I’ve had a long and complex relationship with synthesizers.

I fell in love with them when I was a kid. My first band, if you want to call it that, consisted of me, my next door neighbor, and a Casio sampling keyboard. We had heard “Pump Up the Volume” by M/A/R/R/S and said to ourselves, “We could do that.” We were 12 years old. What did we know?

My love of synthesized sounds came from the hot music of the day. My Rosetta Stone was Harold Faltermeyer’s “Axel F,” a keyboard melody so indelible that I bet at least half of you are humming it right now. It was my grandmother who taught me how to play piano, but it was Harold Faltermeyer who initially made me want to play keys. And in the early ‘80s, every band had a keyboard player, even the hard-rocking ones like Bon Jovi and Europe.

I loved that stuff, but I also loved the Pet Shop Boys, who crashed into my world with “What Have I Done to Deserve This” in 1987. It was a duet with Dusty Springfield. Did I have any idea who Dusty Springfield was? No, I did not. You’d think a musically-inclined person like me would have looked her up, and perhaps heard Dusty in Memphis before I was 16. And if I were making this story up, that’s how it would go. But no, my Pet Shop Boys fascination just led me to other synth-pop bands, and eventually to the king of the keyboards. No, not Keith Emerson, you silly person. I’m talking about Yanni.

When I was a teen, I adored Yanni. I bought all his albums on cassette. I scored my high school films with his goopy instrumentals. I had enough residual Yanni love in my later teen years that I brought his cassettes to college, and bought Live at the Acropolis when it came out in 1994. How, you may be asking, did I reconcile this with my teenage metalhead phase? I don’t know. I just did. It’s Yanni, and you don’t question it.

But Yanni and the Pet Shop Boys were the only constants. Over time, I developed a strange aversion to synthetic anything in music. I think it coincided with the Seattle grunge explosion, when “real” music was made with guitars and drums, and “pop” was electronic drums and keyboards. I still liked pop music, but I hid it, holding fast to the notion that programming wasn’t playing, and anything synthetic couldn’t be as good as anything organic. I clung to that for a depressingly long time, despite bands like Garbage, who seemed to exist mainly to prove that those divisions didn’t.

Of course, at the same time that I was dissing any band that didn’t play acoustics and angst, I was secretly listening to an awful lot of synth-pop. Not sure why I thought it was an illicit thing, but I think I equated synthesizer music with falsity, with insincerity. I don’t remember how I snapped out of that, but I’m glad I did. In fact, after college, I dove into electronic music pretty heavily. I even made my own – hours and hours of it, some trance-like and simplistic, some ass-achingly complex, as if to prove that electronic music could be “real” music.

These days, synthesizers and I have an understanding. I think they’re a remarkable tool, when they’re not being used to emulate something organic instruments do better. Synth strings and horns usually leave me cold, because they’re no substitute for real strings and horns. (I’ll admit here that Mark Kelly of Marillion sometimes overuses the string patches.) But when synthesizers are used to create sounds only they can make, they mesmerize me. Take an artist like Ronnie Martin, who goes by Joy Electric. He uses analog synthesizers exclusively because nothing else could spin the sound he hears in his head.

And it’s become abundantly clear that synthetic music doesn’t necessarily mean synthetic emotions. In fact, some electronic music is fathoms deeper and more honest than most of the confessionals made by six-string troubadours. As with virtually any kind of music, it’s all about how much of yourself you put into it, how much of a reflection of the artist the art is allowed to become.

And so after all that, I’m going to talk about Owl City.

If there’s a poster child for insincere electronic music, as far as most of the world is concerned, it’s probably Adam Young. Over three albums as Owl City (and one as Sky Sailing), Young has put forth a twee, faintly ridiculous vision of electro-pop. It’s sugary-sweet, and full of magical allusions and terrible puns, and those things – plus the ever-present Auto-Tune on Young’s voice – are take-it-or-leave-it propositions. Most have decided to leave it.

It’s no secret I’ve taken some grief for defending Owl City. But I’m not ashamed. Despite lazy comparisons to Ben Gibbard’s one Postal Service album (to which Adam Young’s music bears only the slightest resemblance), I find his work defiantly individual. I can’t think of anyone else who would make an album like Ocean Eyes, honestly. There’s too much whimsy, too much effervescence, too many anti-radio-pop decisions for it to be anything but an artistic vision. “Fireflies” was a fluke. If “The Bird and the Worm” or “Umbrella Beach” had become a hit, that would have been amazing.

I’ve always felt that Adam Young puts a lot of himself into Owl City. And if you’ve ever wondered what he would sound like if he really did aim for the charts and the teen girls’ hearts, well, you only need to listen to his disappointing fourth album, The Midsummer Station. It’s everything Ocean Eyes was accused of being: pandering, hit-obsessed and phony to the core.

The sad thing is that Owl City still sounds about the same, and it’s a sound I love. Young’s laptop-pop still burbles along confidently, his voice still innocent and Auto-Tuned. There are a few more guitars, particularly on the laughable half-punk embarrassment “Dementia” (featuring Mark Hoppus of Blink-182, no less), but casual listeners probably won’t notice much difference between The Midsummer Station and any of Young’s other records.

But it’s there, and it’s enormous. Young has worked with a veritable army of co-writers and producers on this album, and they’ve surgically removed his whimsy and replaced it with boring, straightforward dance-pop. There isn’t much to separate this from your average mainstream club record. If you don’t notice much difference between something like “Speed of Love” and Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe,” that’s because there isn’t much. And just to drive the point home, Jepsen herself appears on the putrid “Good Time,” one track later.

Here’s the first verse of that song: “Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, what’s up with this Prince song in my head, hands up if you’re down to get down tonight, ‘cause it’s always a good time…” Later, Jepsen takes a whole verse to say she “freaked out, dropped my phone in the pool again, checked out of my room, hit the ATM, let’s hang out if you’re down to get down tonight…” Anyone who made fun of “Friday” but likes this is just fooling themselves.

The lyrics on the whole record are this average, this straightforward, this boring. “Shooting Star” (produced by the same folks who made Katy Perry’s “Firework”) is exactly the vague anthem of hope you think it is: “When the sun goes down and the lights burn out then it’s time for you to shine brighter than a shooting star, so shine no matter where you are…” People shine all over this record – observe this bit of “Gold,” which goes, “You’ll never be far, I’m keeping you near, inside of my heart, you’re here, go on, it’s gotta be time, you’re starting to shine…” Although it’s better than “Dementia,” on which he actually claims that “dementia is driving me crazy.” Good lord.

Why am I harping on lyrics, when they never mean that much to me? Because Owl City’s lyrics were a reflection of Adam Young himself, geeky and funny and full of joy. And the lyrics on The Midsummer Station are a reflection of a marketing push, an attempt to turn this strange, quirky artist into a pop star. It’s a misguided effort, one that has resulted in a soulless album. Late in this record, Young pulls out “Silhouette,” an achingly pretty piano ballad with what may very well be a heartfelt lyric about loneliness. It’s the one moment here that sounds honest, yet its presence on an album this ill-conceived makes me doubt it. And that’s a bad thing.

I’m never going to hate the Owl City sound. But somehow, that makes this even worse – a sound I love is being used to prop up these empty songs. I’ll give Young credit for trying to pull out of the tailspin near the end – “Silhouette” and “Metropolis” are decent. But they can’t make up for the bulk of the record (and the awful closing track, “Take It All Away”), which wallows in its own insincerity, hoping for mainstream success. It’s already happening – “Good Time” is a hit, meaning he’ll probably keep on walking down this path. More’s the pity, because Owl City used to be something pretty special.

If, after suffering through The Midsummer Station, you’re on the hunt for an electronic album with a beating heart and a free flying soul, well, I have one for you. It’s the second full-length from Michael Angelakos, who goes by Passion Pit, and it’s called Gossamer. Passion Pit used to be a band, but for this record, Angelakos dropped all pretense, dove in on his own (with drummer Chris Zane), and came up with a wonderfully individual electro-pop masterwork.

Gossamer is as autobiographical, as confessional as the starkest folk record you could name. It deals directly with Angelakos’ struggle with depression, and with the healthy relationship that has pulled him out of it. This isn’t some mawkish love-conquers-all sopfest, though – it’s real and dark and unflinching stuff. Take “I’ll Be Alright,” in which Angelakos and his love split up: “I’ve made so many messes and this love has grown so restless, your whole life’s been nothing but this, I won’t let you go loveless, I’ll be alright…” This is the album’s second track, and already things seem hopeless.

“Cry Like a Ghost” is similarly dark, sending Angelakos to the brink: “See what I’ve done now, I don’t understand, she says I screamed and that I raised my hand, I never meant to, I wasn’t even there, I never meant to, I would never dare…” He asks his love to marry him in “On My Way,” and three tracks later he’s declaring that “Love is Greed.” The whole mess comes to a head on “It’s Not My Fault, I’m Happy,” in which he learns to push through the madness of his life and realize the joy he has. The final track is called “Where We Belong,” and it’s a lovely summing-up moment: “All the things you can’t control should never destroy the love one holds.” When Angelakos sings “I found a place where we belong,” seconds before the record ends, it’s an emotional catharsis worth celebrating.

Even the seemingly disconnected opening song, the awesome “Take a Walk,” is ripped right from Angelakos’ family history. It’s the story of an immigrant trying to make a new life for his family in America, and even though it includes a few clunky lines (“But then my partner called to say the pension funds were gone”), it’s a remarkable summation of the plight of millions, rendered in specific human terms.

All of this is wrapped up in danceable, glorious electronic pop. “I’ll Be Alright” is practically club-ready, with explosive drums and pulsing, thumping bass. There’s a real string section in here somewhere, but it’s all been processed and synthesized. “Carried Away” is a mid-tempo keyboard festival, and “Mirrored Sea” is probably what Arcade Fire would sound like if they used nothing but synths. (There’s a lot of Ronnie Martin in this one, too.) Over all of this, Angelakos sings in a clear and forceful falsetto – he’s particularly effective on the soulful slow jam “Constant Conversations.”

Musically, this is just as plastic and elastic as Owl City, but there’s a tremendous sincerity to it that wipes the floor with Adam Young’s effort. And that makes all the difference. While I shudder at the thought of pressing play on The Midsummer Station again, I will treasure Gossamer, and study it, and wear it out, and wrap my life around it. That’s what the best art inspires, and the tools used to create it are secondary. What matters is that you mean it.

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Next week, I promise, the WTF Awards return. I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but there are some real head-scratchers here. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

The best artists, to me, are the ones who constantly surprise you.

Beck definitely falls into that category. He started out as the very definition of a one-hit wonder, with the estimable “Loser” lampooning that wave of self-loathing that drowned out the ‘90s. But then, with his very next major-label record, he proved himself a genius. Odelay still stands as a remarkable record – it’s much less dated than you’d expect – and it began a string of consistently surprising works. He went from the breezy Mutations to the sex-funk parody Midnite Vultures to the shimmering, moving Sea Change, all in four years.

We haven’t heard from Beck since 2008, but in December, he’ll release another collection of 20 new songs. But because he’s Beck, he’ll do it in a most surprising way. Beck Hansen’s Song Reader is being touted as Beck’s new album, but he’s not recording a note of it. In collaboration with McSweeney’s, he’s releasing these songs as sheet music, and encouraging people to create their own recordings and share them online.

Which is, to say the least, brilliant.

I was initially taken aback by this idea, considering it a bit gimmicky. I mean, it’s sheet music. It’s expected – you write a song, you release the sheet music. It actually took me a while to figure out what’s so amazing about this concept: Beck is not recording these songs. There’s no “definitive” version for people to compare themselves to. So when those people get together with other musicians and try to hammer out their own versions of these tunes, there will be no “right” way and no “wrong” way to play them.

Think about a song everyone knows. We’ll choose the Beatles’ “Yesterday,” partially because it’s the most covered pop song in history. You all know it. If you were to hum it, you’d hear the song in your head first. And you’d hear it at a certain tempo, and you’d hear the lyrics sung the way Paul McCartney crooned them on Help. You’d probably hear an acoustic guitar and some strings, too. There are a lot of covers of “Yesterday,” and quite a lot of them stick to the tempo and arrangement of the original. But even those that don’t – the industrial takes, the reggae versions, the metal scream-throughs – feel like a reaction to the original.

The brilliance of Beck’s idea is to eliminate that cornerstone recording. When Song Reader hits, and people try to play these songs, no one’s going to know how Beck envisioned them. No one will know the “right” tempo, the “correct” arrangement. Even the vocal inflection, which tells more of the tale than people realize, will be a mystery. And so we’re going to get all kinds of versions of these songs, and none of them will be definitive. This will be music that truly belongs to everyone who participates.

This is an idea that could only work now, in the age of YouTube. It’s astonishingly quick and easy – and best of all, free – for anyone to share their versions of Beck’s new songs with the world. I hope this spreads like wildfire. I’m fascinated by the idea, and I’ll be keeping a lookout for these songs, and maybe trying my hand at a couple. But this is what I love about Beck. I could have guessed a million different things, and I’d never have predicted that this is what he’d do next.

December. Start practicing.

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I can’t believe I haven’t already reviewed the new Shawn Colvin album.

I’ve been enjoying it almost non-stop since its June 5 release, and at times it feels like I’ve already shared my thoughts on it here. I’m kind of amazed to find out that I actually haven’t, that I only imagined doing so. I know I’ve had several long conversations about it, and about how it single-handedly boosted one of my favorite songwriters out of the rut she’s been in for more than a decade, recasting her singular voice in new and surprising lights. I’ve told enough people how much I love this record that I guess I thought I’d told all of you, too.

