Well, 2012, you’ve been a bit of a disappointment so far.

Not as far as life is concerned. You’ve been doing OK there. I have a good job and good friends and every reason to wake up ecstatic every day. But musically? Not so much, 2012. I just looked at the First Quarter Report from last year – by this time, we already had the Over the Rhine album, the R.E.M., the PJ Harvey, the Dears and the Decemberists. This year’s quarter-time statement isn’t quite as good, I have to say. It’s a top 10 list with Van Halen on it. ‘Nuff said.

But there’s still plenty of time to redeem yourself, 2012. You’ve certainly started down that path, thankfully – in the next two columns I’ll be reviewing two of my favorites of the year so far. For the most part, though, the records I’ve expected to be brilliant have been mediocre, and the things I’ve enjoyed have largely been from left field. So I keep on scanning the upcoming releases, and wondering whether the ones I’m excited about will be any good.

I mean, you know by now how much I’m anticipating that new Choir album in a week or so. And that new Marillion record sometime this fall. Will they be worth it? No idea. I’ve heard the single from the new Keane album, Strangeland, and it’s marvelous. Will the album follow suit? Man, I hope so. I’ve liked everything I’ve heard from Rufus Wainwright’s new one, Out of the Game, and Jack White’s solo record, Blunderbuss, too. But this year, I just can’t be certain of anything until I hear it.

Some other things I’m looking forward to: Beach House, Best Coast and Garbage are putting new ones out all on the same day (May 15). Three very different bands with great female singers. Mount Eerie will release two records this year, starting with Clear Moon on May 22. Sigur Ros has a surprise new one on May 29, along with Sun Kil Moon, Regina Spektor and Rush, finally. The Walkmen return with Heaven on June 5 (my birthday), and the great Jukebox the Ghost resurface a week later with Safe Travels. And then there are new things by Fiona Apple and Joe Jackson on the horizon.

So, 2012, you should be a really good year. On paper, you rock. So let’s get it together. I expect the Second Quarter Report to be a thing of beauty. No excuses. Dismissed.

* * * * *

People often ask me how I hear about new bands. The truth is, I put in a lot of research time, reading reviews and listening to singles. I probably follow up on only about 25 percent of what I sample. It’s almost a full-time job staying somewhat current, and I’m not even close to the level of some people I know. Yeah, it’s just a lot of hard work.

But then, sometimes, it happens purely by accident.

Last month, my friend Kevin Trudo played a solo show, opening up for a band from Chicago. I’d never heard of them, but I loved their name: The Right Now. That has to be one of the finest band names I’ve ever heard, actually. It’s immediate, it’s punchy, and it promises a good time. The band turned out to be an eight-member neo-soul outfit with a singer who could win American Idol any year she wanted to. And while they put on a good show, I just wasn’t feeling it.

On a whim, though, I ordered both of their records, and I’m glad I did. The Right Now comes off much better on disc, for some reason. It may be that the studio allows them to use vintage-sounding soul production, whereas on stage they can come off like a particularly tight wedding band. Whatever the reason, I really like The Right Now on record, and heartily recommend them.

The new album is graced with the awesome title The Right Now Gets Over You. As you could probably tell by the name, it’s an old-school you-done-me-wrong record, full of songs with names like “Should’ve Told Me,” “I Could Kiss You (I Could Cry),” and “’Til It Went Wrong.” It’s a looser, funkier record than their debut, Carry Me Home, and it’s a little less hooky, but it succeeds on pure attitude. Just check out “Tell Everyone the Truth,” a classic-sounding little number with some top-notch horns and Stefanie Berecz singing her heart out. This is the sound they’ve been after, and they do it very well.

There are a couple of missteps on this record. “I Could Kiss You (I Could Cry)” is essentially hook-free, and lacks the energy this band brings to every other track. And “Higher” is a trippy experiment that doesn’t quite work. But otherwise, Gets Over You is a top-notch album. Besides “Tell Everyone the Truth,” you get the slinky “Half as Much,” with those spectral backing vocals. You get the delightful dance number “He Used to Be,” and the effervescent pop of “Good Man,” on which the horn section shines. Throughout, the band just clicks, particularly the rhythm section, and the all-purpose keyboards of Brendan O’Connell, the chief songwriter.

I found The Right Now by accident, but they’ve made me a fan. Both of their albums are fun, well-crafted, soulful affairs, and I’m excited to hear where they go next. Check them out at www.therightnow.com.

* * * * *

I don’t know if this is a controversial opinion or not, but I think Counting Crows is a great band.

