I almost didn’t buy Kanye West’s Yeezus.

It’s not because I’m not Mr. West’s biggest fan, although I’m not. I think he has a huge amount of raw talent as a producer, arranger and record-maker, but he’s never found a way to focus that skill. Virtually every critic I can think of hailed 2010’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy as a masterpiece, but I found it overly long, tedious and self-indulgent. (And those were its good qualities! Bam! Still got it.)

Besides, disliking a musician has never stopped me from buying their records before. I haven’t really enjoyed Tori Amos’ work for a long time, and I’m sure to buy the new Ministry album, laughably titled From Beer to Eternity, despite flat-out hating a lot of what Al Jourgensen has done for the past decade and a half. I like Kanye West as a sonic craftsman better than I like either Amos or Jourgensen these days, and what I’d heard of Yeezus before plunking down my cash was, at worst, fascinating.

And in fact, as I suspected, my problems with this album have nothing to do with the music. West has taken an extraordinary left turn here, darkening up his sound with industrial-tinged synths and abrasive… well, everything. This record keeps you tense, as if suspended over knives, waiting for the ropes to break. The helmeted geniuses in Daft Punk co-produced about half of it, Justin Vernon sings on it, and Rick Rubin helped West assemble it into a lean, 40-minute whole. It’s quite unlike anything West has done – there’s almost a diseased feel to some of it, and you never know where he’s going to go next. It’s riveting.

No, as usual, my issue with West is his persona, manifesting in his lyrics. I have no idea what the man is like in person, but as a public figure – and as a lyricist – he’s a self-obsessed, obnoxious, careless, misogynistic asshole. I realized, reading back over my previous reviews, that I haven’t called him out nearly enough for his thoughtless, objectifying words, sprayed out like graffiti over his impeccable music. West’s lyrics have always made me uncomfortable, and never more so than on Yeezus.

So why now? Why, after giving strong reviews to four albums in a row, ignoring the words and concentrating on the brilliant music, am I finally raising my voice? I think it’s been gradual. I’m definitely not the same person who called The Marshall Mathers LP the best album of 2000, and although I still contend that Eminem was perpetuating a grand-scale irresponsible satire, I don’t find it nearly as funny anymore. I’ve changed. At least, I hope I’ve changed, in 13 years.

Granted, most of what you’ll find on Yeezus isn’t any different from the content of most rap records. Why am I so concerned about West? Because he’s a genius, honestly. Most socially unconscious rap fails with me because its music is as poor as its lyrics. The same cannot be said of West’s work. On “Blood on the Leaves” alone, he stitches together an unsettling epic, allowing himself to duet with Nina Simone (her “Strange Fruit” is copiously sampled) in a startlingly effective way. His music is as innovative as his lyrics are depressingly average.

Now, I want to be clear. I have no issue with any of the words West uses. That’s not the point. It’s entirely possible to fill your album with the word fuck and still have a social conscience. But West has no concern about the effects of his words. The lyrics on Yeezus were reportedly completed in a couple of weeks, and belted out at the last minute, so we’re getting the unfiltered Kanye West here. And it’s an ugly picture. Right from the first song, “On Sight,” in which he presents this charming couplet: “Black dick all in your spouse again, and I know she like chocolate men, she got more niggas off than Cochran.” Then he shouts about not giving a fuck.

West’s view of women is on full display here. Every woman he mentions is either a bitch, or owns a sweet pussy. That’s it. Women are bitches with pussies. That’s the entirety of his breadth of understanding. The most romantic thing he writes here is in the soul-styled closer “Bound 2”: “I wanna fuck you hard on the sink, after that give you something to drink.” It turns out, though, that “something” isn’t what you expect: “Step back, can’t get spunk on the mink.” “Blood on the Leaves” is largely about how bitches get pregnant and ruin your life. (Hope you liked that one, Kim.) And the repugnant “I’m In It” includes this immortal line: “Eating Asian pussy, all I need is sweet and sour sauce.”

But the one that gave me the most pause this time is “New Slaves.” You’ve probably heard it by now – he performed it on Saturday Night Live, and released a video. It is, for all intents and purposes, the single from this album without a single. He spends a lot of time on this song talking about how rappers and athletes are the new slaves, and how he refuses to kowtow – “there’s leaders and there’s followers, but I’d rather be a dick than a swallower” – before getting to his criticism of the U.S. prison system: “See that privately owned prison, get your piece today, they prolly all in the Hamptons braggin’ ‘bout what they made…”

And then? And then he raps about raping the prison owner’s wife. “Fuck you and your Hampton house, I’ll fuck your Hampton spouse, came on her Hampton blouse and in her Hampton mouth.” It’s vile beyond belief. The worst part of it, to me, is that the victim here isn’t even the intended target. West treats raping someone’s wife like smashing the windows on someone’s car – a way to take revenge. It’s disgusting in its casualness.

Once that lyric hit, I had several conversations with some of my favorite women about it. Most said they would not be able to buy this record, no matter how good the music is. I’ve never come closer to feeling this way. I’ve always been able to find the good in music and hold onto it – I’ve lately been writing reviews of every Frank Zappa album, and his sheer musical genius helps me through his ugly, crude humor. Until now, West’s ability to completely rewrite the rules of hip-hop each time out has outshone the fact that he’s a sexist, irresponsible jackass. But Yeezus stopped me in my tracks.

I can’t really take the high road here, and condemn West for contributing to a culture of misogyny and rape, although he is. I did buy the album, in the end. I did so for two reasons, one not so good, and one hopefully better. First, I wanted it, because I am a collector and a historian, and this will likely one day be seen as an important album in West’s career. My picture of him as an artist wasn’t complete without this. That’s definitely not a good reason, and I know it.

But second, buying it allowed me to listen to it more closely, which allowed me to write this. And I hope just by laying bare the pervasive sexism and vileness here I’ve done some good. I know many would say that West is just playing a character, purposely trying to offend. Even if he is, the words he puts into this character’s mouth matter, and so far, he’s not saying anything that makes his rampant ugliness worth it. There are no themes to his work, other than his own self-absorption. If West is simply telling a story about a horrible human being, it’s a story that has not developed beyond its first chapters.

The shame of all this – and the reason I bought the album, really – is that West is a damn fine artist. His lyrics sometimes feel like scrawling graffiti over the Mona Lisa, so masterfully crafted are his tracks. Yeezus is no exception. My fervent hope is that one day, 20 or so years from now, a middle-aged Kanye West looks back on these early albums with embarrassment and shame. I hope he’s still making records then too, brilliant pieces of work, and filling them with clever, insightful rhymes. One day, I hope we’ll think of Yeezus as a necessary step to a more enlightened Kanye West. Because right now, very little of it feels necessary.

* * * * *

Thanks for indulging me last week – I took a week off to celebrate (well, as much as a cranky old man can celebrate) my 39th birthday. And then I drop this review on you. Yeah, I know. Next week, I’ll be back to my breezy old self, talking about Hanson and Sigur Ros.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Today is my birthday. I’m 39 years old.

That means not only can I see 40 from here, but I can see his raised middle finger and his contemptible sneer. I can almost hear him saying, “It’s colonoscopies and aching joints and hearing loss from here on out. It’s a long, slow road to the nursing home. Have fun!” Pretty soon, 40 will be a distant memory – that is, if my senile old brain can even recall it when I’m eating the drug-laced Jell-O with my dentures out.

I’m old, is what I’m saying. Ancient. A relic of a bygone era. And I’m finding as I age that it’s not my own advancing years that get to me, it’s the ages of those around me. My nephew Luke is one year old. I have no idea where that year went. His mother, my sister, is 36. (Or, as she calls it, “twenty-sixteen.”) My best friends are all graying or balding. I have friends who have teenage kids. And these friends are my age. This means I am old enough to have teenaged kids.

On an average day, I certainly don’t feel old. But I can feel the passage of time. I’m very different now than I was in my younger days. (For instance, I am apparently now the kind of person who says things like “in my younger days.”) My teenaged self wouldn’t even recognize me. I take conference calls, I wear shirts with collars, I get up every morning to run, I have a 401k. In fact, I’m pretty sure my teenaged self would want to beat me up.

Only a few things have remained the same. One of them is that I mark time with pop culture. Anniversaries of my favorite albums freak me out. (Did you know that Jellyfish’s amazing Spilt Milk is 20 years old this year? The first check I ever bounced, I wrote to buy Spilt Milk.) Richard Linklater has just released Before Midnight, the third in his walking-and-talking trilogy. The first one came out when I was 20, the second when I was 30. And for the eighth time since I’ve been paying attention, we’re about to get a new Doctor.

I’ve been a fan of Doctor Who my whole life, so I’m able to chart my timeline by the show’s. I started watching at eight or so, captivated by reruns of Tom Baker’s time in the role. By the time I hit middle school, my local PBS station had moved on to Peter Davison’s episodes, and with the advent of the VCR, I was ready to capture them. I watched the Davison run probably 40 times as a young teen – he was truly my Doctor. The show was taken off the air when I was 15, and I remember being devastated, despite having never seen the sixth or seventh Doctors.

The TV movie happened when I was a senior in college, about to graduate. It was terrible, and I felt like I’d grown out of Doctor Who. Silly me. The show returned to TV screens when I was 31, and even though it wasn’t great for an unfathomably long time, it rekindled my love for the ropey old classic series. David Tennant came along the next year, and made the role his own, before Matt Smith – my absolute favorite actor to play the part since I was a kid – breathed new life into the show. With showrunner Steven Moffat at the helm, Smith has presided over a golden age in Doctor Who. And I’m so glad to have seen it.

Now Smith has decided to move on. His tenure as the 11th Doctor will end this Christmas, meaning we only have two more episodes with him. On the one hand, it’s not enough. I’m not ready for Matt to leave, not ready for another seismic shift, another reminder of the passage of time. But on the other hand, that’s what’s magical about the show: change doesn’t kill it. It can shudder through the loss of its lead actor, its face and voice, and come through even stronger.

I like to think my lifelong Who fandom has taught me that lesson. Time can take its toll, all of life can change around me, and I’ll still be fine. I’ll still be me, even though I look and act different. There’s nothing better than realizing that change won’t kill you. Today is my birthday. I’m 39 years old. And I say, bring on the future. Let’s see what’s next.

* * * * *

Both of this week’s review subjects make me feel old.

I can’t help it. Whenever I tackle a long-running band, I can’t stop myself from thinking about where I was – and who I was – when I first heard them. For instance, I’ve been a Megadeth fan since around 1988, when I was 14. I heard Peace Sells… But Who’s Buying, and that was it for me. This was shortly after being indoctrinated by Metallica’s then-new …And Justice for All, my first real metal album. But Megadeth shortly overtook them in my heart when they released Rust in Peace in 1990.

There was a time, honest to god, when I would have physically fought anyone who dissed that album. Rust in Peace still stands as one of the best speed metal albums ever recorded, and I still love it, but man, I was devoted to it when I was 16. I adored it enough that the more melodic groove-metal direction Dave Mustaine took his band after that felt like a betrayal.

