Need”).

And while the lush instrumentation adds to each one of these tunes, Narratives really is a coming-out party for Strantz as a songwriter. She’s one to watch, without a doubt. There is very little about Narratives that betrays the fact that it’s a first album. It was issued as three EPs, but listen to how well the whole thing flows together – the minor-key piano ballad “Something Beautiful” sidles up next to the strummy “Troubled Souls” like it was always meant to. From first note to last, Narratives is a heck of a debut for an unknown band that hopefully won’t be unknown for long.

Hear it and buy it here.

* * * * *

And finally, there is Donnie Vie.

Longtime readers will know that I’m an unabashed, unapologetic fan of Enuff Z’Nuff. Over a dozen records, the band has written more terrific power pop songs than just about any of their contemporaries, and it’s those songs that have kept them going all these years. The music business has not been kind to EZN, and it seems unlikely that leader Donnie Vie will ever get the respect he deserves as a writer. But all you can do is keep on keeping on – Vie and the band parted ways years ago, and on his latest solo record, he’s down to playing almost all the instruments himself, at home. Here’s a guy who deserves to be recording at Abbey Road, and he’s making albums on his laptop.

But that’s OK, because the songs are still there. Vie’s latest is called The White Album, laying his biggest influence bare, and it’s a collection of 19 tracks spanning two discs. True to its inspiration, Vie’s White Album is a bit of a mess – there’s a live cover of “25 or 6 to 4” and a studio cover of “Imagine” shoved in there for no reason, and two of the songs on the second disc are labeled as outtakes. And yes, it sounds a bit cheap, and marred by blatty synthesizers, but that’s nothing new for Vie and EZN. Happily, none of that matters, because The White Album is yet another showcase for Vie’s songwriting, and it never lets him down.

The first disc, in fact, may be the strongest set of 11 songs he’s released under his own name. It opens with a straightforward sex romp called “I Wanna Do It To You,” but Vie’s ambition quickly deepens. “Crash and Burn” is a swell minor-key pop number reminiscent of Bond themes, “Light Shine On” is a delightful Beatlesque romp, and the gorgeous piano ballad “My Love” is a true highlight, both of this record and of Vie’s catalog. The big number here is “Unforsaken,” written, Vie says, at his lowest point. It’s an emotional epic that closes disc one in style.

You might think the second disc is meant as a bonus, but aside from the two covers (the worst of which is “25 or 6 to 4,” with its synth horns), it remains a fine showcase. “Almost Home” is the way power ballads should be written, “Angel Eyes” skips along confidently with a strong “ah-ah” hook, and closer “Freaky Deaky” sends things out on a rollicking note. At the center of all of this is Vie’s voice, as strong as it’s ever been. He still sounds like John Lennon here and there, but after nearly 30 years of making records, to me, he just sounds like Donnie Vie.

At more than 80 minutes, The White Album is a lot to take in, but I’m just glad Donnie Vie is still at it, still creating music. It seems absurd to complain about getting too much of it at once. Yes, I wish the man had a recording budget that matched his talent as a writer and a singer. But as long as he keeps making records – even if he has to strum an acoustic guitar into an old tape deck – I’ll keep buying them.

* * * * *

Next week, the year truly begins with new ones from Guster, the Decemberists and Sleater-Kinney. Also on tap: the new Punch Brothers and Belle and Sebastian discs. And we’re off. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Well, hello there. Nothing like some time apart to make you realize how much you miss someone, is there?

How was your holiday? Mine was quite nice. Drove 1,000 miles to the east coast, got to see some great old friends and meet some great new ones, scored some nifty swag (like the Beatles Anthology DVD set, which I am watching right now), and then drove 1,000 miles back a couple days early, successfully beating a fierce winter storm. I did, sadly, spend most of the next week fighting off a persistent illness, but I still found time to listen to a few important records that snuck out before the end of the year, and I’ll get to those next week. Overall, though, my 2014 ended well, and my 2015 is off to a good start.

So, yeah. 2015. If you’re keeping track, this is the beginning of Year 15 of this silly music column. I was 25 years old when I started it. I’m four decades old now, and I don’t feel any different. So of course, I’m just going to keep doing what I do – 50 or so of these things before the end of the year. I’m immensely grateful for everyone who has come along on any part of this journey. I’ll keep making these until it stops being fun, but with so many great people coming into my life through this column, I don’t see it becoming less fun anytime soon.

The music certainly helps, too. 2014 was a hell of a good year for new releases, so 2015 has a lot to live up to. Still, based on early evidence, I would say 2015 is up for the challenge. It’s early days, of course, but here are 15 reasons (14 records and a movie) to love the coming year.

Sleater-Kinney’s No Cities to Love (January 20)

Yeah, Portlandia is great, but I’m much more excited by Carrie Brownstein’s return to the band that made her name. It’s been a decade since The Woods, which is more than enough time without this trio’s raw, raucous sound. This will probably be the first new album I review this year, and I’m looking forward to it immensely.

Belle and Sebastian’s Girls in Peacetime Want to Dance (January 20)

Every album by this lovely Scottish ensemble is an event in my house. This new one follows up the quite-good Write About Love, and hits in the aftermath of frontman Stuart Murdoch’s film God Help the Girl. They’re on a roll right now, as much as a twee orchestral chamber-pop outfit can be said to be on a roll, and the first single from this hour-plus-long record (“The Cat With the Cream”) promises a buttoned-up, eloquent good time.

Remasters of Jellyfish’s Bellybutton and Spilt Milk (January 20)

Finally! These two records, the only output of California’s amazing collective Jellyfish, are the standard by which modern power-pop is measured. I don’t use the word “perfect” very often, but both of these albums are absolutely perfect. Now, to celebrate Bellybutton’s 25th anniversary (and man, does that make me feel old), Omnivore Records is finally reissuing both in pristine digital form on double-disc sets loaded with bonus material. I look forward to rediscovering these sublime works all over again.

Punch Brothers’ The Phosphorescent Blues (January 27)

No, you’re not imagining things. Yes, Chris Thile is aiming to challenge Robert Pollard for most prolific musician on the planet. Just last year, he reunited with the Watkins siblings in Nickel Creek and gifted us with the awesome A Dotted Line and collaborated with bassist Edgar Meyer on the fittingly titled Bass and Mandolin, and now he’s back with his supernaturally talented combo, redefining bluegrass once again. This time there’s a drummer on board, the wonderful Jay Bellerose, and the shift in sound has me seriously intrigued.

Quiet Company’s Transgressor (February 24)

It’s no secret that Quiet Company’s last effort, the epic We Are All Where We Belong, is one of my favorite records. The follow-up, promised last year but finally arriving next month, looks to be a leaner-and-meaner stab at wider popularity – it will be their first release on a label since tiny Northern Records issued their debut in 2006. Taylor Muse and his merry men have yet to let me down, and the tight, powerful, melodic songs I’ve heard from this keep the streak alive. Hopefully this will be the year that Quiet Company becomes as big as I often mistakenly think they already are.

Modest Mouse’s Strangers to Ourselves (March 3)

It’s been six years since we’ve heard from Isaac Brock and his legendary band, which is a small eternity in the world he inhabits. Johnny Marr’s out of the band, and it remains to be seen how keenly his absence will be felt on Strangers to Ourselves. Given the sheer quality of the band’s last three albums, this one has big shoes to fill. The weight of expectation only makes returns like this more exciting, though, doesn’t it?

Steven Wilson’s Hand. Cannot. Erase. (March 3)

Wilson never goes away long enough to mount a long-awaited return, but that’s no bad thing. The Porcupine Tree and No-Man mastermind issued his third solo album, the tremendous The Raven That Refused to Sing (And Other Stories), two years ago, and now he’s back with a 65-minute concept record about isolation and death. Much of this is apparently written from a female perspective and sung by Israeli vocalist Ninet Tayeb. Everything Wilson does is worth hearing, and this sounds like it’s going to be phenomenal.

Laura Marling’s Short Movie (March 24)

I don’t know when I’m going to stop pointing this out, but Laura Marling is only 24 years old. Already she’s amassed a body of work that would make songwriters twice her age weep with envy. Short Movie is her fifth album, coming on the heels of 2013’s astounding Once I Was an Eagle, and there’s no doubt it will contain more searing, stunning works of honesty, written with a literate perspective that belies her youth. She’s one to watch, for sure.

Sufjan Stevens’ Carrie and Lowell (March 31)

Of everything on this list, I’m probably anticipating this just-announced new record from Sufjan the most. I’ve made no secret of the fact that I think Stevens is the most important new artist of the last 20 years (you heard me, Kanye), and his expansive range is just one reason why. He’s chosen to follow up the mind-blowing The Age of Adz with what appears to be a collection of emotional folk songs, reminiscent of Seven Swans, and to name the album after his mother and stepfather. It all sounds beautiful, and I want to hear it right now.

U2’s Songs of Experience (TBA)

The bad news is, we’re probably going to have to buy this one instead of getting it for free. But everything else is good news – an entire companion album to Songs of Innocence, U2’s finest record in more than 20 years, is on its way. If the second set of songs is as tight, clear-eyed and emotionally resonant as the first, it’ll be a dream for this longtime fan.

Duncan Sheik’s Legerdemain (TBA)

Sheik could easily spend the rest of his life writing successful scores for musicals, or even just coasting on his Spring Awakening laurels. I’m overjoyed that he wants to keep making pop records, because he’s remarkably good at it. Legerdemain will follow up 2009’s Whisper House (itself a set of songs from a musical), and the two songs available from it now uphold Sheik’s long tradition of thoughtful, slowly unfolding folk-pop. Sheik has never disappointed me, and I don’t expect him to start now.

Faith No More’s new album (TBA)

This is not a hoax, not an imaginary story. Faith No More, one of the least likely success stories of all time, has reunited and will be issuing their first record in 18 years. I’m not sold by the first single, the half-written “Motherfucker,” but I’ve yet to meet a Faith no More album I didn’t find at least intriguing. Just for the novelty of hearing Mike Patton scream over this band’s particular sonic stew again, I’m excited.

Joanna Newsom’s new album (TBA)

There’s only one Joanna Newsom, and it’s been a sad five years without her. 2010’s Have One on Me, a sprawling triple record, cemented her place as one of the most original songwriters playing right now, particularly given her chosen instrument, the harp. Newsom’s been working steadily on album number four, and rumor is this is the year we’ll get to hear it.

