We have a backlog of great new releases that I need to get through before the September To Beat All Septembers begins.

We’re up to 32 new releases next month that I’m interested in, and the following month is shaping up to be just as good. Here’s what’s hitting in just the first few weeks of October: Deltron 3030, Dr. Dog, Tired Pony, Blind Boys of Alabama (produced by Justin Vernon), Fates Warning, Moby, Justin Timberlake, the Field, Soulfly, Aaron Sprinkle, Of Montreal, Panic at the Disco, Cage the Elephant, Paul McCartney, the Dismemberment Plan, Pearl Jam, the Head and the Heart, the Avett Brothers, Flying Colours, a new collection from Jellyfish, an acoustic live record from Alex Chilton, and the first Kitchens of Distinction album in 19 years.

So yeah, the flood is coming. This week, I thought I’d offer short takes on a few of the albums I’ve been enjoying lately, in the hopes that they won’t get lost in the deluge. I’m not spending a lot of space on these records, but don’t let that fool you. They’re all very much worth hearing and owning.

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Earlier this month, I got a chance to see the Congregation rock a particle physics laboratory.

That’s right, this Chicago eight-piece soul outfit played Fermilab, my place of employment. The connection isn’t as daft as it seems – Congregation guitarist Charlie Wayne is, in real life, astrophysicist Dan Hooper, and he works at the lab. I’ve been hearing about Dan’s band for a long time, but I’ve always missed out on seeing them. I realize now how silly I’ve been – the Congregation put on a tremendous show. You might think it would be easy to rock a particle physics laboratory, but the band gave us sweat and tears and joy.

Naturally, I bought their album, Right Now Everything, and I’m happy to report that it’s great. The Congregation plays vintage-sounding soul-rock with sweet horn lines and a full-blooded rhythm section. But the big draw is vocalist Gina Bloom – she has a voice that can shake mountains. When it needs to be full of love, as on “You’ll Always Be Alright With Me,” it is, and when it needs to be overflowing with pain and anger, as on “You Always Told Me (Terrible Things),” it’ll put you through the wringer. I’m not sure how she sustains such full-throated, glorious singing over an entire record (or show), but she does it, and it’s a wonder to behold.

The Congregation takes its cues from old-school soul, and the songs are about love and leaving. The opening title track sets the tone, with Chuck Sansone’s deft electric piano, the band’s handclaps and Bloom’s room-filling voice. The drums kick up to double time, the horns drip honey over everything, Wayne rips out a solo, and the band drops some big band-style backing vocals, shouting the title phrase. It’s just a great little song, and this album is full of them. Check out the lovely piano piece “Darlin’,” or its flip side, the rollicking “High Class.” The arrangements are consistently crisp and dynamic, particularly the horn lines, and the off-kilter ending to the album-closing “I Will Forget You” will leave you wanting more.

Throughout Right Now Everything, the Congregation finds new ways to breathe life into old soul music. They feel to me like a band on the verge, and with the songwriting and musicianship on display, and especially the voice of Bloom front and center, they could be a household name. But that’s the future. Right now they’re just a damn good band, one I’m glad I finally got to check out. You can do the same right here.

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Speaking of new discoveries, here’s Typhoon. This 11-member band from Portland certainly lives up to their name – their fourth album, White Lighter, crashes over you in a torrent of sound.

This is the first Typhoon album I’ve heard, so perhaps they built up to this sound over a series of smaller, more timid records. But this one just launches itself at you, and dares you to move. This band writes tricky yet threadbare songs, and then fleshes them out with a non-stop parade of instruments, flickering in and out. Horns, strings, banjos, ukuleles, keys – it’s huger than huge, and yet, at times, quiet and placid. The album is restless, darting through sections and arrangements, picking them up like shiny objects and then dropping them back to the floor. Opening epic “Artificial Light” packs in a dozen smaller pieces into a cohesive 5:35 – it moves from indie rock to orchestral swells to mariachi to something approaching math-rock in 38 seconds, and then it really starts.

If that sounds confusing, like music that requires you to take notes, trust me that White Lighter is an enveloping experience from first note to last. The band dresses up even the slightest of songs, like folk ditty “Morton’s Fork,” in coats of many colors, and songs segue together – the transition from “The Lake” to “Dreams of Cannibalism” is particularly dramatic. The songs are all fairly simple indie rock, but it’s the arrangements that make this thing – if you don’t like what you’re hearing, wait a few moments and it will change.

White Lighter demands repeat listens, but rewards them. I feel somewhat embarrassed that this is the first time I’m hearing of Typhoon, but as the last strains of the gorgeous, string-laden “Post Script” fade out, I find myself determined to hear more.

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From White Lighter to White Lies.

I first heard this London band courtesy of Dr. Tony Shore, who evangelized about their debut album, To Lose My Life. Shore loves anything that reminds him of the ‘80s, and White Lies certainly fit the bill – their dramatic, synth-y rock recalls Duran Duran and other new wave bands of the era. For me, though, they’ve never quite flipped the switch. That is, until now – the third White Lies album, Big TV, is unquestionably their best.

It’s also their biggest, eschewing the dark minimalism of Joy Division for the lush expanses of Echo and the Bunnymen. It’s still pseudo-‘80s new wave, but it’s very good pseudo-‘80s new wave. Songs like “There Goes Our Love Again” pulse with life, and with bold melodies. Harry McVeigh has a voice that hearkens back to the new romantics, but he can make it soar, as he does on this song, rising above the oceans of keyboards and the buzzing guitars. The album remains consistent, sounding like something that could have come out in 1985.

To be clear, this remains pastiche, but for the first time, it’s convincing, thoroughly committed pastiche. “Mother Tongue” is massive and dynamic, McVeigh occasionally bringing Roland Orzabal to mind, while “Getting Even” is a burst of me-decade electro with a tremendous, catchy chorus. The band’s songwriting has improved measurably while their dedication to this musical form has deepened. You could file this right next to Crocodiles and Seven and the Ragged Tiger and barely notice the difference.

My biggest complaint with White Lies has always been that they aren’t delivering anything original. They’re still not, but Big TV is such a good, knowing imitation that it casts aside those concerns. For the first time, they sound like I imagine they’ve always wanted to, and that makes all the difference.

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And speaking of ‘80s-inspired dance bands, Franz Ferdinand is back.

It’s been four years since we’ve heard from Alex Kapranos and his merry men, and if you thought they were perhaps undergoing some intensive musical transformation, spinning a cocoon to emerge a new beast, well, go to the back of the class. Franz sound exactly as they always have – like Morrissey’s disco band, slinky and sexy and full of stomping attitude. But this time, they’ve honed their focus to a razor-fine point.

Franz’ fourth album, Right Thoughts Right Words Right Action, is a mere 10 songs in 35 minutes. But they’re the right songs, in the right order – the opening trilogy of “Right Action,” “Evil Eye” and “Love Illumination” is the sharpest one-two-three punch any band has delivered this year. The grooves are tight, the riffs memorable, and Kapranos brings his finest sneer. “Love Illumination” is a perfect Franz song – “We can love you if you need somebody to love you while you’re looking for somebody to love,” Kapranos snarls, while Gus Asphalt’s saxophone darts in and out.

Right Thoughts is a quick record, and it may fly by without calling attention to how well-made and detailed it is. You have to listen closely for Owen Pallet’s sweet strings on “Stand on the Horizon,” or the complex backing vocal arrangement on “Fresh Strawberries.” But that’s all right – there’s enough right up front here, like the bass and guitar attack on “Bullet,” to carry you from one end to the other. Franz has somehow managed to make a headphone album that sounds like a scrappy garage-rock stomper.

The band does slow things down a little on “The Universe Expanded” and the trippy “Brief Encounters,” but not enough to drag them to a halt. And the buzzing “Goodbye Lovers and Friends” finishes things off in fine style. Perhaps it’s that Franz Ferdinand has been absent for so long, but Right Thoughts Right Words Right Action sounds fresh and vital, without much having changed. It’s terrific, and proof – if you needed it – that Franz is no trendy fly-by-night. Yeah, they helped create the dance-band craze of the 2000s, but they outlived it, and here they still are, kicking ass.

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And finally, someone who does the exact opposite of kicking ass.

Many musicians claim to be unique. Brooklyn’s Julianna Barwick actually is – there is no one like her. Over four EPs and one dazzling full-length, Barwick has refined her one-woman-choir sound, finding new ways to loop and overdub her ethereal voice into heavenly clouds of gossamer. I have often described her work as what Enya would sound like if Enya were awesome, but that doesn’t even remotely do her unbelievably, inhumanly beautiful music justice.

Barwick’s second full-length, Nepenthe, somehow takes her sound and makes it exponentially more gorgeous. For the first time, she didn’t work alone – the album was produced by Alex Somers, of Jonsi and Alex, and includes contributions from members of Icelandic bands Amiina and Mum. The focus is still Barwick’s voice, layered and looped and unfolded into lovely new shapes, but behind that voice now sits pianos and strings and subtle guitars. The songs are still ambient wisps, falling like soft sheets over you, but they’ve taken on new dimensions.

I could go on about how soul-stirring a song like “The Harbinger” is, or how startling (in a good way) it is to hear Barwick sing distinct lyrics on “One Half,” or how well the Icelandic teen girl choir fits in with the fabulous “Pyrrhic,” or how final track “Waving To You” turns Amiina’s strings into the loneliest sound in the world. But this is music you have to hear, music you have to experience. I’m not going to be able to sum it up – it’s too vast, too intimate, too heart-stoppingly wonderful. You need to hear it. Like the very best music, it speaks for itself.

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Next week, the flood. Expect reviews of BT and NIN, and maybe more. 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.

Oh, John Mayer. I wish I knew how to quit you.

There are few artists who force me to argue with myself the way Mayer does. This phenomenon goes all the way back to his first big single, “No Such Thing,” which I alternately admired for its naïve chutzpah and derided for… well, the same thing. Since then, every album has found me in the same conundrum – I like his work, and yet I know all the reasons I shouldn’t.

Start with the fact that Mayer is a prodigiously talented guitar player, and yet rarely uses that talent in the studio. Ever since “Daughters” soft-rocked the world, Mayer has emphasized his softer side, and that tends to be cloying and saccharine more often than not. Anyone who heard Try, his lone album with the John Mayer Trio, knows that this guy can play a mean blues lick and shred with the best of them. But he chooses not to – we get record after record filled with the likes of “Half of My Heart.” And I find myself constantly defending him against his own work.

Lately, he’s decided to be Mr. Sensitive Ponytail Man full time. On last year’s surprising Born and Raised, that shift worked for him – it was actually his first great record, thoroughly eschewing the energy of his live shows for a quiet, more reflective balm. It was a canny move, given his sleazy public image, but the album showed remarkable growth as an artist. I’m all for maturity, particularly if the results are honest and earned. Born and Raised sure sounded that way to me.