Silly me. Let me rectify that right now.

Colvin’s seventh album is called All Fall Down. Hard to believe she only has seven albums, but Colvin is known for working slowly – her last record was released in 2006, the one before that in 2001. She’s also known for a particular sound, a sort of shiny folk music produced a particular way. Each of her previous albums has existed in this same space, primarily because most of them were produced by the same person – her longtime writing partner John Leventhal. On several of Colvin’s previous efforts, Leventhal even handled the lion’s share of the instruments. There’s no doubt this arrangement worked – just check out the wonderful A Few Small Repairs, her best-known album.

But it all got a little repetitive. I’m a Shawn Colvin fan, and I barely remember These Four Walls, her last effort. Something needed to change, and on All Fall Down, something did – Colvin left Leventhal behind and enlisted Nashville legend Buddy Miller to man the boards. The result is her earthiest, most organic album ever. There’s dust in these grooves, and the smell of desert air, and a sense of space and heart that you probably didn’t realize was missing.

Keyboards and electric guitars have been replaced by fiddles and lap steels here, but that’s easy. The real trick is finding the world-weary honesty that has sometimes been lost in Colvin’s songs, and bringing that to the fore. That’s a trick she and Miller accomplish with admirable aplomb on All Fall Down, so much so that at times here, the 56-year-old Colvin sounds like a completely new artist.

You may not hear the difference right away. The opening title track is a classic catchy Shawn Colvin song, built on acoustic guitars but fleshed out with ringing electrics and gang vocals. It’s one of only a few songs Colvin wrote with Leventhal this time out, and it’s the one that sounds the most familiar. But track two is a cover of Rod McDonald’s “American Jerusalem,” and it’s here that the new tone is set. Pedal steels and accordions provide texture over a spare guitar and whispered drum. The loping country original “Knowing What I Know Now” continues in the same vein, with fiddles and electric piano and some sweet harmonies from Miller.

Colvin and Leventhal co-wrote “Seven Times the Charm” with Jakob Dylan. I point that out because it’s a terrific song, despite those odds. A dusty waltz that would make Gillian Welch smile, the song is a perfectly-crafted portrait of a doomed relationship: “And we go once down the aisle and twice round the stars, you had all the persuasion of a snake on my arm, and seven times the charm…” This one features dazzling lead guitar by Bill Frisell and backing vocals by Alison Krauss. Beat that.

And the record never comes down from there. “Anne of the Thousand Days” is ghostly and captivating, Frisell’s ringing guitar complimenting Colvin’s voice perfectly. (A reference to email is the only false note. It’s certainly a songwriterly detail, but it jars with the organic tone of the song.) “The Neon Light of the Saints” is a stomper with a mini-orchestra in tow, and “Change is On the Way,” co-written with Patty Griffin, is a piercing breakup song that floats along on its pedal steel lines.

All Fall Down ends with a pair of covers, one of recent vintage, one a golden oldie. It’s a tribute to newly-minted Irish singer Mick Flannery that I think his “Up on That Hill” is one of the best songs on this album. Colvin hews close to the original, but adds an ocean of emotion to it, and just to top things off, invites Emmylou Harris to sing it with her. She closes things out with B.W. Stevenson’s 1972 lullaby “On My Own,” and it’s just the kind of tune these musicians might pull out to end a session on a graceful note. It’s pastoral and beautiful, like a slow kiss goodbye.

Shawn Colvin’s been so very good for so very long, but All Fall Down may well be her best record. It’s the best kind of redefinition – it retains the core essence of Colvin as a songwriter and artist, but replaces all the scenery with something new. Teaming with Buddy Miller was an inspired decision, and the record they made together is a deep, memorable high water mark for an already-tremendous artist. Sorry it took so long to review this. I hope, like All Fall Down, it was worth the wait.

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Peter Mulvey is one of the most interesting songwriters I know. From the wry “The Trouble With Poets” to the fiercely humanist “Deep Blue” to the righteously furious “The Fix is On” to the phenomenal spoken-word piece “Vlad the Astrophysicist,” Mulvey has proven himself one of the most versatile folk artists around.

But even though he has a strikingly original songwriting voice, he loves interpreting other writers’ material. He always has. Mulvey began his solo career in the subways of Boston, playing covers and trying to snag a few seconds’ attention from busy passersby. The first fascinating cover I heard him pull off was a guitar-and-vocal read of Prince’s “Sign o’ the Times.” He’s included other people’s tunes on virtually all of his albums, some total reinventions and some straight homages, and he released a whole album of them, Ten Thousand Mornings, recorded live in those subway tunnels.

And now he’s given us a studio album of interpretations, one that runs the gamut from country to jazz to pop balladry. It’s called The Good Stuff, and it’s delightful. Mulvey assembled some old friends, dubbed here the Crumbling Beauties, and embarked on this trip without a map, pulling songs out of a hat and giving them a whirl while the tapes rolled. The result is a loose and fun collection that runs all over the place, beholden to no genre, style, or train of thought. After 2009’s dense Letters From a Flying Machine, it’s great to hear Mulvey cut loose on some of his favorite tunes.

And if you think I’m kidding about the variety on display, think again. The Good Stuff slowly strums to life with a take on Melvern Taylor’s ballad “Sad and Blue,” but then jumps into Leonard Cohen’s “Everybody Knows” and Willie Nelson’s “Are You Sure.” (As you can imagine, Mulvey’s deep, sonorous voice proves a perfect fit for the Cohen song.) In short order, he’s slamming through Chris Smither’s skipping “Time to Spend,” spinning a graceful version of Bill Frisell’s lovely “Egg Radio” and taking on Tom Waits’ creeping “Green Grass.” Oh, and then he whips out Duke Ellington’s “Mood Indigo.”

This record just goes everywhere, and shows the depth of influences Mulvey brings to his work. That all of these covers work to one degree or another is remarkable. Mulvey pulls off a back porch ramble through Jolie Holland’s “Old Fashioned Morphine,” brings that low voice to bear on Schwang’s “Sugar” (which he previously covered on 5:30 a.m.) and strikes just the right tone with Joe Henry’s complex “Richard Pryor Addresses a Tearful Nation.” And then he chooses Monk’s “Ruby, My Dear” to finish things out, like a breeze gently closing a door.

But wait, there’s more. The Crumbling Beauties had such a good time making The Good Stuff that they stuck around for another half-dozen tunes, which Mulvey has released separately as an EP called Chaser. While it begins with Randy Newman’s acerbic “It’s Lonely At the Top,” the rest of Chaser hews closer to old-time jazz tunes: “Dream a Little Dream of Me,” “It’s Only a Paper Moon,” “Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye.” It’s a less invigorating listen, but still a fun one, and it makes for a perfect… well, chaser.

Peter Mulvey’s carved out a singular career, essentially by doing whatever he wants, and doing it very well. He’s been under the radar for years – this is his 12th album – and I don’t expect The Good Stuff to change that. But like everything he’s done, it’s well worth hearing. It’s a fun wander through Mulvey’s musical mind, laying bare the full scope of his inspiration. It’s a nice palette cleanser for whatever he whips up next, which will no doubt also be well worth hearing. Check out Mulvey here.

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By my count, this is my 600th Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. column. I know, I don’t look a day over 400. Thanks to everyone who has followed along this far. On to 601 next week, with the return of the WTF Awards. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Has there been a more important innovation for independent music in the past few years than Kickstarter?

I don’t think so. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Kickstarter, it’s essentially the Marillion Method for financing projects in advance – pre-orders of an unfinished thing, with special incentives for those who pony up early. The cool thing about Kickstarter is that the musicians/artists/whatever set a goal for their fundraising, and if they meet it – through their own marketing efforts – they get the cash. If they don’t, they get nothing. It forces artists to learn how to sell themselves, a skill they definitely need in this brave new world.

Kickstarter allowed my friend Andrea Dawn to finish her tremendous new album. It gave Amanda Palmer the freedom to make the forthcoming Theatre is Evil on her own, and on her own terms. It provided full recording budgets to both Brothers Martin, Jason of Starflyer 59 and Ronnie of Joy Electric, to make their new, upcoming records after they were dismissed from their shared label. And it financed one of the two albums I’m reviewing this week.

There’s just nothing bad here. It’s the greatest technological achievement of the modern age, as far as music is concerned. And now it’s going to help one of my favorite unsung bands get back into the studio for the first time in more than a decade.

Daniel Amos has been around since the late ‘70s, and for most of that time, they’ve been in the “simply incredible” category. Their ringmaster is Terry Taylor, one of our finest living songwriters – between DA, the Lost Dogs and his solo work, Taylor has written more great tunes in the past 35 years than nearly anyone whose name isn’t Costello, Mann or Finn. The Daniel Amos catalog is vast, but it’s also deep, and their records – particularly the angular Darn Floor, Big Bite, the Beatlesque Motorcycle, the impressionistic concept piece Songs From the Heart, and all four Alarma chronicles – are worth sinking into and soaking up.

The last time the four members of DA got together in the studio, the result was 2001’s mammoth 34-song Mr. Buechner’s Dream. It’s a classic rock record of titanic proportions, and had it been released by a more well-known band, you’d have heard every critic in the country falling over themselves to praise it. A double album with no weak songs – that’s an achievement in itself, but Mr. Buechner’s Dream goes beyond that. It’s a true American classic, and only a few thousand people heard it.

Terry Taylor is 62 now, and I wouldn’t blame him for resting on his laurels. He’s spent the years since MBD concentrating on the Lost Dogs, his country-rock supergroup – their 2010 album Old Angel is a masterpiece. But now he’s hoping to revive Daniel Amos, and I couldn’t be happier. This week, DA launched a Kickstarter page to fund their new album. They asked for $12,000, and they had it within a day. That’s how dedicated Daniel Amos fans are, and how hungry they are for new Taylor music.

We’re gonna have a new Daniel Amos album, probably next year. That’s just awesome. But although the band has reached their goal, they could still use support – it costs way more than $12,000 to record, mix, master, produce and distribute a nationally-released record on one’s own. The music of Terry Taylor has meant a lot to me, so I’m happy to give. If his songs have touched your life as well, please consider it. Taylor and his bandmates have languished in obscurity for their entire careers, with only the love of their fans to sustain them. This is a great opportunity to show them how much they’ve meant to us.

New Daniel Amos! Life is good.

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This is a good week to mention Daniel Amos, because the theme this time around is bands returning after some time away. Granted, neither of this week’s contestants have been out of the spotlight as long as DA has, but the albums on tap this week definitely serve as reintroductions.

In the case of Sixpence None the Richer, it’s been 10 years since Divine Discontent, an album that was pretty late itself. Sixpence once had momentum – their early records built up to their dazzling self-titled third effort, and that one included a little song called “Kiss Me.” You may think this happens to me a lot, but Sixpence was one of the few bands I watched explode, going from an obscure favorite to a nationwide sensation in the space of weeks.

That’s long in the past, though. It took the band five years to deliver Discontent, due largely to record label issues, and even though they turned in a shimmering, complex, gorgeous pop album, it was roundly ignored. I expect the same fate will befall Lost in Transition, their long-awaited new one, but that’s OK. Where Discontent was a bid to recapture their acclaim, Transition is just a Sixpence album, relaxed and confident. It’s the antithesis of a splashy return.

In fact, it’s so relaxed that it’s almost underwhelming at first. The core of the band has always been the delightful voice of Leigh Nash and the deceptively assured songwriting of Matt Slocum. They’ve long been risk-takers – that self-titled record includes tricky time signatures, surprisingly raw production and a track sung in Spanish, and Discontent features twisting pop songs like “Melody of You” and dramatic epics like the spiraling “Dizzy.” By contrast, Transition has a dozen simple little tunes, recorded minimally – guitars, drums, piano, some pedal steel, not a lot else. At 41 minutes, it’s their slightest and wispiest album.

That said, there’s nothing at all wrong with it, aside from a lack of ambition. Most of these songs sound homespun, and largely concern loneliness, and lost and found faith. There are songs here that could easily be about Nash’s 2007 divorce, but Sixpence has always written about standing on shaky ground, hoping for a lifeline. The simple arrangements actually enhance a song like “Go Your Way,” a sweet number of separation and reconciliation.

While I wish some of these songs, like the trifling “Radio,” went a few more places, there’s nothing I dislike on here. I’m actually quite fond of “Give It Back,” a classic Sixpence cry to the heavens, and of “Safety Line,” both of which put the emphasis on pianos and nifty melodies. There’s more than a hint of country to some of these tunes, like the relatively upbeat “Don’t Blame Yourself,” which could be a hit if Nash had more of a twang in her voice. The actual single is the pretty “Sooner Than Later,” which, at track 11, is the record’s emotional climax. And again, there’s nothing wrong with it.

But there’s nothing that screams “we’re back” on here, either. Lost in Transition is a good record, but it’s a bit too sedate and easygoing, especially after 10 years. It’s interesting to say that, since Sixpence has always been a band that erred on the side of trying too hard. This new album barely even announces itself. I like it just fine, and if it’s kicking off a new era of breezier Sixpence records, then it does its job well. But if this is all we hear from Slocum and Nash for another decade, it seems like it won’t be enough.