The Cure’s 4:14 Scream and 4:26 Dream (TBA)

This one’s here to put hopeful thoughts out into the universe, in the hopes that it will respond. It’s been seven years since 4:13 Dream, the reportedly lighter half of a planned double release (and the best Cure album in years), and since then, Robert Smith has talked about the follow-up, 4:14 Scream, as if it’s imminent. He’s also talked about 4:26 Dream, the original double record in its intended form. Speaking personally, I want both, especially if the Cure is dead as a recording entity. Bring it on, Robert.

Star Wars: The Force Awakens (December 18)

In many ways, the single most important thing happening this year. The Star Wars saga grows beyond its creator for the first time, setting the stage for years of new stories, and as much as I love those original films, the idea of a world-building tale that will outlive me makes me kind of giddy. This will be Star Wars for the next generation, and on that note, I’m beyond excited to take my soon-to-be-three-years-old nephew Luke to see this film next Christmas. The first film I vividly remember seeing in the theater is The Empire Strikes Back, when I was three, and I’m hopeful that The Force Awakens will give him the same mind-widening experience.

For right now, that’s my year. There’s more, of course – new records from the Decemberists and the Church and Neal Morse and the Mavericks and Bjork and Death Cab for Cutie and many others I don’t even know about yet. But even without all that, these 15 reasons are enough to keep me going, keep me in wide-eyed anticipation of what’s next.

What is next? Well, next week I’ll be reviewing three records that barely squeaked out before the end of 2014. And after that, I start tackling the new stuff, most likely Sleater-Kinney and Guster. Year 15, folks. Here we go. Thanks for reading.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

This is Fifty Second Week.

This has become one of my favorite annual traditions, and I hope it’s as much fun for you as it is for me. I hear so much music every year that it would be impossible to write reviews for everything, so I came up with this idea that allows me to rip through a ton of them in a couple hours. I have 52 records sitting in front of me, and I plan to give myself 50 seconds to review each one. I have a timer that will emit a loud, shrill tone when we get to zero, and when I hear that sound, I will stop writing, no matter where I am in a particular review. Middle of a sentence? Middle of a word? Doesn’t matter. Pencils down.

This is also my way of waving goodbye to the year. While everyone else is counting down to 2015, I’ll be here counting down from 50. (Not really. I’m writing this a couple weeks early. But I couldn’t resist the turn of phrase.) Are you ready? Good.

This is Fifty Second Week.

Alt-J, This is All Yours

That this band is popular at all anywhere astounds me. They write patient, slowly unfolding songs based on atmosphere more than anything else. This second record is more of a refinement of the first, and it’s really beautiful, if you’re in the right mood. Love any song called “Gospel of John Hurt,” too.

Basement Jaxx, Junto

The long-running dance party duo changes absolutely nothing on Junto. It’s still old-school beats and samples and booty-shaking. A second disc is more of the same. Good for what it is, though.

David Bazan and the Passenger String Quartet, Volume One

I love that Volume One there, because it means we might get more of this. Familiar Bazan songs are given new shapes with the strings, and they become even more beautiful. If you thought Bazan hid his razor-sharp words behind sweetness before…

The Black Lantern, We Know the Future

I bought this for Prayer Chain guitarist Andy Prickett, and while it’s nowhere near his pedigree, it is pretty fun. Loud, piercing punky songs sung by a woman in a shrill yet awesome voice. This is fast, stomping stuff.

Camper Van Beethoven, El Camino Real

A companion piece to their last record, this is more prime Camper Van goodness courtesy of David Lowery. These songs are in no way second-place also-rans. They’re just as intricate, just as biting and just as hummable as those on the previous disc. I should have reviewed this.

Julian Casablancas and the Voidz, Tyranny

This should have gotten a WTF Award. I don’t know what the hell it is. It’s more than an hour of electro-trash awfulness, and Casablancas only got to make this thing because he’s in the Strokes. I hope that free pass runs out soon, because this shit is absolutely unlistenable.

Celldweller, End of an Empire: Time

Klayton is releasing End of an Empire, his new Celldweller album, in chapters. This one is pretty great, combining pop, industrial, metal and dubstep in some fascinating ways. The title track is one of my favorite Celldweller pieces, and the remixes are really good.

Celldweller, End of an Empire: Love

The second chapter is longer, but less amazing than the first, specifically due to the juvenile and vulgar “Heart On.” But the remixes and instrumentals are again pretty great, and the fact that this chapter is 90 minutes long makes it a winner to me.

Mark Chadwick, Moment

The second solo album from the co-frontman of the Levellers is leagues better than the first. Here are some classic Chadwick folk-rock songs, with searing lyrics and that immediately recognizable voice. This one’s definitely worth picking up.

Coldplay, Ghost Stories Live 2014

If you still have doubts that Ghost Stories is intended as a single unbroken thought, here is a live album and DVD featuring nothing but that album played in sequence. It’s not worth it for casual fans, as it sounds exactly like the record, but for those who love this one (like me), it’s a good watch.

Jonathan Coulton, JoCo Live

Over the past few years, Jonathan Coulton has truly come into his own as a songwriter, and the evidence is all here. This blistering live set with a full electric band shows off his versatility as a writer, jumping from sweet observations like “Glasses” to geeky sing-alongs like “Re: Your Brains” with aplomb.

Mike Doughty, Live at Ken’s House

Who would have thought that covering his old band’s songs would revitalize Mike Doughty? Live at Ken’s House is all Soul Coughing tunes reimagined, but Doughty sounds alive and invested in ways he hasn’t in a long time. You can hear that continue on Stellar Motel, his best album in years.

Enuff Z’Nuff, Covered in Gold

This is more of a compilation of scattered tracks than a new album, but it shows off the versatility of this long-lived power pop band. They do a fine job covering the Beatles, Nirvana, Cheap Trick, David Lee Roth and the theme song to The Greatest American Hero, believe it or not.

The Fray, Helios

The Fray gets louder and better than they’ve been in a while, thanks to an injection of rock into their staid piano-pop sound. “Love Don’t Die” was the best single this band has ever released. When I say it’s a good Fray record, that doesn’t mean it’s a good record, but it’s good for them.

The Ghost of a Sabertooth Tiger, Midnight Sun

Sean Lennon impresses for the first time with this weird psych-pop project. It’s not bad, and I’d like to hear more, but I can barely remember what these songs sound like.

Hammock, The Sleepover Series Volume 2

Another collection of beautiful beatless drones from Hammock, who weave guitars and synth sounds into thick and lovely atmospheres. This one has a 30-minute track that is sublime. Perfect to lull even insomniacs to sleep, in the best of ways.

Emerson Hart, Beauty in Disrepair

The Tonic frontman sticks to what he knows best on his second solo album, which is straight-ahead acoustic-based pop songs. Nothing here is bad, but nothing here is particularly memorable either. I do still like his voice, though.

Jon Hopkins, Asleep Versions

I’ve never reviewed a Jon Hopkins record. Sad. The electronic maestro here presents four songs from last year’s Immunity in stretched out and ambient forms, the better to send you to dreamland. They sound great, as always.

Bruce Hornsby, Solo Concerts

Bruce is one of my piano-playing idols, so the chance to hear two CDs of him behind the ivories is like gold. Nothing disappoints here, particularly when he sends these songs into more dissonant waters and really shows what a tremendous player he is.

The Horrors, Luminous

Less another evolution than a refinement, this album builds on the swirling cacophony of Skying and darkens it up. It’s still pretty great stuff, confident and propulsive, and “I See You” is the best seven-minute single you’ll hear all year.

Michael Jackson, Xscape

I wish this hadn’t happened. But given that, it could have been a lot worse. These gussied-up demos rarely sound like finished songs, but it’s nice to hear Jackson’s voice again, and the producers of choice rarely push this into embarrassing territory. I know there’s more to come, and I’m already despairing.

Jars of Clay, Jars 20

To celebrate their 20th anniversary, Jars asked fans to pick 20 songs and then reimagined them as acoustic numbers. The changes are not as dramatic as you’d think, but it’s nice to hear so many of these songs together, and played by an older and wiser band.

Kele, Trick

Second solo record from the Bloc Party frontman is much like the first, based in pulsing, low-key electronica. This is good stuff, and Kele Okereke is still one of the finest frontmen around, but there isn’t anything here as arresting as “Tenderoni.”

Lenny Kravitz, Strut

It’s right there in the title. This steaming pile of clichés is Lenny’s return to sexy funk, and he’s just not very good at this. Songs like “Sex” and “She’s a Beast” are exactly as cringe-worthy as you’d think.

KXM

Here’s an unlikely supergroup: Dug Pinnick of King’s X, George Lynch and the drummer from Korn. What could this possibly sound like? Well… like straight-ahead groove-metal with Pinnick’s soulful yet frayed voice on top. Meh.

Hamilton Leithauser, Black Hours

How did Hamilton Leithauser transform that howl of his into such a supple and warm instrument? The answer is slowly, over several Walkmen albums that led to this solo bow full of string sections and sweet little tunes. It’s actually grand.

Manchester Orchestra, Hope

The companion piece to Cope features every song from that record played acoustically. It’s fun to hear a mirror version of these kickass rock tunes, but not essential. Enjoyable enough.

Mastodon, Once More Round the Sun

Mastodon’s evolution continues, as they present another record of stomping rock-metal with psychedelic overtones. I miss the days of Leviathan and Blood Mountain, but I have to admit that this new, tight Mastodon sound is pretty great as well. Better than their last one.

Blake Mills, Heigh Ho

Second album from this critically acclaimed songwriter and guitar virtuoso. I enjoyed this a great deal, particularly “Half Asleep” and “Don’t Tell Our Friends About Me,” but it slipped out of my memory as soon as it was finished playing. Still, would revisit.

Peter Murphy, Lion

Murphy’s tenth album continues the hot streak of Ninth, setting his still-shiver-inducing lowlowlow voice atop guitar-heavy rock towers. If you ever liked Murphy before, you should give Lion a go.

Karen O, Crush Songs

20 minutes of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs frontwoman noodling around with an old tape deck. This is not even worth the recyclable packaging it came in.

Christopher Owens, A New Testament

That’s a bold title for an album of pretty typical country-folk from the former Girls frontman. I like the opener, “My Troubled Heart,” but after 12 tracks of simple chords and simpler sentiments, this starts to feel like a betrayal of the man’s talent. I want more out of him.

Owen Pallett, In Conflict

Another complex and fascinating piece of work from the string arranger to the indie stars. Pallett layers his own violins atop one another to create striking songs of surprising power. This one deserved a full review.

Real Estate, Atlas

Aw, this band is adorable. Chiming guitars, sweetly nostalgic songs, not an ounce of angst or venom to be found. Perfect music for a rainy Sunday afternoon, though it will waft out into the air and disappear before you know it.