But now, just more than a year later, Mayer is back with his sixth album, Paradise Valley. And while I still like this more than I feel like I should, the whole thing sounds a lot more calculated this time out. Paradise is another quiet little record, 40 minutes of pleasant ditties and acoustic whispers, but like the front cover photograph, with its hat and blanket and dog and endless field, it feels a little forced. This should come off like a deepening, like another step down a path. Instead it feels like an attempt to replicate Born and Raised, with the edges sanded off.

Mayer again worked with legendary producer Don Was, and he gives this record a down-home sheen. Mayer’s guitar playing is typically swell, even on these restrained tunes, and he remains on just the right side of the Eric Clapton lite-FM divide. The solo on “Waitin’ on the Day,” for example, is probably a little loopier than the one Clapton would have laid down. (His version of JJ Cale’s “Call Me the Breeze,” however, may as well be ol’ Slowhand, so similar is the sound.) His voice is in fine shape, particularly considering his recent surgeries, and the whole record is sweet and professional.

Like a lot of Mayer’s work, though, it’s just a little too slick. “Paper Doll” lopes along on a clean guitar figure and some delicate playing reminiscent of Jerry Garcia, and while it’s all pleasant, it never comes alive. Current flame Katy Perry joins Mayer on “Who You Love,” a low-key breeze of a song about, well, loving who you love. (Lyrics were never Mayer’s strong suit.) And it’s fine – it’s pretty, and Mayer gets a few tasteful guitar licks in, and Perry doesn’t embarrass herself. The horn section is so subtle it’s almost inaudible. The whole thing works, but it doesn’t do much, and it’s forgettable. I can’t help liking it while it’s playing, though.

The second half gets more interesting, starting with the record’s best song, “I Will Be Found (Lost at Sea).” Built around a lightly-played piano, the song takes some interesting melodic detours, and Mayer even sells the line “I’m a little birdie in a big ol’ tree.” It even works up a head of steam, relatively speaking. Frank Ocean provides a puzzling interlude – a track that Mayer had nothing whatsoever to do with – and then the record ends with three simple, pretty songs, starting with the old-school country ditty “You’re No One ‘Til Someone Lets You Down.” The mood stays breezy right through to the end, the rustic “On the Way Home.”

There isn’t much here I don’t like, even though my more critical side is shouting at me the entire time. I acknowledge that “Dear Marie,” a trademark Mayer song that purports to be about someone else but is really about him, is kind of dickish – it’s about him remembering a childhood friend, and feeling bad about his own success when he sees she has a family. But I can’t help but smile when the climax arrives, the drums (moderately) kick up, the whoa-ohs start, and Mayer chimes in with his guitar. It’s calculated, but it works.

If there were an album to make me give up on John Mayer, I think Paradise Valley would be it. It’s the farthest he’s traveled from the fiery blues-rock I know he can deliver, and unlike last year’s sterling effort, this one feels less honest, more contrived, more like the sensitive kid who plays guitar to get chicks. And yet, here I am, listening again and still enjoying what I’m hearing. I don’t know what to tell you. I just don’t know how to quit him.

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Speaking of Mr. Sensitive Ponytail Man, here’s a new record from Travis.

As any longtime listener knows, there are actually two Scottish bands named Travis, both made up of the same four members. One of those bands is a loud Britpop act, with crashing guitars and a slightly punky attitude. The other is a dreamy acoustic act with soppy melodies and an overall “nice” feeling to it. One version of Travis is four nice guys who will bring you flowers. The other version is four lads who will stomp your flower garden for fun.

If you want to know which Travis you’re dealing with, just check the front cover. If the four members of the band are pictured from far away, and the band’s logo is angular, with the A and the V sloping into one another, you’re dealing with dreamy milquetoast Travis. And that’s what you’ll get on their seventh album, Where You Stand, their first in five years.

I used to like dreamy milquetoast Travis. Their breakthrough album The Man Who is still a gem, and The Invisible Band has its moments. But I honestly don’t remember anything about 2007’s The Boy With No Name, and this new one is just as forgettable. The sound is typical of this version of Travis, all strummy acoustics and chiming clean guitars, Fran Healy’s voice plaintive and pleading. The songs this time, though, are remarkably boring. You have to get to track seven, “A Different Room,” before you hear anything that stirs and soars like Travis used to.

Most of these tunes just glide right by without leaving any mark at all. “Reminder” starts with a whistle, but quickly devolves into a repetitive snore. The title track is the best part of the early going, with its ascending piano and guitar lines and its falsetto chorus, but it never lifts off, never does anything interesting. “Another Guy” is the nadir, a simplistic dirge that pivots on these lyrics: “I saw you with another guy, you can cry all you like but it won’t change a thing.” Charming. “New Shoes” is a pitiful stab at Gorillaz-style electro. Only “On My Wall” sports a pulse, but its jangly beat is overshadowed by the waves of boredom that surround it.

Where You Stand is a real shame. I enjoyed Healy’s solo album more than this, and I definitely prefer the more raucous Travis that made Ode to J Smith five years ago. I sincerely hope that Travis comes back soon, and wakes up this Travis.

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Next week, loads of things. 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.

If you follow music industry news, you’ve no doubt seen this story. Album sales, as recorded by SoundScan in record stores and retail outlets all over the country, have hit an all-time low. The week of July 26 saw the lowest weekly sales figures – 4.68 million – of the SoundScan era. (That’s since 1991, for those not keeping track.)

And of course, this news has precipitated a flurry of “What Does This Mean??” commentary and think-pieces. The consensus is that a perfect storm of illegal downloads, legal streaming, lousy new releases and dwindling catalog items has led to these historic lows. The warmer months are a notoriously crappy time for new music, and when the song of the summer is Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines,” you know it’s a particularly down year. And most of the big catalog names have already repackaged their material for the CD and vinyl audience.

That has all certainly contributed. But this news got me thinking about SoundScan, and how it may not be the right tool for our emerging musical age. I buy a lot of records in the store (Kiss the Sky in Batavia, Illinois, the best record store on earth), but I think I buy an equal amount directly from the bands themselves. Downloads, both legal and illegal, have turned the music world upside down. But the Internet has even revolutionized the way physical products make their way from the musicians to their fans.

We’ve talked about Kickstarter at length here, and we’re going to talk about it again, but that’s not the only game in town. Virtually every independent artist you can think of has a functioning webstore, and many of them have taken to Bandcamp and Noisetrade to sell their wares. The pre-order model spearheaded by Marillion (check out Mark Kelly’s TED talk about it here.) is now a popular method of bringing the fans in early. I just reviewed Over the Rhine’s new album, funded this way, and next month, Scottish legend Fish will release his new crowd-funded opus.

This is the new way forward, and it bypasses record stores and SoundScan entirely. (Many of these albums do find their way to stores, but usually after the fans have had them for some time.) The old methods of determining sales aren’t equipped to keep up with this, and more and more bands are turning to the ‘net and working directly with their fans to fund and distribute new albums. Hell, I have two of them to talk about this week, and I know of several more on the way this year. Both of this week’s bands used Kickstarter to pay for their long-awaited returns to the music scene.

First up is the Polyphonic Spree, floating back into our hearts after a six-year absence. I can understand Tim DeLaughter’s use of Kickstarter – it can’t be easy or inexpensive to get all 23 members of this band into the studio. The Spree remains one of the most expansive acts in the world, dressing up DeLaughter’s hippie-joy anthems in strings, horns and choirs. They’re a theatrical outfit, wearing matching robes onstage and fully committing to the orchestral sweep of their sound. The band’s third album, 2007’s darker The Fragile Army, streamlined things a little, and became their least successful effort.

So I wonder why DeLaughter continued in that direction for their fan-funded fourth, Yes, It’s True. This record returns to the anthemic bliss of earlier efforts, but keeps song lengths short – mainly between three and five minutes. While the songs are fine, and DeLaughter sounds energized, the scope of the band is overlooked here in favor of sharper focus. Ordinarily I’d praise that kind of buckling down, but in the Spree’s case, I miss the sprawl. I miss the extended introductions, the orchestral interludes, the sense of dynamics.

Instead, what we have here are simpler, more direct pop songs. The album is still fantastically detailed, much of the texture coming from trumpets, trombones, violins and cellos. Opener “You Don’t Know Me” is as fine a Polyphonic Spree single as there has ever been, surging to life on an insistent beat and a chugging guitar-and-piano rhythm. The choir repeats the title phrase while the trumpets add fist-pumping accents. It runs out of ideas about two minutes in, but it’s still a good tune.

The album continues in this vein, DeLaughter shouting out the joyous “Hold Yourself Up” and doing his best Wayne Coyne on the lovely “Carefully Try.” These are good songs, and I’m impressed at the way DeLaughter and his co-producers keep layering in orchestral sounds while not breaking the bounds of his four-minute tunes. (The radio voice at the end of the latter song is the only false note.) There’s nothing really wrong with this, but I think the streamlined approach robs the album of the impact prior Spree releases packed. Even the final song, the remarkable slow-crawl piano piece “Battlefield,” promises 7:27, but delivers a restrained 3:52, with the rest devoted to organ noise.

Yes, It’s True grows on you the more you listen – it feels designed to, as layers of instrumentation make themselves heard over time. It would be wrong to say I’m disappointed with this effort. But when the Spree began more than 11 years ago, using full orchestration to augment anthemic pop tunes like this was a new thing. Now it’s pretty commonplace, and the Spree needs to stand out, and the way they used to do that was by stretching out, giving the full breadth of their wingspan room to move. I found that I wanted more of that, more of a sense of ambition and freedom. And what does fan-funding buy you if not that?

It’s been six years since we’ve heard from the Spree, but a full 16 years since the last Toad the Wet Sprocket album. In that time, frontman Glen Phillips has carved out a diverse solo career, from the full-bloom pop of Winter Pays for Summer to the more stripped-down Mr. Lemons and The Coyote Sessions, to his collaborations with Nickel Creek. But there’s something magical about his band, and Phillips seems to know it. Toad reunited a few years ago, re-recording older tunes for a collection called All You Want, and then asking fans to help them record their comeback, New Constellation.

And man, this one was worth the wait. Toad has never been as quirky as their name, which they took from a Monty Python sketch. They have always trafficked in well-written, solid guitar-pop music, the kind that allowed them to ride the college-rock wave in the 1990s. Phillips is an underrated songwriter, and even Toad’s hits are splendid little tunes. Their deep cuts were usually leagues above those of their contemporaries, to the point where the band’s rarities collection, In Light Syrup, is a better record than most of their peers managed on their main releases.

If you ever liked them, you’re going to like New Constellation. It’s a distillation of everything the band does well, and from its first notes, it’s a sterling reminder of how good Phillips is when he’s with these guys. Phillips certainly dominates the proceedings – this could be a particularly good solo record – but the ringing guitars of Todd Nichols are unmistakable, and the rhythm section of Dean Dinning and Randy Guss plays these new songs like old friends.