When I worked at Face Magazine, I wrote a pair of “Dear Dave Mustaine” reviews in the form of open letters to him. 1997’s Cryptic Writings made me sad, but 1999’s painful Risk made me angry. Pop metal of the worst kind, I called it. An abomination, a travesty, the worst thing I’d ever heard. It was as if Dave had personally stabbed me in the back. I felt that strongly about it. I wanted my Megadeth hard, heavy, fast and powerful, and this was like Bon Jovi in comparison.

But I stuck with them, and I was rewarded. In 2004, after a brief absence, Mustaine reformed Megadeth and burst out of the gate with a speed metal trilogy worthy of the early days. I wrote my third Dear Dave Mustaine column for the second installment, United Abominations, and begged forgiveness. The fury was back, and before long, so was bassist Dave Ellefson, contributing to the best damn Megadeth album in nearly 20 years, Thir13een. Man, that was good stuff, and it reminded me of what it was like to be 16 years old and in love with metal.

If I really think about it, though, I’ve been praising Mustaine for stagnating. I don’t want to say that Risk is a good record, but as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate the experimental streak that runs through it. Who says Megadeth can’t record a disco-infused song like “Crush ‘Em,” or a poppy tune like “Breadline”? I mean, why not? Granted, they didn’t do it well, but was I really saying that Dave Mustaine should remain trapped in a speed metal box for his whole life? Mustaine is 51 now, and every time he’s tried to break out of that box, his fans (myself included) have slapped him down.

You see what I mean when I say my 16-year-old self would want to beat me up?

It’s exactly that newfound perspective, however, that is allowing me to enjoy Megadeth’s 14th album, Super Collider. True to its title, this record collides virtually every style from the band’s catalog, and adds a couple. So yeah, we get the faster metal of “Kingmaker” and “Built for War,” but we also get songs that sound like they could appear on Cryptic Writings and Risk without trouble. There’s an element of meat-and-potatoes hard rock to this album, eschewing complex arrangements for thick chords and straightforward riffs. The title track is perhaps the worst offender – it’s a song Lynyrd Skynyrd might reject for being too simple, with a moderately catchy chorus and no metal showmanship.

And yeah, the fans hate it. But I hope this time Mustaine doesn’t care. His heart is clearly in this stuff, and I’m ashamed that I didn’t hear that before. He really does give his all to mid-tempo rockers like “Burn” and “Off the Edge.” Where once I would have despaired to hear him shout “burn, baby, burn ‘cause it feels so good,” now I kind of admire him for it. He has to know the reaction he’s going to get, and he did it anyway. The most experimental material is in the latter half of the album, from the crawling epic “Dance in the Rain” (with David Draiman of Disturbed lending his voice) to the Rivers Cuomo-does-metal melodies of “Don’t Turn Your Back.”

And then there’s “The Blackest Crow,” the one that steps the furthest off the reservation. A creepy banjo line with fiddle accents starts things off, and though it gets heavier, the song retains its Deliverance feel. It’s the best thing here by (ahem) a country mile, and easily the riskiest thing Mustaine has done since… well, you know. But it pays off. The album includes a cover of Thin Lizzy’s “Cold Sweat,” which should be a novelty, but oddly fits right in. And bonus track “A House Divided” brings in a mariachi trumpet, to surprisingly fine effect.

What does all this mean? Isn’t Mustaine doing exactly what I hated him for in 1999? Well, yes, so it’s clear that I’ve changed. I’m willing to allow him the latitude to try new things under the Megadeth banner, and sometimes fail. (Some of these songs fail spectacularly, actually.) Change can be good and bad, but the willingness to change is always a good thing. Or so says the older and wiser me. So, Dear Dave Mustaine, I’m going to give you this one. Super Collider is a bold step away from the hard and the fast, but I’ve learned that the rules don’t need to be similarly hard and fast. Keep doing what you’re doing. I’m listening.

(As an aside, Super Collider could not have come out at a more apt time for me. I now work at the Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory, which collaborates with CERN in Switzerland on experiments using the Large Hadron Collider. Pictures of that collider, as well as the CMS detector our scientists work on, adorn the cover and liner notes of this album. I brought it in to work this week, and it was a big hit, particularly the photo of Mustaine and his merry men pretending to work in the LHC tunnel. Hilarious.)

* * * * *

And finally, here are the Barenaked Ladies to teach me the same lesson in a different way.

Listening to BNL has always made me feel young. They were a college band for me, and the smartass 19-year-old I was responded well to tunes like “Grade 9” and “Be My Yoko Ono.” But they were never a novelty band, as they proved repeatedly – 1994’s Maybe You Should Drive is mainly straightforward and pretty, and later songs like “I Live With It Every Day” and “I’ll Be That Girl” showed off a darker side that few casual fans knew they had.

I’ve always liked BNL more than casually, though. I saw them live at least half a dozen times, and stuck with them through their fallow periods. But when Steven Page – the one with the really interesting voice – left in 2009, I figured it would spell the end for the band. And in retrospect, I wish it had. The maudlin All In Good Time, released in 2010, showcased a confused and angry group of musicians, taking it out on their former singer. Page, meanwhile, quietly moved on, releasing his glimmering solo bow Page One that same year. I wondered if the remaining Ladies could find a way to move past their own acrimony as well.

And now here’s Grinning Streak, the second Page-less BNL album, and they probably think this is what moving on sounds like. The album consists of 12 straight-ahead pop tunes, often hearkening back to the old sound without capturing it. It’s mostly breezy and positive, but it’s also almost utterly faceless. Ed Robertson has a fine voice, but it’s not one that sticks with you, and the songs are completely forgettable. I’m never going to hate this band, but Grinning Streak sounds forced, like they’re trying to remember when they were great.

Only two songs – “Boomerang” and “Odds Are” – bring anything resembling the old goofy fire. The band experiments with programmed beats here and there, particularly on “Keepin’ It Real,” but they’re so pedestrian that they might as well have had Tyler Stewart play them live. Robertson sings all but one, the disastrous “Daydreamin’,” which keyboardist Kevin Hearn croaks out. “Daydreamin’” is the only one that is truly awful. Most of these songs are just boring, and from this band, that’s a damn shame. Even Robertson’s lyrics, usually much wittier than they’re given credit for, seem average and uninspired here.

The tragedy is, this album isn’t flat-out bad. It’s just lifeless. It’s a cautionary tale – here’s what happens when you can’t change, you can’t adapt, you remain stuck where you are. There’s no shame in growing beyond who you used to be. I’m nothing like who I was, and couldn’t act like it if I tried. That’s the lesson of Grinning Streak. I wish the band had learned it before making this album, but we all have to figure these things out as we go. It’s part of growing up, growing older, living. And I hope to do a lot more of all three.

* * * * *

Thanks to everyone who wished me well today. I’m grateful for all of you. Next week, either Black Sabbath or two women named Laura. 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.

Recently, an acquaintance of mine posted a short rant about how much he would like to hate Vampire Weekend. He seemed sincerely disappointed that the band’s music struck a chord with him, since it prevented him from despising the group outright. Evidently, this boiling resentment came solely from looking at photos and reading interviews. At least, I guess so, since the music apparently didn’t play a part.

Quite frankly, I don’t understand this at all. I’ve been called a hater before, but I’ve never felt this way. I’ve never wanted to hate anything. On the contrary, I go into every musical experience hoping it will enrich my life. I’ve certainly bought albums I expect will be terrible, but I’ve delved into each of them with an open mind, hoping for the best. And if I do end up disliking something, it’s because of the music on the disc, not any other factor.

I’m not a hater. But man, do I seem to hate the National.

My distaste for this New York quintet is well documented, and a source of consternation to many of my friends. And I want to say this to all of them: I’m just as frustrated as you are. I want to like this band. I honestly do. It’s no fun being on the outside looking in, listening to High Violet and failing to hear the soulful and powerful music everyone else is hearing. It pains me that I don’t like this.

But I don’t. I’ve never really examined why – at least, not in this space – so I’m going to use the occasion of the National’s sixth album, Trouble Will Find Me, to pick this apart. Once again, I’ve bought a National album hoping to like it, and once again, the record has left me mostly cold. I’ve heard Trouble Will Find Me four times now, and on two of those run-throughs, the more sedate atmosphere the band conjures this time has worked for me. On the other two, I’ve nearly drifted off from sheer boredom.

People like me who don’t like the National will often say they’re boring, and leave it at that. I’m not sure that means much on its own. It’s true, of course – I do think the National is one of the most boring bands I’ve ever heard. But I think that’s subjective, and about what each individual listener is looking for. There are plenty of bands in my favorites list that others have described as boring. Marillion, in particular, comes in for that criticism a lot. Where I hear majestic and soul-stirring, others hear painful plodding.

So here’s what I mean when I say I find the National boring. I respond well to songs that are either about their melodies, like the best work of Elvis Costello and Aimee Mann and Andy Partridge, or about their atmospheres, like the music of Hammock and Sigur Ros. I find that the National tries to straddle that line, and ends up being neither melodic nor atmospheric enough for me. National songs tend to stick to a few chords, usually played slowly, and repeated without much variation. Matt Berninger’s voice is a fine, low, sonorous instrument, but he never does too much with it, staying close to the root notes and barely sounding like he’s awake. What melodies there are never really take off.

Even though Trouble Will Find Me contains the best National songs I’ve ever heard, there are still plenty of examples here. Take the first single (and second track), “Demons.” The most interesting thing about it is its 7/8 meter. Berninger spends the verses moving back and forth between two notes, and when the chorus comes (“I stay down with my demons”), neither Berninger nor the band do very much to call attention to it. The bridge section actually feels like a buildup, with Owen Pallet’s orchestration kicking in, but Berninger’s snoozy delivery keeps things flat, and the song quickly returns to the few chords it started with. To me, there is literally nothing memorable about this song – it starts, it ends, it goes nowhere in between.

If you’re fine with the atmosphere conjured up here, you’ll like this more than I do. This is the least rocking National album yet, and the songs with faster beats are the weakest. “Don’t Swallow the Cap” is practically spoken – if Berninger sings three different notes during its whole running time, I’d be surprised – and everyone but drummer Bryan Devendorf seems to be sleepwalking through this. Devendorf is the highlight throughout, actually. Many of these songs are in odd time signatures, and while the rest of the band continues to plod while counting in their heads, the drum work is nimble and interesting.

When the arrangements strip down, I’m generally happier with what I’m hearing. “Fireproof” may be the first National song since “Ada” that I like unreservedly. Its delicate guitar figure suits its windswept melody, and Berninger drifts into his upper register, always a good thing. “Humiliation” may as well be this band’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” It changes a good three times, including during a brief coda, and even when it’s merely stretching out its mood, it does that well.

But most of the record is like “Heavenfaced” and “Graceless”: repetitive and dull. The National is very good at introductions. The first 30 seconds of every one of their songs lead me to believe that they’re going somewhere remarkable, and I’m usually left wanting by the end. A song like “I Need My Girl” could be special – it has a wonderful ringing guitar part, and Berninger’s voice fits it well. But then it simply repeats four chords again and again, never lifting off.