Philip Selway, Weatherhouse

What does it say about Radiohead that their drummer is the only one who remembers how to craft a song? This second solo record is more atmospheric pop from Selway, who has a serviceable voice and an ear for melody that his bandmates could stand to make more use of. The best damn Radiohead-related anything since Selway’s last record.

Sisyphus

A rap album masterminded by Sufjan Stevens? Why didn’t I ever review this? Not sure. It’s a mostly successful and yet mostly baffling effort that pairs him with Serengeti and Son Lux, laying down rhymes on some Sufjan-y soundscapes.

Skrillex, Recess

First full album from the dubstep superstar is surprisingly diverse, but just as juvenile as anything he’s done. The latter half contains some convincingly chill tunes that point in a more grown-up direction, so I’ll keep listening.

Snowbird, Moon

Simon Raymonde teams up with a clear-voiced woman to create shoegaze-y songs of often stunning beauty. Sound familiar? This is Cocteau 2.0 in a lot of ways, with Stephanie Dosen filling in for Elizabeth Fraser nicely.

St. Vincent

Someday I will review a full St. Vincent album, and maybe get at the heart of why, despite the fact that I admire Annie Clark to the ends of the earth and think she’s remarkably talented, I just don’t like her stuff all that much. This record is pretty good, but not earth-shatteringly good like people say.

Stranger Kings

Another new Northern Records band starring Holly Nelson, Herb Grimaud and Eric Campuzano. If those names mean nothing to you, the low rock Stranger Kings makes might not resonate as much. This is a decent first effort, and it’s nice to hear Nelson sing again.

Sun Kil Moon, Benji

The first of two records here that every critic adored, and I never bothered to review. This is a pretty typical Sun Kil Moon album, save for the devastating stories that populate the lyrics, and it’s beautiful and disturbing in all the ways Mark Kozelek usually is. Not sure why it was so acclaimed.

Chris Taylor, Daylight

New record from the former Love Coma frontman was completed quickly, and you can kind of tell. The songs are decent, particularly “Set Our Sail,” but the recording is bare bones, and the album has a ramshackle feel about it. Not bad if you like this sort of thing.

Temples, Sun Structures

Maybe my favorite thing relegated to Fifty Second Week this year. Temples plays ‘60s-inspired pop and rock, and they do it with flair and verve. I liked this record a great deal, and I can’t quite figure out why I haven’t said so before now.

Chris Thile and Edgar Meyer, Bass and Mandolin

Chris Thile has had quite the couple of years, with Nickel Creek reforming and Punch Brothers set to return. This set with bassist Edgar Meyer is the cherry on top, a fine, fine set of performances that puts two virtuosos together and comes up with gold.

Tweedy, Sukierae

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Various Artists, The Art of McCartney

This celebration of Macca’s wonderful songs, starring everyone from Billy Joel to Brian Wilson to the Cure to Def Leppard to Perry Farrell, is somewhat marred by the decision to use session musicians to slavishly recreate these songs instead of putting new stamps on them. Still, good, good songs.

Various Artists, Nashville Outlaws: A Tribute to Motley Crue

A country tribute to the Crue? Of course I’m gonna buy that. The idea of this record is a lot more interesting than the reality of it, alas. But many of these blues-metal songs make the jump to twangy town a lot better than you’d expect.

The Vaselines, V for Vaselines

The renaissance continues for these foul-mouthed rockers. Their second album since reuniting is the same as the first, just a little bit cleaner and more produced. It’s snaky sexy romps on simple, pounded guitar.

Rufus Wainwright, Live from the Artists Den

This looks like a bargain basement knockoff CD, but it’s truly excellent, showcasing Wainwright’s Out of the Game live show. He’s a consummate performer riding his best set of songs in many years, so of course this is gonna be awesome.

The War on Drugs, Lost in the Dream

Here’s the other critically adored record that didn’t make much of an impression on me. I did include it in early drafts of my top 10 list in March, but it fell off quickly because it’s just so simple and repetitive. It’s not beer commercial rock, but it does kind of put me to sleep.

We Shot the Moon, The Finish Line

Yet more decent yet unremarkable piano-pop from Jonathan Jones. When he wants to stretch out, he’s something special. When he writes a bunch of simple little ditties like these, he’s a dime a dozen. I will buy the next one, though, because I believe in him.

Steven Wilson, Cover Version

Collection of six covers and six originals from the Porcupine Tree frontman. This shows the range of his influences nicely, and caps off with “An End to End,” a song that stands with the best of Wilson’s solo work. He chooses Alanis’ “Thank You,” not Led Zeppelin’s, which is fascinating.

And that, as they say, is that. Hope you had fun. I’ll be taking next week off, but diving back in with Year 15 on January 14. Thank you again, more than I can say, for reading this thing I do. Have a very happy new year.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?

It’s Christmas Eve, and that means you don’t have time for my babble. You’re here to see which 10 albums made this year’s list, and you’re fitting this in between last-minute shopping and caroling with the neighbors. I appreciate even a little of your time on this hectic day, so I won’t waste any of it droning on and on about my choices this year, except to reiterate what I said last week: in a year with so many great options, I picked the 10 that resonate most with me, personally. If you don’t see one of your favorites here, check the honorables from last week. (Unless your favorites are Sun Kil Moon, the War on Drugs or Run the Jewels. Those aren’t here.)

Ladies and gentlemen, my 10 favorite records of 2014.

#10. Andrea Dawn, Doll.

Yes, Andrea is a good friend of mine. No, that did not play into my decision to include this album here. Yes, I expect you to be suspicious of that statement. But also yes, I expect one top-to-bottom listen of Doll will eradicate those suspicions. This is an extraordinary album, a song cycle that leads you from the first blush of romance to the bitter ashes of regret, each song sparking off the last. Dawn’s writing has grown to match her piano playing and her always-remarkable voice, and these songs bloom and burst with honesty, joy and pain. Taken on its own, “Love Always” is one of the year’s best laments. In the context of this record, though, it’s one of the most heartbreaking things I can imagine. That’s the mark of a great record – when each song is wonderful by itself, but it rises to another level when taken as a whole. Doll is one of those records, and one that everyone should hear. Go here.

#9. Sloan, Commonwealth.

Believe it or not, this album has actually dropped a lot in my estimation, but not enough to keep it from the list. There are only good and great Sloan records, and Commonwealth is a great one, an experiment in crafting a whole from the sum of its parts. Each of Sloan’s four singing songwriters took a side of this double album, writing to their own strengths, and the result is a smashing tour through the four personalities that make up this Canadian institution. My favorite sides belong to Chris Murphy, who penned the most infectious songs – “Carried Away,” “Misty’s Beside Herself” and “You Don’t Need Excuses to Be Good” – and Andrew Scott, who took the challenge of filling an entire side with an 18-minute suite called “Forty-Eight Portraits.” Commonwealth is an ambitious effort, and a near-complete success (only Patrick Pentland lets the side down). It’s proof that even 23 years into their run, Sloan can keep on finding new ways to be one of the most interesting bands in the world.

#8. Coldplay, Ghost Stories.

Yeah, get out the pitchforks, I don’t care. This album resonated with me like few others this year. Coldplay’s sixth record sets a consistent melancholy tone, inspired by frontman Chris Martin’s very public breakup, but in so doing, it takes the band’s sound through avenues they have never explored. They rarely sound like themselves here, most notably on “Midnight,” a slice of shivery electronic moodiness that is one of my favorite things from this year. Only Martin’s weak lyrics keep this album from soaring ever higher, but even so, this record contains his most honest and heartfelt work. These nine songs should not sit comfortably next to one another on an album. That they not only do that, but in fact play like a single thought is utterly remarkable. Ghost Stories is a Coldplay album like no other, and the one that I have revisited more times than any other. I think it’s the best thing they have made.

#7. Elbow, The Take Off and Landing of Everything.

British ambient-rock gods Elbow are incapable of bad work. They’ve never made an album that deserves less than devotion, and yet they’ve never landed one in my top 10 list, for reasons unfathomable. I’m happy to break that streak here. The Take Off and Landing of Everything is the band’s most luminous, most beautiful work, from the whispered opening of “This Blue World” to the fragile conclusion of “The Blanket of Night.” Guy Garvey’s voice remains one of the smoothest instruments you’ll find, and the band stretches out here, giving their ideas ample room to breathe and develop naturally. There were few songs as emotionally affecting as “Real Life (Angel)” and “My Sad Captains” this year, but the prize goes to “New York Morning,” an ever-unfolding circle of light that envelops you in its warmth. If they continue to make albums of this quality, this won’t be the last time you see Elbow in the top 10 list.

#6. Steve Taylor and the Perfect Foil, Goliath.

It’s been 20 years since Steve Taylor graced us with a new set of songs, and I’m trying not to let that fact color my assessment of Goliath. This honestly is just one of the best rock records I’ve heard in years. The Perfect Foil is a supergroup backing up Taylor, one of the most riveting lyricists and frontmen I’ve had the pleasure of hearing, and these songs, crafted for the band, are sharp, strong, powerful things. The first ten tracks comprise a full-on kickass slice of rock, tumbling from one stellar melody and witty insight to the next, and the finale, a six-minute epic called “Comedian,” turns the entire album on its ear. This is vital, explosive stuff, and it validates my longtime love of Taylor and his work. This is the year’s most welcome return to me, and it’s a wonderful, cranky, blistering, funny, brilliant thing.

#5. Dan Wilson, Love Without Fear.

Do you want to learn how to write a peerless pop song? Step one is to buy this album. Step two is to listen and listen and glean every single thing you can from it. Dan Wilson is a master of his craft, which is why so many people, from Adele to Spoon to John Legend to Taylor Swift to Mike Doughty, have tapped into his talent for their own records. That leaves Wilson with little time for his own music – this is only his second solo record, seven years after his first. Love Without Fear is a rare treat, and it’s practically perfect, from the ringing strains of the title track to the witty and heartbroken “A Song Can Be About Anything” to the skipping “Your Brighter Days” to the epic closer “Even the Stars Are Sleeping.” And somewhere in the middle there, Wilson gives us “Disappearing,” the year’s prettiest sad song, and yet one more feather in the cap of this songwriter’s songwriter.

#4. Husky, Ruckers Hill.

Who knows if American audiences are ever going to get to own a copy of Ruckers Hill, the phenomenal second album from Australian band Husky. So far, it’s on iTunes here, but on CD and vinyl only in the band’s native country. But if U.S. music fans do get their hands on this, they’re going to love every second of it. Husky Gawenda has blossomed into a truly excellent writer, caressing his folksy epics into new shapes before your ears. Husky’s sound combines elements of Simon and Garfunkel and Fleet Foxes, ending up with a rustic yet modern feel that snakes its way around these lovely, deceptively intricate tunes. “I’m Not Coming Back” remains a favorite, but every song on Ruckers Hill shows growth from the band’s already impressive debut, and officially heralds Husky as one of the best new acts out there. If you can find this, snatch it up without hesitation.