And again, while I love the ones that could be hits – the rousing title track, the loping “California Wasted,” the slightly off-kilter “Get What You Want” – it’s the deep cuts that thrill me, and that show just how good this band is. “The Moment” feels like riding through a tunnel at night, its minor-key atmosphere enveloping a galloping rhythm. “Of everything you taught me, here’s the one I learned the best, there is nothing but the moment, don’t you waste it on regret,” Phillips sings, before launching into an unexpected chorus. “This is the price of our mistake, and I’m not sorry…”

“Golden Age” may be the best, most mature song Phillips has ever written. It begins with a delicate acoustic guitar pattern, then subtly builds. The final minutes shift into another orbit entirely – “Walls and barricades surround our golden age, we will return someday,” Phillips sings, over a martial drum beat and some gorgeous guitar chimes. I’m a big fan of the hard-won smile of “Life is Beautiful,” and the knotty melodies of “The Eye.” But I love the closer, “Enough.” Building on the bare-bones version on Phillips’ Coyote Sessions, this six-minute slow burn finds him singing like he never has – raw and exposed, straining his voice, reaching for the notes on the refrain: “Tell me when I’ve had enough!”

There’s plenty here for Toad the Wet Sprocket fans to get excited about, and plenty for people who have never explored this band. Even the bonus tracks are great, including a version of “Finally Fading” that shows off just what the three other members bring to Phillips’ songs. New Constellation is a textbook case of trust paying off – the band asked for $50,000 on Kickstarter, and the fans gave them $264,000, believing that a band that had not recorded new stuff in 16 years would deliver the goods. And they did. It’s proof this new model works, proof that beyond the SoundScan numbers, great music is happening, in the communion between bands and the people who love them. It’s a new constellation, and we can write our names.

Next week, the wuss rock revolution with John Mayer and Travis. 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’ve been a Doctor Who fan since I was six years old. I’m 39 now, but I’ll tell you, the thrill of regeneration has never faded.

For those of you who are not fans (and, happily, that number keeps on shrinking), the central premise of Doctor Who is one of rebirth. The concept of regeneration is a novel one – when the Doctor is mortally injured, his body completely renews itself, changing its entire appearance. That means that not only do creative teams keep cycling in and out of the show, as you’d expect for a 50-year-old institution, but the lead actor does as well. Couple that with a long-standing tradition of temporary traveling companions, and you have a show that can look and feel completely different in the space of two or three years.

As you can imagine, this is both exciting and scary. Doctor Who fans live in a perpetual state of suspense, wondering how a new Doctor will change the show. When Matt Smith arrived in the spring of 2010, all fresh-faced and quirky, he was a massive question mark. Very few had heard of him, and no one knew quite what he was going to do with the role. (His age was also a concern – at the time he was cast, he was 26, the youngest actor ever to play the part.) Four years on, I’m happy to say that Smith turned in one of my favorite portrayals, and certainly my favorite since the years of Tom Baker and Peter Davison.

Now Smith is moving on, and the Doctor will regenerate again. Eleven actors have played the role on television, and you would think by now the roller-coaster feeling when a new Doctor is announced would fade over time. You’d be wrong. The identity of the 12th Doctor was revealed on a live television special last week, and it was all I could think about for days. Here’s the guy who will be setting the tone for a show that has grown with me since my earliest memories. Will this be the one I end up hating? Or will this be my new favorite Doctor, taking the show to new heights?

We still don’t know that, but I feel confident the next few years are in very safe hands indeed. Scottish actor Peter Capaldi will step into the Tardis this Christmas, and man, that’s inspired casting. Capaldi is an intense actor, best known for his sweary-shouty role as Malcolm Tucker on The Thick of It (and in its spinoff movie, In the Loop). Like Colin Baker before him, he’s appeared on Doctor Who before, in “The Fires of Pompeii” (along with Karen “Amy Pond” Gillan). More notably, though, in terms of his deep dark range, Capaldi played bureaucrat John Frobisher in the Torchwood story Children of Earth. And he was remarkable.

I expect Capaldi will bring a darkness and a gravitas to the role, and I’m looking forward to that. Smith has been wonderful, but he often played the 1000-year-old Time Lord as an excitable kid, and I expect those days are over. I also would not be surprised to see an end to quippy Tardis romance, which would be fine with me. I adore River Song, and the Doctor’s relationship with her, but I’ll be glad to see a more dangerous and less trustworthy Doctor, one who keeps his companions at arm’s length. I have no idea if this is how Capaldi will play the part – I’m just guessing, based on his track record.

And God bless America, because once again the Doctor’s age is an issue. Capaldi is 55, making him the second-oldest actor to step into the part. (William Hartnell was also 55, but was older by three months.) After three increasingly younger actors, we’ve gone older again, and I think it’s about time. But Capaldi’s age has caused a rift among younger viewers (mainly those who started with Christopher Eccleston or David Tennant), and I hope the BBC is prepared to lose some of its stateside audience. Casting Capaldi was a terrific move for the long-term health of the show, but there are bound to be some short-term pains along the way.

(I’ve even heard some suggest that the pace of the show will need to slow down, since the “old guy” won’t be able to keep up with the action. I mean, wow. First, 55 is still pretty young, and second, Capaldi is in tip-top shape. It’s so not a concern. I hope they start his first episode with an outrageous amount of running, just to show people that he can handle it just fine.)

By Christmas, we should know what Capaldi will look like as the Doctor, and next year, we’ll get to see how he plays the part. This bit never gets less exciting – saying goodbye to a familiar face and welcoming a new one, and with it, a renewal of this crazy, silly, wonderful little show I love. As the song from Delta and the Bannermen says, here’s to the future.

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Life is just different for a duo act.

While any band is like a family, duo acts are like a marriage. Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel may have gone on to marry other people, but from 1957 to 1970, they were married to each other, and that relationship still hangs over them. Like any marriage, it had its good periods and bad ones, and like many of them, it ended in divorce. Occasionally they’ll still see each other at parties, and they’ll rekindle what they had, but once the flame is doused, it’s gone, gone, gone.

It’s even worse for duo acts made up of one man and one woman. I can’t imagine how sick Jack and Meg White were of telling people they were not actually married. People will assume intimacy no matter what the artists themselves say. Being in a band is just that intense of a relationship to begin with. So even though Joy Williams and John Paul White are both married to other people, the Civil Wars feels like a marriage. And now that the two have acrimoniously split, and reportedly are not speaking, it certainly feels like a divorce.

The whole thing even plays like a marriage. The two songwriters met at a writing camp in Nashville in 2008, and discovered the chemistry between them. They began performing together, then writing together, finally consummating things with their debut full-length Barton Hollow in 2011. That album was a fine, folksy platter, if a bit slight, and the voices of Williams and White blended beautifully. Things seemed to be going well.

And then, in November of last year, they weren’t. The Civil Wars canceled a run of tour dates and entered an indefinite hiatus, citing “irreconcilable differences of ambition.” They reconvened long enough to record a second album, but then evidently signed the papers and went their separate ways. So now we have this strange sophomore effort, a self-titled document of a duo about to break apart. The cover is a stark black-and-white photo of ominous clouds rolling in. It’s a divorce album, no doubt about it, and it’s impossible to think of it any other way.

Williams and White seem to know this. The songs about leaving and regret are all up front, starting with the melancholy first single, “The One That Got Away.” The amps crank up more than they ever have here, as Williams laments, “I wish I’d never seen your face, I wish you were the one that got away.” If you’re parsing the lyrics for references to the breakup, you can’t get more on-the-nose than that. White sticks with the electric guitar for the bluesy “I Had Me a Girl,” a tale of two people slipping through each other’s hands “like cigarette smoke.”

And “Same Old Same Old” may be the most self-referential song here. “Do I love you, oh I do, and I’m going to till I’m gone, but if you think that I can stay in this same old same old, well, I don’t.” If you’re a fan of this band, the song is heartbreaking, a knife slipped in slowly. The references keep on coming, if you’re looking for them: “Dust to Dust” finds the pair asking each other to take down the walls, and “Eavesdrop” finds Williams pleading “don’t say that it’s over” and “for all that we’ve got, don’t let go.”

As you may have gathered, this is a sad, mournful album. Given that, it’s more diverse than you might expect, which is at least partially down to producer Charlie Peacock. The duo experiments with a drum loop on “Dust to Dust,” sings in French on “Sacred Heart,” and covers both Etta James (her “Tell Mama” version of Clarence Carter’s “Tell Daddy”) and the Smashing Pumpkins (“Disarm”). The record flails somewhat in its second half, leading me to question how complete it was before the breakup, but it’s a nice artistic step up from Barton Hollow.

Which makes it even sadder that it will likely be the last. White and Williams were not together long enough to truly explore the potential on both of their albums, and given how well their voices and styles merge, that’s a shame. They got louder and darker on The Civil Wars – check out the spectral “Devil’s Backbone,” about being in love with a wicked man – and found new ways to connect, even as they were shattering.

The final track, a back porch demo called “D’Arline,” is specifically addressed to the title character, but contains more than enough harsh and beautiful sentiment to make it their final statement to each other. “Can’t live with you or without,” Williams sings. “I could get over you, but please don’t ask me to.” “You’ll always be the only one, even when you’re not.” “You always said you want me to be happy, but happiness was having you here with me.” It couldn’t be more perfect. The marriage didn’t work, the potential will remain unrealized. But the Civil Wars have left us with two good-to-great records, and though they’ve gone their separate ways, the love still lingers, and it’s sweet.

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Of course, things are considerably different if the duo act is, in fact, married, as Karin Bergquist and Linford Detwiler of Over the Rhine are.

The Ohio natives have been making music together since 1988, and have been married since 1996. They’re a shining example of how to maintain both a personal and musical relationship over decades, and they’re always open and honest about it. In 2004, while touring for Ohio, their grandest-sounding album, the pair took the same tactic as the Civil Wars – they canceled their tour, citing the strain on their marriage. And then they retrenched, and created the lovely and intimate Drunkard’s Prayer the next year.

Given that bump in the road, it’s such a joy to hear Over the Rhine’s latest, a two-CD affair called Meet Me at the Edge of the World. Recent OtR albums have been searching and restless, flirting with jazz and country, seeking a place to land. On Meet Me, they find it – this is the most simple, contented, joyous record they’ve made. Composed at (and based around) the pre-Civil War farm they have called home for years, the album is a celebration of the tiny moments that make up the best parts of our lives. It’s about being together for a long time, and finding a beautiful peace within that comfort.

Meet Me is broken up into two 35-minute pieces, each with their own title. Sacred Ground is the more lush of the two, a full band effort featuring drummer Jay Bellerose, bassist Jennifer Condos and the great Eric Heywood on pedal steel. Blue Jean Sky focuses more on Bergquist and Detwiler, and has a more bare-bones, tire-swing-in-the-backyard kind of sound. They worked with producer Joe Henry again, and he’s proven to be a perfect match, bringing out the rustic intimacy of the band even when layering strings on their tunes.