Fans of the National will point out Berninger’s lyrics as a selling point, and they’re right to. He’s a fine wordsmith, and his gift has not failed him on Trouble Will Find Me. At times, he seems to be channeling Leonard Cohen, both vocally and lyrically. “Fireproof” begins like this: “You keep a lot of secrets and I keep none, wish I could go back and keep some.” The record is full of little gems like that, and if finely written lyrics were all I needed, I could feast on this album.

But if lovely poetry were enough for me, I’d be a Bob Dylan fan. I need the sense that the music was just as painstakingly crafted, and with a few exceptions, I don’t find that among the National’s catalog. Trouble Will Find Me is several steps in the right direction, but the style they seem to be going for negates most of that work. I like the more sedate sound of this album – even a song like “Sea of Love” feels restrained, and the record overall seems draped in shadow. I just wish it sounded more alive at the same time.

I will admit that some of my issue is the sheer amount of acclaim this band receives. It encourages them to remain as they are – humorless, dour and dull. Every song on Trouble is accompanied by a specially commissioned painting in the liner notes, and while I’ve never had a problem with that practice before (see Peter Gabriel’s Us, which I adore), it seems to speak to this band’s sense of self-importance. That’s not bad in itself, but it leads to songs like these, content to wallow in themselves.

Of course, all of this is about my taste, about the way I perceive and receive music. I am listening to Trouble again, for the fifth time, and finding that some parts of it I dismissed last time through – “This Is the Last Time,” for instance, or the Mark Eitzel-esque “Slipped” – are working for me. This is undoubtedly my favorite record they’ve made, for what that’s worth. But the National still hasn’t broken through for me, as much as I want them to. I’ll keep trying, though, and I hope that they will, too.

Meanwhile, I just want to lay to rest the idea that I ever want to hate something. I take no joy whatsoever in writing negative reviews, in not connecting with music. Most of what I hear drifts in one ear and out the other, leaving no mark. I keep listening, though, because each new song might be the one that redraws my life, that leaves me breathless, that sends my spirit soaring. All cliches, I know, but they’re all true. That album, that song, that musical moment that kicks open my doors and lets the light in, that’s worth everything. I am always hoping, every time, that each song I hear will be the one.

In the end, it’s music. Of course I want to love it all. Of course I do.

Next week, Ben Folds, Megadeth, Laura Marling and/or Queens of the Stone Age. 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.

Well, look at that. Moffat pulled it off.

A couple of weeks ago I spent an inordinate amount of space bemoaning the state of Doctor Who. The ship seemed directionless, particularly after a pair of lousy episodes (“The Rings of Akhaten” and “Cold War”), and I had less than no faith in showrunner Steven Moffat to stick the landing on a season finale boldly titled “The Name of the Doctor.” I could feel this show going off the rails, and quickly.

But then two things happened. First, the second half of the season turned out to be pretty marvelous. The streak began with Neil Cross’ “Hide,” but Steven Thompson nailed his experimental “Journey to the Centre of the Tardis,” and Mark Gatiss – Mark Gatiss! – delivered one of my favorite Who scripts in “The Crimson Horror.” That Neil Gaiman’s “Nightmare in Silver” was just solid instead of mindbendingly brilliant is a shame, but the episode was still strong, with a terrific performance by Warwick Davis. And some genuinely creepy Cybermen.

And then, with “The Name of the Doctor,” Moffat delivered one of his finest scripts. In a scant 45 minutes, he wrapped up years of plotlines, crafting an elegant solution to the mystery of Clara Oswald and cutting to the heart of the Doctor’s relationships with those he loves most. The farewell scene between the Doctor and River Song broke my heart, and the stunning revelation at the end dropped my jaw. It was a tremendous piece of work, and a perfect lead-in to the 50th anniversary special slated for November.

And you know what? I rewatched all of Season Seven (or Season 33) recently, and it all holds up much better than I remembered from my week-to-week viewings. Even “The Rings of Akhaten” grew in stature on a second spin. (“Cold War” still kinda sucks, though. And “The Angels Take Manhattan” is still something of a travesty.) It’s clear now that while this season did not scale the epic heights of the previous two, it certainly delivered a run of solid, enjoyable adventures, with some occasional brilliant moments. It’s Moffat’s worst season as showrunner, but it’s still damn fine television.

* * * * *

Here’s a quick list of the last five albums to reach my number one spot for the year:

2012: Lost in the Trees, A Church That Fits Our Needs.
2011: Quiet Company, We Are All Where We Belong.
2010: Sufjan Stevens, The Age of Adz.
2009: The Decemberists, The Hazards of Love.
2008: Fleet Foxes.

Hands up if you can tell me what they all have in common. That’s right, they’re all intense, weighty things, Serious Statements about art, God, life and death. In short, none of them are any fun. I’m sure many of you have wondered if your faithful columnist has ever just let his hair down and had a musical good time without worrying about compositional structures or lyrical themes or any of that. The question at the heart of all of this: do I ever just dance?

And, well, yeah. I do. It’s not as rare as you’d think. I will cop to a preference for studied, mannered music produced like a symphony. But give me a good groove and I’m there.

Want proof? I absolutely adore Random Access Memories, the fourth proper album by French duo Daft Punk. It’s been eight years since their tepid third effort, Human After All, and Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo and Thomas Bangalter have spent that time assessing just what they love about this thing called music, and crafting a valentine to it. They’ve been on a soulful trip for some time (with a brief detour to score a Tron movie with chilly electronics), but this is a whole new level. It’s simultaneously a glittering homage and a statement on the direction of modern dance music.

The first thing longtime fans will notice is that these songs were largely recorded with a live band. There’s a looseness, a vibe to this album that has been missing from Daft Punk records in the past, and the result is magical. The duo has chosen to weave their traditional electronics in among the live tracks, achieving a fascinating synthesis. There’s a massive orchestra on several tracks, a full choir on several others, and in the midst of this, that familiar-sounding modular synthesizer, providing a chilly counterpart. It all works marvelously.

But hey, I’m over-intellectualizing again. The thrill of this album is just how well these different styles flow into each other, how all-encompassing and danceable this record is. Random Access Memories is an hour and a quarter long, and one might expect a bit of self-indulgence, but despite some songs stretching to nine minutes, it’s all laser-focused. That’s even more remarkable when you look at the long list of collaborators, which includes former Chic mastermind Nile Rodgers, electronic music pioneer Giorgio Moroder, Strokes singer Julian Casablancas, Panda Bear, musical theater legend Paul Williams and pedal steel genius Greg Liesz. Yes, they’re all on the same album. No, it doesn’t sound like a mess.

In fact, the whole thing wraps together beautifully. It starts with a Rodgers collaboration, the chill-funky “Give Life Back to Music,” all wacka-wacka guitar and electric piano, and you wouldn’t think that could play nicely with the epic “Giorgio by Moroder,” but it does. True to its title, “Giorgio” features a monologue by the venerable musician discussing his life in music, and a blissful synthesized tribute to the man’s style. But over nine glorious minutes, Daft Punk add strings and screaming guitar, keeping the core of Moroder’s blocky sound while exploding it. It’s magnificent.

After that, you need a comedown, and tender piano ballad “Within” fits the bill. Every note the Daft Punkers sing on this album is through a vocoder, but they don’t use it as a crutch. It becomes a signature, so much so that when Casablancas steps in for the more traditional pop of “Instant Crush,” they do the same thing to him, rendering him unrecognizable. “Instant Crush,” all by itself, explains and outdoes the electronic-tinged material on the new Strokes album. It’s a fine mid-tempo piece, but it’s crushed into oblivion by the four-on-the-floor “Lose Yourself to Dance,” the album’s first collaboration with Pharrell Williams. (Rodgers is back for the ride on this one too, and he’s relentless.)

“Get Lucky,” the second of Pharrell’s tracks, is even more infectious. But only Daft Punk would sequence “Touch” between them. An eight-minute slice of orchestrated drama, “Touch” feels like it’s straight out of a funky musical, which is why Paul Williams fits in nicely. His voice is campy and classically trained, right off of a Broadway stage, and it fits this crazy composition nicely. There’s a “Domino Dancing” feel to some of it, as the pianos pound and the horns blare atop stirring strings, but this thing changes every few seconds, culminating in a massive refrain: “Hold on, love is the answer…” Very little of this should work, but all of it does.

Daft Punk’s experimental streak continues into the superb final third of this record. “Fragments of Time,” sung by Todd Edwards, is like a lost Doobie Brothers track, with pedal steel accents by Liesz. The chorus will take up residence in your head. “Doin’ It Right” is the only fully synthesized tune here, but it features the Brian Wilson-esque voice of Panda Bear, so it wins. And the instrumental finale, “Contact,” is pure Daft Punk – a swirling, constantly building synth motif that explodes like the big bang. It puts the perfect capstone on an album that puts forth a hundred different definitions of dance music, and ties them all up with the same bow.

Random Access Memories may be the most inclusive dance album I’ve ever heard. And yet, it never loses the core of what Daft Punk does. It’s wildly experimental, but it’s still geared toward moving your feet. It’s without a doubt the best record Daft Punk has made, a valiant attempt to redefine what they can do, and what dance music can be.

You’ll get more modest thrills on the new record by !!! (pronounced Chk! Chk! Chk!). In fact, the best part about the album is its title, an easy front-runner for the best of the year: Thr!!!er. That’s a bold choice, calling back to one of the best pop albums of all time, and the record can’t quite live up to it. But it’s a strong return to form for Nic Offer and his comrades, and a foot-stomping good time.

Opener “Even When the Water’s Cold” is classic !!!, all slippery bass, funky drumming and slinky guitar. The first line: “Friends told her she was better off at the bottom of a river than in a bed with him, he said until you try both you won’t know what you like better, why don’t we go for a swim?” You can just hear the smirk, and the infectious chorus delivers on it. The first third of this album is one dancefloor stomper after another – “Get That Rhythm Right” is unstoppable, if a little chilling, while “One Girl One Boy” is a devilish disco party, with soaring vocals by Sonia Moore.

From there, the music gets deeper and weirder, but no less infectious. “Fine Fine Fine” is tremendous, with its nods to Echo and the Bunnymen, while Moore returns to give “Except Death” a nice boost. “Careful” is more subtle, its skittering percussion raining atop a throbbing bass line and some Spanish guitar accents. The biggest surprise is closer “Station (Meet Me at The),” a full-on garage-rock workout. It doesn’t seem to fit with this album, Offer trying out his Nick Cave impression, but it’s a bold choice, and it does have a strong chorus, and its sloppy, explosive live band feel is an interesting counterpoint.

Still and all, Thr!!!er largely stays in place, delivering another slab of danceable rock from this always-likeable outfit. Perhaps it simply falls short in contrast to Daft Punk’s more wild effort – taken on its own, it’s a fine, fun shimmy of an album, accomplishing the same ends with simpler means. If all you want to do is dance, dance, then this record will do it for you. If you’re looking for wider vistas, you know where to find them.

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Next week, could be anything. 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.

So no sooner did I post last week’s column, in which I enumerated the 10 albums I’m breathlessly anticipating this summer, when two more were announced. That brings us to an even dozen, but since I’m dealing with two from last week’s list in this installment, we’ll just call it 10 again. Until next week, when Daft Punk drops. And the week after that, when the Polyphonic Spree hits. It’s not a perfect system.