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The same cannot be said of Jonathan Jones, who has brought back his band We Shot the Moon for their first album since 2009. Now, of course, that’s not a long time, but Jones has made a pretty big deal about launching his solo career in the intervening years, effectively ending We Shot the Moon after two albums to focus on softer, piano-driven music. (His latest, Community Group, was also released this year.) So the band’s return is something of a surprise.

Even more surprising is the fact that the new album, Love and Fear, reunites the original WSTM lineup – Jones, multi-instrumentalist Dan Koch and drummer Joe Greenetz. There have been a lot of other players making their way through this band since their 2007 debut. Longtime fans will no doubt have noticed that the new album’s title is the mirror image of that debut, Fear and Love, signaling this return to basics.

But this is in no way a sequel to the pianos-and-guitars punky pop WSTM used to create. Love and Fear is full of big pop songs with big arrangements – it is, in fact, the most interesting sonic canvas Jones has ever given himself to sing over. Just check out “We Can Wait,” a synthy tune that would be danceable if not for that tricky missed beat in the verses. Electronic drums burst and pop, keyboard washes roll in like waves, and Jones harmonizes with himself.

This is also Jones’ most varied work, a lesson he learned well while making Community Group. The album zips from the bass-driven ebullience of “Sonrisa” to the ‘80s rock of “When I’m Gone” and the introspective reflection of closer “Blind” with confidence. I do wish these songs were stronger – Jones is good at coming up with decent, but unexceptional melodies, and few of these tunes try as hard as they should. He’s getting better, though – “Forgive” is one of his best, and “Me Vs. Myself” goes some interesting places. And like the Sixpence album, there’s nothing bad here at all.

Jones financed Love and Fear entirely through Kickstarter, raising almost $15,000. He’s used that cash to create one of the richest records he’s yet made – and for a 29-year-old, this guy has made a lot of records. Love and Fear is an impressive return for We Shot the Moon, and another step in Jones’ evolution. So far, it’s been fun to watch. You can hear all of Love and Fear for free here.

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So I have just enough time left to tell you about a piece of music news I’m pretty excited about.

On October 2, the world’s greatest ambient shoegaze band, Hammock, will release its first double album. It’s called Departure Songs, and the first track released from it, “Tape Recorder,” is here. Hammock music is some of the most impossibly beautiful stuff I’ve ever heard, and a double album just means twice as much floaty goodness. If you’re unfamiliar with Hammock, go here, and then buy everything you see for sale. You won’t be disappointed.

Next week, a folksy good time with Shawn Colvin, Peter Mulvey and Girlyman. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Doctor Who fans can be pretty odd.

Case in point. My best friend Mike, the man who got me back into Who with a vengeance eight years or so ago, owned a number of cats when he was growing up. Well, in truth, they were stray cats that somehow found their way to his boyhood home in Massachusetts, and his mother fed them, and that was that. They stayed. And they all had fairly prosaic names. Kitty. Blackie. Friendly.

That is, unless you asked Mike. He would tell you their full names: Kitanadvoratrelundar, Blackanadvoratrelundar, and Friendlanadvoratrelundar. Every cat in the house had a full name that ended with “dvoratrelundar,” and Doctor Who fans are now nodding their heads, because they get the reference. The cats were all named after Romanadvoratrelundar, or Romana for short, the Time Lady companion of Ton Baker’s Doctor in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s.

Besides the frankly amazing name, Romana was a remarkable character, the first denizen of the Doctor’s own race to travel with him since his granddaughter Susan in the ‘60s. She was prickly and witty, a match for the Doctor’s own intelligence, and over the course of her three years as the Doctor’s partner, she was played by two delightful actresses. It’s Lalla Ward who gets most of the accolades – she stayed longer, she had a more dazzling chemistry with Baker (the two were married during their time together on the program), and she starred in City of Death, one of the greatest Doctor Who stories of all time.

But it was Mary Tamm who originated the character, playing Romana for the 26-episode Key to Time arc in Season 15, and if you go back and watch those episodes, she’s simply terrific. From her first entrance in The Ribos Operation, in which she haughtily tries to put the Doctor in his place, to her double role in The Androids of Tara, to her heroic work trying to keep The Armageddon Factor from flying off its tracks, Tamm proved herself a fine actress and a worthy match for Baker. (One of my favorite exchanges between the two: “I’ll call you Romana.” “I don’t like Romana.” “It’s either Romana or Fred.” “All right, call me Fred.” “Good. Come along, Romana.”)

Simply put, she was great, and she made her mark on the series despite only hanging around for one season. Tamm went on to do lots of other television, but she always returned to Who, for commentaries and conventions and audio plays, a whole slew of which are slated to come out soon. Mary Tamm died on July 26 after a long battle with cancer. She was only 62. Watching the Key to Time series – episodes that rekindled my love for this show in 2004 – will never be the same now. All hail the original Romanadvoratrelundar. May she rest in peace.

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It’s been nearly a month, and I think I’m finally recovered from Cornerstone.

Of course, I mean physically recovered. I’m not sure I will emotionally recover for quite some time, and I expect I’ll feel the same flood of loss and mourning come July 4 next year. But as for the toll four solid days of heat and music took on my tired old bones, I think I’m back to normal.

So now it’s time for one of my favorite parts of the annual Pilgrimage to Bushnell: going through and devouring the new music I bought. And since this is the last Cornerstone, my kid-at-Christmas routine – tearing off the shrink wrap, reading the liner notes, digging in to new music from old favorites and discovering artists for the first time – is bittersweet. I’m never going to get to do this again. Couple that with my smaller-than-average haul this year, due to finances, and my Cornerstone 2012 experience is kind of going out with a whimper.

But not really. While I didn’t buy a lot this year, what I did pick up is pretty well magnificent. And the records I didn’t end up getting – the hard copy of Josh Garrels’ Love and War and the Sea In Between, the debut album from Kye Kye, a two-part acoustic release from The Violet Burning – will be winging their way to me as soon as I can afford them. So I’m going to call the last C-Stone haul a success.

Let’s start with my friend Jeff Elbel. I was an Elbel fan before I was his friend, but I will definitely cop to a bit of bias on this one. I heard Gallery, the new album by Jeff’s band Ping, in stages as he recorded it in his home studio, and I’ve been getting to know the songs live for years. I can’t deny that parts of Gallery are like comfortable old shoes for me at this point. But I promise you, I’m being as objective as I can when I say that Gallery is Elbel’s best record, ever, under any name.

If you’re not familiar with Ping, here’s the scoop. They’re a loose collective of about 10 to 15 musicians, who gather at irregular intervals to play Elbel’s winning, witty songs. While they’re all great players, there’s an appealing lack of pretension to what they do. Jeff’s tunes are funny, breezy, thoughtful things, and Ping plays them like old friends having a ball. But there’s nothing shambling about this outfit, either – Gallery is the best-sounding Elbel album, belying the fact that most of it was recorded in Jeff’s garage studio, and though the live-band energy is present from first note to last, all those notes are precisely arranged.

Jeff’s a tremendous musician, able to play just about anything well, but with Ping, he’s surrounded himself with wonderful players. Check out Mike Choby on the organ – he shines on “Early Birds and Night Owls.” Dig John Bretzlaff on the guitar, laying down subtle flourishes throughout, and Andrew Carter, formerly of LSU, knocking the six-string solos out of the park. Most of all, marvel at Maron Gaffron, who is essentially Ping’s other lead vocalist here – she has at least as much mic time as Elbel, and her soulful pipes elevate every tune she’s on. (Take special note of her showcase, “Your Wicked Mirror,” a splendid slice of soul that allows her to dig deep.)

But the real stars of this album are the songs, the strongest set that Elbel’s ever delivered. Where Ping’s last record, The Eleventh Hour Storybook, balanced its more considered pieces with a handful of throwaway novelty tunes, Gallery is a solid slab of witty wordplay and catchy melodies. It’s an album of faith and family, and while there are laughs, they’re thoughtful ones. It’s the closest Elbel has come to the work of one of his heroes, Terry Taylor – it gets the balance exactly right, and earns its big moments.

My favorite here is probably “Light It Up,” a song of domestic discord. Its characters – clearly Jeff and his wife – find themselves fighting over insignificant things. “Trampling a field of eggshells, leaving not a screw unturned,” Elbel sings, before announcing that “I don’t mind if you don’t mind, so what’s there to fight about?” The music is reminiscent of the Cars, and Elbel’s vocal duet with Gaffron is just swell. My other favorite is probably “Make Sure Your Eyes Are Fine,” the record’s most rocking number. Over a stomping groove, Elbel lashes out at critics who forget the planks in their own eyes. (Best bit: Gaffron crooning the middle section. “Mama should have taught you better, it shouldn’t be for me to tell you…”)

“I Forget” is the record’s funniest piece, Elbel running down the list of things his sieve-like brain just can’t retain. The kicker line is sweet: “But I remember you love me, and I remember I love you…” Elbel’s voice is a character all its own on this song, and the arrangement is buoyed by some peerless violin from Matt Gadeken of Photoside Café. And yes, Twilight Zone fans, “Time Enough at Last” is based on the famous episode starring Burgess Meredith.

But Gallery’s most affecting moments are the ones that reflect on Elbel’s faith. In particular, the album features two modern hymns – straightforward, simple and direct. “In a Place Where Shadows Grow” is from the point of view of St. Peter, after his denial of Jesus, and its lyric is reminiscent of Leonard Cohen to these ears. And closing number “Comfort Me” is as lovely a prayer as I’ve ever heard. There’s nothing complex about it, but then, there’s nothing false about it either. It’s exactly what it should be.

And so is Gallery, in fact. Elbel named this record after the Cornerstone stage he helped bring to life, and it’s fitting – Ping’s shows there always felt like family reunion parties. They were comfortable and loose and all-inclusive and fun, just like this album. Like I said, I’ve been an Elbel fan for longer than I’ve been his friend, and I think this is the best thing he’s done. If you haven’t heard Ping, you should start here.

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I don’t know Lauren Mann, but I have met her twice.

I first discovered the Canadian songstress at last year’s Cornerstone, where she and her band, the Fairly Odd Folk, performed a fun, melodic set of piano-driven pop. I bought her first record, Stories From Home, which is actually a collection of formative recordings, and at the time, she promised that the “real” album would be out soon. Well, it’s here now, and it’s just great.

It’s called Over Land and Sea, and it more than fulfills the promise I saw in Mann last year. It’s a light and breezy affair, full of simple songs about wonder and love, but there’s so much joy in these grooves, so much pure, heart-on-sleeve delight, that only the hardest of hearts could dislike it. This record was produced by Aaron Marsh, formerly of Copeland, and his fingerprints are on every minute of it – the instrumentation is adventurous, but never detracts from the songs, and the whole thing floats 10 feet off the ground.

Much of Over Land and Sea is quiet – it starts with “Fragile,” plucked out on a ukulele while Mann’s airy voice softly announces itself, and even when the clarinets and strings come in, it’s a whisper. The second track, “I Lost Myself,” begins with a whistle over yet more ukulele, so I was not prepared for the Fairly Odd Folk to come crashing in about the 1:10 mark. The band (which, on this record, includes Marsh on bass and a bunch of other instruments) remains subtle throughout, but the album contains some remarkable crescendos like that, most notably in the second half of the string-laden closer, “Like the Mist.”

The songs may be ditties, but they’re not trifles. Mann tackles love, life, death, parenthood, depression and joy, all in simple but poetic language. Take “Of Life and Of Death,” perhaps my favorite here. It’s a farewell to someone who has passed, and when Mann sings, “I’ll tell them stories so I won’t forget you, and I’ll keep your photographs so I’ll recognize you,” it’s devastating. “Weight of the World” is a song of encouragement, in the most straightforward way: “Now is the time to carry on from here, to march on and plant your flag where you belong…” And “Love, I Lost” is about going back to go forward: “When we find the place where we first embraced, beginning and the end, could we begin again?”

But it’s the dittiest of these ditties, “Dance With Me,” that leaves the strongest impression. A simply delightful, swaying piano number, “Dance With Me” is a snapshot of new love, and it perfectly captures that blooming-rose feeling, that limitless possibility. Yes, it’s corny: “Dance with me under the stars, I’ll get lost in your arms…” But it works beautifully, and the 30 seconds of ambient atmosphere that conclude it are more lovely than I can tell you.

Over Land and Sea is a treasure. It’s a small thing, one that doesn’t call much attention to itself, but its charms are many, and they unfold with time. This is exactly the kind of record I hoped Lauren Mann would make, right down to the sumptuous, elaborate packaging. It probably won’t make her a star, but it’s a simply wonderful calling card from a new artist to watch. I love it to bits. Buy it here.

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But no one celebrated the final Cornerstone like the 77s.

Mike Roe has played the festival more times than anyone else. The original lineup of the 77s performed at the first Cornerstone, and Roe and David Leonhardt closed out a night of the final festival. In between, Mike played nearly every one of these things, either on his own, with the 77s, or with the Lost Dogs. And that means audiences in Bushnell got more than two dozen chances over the years to see one of the finest guitar players alive ply his trade.

My first Cornerstone experience, in 2002, was highlighted by a full-on 77s rock show on the Gallery Stage. And sweet lord, was it amazing. The three-piece band put on what is still one of the finest rock ‘n’ roll explosions I’ve ever seen, pausing only slightly to play all of their then-new acoustic-led EP Direct. Roe is equally adept at the acoustic – his solo shows will make you weep – but when he, Mark Harmon and Bruce Spencer lock into a groove and unleash their full power, it’ll knock you down. The 77s are the best band nobody knows.