Longtime fans will notice right away that Detwiler rarely touches his trademark piano on this album. Both discs are built around acoustic guitar, and of course Bergquist’s remarkable, phenomenal, why-isn’t-she-more-famous voice. The songs are often more traditional – “Called Home” is a low-key folk tune, “I’d Want You” a back-porch ballad, and “Gonna Let My Soul Catch My Body” a straight-up blues. But as the first disc winds on, the songs get deeper. “All Of It Was Music” is tremendous, its repetitive melody shining the spotlight on some gorgeous, nostalgic lyrics: “The newness of uncovered skin, your messy hair, your goofy grin, your shattered places deep within, all of it was music…”

Aimee Mann adds her voice to the delightful “Don’t Let the Bastards Get You Down,” more of a gentle encouragement than a fight song. Like much of this album, it’s about letting the little annoyances go and basking in the beauty all around us. It also sports the second-prettiest “ooh-ooh” in the band’s catalog. The prettiest lies in this album’s climax, the haunting “Wait.” Heywood sends this one into the stratosphere with his unearthly pedal steel lines, but its heart is a poetic lyric about holding on to the one you love: “Wait for the sound of the waterdog, to call up the ghosts through the cracks in my past, make the hair raise on my skin, tonight we’ll settle in, into a promise that I’ve held fast…” (And then “oooh.” You’ll see what I mean when you hear it.)

Paradoxically, while the first disc contains the best songs, the second disc is the better album. Blue Jean Sky is like a gentle stream nudging you on, song by lovely song. “All Over Ohio” is a true duet, Detwiler and Bergquist sharing verses. Detwiler sings more on this album than he ever has, and he gets the song’s finest moment, a rebuke of Christians who spread hate: “If you preach a subtle hatred, the Bible as your alibi, goddamn you right here in Ohio.” Most of the song, however, is about longing for love, and Bergquist, restrained through most of disc one, lets loose here.

As you listen to this disc, you can easily imagine Bergquist and Detwiler hanging out on their porch, singing these breezy, hard-won songs of peace. “Earthbound Love Song” finds the two harmonizing while musing about “a love like Johnny and June,” and while there is pain in their cover of The Band’s great “It Makes No Difference,” it’s washed away by the gorgeous “Blue Jean Sky,” on which Bergquist sings, “Love makes me wanna skin my knees, throw my heart upon your healing,” before asking for “a little kick-ass beauty.”

Bergquist blueses it up again on “Baby If This is Nowhere,” an ode to their Nowhere Farm, but is soon back to acoustic loveliness on “Wildflower Bouquet,” a song about gently accepting death. “I’ll be singing loud and laughing long, a blaze of glory and an untold song, so there’s no need for tears my friend…” After a brief yet lovely piano interlude, the pair slips into the finale, a gentle, moving tune called “Our Favorite Time of Light.” This one’s about catching the sunset at just the right time over the farm, and reveling in comfortable love, and it’s so pretty I can’t even do it justice. “When the day is bending low and rolling fields begin to glow, feels like we traveled all this way just so I could hear you say it’s our favorite time of light…”

These songs leave me with the warmest feeling. That’s the best way I can explain it. I listen to this album, and I feel full of love. It’s remarkable to hear these two people feeling this contented, this at peace, and catching it in perfect little songs. And that feeling radiates off this terrific record. It was funded by love – fans pre-ordered almost a year in advance – and it pays that love forward with every play. Not only is Meet Me at the Edge of the World one of Over the Rhine’s best albums, it’s one of 2013’s as well. But more importantly, it’s a portrait of a musical and personal relationship that has stood the test of time, and found a magical, wonderful place.

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Wow, this was a long one. I’ll try to keep it shorter next week when I talk about Toad the Wet Sprocket and the Polyphonic Spree. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So basically, right now, I’m living for September.

I mentioned in a previous column that September is a veritable gold mine of potentially great records this year. Well, it just keeps getting better. In fact, September 2013 is starting to look like the best month ever. Here, I’ll just list off the new releases I’m getting week by week. We’ll talk about a few of them after, but for now, just marvel at the sheer scale of this month. (And wonder how I’m going to get around to reviewing all this stuff.)

Sept. 3: Neko Case, The Worse Things Get, the Harder I Fight, the Harder I Fight, the More I Love You; Nine Inch Nails, Hesitation Marks; Okkervil River, The Silver Gymnasium; Over the Rhine, Meet Me at the Edge of the World; John Legend, Love in the Future; Glasvegas, Later…When the TV Turns to Static; Volcano Choir, Repave; Smashing Pumpkins, Live in NYC.

Sept. 10: Janelle Monae, The Electric Lady; The Weeknd, Kiss Land; Ministry, From Beer to Eternity; Arctic Monkeys, AM.

Sept. 17: Elvis Costello and the Roots, Wise Up Ghost; MGMT; Toad the Wet Sprocket, New Constellation; Tom Odell, Long Way Down; Mike Doughty, Circles; Islands, Ski Mask.

Sept. 24: Mazzy Star, Seasons of Your Day; Dream Theater; Peter Gabriel, And I’ll Scratch Yours; Sting, The Last Ship; Elton John, The Diving Board; Metallica, Through the Never; Jellyfish, Radio Jellyfish.

See? 25 new albums, all of which (with the possible exception of Ministry) I expect to enjoy. Oh, and somewhere in there, Fish will unleash his new opus, A Feast of Consequences. So that’s 26, with more added to the roster all the time. And it’s not like the flow of good music has stopped, either. Next week we get new ones from the Polyphonic Spree and the Civil Wars, and in the next few weeks we’ll see records from Glen Campbell, John Mayer, Travis, White Lies, Julianna Barwick and the great BT.

It’s just… so much wonderful.

A few notes about the list above. Neko Case has the album title of the year so far for me. I have heard the Over the Rhine, and it’s marvelous. Janelle Monae has a spot in my top 10 list reserved for her, and I hope The Electric Lady earns it. Elvis Costello and the Roots may be the greatest counter-intuitive pairing I’ve heard in a long time. Mazzy Star is back! MAZZY STAR IS BACK! Tom Odell’s “Can’t Pretend” was used in a promo for The Newsroom on HBO, and that’s where I first heard it. It’s breathtaking. The Metallica album is live, and the Jellyfish record a collection of radio appearances.

And Peter Gabriel has finally, finally finished the companion album to Scratch My Back. The original concept was simple: Gabriel would record covers of tunes by some of his favorite artists, and in turn those artists would cover one of Gabriel’s songs. Gabriel’s covers came out in 2010, and only about half the chosen artists delivered their reciprocal tracks. It’s taken this long to put the rest of the tributes together, and two of the original artists didn’t even participate. But the final list is strong. You can see it here. The ones I’ve heard have been amazing, particularly the Bon Iver, David Byrne and Elbow tracks.

So yeah, September. Now all we have to do is get there. In the meantime, here are quick looks at three good new ones you can buy right now.

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I don’t know why Jimmy Gnecco isn’t a star.

The man sings like Jeff Buckley and looks like Trent Reznor circa 1995. He writes sweeping, glorious rock anthems with his band Ours, songs that should be hits. But they’re not. I first heard Ours in 2001, when “Sometimes,” the first single from Distorted Lullabies, hit MTV. Here, I thought, is a superstar. This band is going to be enormous.

So of course, 12 years later, Gnecco is still plugging away, and his audience is smaller than ever. He turned to PledgeMusic to fund the fourth Ours album, Ballet the Boxer I, and self-released it. The cover is minimal – white text on black, a far cry from the elaborate gothic imagery of previous Ours records. It looks like a slapdash demo, like the sad fate of a fallen band.

Which means, naturally, that the album is really good. This is a leaner Ours, Gnecco playing many of the instruments himself, and aiming for a punchy sound. His voice is still a remarkable thing, gliding atop these songs and then filling the room with his extraordinary howl. I mentioned Jeff Buckley before, and the comparison is still apt. Gnecco has astounding power and control, and his voice remains Ours’ biggest asset.

The songs on this album are also pretty terrific. Opener “Pretty Pain” is a circular-guitar dirge that puts the emphasis on that voice, but “Coming For You” is a shifting melodic rocker with some great moments. “Devil” feels much more epic than its 4:24, with its dramatic piano chords and soaring guitar solo. “Been Down” is loose and almost funky, while “Stand” lurches forward on a thudding beat and a 6/8 strum. “Boxer” is gorgeous and huge, and “Sing” is dark and pulsing.

There are more epic tunes here than you’d think would fit in a mere 43 minutes, none more sweeping than the closer, “Fall Into My Hands.” Gnecco unleashes his falsetto on the wide-open choruses, and the song builds over six minutes into a massive anthem. While Ballet the Boxer I may look like a cheap garage effort, it sounds as rich and full as any Ours album, and more than some. Presumably Ballet the Boxer II is in the works, and I hope it’s as terrific as this first installment. Jimmy Gnecco should be a star, but I’m glad he’s still making the music he wants to make anyway. This album is splendid.

Buy it here.

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There’s really no other band like Gogol Bordello.

Led by frequently shirtless Ukranian madman Eugene Hutz, the nine-member New York band bills itself as “gypsy punk,” and that’s as good a description as any. They incorporate influences from a dozen traditional European musics, and play them all with the subtlety and speed of a locomotive. Their albums are exhausting, their live shows even more so. I have no idea where Hutz, 41 years old next month, gets all his energy. He seems to have a boundless reserve, and Gogol Bordello on stage is just anarchy, a musical carnival of crazy.

If you’ve been thinking of trying out this band, but you’ve been a bit scared, now is probably the best chance you’ll ever have. Gogol Bordello’s sixth album, Pura Vida Conspiracy, is their most streamlined and accessible effort – 12 short, memorable songs, played with (for them) a measure of restraint. It’s also great, possibly their best studio effort. Rather than try to distill the live experience down on disc, producer Andrew Scheps and the band have opted to create a layered, almost radio-friendly sound for this album.

I don’t mean to suggest that the band’s energy has been sapped. Far from it – opener “We Rise Again” is an anthem that can stand alongside anything else they’ve done, Hutz screaming his heart out on the choruses. “Malandrino” starts off on acoustic guitar, but quickly explodes into what sounds like double-time Russian punk, complete with violin flourishes. “Lost Innocent World” smashes up polka and surf-rock guitar, with a shouted chorus over flailing, unstoppable drums and congas.

This still sounds like Gogol Bordello, but there’s something welcoming about it, where an album like Super Taranta just sounds daunting. Every song here is hummable – “Dig Deep Enough” may be the greatest singalong they’ve written, and “I Just Realized” is actually pretty – and every song seems designed to make new fans. This isn’t quite the manic, go-for-broke Gogol Bordello you’ll see on stage, but somehow reining in Hutz and his comrades has resulted in one of the band’s very best records. There’s no other band like them, and if you’re looking for an introduction, Pura Vida Conspiracy is it.

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Lately, everyone’s been going nuts over Robin Thicke. (Want to jumpstart your career? Just add boobs.) But if I’m looking for sexy, sarcastic white-boy soul, I turn to Mayer Hawthorne instead.