#3. The Choir, Shadow Weaver.

You all know that the phrase “new Choir album” is one of my favorites in the English language. Even so, this album is stunning, one of the long-running band’s very best. Funded through a Kickstarter campaign, Shadow Weaver finds every element of the Choir’s sound gelling, and every minute of it bursts with inspiration. The band has rarely delivered a knockout punch like “What You Think I Am,” and even more rarely followed up with a genuine epic like “It Hurts to Say Goodbye.” “The Soul of Every Creature Cries Out” is exactly the kind of spiritual yearning song the Choir does better than any other band, and is one of my favorite 2014 moments. I am always beyond grateful to get a new Choir album, but to get one this good, one that stands up with the best work they have ever done, one that even brings them to new and magical places – well, grateful barely seems to cover it.

#2. U2, Songs of Innocence.

I wish Bono and company had not tried to give free copies of Songs of Innocence to every iTunes user earlier this year, but not for the reason you think. I wish it hadn’t happened because the ridiculous, privileged, invented furor over this so-called invasion of privacy overshadowed the fact that Songs is the finest U2 album since Achtung Baby. If you deleted it without listening to it, you missed out on the most riveting, vital, alive set of songs this band has delivered since the glory days. The sound of an invigorated, emotional, flat-out powerful U2 is like no other sound, and on this record, they dig deeper than they have in years. The soaring moments, like “Song for Someone” and “Iris,” soar higher, and the grittier songs, like the remarkably dark “Raised By Wolves” and the stunning “Cedarwood Road,” sink in more fully. Songs can serve as a summary of everything U2 has ever been good at, from the classic “Every Breaking Wave” to the electro-crawl of “Sleep Like a Baby Tonight,” and taken as a whole, it’s about holding on to the wide-eyed past. But when U2 decides to sound like U2, there isn’t a single one of the hundreds of imitators who can come close to them. And on Songs of Innocence, they sound like U2 in ways they haven’t in two decades. This album is a beautiful gift, and as Bono sings on “The Miracle,” we get so many things we don’t deserve.

Which brings us to my top pick. And it should be no real surprise.

#1. Imogen Heap, Sparks.

Imogen Heap is a genius. This has been true for a long time, and hints of the breadth of her talent have slipped out before. But Sparks is the record I’ve been waiting for, the one that fully explores just how astonishingly brilliant this woman is. No record this year has a story like Sparks – it was created specifically as a way of shaking up Heap’s life, sending her out of her comfort zone, dropping her in new and unfamiliar places (often other countries) to see what she could do. Each song has an origin tale, each one a fable of renewed confidence and exploded possibility. Sparks is the sound of a true original discovering just what she can do.

And no record this year has the scope, ambition and sheer go-for-broke-ness of Sparks. Heap traveled to the homes of more than a dozen fans to record their various pianos for the remarkable opener “You Know Where to Find Me.” She layered her voice a million times for the insane a cappella piece “The Listening Chair,” a song she will add to every seven years until she dies. She traveled to Hangzhou, China, and recorded random people on the street, stitching them together into the background of “Xizi She Knows,” one of the year’s best songs. She worked in audio 3-D on “Propellor Seeds,” collaborated with a host of unlikely musicians (including Indian composers Vishal-Shekhar on the great “Minds Without Fear”), and invented an entirely new way to play her electronic instruments for “Me The Machine.”

This should be a mess, but incredibly, even with all these separate ambitions pulling at it, Sparks flows beautifully as an album. Heap’s songs are always at the center of her experiments, grounding everything, and on this record, she’s written her very best. Taken as a whole, it’s a testament not only to her blossoming brilliance, but to the spirit of adventure, to the wonders people can achieve if they close their eyes and leap. This is the kind of album I live for. The sheer amount of work that went into realizing Sparks – Heap hunched over her keyboards and computers, tweaking every element a thousand times – is evident in the astonishing amount of detail woven into the electro-organic sound. But it’s the inspiration – the spark, if you will – behind everything that truly makes this record. This is the sound of freedom, of possibility, of a wide-open universe, and one woman determined to see it all.

And that’s it. For those keeping track, this is column number 717, and we’re nearing the end of my 14th year writing this thing. As always, I cannot thank you enough for reading and for supporting this labor of love. Next week is my annual Fifty Second Week, which will put a bow on 2014. I hope you all have a very merry holiday season. I’m grateful for you all.

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

Well. That was certainly a year.

It’s interesting that even with so many changes and upheavals, both good and bad, a year can still feel, here at the end, like it flew by in the space of heartbeats. I was told early on that time speeds up as you get older, and it’s absolutely true. Appreciate every moment, you young kids. Take it from me, a middle-aged balding guy who wears dress slacks and button-downs to his 8:30-5:30 job and… yeah, I know, I wouldn’t have listened to me when I was your age either.

But it’s true. 2014 seemed to melt away before I knew what was happening, even though parts of it felt endless while I was living through them. I can’t pretend this is a new observation – hey, did you know time is relative? – but at this time of year, I’m always struck anew by my own experience of it. And I remain grateful that I have this column, which serves as a way to mark out all that time. I can look back over the 51 entries from this year (including the two that will follow this one) and see that yes, I actually lived through all these weeks, even though they blend together in my memory.

I mark my days with music. I always have. This year’s crop was so good, so diverse, so surprising that even my honorable mentions are brilliant. Really, it’s been that kind of year, and I don’t suppose I realized it until I took stock for this column and the next one. There’s a particular thing that happens in years when there’s an abundance of good material – the ones that rise to the top for my list end up conforming more to my personal taste than in years when there are fewer clear winners to choose from. My taste generally runs to the pretty, the melodic and the intricate, and my top pick certainly epitomizes all three of these things.

So there are records on the official list that are just as good as the albums I’m about to list off here, the ones that are receiving honorable mentions. In this case, an honorable isn’t like a patronizing pat on the head. It’s an acknowledgement that there really were about 25 albums worthy of my list this year, and I can only name 10, and I’m going with the ones that mean the most to me. I’m about to rattle off the names of 17 records, and I wouldn’t argue with anyone suggesting any of them as one of the 10 best.

I loved this year, in case it’s not apparent.

Longtime readers know how this works, but for the benefit of newbies (and I personally know a couple of you), let me run down my rules for the year-end list. There’s really only one, but there are a bunch of corollaries and ramifications of that rule. Here it is: only full-length albums of new original material released between January 1 and December 31 are considered for the list. That means no live albums, no compilations of previous material, no EPs (although the definition of EP and LP has blurred considerably), and no covers projects. It also excludes soundtrack compilations and various artists collections, since they don’t meet this particular definition of album. Only new full-length statements may apply.

Every year, that rule excludes at least one record I think should be honored. This year, it’s the new double-disc collection from the 77s and Michael Roe, called Gimme a Kickstart and a Phrase or Two. It’s an absolutely delightful run through 20 covers, half with Roe’s long-running, amazing band the 77s and half with Roe on his own, making magic with an acoustic guitar. Roe’s tender take on the Waterboys’ “How Long Will I Love You” is one of my favorite things from 2014, and the fact that it’s ineligible for the top 10 list shouldn’t dissuade you from hearing it.

On to the honorables? Here goes.

After the wonder that was A Church That Fits Our Needs, I paid special attention to Lost in the Trees this year, and while their third record, Past Life, didn’t quite scale the same heights, its spare, haunted tones definitely left an impression. Past Life came out in February and has held onto my heart since. Neneh Cherry’s Blank Project, her first album in 18 years, also hit in February, and nothing else this year ended up sounding like it. Minimal, dark, almost difficult, and yet dazzling, Blank Project hopefully signifies a long-lasting return for this singular artist.

There were a couple records I didn’t get to this year. But just because I couldn’t fit in full-length reviews for them, that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve mention. Specifically, Sharon Van Etten’s latest and strongest, Are We There, delighted with its wind-swept folk and hard-won optimism. And The Soil and the Sun delivered another intricate, swirling set of one-world music with Meridian, perhaps the strongest argument this year for the complete dissolution of genre barriers. I plan to get to both of these not long into the new year, so look for those reviews.

Jenny Lewis teamed up with Ryan Adams to create The Voyager, the album on which her entire career dropped into focus. It’s her sharpest set of songs, and her most transcendent record. But she didn’t deliver the biggest surprise on the female singer-songwriter front. That belongs to Tori Amos, who – for the first time in longer than I care to remember – invested completely in one of her albums. Unrepentant Geraldines contains half a dozen songs I would rank with her best stuff, and the fact that those songs are accompanied by a bunch of lesser material dims this record’s light, but doesn’t extinguish it. I’m excited to hear what she does next, for the first time in ages.

The same goes for Weezer, who stunned me with the quality of Everything Will Be Alright in the End. It’s not quite as good as their early stuff, but it’s right up there – they sound alive, like they’re taking their silliness seriously for the first time in a while. Also revitalized is Aimee Mann, who teamed with Ted Leo to form The Both. Their self-titled record manages the difficult task of taking two songwriters with long-established styles and sending them both into new directions. It’s a great, great pop record, and “You Can’t Help Me Now” will go down as one of Mann’s finest.

The quiet ones crept up on us this year with some tremendous work. Ben Howard’s second album, I Forget Where We Were, is a confident stroll through spacey, atmospheric melancholy. And Over the Rhine gave us their third holiday-themed record, Blood Oranges in the Snow, and it plays like a third disc of their rustic masterpiece Meet Me at the Edge of the World. Minus a pair of covers, this album is all original winter-themed tunes, and with “Let It Fall” they penned my anthem of the year.

Now we get to records that held onto the list longer than any others. I can’t even explain how surprised I was when I first heard Stay Gold, the third and (by far) best album by Swedish sister act First Aid Kit. This record is glorious, swelling with absurdly lovely harmonies and the best set of songs the pair has written yet. And neither of these girls are even 25 yet, so stay tuned. At the opposite end of the age spectrum is Canadian icon Leonard Cohen, who turned 80 this year. His 13th record, Popular Problems, continues his remarkable creative resurgence, matching spiritual laments like “Born in Chains” with cynical crawls like “Nevermind.”