And with three new releases, they have truly commemorated the last Cornerstone. I’m actually surprised that more of the long-running acts didn’t do something like this. But if I wanted what is essentially a retrospective live box set from any Cornerstone band, it would be the 77s. And that’s what they (and Chicago-based label Lo-Fidelity Records, the band’s best friend in recent years) have given me. Five CDs of live 77s goodness.

The first release is a reissue of their 1996 acoustic live document Echos O’Faith, which preserves the unfortunate misspelling. (It was recorded in 1992 at Echos Of Faith Church in California, and “echos” is Greek for sound, so it may well be on purpose, but man, I’ve always cringed at it.) The original album is on the first disc, and it’s 79 minutes of glorious melody and resonance. The band – Roe, Harmon, Leonhardt and Choir drummer Steve Hindalong – is in brilliant form, and they don’t stick to the quiet numbers. Rockers like “U U U U” and “God Sends Quails” and “Do It For Love” are simply fantastic in this stripped-down environment.

And you have to hear these songs. This is basically a best-of from the Sevens’ first 10 years, and it’s a treasure trove. “Nowhere Else.” “Bottom Line.” “The Lust, The Flesh, The Eyes and the Pride of Life.” “Happy Roy.” Even a song called “Hard to Say” that never ended up anywhere else. This is a catalog of songs that should be praised to the skies, not all but forgotten. The Echos reissue comes with a second, shorter acoustic show from 1992, recorded in the same venue, and while there’s a lot of overlap, this one includes “Don’t, This Way,” one of the saddest songs I know. It’s just lovely here.

But that’s the reissue, the album Mike and the boys would have released had this not been the final Cornerstone Festival. The second and third new things truly celebrate the fest, and offer a one-of-a-kind perspective on the past 29 years. And they did it in a way that included their family of fans, and brought the Cornerstone faithful together.

Earlier this year, the band asked the fans for recordings of their Cornerstone shows. The 77s have played the fest 12 times, and the fans sent them halfway-decent-quality recordings from every show. The band then assembled the best of them into a chronological collection called Cornerstone Is Dead… Long Live Cornerstone. More than two hours long, this record includes 21 songs from all stages of the band’s career, and serves as a look back at a phenomenal run of shows at the fest.

Now, this is not a polished live document. The earliest recordings naturally suffer from the worst quality, and it all sounds like bootlegs, but everything here is listenable and enjoyable. The first disc is pretty straight-ahead – you get to hear the original 77s lineup, with Aaron Smith and Mark Tootle and Jan Eric, slam through early tracks like “A Different Kind of Light” and “Caught in an Unguarded Moment,” and they’re a tight, energetic unit. By the time they get to “I Can’t Get Over It” in 1990, they’re firing on all cylinders.

Disc one gets them up through 1995, and the debut of the three-piece band we know and love today. Before that, though, the Sevens bring in Harmon and Leonhardt and deliver marvelous takes on “This Is the Way Love Is,” the dark “God Sends Quails” (always amazing in a live setting), and the rollicking “Nuts For You.” But when the trio arrives, it really arrives, with the signature cover of “Nobody’s Fault But Mine.”

The second disc is Roe, Harmon and Bruce Spencer discovering their own power before our ears. If you want evidence of my claim that they’re one of the best rock bands in the world, this is all you need. Just marvel at the 2000 burn through “Woody,” or the awesome 2001 take on “The Years Go Down.” They’re nimble, fearless, and on fire, a band with few peers.

And then we get to the only thing on these discs I personally experienced – the astounding 12-minute medley/jam from 2002, with Scott Reams on keyboard. It starts near the end of “Unbalanced,” which they performed in full, if I recall, but quickly burns through parts of “Indian Winter, “Rocks In Your Head,” “Snowblind” and “Honesty,” the band stopping and turning about on a dime. It’s a jam of monumental proportions, and I remember it pretty well.

But we’re not done. “Unbalanced,” one of the band’s best tunes, gets a full eight-minute rendition from 2003, followed by an amazing “Blue Sky” and an extended, loose, stunning “Outskirts” from 2006. And the collection ends with another epic jam from 2008, when the Sevens were supporting their album of gospel covers, Holy Ghost Building. They start by covering “Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burning,” but over the course of nearly 14 white-knuckle minutes, they hit “Riders on the Storm” and “Money (That’s What I Want),” and show off their raw power once again.

And if you still want more, the Sevens are happy to oblige. The third disc in their Cornerstone series is a three-song EP called Cornerstone Forever, and it includes three songs from the band’s final performance at the fest in 2008. You get a gospel song (“Stranger Won’t You Change Your Sinful Ways”), another rip through “Nobody’s Fault But Mine,” and a Mike Roe classic, “The Lust, The Flesh, The Eyes and the Pride of Life.” Among his fans, that’s the song that will outlive him, the quintessential Mike Roe confession, a tale of shame and addiction. I have more versions of this than any other Roe song, and still, I’m glad to have one more.

Like I said, I’m surprised more long-running Cornerstone bands didn’t memorialize the festival this way. But if any band was going to do it, I’m glad it was the 77s. I will miss this festival like mad, and along with it my yearly chance to see Mike Roe tear it up, but these archival releases will help ease that pain. Heaping helpings of gratitude to Jeffrey Kotthoff and Lo-Fidelity Records for seeing this through, and to the 77s, in every incarnation, for being one of the best damn bands on the planet.

Listen and buy here.

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Wow, that ran longer than I expected. Next week, something shorter. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

For the past two weeks, I’ve asked you to read thousands upon thousands of my words. This week, to balance the scales, I’m going to keep things shorter. I say this now, at the beginning of the process, knowing that despite my promises, it rarely works out that way. TM3AM just doesn’t do short. But I really am going to try to hold this to a respectable length. Enough for a bathroom break, but that’s it.

I know there are several of you who read this column just to get the scoop on new developments in my life. Well, you’re in luck, because I have a pretty significant update: I quit my job as a journalist and made the leap to media and community relations. On Monday, I started in my new position at the Fermi National Accelerator Lab in Batavia, commonly known as Fermilab. Yep, the place where, until recently, the best and brightest in particle physics sought the God Particle by ramming larger particles together reeeeally quickly.

My job will be to handle media and community interaction – basically, getting the lab’s name out there, locally, nationally and (in some cases) internationally. Definitely a change for me, and the transition has been interesting so far. I’m especially pleased about the fact that I’m done every day at 5 p.m., and I don’t have to do anything past that time. (The more than 50 percent bump in pay certainly helps, too.)

How does this impact you, the Tuesday Morning reader who wouldn’t know me from some guy on the street? Well, I’m in that weird limbo period between the last check at a prior job and the first check at a new one, only this limbo’s gonna last until the end of August. So it’s going to be slim pickings until then, when it comes to new music. There are a few I simply have to buy – and I picked up a couple of those this week – but for the most part, I’m going into music celibacy for a while.

This’ll give me a chance to catch up on a few releases, which I’ll start doing next week. It’s tough, though, because the new music news just keeps on coming. Here are some highlights of the final third of 2012 that we haven’t talked about. I’ll be rolling in cash by the time most of this stuff comes out, which is nice, because damn, I want all of it.

Sixpence None the Richer makes a welcome return on August 7 with Lost in Transition. It’s been 10 long years since the band released Divine Discontent, a flawed but ultimately triumphant record that should have been absolutely huge. I have no such hopes for Transition, but I’m looking forward to hearing what Leigh Nash and Matt Slocum can do without any commercial pressure.

Two weeks later, we have a triple play: Bloc Party comes back with Four, Yeasayer gifts us with Fragrant World, and Owl City hands over his third record, The Midsummer Station. Given my prior gushing, you’d think I’d be most excited about the Owl City, but I’ve heard half of it, and it’s pretty awful. Depressingly straightforward, boring songs, devoid of the fairytale charm Adam Young has made his specialty. Unfortunate.

On September 4, one of my favorite guitar players presents his first-ever double album. That guy is Mark Knopfler, and that record is called Privateering. Some people are surprised to hear how much I love Knopfler’s playing. and quite frankly, that always confuses me. The guy has a tone like no other, and I could listen to him weave his magic all day. I’ll get 20 songs of Knopfler goodness on the fourth.

Although it may be hard to tear me away from that new Marillion album, Sounds That Can’t Be Made, which also releases on the fourth. I know, I won’t shut up about it. So I’ll let the band do the talking. Here is the first track released from the album, called “Power.” It was great live, and it’s even better in its finished form.

The following week, some guy named Bob Dylan has a new record, and fellow overrated songwriter David Byrne will put out a collaboration with St. Vincent. I’ll probably get smacked for saying that I’m more excited about Amanda Palmer’s Theatre is Evil, which hits the same day. This is her Kickstarter album, made with the Grand Theft Orchestra, and I’m expecting high drama. Also on Sept. 11 is The Magic Door, the second album (already?) by the Chris Robinson Brotherhood. I haven’t even gotten around to reviewing the first, which came out last month. (It’s like a raw Grateful Dead record.)

I’m just going to list the bands and artists with new albums on Sept. 18: Band of Horses, Aimee Mann, Grizzly Bear, Menomena, Muse, Robert Pollard, A Fine Frenzy, The Killers, and some outfit called Ben Folds Five. Yes, the Five’s reunion album exists, and has been saddled with the clunky title Sound of the Life of the Mind. Where’s Nick Hornby when you need him? (I jest, of course. I’m pretty excited.)

Sept. 25 is no respite. On that date, Green Day unleashes Uno, the first installment of their triple album. (The others are called Dos and Tre, naturally.) The first single, “Oh Love,” is dire, but I still hold out hope. Also coming on the 25th is Babel, the second album from Mumford and Sons, and Epicloud, the new one from the prolific and astonishing Devin Townsend. (Oh, yes, some band called No Doubt is back together too, but I couldn’t care less.) The great Beth Orton returns the following week with Sugaring Season, her fifth album. Quite looking forward to that one.

And my look into the future concludes with a pair of albums set for October. On the 16th, Ben Gibbard, the voice of Death Cab for Cutie, will release his first solo record, Former Lives. And then on the 23rd, Bat for Lashes comes whispering back with The Haunted Man. The cover features a naked Natasha Khan, and the first single, “Laura,” and its attendant video are both lovely. Check them out.

That’s all I know for now, but the landscape keeps changing. Stay tuned.

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How much do I love Jellyfish?

The California shoulda-been-legends are on my short list of the Best Bands Ever, despite existing for less than five years and making only two albums. Two brilliant, stunning, extraordinary albums that more than stand the test of time. Next year is the 20th anniversary of Spilt Milk, the band’s magnum opus and swan song, and if it came out today, it would still be better than just about anything else at the record store. Their debut, Bellybutton, is old enough to drink this year, and it still sounds as striking as it did the day it was released.

So how much do I love Jellyfish? I’ve told this story before, but I wrote my first rubber check for Spilt Milk on cassette in 1993. I knew I didn’t have the money, and I needed it anyway. Fast forward 19 years, and little has changed. Today I plunked down cash I don’t really have for Live at Bogart’s, the first full Jellyfish live album, just released on Omnivore Records. I have no new money coming in until the end of August, and yet I simply had to own a recording of a 21-year-old concert. Because it’s Jellyfish.

What’s so special about this band? Put simply, everything about Jellyfish works. It’s striking how rare it is that every element of a band clicks – the writing, playing, record-making, performing, everything. Jellyfish had it all. Songs that knocked me on my ass, the instrumental skill to pull them off, a gift for delirious harmonies, an ambition in the studio that resulted in two outside-the-park home runs, and a stage presence and ability that led to one of my very favorite concert experiences, in a tiny Providence, Rhode Island club in 1993.

Live at Bogart’s was recorded two years prior, on the Bellybutton tour. Only one song from Spilt Milk – the then-embryonic “Bye Bye Bye” – makes an appearance. So this document does two things very well. First, it proves that Bellybutton was Spilt Milk’s equal, at least when it comes to songwriting. The earlier album is sometimes the forgotten stepchild, but the nine songs from it represented here rise up and take their place in the pantheon. “She Still Loves Him” is a masterpiece. “Calling Sarah” is beyond lovely. Even the simple “I Wanna Stay Home” comes off like a forgotten classic.

But second, this record proves that, stripped of the studio ornamentation they made their own, Jellyfish was just an incredible, raw pop band. In fact, Live at Bogart’s is sometimes rawer than I expected, Andy Sturmer’s voice straining, harmonies sometimes not clicking with the sugary sweetness of their studio counterparts, Jason Falkner’s guitar all ragged edges. There’s no doubt here that four live people are making this racket, and even when they slip into Partridge Family territory, as they do on “Baby’s Coming Back,” they rev it up with an unexpected high-wire energy.

This show kicks off with a quick reading of Argent’s “Hold Your Head Up,” which segues into “Hello,” their rollicking calling card. This song somehow never made it to an album, so this is all we have of it, but it’s wonderful. The same can be said of “Will You Marry Me,” the six-minute distorted pop explosion at this show’s center. I wish they’d recorded this one. It’s simply great.

The Bellybutton songs are mainly fuzzed up, Sturmer singing his little heart out (and drumming at the same time) while Falkner shows why he’s long been one of power pop’s most respected guitar players. The version here of “All I Want is Everything” is nothing short of blistering, but even at their most explosive, Jellyfish keep things sweet, with those harmonies and Roger Manning’s airy keyboards.