While I’m pretty sure Thicke is kind of an asshole, Hawthorne is always winking at you, no matter how well-written and sophisticated his music gets. His third album is called Where Does This Door Go, and the cover is literal – Hawthorne sits in a chair by an open door, owl on his shoulder, pondering the title question. It’s hilarious, and though the album it adorns is Hawthorne’s most serious and meticulous, that sense of playful, ironic fun suffuses all of it. Hawthorne’s style is soul-pop, reminiscent of Hall and Oates and Steely Dan, and what may have started as a joke now feels like a genuine slice of musical awesomeness.

Opener “Back Seat Lover” is middling, but once the skipping “The Innocent” kicks in, the album never flags. Hawthorne gives up his producer credit here, ceding the chair to the likes of Pharrell Williams and Greg Wells (who worked on Adele’s 21). He’s added a fine helping of electro-pop and hip-hop to his neo-soul sound, so much so that a guest verse by Kendrick Lamar on “Crime” doesn’t feel out of place. There’s a nerdy fussiness to a lot of this, but the fun-as-hell vibe prevails – just listen to the piano-bar-meets-dance-club “The Only One,” with its marvelous brass hits and soaring harmonies. It’s swell.

The hooks keep on coming on this record – it’s one three-minute wonder after another, ‘70s-style hits dressed up in modern clothes. The title track is a mini-epic, bringing Nillsson’s “One” to mind, with bold strings and big chords, while “Robot Love” is just as clanging and funny as you’d expect. Hawthorne only slows it down once, at the very end – closer “All Better” drifts in on delicate electric piano, a plaintive plea that builds to monumental soft-rock proportions. He’s not serious – no one would seriously use that drum pattern – and yet, he’s very serious. It’s a difficult tightrope to walk, but Mayer Hawthorne manages it throughout this record, never losing his balance.

Most importantly, though, Where Does This Door Go is a lot of fun. And that’s really all it needs to be. I’m not sure if Mayer Hawthorne has a well-thought-out musical mission statement, or if he’s just having a good time. Either way, his record’s a blast. From the past, and otherwise.

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Next week, the Civil Wars and Over the Rhine. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I love watching artists evolve.

As a music fan, there is nothing more thrilling for me than encountering an artist with a vast catalog, and listening through. I enjoy tracing artistic growth, listening for quantum leaps forward, contrasting the journey with the destination. A life lived in song, and captured on disc for all eternity, is a simply marvelous thing. If you’re not reading my Frank Zappa Buyer’s Guide over on my blog, well, that’s my attempt to trace the life of a genius through the music he released over nearly 30 years (and more if you count the posthumous records). Shameless plug, but check it out.

I also love growing up with a long-running artist, and experiencing that vast catalog piece by piece, as it comes out. Tracking the growth of Ben Folds, for example, has been a treat, each album arriving at seemingly pivotal points in my life. I can actually follow the tracks of my own years through his, and that’s sort of amazing. A band like Dream Theater means less to me, but I know where I was when each of their 11 (soon to be 12) albums came out. It’s remarkable to think that Images and Words hit when I was a freshman in college. So long ago…

The thing is, you never know which of the bands you’re listening to now will go on to have that kind of decades-long career. It’s always a crapshoot. For instance, I never would have guessed back in 1988 that I would still be following the unfolding saga of Queensryche, deep into my 30s. I was 14 years old when Operation: Mindcrime blew me back against the wall – it was the first rock opera I’d ever heard, and it stood miles above the glammy hair metal it shared the airwaves with. Queensryche were dubbed “thinking man’s metal,” and I wanted to be a thinking man, so I fell in love with them.

It wasn’t difficult, honestly. They were among the very best bands of the 1980s, and when they hit it big with “Eyes of a Stranger” (and then bigger with “Empire,” “Jet City Woman” and the indelible “Silent Lucidity”), it was like some strange form of justice being done. Here was a loud, inventive, politically savvy band hitting the top of the charts with a song about lucid dreaming. They had their moment without compromising a thing. I was too young to know how rare that is, but I know it now.

In retrospect, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that Queensryche soldiered on through the ‘90s, the 2000s and beyond. They adapted to changing tastes without sacrificing who they were, they created albums like Tribe and American Soldier that carried on their legacy without sullying it, and they even made a sequel to Operation: Mindcrime that wasn’t an all-out embarrassment. Founding guitarist Chris DeGarmo is long gone, but the other four original guys – distinctive singer Geoff Tate, bassist Eddie Jackson, guitarist Michael Wilton and drummer Scott Rockenfield – have stayed the course.

That is, until April of last year, when Tate was fired for reasons unknown. The fallout was brutal and public, with Tate suing for wrongful termination and claiming ownership of the Queensryche name. The three founders hired former Crimson Glory singer Todd La Torre and kept going, while Tate formed his own version of Queensryche with some hair-metal survivors, including brothers Rudy (Quiet Riot) and Randy (Hurricane) Sarzo.

Whew. Got all that? Because it gets even more complicated and sad. A judge is scheduled to rule in November on which band gets the rights to the name Queensryche. Until then, though – and this is a really odd quirk of the legal system – they both get to use it. So we now have new albums from two bands calling themselves Queensryche, one led by the band’s longtime singer, the other by another three of its founding members. And the competition has been ugly. It’s been like watching a family break up.

Here’s what’s interesting, though. Sad as it is to watch a band with such a rich and lengthy history splinter in this way, the fans are winning. The little secret that both versions of Queensryche don’t want you to know is that you don’t have to pick just one. If you’re a fan of this group’s brand of intelligent, thoughtful metal, you now have two bands plying the same trade. Better yet, they’re both trying to outdo the other, so the music they’re making is lean and hungry and vital. I was truly surprised by how much I liked both of these new Queensryche records.

We’ll start with Frequency Unknown, the Geoff Tate band’s effort. Yeah, the cover is juvenile – a fist wearing F and U rings – but the album is pure Queensryche. Tate’s been the driving force of the band for some time, so it’s no surprise that his album sounds the most like modern ‘Ryche. But his tendency to skimp on the melodies is completely absent here. These 10 songs are all sharp and memorable, the riffs interesting. Tate’s voice has sounded strained in recent years, but even given his age-related limitations, he sounds good here. There’s really no mistaking that voice.

Frequency Unknown could have been just another Geoff Tate solo record, but he stepped up his game, as if he knew just how much more closely he’d be scrutinized here. The album has several melodic rockers, like the opening punch of “Cold” and “Dare,” but also its share of miniature epics like “In the Hands of God” and the interesting closer “Weight of the World.” Only “Everything” falls short, its keyboard-heavy structure slipping into power ballad territory.

Scanning the credits, Frequency Unknown starts to feel more like a studio creation than the unveiling of a true band. Tate hired axe-slingers Ty Tabor, KK Downing, Chris Poland (of early Megadeth fame), Brad Gillis and others to provide solos, and three drummers trade off throughout the record. The bonus tracks – new versions of Queensryche’s biggest hits – complicate things even more, as Martin Irigoyen handles all the instruments. It’s truly a hodgepodge.

But it’s remarkable how consistent it is, how well it hangs together as a Queensryche album. I haven’t been the biggest fan of Tate’s solo records, but this is in another category. This feels like the band I love, kicking it up a notch. If it’s the Queensryche name that brought this out of Geoff Tate, then let him keep using it, by all means.

But not if that means that the other founding members can’t also use it. Their first album with La Torre is self-titled, and it also feels like a rebirth. La Torre sounds an awful lot like Tate, but like the youthful, Operation: Mindcrime Tate. His range is remarkable, and the band sounds energized behind him. The result sounds very much like Queensryche, but a Queensryche that never took many of the stylistic detours after Empire. It’s sharp, guitar-heavy, dense melodic metal. Some of it reminds me of Fates Warning, particularly songs like “Spore.”

Most of it, though, just reminds me of Queensryche. The guitar harmonies are everywhere, Rockenfield’s drumming is powerful throughout, and the songs are soaring and strong. “Redemption” is a powerhouse, its thudding riff giving way to a break-through-the-clouds chorus, La Torre singing it exactly the way Tate would have. (My one criticism of La Torre is he doesn’t establish his own identity enough here, but his voice is so awesome that it hardly matters that he sings like his predecessor.) “Vindication” is a stunner, Rockenfield’s drums propelling things forward as Wilton and second guitarist Parker Lundgren dance around each other, heading into another great chorus.

My only complaint about Queensryche is that, at 35 minutes, it’s too short. All things considered, that’s a fine problem to have. Mid-tempo pieces like the crib-death tale “A World Without” dot the second half, and these songs are just as massive and epic as the Queensryche of old. Closer “Open Road” is a worthy little epic. I want another six songs like these. But I’ll take what I can get. The Todd La Torre version of Queensryche has also made a tremendous impact the first time out of the gate.

If there’s a difference between these two records, it’s that Tate’s group is reminiscent of more modern Queensryche, while La Torre’s hearkens back to the earlier records. You can see that in their choice of bonus tracks – both included old ‘Ryche songs remade, but while Tate focused on the hits, the La Torre band tackled songs from the first three pre-Mindcrime releases. (La Torre can really sing these tunes.) It’s a difference in attitude, but the difference in quality between these two records isn’t as vast.

I’m definitely interested to see which way the judge leans later this year. But for now, I feel like we’re getting the best of both worlds. We have three original members of Queensryche making remarkable music with a strong new singer, and we have the original singer stepping up his game with a new group of luminaries. If these two bands want to keep putting out alternating Queensryche records for the next 20 years, I’d be all right with that.

Next week, a random smattering, including Gogol Bordello, Ours and Mayer Hawthorne. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I was 27 years old the last time Daniel Amos released an album.

I was living in Tennessee at the time, and still new to buying records over the Internet. I was also a fairly new fan of the band – in fact, the extraordinary 2001 double album Mr. Buechner’s Dream was the first new Daniel Amos album I’d bought. A few years before, I’d discovered the genius of Terry Taylor and his many musical identities. The following year, I would attend my first ever Cornerstone Festival, and see Daniel Amos live for the first time.

I think Taylor might be a little upset if I call it a religious experience, but it was pretty close. I said this then, and I still believe it: I can’t figure out why Terry Taylor isn’t constantly listed among America’s very best songwriters. How someone with this much talent, imagination and love of the art has toiled in obscurity for his entire life is simply beyond me. Between Daniel Amos, the Lost Dogs, the Swirling Eddies and Taylor’s solo work, the man’s written more great songs than just about anyone you could name. He’s in the same league as Elvis Costello and Ryan Adams.

I use those particular comparisons not just because Taylor has a vast catalog of fantastic songs, but because, like Costello and Adams, he’s a musical chameleon. No two Daniel Amos albums have ever sounded the same, from the country rock of Shotgun Angel to the angular new wave of Doppelganger to the baroque pop of Motorcycle to the full-on classic rock band explosion of Mr. Buechner’s Dream. And that’s just Taylor’s main band. He’s explored every facet of Americana with the Lost Dogs, gotten funky with the Swirling Eddies and released folk records, synth-pop albums and soundtracks for video games on his own.