And then there is D’Angelo, who surprised me and everyone else by returning after 14 years with Black Messiah, an album that was announced on a Thursday and made available on the following Monday. December 15 is seriously cutting it close to be included in the year-end lists, and I have only heard this record a handful of times – not enough to know if it belongs among the 10 best, or where to rank it in that list. I know it’s damn good, good enough to deserve at least the honorable mention I am giving it. But I am not ready to review or rank it quite yet. Look for a full examination of this thing after the New Year. I’ll just have to be comfortable with keeping it off the list for now. (The moral of the story? Release your masterpiece earlier in the year, dude.)

Finally, we have the three Number Elevens. I wrote drafts of the top 10 list with all three of these records on it, and should anyone quibble with my bottom three choices, I wouldn’t argue that any of these three honorables could go in their places. First up is the Roots, who continued a long hot streak with …And Then You Shoot Your Cousin. A genuine rap opera, this record packs a ton of remarkable arrangements and bizarre sonic choices into its 30 minutes, at times going full-on Frank Zappa, but never leaving the core of the Roots behind. It’s an extraordinary piece of work, easily the best rap record I heard in 2014.

Nickel Creek made a much-heralded return with A Dotted Line, and though this record is similarly brief, it runs through just about everything that makes the combination of Chris Thile, Sara Watkins and Sean Watkins great. They delivered a killer pop song with “Destination,” a pair of intricate bluegrass instrumentals, an out-of-this-world cover of Mother Mother’s “Hayloft,” and, with “Where Is Love Now,” one of the most haunting pieces of music this year. It’s one of 2014’s most welcome returns, and I hope it’s not a temporary one.

And at the last, there is Beck, who once held the number one spot on the list. Morning Phase is a deeper, fuller sequel to his introspective Sea Change, and it sparkles with melancholy. Beck made his name as a pop chameleon, but he’s never better than when he channels Nick Drake and writes from the heart. Songs like “Say Goodbye” and “Blackbird Chain” and the luminous “Waking Light” were among the year’s most beautiful gifts. It will probably be a while before Beck puts down the drum machines and gives us something like this again, so Morning Phase is a record to treasure.

OK, that’s it for the honorables. Pretty damn good group, though, right? Next week, the 2014 top 10 list. Be here. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am, and Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’m not going to lie to you. I’m going to cheat a little this week.

This column, the one before the big year-end extravaganza begins, is generally reserved for catching up with the stragglers, records released in November and December that just barely sneak in. That was the plan this year as well, and I had a few I was going to discuss – Cracker’s new double album Berkeley to Bakersfield, for example, which is the first Cracker album I’ve bought in years. Wu-Tang Clan’s A Better Tomorrow, their umpteenth comeback. She and Him’s new Classics, the first one without a volume number. Live records from Coldplay and Leonard Cohen.

And then a funny thing happened. I didn’t find time to listen to any of them.

They’re all sitting right over there, in a nice neat stack, along with the new Celldweller and Donnie Vie CDs. Just sitting there. It’s been a ridiculously busy time for me, as it often is with year’s end looming, and time has kept on ticking away. So this grand plan I had to round up all of these year-end releases in one mega-column before the top 10 list isn’t going to happen. But don’t fret, because I did listen to one of the new releases, and in my mind, it’s the most important of them. (Your mileage may, and probably will, vary.)

It’s Monuments to an Elegy, by the Smashing Pumpkins.

Of course, the Smashing Pumpkins is kind of a misnomer these days, unless you agree with Billy Corgan that his voice and vision were the only things that ever mattered. I’ve never felt that way – the Pumpkins were a band at the beginning, despite the fact that the Big Giant Head called all the shots, and James Iha, Jimmy Chamberlin and D’arcy Wretzky contributed quite a bit to the sound of that band. I always enjoyed and appreciated Corgan’s ambition, though – when he decided to create a 30-song double album in 1995, and then pulled it off with some of his very best compositions, I was ecstatic. I even loved Adore, the pullback record that found Corgan working with drum machines and synths, but losing none of that grandiosity.

But ever since the Pumpkins turned into a Corgan vanity project (well, more of one), it’s been hard to know what to do with them. Corgan keeps on using the band name, despite the fact that he’s the only original member left and he keeps swapping out other contributors. And his pretension has only grown – the band’s last album, Oceania, formed the middle part of a box-set-in-progress called Teargarden by Kaleidyscope, which is honest-to-Christ its real name. Between that and stories about Corgan staging eight-hour performances based on Siddhartha and feuding with journalists and comparing himself to Kurt Cobain, well, it’s been difficult to get on board his train.

As I understand it, Monuments to an Elegy and its still-to-come successor, Day for Night, will conclude the Smashing Pumpkins project. Before I heard Monuments, I would have said that it’s not a moment too soon. But here’s the crazy thing – Monuments is every bit a Corgan solo project posing as a band record, but it’s pretty damn good. Better, in fact, than just about anything he’s released since Adore. Granted, that says more about the dismal quality of Corgan’s output since the 1990s than anything else, but faint praise is still praise, and I come to praise Monuments, not bury it.

Why does this one work? A couple reasons I can think of. First of all, it’s short – nine songs in about 33 minutes. That makes it by far the briefest Pumpkins album ever, and only one of these songs tops four minutes. It turns out that Corgan thrives in this format – he states his ideas quickly, and then backs off and makes room for what he has up his sleeve next. None of these songs are amazing, but all of them are tight and compact and alive. I enjoy the odd nine-minute epic as much as anyone, but Monuments is all the better for not including any.

Another reason, against all odds, is Tommy Lee. The Motley Crue drummer plays on all of these songs, and while one might miss Chamberlin’s more technical style, Lee pounds the skins with a force that has rarely been heard on a Pumpkins album. Even the sleepier pieces, like “Being Beige,” benefit from the life Lee pumps into them. It’s Lee who allows a stomper like “Anaise” to not only exist on this album, but to not be embarrassing. I never would have guessed that the missing element would be the guy who played on Shout at the Devil, but there you go.

And I have to give some credit to Corgan himself, I guess. He wrote some pretty good songs for this record, most notably “Drum and Fife,” probably the best Pumpkins tune in more than a decade. Corgan also figured out how to use his synths here, more effectively than he ever has – this isn’t some TheFutureEmbrace new-wave stumble, this is snaking synthesizer lines sitting nicely next to the walls of guitar noise Corgan and Jeff Schroeder bang out, like an integral part of the sound. For those of us hoping since Adore that Corgan would get here, this record’s a treat. The man’s voice is still a take-it-or-leave-it proposition, and it’s grown weaker with age, but you know what you’re in for when you buy a Pumpkins album. And he reins himself in here pretty well.

I would never suggest that Monuments to an Elegy is in the same league with early Pumpkins classics like Siamese Dream. But for latter-day Corgan, this thing is pretty good. One more like this and he may be able to go out on a high note. (Or at least something close to the note… nah, too mean.) And if he’s serious about his line in “Drum and Fife” about banging the drum until his dying day, well, this is a step in the right direction, and I wouldn’t mind hearing a few more. The fact that I’m saying that is as big a surprise to me as it probably is to you.

Next week, the year-end-apalooza starts in earnest with my (damn long) list of honorable mentions. Then the top 10 list, then Fifty Second Week, and we’re calling it a year. Thanks so much for sticking with me. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am, and Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I don’t know about you, but Christmas music is a tradition in my house.

It’s like egg nog, though. There are only a few weeks a year in which it’s OK to listen to holiday tunes – from the day after Thanksgiving until Christmas Day, with special dispensation given until New Year’s Eve. Before that, you’re cheating, and after that, you’re annoying. I’ve always found, though, that the fact that I can’t listen to Christmas music the other 48 weeks of the year makes me appreciate it even more.

Thankfully, we’re right in those candy-cane-flavored weeks right now. I love Christmas music – it’s almost a genre unto itself, with a deep, rich, storied catalog of classics (and not-so-classics). This is my favorite time of year, and nothing puts me in the spirit like good Christmas music. I buy a few each year, although there are perennial favorites around my house, including Quiet Company’s awesome Winter is Coming, Vince Guaraldi’s score to the Peanuts Christmas special, Timbre’s Silent Night, and both volumes of Sufjan Stevens’ incredible Christmas box sets.

But we’re not here to talk about those. We’re here to discuss the new stuff, the Christmas music of 2014. I bought four of them this year, and to varying degrees enjoyed them all. We’ll start with the most traditional, because I always like to buy at least one record that my mother will like when I go home for the holidays. This year, that record is The Spirit of Christmas, by Michael W. Smith and Friends.

I will admit a soft spot for Smith, dating back to my more Jesus-y youth. He’s a cheesy adult-contemporary kind of guy, but he does have chops, and his songs are often more interesting than you’d expect. This is Smith’s fourth (!) Christmas album, and his most cheeseball, as you could probably tell by the “and Friends” on the cover. The lineup of those friends doesn’t inspire much confidence: Vince Gill, Lady Antebellum, Little Big Town, Martina McBride, Amy Grant, Carrie Underwood, Jennifer Nettles, Michael McDonald and a spoken word piece by Bono. That just sounds awful, doesn’t it?

And for a while, the record lives down to expectations. Goopy strings, overemotive vocals, a precious performance by Smith’s daughter, and on and on. The first half is predictable and mostly blah, which is a shame – Smith’s first couple Christmas albums were surprisingly complex affairs. But about halfway through, I started enjoying this more. McBride’s turn on “What Child is This” complements the tender arrangement nicely, and the original song “Almost There” is a winner. Bono’s spoken piece (“The Darkest Midnight”) leads into the lovely “Peace,” a Michael McDonald original from his own Christmas record, which ends this one on a nice note. While only half of this is worthwhile, that half is surprisingly effective.

My mother will probably also like Mark Kozelek Sings Christmas Carols, perhaps more than I do. Kozelek has had a hell of a year, releasing a critically acclaimed album (Benji) and then wiping away all that goodwill in a one-sided feud with The War on Drugs, one that outed him as a heartless troll. It’s hard to separate that Mark Kozelek from this one, but it’s absolutely necessary if you’re gonna enjoy this. (Or anything he does from now on, for that matter.)

Sings Christmas Carols is exactly what it sounds like – Mark, his acoustic guitar and his hangdog voice, playing 14 classic Christmas songs in his slow, spectral style. It’s almost inhumanly pretty, like most of the man’s work, although he sometimes chooses joyous songs like “O Come All Ye Faithful” and “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and vacuums all the verve out of them. This album begins with “Christmas Time is Here,” from Vince Guaraldi’s Peanuts score, and perhaps this is what he was going for, but I have even less trouble picturing Michael Cera walking away dejectedly to this take. (Kozelek retains the spoken dialogue here: “Of all the Mark Kozeleks in the world, you’re the Mark Kozelek-iest.” I laughed.)