Along the way, J-Fish cover Player’s “Baby Come Back,” Badfinger’s “No Matter What,” and McCartney’s “Let ‘Em In,” and if that isn’t a perfect summation of their influences, I don’t know what would be. The show ends with the incredible “That Is Why,” the first Jellyfish song I ever heard, all the way back in 1991. A lot has changed in those years – when I was in high school, I never once imagined I’d one day be working at the country’s premier particle physics laboratory. But my love for this band and their songs remains as strong as ever.

Here’s another example of how much I love them: more than half of these tracks were already released on the Fan Club box set, which I own. But the chance to hear a complete Jellyfish concert was too good for me to pass up. Live at Bogart’s is a swell snapshot of a one-of-a-kind band, a band that should have been huge. You don’t know what I would give for a third Jellyfish album. But in some ways, the fact that this is all we have – two records, some rarities, and now, a live disc – makes it all the more special. Why did I send myself further in debt to own this? Because it’s Jellyfish. Enough said.

* * * * *

Next week, my last Cornerstone haul, including three new live records from the 77s. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

And now, the second half of my Cornerstone 2012 diary.

Friday, July 6

Well. Today was… awesome.

It was also hotter than hell. Temperatures broke 100 degrees today, and the Cornerstone faithful sought shelter under the Gallery Stage tent. That kept the sun off our backs, but did nothing for the mugginess – in fact, it only exacerbated it, what with the hundreds of people in one space sweating thing. But believe me when I tell you we didn’t care.

Today’s lineup of music was tremendous. I stayed at Gallery all day, as I will tomorrow, and wasn’t let down. I began the day with Maron Gaffron, soulful singer and songwriter, whose band includes my roomie Jeff Elbel on bass. Maron has a voice most singers would kill for, and her songs range from swaying funk to acoustic folk. The biggest hit was a ditty she wrote for her children, in which she promised she would climb high mountains and swim deep seas for them, before announcing, “But I’ll probably never have to, so I’ll do your laundry.” It was delightful.

And then I got to see Elbel in all his glory, as his band Ping performed their last show on the Gallery Stage. Jeff is a Gallery fixture – he’s been the man behind the scenes at every Cornerstone I’ve attended, either running around backstage to make sure everything is in order, or playing one of the 45 instruments he’s good at. He’s been a big part of the reason Gallery Stage works, and his shows are always like family reunions. Ping is a massive band – there were nine of them on stage today – and they’re scattered all over the country, so Cornerstone is their annual meet-up party.

I’ve seen a lot of Ping shows, but this one was probably my favorite. Everyone had such a great time. Jeff writes clever and fun tunes that look like they’re a blast to play. The band kicked off with “Early Birds and Night Owls” from the new Ping record, Gallery, and proceeded to just stomp through the set. They played many of my favorites from Gallery – which is, by the way, terrific – including the Cars-esque “Light It Up” and the Twilight Zone-inspired “Time Enough at Last.”

But the most poignant moment came when the band launched into their “mystery cover” – they tore through “Deep,” by Adam Again. That’ll mean nothing to folks who aren’t immersed in this corner of the music world, but for those of us who remember Gene Eugene, it was important and moving. Gene died in 2000, but he left behind a legacy of amazing songs (both with Adam Again and with the Lost Dogs), and of the literally hundreds of bands he helped. I was grateful to see him paid tribute.

Ping ended their set with “Make Sure Your Eyes Are Fine,” an absolute scorcher from Gallery, and steadfastly avoided turning sad and maudlin at the prospect of never again performing on the Gallery Stage. But I was sad. I’m going to miss Ping shows, and I’m glad Jeff and I have become such good friends. Another thing I have to thank Cornerstone for.

Today was discovery day on the Gallery Stage. The evening was filled with acts I’d never heard of. Guitarist Trace Bundy was up first, dazzling with his six-string dexterity. One of his tricks involved five capos, those devices that clamp down over the strings on the neck to change keys. While he played, he moved those capos around, altering the pitch of the notes he was plucking. It was something to see.

Hushpad brought a love of ‘80s shoegaze, a sound I’ve rarely heard at Cornerstone. They were great, often extending their songs to make pretty noise out of their amps. I will anxiously await their new album. Mike Mains and the Branches played an emotional form of pop-punk, bringing more energy to the stage than just about anyone else. They were fun to watch, but the songs were pretty average – I was struck by the idea that a group this energetic could also be kind of boring. But at the end, when they invited audience members up on stage to dance and sing, they had everyone in the palm of their hand.

Mains also had the line of the day, when introducing his band: “We’re Mike Mains and the Branches, and I’m Neil Diamond.”

And then came Neal Morse. Here’s an interesting paradox: I could hardly believe Neal Morse was playing Cornerstone, and at the same time, could hardly believe it was his first time at the fest. Neal is an old-school prog-rocker, raised on old Yes and Genesis and bands of that ilk. About 10 years ago, he split from his band Spock’s Beard and decided to make prog-rock for Jesus. It’s an odd combination, but it works.

After an eternity of setup, the band (including longtime bassist Randy George) took the stage, and immediately blew the crowd away. Morse’s material is jaw-droppingly complex, full of keyboard and guitar solos and odd time signatures, yet remains melodic – you could hum any one of his songs. He played for about 90 minutes, running through tunes from One and Sola Scriptura (his rock opera about Martin Luther – for real), and giving us a sneak peek at his new album Momentum, out in September.

I spoke to so many people who had never heard of Neal Morse before his set, and had become raving fans after it. Such instrumental dexterity is rare to see in person. The band was great, but Neal was stunning, darting between fleet-fingered keyboard runs and scorching guitar, and singing the whole time. The crowd responded best to a suite from Testimony 2 involving his daughter Jada, born with a hole in her heart. According to Neal, she was healed by God, and while I’m not sure what I believe in that case, the Cornerstone audience erupted into applause when the song reached that miraculous moment. It was cool to see.

And finally, there was the Violet Burning.

I first saw the Violets on the Gallery Stage in 2001, and they knocked me out. Andy Prickett was with them at the time, and they conjured up this wall of swirly sound that physically slammed against you. I had heard their self-titled album at that time, but little else, and I quickly tracked down everything I could, and kept up with them ever since.

I’ve seen the Violets probably a dozen times since 2001, but they’ve never put on a show like they did tonight. Last year, Pritzl and company released their magnum opus, a triple album called The Story of Our Lives. It’s an astonishing achievement, and it’s also astonishingly loud – they’ve taken on a harder, dirtier, grimier edge, and they play with a force they only hinted at before. Pritzl remains one of the most emotive singers in rock, but the music now matches him with a scorching fire.

They played nearly all of the first disc and half of the second of Story as their main set – a bold move, but one the audience lapped up. This is the strongest Violets material ever, and it comes off so well on stage. And then they returned for an extended encore, playing until about 2 a.m., and that was one of the most emotional things I’ve seen so far at this final Cornerstone.

They brought Michelle Thompson of the Wayside on stage to sing “As I Am.” They played the glorious “Goldmine.” They slammed their way through the classic “Low.” And they ended things with “Gorgeous,” the remaining faithful singing along at the top of their lungs. The Violets gave it their all, and we gave it right back to them, a circle of love for a band and a festival too few have experienced.

That was truly something. I expect tomorrow will be similarly moving, particularly when the Choir hits the stage for the last show of the last Cornerstone ever. It’s starting to feel real. This is happening.

* * * * *

Saturday, July 7

And it’s over. The last notes have been played, the last prayers have been prayed, and Cornerstone is no more. As I write this, they’re dismantling the Gallery Stage for the final time. Never again will I see some of my favorite bands on that stage, in this field, with these people. Never again.

I don’t even know how to process today. It was an emotional one, for sure – I gave and received more hugs today than I can count, and shed a few tears too. I knew Cornerstone meant a lot to me, but I suppose I didn’t know how much until now, until we arrived at the end.

In a lot of ways, I don’t feel like I ever got the full Cornerstone experience, and that may have to do with the fact that, by most measures, I don’t belong here. This is a festival of faith, and yes, it’s faith wrapped up in amazing artistry (which is what draws me here), but it is still faith, and I don’t share it. I’m 38 years old, and I still don’t know what I believe. If this were a normal Christian festival, it would not be for me.

But Cornerstone is anything but a normal Christian festival. It’s a place where all are welcome, even me. I’ve never felt anything less than a sense of home when I’m here. It’s a place without judgment. Come and listen. Be respectful, and you’ll be respected.

I loved it here.

Another reason I never got the full impact of the fest was that I attended strictly for the music. Cornerstone had seminars and art workshops and movies and games, and I really didn’t experience any of it. I parked myself down at the Gallery Stage most days and just soaked in the tunes. Today was no exception. I suppose I could have tried to do more, tried one last time to get the full Cornerstone effect, but I didn’t. I stayed at Gallery from about 2 p.m. to about 2 a.m.

The first band on my docket was the incredible Photoside Café, a group I might never have heard without Cornerstone. In fact, the stage was thick with bands I’d likely never have run across without this festival today. Photoside has always reminded me of the Levellers – aggressive folksy rock with a violin at its center, and some just fantastic, complex songs. “Kill Your TV” was the highlight for me today, and they played it as if they’d never have the chance again.

Lauren Mann took the stage next, bringing her Fairly Odd Folk with her. She’s from Canada, and I saw her last year on the Gallery Stage and made a mental note. Her new album is called Over Land and Sea, and was produced by Copeland’s amazing Aaron Marsh. It’s a sweet little confection, full of simple songs of joy, and I like it very much.

But Mann shines live, and her brief set touched on all the reasons why. Her songs take on a jaunty power on stage that gets sanded off on record, her voice leaping for notes as her wickedly talented band revolves around her. At one point in today’s show, the three backing musicians froze in place for a full minute while Mann continued to play and sing, and the effect was awesome. Mann’s well worth checking out, and I expect she’ll just keep on getting better.

There’s hardly any way for Timbre to get better than she is. The harp-playing wonder graced the Gallery next, having interrupted her European tour to be there for the last Cornerstone. (For, it should be noted again, no money at all.) Timbre is a mesmerizing player and singer, like Joanna Newsom with a more immediately likeable voice and a feel for classically-influenced progressive tunes. She and her backup band – a drummer and a cellist – played their take on Radiohead’s “Like Spinning Plates,” and a slew of slowly-unfolding originals. It was a treat to see her again.

Kye Kye is a terrific little band with one of the worst names I could think of. (The fact that Kye apparently means Christ doesn’t make it any better for me.) They’re an electro-pop outfit with a riveting singer and a penchant for big melodies, and they had the crowd in the palm of their hand. Big thumping keyboard sounds, shimmering guitar, beats that wouldn’t quit. The line to buy their first album, Young Love, was impressively long.

And that was it for the new discoveries this year. Up next was the astounding Josh Garrels. Last year at this time, I was watching Garrels for the first time, soaking in his epic take on folk music. This year, I went in as a raving fanboy. His new album, Love and War and the Sea In Between, made #4 on my list last year – it’s a remarkable achievement, a cohesive and stunning piece of work.

Watching Garrels sing “Ulysses” is a heart-rending experience. Watching him rap his way through “The Resistance” is the opposite, a galvanizing, on-your-feet call to arms that moved through the Cornerstone audience like lightning. That he can do both, and then encore with the fathoms-deep dialogue of “Zion and Babylon,” makes him a performer far above the norm. As Emperor Palpatine said to Anakin, I’ll be watching his career with great interest.

For the past year, Garrels has been giving away Love and War, but now, finally, you can pay him money for it. Go to www.joshgarrels.com.

After that, the Farewell Drifters were a bit slight, but still oceans of fun. Down a man after the departure of fiddle player Christian Sedelmyer, the four-piece Drifters wandered through a strong set of genial bluegrass-pop, the kind of thing that brings a smile and a tapping toe. They covered Billy Bragg and Wilco’s “California Stars,” from the Woody Guthrie-inspired Mermaid Avenue project, and delivered a superb rendition of Paul Simon’s “The Only Living Boy in New York.” They’re a great band, and they served as a refreshing palette-cleanser before the final act.

The Cornerstone Festival started in 1984, and the first band to play the first set was a group of California kids calling themselves Youth Choir. They were exuberant and wide-eyed, and they played melodic new-wave pop that somehow ended up drowned in synths on their debut album, Voices in Shadows.

No one could have predicted that 28 years later, they’d still be going strong. They changed their name to The Choir, and added a few new members over the years. They just released their 12th album, called The Loudest Sound Ever Heard. They are my favorite band, and in an act of almost divine poetry, the Choir was chosen to close out the final Cornerstone fest. It could not have been more perfect.

I was a Choir fan for 12 years before I got to see them live. I’ve witnessed probably a dozen Choir shows since, and it never gets less thrilling. I have given up trying to explain or understand the alchemy of this band. I just know that when the four of them are together, they make a strange kind of magic. Tonight, that magic worked as often as it didn’t – the joy of watching them work is that they take risks, particularly bassist Tim Chandler, and sometimes those risks end up uglier than they should. But that’s part of the thrill, part of the glorious racket they make together.

The show itself? They played their entire Chase the Kangaroo album – they’re celebrating its 25th anniversary – and swung through two new songs and two classics. As usual, they ended with an extended take on “Circle Slide,” this one louder and more raucous than normal. I’ve often wanted them to play that middle section, in which they all go off script and make as much pretty noise as they can, for a full hour, so enveloping is the sound. We got a minute or so this time, but it always feels like oceans of noise washing over me.