And still, with all that behind him, he had to turn to Kickstarter to fund a new Daniel Amos record. I say that as if it’s a bad thing, but only because I think record companies should be lining up to give Taylor money. In truth, Kickstarter is the perfect tool for a band like Daniel Amos, with a small-ish following of extremely dedicated fans. I count myself among them, and I gladly supported the campaign. The band asked for $12,000 and raised $32,276, a budget that gave them the luxury of really digging into the recording, and making something special.

And here it is. The first Daniel Amos album in 12 years is called Dig Here, Said the Angel, and it’s a sonically rich collection of first-rate tunes. Like all DA albums, it sounds like nothing else the band has done. It’s a mixture of the orchestral leanings of Motorcycle with the raw mid-tempo rock of Kalhoun, but it has a character all its own. Most importantly, despite the long gap and the advancing age of the members – Taylor is 63, the other guys slightly younger – the album is vital, powerful and important. Daniel Amos never sounds like a band pulled out of retirement. They sound like a band on a mission.

The statement for that mission is at track two. “Jesus Wept” is a rollicking number that encapsulates Taylor’s major theme this time out – facing mortality with a wry grin. “I found my masterpiece in a discount bin, I pound against the wall of my aging skin,” Taylor sings over one of the band’s most danceable grooves. Bassist Tim Chandler, easily one of my favorite players, dives and swoops all over this thing, grounded by drummer Ed McTaggart’s thunderous beat and guitarist Greg Flesch’s straight-ahead chords. “Another bad guy wins, more good guys die, they mounted up like eagles, now they’re dropping like flies, I cry ‘let me out,’ you’re saying ‘no, not yet,’ before he danced, Jesus wept…”

The title track is a genuine epic, the cry of a faithful man. “I’m dyin’, I’m dyin’,” Taylor screams over a crawling backdrop of snarling bass and backwards guitar. He talks with an angel about death, and about walking up to the big door and walking right in, but then the rug is pulled out: “‘Here’s the catch,’ said the angel, ‘you’re gonna suffer for a while, I’ll tell you straight,’ said the angel, ‘don’t plan to go out in style…” It’s a simply fantastic song about the longing of mortal life.

“We’ll All Know Soon Enough” is a standout, a slow crawl full of glorious doubt. “There may be no heaven, there may be no hell, there may be no place to go, but we’ll all know soon enough,” Taylor sings as Flesch’s thick guitar lifts things into the stratosphere. I’m particularly fond of this verse: “We were hoping for a few quick fixes, but we found ourselves still down in the hole, now we’re thinking that our prayers aren’t answered ‘cause when it came, the answer was ‘no.’” Daniel Amos has always been the antidote to the notion that faithful life is easy, and never more than here. The song’s an absolute masterpiece.

It’s followed quickly by the jarring “Waking Up Under Water.” Co-written and sung by original DA guitarist Jerry Chamberlain, the song details a series of splendid dreams, and the horror of waking from them. “A cruel sea is leaking in, this fragile boat I’m sinking in, I need to dream again…” The guitar riff is fantastic and loud, the chorus frightening, the entire song menacing in a way Daniel Amos rarely is.

But it’s not the most aggressive thing here. That crown belongs to “Now That I’ve Died,” on which Taylor crosses over to the great beyond, and loves it. Up there, he says, he never has to ask what’s truth and what’s a lie, and the rich serve the poor and the poor are the rich. (“It’s kind of hard to describe.”) He nearly throws out his voice screaming the refrain: “I’ve never been more alive now that I’ve died!” (Perhaps the most telling line: “I sell records worldwide, now that I’ve died…”)

Yes, death is on Taylor’s mind. But first, you have to get through life, and that’s never easy. “The Uses of Adversity” is a sweet piece about accepting the struggle: “Don’t send me certainty if somehow it’s best for me to doubt,” he sings. He works at finding “grace disguised as adversity,” and yearns to hear God’s voice above “The Ruthless Hum of Dread,” a truly experimental piece that sways forward on a rolling bass figure, before evaporating into piano and vocal.

This all sounds pretty grim, but it’s not – the songs are catchy and enjoyable throughout. And there are strong shafts of light. In “Love, Grace and Mercy,” Taylor rejoices in forgiveness: “Love, grace and mercy, now if you’ll just say the word, I will get exactly what I don’t deserve.” In “Our New Testament Best,” he embraces that forgiveness as a lifestyle, rejecting the judgment and violence of old. And in the radiant closer, “The Sun Shines on Everyone,” he extends that grace to the entire planet: “Love comes to everyone, saints and sinners everyone, it’s nothing new under the sun…” Yeah, there’s a choir at the end, and yeah, it slips into power ballad territory, but after an album of whistling past the graveyard, it’s a welcome burst of hope and joy, and a fine way to go out.

It’s hard to say whether Dig Here, Said the Angel is better or worse than anything the band has done. It’s phenomenally different, and yet still Daniel Amos at its core. The richness of sound is extraordinary, proving that they did pump that Kickstarter money into the album, and the songs are among their best, capturing Taylor at a crossroads. He knows that every album he makes these days could be his last, and we fans know it too. Just having a new Daniel Amos album is a miracle. Having one this good, this important, is even better. I dearly hope it’s not the last, but if it is, Dig Here, Said the Angel makes for a fine capper to a brilliant, brilliant career.

Buy it here.

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Also returning after a fairly long absence is Seattle’s Robert Deeble.

I discovered Deeble only a couple short weeks ago, at the first AudioFeed Festival, and I feel silly for not finding his work before. Deeble has been making records since 1997, playing in an ambient folk-pop style that often reminds me of Bruce Cockburn. I saw him playing acoustic guitar with Choir drummer Steve Hindalong backing him up, and the set was mesmerizing. Deeble played only the notes needed to keep the song moving forward, and no more, letting the spaces around those notes do the heavy lifting.

That style carries over to his albums. I bought Deeble’s entire discography at AudioFeed, and haven’t regretted it for a second. He’s made some good ones, most notably 1998’s Earthside Down and 2003’s diverse Thirteen Stories (which contains one of my favorites, “The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson”). But for my money, he hasn’t made one as compelling, as powerful, as enjoyable as his latest, Heart Like Feathers.

Released last year after a nine-year gap, Heart Like Feathers is a full-on headphone record. The depth of sound here is astonishing – Deeble is still leaving wide open spaces around his notes, but this time there are beautiful strings and atmospheric guitar noises gently nudging those spaces like clouds. It’s a gorgeous sounding thing, and the songs are equally beautiful, the most consistent set that Deeble has delivered.

Just take the opener, “Hearing Voices Seeing Ghosts.” It opens with a lengthy ambient instrumental section, but when it kicks in, it builds convincingly to that heart-stopper of a chorus. “And she goes out through the window like a crow, flying clipped-winged and haunted,” Deeble sings as the violins augment the lovely guitar work. (Deeble’s voice is high and wavery – it’s effective, especially when paired with other singers, but it’s his weakest attribute.) The song sets the tone for the album – slow, floaty, beautiful.

Deeble gets deeper on “Eucharist,” a song of separation, both from a lover and from God. “A lover’s quarrel all in duress, I fold my arms for Eucharist, we fell in love, we got enmeshed, bless me father, I’m a mess,” Deeble sings, repeating the sad refrain “We get so close we get estranged.” At times on this song, there’s barely any music playing – the ringing guitar tones brush up against the minimal bass lines, leaving swaths of empty canvas. It works beautifully.

There are other highlights – the piano ballad “Undertow,” the dark and lovely “The Colors of Dying,” the memorable “Exhale” – but the entire record is of a piece. It sounds like the full flowering of Deeble’s particular style, like the album he’s been aiming for since he started this journey. I would never discourage you from buying his other works, or even springing for his complete box set. But if you can only hear one, hear this one. Heart Like Feathers is an absolute treat, one that keeps revealing new layers the more you listen. And you’re going to want to keep listening.

Buy it here.

* * * * *

Next week, a tale of two Queensryches. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

The AudioFeed Festival is not Cornerstone.

This is an important thing to remember. Although AudioFeed has risen from the ashes of Cornerstone, which ended its epic 29-year run in 2012, it’s not the same thing. I was a devotee of the brilliant spiritual pop festival that called Bushnell home for nearly three decades. It was just about the only place to see some of my favorite bands, including Daniel Amos, the 77s and the Choir, and the atmosphere of the place was always welcoming and wonderful.

But man, there were so many times last weekend when AudioFeed felt like Cornerstone. This new festival was rushed together in three months, but you wouldn’t have known it. In fact, in some ways – and I say this while looking out for the lightning bolt – AudioFeed is an upgrade. It’s like the organizers took my Cornerstone experience, isolated it from everything I didn’t like about the festival, and made it more convenient by a factor of 10. Your mileage may definitely vary, but I had a terrific time at AudioFeed, and I think it’s a fine successor.

I wasn’t really expecting much. The lineup included only a few bands I wanted to see, over two days instead of five, and at the Champaign County Fairgrounds, a small-ish outdoor venue. And a week or so before the fest, one of the artists I was excited to see, Bill Mallonee, pulled out. But my friend Jeff Elbel was playing (four times!), and going to festivals with Jeff is a summer tradition. So I paid my money and I took my chance.

So, let me count the ways I enjoyed AudioFeed more than Cornerstone:

It’s closer. About an hour closer, in fact, and the drive is a delightfully easy one.

There’s no dust. The Champaign fairgrounds are nicely maintained, a step up from the dirt-filled Cornerstone Farm.

There were three stages – the main (Arkansas) stage, the metal stage and the acoustic stage – and they were all right next to each other. Minimal amounts of walking.

The main stage was inside and air conditioned.

The main stage booked bands I wanted to see. Cornerstone’s main stage often included mindless cheerleaders like TobyMac and Skillet. AudioFeed’s headliners were Denison Witmer and The Soil and the Sun. That was pretty much the tone.

My hotel was about two minutes from the festival, instead of 20.

I understand this list makes me sound old, like I shouldn’t be attending days-long music festivals. And maybe that’s not far off. I can’t do Lollapalooza or Pitchfork Fest – they’re just exhausting. But I’ll say that the audience for AudioFeed was probably 75 percent young kids. And they seemed to like the more convenient festival just fine. For me, AudioFeed was all of the music I loved with none of the discomfort. I’ll take that equation.

And the music! Once again, I got to see some of my favorite unknown spiritual pop bands on a big stage. Highlights for me included Michael Roe, who tore the roof off with a snarling, bluesy set, backed up by Steve Hindalong and Tim Chandler from the Choir. They played fiery versions of some of Roe’s most rocking songs, including “Tattoo” and “Perfect Blues,” and threw in a cover of “Back Door Man.” (The sign language interpreter blanched at some of those lyrics.) Roe was the perfect lead-in to bearded bluesmen Sean Michel and Glenn Kaiser on Friday night, and both delivered fine, smoking sets.