Anyway, neither of the new entries have release dates yet, but both feel fairly imminent. First up is Over the Rhine, the Ohio-based husband and wife duo. They’ve been on my list of favorites for some time, but lately, they’ve been shaking up their minimalist sound with some dazzling jazz influences. Their last album, The Long Surrender, is simply incredible, and Karin Bergquist continues to earn her place on the list of the best singers we have.

OtR has been accepting pre-order donations for a pair of new albums since late last year. The first of those turned out to be a double, called Meet Me at the Edge of the World. Nineteen songs, with each of the two discs granted its own distinct title. The last time Over the Rhine made a double album, it was called Ohio, and it kindled my love for this band. Here’s hoping this will be similarly amazing. Go here for more info.

Hammock’s last album was a double as well, the blissful and beautiful Departure Songs. Its companion is called Oblivion Hymns, and the band says it’s being mixed right now. Hammock, if you don’t know, is the greatest shoegaze band on the planet. (Yes, I know My Bloody Valentine is back.) They create ethereal, gorgeous oceans of sound, and they say they use guitars to do it, but if they said they conjured orchestras from the ether with centuries-old magic, I’d believe them too. Hammock has made some of my favorite sounds of the past 10 years, and a new album from them is always welcome. Check them out here.

OK, enough lists. On to actual reviews!

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If ever a band suffered from too much hype, it was Vampire Weekend.

Their 2008 self-titled debut was practically flawless, a bright and kinetic update of Paul Simon’s Graceland sound for the college set. In 34 short minutes, the New York quartet established themselves as one of the brightest new lights in the sky, igniting both a rabid fandom and a backlash before they could even adjust to their newfound fame. It’s little surprise that their rushed second record, Contra, was such a huge step down. Torn between trying to innovate and striving to keep their new legion of fans happy, Vampire Weekend treaded water in the worst possible way.

They did the smartest thing they could do – they took their time crafting their third record. And now that said album is here, it’s clear they did the second-smartest thing they could do as well – they evolved past any concerns about the staleness of their sound. The unfortunately titled Modern Vampires of the City is a real surprise, a darker and more experimental work that dispenses with just about every recognizable element of the Vampire Weekend ethos, yet manages to sound like them anyway.

I’ve been saying that Modern Vampires is this band’s Achtung Baby. It’s a collection of relatively simple singalongs recorded in the weirdest ways they could think of. Musical mastermind Rostam Batmanglij plays the lion’s share of the instruments here, and contributes even more keyboard sounds and programmed drums than on Contra. But he’s taken the time to figure out how all the pieces fit here, how his blips and sighs can sit alongside his piano and organ, his occasional guitar, and Ezra Koenig’s warm voice.

That’s not to say this is smoothed out. But it accomplishes a neat trick – it sounds perfectly formed, until you really listen, and you realize what a strange thing it is. Take “Unbelievers” as an example. It opens with organ and shuffling drums, but before the chorus comes in, it’s shifted around to pounding piano, with galloping surf guitar waiting in the wings. Then the synths take over around the 2:30 mark, with Irish pipes bringing it home, save for a brief return to that organ at the end. But here’s the thing: “Unbelievers” just sounds like a great little pop song. You’d never know it’s so tricky unless you’re listening for the joins.

“Step” starts with a softly delivered diss (“Every time I see you in the world, you always step to my girl”) followed by a hip-hop beat. But Batmanglij goes all Baroque on us, layering piano, harpsichord and a choral synth sound on top of that beat. It’s thoroughly unexpected, and thoroughly enjoyable, even when Koenig whispers threats: “The gloves are off, the wisdom teeth are out, what you on about?” “Diane Young” (a pun on “dyin’ young”) is like a perverse inversion of a ‘50s rockabilly song, all flailing electronic drums and low, rumbling keyboards. Batmanglij even throws in an ear-piercing guitar solo, topped with distorted synths. Koenig’s voice is pitch-shifted beyond recognition here, particularly in the odd “baby baby baby” bridge. (His best line here: “You’ve got the luck of a Kennedy.”)

The record continues in this vein, these straightforward songs given fascinatingly odd studio treatments. But they all work. The band clearly took their time with this one, trying out arrangements and recording techniques until they’d crafted the strangest, most interesting record they could. “Everlasting Arms” takes them back to Paul Simon territory, with its skipping beat and kinetic bass line, but the organ is ever so slightly off, and the synth string quartet almost jarring. “Finger Back” is a meticulously produced piece of work, every element designed to sound like crappily recorded garage rock, distorting your speakers. That is, until the spoken word section. (“This Orthodox guy fell in love with a girl at the falafel shop, and why not?”)

The album’s high point is “Ya Hey,” a slowly loping hymn about failing to understand God. “Through the fire and through the flames, you won’t even say your name, only ‘I am that I am,’ but who could ever live that way,” Koenig wonders, as the slippery bass line shimmies beneath a shifting bed of keyboards. The chorus finds Koenig’s voice folded, spindled and mutilated, squeaking out the title phrase like an unhappy baby. But it all works. It’s actually quite beautiful, and unlike anything this band has done. You could imagine them playing this straight, but it wouldn’t be nearly as interesting.

The same could be said for the entire record. That Modern Vampires is consistently enjoyable is a testament to the craft that went into assembling it from so many jagged parts. (Only “Hudson” comes close to collapsing under its own weight.) It’s a striking new direction for Vampire Weekend, a band I feared had been boxed into a limited sound. Man, was I wrong. I’m not sure I’ll hear another album this imaginative in 2013, but the magic of it is that it remains, from beginning to end, recognizably Vampire Weekend. I’ll never worry about limits with them again – if they can be this, they can be anything.

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If you’d asked me last week, I would have said that while Vampire Weekend is nice and all, I was expecting true greatness from Promises, the fourth album by the Boxer Rebellion. No one is more surprised than me at how that turned out.

I first heard this London band two years ago, when I picked up their third album, the magnificent The Cold Still, on a whim. (I liked the cover.) I was hooked from the first notes of opener “No Harm.” The Boxer Rebellion plays majestic, soaring, driving, atmospheric rock, as straightforward as it is magical. They conjure whole worlds with their guitars, and the elastic voice of native Tennessean Nathan Nicholson sends their best songs into a deeply emotional orbit.

Yeah, I love that record. But as much as I don’t want a Modern Vampires-style reinvention from this band, Promises feels to me like a holding pattern. For 11 songs, they just sort of do what they do, only the production this time – by the band and Billy Bush instead of the great Ethan Johns – isn’t quite as good. They still try to cast their particular spell, and on massive tunes like “Fragile” they manage it. But it feels like an effort this time, like the songs didn’t come as easily, or the sounds weren’t at their fingertips.

For one thing, there’s an unfortunate number of big keyboard parts filling in the holes that either should have been left open, or covered by guitar-scapes. For another, though, the songs just aren’t as good this time around. There’s nothing here as soul-filling as “Both Sides Are Even,” nothing as invigorating as “The Runner.” These songs tend to sound alike after a while, a malady the last album never succumbed to. There are fewer melodies to sink your teeth into, and you’re left with similar-sounding pretty noise.

But hey, the land of not-as-good-as-The-Cold-Still is where about 80 percent of the music I listen to resides. Promises is certainly not a bad album. It’s front-loaded with driving songs, few of which take hold, but its second half gets to the heart of this band’s magic. “New York” is a stately piano anthem that makes fine use of Nicholson’s tenor, and brings in some tremendous percussion. “You Belong to Me” is the quietest thing here, built on a circular piano figure and a pleading voice, while “Dream” reaches for great heights, and (mostly) reaches them.

I was definitely expecting better, though, and while I’m trying to hear that extraordinary alchemy on this album, it just isn’t here. I hope next time they remember how to capture it, because it was certainly something. The music on Promises isn’t bad – some of it is lovely, in fact – but it’s a shadow of the stunning work this band is capable of. I remain hopeful.

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Next week, Daft Punk, and maybe some other surprises. 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.

I live my life in a state of constant anticipation.

I know each week what I have to look forward to – which new albums and new movies will hit, which TV shows I’ll be watching with which group of friends. Every day I have something to yearn for, something to get me through. When I liked my life a lot less than I do now, that sort of lifestyle came in very handy. It warded off despair. But now, it’s just fun.

I keep a running calendar of new album releases, which I add to nearly every day. (Just today, I penciled in the new Travis album, Where You Stand, under August 20.) There are 39 albums between now and the end of August that I have deemed important enough to write down on this calendar, and of those, I’m really looking forward to about a dozen. These are the ones I’m counting the days for, the ones I’m out-of-my-skin excited to hear.

Yes, I know, it can all go wrong. (See this week’s review.) But this is how I live. I’m eternally hopeful that the next album I buy, the next song I hear will change my life. It could be any of the 39 I have listed on my calendar. (Or it could be a record that takes me by surprise.) I do have realistic expectations, but I like to remain as optimistic as I can.

So, as part of my ongoing attempt to show you what it’s like to be me, here’s a quick look at a few new albums I’m anticipating, and whether I honestly think they’ll be any good.

The Boxer Rebellion, Promises.
Release date: May 14.
Hopes and fears: I can’t claim to be a longtime fan of this glorious London band. I picked up their third album, 2011’s The Cold Still, on a whim. But its simple, effective songs and commitment to atmosphere blew me away. The Boxer Rebellion is the band the National wishes they could be. Their fourth album promises (heh) more of the same, but when the same is this good, I don’t mind.
The odds: Probably pretty good. This is a band with a fine track record and a superb style. Even if they don’t change much, this ought to satisfy.

Vampire Weekend, Modern Vampires of the City.
Release date: May 14.
Hopes and fears: Here’s a classic case of a band with a unique sound, a smashing debut, and a rushed, mediocre follow-up. Some really liked Contra, but I’m glad this band took a few years to craft the unfortunately-titled follow-up. I like their Paul Simon goes Ivy League sound well enough that I can forgive a misstep. But probably not a second one in a row.
The odds: Meh. The songs I have heard from this album have underwhelmed me, and while I’m still interested, I’m not banking on this being excellent. Plus, it’s called Modern Vampires of the City, which is strike one already.

Daft Punk, Random Access Memories.
Release date: May 21.
Hopes and fears: It’s been eight years since Human After All, this French duo’s mediocre third record. In that time, they wrote a pretty awesome score for Tron: Legacy, and as far as I can tell, spent the rest of their days and nights writing and recording this new album. It supposedly makes greater use of live musicians, as the first single (“Get Lucky,” with Pharrell Williams on vocals) definitely bears out. I expect a late-‘70s dance party.
The odds: Quite good, actually. The list of collaborators is strong, including the great Nile Rodgers, and early reviews have been sparkling. Plus, it’s called Random Access Memories, which is an amazing title.