I got to hear some of my favorite Choir songs live on the Gallery Stage one last time. “Cain.” “Sad Face.” “A Sentimental Song.” “Consider,” which, as Doug Van Pelt said to me, has the greatest drum intro of all time. It was joyous. And then it was over – after about an hour, the band left the stage. And I knew this was it. One encore, and Cornerstone would be finished forever.

During the day, I tried to figure out what song they would play last. For some reason, I just didn’t consider “To Bid Farewell,” the sweet lullaby that all but closes their incredible Wide-Eyed Wonder album. Derri Daugherty and Steve Hindalong, two guitars, Derri’s emotion-choked voice, four minutes of painful beauty. I cried. I’m not going to lie or hide it. I cried. It could not have been better. And I hope they’re right, and a sad face is good for the heart.

Before the final song, Derri delivered an impassioned speech about Cornerstone, and what it has meant to him. He related it to the Island of Misfit Toys, a place where those who don’t fit in anywhere else can come together and feel safe. Until he put it into words, I’m not sure I understood what I was losing, what we all were. After the show, I hung around for a while, hugged some people, said goodbyes, and left Cornerstone for the last time. I’m not sure it’s hit me yet, but I haven’t been able to get through my video of Derri’s speech without tearing up. (You can try it yourself – my video is here.)

It really was the Island of Misfit Toys. A safe haven. One week a year in another world. I already miss it terribly. Goodnight, Cornerstone. You were a little miracle, and the world is much poorer now that you’re gone.

“A sad song for the songs I never would sing, if I were to bid farewell to you today…”

* * * * *

Thanks again to everyone who made Cornerstone what it was for 29 years. I’m sorry I only saw a fraction of it. And special thanks to Jeff Elbel, for sharing the experience with me.

Next week, catching up with a few new records. After that, my last Cornerstone music haul. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

As many of you know, this year’s Cornerstone Festival was the last. After 29 years, the last several with sharply declining audiences, the organizers at Jesus People USA have decided to pull the plug. As I understand it, the choice was either to continue with Cornerstone, or keep their Chicago-based ministries going, and I think they made the right choice.

But that doesn’t make it any easier. Last week, I made the now-familiar drive down to Bushnell, Illinois for the final time. Cornerstone has a special place in my heart. I’ve been five times now (2002, 2005, 2010, 2011 and this year), and I can say there’s no other festival like it. There’s more good music at C-Stone every year than you’ll find in half a dozen Lollapaloozas. And the people there are like family.

Once again, my traveling companion was Jeff Elbel, and I feel lucky to have him as a friend. I got to meet Chris Hauser for the first time, and hang out with people like David Cervantes and Brian Smith, people I may never see again. And of course, I got to hear some amazing music from some unjustly ignored artists, topped off by a performance by my favorite band, the Choir.

What follows is my day-by-day Cornerstone diary. It’s quite long, and I apologize for that. I’ve broken it up into two columns, so it’s not too overwhelming. If you want the gist, here it is: Cornerstone was a festival unlike any other, and this last one was no exception. Despite not sharing the faith it’s based on, I always felt welcomed and included there, and I’m going to miss it terribly.

All right, here goes. My thoughts on the final Cornerstone.

* * * * *

Wednesday, July 4

I had been wondering when it would hit me. Turns out, it didn’t take long.

The Cornerstone Festival has been running for 29 years, as of 2012. I’ve only gone five times – 2002, 2005, 2010, last year, and this. And yet, as I made the familiar drive through the cornfields of Marietta, Illinois, it felt like coming home. I don’t really know how else to explain it. This fest has grown to mean so much to me, and as I approached the usual checkpoint at the entrance, I just kept thinking about how sad I was that it was all ending.

The first people I saw today were David Cervantes and Brian Smith, two guys I’d never have met without Cornerstone. And the first thing out of my mouth was, “We never get to do this again.” That killed the mood, but David brightened it by saying, “We need to make the most of it, then.”

I’m sorry, I know that’s corny, but the emotions swirling around my head as Cornerstone plays out its last string leave no room for embarrassment. I love this festival. It’s a little miracle in the wilderness, a place where musicians who have the temerity to express genuine faith in music get the recognition their talents would otherwise deserve.

Cornerstone is not a place for pandering, target-marketed, jump-for-Jesus pabulum, although there’s certainly been some of that over the years. But in the main, it’s a place where artists can wrestle with faith, take on its big questions, and create dazzling and thoughtful works for a receptive audience. That audience has shrunk considerably in recent years – even last year, I felt Cornerstone’s death throes happening – but its commitment to this art has never wavered.

And the artists recognize it and appreciate it. Virtually all the bands playing at Cornerstone 2012 are doing so for free, as a way to say farewell to this magical gathering that has meant so much to them.

So there was indeed a pall of sadness over Wednesday’s festivities, but it was overpowered by a sense of celebration, of remembering what Cornerstone has been and embracing that. The fest this year is divided between two main stages – one for hardcore and metal bands, and one for everything I want to see. Here at the last, the Gallery Stage has finally taken its place as the centerpiece of the festival – it was always the place where the magic happened.

Wednesday was earthy day at Gallery, focusing on acoustic and blues music. I first attended a 40th anniversary party for Rez Band, one of the first and most influential Christian hard rock acts. The members of Rez also created and run Cornerstone, so we owe them a great deal. Glenn Kaiser, lead singer and guitar player, hit the stage later in the evening for a bluesy set with amazing harmonica player Joe Falisco. Kaiser played one of his signature cigar box guitars – literally, a homemade guitar constructed from a cigar box and some plywood. Sounded fantastic.

Ashley Cleveland surprised me. I’ve never seen her play, and always dismissed her as pretty typical. But her set of gospel-inflected blues, accompanied by her husband Kenny Greenberg, was riveting. Her voice is big and bold, and it filled the Gallery tent, not needing any backing other than the two guitars. And Kenny? That man can play.

Every year at Cornerstone, I discover at least one band or artist that will stay with me for life. This year, I’d bet money that Seth Martin and the Menders fits that bill. They played a huge singalong set of Sufjan Stevens-esque orchestral folk music. The band – and there must have been nine of them on that stage – lifted the audience up again and again, crescendo after crescendo. It was an amazing experience. I immediately bought their album, which has the tremendous title Putting the Sky to Sleep.

But really, everything today was prelude to the final 77s show at Cornerstone. The 77s are, no hyperbole, one of the best rock bands on Earth, and never more so than at Cornerstone. Only a few thousand people know about them, which is criminal. Mike Roe is a guitar player that can stand with the very best, whether caressing your soul with an acoustic or pealing out lightning strikes on an electric.

He did both tonight, starting off gently with “MT,” he and David Leonhardt on acoustics. The mood was already overcast, and with every song they played, I couldn’t help but think, “This is the last time I’ll hear this song on this stage.” When they launched into the epic tearjerker “Don’t, This Way,” I almost cried. The guitar lines in that song never fail to move me.

At set’s end, Roe and Leonhardt welcomed up my Cornerstone roommate, Jeff Elbel, and his band’s percussionist David Dampier to round out a searing live band lineup. After smashing through “Dave’s Blues” and “U U U U,” the band left us with their best singalong, “Nowhere Else.” Hearing the Gallery audience sing the “na na na” part, their voices rising in wonder, I couldn’t help but agree with Roe: there was nowhere else I would rather be.

And then, we got them to come back out for one more song, by singing the chorus of “Do It For Love” until they acquiesced. It was one last magical Cornerstone moment for this band, one I love with all my heart. I left exhausted, but happy.

The 77s have three new releases – an expanded remaster of their beautiful Echos o’ Faith acoustic live album, and two compilations of live performances from Cornerstone, winningly titled Cornerstone is Dead, Long Live Cornerstone and Cornerstone Forever. My sentiments exactly. Reviews of these as soon as I hear them. I also bought new records from Lauren Mann and the Fairly Odd Folk, who impressed me a lot last year, and Jeff Elbel and Ping – I’ve been hearing their long-gestating record Gallery (named after the stage) in pieces for years, and it’s finally here. And it’s great.

Tomorrow, the Wayside, Iona, Aradhna and a bunch of other artists I haven’t heard yet. Now, for sleep.

* * * * *

Thursday, July 5

Cornerstone 2012 is a shadow of its former self.

In its heyday, the festival would draw 25,000 to 30,000 people. This year, if there are 4,000 people here, I’d be surprised. The Gallery tent is usually pretty full, but when you realize that there’s no main stage this year, and this is the main attraction, it becomes sad. Even for its last hurrah, Cornerstone couldn’t stop the decline.

I’ve seen the slow deterioration over the past couple of years. When I first attended in 2001, the place was mobbed. I couldn’t even get down the dirt roads without ducking in between people, or moving at the speed of the crowd. Gallery Stage, always the second-tier attraction, was impossible – if you weren’t there early to grab a chair and hold on to it for dear life, you were standing on the sidelines.

This year, I’ve managed to be up front for virtually every show I’ve wanted to see, and this without a main stage to pull people away. Lines at the food vendors are never more than two or three people long. And I can park close, and walk the pathways without seeing more than a dozen people. We’re the die hards, the ones who love this festival with all we have, here to watch it go quietly into that good night.

Today was always going to be my weak day. It turned out to be weaker than I expected – Quiet Science, a band I had been looking forward to, bowed out, and Gallery was empty from 4 to 6 p.m. I caught the last-ever Cornerstone performance of the Wayside, led by local Illinois legends John and Michelle Thompson (and featuring my roomie Jeff on bass). It was a nice set of country-folk that shone a spotlight on Michelle’s forthcoming solo EP.

This was probably one of the last Wayside performances, full stop, as well. As John said at one point, “If it hadn’t been for Cornerstone, we’d probably have stopped bothering to be a band years ago.”

At the Wayside show, I met Chris Hauser for the first time. We’ve been Facebook friends for a while, through our mutual buddy Dr. Tony Shore, but we’d never met in person. He was gracious and fun to hang out with – Chris works in the Christian record business, and has for decades, and he had fun stories about some of the musicians I admire. And he worked promotion on one of my favorite albums of all time, the Choir’s Circle Slide.

I ended up spending time with Chris, and then with Jeff away from the festival. I don’t like to admit it, but walking around and seeing what it’s become has made me more than a little sad. I’m still grateful to be here, and wouldn’t have missed it. But it’s a little like a ghost town where miracles used to happen.

We got back to the fest around 8:30, and I got the chance to meet Steve Taylor again. Steve was one of the most important Christian musicians of the 1980s, pushing boundaries that many didn’t even know were there. He’s gone on to be a superb film director, and he brought his latest, Blue Like Jazz, with him. I’ve seen the film three times, and I met Steve when he premiered it at Judson College in Elgin a few months ago. (I did better this time. I could actually speak words.)

Steve said the movie brought in about $600,000, and he hopes it’ll do better when it’s released on DVD in August. According to my journalist friend Brian Smith, Steve also said he’s recorded new music, and is prepping a live album from his astonishing band, Chagall Guevara. So that’s good news.

And yes, some people complained about Blue Like Jazz. It’s a move that reflects real life, so it includes drinking and drug use and swearing and people who like to have sex with others of the same gender. And it never judges any of this. I heard one guy call it all “unnecessary,” which misses the point by a spectacularly wide margin. Unless it reflected the real world around it, the grace notes at the end of the film would be pat and meaningless. Yes, even at Cornerstone, people balked. I shook my head and left to see Iona.

Iona! I would have paid full price for this festival just to see them again. Iona is a band unlike any other. They have found a wondrous middle ground between traditional Irish music and full-blown prog-rock, kind of a mix of old Yes and the Chieftains. Joanne Hogg has a blindingly good voice, and guitarist Dave Bainbridge and pipe player Martin Nolan can somehow play these incredibly complex, proggy-trad Irish reel lines in unison. (I was sitting with someone who had never seen the band, and the moment when he realized the guitar and pipes were playing together was priceless.)

Iona has a new double album called Another Realm, and it’s magnificent. They played a bunch of songs from that, including the 11-minute “White Horse,” along with classics like “Irish Day.” They ended their set with a stomping instrumental reel that had everyone on their feet at midnight in the 100-degree heat. It was a full-out dance party, and so much fun to experience. And then, headlining act Aradhna was late, so Iona got to play a couple more songs, including the timeless “Today.”

Seriously, you’ve never heard anything like Iona. Go here.

Aradhna is a band I should have liked. On guitar, bass, sitar and tabla, this foursome played circling Middle Eastern folk music, with fine vocal melodies. But after a few songs, I was just done with it. I’m not sure why, and I may investigate this band further some other time.

So I wandered off, finding myself at the Sacrosanct Records tent, intrigued by the band on stage. They call themselves Hope for the Dying, and they’re a complex, technical metal band with no bass player. They played to pre-recorded orchestral tracks, giving everything that boost of grandeur – and also, that completely unforgiving edge should they screw up this maddeningly complicated music. They never did.

I knew I was in love when, halfway through their set, the band covered “Don’t Stop Believing.” Yes, that “Don’t Stop Believing.” I immediately bought both of their records, the more traditional metal self-titled EP, and the more orchestrated Dissimulation. If you’re into technical metal, these guys are pretty great. And they really served to drive home the diversity of Cornerstone – after watching the Irish prog band, I caught a little of the Middle Eastern folk outfit before enjoying the cerebral metal group.