If you want something with a bit more life to it, and perhaps a bit more goofiness, you could do worse than A Collection of Recycled Gifts, the new compilation from Marillion. Each year since 1999, the venerable British band has created a Christmas EP for fan club subscribers, including at least one newly recorded song. Recycled Gifts brings those songs together, and as you might expect, it’s a mixed bag. This disc runs the gamut from the beautiful to the ridiculous, from great ideas to lousy ones, but overall, it gives a strong picture of what Christmas sounds like on Planet Marillion.

My favorite track comes early – Steve Hogarth, owner of one of my very favorite voices, singing “Gabriel’s Message.” It’s a song I have loved since Sting’s ethereal version from the ‘80s, and this take is incredibly beautiful, Hogarth’s high, strong tenor floating above waves of keyboards. While much of this collection is similarly serious and gorgeous, from a straight read of “Happy Xmas (War is Over)” to a stunning “I Saw Three Ships” to the biggest, proggiest version of “Carol of the Bells” you’ve ever heard, much of it is also clearly the product of drunken jam sessions.

Just listen to the a cappella take on “That’s What Friends Are For,” or “The Erin Marbles,” which casts their Marbles quartet in a Christmas-y context. Or the version of “Little Saint Nick,” which transposes the Beach Boys’ lyrics onto the band’s own “Thunder Fly” music. (Strangely enough, it works.) The biggest shambles is “Lonely This Christmas,” a jam that finds Hogarth pulling out his Elvis impression. The tone shifts on this record are enough to give you whiplash, and it’s clear that these songs were originally intended as little presents for the faithful. But it’s fun, and it’s never boring, and you get Hogarth singing “Gabriel’s Message,” which is worth the price of the record on its own. (Go here.)

But the big winner this year is Over the Rhine. Their third Christmas-themed collection is called Blood Oranges in the Snow, and they actually finished it last year, but not quite in time to get it out before the holidays. Over the Rhine’s Christmas records are never typical – they’re always collections of original songs that have just as much depth to them as their non-holiday releases. That’s what you get here: nine songs that can stand with the best of their output, featuring Linford Detwiler’s graceful piano playing and Karin Bergquist’s undeniable, unbelievable voice.

This album was recorded at roughly the same time as last year’s double album Meet Me at the Edge of the World, and the sound is similar. The same band is here, including drummer Jay Bellerose and pedal steel player Eric Heywood, and the rustic, down-home feel is preserved. The songs are simply lovely, as always. “Another Christmas” is a beautiful classic, “My Father’s Body” thoroughly haunting, and the title track a superb piece of country-folk. Detwiler stepped up as a singer on Meet Me, and he continues that here, taking a couple leads and intertwining with Bergquist. This new style suits them perfectly.

Jack Henderson joins the duo on his “Bethlehem,” a stunning reworking of the traditional carol, and the band also covers Merle Haggard’s “If We Make It Through December,” further proof that this isn’t your usual Christmas record. My favorite thing here is “Let It Fall,” a piano-led meditation on letting go of things you’ve lost. Bergquist and Detwiler dance their voices around one another while Heywood adds perfect accents. This is already one of my favorite Over the Rhine songs. The record ends with the hopeful “New Year’s Song,” and it makes me think of everything I love about this season.

I might call for an exception to my rule about only listening to Christmas music during these few weeks, if only so I can hear Blood Oranges in the Snow all year round. Then again, its absence from my life will make our reunion even sweeter next November. It’s always great to have something to look forward to. And man, do I look forward to this season, every single year.

Next week, some stragglers at the end of 2014, before we wrap this puppy up with a bow. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am, and Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I have a complicated relationship with Steve Taylor’s work, but there aren’t many artists I would wait 20 years for, and Taylor is one.

This week, Taylor and his new band, a supergroup called The Perfect Foil, released Goliath. It’s his first album of new music since 1994, after two decades in the wilderness. (He made some movies, one of which – Blue Like Jazz – was actually pretty good.) Goliath is the very definition of worth the wait, but before I can truly review it, I feel like I need to explore both a) why my relationship with Taylor’s music is complex, and b) just exactly why he’s one of the artists I would wait half my life for.

So who is this Steve Taylor guy? Well, when he started out, he was the first one to bring the fine art of satire to the Nashville Christian music scene. I was 12 when I first heard Taylor’s 1985 album On the Fritz, and I gravitated to the funnier songs – “Lifeboat,” which effectively dramatized our culture’s obsession with looks and wealth by having a bunch of school kids murder their teacher, and “Drive, He Said,” an encounter with the devil on a dusty highway. But On the Fritz is a much deeper record than that, one that takes on Christian hypocrisy with a sharp bite. I didn’t fully understand it when I first encountered it, but I’ve grown to love it over time.

I think what I responded to most was its anger. Taylor was (and still is) a furious writer, despite being one of the nicest guys you’d ever want to meet. And here’s where that complex relationship comes in, because his earliest work – the 1983 EP I Want to Be a Clone and the 1984 album Meltdown – wield that anger the same way pundits on Fox News do. Sometimes his targets are deserving, as in “We Don’t Need No Colour Code,” a snarling swipe at Bob Jones University’s race-based admissions policy. But songs like “Whatever Happened to Sin” strut with a moral absolutism (and a whiff of homophobia) that I can’t get behind. Taylor does get deeper – “Over My Dead Body” still knocks me out, as does “Hero,” proof that he wasn’t just some funnyman pointing fingers. But Meltdown is a young man’s record, even beyond its synth-y datedness, and I haven’t listened to it in a long time.

But when I was 13, I was midway through my hardcore Jesus phase, and the black-and-white world of Meltdown and (to a lesser extent) On the Fritz suited me just fine. Remarkably, though, as my perspective shifted and deepened, so to did Taylor’s. In 1987, he released one of my favorite records, full stop. It’s called I Predict 1990, and it’s the darkest, most biting piece of work I’ve ever heard from the Christian industry. It begins with a song from the point of view of an insane man who bombs abortion clinics, and goes on to spin tales of greed, manipulation and hopelessness. (One song is actually called “Since I Gave Up Hope I Feel a Lot Better.”) It culminates with “Harder to Believe Than Not To,” a song about not throwing away faith in the face of a terrifying, cold world, and at the end of this record, that song is nothing short of beautiful.

Naturally, none of this went down well with the Bible-bangers. The cover art for I Predict 1990, which to some resembled a tarot card, also drew controversy, and Taylor took to calling up store owners to explain his intentions. What was at the time one of the most honest and difficult records to ever grace a Family Christian Bookstore was roundly banned. This led to Taylor quitting church (metaphorically speaking) around the same time that I did. When we heard from him again, he was fronting a band called Chagall Guevara, which Rolling Stone favorably compared to the Clash, and issuing their self-titled debut on MCA Records.

Chagall Guevara is one of those records every fan of rock music should hear. It’s loud, brash and brilliant, full of hooks and blood-red claws. It broke cleanly and completely from Taylor’s ‘80s-new-wave past, infusing his sound with a raw rock feel. It outed him as an incredible frontman, kinetic and explosive, and the mighty band he fronted finally afforded Taylor’s angry, powerful lyrics the force they deserved. That so few people heard Chagall Guevara, and that the band broke up after only that one record, is one of the biggest musical injustices of the 1990s. That Taylor only managed one more solo record – 1994’s amazing Squint – before taking his leave of music completely is another.

For most of the world, Taylor’s lasting legacy is “Kiss Me,” a song he produced and released for Sixpence None the Richer in 1997. But for me, it’s three immortal albums between 1987 and 1994, albums which changed my outlook on a lot of important things. I know so few artists who can treat mockery like an art form (“Since I Gave Up Hope I Feel a Lot Better,” “Jung and the Restless,” “Easy Listening”) and then sucker-punch me with emotion (“Harder to Believe Than Not To,” “Candy Guru”) the way he can. If I’ve heard a love-in-hard-times anthem better than “If It All Comes True,” I can’t think of it. And if any spiritually minded artist has written a mea culpa as wonderful as “Jesus Is for Losers,” I also can’t think of it.

I’ve gotten used to thinking of Taylor’s brief discography as a moment sealed in amber, but it’s an important one for me, one I have returned to again and again as I’ve grown up and apart from many of the things I once believed. Taylor’s thoughtful, vicious, deeply spiritual work is one of the things I’ve kept from that time, and not a year goes by when I don’t revisit it. Steve Taylor has been important to me for nearly 30 years, even if he’s been silent for the last 20 of them.

* * * * *

So that’s why it was worth waiting two decades for Goliath. Now, is Goliath worth waiting two decades for?

For me, it’s an unequivocal yes. Taylor assembled an incredible band for this outing, including guitarist Jimmy Abegg, bassist/horn player John Mark Painter and drummer Peter Furler, all men with a strong musical legacy. He funded it through Kickstarter, asking for $40,000 and raising $121,197. It was an incredible show of support from his longtime fans, and he used some of the extra money to mount a pre-album tour, playing songs both new and old with this kickass ensemble. I saw his show at AudioFeed in July, and it knocked me out.

So expectations have been pretty high, and I think Goliath meets them. This is the leanest, most focused record of Taylor’s career – it’s 10 sharp, fantastic rock songs and one expansive epic finale. The smartest thing Taylor and company have done with Goliath is to treat it like a debut album, like an introduction aimed at securing a new audience. Goliath is designed to be your first exposure to Steve Taylor, a brief yet powerful ride through the thoughtful rage that has always defined him. There are no speed bumps here – the record explodes like a cannon in its first minute and doesn’t stop pulling you through it for the next 39.

Much of that is down to the band, the most accomplished and savage one Taylor has put together since Chagall Guevara. Opener “Only a Ride” shows them off at their rawest, Furler’s pounding drums riding a simple powerhouse riff by Painter and Abegg. Taylor is 56 years old, but he sounds half his age, screaming out the chorus: “It’s only a ride, why am I bleeding?” In two minutes and 23 seconds, the song just clobbers you, and then gets out of the way. The same holds true for most of Goliath, actually – you have to get to track 10 before you find one that breaks the four-minute mark.

It makes sense to discuss the record in two parts – the 10 songs that fire off, one after another, from the start, and then the epic at the end. The meat of Goliath burns by at a frenetic pace – you’ll be half done with the record before you know it, and that’s down to the songs. They’re remarkably sharp things, with not an ounce of fat on them, and they’re deceptively, immaculately produced. Taylor earns his reputation as a biting, thoughtful lyricist throughout. “Double Negative,” one of the album’s best, glides in on a 7/4 beat while Taylor steps into the shoes of an eternal pessimist. “Bells are ringing in the town of the terminal heartache, bells are ringing, is it Easter or the start of an earthquake?”