They’ve made five albums, and I don’t dislike any of them. I flat-out love a few of them, especially This Desert Life and the latest, Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings. Adam Duritz is a one-of-a-kind singer, his band is tight when they need to be and sloppy when they want, and they just write some great songs. I listened to “Amy Hit the Atmosphere” again tonight. That tune is just perfect.

So I’ll buy anything they do, even something like Underwater Sunshine (Or What We Did on Our Summer Vacation), their newly-released covers album. I’m not sure the idea of an hour of covers from this band would be an enticing notion to many people, but I was pretty interested to hear this, especially since I only recognized five of these 15 songs by their titles. You can tell a lot about a band by the covers they choose, and Underwater Sunshine outs the Crows as a traditionalist rock band with some interesting influences.

But what’s fantastic about this album is the sound, the vibe. The guys in Counting Crows have been known to produce their records pretty heavily, but this… this sounds like they recorded it live in about a week. And the energy is just pouring off it. This is what it sounds like when a great band gets in a room and just plays. This is the band’s first independent release, and if this is them starting as they mean to go on, well, I’m on board.

Duritz acknowledges that a lot of the songs chosen for Underwater Sunshine aren’t well known. They cover tunes from members’ side projects and former bands. They cover Dawes and the Romany Rye, two relatively unknown bands from the last few years. (The Dawes song they chose isn’t even on one of their albums – it was recorded for a Daytrotter session.) They pick a Travis b-side. Duritz swears they’re not being intentionally obscure, these are just the songs they like, and that’s clear in the vibe of the record.

While I enjoy hearing the Crows rip through these songs, this album works best for me when they put their own spin on tunes I know and love. The first of these in the running order is “Meet on the Ledge,” the Fairport Convention classic, and they knock it out of the park – they make it louder and rougher and more ragged. They do the same to Gram Parsons’ immortal “Return of the Grievous Angel” – Duritz sings the living hell out of this one.

The Crows strip down to acoustics for the Small Faces’ “Ooh La La,” and the Pure Prairie League classic “Amie.” They rip through Teenage Fanclub’s “Start Again,” and shimmy their way across Dylan’s “You Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere,” first recorded by the Byrds. (I’ve always said, if you want to hear a good Dylan song, wait for someone to cover it.) David Immergluck just attacks his mandolin. If you’ve never heard anyone attack a mandolin, well, you should hear this.

But my favorite thing here is the closer, a reverent yet spirited version of Big Star’s incredible “The Ballad of El Goodo.” I’m still missing Alex Chilton, so to hear a band I admire pay tribute to him like this is very moving. “El Goodo” is a gorgeous song, and this take is simply wonderful. “Ain’t no one going to turn me round…” I just love this.

So yeah, it’s a covers album, a risky proposition at the best of times. But Counting Crows take the opportunity to show both their impeccable taste and their highly underrated musicianship. This is what they sound like when they’re just playing for the love of it. And that’s the best – when a band loves the music they’re playing so much, you can feel it. It’s there in every note of Underwater Sunshine, and it makes me love this band even more.

* * * * *

Next week, local superstar Andrea Dawn. 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.

Every time I get to see Mike Roe play, I consider it a privilege.

Roe is a guitar player, but that never seems to cover it for me. Let’s put it this way: if I were able to simply pick up a guitar and do with it what Mike Roe can, I’d never get tired of it. I’d play all day, every day, and marvel at the magic I’m making. I’ll go to pretty much any lengths to hear him play. Lately, that’s involved trekking three and a half hours south to the Cornerstone Festival, and sitting in the sweltering heat to hear Roe’s brief sets.

But on Friday night, I got the rare pleasure of seeing Roe play in a room a couple miles from my house. And it was fantastic.

The show also drew the largest audience I can remember seeing at one of Mike’s local concerts. I think there were a couple hundred people there, an audience far smaller than the man deserves, but still far larger than normal. I was thrilled, and at the same time saddened – Mike’s been so good for so long that I think he should be a household name by now. But despite a remarkably consistent recording career (on his own, with his band the 77s, and with the Lost Dogs) that spans 30 years and a long history of magical shows, very few people know who he is.

But that means I still get to see him in small, intimate rooms like the Warehouse Church in Aurora, where he and former 77s guitarist David Leonhardt alternately strummed acoustics with deft grace, and let loose with a scorching twin electric guitar assault. The acoustic portions of the set were uncommonly beautiful, particularly “Kites Without Strings,” played near the end. Roe hasn’t lost any of his soaring falsetto, and the song remains simply gorgeous. (Here, check out the video from Friday night.)