After that, I stuck around to see a screening of Fallen Angel, a documentary about Jesus Rock pioneer Larry Norman. Turns out, Larry Norman was an ass. Did you know that? Because I didn’t. The entire film was about what an ass Larry Norman was, featuring interviews from the people he screwed over during his life. It was a sour-tasting way to end the day, and yet, it was fascinating.

So that was my weak day, and it was pretty strong, truth be told. Met some great people, saw some amazing music, discovered a couple new bands. Just another fine day at Cornerstone.

Tomorrow, Jeff plays his final C-Stone set, and I get to see Neal Morse and the Violet Burning. Wowser.

* * * * *

Next week, my thoughts on the final two days of the final Cornerstone festival. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Today, I am headed south to Bushnell, Illinois for the final Cornerstone festival.

I don’t think it’s quite hit me yet that I’ll never get to do this again. Perhaps it will when I see the famous sign: “Cornerstone 1 Miles.” Or perhaps it will when I get to the gallery stage, and start seeing bands take that stage for the final time. The 77s are playing tonight, and I’ll never again see Mike Roe peal out a killer solo under that red and white tent. Perhaps it’ll hit me when I reconnect with Cornerstone friends like Chris Macintosh and David Cervantes, and realize this is the last year for our annual meet-up.

Or perhaps it won’t really hit me until the Choir takes the stage on Saturday night. Longtime readers know that the Choir is my favorite band, and their closing slot is poetic – they were the first band to play Cornerstone, back in 1984. This will no doubt be an emotional set for them, and for those of us in the audience who love them like family. I’ve seen the Choir play Cornerstone half a dozen times now, and after Saturday night, I’ll never see them play Cornerstone again.

So while I expect this week will be fun, I also expect it will be a sad and moving experience. I’ll be sure to tell you all about it next week, along with a recap of all the new music I pick up. That’s another thing I’ll never get to do again – buy new music at Cornerstone. See? I’m already sad.

* * * * *

So this week I’m going to discuss Rush. I’m warning you now, because if my conversations over the past few weeks have taught me anything, it’s that Rush has somehow become one of the most divisive bands on the planet.

I’m not sure how that happened. (I’m also not sure how Neal Peart went from winning every Modern Drummer poll to being universally disliked by every single drummer I know. But that’s a different story.) Because here’s the thing: I’ve been a Rush fan since I first heard them in the mid-‘80s. My first Rush album may have been Power Windows, but I vividly remember receiving Hold Your Fire as a birthday gift, and loving the hell out of that record.

And then I worked backward to their heavier, more difficult albums, like Hemispheres and Caress of Steel and, yes, 2112. And I loved those as well, even with Geddy Lee’s piercing younger-man vocals. (Parts of “I Think I’m Going Bald” just shoot through me like an icepick.) Rush, to me, has always been about the astonishing skill of its three players, bashing their way through music that tread the fine line between complex and catchy. I stayed with them as they jettisoned the complexity in the ‘90s, producing mediocre records like Counterparts, and rejoiced when they found their groove again on 2002’s Vapor Trails.

And I never, not once, lamented the lack of emotional connection I had with their music. Rush doesn’t make me feel. They don’t move me down to my soul. But then, they’re not trying to. They’re trying to spark my intelligence, fire up my brain. Rush’s music and lyrics are cerebral, generally concerned with heart-stopping musicianship and complexity, and with philosophical concepts writ large. Even their driving song, “Red Barchetta,” is about a future society that has banned certain types of cars.

So yeah, I don’t expect the same thing from Rush that I would from, for instance, Aimee Mann. But it seems a lot of people I know do. They find Rush distant, unemotional. And my only response to that has been, “Well, yeah.” They’re not trying to do anything else. Criticizing Rush for not speaking to your soul is like criticizing Midnight in Paris for not having enough zombies in it. Music can, and does, have a variety of aims, and I think the best way to determine its greatness is to figure out how close to its own objectives it comes.

Of course, I also think Rush is just a kickass rock band. The immense sound they create with just three players is, frankly, ridiculous. And since Vapor Trails, they’ve all but done away with the synths and returned to the business of being the best power trio on Earth. Their last record, 2006’s superb Snakes and Arrows, cranked up the amps even more, and on the subsequent live album, they sounded re-energized, ready to reclaim their particular place in the pantheon. And now, with their 20th album, Clockwork Angels, that rebirth is complete.

Make no mistake, Rush fans, Clockwork Angels is the band’s best record in more than 20 years. I haven’t liked a Rush record this much since Presto in 1989. For starters, they’re on fire, musically speaking. The songs are tremendous, and they slam through them like a band one-third their age. Much of Clockwork Angels sounds like what it is – three guys in a room playing like possessed men. If you’ve heard the opening track, “Caravan,” or the first single, “Headlong Flight,” you know what I mean. They’re alive, just exploding with energy. And where some Rush songs have meandered of late (and by “of late” I mean “since the ‘80s”), these tunes crackle. They’re strong, melodic powerhouses.

Second, this is the band’s first full-fledged concept record since Hemispheres, and getting to tell another story in song seems to have sparked their imaginations. Clockwork Angels is the story of an unnnamed denizen of a society ruled by the Watchmaker and his angels. Framed as an anarchist and a terrorist, he flees and has a series of adventures across an alien landscape, finally retreating from society all together. Yes, it all sounds very Rush, but it may surprise you to learn that they haven’t made a unified record like this in more than 30 years.

If all that makes this album sound impenetrable, then I’m telling it wrong. Because it’s immediate. Clockwork Angels is the most hummable, air-guitarable album Rush has given us in ages. Fans have already heard the first two tracks, “Caravan” and “BU2B” (which stands for Brought Up To Believe), and that vibe, that live band attack, is present for the entire album. This is rock that reaches from the speakers, grabs you by the collar and gives you a good shake. It’s as visceral as Rush has ever been.

Highlights? OK. In addition to those first two, there’s the seven-minute title track, with its delightfully dissonant guitar. Alex Lifeson, it should be noted, is just a jaw-droppingly good guitar player, and his interplay with Lee on bass is something to behold. There’s “Seven Cities of Gold,” a stomper with a catchy chorus. There’s “The Wreckers,” which brings back the mid-‘90s mid-tempo tunes the band used to churn out and puts them all to shame. There’s “Headlong Flight,” seven minutes and 20 seconds of three of the best musicians you’ve ever heard locking into a groove and just riding it.

And there is “Wish Them Well,” the closest thing to a hit single this band has written in a long, long time. An anthem for those ignoring the haters (a phrase Rush would never use), “Wish Them Well” brings Clockwork Angels to an immensely satisfying climax. The actual finale, the gentle, string-accented “The Garden,” is just icing on the cake. Before it even arrives, Clockwork Angels is a delirious, dizzying triumph.

But I’d never recommend Rush to those who want their music to take them on an emotional journey. They just don’t do that. But that’s OK, because plenty of other bands do. Case in point: Sigur Ros.

In many ways, Sigur Ros is – at least for American audiences – pure emotional expression. This Icelandic quartet sings in their native language, when they’re not singing in the gibberish language they invented. So even the vocals bypass the English-speaking brain and go straight to the heart. And the music. Man, the music. Listening to Sigur Ros is like listening to a half-remembered dream. It’s practically a spiritual experience.

Recently, Sigur Ros has been trying for something a little more immediate. Their last album, 2008’s Med Sud Eyrum Vid Spilum Endalaust, found the band dabbling in shorter, poppier, less orchestrated material. It even contained a track sung in English. And singer Jonsi’s subsequent solo record, Go, dove even further in that direction – lots of acoustic guitars, lots of hummable melodies, lots of English. Don’t get me wrong, those were both very good records, but they just didn’t suit this band (or Jonsi) quite as well.

Which is why their just-released sixth album, Valtari, is such a treat. Eight long, beautiful, otherworldly songs, several without vocals at all, casting a glorious spell. It feels somewhat like a throwback to the inexpressibly wonderful parentheses album, except it mainly works in reverse – where ( ) started gently and built steam over its 72 minutes, ending with the loudest track, Valtari begins softly and just gets less intense from there, concluding with its most placid piece, “Fjogur Piano.”

The result is a nearly unbroken suite of beautiful, emotional dream music, the kind that only this band can make. I say nearly unbroken because the third track, the amazing “Varud,” doesn’t resist the old Sigur Ros buildup. The haunting melody rises up and up, buoyed by horns and strings and a thudding bass drum. But that’s the only song that crescendos. The other seven float in, spread beauty around like stardust, and float out.

The album’s second half, in particular, unfolds more slowly than even Sigur Ros music ever has. The moody “Dautalogn” segues beautifully into the even more atmospheric “Varteldur,” an instrumental accented by delicate piano. The eight-minute title track is like free falling through a cloud while hearing transmissions from space, and when it evaporates, “Fjogur Piano” slowly coalesces around it. A gorgeous elegy for multiple pianos, it evolves into pure bliss by the end of its 7:49. The album ends as it began, quietly dissolving into silence.

Don’t misunderstand me when I say Valtari is this band’s best album in 10 years. They’re Sigur Ros. They can do no wrong. But to my mind, they’re at their best when they stop thinking about the music they’re creating, and just feel it. This is the sound of an astonishing band making the most beautiful music they can. It is an older and wiser and more patient Sigur Ros, but still a heartbreakingly gorgeous one. There is no other band like them. Valtari is magnificent.

* * * * *

Next week, thoughts on the last Cornerstone. After that, the Levellers, the Early November, and Joe Jackson covering Duke Ellington. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

In October of 2004, my life was in shambles. I’d lost my lousy workaday job, I’d been unable to find any writing work, and was preparing to head halfway across the country and crawl back to my father for help. And in the midst of all this, Marillion came to my home town and played a tremendous show. And for about three hours, all was right with the world.

In June of 2012, I’m a lot more stable and comfortable with my life. Good job, good home, good people. I’m in a city about 1,000 miles away from my 2004 home, and that’s about as far as I feel from the person I was eight years ago. But one thing has remained the same – I still love Marillion, and I was intensely excited to see them for the first time since those faraway days in Baltimore.

I was able to catch both nights of the band’s stop at Park West in Chicago, one of the best live music venues I’ve ever been in. And they were astoundingly good. Marillion has somehow mastered the art of creating complex, cerebral music that heads right for the soul – emotional head music, if you will – and I can’t even begin to explain the awe and wonder that goes along with hearing something like “This Strange Engine” live. They played the massive “Neverland” both nights, and I felt like I was floating six feet off the ground.

There’s a new Marillion album coming, called Sounds That Can’t Be Made. The band premiered two songs off of it – the pulsating “Power,” and the more down-home rock tune “Lucky Man.” I liked them both, especially “Power,” but the band members said these were just the easiest two to play, and to rehearse for the tour. The new record contains three songs that break the 10-minute mark, they said, and bassist Pete Trewavas said some of the tunes on there will “blow your mind.”

Oh, yeah, didn’t I mention? I got to hang out with the band after the Friday show, thanks to my good friend Jeff Elbel, who reviewed it for Big Takeover Magazine. I’m always sort of awkward and reserved in those situations, but I did shake Trewavas’ hand, and listened as Jeff talked to guitarist Steve Rothery about space travel for about 20 minutes. That was fun and surreal. And I got a picture with drummer Ian Mosley, who only came down to see us after much cajoling. It was a huge amount of fun.

I remain grateful that I found this band, and overjoyed that they continue to make music that moves me. Over these two nights, I got to hear most of the Marillion songs I love: “Out of This World,” “Afraid of Sunlight,” all 18 minutes of “Ocean Cloud,” “The Invisible Man” (twice), “The Great Escape,” “Happiness Is the Road,” “Easter,” and on and on. As Jeff said after the second show, they’re a miracle band, and the fact that they’re still around after more than 30 years and still at the top of their game is simply incredible. Good show, boys. Come back soon.

* * * * *

Coincidentally, it’s been nearly as long since we’ve heard from Fiona Apple.

Her last record, Extraordinary Machine, made headlines for Apple’s tussle with Epic Records, and the decision to scrap the Jon Brion-produced version of the album in favor of a more commercial one by Mike Elizondo. At the time, many people (including me) chastised her for not sticking to her guns, for caving in and reworking an exciting, idiosyncratic album into a less interesting, more palatable thing. Extraordinary Machine Version 2.0 was still wonderful, but you could smell compromise all over it.

“Compromise” is a word no one will ever use to describe Apple’s just-released fourth album. Start with its title, in full: The Idler Wheel is Wiser Than the Driver of the Screw, and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do. It’s no 90-word monster like the poem that adorned her second album, but it’s a mouthful. But a thoughtful one – an idler wheel is a piece of machinery that doesn’t seem to move, yet controls a number of other moving parts. It’s a metaphor, she says, for people like her who don’t seem to be doing anything with their time, but are really taking everything in and quietly creating.

As put off as I expect Epic was with the title of this record, I’m sure they were even more taken aback by its contents. This is… well, uncompromising is probably the best word for it. Even fans of her previous work will find this one almost defiantly unlikable, at least on first listen. It’s minimalist and difficult, comprised almost entirely of dissonant jazz chords and brittle, strange melodies, delivered with a much rawer tone than Apple’s ever allowed on record before. Many of these songs consist of piano, percussion and voice, and that’s it.