The Polyphonic Spree, Yes, It’s True.
Release date: May 28.
Hopes and fears: Tim DeLaughter’s absolutely gargantuan peace-and-love collective stumbled with their third album, the somewhat harsh The Fragile Army, back in 2007. But they’ve had plenty of time to give birth to this new effort, and they raised $100,000 on Kickstarter to make it happen. There really isn’t another band like the Spree, so I’m glad to see them return.
The odds: Not bad. The 11 tracks are reportedly separate affairs, instead of blending into one long listening experience. Still, what I’ve heard has been very Spree-like, which fills me with joy.

Black Sabbath, 13.
Release date: June 11.
Hopes and fears: Reunion records are always problematic. Despite Black Sabbath’s pedigree as one of the most important metal bands in the world, you’d be forgiven for not expecting much from their first album with Ozzy Osbourne since 1978. I wasn’t thrilled either, until I heard the first leaked song, “God Is Dead?” And well, damn. It’s nine minutes of classic Sabbath, and even ol’ batbiter himself sounds pretty good. So this goes on the “most anticipated” list.
The odds: Have you heard “God is Dead?” Because, damn. If they can keep that up over all eight tracks, this should be one for the ages.

Hanson, Anthem.
Release date: June 18.
Hopes and fears: Laugh if you must, but Hanson has evolved into a really good soul-pop band. Their sixth album will hopefully build on the musical leaps they took on 2010’s Shout It Out. Plus, I get a little charge out of playing new Hanson tracks for people, and watching their jaws drop. I’m very much looking forward to resuming that practice.
The odds: Very good. The first single, “Get the Girl Back,” is a ton of fun, and it feels like the Hanson brothers have kept on growing.

Sigur Ros, Kveikur.
Release date: June 18.
Hopes and fears: Sigur Ros might be the most singular band on the planet. They have a very specific style, all pianos and high vocals and crashing dynamics. So when they shake up that style, as they seem to have on the reportedly dark Kveikur, it’s always worrying. The first single was proto-metal, the second a kind of pure pop. Both songs are unfailingly interesting, but quite different.
The odds: Well, Sigur Ros has never disappointed me, and given how much I like what I’ve heard here, I doubt they’re about to start. A different-sounding Sigur Ros album is likely still a Sigur Ros album, and I’m very excited to hear this one.

Gogol Bordello, Pura Vida Conspiracy.
Release date: July 23.
Hopes and fears: The world’s greatest gypsy punk band smoothed themselves out somewhat for 2010’s Trans-Continental Hustle, but they still sounded great. Nobody could really smooth out Ukranian madman Eugene Hutz, but Rick Rubin gave it his best shot. I’m glad to see them move away from his care, and I hope Andrew Scheps kept the fire burning on this new album. First single “Malandrino” is pretty awesome, once it gets going.
The odds: Not bad. Even if they’re kinder and gentler, I think I’m going to enjoy this.

Travis, Where You Stand.
Release date: August 20.
Hopes and fears: Travis is one of the most inconsistent bands I know. They seem to lead two lives – the fragile acoustic pop band who made The Invisible Band and The Man Who, and the raucous rockers who slammed out 12 Memories and Ode to J. Smith. This reunion album comes after Fran Healy’s attempt to launch a solo career, so I’m on the lookout for signs of resignation.
The odds: 50/50. The title track has been released, and it sounds like Travis is in acoustic pop mode again. It isn’t bad, but I’m reserving judgment (and optimism) until I hear the whole thing.

Daniel Amos, Dig Here, Said the Angel.
Release date: Summer.
Hopes and fears: This is the pioneering band’s first album together since 2001, and while it may seem redundant to say so, it’s been a long time coming. I gladly gave to the Kickstarter drive for this album, just for the possibility of hearing another 10 or 12 Terry Scott Taylor songs. Daniel Amos is a national treasure, and I’m positively giddy at the notion of spending another hour in their company.
The odds: Pretty awesome. The band released a rough mix of a song called “Love, Grace and Mercy,” and it’s great – it’s got that ‘60s vibe and that inspired melodicism that I adore. I physically cannot wait until this thing lands in my mailbox.

There are plenty more, of course, but these 10 are the ones I’m most ready to hear right freaking now. I’ll keep you updated. Feel free to send me your lists as well.

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Of course, as I mentioned earlier, it can all go wrong. The problem with anticipation is that when an eagerly expected album disappoints, I have to determine whether I was hoping for too much from it, or if it really does fall short. That usually requires half a dozen more painful listens and a whole bunch of mental slate-cleansing.

If you’d asked me a month ago for a similar list, there’s no doubt that Bankrupt, the fifth album by French synth-poppers Phoenix, would have been on it. Like most of you, I loved their fourth, Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix. The one-two punch of “Lisztomania” and “1901” knocked me out, but the album as a whole, mashing up glittering dance tunes with more progressive moments, was one of 2009’s best. Most importantly, it was one of 2009’s hookiest – the songs were gyrating wonders, bursting with melodies you remembered for weeks.

All of which makes Bankrupt so much harder to understand. If you’re going to call your album Bankrupt, you had better make sure it doesn’t sound like a tired effort by a band out of ideas. Unfortunately, this one does. None of these 10 songs sports a killer hook, none of them displays the lightness of touch that previously defined this band. It’s a ponderous, and ultimately boring effort that wastes the voice of Thomas Mars on meandering, leaden tunes.

The first single and leadoff track, “Entertainment,” is a middling Phoenix song, its Eastern-sounding keyboard riff the best thing about it. Sadly, it’s the album’s best track. The thick-as-bricks synth sounds remain throughout, all but suffocating what melodies are here, so when the band hits upon something promising, like the slight but fun “Trying to Be Cool,” it’s dragged down into the muck. It doesn’t help that this album has been mastered by ramming everything into the red. It’s almost abrasive.

But I could deal with misguided production choices if the songs were good. They’re simply not. A song like “Chloroform” may feel to the band like an evolution, but evolving away from strong hooks into plodding, endless repetition isn’t change for the better. The seven-minute title track may be the most infuriating thing Phoenix has ever done. It’s meant to be a slow build, like Wolfgang’s “Love Like a Sunset,” but it doesn’t actually build. It just sprinkles random synth noises on you for an eternity.

The deluxe edition of Bankrupt comes with a bonus disc containing 71 sketches from the writing sessions, which I guess is so you can hear the lack of ideas forming before your ears. That it’s more enjoyable than the bulk of the main album is just sad. I’ve been trying to enjoy this for weeks, and that particular thrill has eluded me. It saddens me to report that Bankrupt lives up to its title. It’s a cautionary tale about what happens when we expect and pressure a band to perform miracles every time out, and a good reminder to keep our anticipation in check.

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Next week, two of the records on this list: Vampire Weekend and the Boxer Rebellion. 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.

I was an angry young man.

You know that cliché of the chip-on-your-shoulder hothead who believes the world owes him something? That was me as a teenager. I raged against whatever machine I could find, certain that the world was holding me down. I don’t think I read The Catcher in the Rye until much later, but I lived up to the stereotype pretty well. When I wasn’t hating myself, I was hating a lot of other people.

And I listened to some pretty angry music. Oh, sure, I had the Beatles and glam metal to bring a smile, but the real stuff was Metallica and Megadeth and Pantera, bands with an axe to grind and throats to scream raw. Dave Mustaine was pissed off at the Parents Music Resource Center? Then dammit, so was I. Phil Anselmo threatened to get fucking hostile? I was right there with him, ready to take it out on the people who had made fun of me for years.

But then a funny thing happened. I grew up and I calmed down. I still love that angry music, but I don’t feel it anymore. These days I’m more into the complex metal of The Ocean and Between the Buried and Me. Yeah, I still buy every Megadeth album, and yeah, they’re still great. But just as my inner turmoil has quieted, so has my musical taste. I prefer beauty and grace to all the rage.

I think this is a fairly natural progression, and most people go through it just about the same way I did. So why do we remain surprised when our musicians turn out to take exactly the same emotional journey?

Take the prototypical angry young man, Elvis Costello. Every time he releases an album, it’s met by a chorus of fans who want him to return to his This Year’s Model style. Costello has nimbly danced across a dozen different musical genres since then, and while he can occasionally muster up some bile – see 2010’s marvelous National Ransom for some examples – he’s a much more rounded and interesting songwriter now. I’d rather listen to someone like him, who has grown and changed through the years, than someone like Anselmo, who remains in the same emotional shell.

English troubadour Frank Turner has always had an edge to his work. He began his career as the singer in a bona fide screamo band called Million Dead, and his first solo efforts – Sleep is for the Week and Love, Ire and Song – tried to infuse a punkier edge onto folksier tunes, to great effect. Turner’s a world-class shouter, and he writes fist-pumping songs of passion and loyalty. But lately, he’s been mellowing out a little more, writing from the perspective of an older and (sometimes) wiser man, and it’s been a joy to hear.

Turner’s fifth album, Tape Deck Heart, is his most mature and world-weary work. It also may be his best. It certainly digs deepest – songs like “Tell Tale Signs” and the great “Plain Sailing Weather” don’t just examine broken relationships, they pick at them like scabs, sopping up the blood and then picking some more. Where Turner used to sing about remaining forever young, now he writes songs like “Losing Days,” in which he admits to growing old and not knowing how to feel about it. “All these small ideas are suddenly commitments, as greatness slips on by,” he sings.

The tradeoff for all that youthful vigor is a newfound intricacy and power. Tape Deck Heart contains some of Turner’s deepest songs, particularly in its second half. He’s never quite captured the pain of fleeting moments the way he does on “Polaroid Picture,” and that’s because he now has a perspective on time flashing by. He’s still writing singalongs – “Let go of the little distractions, hold close to the ones that you love, because we won’t all be here this time next year, so while you can take a picture of us” – but they’re about impending death, about years passing like minutes.

Don’t despair, longtime fans. Turner still throws in a few crowd-pleasers, like the superb opener, “Recovery,” on which he rides waves of crashing guitars and crests them with a soaring melody. The deluxe edition appends four bonus tracks that sound like old-school Turner, and they’re fine. Oddly, though, it’s the audience-baiting rave-up “Four Simple Words” that falls flattest here. Those four words are “I want to dance,” and Turner uses them to frame a song about the thrill of live music. It’s earnest, but it’s a little goofy, particularly squeezed onto this record.

Once that song’s over, Tape Deck Heart takes flight on aging wings, and the results are tremendous. “The Fisher King Blues” is dark and intricate, “Anymore” is a delicate whisper with a sharp edge, and “Oh Brother” is a fantastic mini-epic about bonds of blood. The album ends with its saddest song, “Broken Piano.” Turner sings most of it over a buzzing drone (“So I sat down in my sadness beneath your window, and I played sad songs on the minor keys of a broken piano…”), but when it builds up and explodes, it’s marvelous. It puts a fine capper on Tape Deck Heart, an album that points to a bright future for Turner beyond the anger of youth.

If Turner’s patterning his career on anyone, it’s his fellow Englishman Billy Bragg. Through the ‘80s and ‘90s, Bragg was one pissed-off folksinger. He started his career playing a jagged electric guitar (with no other accompaniment) and slagging off the taxman and the bossman. His pro-union records like The Internationale and Workers Playtime are shit-stirring classics, and even as he’s added subtleties and brought together backing musicians to play with him, Bragg has remained delightfully incendiary.