It was the electric stuff, though, that brought down the house. Roe and Leonhardt are touring behind a massive three-CD re-release of Sticks and Stones, one of the most popular 77s albums, and they tore through this old material with a vengeance. Using programmed drum beats, the two played explosive versions of “You Walked In the Room,” “The Days to Come” and the awesome “This Is the Way Love Is.” And they topped it all with “God Sends Quails,” a dark and foreboding masterpiece that I never thought I’d get to hear live.

By the end of the set, when we were all singing the wordless parts of “Ba Ba Ba Ba” and “Nowhere Else,” the show achieved some sort of transcendence. Every time I get to experience this, I feel lucky to have found Mike Roe’s music, and to have had the chance to see him as often as I have. If you get the chance, you really should take it.

* * * * *

And of course, I picked up a copy of that Sticks and Stones re-release.

When Sticks and Stones came out in 1990, I was a high school sophomore, and I’d never heard of the 77s. It was my obsession with the Choir, one of their contemporaries, that eventually brought me around. I’ve said this before, but the Choir’s Circle Slide was my gateway drug to this whole corner of the music world. I followed lead singer Derri Daugherty to his side project, the Lost Dogs, and from there found the 77s, Daniel Amos and Adam Again, all incredible bands.

I think the first Roe album I bought was his solo project, The Boat Ashore. (His name’s Michael Roe, and the album is called The Boat Ashore. That by itself may have sold me.) I’m pretty sure the first 77s album I heard was Tom Tom Blues, the fiery debut of the current trio lineup of the band. So I worked backwards, beginning with the more Zeppelin-esque heroics of the ‘90s and hearing the poppier ‘80s stuff later. And I’m not sure which I liked better at the time. In fact, I’m still not sure – both eras are so good, and the current Gospel-inspired stuff is marvelous too.

Among 77s fans, Sticks and Stones is a classic, which probably comes as a surprise to Roe and the band, since it really is a collection of demos and also-rans. Listening to it as a whole, you’d never suspect that it wasn’t intended as a cohesive album of songs. It flows better than many records conceived as such. Sticks and Stones is the last gasp of the original 77s lineup of Roe, keyboardist Mark Tootle, bassist Jan Eric and drummer Aaron Smith, and it serves as a love letter to an era.

As Roe says in his new liner notes, the songs set this album apart. They’re all terrific, from the danceable rock of “MT” to the delightful full-on pop of “Nowhere Else” to the absolutely smoking “Perfect Blues,” on which Roe laments the failings of his gender. (“Face it, we’re all jerks.”) “The Days to Come” is a barnburner, Roe spinning out those guitar lines effortlessly, and the aforementioned “This Is the Way Love Is” should have been a hit single. Tootle’s simple piano line and Roe’s spoken vocals at the start give way to a relentless beat and some blistering lead guitar. “It’s a one-sided double-minded mirror with no reflection…”

But Sticks and Stones contains two songs I would consider among the best of the 77s material, and pretty high on my list of all-around favorites. Roe describes “Don’t, This Way” as the saddest song he’s ever heard, and it’s up there for me. A farewell to a departed friend, this seven-minute wonder is all about Roe’s guitar lines – to this day, I can’t hear that moment when the ascending guitar melody kicks in at 0:45 without getting chills. The recording is minimalist in the best way, leaving plenty of space for that guitar, and it’s just a heartrending piece of music.

And then there’s “God Sends Quails,” which Roe considers a failure. I can name 50 songwriters off the top of my head who would be thrilled to count this among their successes. One of the darkest pieces in the 77s canon, this song opens with two full minutes of Roe soloing over an oppressive, ominous bass line before getting to the meat of things: “You failed, you try half-hearted and fail…” All that and a lovely melodic chorus, too. Of course, Roe’s guitar playing is tremendous here, but his voice is in fantastic form as well. It’s a song you’ll never forget.

The album has been completely remastered, and it sounds remarkable. I’ve heard Sticks and Stones probably 75 times, and I’ve never heard it as clear and bright as this. And it’s been augmented with two whole discs of never-released bonus material – mostly live tracks, but some interesting demos and unearthed tunes too. The second disc, entitled This Is the Way Love Was, has the highlights: demos of three songs we’ve never heard before, including the fun “Problem Girl” and the absolutely stunning “Cross the City Sky.” (Man, I wish they’d recorded this for real.)