My roommate Jeff Elbel killed it on the main stage on Friday with his expansive band, Ping. They played a high-energy set spanning Jeff’s whole career, from his old band Farewell to Juliet to his new album Gallery. As I mentioned, Jeff played four sets, including two with semi-retired goth-rocker Brian Healy, as part of an all-star Dead Artist Syndrome band. The acoustic set on Friday night was a bit of an unrehearsed disaster, but Saturday’s main stage show came off well. The band included Steve, Tim and Derri Daugherty of the Choir and Gym Nicholson, of legendary (at least in these circles) band Undercover.

But by far my favorite Elbel moment came early on Friday, as he and members of Ping backed up Harry Gore at the acoustic tent. If you’ve been to Cornerstone, you know Harry Gore. He usually sets up anywhere he can, with his electric guitar and a portable amp, and plays requests. Cornerstone just wouldn’t be Cornerstone without Harry Gore, and giving him his own set at AudioFeed started this thing off just right.

And man, Harry’s set was awesome. Half originals, half covers, all blistering rock – he somehow missed the definition of “acoustic stage,” ripping into extended, fantastic electric solos at every opportunity. The big wide grin on his face was worth the whole weekend. So much fun.

Of course, the Choir played on Saturday night. They remain my favorite band, and every time I get to see them in a festival setting, it’s an indescribable treat. Derri’s voice is still sweet as a bird’s, and his guitar an uncaged animal devouring the room. The Choir live is barely controlled chaos, even as they play some of the prettiest songs you’ve ever heard. They did just about everything I wanted to hear, and threw in a few surprises – an acoustic take of “All Night Long,” from their first EP, and a fairly decent new song. It was one of the best shows I’ve seen the Choir play, and I feel lucky, as always, to have experienced it.

I’m also grateful to have seen Hushpad, and watched their evolution into a top-class band. I discovered them last year at Cornerstone, and thoroughly enjoyed their shimmering shoegaze pop. This year, they blossomed – a six-piece band took the main stage on Saturday night and mesmerized the audience with glorious, reverb-drenched bliss reminiscent of the Cocteau Twins and Kitchens of Distinction. Leader Matthew Welchel swears his band is making an album this year, and I’ll be watching for it – the hour it’s available, I will buy it. Hushpad is one of the best bands I’ve discovered in years.

I made several other new musical friends at AudioFeed. There was Noah James, he of the big voice and the wry stage presence. James has just released an EP of reworked hymns, and it’s pretty great. Ravenhill tore up the main stage on Friday – imagine if Black Sabbath had grown up as Southern Baptists, and you’ll get the idea. Lauryn Peacock played a couple sets of unadorned piano-pop, which didn’t prepare me for the full production on her album Keep It Simple… Let the Sun Come Out. It’s nice stuff.

Probably my favorite discovery, though, was Robert Deeble. I’m almost embarrassed to admit I’d never heard him before – Deeble’s been around since the mid-‘90s, creating atmospheric acoustic music unlike almost anything I’ve heard. He reminds me of Bruce Cockburn at times, but his music is more spare, more airy. Deeble played some tunes at the acoustic tent, but really impressed with his main stage set, accompanied by Steve Hindalong on drums. I bought his complete discography, including his latest, the accomplished and lovely Heart Like Feathers. A full review is coming soon. It’s simply excellent.

Who else? So many others. I got to see Cody Nicolas of the La De Les playing solo, dazzling the audience with his complex guitar technique. I caught most of a crazed rapper who calls himself Spoken Nerd. (“This song is called ‘I Wish Those Jerks Had Never Killed John F. Kennedy,’” he announced, before actually playing a song with that title.) I saw a bizarre Portland act called Insomniac Folklore, a duo going by the name Mayhew the Traitor, and a lovely singer-songwriter named Molly Parden. I also caught a terrific set by harpist Timbre, who is currently working on a double album called Sun and Moon that is among my most anticipated new releases.

And I even ducked into the metal tent a few times. I saw Hope for the Dying again, and they’re still the best new metal band I’ve heard in some time. I caught some of A Hill to Die Upon, and saw most of Grave Robber’s show – this is a band heavily inspired by the Misfits, wearing Halloween masks and spraying the audience with red liquid. They were a lot of fun.

And so was AudioFeed as a whole. The organizers have already doubled down for next year, and I’m ready to go again. Copious thanks to Jeff Elbel for once again being my festival buddy and my excuse to talk to semi-famous people. (Thanks to Jeff, I also got to meet legendary producer Mark Rubel, tour his amazing studio in Champaign, and then eat the most hideous, delicious breakfast concoction on earth with him at 3 a.m.)

AudioFeed is not Cornerstone, no doubt. But it’s a fine answer to the question of what’s next. I hope it survives for years to come.

Next week, some of that spiritual pop, with Daniel Amos and Robert Deeble. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Sometimes the best stuff comes out of nowhere and smacks you in the face.

I’m a fairly meticulous planner. I have a calendar set aside just for new release dates, and I obsessively check information and update it. I know, to the full extent of available information, what’s coming out when until the end of the year, and in some cases beyond. But of course, I only include albums that excite me for one reason or another, so my calendar is mainly full of artists I already know and love. (See the end of this week’s column for a little glimpse.)

But it never works like that, thankfully. My year is never a succession of albums I already expect to be great. There’s some of that, certainly, but every time, I find myself blown away by the surprises more often than the predicted winners. Last year’s top five contained records by Husky, the Punch Brothers and Lost in the Trees, none of whom I’d heard of on January 1, 2012. So while I am certainly looking forward to new records this year from Nine Inch Nails, Moby, Elvis Costello (with the Roots!) and Travis, I’m equally looking forward to whatever unknown pleasures the rest of 2013 has in store for me.

Oh look, here’s one. I owe my friend Kevin Munday for turning me on to English soul-pop wonder Laura Mvula. Her debut album is called Sing to the Moon, and it’s one of those rare yet amazing works that seem to have emerged fully formed. There’s no early fumbling on this album, no hesitation or confusion. Mvula has immediately put her wholly original stamp on a strain of soulful pop that stretches back to the likes of Nina Simone, but in her hands sounds completely modern. It’s a lush and glorious record, and as you may have noticed in last week’s column, it’s already claimed a place among the best of the year.

Mvula is a graduate of the Birmingham Conservatoire, a prestigious institution that usually sees its students go into jazz or classical fields. Despite its pop milieu, you can hear that caliber of composition all over Sing to the Moon. This is patient, complicated stuff, but deceptively so – it never feels studied or fussy. There’s a beautiful soulfulness to the entire album, its flowing melodies built up by horns and strings and the occasional electronic flourish. The music certainly sounds like a labor of love, even before you realize that Mvula played most of the instruments and sang nearly all the vocals herself.

That last bit may not seem impressive if you haven’t heard Sing to the Moon. Within seconds of pressing play, though, you’ll get it – the first track, “Like the Morning Dew,” opens with a veritable choir of Mvulas, in delirious, honey-dripped harmony. Later tracks, like the kinetic “Green Garden,” have tight yet expansive vocal arrangements, all sung by Mvula. Her voice is a definite draw, thick yet supple, full of emotion. Just listen to the way she glides over every syllable of the delightful “Can’t Live With the World.” She’s a great singer, obviously drawing from the Simone school – she never overemphasizes or overemotes, she simply sings, to perfect effect.

Much of Sing to the Moon is slow and languid, and while she certainly does a tremendous job with songs like “Is There Anybody Out There,” it’s the more aggressive ones that truly show off what Mvula can do. The aforementioned “Green Garden” is a highlight, Mvula playing a circular xylophone figure and riffing on it. The standout, though, is “It’s Alright,” a spiritual cousin to Tracy Chapman’s “Born to Fight.” Over an absolutely explosive drumbeat, Mvula lashes out at those who would drag her down: “I will never be what you want and that’s alright, ‘cause my skin ain’t light, and my body ain’t tight, and that’s alright.” On the refrain (“Who made you the center of the universe?”), the chorale of Mvulas is joined by a joyous horn section. It’s awesome.

I do wish the album contained more of this energy, but it’s hard to complain when Mvula is breaking my heart on the delicate “Father, Father” (a clearly personal plea), or stirring my soul with the soaring title track. Sing to the Moon is a calling card announcing a major talent, and discovering it has been a joy. It’s an immediate album that reveals further layers upon repeat listens, like meeting someone special who just grows more interesting the more familiar you get. It’s the best kind of surprise.

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Our other English Laura this week didn’t come out of nowhere, but the sheer quality of her new album is something of a shock nonetheless.

Laura Marling was all of 18 when she recorded her debut solo album, Alas I Cannot Swim, following a brief stint in Noah and the Whale. She’s only 23 now, and on her fourth record, but the meteoric rise of her talent has been something to behold. That fourth album is called Once I Was an Eagle, and it’s sprawling and scathing and far beyond anything she’s done. The word “maturity” is almost a dirty one, conjuring up images of bland corporate pop. But in this case, it simply means what it says – this is an almost frighteningly mature album for such a young songwriter, one that would make artists twice her age feel envious.

Once I Was an Eagle spans 16 songs in 63 minutes, the first four of which blend together into a seamless 15-minute suite. It’s about longing and loss and leaving, about being brave and, finally, about being open to doing it all again. It winds like a snake around its melodies, confident that you will follow it wherever it leads. Marling performed the entire album live in the studio on guitar and voice first, and then she and producer Ethan Johns added other instruments later. The result is a loose and raw attitude that still feels lush – there are strings and pianos and entire drum circles of percussion here, all supporting Marling’s playing and singing at the center.

Had this just been an EP containing the first four tracks, it still would have been remarkable. The opening suite details a difficult yet necessary breakup – in the title track, Marling exclaims, “I will not be a victim of chance or circumstance or romance or any man who could get his dirty little hands on me,” and by the end of “Breathe,” she’s bid it all goodbye: “When you wake you’ll know I’m gone, so don’t follow me.” There are a dozen little melodic tangents here, but Marling confidently leads you down each one with her sharp guitar playing.

There are indeed 12 more songs after this, and they’re all just as good. The explosive “Master Hunter,” with its thunderous percussion, gives way to the spare “Little Love Caster,” which sets a marvelously melancholy mood. It’s two and a half minutes before the cello comes in, and before that, it’s just Marling, leaving so much beautiful silence around her notes. The album is of a piece, feeling like a continuous thought, until the instrumental interlude at track eight. After this, the record takes on a more joyous tone, like taking flight after a long climb up out of a hole.

But that’s not to say that things go twee. Marling’s joy is hard-fought – the down-home “Undine” finds her asking a specter to “make me more naïve,” and on “Once,” she laments that “once is enough to make you think twice about laying your love out on the line.” The protagonist of the Joni Mitchell-esque “Where Can I Go” sighs that “it’s a curse of mine to be sad at night,” and the main character of “Pray for Me” feels haunted by the devil. These songs, however, have a lighter touch than the opening salvo, their eyes on salvation.