But he’s 55 now, and he’s slowly been evolving into a much more reflective artist. That transformation reaches its apex on his new album, Tooth and Nail. Produced by the amazing Joe Henry, this album finds Bragg embracing his acoustic guitar and writing more happy, content songs than he ever has. And the end result is absolutely wonderful, a gentle stroll through a garden rather than a long run through a jungle. For most of his career, Bragg has wanted to shake you up, get you motivated to change the world. On Tooth and Nail, he just wants to serenade you, and he’s surprisingly good at it.

Bragg begins the album by announcing that he’s tired of being angry. “January Song” finds him “tightly wound in tension, feel just like a guitar string, waiting to reveal emotions, touch me and you’ll hear me sing.” He takes a political swipe, and it’s a good one: “Politician selling freedom, bumper sticker 50 cents, ask him what he wants to be free from, answer don’t make any sense.” But you can feel that his heart isn’t in it. In the second song, “No One Knows Nothing Anymore,” he rejects the very idea of thinking our way out of the mess we’re in. And then he spends the rest of the album looking for joy.

He often finds it, although this album has its share of well-drawn heartbreak too. “I Ain’t Got No Home” is the latest in a series of old Woody Guthrie lyrics that Bragg and musicians like him have set to music, and this one’s a stunner, a sad lament for a wandering worker. “Swallow My Pride” is a song of brokenness, beautifully written: “How can a man be strong, if he can’t even lift a telephone and say he’s wrong?” And “Goodbye Goodbye” is a final farewell from a friend: “The bells have all been rung, the songs have all been sing, this long river has run its course…”

The real surprise here is that Bragg doesn’t end the album with “Goodbye Goodbye.” No, that’s track eight, and before you reach the final grooves, he gives you the reality-of-love song “Chasing Rainbows,” the absolutely amazing song of fidelity “Your Name On My Tongue,” and the real ending, the hopeful “Tomorrow’s Going to Be a Better Day.” It’s a gorgeous final sentiment, set to loping acoustic guitars: “Don’t be disheartened, baby, don’t be fooled, take it from someone who knows, the glass is half full, tomorrow’s gonna be a better day…”

Yeah, there are embers of the old fire here, particularly on the rousing “There Will Be a Reckoning.” But for the most part, Tooth and Nail is the sound of a middle-aged Billy Bragg taking stock of his life and the world, and finding much to love in both. Bragg’s voice has weathered perfectly into a wizened tenor, and his songs have that lived-in feel that you just can’t fake. But the power of this record is that Bragg has not ossified – he’s evolved into a happier man, and it’s a joy to hear.

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Next week, some of my most anticipated records of 2013. 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.

I was going to start this column by lamenting the sad state of Doctor Who this season. But then they went and aired an episode called “Hide” this week, and it was wonderful. So hey, maybe there’s a chance it will pull out of the tailspin.

But man, this season has been pretty lousy. We’re nine episodes and two specials in, and I can think of maybe four of those I’ve liked enough to watch twice. When one of the highlights of your season is a Chris Chibnall script called “Dinosaurs on a Spaceship,” something’s gone wrong somewhere. I think the problem is multilayered, but then, all I can do is compare this season to the previous two, which I think were pretty much marvelous.

Splitting the season up hasn’t helped. The first five episodes were mainly killing time until the “heartbreaking” exit of Amy and Rory. The second half has had much more forward momentum, thanks to the mystery of Clara Oswin Oswald, but even so, the single-episode-story format has kept things feeling disconnected. Yes, I know that’s the DNA of the show, but under Steven Moffat, Doctor Who has been much more about telling a longer, more involved tale.

So now we’re rushing headlong into the 50th anniversary celebrations this fall, and we’re working through another set of single-episode stories. Thus far, we’ve had a decent thriller about monsters in the wifi, a godawful mess about singing aliens and an impossible leaf, a mediocre rewrite of “Dalek” that botched the return of the Ice Warriors, and “Hide,” the first truly terrific story of the year. Even if the next four are all amazing, that puts Season Seven at around .500. And with another Mark Gatiss script on the way, even that seems doubtful. (On the bright side, we do have a Neil Gaiman story to look forward to.)

And then there’s the finale, a scant four weeks away. The title has just been revealed: “The Name of the Doctor.” The tagline is “His greatest secret revealed.” I don’t see a way out of this that isn’t, in some way, disappointing. Last year, I would have had full faith in Moffat to pull off a finale called “The Name of the Doctor.” He’s been leading up to it for some time anyway, and I expect he knows where he’s going with all this. But after the lackluster season we’ve had so far, I’m worried about it. The idea that it might fundamentally change the show is both exciting and terrifying.

I wish I had a Tardis, so I could pop forward four weeks and see how it all turns out. Fingers crossed that they don’t screw it up.

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The Doctor has a time machine, but one thing he never does is change the past.

That was actually one of the show’s first mandates, spoken by William Hartnell, the first Doctor. “You can’t change history,” he warned Barbara Wright in “The Aztecs.” “Not one line!” Since then, many Who stories have centered around the dangers of trying to change what has already happened. It’s a tricky thing, revisiting the past. You may go into it with the best of intentions, but the results are often disastrous.

At least, they are on television. But don’t tell that to our three contestants this week, all of whom have taken a dive into their own histories with a big red pen. And despite the odds, all three have surfaced with something special.

Now, granted, there are a lot of ways to muck about with the past. British institution Marillion have chosen one of the easiest – remixing and remastering an older album that has never received its due. The band’s 1998 effort Radiation, their 10th album, was a classic case of fumbling right before the end zone. The songs were mainly excellent, the heavier vibe brought Marillion crashing into the age of then-modern rock, and the performances were first rate. But then the album was mixed by someone with water in their ears – the album has always felt muddy and indistinct, the vocals too low, the noise ratio way too high. There’s always been a sense that this album, good as it is, could have been great.

For their new release, Radiation 2013, the band handed all of the original album tapes to resident producer Mike Hunter. And he’s worked magic with them. The new version of Radiation is bright and bold, loud and layered – it sounds like an entirely new recording. Hunter has made a few changes – he nixed a collage-like intro to the album, and a reprise of “These Chains,” and he removed some effects from Steve Hogarth’s voice. But mainly, what he’s done is find the truly fantastic record that’s always been hiding within these tracks.

You can hear the difference right away, as Steve Rothery’s thick, chunky guitar opens “Under the Sun.” That song is now perfectly mixed, and the improvement is staggering. I’m not sure I agree with Hunter’s decision to dispense with the voice mail effect on Hogarth’s voice on “The Answering Machine” – that was kind of the point of the song – but aside from that, one of Marillion’s most rocking numbers now sounds brilliant. And “Now She’ll Never Know” sounds delicate now, instead of brittle and breakable. The acoustic guitar is noticeably bigger, Hogarth’s crystal-clear falsetto filled out, and the sparse arrangement has been augmented with more focus on the keys.

Many of these songs didn’t need much work to become amazing. “Three Minute Boy” has always been Marillion’s McCartney moment, a piano-pop epic worthy of any in the genre. (The thrilling rock moment after the second chorus is even more jolting now.) “These Chains” remains a great pop song, and the stunning closer “A Few Words for the Dead” still sweeps you away. The big recipient of Hunter’s TLC here is “Born to Run,” a blues meander that stood still on the original album, but has gained a new fluidity in this mix. Rothery’s soulful guitar has rarely sounded better.

Radiation was always a pretty good little album, but in this new incarnation, it takes its rightful place as one of the great modern rock records of our time. The band has helpfully included the original mix for comparison, but really, there is none. This new version sets Radiation alongside Marillion’s best works, and lets it shine.

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But remixing old material is easy. Reinventing it, now, that’s more difficult. But I can’t think of anyone who has turned revisiting his own past into an art form the way Michael Roe has.

Roe is the guitarist and singer for the 77s, one of the best rock bands you’ve never heard. His last album of original material was 2004’s Fun With Sound – since then, he’s alternated between covers albums celebrating his influences, and reworkings of past material. With just about anyone else, I’d be complaining about a lack of new work. But Roe has found so many different mirrors onto his past lately that I haven’t been bored or upset by any of them.

The streak holds with Guadalupe, his new album. The 30-minute affair contains one new song, seven new versions of older Roe tunes, and one cover that should be familiar to fans. But what could have been a rehash is actually the most beautiful thing Roe has given us in years, a glorious sequel to his 2002 acoustic album Say Your Prayers. I’ve always said that Mike Roe alone with an acoustic guitar can break your heart. Here’s the proof.

Guadalupe begins with the new song, and it’s lovely. “U U” is a poem of faithful companionship, sung to both God and his fans. In less than two minutes, Roe sums up his career – all the songs he’s written, he says, he did not write alone. “I did it all with you, you…” His voice is weathered, but remains a tender instrument, and his guitar playing… well, it’s simply magic. I’ve been in the room and watched Roe do this, pull beauty from the air, and it’s life-changing.

The spell remains for the rest of the album. Every song is recast in acoustics, and each one is more beautiful than the last. Some have always been pretty – “Come and Gone” is one of Roe’s most tender songs, and “Come Down Here,” his marvelous prayer (written for the Lost Dogs), is his entire career in miniature. But even these are made more heartbreaking. “Dig My Heels,” from the 77s EP Direct, has transformed from a Tom Petty-ish mid-tempo rocker to a yearning folk song, and the change is glorious.

The album’s title track is pulled from Fun With Sound, and is dedicated to the late, great Gene Eugene. Its tribute is even more heartfelt here, Roe’s whispery voice cracking over blissful guitars. “I Need God,” a full-on gospel number on Safe as Milk, is here a stop-you-in-your-tracks confession. But it’s the two songs from 1994’s Drowning With Land in Sight that benefit from the new treatment the most. I’ve been hoping for a good version of “For Crying Out Loud” for years, and here it is. And “The Jig Is Up,” one of the finest 77s songs, sounds like a miniature epic here, Roe pulling out his electric for a soaring solo. It’s phenomenal.

Guadalupe ends with a brief run through Stephen Foster’s “Hard Times Come Again No More,” a song Roe has covered with the Lost Dogs. It’s a perfect coda to a gorgeous collection. Even if you’ve never heard of any of these songs, this record will move you. And if you’re a longtime fan, Guadalupe will fill your soul. Word is that Roe is writing original tunes for a new record now. That’s a good thing, but Guadalupe proves that returning to the well as often as he has can yield delightful dividends too. You can hear and buy Roe music here.

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Remaking a few songs is certainly interesting, but how about remaking an entire album?

That’s what Texas band Quiet Company have done on their new record, A Dead Man On My Back: Shine Honesty Revisited. Taylor Muse and company have essentially re-recorded every minute of their debut album, Shine Honesty, in an attempt to bring the past into the present.

I first bought Shine Honesty on a whim. It came out in 2006 on tiny Northern Records, a label I adored – I shudder to think that I might have missed QuietCo entirely without that connection. At the time, the band was a bedroom project for Muse, and it shows. The album was recorded cheaply, with synthesizers standing in for pianos and strings, and Muse’s voice wasn’t quite to the level that it would soon be. Shine Honesty is basically a series of intricate demos, a big ball of potential that would shortly be realized.