And also? It’s brilliant. These songs are miles ahead of any she’s written, complicated and painfully honest and quite unlike anything she’s done. It’s an album that reveals its pleasures gradually. Your first time through, you’ll be mystified, shaking your head, wondering why this record was released in this condition. It won’t make any sense. You’ll walk away befuddled, confused, and maybe a little angry.

But stay with it, and The Idler Wheel will reward you. Opener “Every Single Night,” for instance, is one of the least immediately appealing things here, a strange jazz ballad with virtually no instruments. Acoustic bass, vibes and piano, all playing single, ringing notes while Apple lets loose with that big, bold voice. She allows it to crack and wither in places, so when her double-tracked booming hits on the sort-of chorus, it’s striking. It’s a song you could study for weeks.

Many of the tracks on The Idler Wheel are like that. “Daredevil” sounds like it was surreptitiously recorded at a rehearsal between Apple and drummer Charlie Drayton. It’s all plunking piano and tickled drums, and at one point, Apple screams her little torn and frayed throat out. (The moments on this album where Apple sounds most out of control, vocally speaking, are among my favorites. They just show how much control she really has.) “Valentine” is an easier pill to swallow, even though it’s just as minimal. “I’m a tulip in a cup, I stand no chance of growing up,” Apple sings, and it’s the first time on the album she gives us what you’d call a recognizable melody.

“Jonathan” is, yes, about Jonathan Ames, whom Apple dated from 2007 to 2010. It’s also one of the most complex and gorgeous songs here. While Apple picks out a piano melody that probably makes perfect sense in her head, Drayton builds little percussion sculptures behind her. “I don’t want to talk about anything,” Apple mutters, before referring to Ames as “a captain of a capsized ship.” But she turns her critical eye on herself on the grand “Left Alone.” Over a galloping piano-drum duet, she wails, “How can I ask anyone to love me when all I do is beg alone?” Drayton positively shines on this song – his drum parts qualify as orchestration.

“Werewolf” is the album’s most accessible moment, which isn’t a very high bar to clear. But it’s a fantastic song with some splendid lyrics: “I could liken you to a werewolf the way you left me for dead, but I admit I provided a full moon, I could liken you to a shark the way you bit off my head, but then again, I was waving around a bleeding open wound…” Even though it’s the most tuneful song here, it never goes where you’d expect. By this point on the album, the style is settling in – it’s piano and drums again, with some odd feral screaming mixed in over the second half. You’ll find yourself thinking that “Werewolf” should be the single, and then you’ll catch yourself, because it sounds nothing like any single ever released in the history of anything.

Apple gets her best line out in “Regret”: “I ran out of white dove’s feathers to soak up the hot piss that comes from your mouth every time you address me.” That’s the chorus, and she resists the temptation to venomously spit it out. “Regret” is nearly ambient, in fact, its subtle piano chord changes barely breaking its droning mood. “Anything We Want” sounds like a closing song, built on a rickety scaffold of percussion, some acoustic bass and barely-moving piano, but it leads to a lovely and memorable chorus. “And then we can do anything we want” is almost the mission statement of the album.

Yeah, she could have ended with that, but instead, she went with “Hot Knife,” which completely flips this album’s script. After nine songs of personal anguish and relationship woes, Apple hits us with four minutes of pure sexual longing, sung like the Andrews Sisters – she brings in Maude Margaret to croon the high harmonies, and double- and triple-tracks the voices into something of a choir. “I’m a hot knife, he’s a pat of butter, if I get a chance I’m gonna show him that he’s never gonna need another…” It’s a wry grin, a sweet and fun way to go out.

In some ways, I feel like this is Fiona Apple’s first real album. It’s the first one that sounds like she was in control from the start, the first one that feels completely free of commercial concerns. There isn’t a hint of compromise in the entire 42 minutes, and Apple’s sheer belief in these songs, and her ability to perform them this way, makes for riveting listening.

These are the best songs she’s written – she’s working on a whole other level here, far beyond anything she’s done. She took her time, she made the album she wanted to, and the result is a top-to-bottom stunner. You may feel confused and disoriented by this record at first, but don’t worry. It will pass. Fiona Apple’s been very good for a long time, but The Idler Wheel is the album on which she really shows us what she can do, if she’s left alone to do it.

* * * * *

All right, it’s time for the halftime report. You know the drill by now. Below you’ll find my current draft of the 2012 top 10 list – essentially, what it would look like were I forced to set it in stone right now. Thankfully, I’m not, and with new records from Aimee Mann, Muse, Yeasayer, Marillion, Bloc Party, Green Day, Minus the Bear, Animal Collective, Amanda Palmer and Devin Townsend on the way, this list will no doubt change before the end of the year.

But for now, here’s what we’re looking at.

#10. Beach House, Bloom.
#9. Andrea Dawn, Theories of How We Can Be Friends.
#8. Esperanza Spalding, Radio Music Society.
#7. John K. Samson, Provincial.
#6. Fiona Apple, The Idler Wheel.
#5. Rufus Wainwright, Out of the Game.
#4. Shearwater, Animal Joy.
#3. Bryan Scary, Daffy’s Elixir.
#2. Punch Brothers, Who’s Feeling Young Now.
#1. Lost in the Trees, A Church That Fits Our Needs.

All right. Next week, Rush and Sigur Ros. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I’ve spent an awful lot of time in this column talking about expectation. It’s kind of the cornerstone on which a relationship with art is based. I’ll give you my money for the next thing you do, because the last thing you did led me to expect great things. I may not give you my money if you’ve let me down a time or two. (Usually at least two, if not more.

Expectation is all about one’s history with the creators. For example, I went to see Prometheus the other day. It’s a gargantuan sci-fi movie, and I generally stay away from those, but I plunked down my $11 for a few reasons. It was co-written by Damon Lindelof, one of the architects of Lost, perhaps my favorite modern television show. It was directed by Ridley Scott, who is definitely hit or miss with me, but – and this is most important – it is a prequel to one of Scott’s finest films, Alien. All of this combined led me to sit in the dark for two and a half hours and experience the story.

And lo, it was terrible. An insane, poorly-reasoned story populated by characters that never once act like real human beings, all collapsing into a pretty CGI mess. Also, it includes one of the sickest scenes of the year, which I’m still seeing in my head. (You won’t be able to un-see it.) It kind of falls over on its face about three-quarters of the way through and never gets back up. And it deftly illustrates the danger of trying something just because of the people who made it.

Neither of the albums I have on tap this week are as bad as Prometheus. But they both sort of defy expectations in the same way. Both are follow-ups to records I liked – records that, in fact, both made my 2010 Top 10 List. And both are passable, but just not as good as I was hoping they would be.

I know I surprised a lot of people by praising Linkin Park’s A Thousand Suns so effusively. Well, nearly two years later, I stand by that praise. Linkin Park gets a bad rap, and they deserve a lot of it – their first three albums are full of the type of posturing nu-metal-rap hybrid stuff that makes my ears bleed. The band has an interesting lineup and the makings of a fascinating sound, but during their peak popularity years, they used those ingredients to make a toxic, mushy soup.

But A Thousand Suns, that record is awesome. It’s fearlessly experimental, putting aside the heavy guitars and letting loose with unrestrained imagination. It’s darkly political, and it goes places musically that you’d never expect Linkin Park to go. From the Floydian ambiance of “Robot Boy” to the tribal creeping fury of “When They Come for Me” to the whiplash-inducing dance-scream-blissout journey of “Blackout” (a song no other band would create), the Linkin Parkers shot for the moon on this album, and took several giant leaps forward.

Of course, change is hard, and a sizeable chunk of their fanbase hated A Thousand Suns. To me, they had two choices on the follow-up – retrench and rewrite Hybrid Theory to please the fans, or keep going, pushing boundaries, and make something that puts A Thousand Suns to shame. I’m sad to say they’ve picked Option C: try for something in the middle. And that never, ever works.

Linkin Park’s fifth album is called Living Things. Right from the start, you can tell they’re being less ambitious – the record clocks in at 37 minutes, and it’s a rapid-fire burst of short pop tunes. Not a one breaks the four-minute mark. Sonically, they’ve attempted to plow a middle ground between the adventurousness of A Thousand Suns and the familiar rap-rock of their past. The songs are mainly in the old Linkin style, with raps from Mike Shinoda sitting next to sung verses by Chester leading into huge singalong choruses, but the focus on electronic sounds remains. It feels a little like a remixed version of their older work, but the songs are better, more concise and clear.

The first three tracks, in fact, may be a signpost pointing toward the future of Linkin Park. “Lost in the Echo,” “In My Remains,” and the single, “Burn It Down,” bring back the more traditional rap-sing-scream of their most popular work, with a decidedly electro twist. The record gets a little more experimental from there, and some of it works, like the wistful ballad “Roads Untraveled,” while some of it just doesn’t, like the spluttering mess that is “Lies Greed Misery,” or the half-hardcore “Victimized.”

In fact, when the band stretches out this time, the results are less successful. Take “Until It Breaks,” a track unlike any they’ve ever done. It’s a shapeshifting epic in 3:43, starting with a loping rap and segueing nicely into a light Bennington chorus, then morphing through several other sections, concluding with a surprisingly ambient playout. The trouble is, none of it coheres. It’s a house of cards, ready to fall over at the slightest brush. This should be the track that proves that Linkin Park is a truly ambitious band, but instead it’s evidence for the prosecution.

There is one experiment that works very well, however – in fact, it’s the album’s best song. “Castle of Glass” feels like riding a mechanical horse through an Old West landscape, its double-time drums propelling a creepy, minor-key melody. It’s all synthesizers and Shinoda’s low, even voice, but it feels layered, deeper than it seems at first. It’s one of the few tracks here that aims for new territory, and claims it.

That said, this record is undoubtedly disappointing when compared with A Thousand Suns. I wanted them to travel further down that fruitful path, but instead they’ve decided to retreat. This is not, in and of itself, a bad thing – I like the fact that they’ve brought the more keyboard-driven sound back to the core of what they do. Living Things is not, on its own, a bad record, and had they released it right after Minutes to Midnight, I’d be hailing it as a fascinating step forward. But they didn’t. They released it after their best, most wildly creative work, and it can’t help but suffer in its shadow.

I have similar feelings about Jukebox the Ghost. In 2010, the Brooklyn trio released their second album, Everything Under the Sun. For most of that year, my well-informed friends (like Tony Shore and Dave Danglis) begged me to check it out, but it wasn’t until November or so that I gave it a spin. I spent a week kicking myself for not diving in earlier. Everything Under the Sun is a brilliant pop album, an out-of-nowhere stunner on the level of Ben Folds or Jellyfish. It’s that good.

And I missed it when it came out, and didn’t get the chance to give it a proper, go-get-this-now review. But I figured I’d catch them on the next cycle. Surely the next Jukebox album would be just as good, if not better?

Sadly, that’s not the case. But I don’t want to discourage you from picking it up. The third Jukebox album is called Safe Travels, and it’s quite good – it only suffers when placed next to its astounding predecessor. This time out, the songs are simpler, and the band has introduced a synth-y disco party vibe. That’s not in itself bad, but it is limiting. Where I felt the songs on Everything could (and did) go anywhere, the songs on Safe Travels stay within a couple of boxes. They’re fun boxes, though, and this album should do well for them.

Jukebox’s twin songwriters, Ben Thornewill and Tommy Siegel, use this effervescent backdrop to tackle some weighty issues on this record. Safe Travels is, in the main, a hopeful record about death and change. On the darkly funny “Dead,” Siegel asks how you know if you’ve passed on, or if you’re “stuck in a dull dream about nothing that never ends.” Thornewill takes that ball and runs with it on “Adulthood”: “I dare you to survive being grown for the rest of your life, from adulthood no one survives…”

It’s a record steeped in regret, and the lyrics are uniformly fantastic. It’s the music that suffers this time. “Adulthood,” for instance, deserved better than its vaguely martial, in-one-place tune. Again, it’s not bad – it’s perfectly hummable stuff, played with gusto. But the songs here pale in comparison to the melodic wonders on Everything Under the Sun. In some ways, this is a more grown-up album, and that suits its theme just fine. It’s just that a song like “Ghosts in Empty Houses,” fun as it is, isn’t in the same ballpark as one like “Half-Crazy.”

The album does get a lot more interesting in its final stretch. “Man in the Moon” is as pretty a song as these guys have given us, a brief acoustic song of longing. (And, yes, regret.) “Everybody Knows” is the catchiest and best song on this record, the only one that sounds like it would have fit on Everything. “Should never have let you go, everybody knows, everybody knows,” Thornewill sings over a backdrop the 1970s Paul McCartney would have adored. And it all leads to “The Spiritual,” the gospel-inflected closer, and a subtle prayer for death. The final words on the album are, “Let me go in peace.”

I do like Safe Travels. It’s a solid pop album with a lot on its mind, and should serve to break Jukebox the Ghost to a wider audience. It only suffers when held up to their last effort. Is that fair? Each album should be judged on its own merits, no question. But without Everything Under the Sun, I would not have been anticipating Safe Travels as much, and it might still be languishing unheard, along with so many others from this year. I moved it to the top of my stack because I expected greatness. I got pretty-goodness. Next time I may not care as much.

But don’t let that deter you. Check out Jukebox the Ghost. They’re a fine band, and Safe Travels is a fine record.

Next week, Fiona Apple. I don’t know what to say about it yet. I’d better figure it out, and fast. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow my infrequent twitterings at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.