And by the time she gets to the end, Marling is ready to love and be loved again. “Here comes a change over me,” she sings in “Love Be Brave.” “I am brave and love is sweet, and silence speaks for him and me.” Closing hymn “Saved These Words” is one of Marling’s most beautiful tunes, a realistic yet lovely song about waiting for someone, patiently and with kindness. “Should you choose to love anyone anytime soon, then I save these words for you,” she sings, with a voice that would open the hardest heart. Love is hardscrabble and difficult work, but when it’s right, it’s sublime.

Once I Was an Eagle is a remarkably assured album, and it’s difficult to believe its author isn’t even 25 yet. Marling never doubts her own vision, or her own ability to realize that vision, and listening to this album, neither will you. It’s a little too sprawling, but that’s the worst that can be said about it. It’s been clear for a while that Marling is a singular talent, but this album brings that talent into sharper, more beautiful focus. This is Marling at 23. Imagine what she’s going to be capable of in 10 years. I’m grinning just thinking about it.

* * * * *

So all of a sudden, September has turned into a treasure trove of new music. July and August remain somewhat barren, but once we get to that ninth month, we’re in for some greatness.

On September 3 alone, we get the new one from Neko Case, with the amazing title The Worse Things Get, the Harder I Fight, the Harder I Fight, the More I Love You; the new Nine Inch Nails, called Hesitation Marks; the new Okkervil River, entitled The Silver Gymnasium; and the second album from Justin Vernon’s side project Volcano Choir, called Repave. (There’s also the we-promise-this-time final album from Ministry, From Beer to Eternity, but I’m sure that’s going to suck.)

September 10 is Janelle Monae day – her second full-length, The Electric Lady, hits, hot on the heels of her great single “Dance Apocalyptic.” We’ll also get a new Arctic Monkeys and a new Clash box set. The 17th brings us Wise Up Ghost, that collaboration between Elvis Costello and the Roots, as well as New Constellation, the first new Toad the Wet Sprocket album in 16 years, and the self-titled album from MGMT. And then on September 24 we get the self-titled 12th album from Dream Theater and The Last Ship, a 20-song collection from Sting. (I do hope that will be good.)

I’m sure more announcements are on the way, but that’s a damn good month of new music. October, you have your work cut out for you.

Next time, a tale of two Queensryches, and thoughts from the first AudioFeed Festival. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So, what did you do this week?

Oh, me? I just hung out with a $30 million, 50-foot-wide electromagnet and watched as trained professionals moved it down a major Long Island street, loaded it onto a barge and sent it out to sea. No big deal.

The magnet is the centerpiece of one of our experiments at Fermilab, and since it would cost that $30 million to build another one, we’re shipping this one, which was built at Brookhaven National Laboratory in the 1990s. We’re sending it on a 3,200-mile land and sea journey that will cost 10 times less. It will also look amazing as it rolls through the streets of Illinois in late July.

If you’re interested in following the ring’s journey, you can do so here. And if you want to see what it looks like, check out the videos here. Yes, I saw this in person. No, it’s not a spaceship. Yes, my job is pretty cool.

* * * * *

So here’s something interesting for you to ponder: Hanson is an indie band.

It’s been 16 years since their out-of-nowhere cuddly-pop hit “Mmm-Bop.” It’s been 13 years since their last major-label album, This Time Around. And the Hanson brothers, God bless them, just keep on doing what they do. They own their own label, 3 Car Garage, and they produce their own records. They handle their own touring and marketing, steering every ship in their fleet. They’ve just released their eighth record, Anthem, and it’s another step in a musical evolution not beholden to hits or trends. Hanson just does what they do.

For a while now, they’ve done it under the radar, slowly evolving into a pretty slick pop combo. Their last album, 2010’s Shout It Out, was their best, incorporating elements of Motown and Stax-Volt soul while keeping the focus on Taylor Hanson’s top-notch voice and piano. Shout It Out brought the band some much-deserved attention, and for many, it was their first indication in years that the Hanson brothers were still playing together. While fans saw it as a gradual evolution, latecomers were stunned by the huge leap in quality.

Anthem doesn’t quite push them forward as far, but for the most part it’s still a nice leap from Shout It Out. The star of this album is Isaac Hanson’s guitar – this is by far the loudest, most rock-oriented Hanson album. In fact, the first four tracks represent the most ass-kicking opening shot of their career. “Fired Up” begins things with a ‘70s rock feel, a nimble time-jumping riff and a sweet solo from Isaac. “I’ve Got Soul” brings in the horns for a surprisingly complex riff and a catchy hook, “You Can’t Stop Us” feels like funky Lenny Kravitz, and single “Get the Girl Back” is just boatloads of old-school, horn-drenched soul.

If, by this point, you are not up and dancing, an idiot grin on your face, then Hanson may not be the band for you. Their brand of pop has nothing on its mind but fun, and if you’re looking for piercing lyrics, you need to look elsewhere. They drop Shakespeare references throughout the marvelous, Beatlesque “Juliet,” but they’re the obvious ones: “Through your window breaks the rising sun, by any other name you’d still be beautiful…” I can’t bring myself to care, though, because the song – all glorious harmonies and tricky piano melodies – is just great.

Anthem’s second half smoothes things out a bit too much. “Already Home” is pleasant enough, with a strong ascending chorus, but the limp “For Your Love” is the record’s first real stumble. From there, it’s a stretch of songs that don’t quite pack the punch of the early numbers. “Lost Without You” has that Diane Warren sheen (thankfully, she had nothing to do with it), while “Cut Right Through Me” tries to make the most of its simple riff, but finds it wanting. The band still sounds muscular, but the songs take a few steps back.

Hanson rights the ship with “Tragic Symphony,” one of their finest tracks. A quick-stepping guitar shuffle augmented by slippery strings, this song explodes into a chorus worthy of Michael Jackson in his heyday. This attitude is exactly what the previous four tracks were missing, and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds. This is what Hanson should be doing, not mediocre pop songs like “Lost Without You.” Final songs “Tonight” and “Save Me From Myself” put the spotlight back on Taylor’s piano and the horns. Anthem ends well, but it’s a shame about the sag in the middle.

For that reason, I can’t say this album is better than Shout It Out, even though it pushes Hanson in some interesting new directions. Isaac truly steps up here, handling many of the lead vocals and cranking up his amps, and the band is all the better for his contributions. Songs like “I’ve Got Soul” and “Tragic Symphony” point the way forward – soulful, explosive rock with super-catchy melodies. When they stick to what they do best, Hanson smacks down all their naysayers. When Anthem is on, as it is most of the time, it’s loud, catchy and fun. I hope the next one has a better batting average, but this one’s pretty damn good. If you’ve forgotten they exist, Anthem will be a pleasant surprise.

* * * * *

A few months ago, I saw Sigur Ros live for the first time. A few months from now, I will see them live again. I don’t know if it’s possible to repeat one of the best musical experiences of my life, but I’m gonna try.

For 16 years, this Icelandic collective has been pulling off a fascinating trick – they’ve constantly morphed and changed, but they have never sounded like anyone except themselves. Part of that is in their basic makeup. It’s hard to overstate how singular Jonsi Birgisson’s voice is, and the band’s calling card has always been lush, otherworldly arrangements, like movie soundtracks from another galaxy. But over their last three albums, they’ve embraced cheery pop, spare balladry and ambient expanses of sound, and through it all, they’ve remained identifiably Sigur Ros.

Their seventh full-length album, Kveikur, accomplishes the same feat, sending the band spiraling in a new, more intense direction while somehow retaining its core. That’s even more impressive when you realize that this is Sigur Ros’ first album as a trio – keyboardist Kjartan Sveinsson departed last year. They haven’t stripped down to accommodate their smaller size, though. If anything, they’ve bulked up – Kveikur is one of the loudest, most fascinatingly abrasive albums the band has made, on par with the second half of the parentheses album at times.

Leadoff track “Brennisteinn” throws down a gauntlet – it’s almost sludge-metal, plodding through a snowdrift universe with 50-ton boots. It’s one of the most bone-crushing experiences Sigur Ros has given us, and if the rest of the album can’t quite match up, it’s because the band chooses beauty more often than you’d expect. “Hrafntinna” soars on strings and horns, caressing the bed of jarring percussion and atonal shifting sand beneath it. “Isjaki” is practically a pop song, its chiming clean guitar lines leading into a chorus that could fit on the radio, were it not sung in Icelandic. And yet, there’s still something off, something alien about it – the almost dissonant strings, perhaps.

Kveikur is a remarkably concise 48 minutes, and even when you want it to sprawl, it doesn’t. “Yfirbord” utilizes the Kid A vocal effect, creating a foreboding landscape, but it’s over in 4:19. Even the six-minute title track, which sounds like Sigur Ros’ idea of a Black Sabbath song, doesn’t waste a moment, getting right to the memorable vocal melody and ushering us into that freefall of a chorus. It’s the opposite of their last record, the expansive Valtari, and yet it doesn’t feel truncated. Only the closer, “Var,” feels cut off before its time.

And there are moments of breathtaking wonder here, hiding among the murk. “Rafstramur” stands proudly next to anything on Takk, still the band’s most joyful work, and the grand “Blapradur” elevates its gentle guitar figure into a soaring, arms-raised masterwork. The band played this one live at the show I saw, and it was magnificent – thousands of people transported, riding the waves as they crested and broke. Sigur Ros is trying on new clothes here, working in new areas, but they still possess their very particular magic. The aggressive Kveikur is a departure in some ways, but a reaffirming in others. They’re evolving, but they’re still like no other band on earth.

* * * * *

So it’s time for the Second Quarter Report. This is what my top 10 list would look like if I were forced to release it now. It’s been a fairly depressing second quarter, not adding a whole lot to the first quarter list aside from a sparking new number one. Here’s what it looks like:

#10. Justin Timberlake, The 20/20 Experience.
#9. Little Green Cars, Absolute Zero.
#8. Vampire Weekend, Modern Vampires of the City.
#7. Sigur Ros, Kveikur.
#6. Laura Mvula, Sing to the Moon.
#5. My Bloody Valentine, m b v.
#4. The Joy Formidable, Wolf’s Law.
#3. Everything Everything, Arc.
#2. Frightened Rabbit, Pedestrian Verse.
#1. Daft Punk, Random Access Memories.

And with that, we’re halfway through the year. I hope the second half picks up steam. I’ll be using the next couple weeks to catch up on some things, including that amazing Laura Mvula album sitting at number six. I’m still absorbing the new Daniel Amos, which was emailed out to Kickstarter supporters last week, so that may end up with a slot. Janelle Monae’s new album sounds like it will be fantastic. Beyond that, who can tell?

Also this week, the great Texas enigma Jandek released his new album, The Song of Morgan. It’s a 9-CD box set of piano works, apparently. I doubt anything the man ever does will end up on my list, but I’m always fascinated by the directions he chooses to go. More on that in the coming weeks, most likely.

And I’m off to the new AudioFeed Festival next weekend, so perhaps some thoughts on that. So many options. You have to come back next week now and see which one I pick. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Facebook and Twitter to stay up to date.

See you in line Tuesday morning.