Of course, I didn’t know then that Quiet Company would quickly become one of my favorite bands, or that their third album, the amazing and scary We Are All Where We Belong, would rocket to the top of my list a mere five years later. I liked Shine Honesty anyway. I can pinpoint the moment I fell in love with my first Taylor Muse song – the little instrumental figure that follows the choruses in “Fashionabel,” this album’s second track. It still makes me grin.

So why remake Shine Honesty? Well, three reasons: to claim it back from Northern Records, to get these songs back in print, and to update the sound to represent the five-piece band Quiet Company has become. A Dead Man On My Back revitalizes these old songs with new arrangements and a fuller sound, and the result is like a new QuietCo album. And those are always welcome in my house.

I was initially surprised to hear just how closely these new versions hew to the older ones. The pianos sound real, the guitars are fuller, the drums better, and Muse’s voice shows seven years of improvement, but for the most part, the band is very respectful of the original Shine Honesty. (They even kept the little synth piccolo trill in “Fashionabel.”) The new versions allow the songs to step forward, and while they’re not Muse’s best, they’re still fine tunes.

I was struck this time by what a slow record this is. After “Fashionabel,” you have to wait for track seven, “The Emasculated Man and the City That Swallowed Him,” to hear something that rocks. QuietCo has become such a powerhouse band that these songs seem reserved in comparison. That’s not to say that piano-led numbers like “Then Came a Sudden Validation” are not engaging, particularly in these new versions. It’s just that when the live band does kick in, as on the ragged and wonderful new version of “Circumstance,” it sounds more like the Quiet Company I’ve come to know.

But as a reflective work, Dead Man is lovely. “So Gracefully” is the rough draft for half a dozen romantic Muse songs that came after, and it’s great to hear the roots of those sentiments here. “Tie Your Monster Down” is still a pleasant, strummy affair, and “Love is a Shotgun” is still a melodic delight. The coda of “Circumstance” (“…and the sun is shining on me again…”) now has a title: “I’ve Got a Lot of Problems With You People.” But it’s still very pretty.

Shine Honesty’s best songs are also its most faith-filled, and it’s no secret that Muse has turned from the beliefs he once held. But he performs these songs honestly and earnestly anyway. The grand “We Change Lives,” the album’s finest hour, here takes on a magnificence it barely hinted at before, and when Muse sings “Heaven outstretched its perfect arms to me,” there’s no sign of hoping to erase history. He lives it again, and it – and the chorus of hallelujahs that end the song – are glorious. Same goes for the album’s coda, “When You Pass Through the Waters,” and its baptismal imagery. Muse has resisted the urge to rewrite his past here, and I’m grateful.

Dead Man ends with a pair of bonus tracks, both written at the same time as the Shine Honesty material, and both more rocking than most of the album. In particular, “Gun Control Means Using Both Hands” lives up to its awesome title. It’s a fun trip in the wayback machine, and though both Muse and QuietCo have evolved considerably since these songs were written, Dead Man reclaims them with style. It’s a fine reminder of why I first fell in love with this band, and of just how far they’ve come.

You can buy that (and other QuietCo records) here.

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Next week, Billy Bragg and Frank Turner. 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.

So. What a shitty couple of weeks.

As many of you know, I’m from Massachusetts. I grew up in a town just south of Boston, and I know a lot of people who live there. So you can imagine how quickly my heart leapt into my throat when I heard about the attacks on the Boston Marathon on Monday. It took a couple hours to track down the people I thought most likely to have been caught in the chaos, and to determine that they were all right.

They were. No one I know was hurt in Monday’s attacks. Now I’m just like the rest of you, waiting to hear more. It seems unlikely to me that they’ll find the people responsible, but I hope I’m wrong. Meanwhile, Boston has been showing the resilience that has characterized it for more than 200 years. I’m immensely proud to be from there, even though I pronounce the letter R whenever I encounter it, and at times like these, I wouldn’t choose to be from anywhere else.

So, what else happened? Oh yeah, Roger Ebert died. He was one of my most important influences as a reviewer – not so much his writing style as his approach and philosophy. Ebert was the one who taught me that it’s OK to say “I” in a review, and to make it at least partially about your own reaction to art. When Ebert loved a movie, he was eloquent, but when he hated one, he was unmatchable. There are so many great examples, but this one about 1998’s Armageddon is sort of the Platonic ideal of a negative review. Every sentence is like a precise cut with a scalpel. And it’s amazingly funny. I’ll miss reading Roger’s work, and I’ll miss hearing tales of his life and his indomitable spirit.

We lost a bunch of other people, too, like Jonathan Winters and Carmine Infantino. I would have written more about them last week, but I spent two days in bed, felled by some horrific virus. I sneezed and shivered through most of last week, and now I’m better, just in time for my entire state to be flooded. I’ve never owned a basement before, so I have no experience with pumping water out of one. I hope it’s not necessary, but with even more rain on the way, I’m worried.

And on top of all that, my cat died.

Her name was Kitty. My father rescued her from a shelter 19 years ago, and she lived with him for years before coming to live with me. In all that time, she never told us her name – you know how cats sometimes do that? – so we just called her Kitty. She was a marvelously affectionate cat, if you were me. If you weren’t me, she was difficult. As she got older, she grew less trusting of other people, which wasn’t a lot of fun for my friends who fed her while I was out of town. But every time I returned, she’d be waiting at the top of the stairs, and she’d purr and rub against my leg, so happy to see me.

Kitty suffered from hypothyroidism, and took pills for it every day for about six years. It wasn’t enough, though. I found her gasping for breath two Thursdays ago, splayed out on my couch. I brought her into the emergency room of our local animal hospital, and they removed a cup of liquid from around her lungs. Do you know how much a cup of liquid is? It’s a hell of a lot. The doctor told me that Kitty was suffering from a particular form of heart failure common in cats with hypothyroidism, and that her long-term prognosis, even with treatment, wasn’t good. Months, at best.

Rather than subject her to strenuous tests and treatments, we opted to make her as comfortable as we could. She stopped eating the next day, and refused any attempts to get food down her throat. She knew the end was near, and I think she wanted to face it on her terms. I don’t think she was in pain – that is, until Sunday, when she could barely move. She still refused to eat, but she would lap up water whenever I would bring it to her. I brought her up onto my bed on Sunday night, where she loved to sleep, and she padded over and draped herself across me, purring.

I fell asleep like that, and she must have clambered off during the night. I found her body the next morning, on the floor close to my bed. She was still warm, but she was gone. It’s been almost two weeks, and I still imagine she’s waiting for me at the top of the stairs when I arrive home, and I still wait for her to jump up onto my bed at night. Pets become like family members, and losing one is more painful than you’d think.

She was a great cat, and I’ll miss her.

* * * * *

So after all that, I wasn’t quite in the mood to write a silly music column last week. I hope you’ll forgive me for taking a week off. Every year, I swear I’m going to skip a week for my birthday, and I never do. By my count, I’m owed about 11 weeks off. But I still feel bad for taking one.

My plan last week was to write about the new Strokes and Depeche Mode albums, linked solely by the fact that both use the word “machine” in their titles. Yes, that was the remarkably tenuous connection I’d drawn. I don’t think that’s worth pursuing, but let me say a little about each record. I’ve never really liked the Strokes, and their choice to “expand” their sound to include ‘80s-inspired synthesizers on Comedown Machine doesn’t make me like them any more. There are a couple of interesting song ideas on here, but not much, and the synth thing feels like an affectation rather than an honest evolution.

Depeche Mode, however, have made a terrific new record with Delta Machine. I think the title is meant to connote blues played with electronics, and the album truly follows through on that. It’s slow and creepy and vicious and vibrant, Dave Gahan’s voice ringing out in fine form. This is the band’s 13th album, and they haven’t shaken up their template very much. But they’ve proven that it doesn’t need to be shaken up. They’re in a class of one, making the best Depeche Mode music they’ve made in some time.

If I’d followed through with my original plan, the last two paragraphs probably would have taken about 2,000 words, and ended up saying the same thing. You’re welcome. Let’s see if I can keep the trend toward brevity going with this week’s selections.

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Some people believe that music should have only one purpose, and that is to entertain.

While I love music that only wants to get your heart pumping and your toes tapping, I disagree with that notion completely. I find it reductive and limiting. Quite a lot of music is intended to do other things – rouse you, stoke your political flames, convey perspective, confuse and bewilder, set your synapses reeling. And some music is specifically intended to disturb you, to make you uncomfortable and upset. This is not a failing. The more creeped out you are, the more successful this music is.

At their bizarre best, the Flaming Lips are masters of that sort of thing. Yes, Wayne Coyne and his merry band are better known for their joyous anthems, like “Race for the Prize” and “Do You Realize,” but scratch that surface, and they’re an immensely weird band with a penchant for shiver-inducing atmosphere. This isn’t news – just check out anything and everything they’ve done since their last album, 2009’s intense Embryonic. Eschewing the very notion of albums altogether, the Lips have collaborated with a host of strange partners, released songs on thumb drives in gummy skulls and gummy fetuses, created a six-hour song, and then topped it with a 24-hour song, which was astoundingly unnerving.

The band seemed to be enjoying the freedom of releasing music in whatever form they chose, so their decision to return to the album format for their 13th effort, The Terror, seems odd. Whatever else The Terror accomplished, it had to explain why these nine songs were released together and in this format. And to its credit, it certainly does that. The Lips have made a cohesive suite of moods, perhaps their most consistent recording ever. It’s entirely of a piece.

I’d be hard-pressed to say there are songs on here, but it almost doesn’t matter. The Lips maintain a pervasive buzzing, unsettling atmosphere, even when there are soaring melodies, as on “Try to Explain.” It is not, strictly speaking, terrifying, but it is akin to someone whispering into the back of your neck for 55 minutes. There’s a darkness to this, one that is exemplified by the steam room pulse of the 13-minute “You Lust,” a song that brings the more disturbing Pink Floyd numbers to mind. The mood continues through the near-formless title track, with its oddly oscillating waves of bass, and the creepy “You Are Alone,” which sounds like being in the airlock as the oxygen escapes.

Things get more percussive in the album’s final stretches, but the gloomy mood prevails. “Butterfly, How Long It Takes to Die” was released alongside that six-hour song two years ago, but finds a much more fitting home here as the most propulsive song of the lot. The album ends with a reprise of its opening number, and though both the first and last tracks have optimistic titles (“Look…The Sun is Rising” and “Always There, In Our Hearts”), the rattling doom remains until the end.

Put simply, if you’re looking for another “She Don’t Use Jelly” or “Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots,” you’re going to be disappointed. This is the furthest the Flaming Lips have gone in committing to a singular sound, one that prizes squirmy atmosphere over everything else. It’s hard to imagine this music being created by people, actually. True to its title, The Terror is a remarkable fulfillment of a particular vision, and that vision is to creep you the fuck out. It’s certainly not the band’s finest work, but it is possibly their most physically disturbing, and that counts for something.