The title track is an anthem for the underdog (“You’ve been on a roll, pushing us around, here’s your high five, now you’re going down”) set to a horn-driven march. “Moonshot,” which borrows from the Pixies’ strut, sounds like Taylor psyching himself up to make this record after two decades in the wilderness: “May the planets align for you, hold steady and taut, if you’re face down in desperation know that everybody gets one moonshot.” “Rubberneck” is the album’s hardest rocker, all about our social media world. Taylor even rhymes “take an Instagram, ah” with “this is someone’s grandma” while taking us to task for thinking “we have a right to know every ugly detail.”

“The Sympathy Vote” takes things political over a Black Keys-worthy bit of blues-rock, Taylor announcing in a carnival barker voice that there are only three certainties: death, taxes and professional jealousy. The smooth “Standing in Line” details a low point in a long-lasting relationship with surprising directness: “I’ve been standing in line so long, I’ve been wondering what went wrong, I’ve been trying to understand, I’m not gonna leave…” The arrangement on this song is wonderful, Abegg’s clean guitars shimmying all over a danceable beat from Furler and Painter.

The raw rock returns with “In Layers,” another highlight. It’s a cynical piece about the state of things – “If it’s naivety it looks best on the young, give it time and you’ll be comfortably dumb” – but it turns to hard-won hope by the end: “Throw up your hands and hell keeps yawning, open your eyes there’s a new world dawning, sun burns fog, burns all naysayers, love, like a child, comes wrapped in layers…” “Happy Go Lazy” hearkens back to the ‘90s with its loping beat and whistled refrain, the lyrics offering a gentle smack to the shiftless: “No, I’m not listening, your friends are correct, I got zero ambition and I want your respect.” That leads nicely into “A Life Preserved,” a song of gratitude that rises on a grand melody and Furler’s terrific drum work. Taylor sounds phenomenal on this song, sinking his teeth into the tune, and truly letting loose right at the end.

And it probably took you longer to read my song-by-song description of those 10 tracks than it would to listen to them. In 33 minutes, Taylor and his band burn through one of the most consistent sets of material I’ve heard this year. Had those 10 songs come on a disc by themselves, they would have been one of the finest pure rock records of 2014. But they didn’t. The final track on Goliath is the most ambitious, and the least congruous. “Comedian” is six and a half minutes of ever-building power, supporting one of Taylor’s most oblique and fascinating lyrics. The song is like a word game, and parsing its meaning takes many, many listens. (I’m not quite there.) While the music is as simple as a lot of things the National has done, the force of the lyrics makes this one of Taylor’s best songs.

“Comedian” is at least partially about how the industry sees him, but it’s also about what God finds funny: “Man makes plans, God laughs.” He begins thusly: “The saints came marching in this morning and they marched back out the door, wholly offended, no pun intended…” Thus begins a series of tricky turns of phrase, many ending with “no pun intended,” leading to this: “The King and I began a feud that time will not erase until he wipes that omniscient smile off his face.” There are so many ways to take that line, but the anger of it carries into the next bit: “Didn’t I thank you from the dais, didn’t I do you good? Didn’t I take up all your crosses that were made of balsa wood? I’ve kept my demons pent up so long the devil himself lost track, I’ve since repented, no pun intended…” I’ve come to think of that as the only instance in which, while the pun exists, one is truly unintended. But as I said, it’s a puzzle box, and I’m still figuring it out.

I would have been perfectly happy with another couple songs that kept the quality of the first 10. But “Comedian” is something special, and after 20 years, it’s the song that I am most grateful for. That’s not to disparage the rest of Goliath, which is, all told, one of the year’s best records. I hope this is the start of a renaissance, the first salvo in a long and wonderful second act from an artist I have admired since I was a teenager. Even though Goliath was worth the wait, I hope the next one comes out before I’m 60.

Welcome back, Steve. Thanks for a great record, and for everything you’ve meant to this middle-aged former Jesus kid. You’ve still got it.

* * * * *

Next week, it’s finally OK to listen to Christmas music. So we will. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am, and Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’m a perpetual optimist when it comes to music. I have hope that everything I choose to buy and listen to will be good, will enrich my life in some way. But that doesn’t mean I’m unrealistic.

I routinely buy albums that I expect will not be very good, all the while hoping I’m wrong. Sometimes it’s just completism – I have a fairly dominant collector gene, and I often feel compelled to buy a band’s new work if I have all their older stuff. You could call this ridiculous and I wouldn’t argue. Anyone who has listened to my frequent rants about post-1996 Tori Amos probably curses that particular gene, although without it, I wouldn’t have heard Unrepentant Geraldines this year, and there are at least five songs on that record that I love beyond reason. So I keep buying.

Much of the time, though, I buy new records from lousy bands and artists because I once heard something that sparked my interest, some glimmer of excellence that, if fanned, could catch fire. And I’m waiting to see if the band heard it too. For example, the first Lifehouse album (2000’s No Name Face) contained a tremendous song called “Simon.” It towered over the rest of what was, honestly, a pretty forgettable record. But that song, man. That song is the reason I keep buying Lifehouse albums, and will likely buy their new one next spring. I have not yet liked a Lifehouse song as much as I like “Simon,” and in fact I find most of their output boring, but I live in hope.

I feel similarly about the Foo Fighters, although I usually end up liking Dave Grohl and his merry men quite a bit more. I was never a Nirvana fan, but I love The Colour and the Shape, the second Foo Fighters record, for marrying Nirvana’s aggression and power to some truly epic pop songs. It remains the finest thing Grohl has done, and subsequent Foos albums have mostly been pale imitations. I don’t remember anything about One By One, for example, or Echoes, Silence, Patience and Grace. And while I very much enjoyed the compact explosion that was 2011’s Wasting Light, it’s really just another rock record. The Foos aren’t bad, but they’re a far cry from inspiring.

And yet, I had higher hopes for Sonic Highways, their eighth album. You’ve no doubt heard about it by now – each of these eight tracks was recorded in a different city, while the band shot an HBO documentary series about the album’s creation. The idea was to undertake an exploration of each city’s musical history and incorporate those influences into the record. I haven’t seen the series, but based on the album itself, it sounds like something went terribly wrong with that concept.

Here are the eight cities the Foos visited: New York, Chicago, Nashville, New Orleans, Washington D.C., Hollywood, Austin and Seattle. Now, my first problem with that list is the last entry – they’re from Seattle, so that wasn’t much of a sonic highway for them. But the big issue here is that you can’t tell just by listening that this album was recorded in so many different places. If the goal was to capture some of the flavor of these cities in the songs themselves, then this is a total failure. Sonic Highways just sounds like another Foo Fighters album.

I’m listening to “Congregation” right now – this tune was recorded at Southern Ground Studio in Nashville, and features Zac Brown (who is from Georgia, but never mind) on backing vocals. But it sounds like it could fit nicely on Wasting Light. There’s no Nashville in this tune at all. It’s not bad – it has a nice progression, a good arrangement, some kickass drumming from Taylor Hawkins, and a sweet outro jam. But it sounds like the Foo Fighters. “In the Clear” was recorded at Preservation Hall in New Orleans and incorporates the Preservation Hall Jazz Band, which is awesome. But they’re rendered faceless – they’re not allowed to add any N’awlins to this typical chugging rocker at all.

So the entire idea is a bust, and what we’re left with is a Foo Fighters album – it’s loud and melodic and punchy, and it’s not as good as The Colour and the Shape. The record gains strength in its home stretch, with two longer tunes. The six-minute “Subterranean” is the Seattle song, so naturally the band feels more comfortable. They invite Ben Gibbard to sing along as well, and the result is worthy. Final track “I Am a River” may be the best – it’s the Los Angeles number, with strings by the L.A. Youth Orchestra, and its seven minutes allows it to blossom. They’re tiny sparks, but they’re enough to keep me listening.

I don’t hate the Foo Fighters, and I don’t hate Sonic Highways. But for a band this celebrated, they’re awfully typical, and even a cross-country musical history tour couldn’t get them to expand those boundaries. Grohl is often described as humble, but honestly, I think he’s just self-aware. He knows his band and his songs are nothing special, even if HBO wants to air a series about them, and despite the promise of Sonic Highways, he keeps walking down the same old roads.

* * * * *

I don’t hate the Foo Fighters, but I genuinely hate Damien Rice.

I bought O in 2002 because… well, because everybody bought O in 2002. I have a soft spot for “The Blower’s Daughter,” but I found the rest of the album pretty boring. It was clear that Rice had tried to be Jeff Buckley, and failed. Still, I hung on and picked up 9 in 2006. I count that as one of the five worst mistakes of my life. A pained, endless torture session, 9 is one of the most unendurable albums I’ve ever heard, stopping just shy of the depths of that Lou Reed/Metallica thing from a few years ago. Songs like “Me, My Yoke and I” made me want to punch Rice in the face repeatedly, or perhaps hire someone stronger to punch him while I watched. It’s a truly wretched record.

So why, then, did I pay money for Rice’s long-awaited third effort, My Favorite Faded Fantasy? It was partially that collector gene – I have the others, so I need the new one. But I admit that I was intrigued by the record itself. It was produced by Rick Rubin, and if anyone could whip Rice into shape and capture him the way he was meant to sound, it’s Rubin. Before plunking down cash, I heard the first single, “I Don’t Want to Change You,” and I liked it. (Where Rice is concerned, if his songs don’t make me want to throw furniture across the room, that means I liked them.) Still, I was prepared for the worst.

But I ended up enjoying Faded Fantasy much more than anything else I’ve heard from Rice. This album took eight years to make, and it sounds like it – songs stretch to eight and nine minutes, strings augment just about everything, and an army of musicians assembled to bring these ideas to life. The album begins with subtle acoustic guitar and Rice’s falsetto, but it isn’t long before the waves of sound start to build. Rice sequences the nine-minute “It Takes a Lot to Know a Man” second, so you’re in the deep end early – this song is stunning. The first half is a tender four-chord folk lilt with violins, but the second is a full-on orchestral fantasia, with huge horns and a choir adding to the epic. It’s the best thing I’ve ever heard from Rice, easy.

The album never really gets there again, but that’s OK. “The Greatest Bastard” is old-school Rice, with its delicate finger-picking and vocal whispers over a subtle organ. “I never meant to let you down,” Rice sings with that high, yearning voice, and while the urge to punch him returns now and then, I find that I’m rolling with this. I still like “I Don’t Want to Change You” for its thick strings and its descending melody, and I like “Colour Me In” even more – it’s an oasis of minimalism on this huge, ambitious record. I’m a bit bored by the eight-minute “Trusty and True,” but things end well with the haunting, ever-unfolding “Long Long Way.”

It took eight years, but Damien Rice finally figured out how to balance out his simplistic, folksy side and his let’s-add-some-more-strings side, creating an album that, for the first time, rarely bores me or makes me angry. My Favorite Faded Fantasy isn’t a masterpiece, by any means, but it is the best record of Rice’s career, and the first one I enjoyed all the way through. I suppose this means I don’t hate him anymore, and that I’ll be genuinely interested in buying his fourth album, whenever he finishes it. I’m always happy to have my mind changed, and to see significant growth and improvement from someone I’d written off.

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Speaking of writing artists off, I’ve never quite understood the hype surrounding TV on the Radio.

I’m not even sure what I heard that convinced me to buy their second album, Return to Cookie Mountain. I like to try hyped-up bands for myself, just to make sure I’m not missing anything important, and in the case of TV on the Radio, I think I succeeded in convincing myself that I wasn’t. And yet, I went back and picked up their debut, and have bought every subsequent album. I even bought Kyp Malone’s side project, Rain Machine. So I guess I must have been intrigued by something.

So here is the band’s fifth album, Seeds, and while I enjoyed it, I’m still not sure why I keep on delving into their work. Seeds is the most upbeat and minimal record they’ve made, focusing on simple rhythms and on Tunde Adebimpe’s supple voice. All these songs are straightforward and easy on the ears. The record is full of little pop songs like “Careful You” and “Happy Idiot,” songs that don’t really go anywhere, but have a good time not doing it. “Test Pilot” is surprisingly pretty, and the album is low-key enough that when the guitars come crashing in on “Winter” (and stay for the propulsive “Lazerray”), it’s kind of jarring. But everything is in its right place on the closing tracks, particularly the lovely title song, with its message of optimism: “Rain comes down like it always does, but this time I’ve got seeds on the ground.”

So there’s nothing to hate here, but I still find little to outright love. Seeds is an album that just sort of happens for 53 minutes without mattering a whole lot. I’ve felt the same way about pretty much every TV on the Radio album I’ve heard, so I’m not sure why I keep coming to the table. All I can say is that I’ve bought much worse music from much worse bands, but if I’m looking for something that will change my life, I have serious doubts it will come from this group’s direction. And yet, next time they hold out their hand, I’ll probably pony up.

It’s just the way I’m wired, I guess.

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Next week, the astonishing return of Steve Taylor. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am, and Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Well. That may have been one of my all-time favorite seasons of Doctor Who.

That is no faint praise. I have been watching the show since I was six, and the season that just wrapped up is the 34th. Doctor Who is now in its 51st year (the anniversary is coming right up), there have been more than 800 episodes, and 12 actors have stepped into the title role, with varying degrees of success. It’s gone from a cult show to a worldwide phenomenon in the last few years, and now sports production values far beyond anything the program has ever seen. And the showrunner is now uber-fan and certified genius Steven Moffat, who has guided our little show to previously undreamt-of heights in the past few years.

But this season… this season was awesome. The extraordinary Peter Capaldi made a striking debut as a brusque, unfriendly Doctor with a fast wit and a tendency to emphasize the big picture over human feelings. His Doctor is impatient, even downright rude, but Capaldi plays this part with such panache that he is never unlikeable. You’re not sure if you should trust him, but then there’s that twinkle in his eye.

As great as Capaldi has been all year, Jenna Coleman has been even more impressive, bringing Clara Oswald to life as a three-dimensional character. She is in every way Capaldi’s equal this season, and her emotional arc – yes, a companion with an emotional arc! – was well-drawn and fully satisfying. And Samuel Anderson, given the short end of the stick as Danny Pink, still developed a tremendous character, building him slowly and subtly. The nature of the show meant that we didn’t spend quite enough time with Danny and Clara to sell their relationship, but Coleman and Anderson made me feel it anyway.

Blessedly, amidst all this wonderful character work, the show remained as insane as it always is. The season began with a dinosaur tromping through Victorian London, and ended with a visit from Santa Claus. In between, we met Robin Hood, saw the Doctor as a young boy, watched a dragon creature hatch from the moon, met an invisible mummy on the outer space version of the Orient Express, fought two-dimensional creatures, watched as a forest sprung up across England overnight, and at the end, met (SPOILER ALERT) a female incarnation of the Doctor’s best enemy, the Master. There isn’t another show I can think of that would do all that in 12 episodes.

And ah, the Master reveal. That was (ahem) masterful. Michelle Gomez played the absolute hell out of the part, striking the balance between madness and calculated villainy better than anyone in the role since Roger Delgado. Reading some of the reaction has been depressing – old-school fans rightly sense that this makes a female incarnation of the Doctor inevitable, and they’re scared by the idea. I say bring it on. It’s clear that the production team will cast the right actor/actress for the part, as Gomez proved. And it would be further evidence that this is a show that can do absolutely anything, at any time. Which is why I love it.

I have some problems with the finale, particularly the “power of love” stuff that has cropped up since the show’s revival in 2005. The Master’s plan, though typically nuts, didn’t make a whole lot of sense, and the hoops I had to jump through to get to the emotional payoffs were often too great an effort. But the final scenes (before Santa), with the Doctor and Clara bidding farewell? Those may have been the best, most powerful scenes in all of Doctor Who. Beautifully written, acted with phenomenal grace, Capaldi and Coleman doing amazing work. I have gone back and watched just those scenes seven or eight times. They’re perfect.

And then, Santa. Yes, we get Nick Frost as Santa Claus on Christmas day, putting a bow on what has been an absolutely extraordinary run from my little show. Long live Peter Capaldi’s Doctor, and long live Doctor Who. See you at Christmas.

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Speaking of long-lived British institutions, there’s a new Pink Floyd album.

Floyd has been around almost as long as Doctor Who, forming in 1965 as one of the most psychedelic bands in the London scene. Within two years they’d lost Syd Barrett and gained David Gilmour, and the classic lineup (also including Roger Waters, Richard Wright and Nick Mason) was in place. And then they proceeded to make records like no one on earth had ever made records before. Say what you will about The Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here, Animals, The Wall, and on and on, but there is nothing else quite like them. They developed a signature style – usually slow and spacey, songs building gradually, melodies unfurling patiently, Gilmour’s thick and watery guitar solos intertwining with Wright’s swirling keyboards. Others who take up that style now are walking in Floyd’s footsteps. They’re without a doubt one of the most influential bands in modern music history.

I knew none of that when I first heard “Learning to Fly” at the age of 12, in 1987. I just thought it was an awesome song. I also had no idea I was hearing the first single from the post-Waters Pink Floyd, which must have been a shock to longtime fans. A Momentary Lapse of Reason was quite unlike any of the Floyd albums before it – Gilmour became the dominant force, his guitar filling all the empty spaces, his utilitarian voice singing these more accessible, poppier tunes. (Would Waters have stood for “One Slip”? My guess is no.) Still, this was the Pink Floyd I first fell in love with.

The Division Bell came out in 1994, when I was a sophomore in college. It was essentially the same record as Momentary Lapse. I knew enough by then to know that while Division Bell was a pretty good album, it wasn’t a good Pink Floyd album. That said, I don’t know if it felt like a finale to me then, but it does now. Gilmour wrestles throughout with his relationship with Waters, concludes that they all need to “Keep Talking,” and ends things with “High Hopes,” probably the best late-period Floyd song. As time wore on and no new music appeared, I found myself more and more happy with Division Bell as the last Floyd album, a status that seemed to solidify when Wright died in 2008.

So what am I to do with The Endless River, the just-released 15th (and final, they swear this time) Pink Floyd record? I found myself torn on it before I’d even heard it. For starters, it’s not really new – this is an assembled collection of material recorded during the Division Bell sessions, with new performances grafted on top. The idea was to find everything of releasable quality that Wright performed and create something new from it. Just as an idea, this could go either way – it could be loving tribute to a departed bandmate, or it could be a cash grab perpetrated by two people whose names would not sell this material on their own.

At best, The Endless River is a coda to the Floyd saga, not a full-fledged final act. Save for the last track, it is entirely instrumental, and more than that, almost entirely formless. Wright’s keyboards waft in and out, usually holding a single chord or two, while Mason’s drums tumble in here and there, playing at their usual snail’s pace. And in the absence of any lyrics or melody, there is Gilmour’s guitar, slathered over every surface. There are occasional breaks in the endless guitar solo, but they’re not long – Mason takes center stage for a minute on “Skins,” for instance. Mostly, though, it’s monochromatic, like an entire album of “Cluster One” from Division Bell.

In case it wasn’t clear that The Endless River is an album of leftovers, there’s an outtake from “Keep Talking,” the song that included guest vocals from Stephen Hawking. Here he is again on the unfortunately titled “Talkin’ Hawkin’,” his voice recorded 20 years ago, set to the same keyboard washes and guitar noodles as the rest of the album. The instrumental portion of the album goes on for three and a half sides – roughly 45 minutes – and all you really need is a six-minute bit on side one, fittingly called “It’s What We Do.”

And then the record ends with “Louder Than Words,” the one song with lyrics. And of course, they’re self-referential, intended as a fond farewell from the band to itself. “We bitch and we fight, dis each other on sight, but this thing we do,” Gilmour sings, concluding that the music Pink Floyd makes is “louder than words, the sum of our parts, the beat of our hearts…” It’s saccharine and kind of goofy and lacking in all subtlety, but at least it seems heartfelt. With this song, I’m willing to give Gilmour and Mason the benefit of the doubt – I think they see The Endless River as a labor of love, and a tender goodbye to Wright and the band.

Given that, I’m inclined to be lenient, despite the fact that this album is a snoozer. I imagine it’s different for Gilmour and Mason, who wanted one last visit with their longtime friend, and also the chance to draw Pink Floyd to a close on their terms. As I am neither Gilmour nor Mason, though, I feel like The Endless River simply isn’t for me. It’s a patchwork quilt of leftovers masquerading as an album, a formless mass of sound that goes nowhere and does nothing. It certainly adds nothing to the legacy of Pink Floyd, and I don’t see myself listening too often in the future.

The Endless River fails at its most important task: it never provides a reason for its own existence. And in the end, I find myself wishing it didn’t exist. It’ll be there now forever, sitting at the end of the Floyd catalog, acting all important and essential when it’s neither of those things. It’s just kind of… there. Which is something Pink Floyd has rarely, if ever, been.

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Next week, three records I expect to hate. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tm3am, and Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.