Swedish synth duo The Knife has pretty much done away with songs, in the traditional sense, on their new album too. Shaking the Habitual is the follow-up to the glorious and concise Silent Shout, and is everything that record was not. Where Silent Shout was icy and carefully constructed, this new one is a sprawling 96 minutes long, contains songs that spiral out to ridiculous lengths, and seems ungodly random. The intention here seems to be to create music so abrasive and unnerving that it’s like a dare. Can you make it all the way through this thing?

I have, a few times, but only because I forced myself to. Where siblings Karin Dreijer Andersson and Olof Dreijer once reveled in their ability to subvert pop music, they’ve now decided that any trace of pop is the enemy. I cannot emphasize enough just how intentionally off-putting this record is. The opening tracks, “A Tooth for an Eye” and the nine-minute “Full of Fire,” are meandering collections of fierce beats and screams, with only occasional nods to melody. Same with “Raging Lung” and “Stay Out Here,” each hovering around 10 minutes, and the seven-minute instrumental “Networking.”

And those are probably my favorites here. Smack in the middle of this album is the 19-minute drone “Old Dreams Waiting to Be Realized,” and though I definitely like a good drone, this one kills the album stone dead. It is, however, almost inhumanly disturbing. “A Cherry On Top” is similar, though it only drags on for nine minutes, and “Fracking Fluid Injection” is the ultimate patience tester, 10 minutes of squeaks and squiggles sequenced near the end of this monstrosity.

Yes, there are more concise pieces here. Closing track “Ready to Lose” is four minutes of almost pretty keyboards and Karin’s distinctive voice, here shorn of its more abrasive characteristics. Two tracks on the first disc constrain their beat-heavy meanders to around five minutes. And there are squonking interludes named after Margaret Atwood characters. As you can probably tell, this is the anti-Terror – it lurches from one mood to another throughout its running time. It takes a lot of work to absorb it all, and it’s never quite clear if all that effort is worthwhile.

I can’t say I outright dislike Shaking the Habitual. On the contrary, I admire the spirit it took to create something like this, something so upfront about its own unlikable nature. It’s definitely designed to shock and unsettle, and it does its job well. But unlike The Terror, it’s not something that I’ll be reaching for anytime soon. It’s possible to create something that is truly disturbing and yet strangely compelling. The Flaming Lips have done both, while the Knife could have used some time to work on the second part.

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There, that wasn’t so hard. I’m back in the saddle. Thanks for being patient with me.

Next week, some artists who have revisited the past, including Michael Roe, Quiet Company and Marillion. 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.

These days, there’s a seemingly infinite number of places to find new music.

Fans used to have to rely on the radio to hear new stuff. I remember listening to my boom box (yes, we called them that) with a blank tape at the ready, poised to hit record the second I heard the opening strains of whatever band’s new single I was dying to own. Then came MTV. Believe it or not, this network used to play music videos. Like, all the time, not just at 3 a.m. And they would play new stuff, and (most importantly) tell you the name of the band and the name of the album. I kept a notebook handy, because I am that much of a huge nerd.

But now? Between Spotify and Pandora and YouTube and Pitchfork Advance and four million websites with streams of new records, you can hear pretty much anything you want to. Read an intriguing-sounding band name in a review? Just plug that into a Google search and you can find out in seconds if they’re for you. It’s easier than ever to seek out new music to listen to, new bands to enjoy.

For me, though, you can’t beat a local record store. It’s more than a place to pick up CDs and vinyl, it’s a community hub. It’s a place where like-minded music fans can connect, can trade recommendations, can spin unknown pleasures and get immediate feedback. Yes, I take full advantage of the resources of the internet, and I find a lot of new music that way. But my favorite place to discover new stuff is Kiss the Sky, the best record store in Chicagoland.

The staff at Kiss the Sky has been invaluable lately, as I’ve tried to keep my resolution to try as many new bands as possible. I have three on tap this week, and I bought two of them after recommendations from Mike Messerschmidt, who looks like Terry O’Quinn from Lost, but knows his shit. And after nine years, he knows what I like, what will flip my switch. In both cases, he was absolutely right. In fact, those who paid attention to last week’s column will already know which albums I’m talking about.

Let’s start with my new favorite band, Little Green Cars.

This quintet is from Ireland. Your first clue should be that there’s an O’Regan, an O’Rourke and an O’Leary in the band, and the O’Leary’s first name is Donagh. Their debut album is called Absolute Zero, and you can find it occupying the number six spot on my top 10 list right now, ahead of the likes of Steven Wilson and Johnny Marr. These guys (and one girl) are barely in their twenties, and I ordinarily have a physical aversion to jumping on the bandwagon, particularly when it comes to young bands and their first albums. But this one is just awesome.

Imagine the harmonies of Fleet Foxes married to the jangly power pop of a band like Shoes, and you have a pretty good idea of the arresting first single, “Harper Lee.” The song slowly springs to life, Stevie Appleby’s shaky voice ringing out over strumming acoustic guitars, but when the chorus kicks in, it’s like the clouds suddenly parting. It’s the greatest “oo-we-oo-ooh” I’ve heard in a long time, and though the song doesn’t offer much more, it’s still a great way to open things.

The harmonies are the hallmark of Little Green Cars. Just listen to the rising waves of vocals that wash over “Angel Owl,” or the mass of singing voices on the Arcade Fire-ish “Big Red Dragon.” (“I’m not gonna wait for it, oh my god…”) And if propulsive rock with delicious vocal arrangements were all this band offered, they’d still be great. But Absolute Zero has a number of surprises in store. The first one comes at track three – “My Love Took Me Down to the River to Silence Me” introduces Faye O’Rourke on lead vocals, and she brings a Florence Welch energy to the proceedings. The song is marvelous, putting a different twist on their sound.

And then, just when you’re thinking you have the band figured out – sweet guitar-pop in a sea of harmonies – they spring “Red and Blue” on you. The music consists entirely of an oscillating organ line, and the five-part vocals are all auto-tuned – think Bon Iver’s “Woods.” The effect is mesmerizing, and what could have been a simple little ditty is something altogether stranger and more interesting. That leads into “The Kitchen Floor,” an emotional gut punch about ending a painful relationship. O’Rourke sings this one too, over a subtle electric piano bed. It’s wrenching and wonderful.

Little Green Cars keep the quality high all the way to the end, the delicate acoustic piece “Goodbye Blue Monday,” and by the time it’s done, you’ll be astonished that this is the band’s debut. There’s enough honey-throated goodness here to sustain an entire career. Absolute Zero is an accomplished work that belies the age and experience of its authors, and a damn fine album that any band would be proud to call its own. It is, thus far, the discovery of 2013.

Young Dreams isn’t far behind, though. I’m not sure how Mike hears about bands like this, but I’m glad he does. This band’s name is the worst thing about them. They’re a 12-piece pop collective from Norway, led by Mathias Tellez, who produced their first album, Between Places. And again we have a confident debut album with a fresh sound and a sure step.

Young Dreams is everything I wish Animal Collective could be. My favorite material from Panda and Avey has been their most Brian Wilson-influenced, and Young Dreams takes that foundation and builds a gleaming tower on it. There are gauzy synthesizers in abundance, but there are also real strings and glockenspiels and horns and glorious, glorious harmonies. Best of all, there are songs – deeply melodic, complex yet still catchy songs, with new surprises every few seconds.

Opener “Footprints” sets the tone. The fuzzy synths and electronic drum patter will be familiar to Animal Collective fans, but when Tellez sings, his clear and bright-eyed voice sends things skyward. The chorus sports a gorgeous vocal arrangement, and the extra “ah” in the refrain that follows seals the deal. This song is terrific, and it only gets better as it goes along. “Wounded Hearts Forever” picks up the ball and runs with it, opening with a synth orchestra and ending with a wondrous keyboard dance party. In between, the Beach Boys melodies keep on coming – the chorus is particularly Wilson-esque.

By this point, you’ll likely be overwhelmed by the physical sound of this record. The band obviously labored over it, layering color atop color, and the result is simultaneously airy and massive. The arrangements are certainly fussy, but all of that precision somehow results in a record that feels unbounded, one that takes flight early and doesn’t come back down. “First Days of Something” is like a mix of Dream Academy and Vampire Weekend, merging Paul Simon guitars with piccolos and blipping keys, but it works beautifully, the song climbing and climbing until it breaks our atmosphere.

The band’s ambitions truly become clear on the 11-minute “The Girl Who Taught Me to Drink and Fight,” an epic of SMiLE-esque proportions. Though parts of it may feel like jams, this is clearly a carefully-thought-out piece, swinging from section to section with nimble joy. When the vocals come soaring back in at the eight minute mark, it’s simply glorious. The album ends with the song that shares the band’s name, and it’s a brief benediction, summing up most of what’s great about this record. You can almost forgive them for choosing the name Young Dreams.

Between Places is a stunning debut, an attempt to make Pet Sounds right out of the gate. It falls short, certainly – it’s at times too committed to its sonic overload, and that gets a bit monotonous. But if this band can hone and refine their sound, they’re going to make a masterpiece one day. Between Places comes remarkably close.

So those were Mike’s recommendations, and I’m thankful. The third of my new-to-me bands this week comes from Mike’s fellow Kiss the Sky employee Rob Hale, who, I swear, listens to absolutely everything. One day he’ll be waxing ecstatic about some Belgian prog band, the next putting on some vintage Art Blakey jazz session. You never know what he’s going to like, but since he has just about the broadest taste I’ve ever encountered, I pay attention when he gives me a heads up.

His new obsession is And So I Watch You From Afar, another group from Ireland. Their work is largely instrumental, and eminently danceable despite its proggier leanings. Their third album is called All Hail Bright Futures, and Rob believes it was written as a single piece of music, then cut into tracks during recording. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’s right – the album as a whole is an explosion of joy, a guitar-drenched party from another planet, and it feels of a piece.

Musicians will certainly admire this band’s chops. The ringing guitar line on “Big Thinks Do Remarkable” is tricky and ultra-fast, and the band locks into some complicated grooves on “Ambulance” and “Mend and Make Safe.” This is not easy material to play, and it was obviously hammered into shape over months of rehearsal and refinement. But that makes it sound stuffy, and this is anything but. On the contrary, this stuff rocks – just listen to “Like a Mouse,” all of 2:39 and every second of it head-bangingly fun.

Adding to the sense that this was one long piece of music initially is “The Stay Golden,” an eight-minute epic divided across three tracks. It glides from kinetic rave-up to blissful, wistful finale, complete with chiming trumpet. It’s definitely the most accomplished thing here, if not the most fun. That title goes to “Ka Ba Ta Bo Da Ka,” a delightful piece which features those syllables sung in rounds over a shifting guitar party, with a big riff showing up around the three minute mark. The album ends with the seven-minute “Young Brave Minds,” a slowly-building summation of everything this band does well. It’s grand.

You may think you don’t like bands like And So I Watch You From Afar, with their distinct lack of lyrics and their prog sensibilities. But check them out. They’re a mostly-instrumental band for people who don’t think they like mostly-instrumental bands. All Hail Bright Futures is certainly head-spinningly complex, but you won’t even notice over the sound of how much fun it is. Thanks for the recommendation, Rob.

Next week, probably the Strokes and Depeche Mode. 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.