The Sevens really know how to stretch out live, and the second disc has plenty of evidence. My favorite is a 10-minute take on the crawling “Pearls Before Swine” that dips into Dick Dale’s “Misirlou.” You also get extended runs through “Bottom Line” and the tremendous “You Don’t Scare Me,” and two versions of “This Is the Way Love Is,” one of which runs to about 14 minutes.

The third disc, Seeds and Stems, is only available with the super-deluxe version of the re-release, but it’s worth it, especially if you’re a longtime fan. You get some quality live takes on oldies “What Was In That Letter,” “Ba Ba Ba Ba” and the terrifying “I Could Laugh,” you get a loose jam on church song “The Prodigal Son,” and you finally get to hear Mark Tootle’s original demo of “This Is the Way Love Is.” Roe’s been talking about this demo for years – Tootle imitates Roe’s vocal style, and in turn, Roe imitated Tootle’s impression when recording the real deal. It’s neat to have both sides of that equation at last.

All of this is thanks to the fine work of Chicago’s own Jeffrey Kotthoff with Lo-Fidelity Records. It’s all lovingly put together, from the sound to the packaging, a fine tribute to an album too few have heard. If you’re not one of them, you can rectify that by heading here. And if you want to hear some of what Mike Roe does for free, go here. You’ll be glad you did.

* * * * *

All right, it’s time for the First Quarter Report. I’m amazed at how quickly 2012 is flying by. So far, it hasn’t quite lived up to its promise, musically speaking. There have been a fair few disappointments, like that new Shins album. But there have been some surprises too. Here’s what my top 10 list would look like if I were forced to publish it right now.

#10. Van Halen, A Different Kind of Truth.
#9. Ani Difranco, Which Side Are You On.
#8. Leonard Cohen, Old Ideas.
#7. Fun., Some Nights.
#6. Nada Surf, The Stars Are Indifferent to Astronomy.
#5. Kathleen Edwards, Voyageur.
#4. Esperanza Spalding, Radio Music Society.
#3. John K. Samson, Provincial.
#2. Shearwater, Animal Joy.
#1. Punch Brothers, Who’s Feeling Young Now.

Nothing against many of those records, but this is a pretty weak list. Certainly not up to the standard set by the first quarter of 2011. There are some promising albums on the horizon from Keane, the Choir, Marillion, Rufus Wainwright, Beach House, Bryan Scary and Jukebox the Ghost, to name a few. Plus, I just heard a record by a band called Lost in the Trees that I think is a strong contender. I need to listen a few more times, and review it properly, but it’s a stunner on first blush.

Next week, more reviews in a variety of genres. That means I have no idea what I’m writing about yet. Come find out in seven days. 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.

So I learned this week that the new Marillion album will include a song called “The Sky Above the Rain.”

This is how I live my life – collecting little tidbits about projects I’m looking forward to, each one either enhancing or dampening my anticipation. F’rinstance, I heard a rough mix of a tune from the new Choir album, and that’s dampened things a little bit for me. But having heard not a single note of “The Sky Above the Rain,” I’m beyond excited to experience it. Any fan of Marillion is probably imagining how breathtaking a Marillion song called “The Sky Above the Rain” could be. And I’m a pretty big fan.

Now, it’s entirely possible that this song will be terrible. I have no idea. But as someone who loves it when Marillion gets dreamy and epic, I’m taking it as a good sign that they’ve even come up with a song called “The Sky Above the Rain.” I want this to be a masterpiece. I want to float out of my brain listening to it. I want it to be a magical experience, and this is a band that delivers that on a regular basis. I know this is odd, but just the fact that the new Marillion album includes a song called “The Sky Above the Rain” has me even more thrilled to hear it.

Yes, this is my life.

* * * * *

Next week, I’m posting my First Quarter Report, essentially my top 10 list in progress. While the list is constantly shifting, and I have no idea what will eventually make the top spot, I do, in essence, save spaces for albums coming out that I expect will blow me away. There are spots on this year’s list reserved for the Choir, Marillion, Keane and Aimee Mann, and those spots are theirs to lose. (Which, doubtless, some of them will.)

I’m not ashamed to admit I was holding a spot for the Shins. Their last album, 2007’s Wincing the Night Away, very nearly won the year, bested only by Silverchair’s incredible Young Modern. James Mercer has a fantastic voice, both as a singer and as a songwriter, and Wincing contains some of his very best work. Some argued that it was over-produced, spit-shined to within an inch of its life, but I disagree. I think it’s just shiny enough to be gleaming.

So I hope I can be forgiven for expecting the fourth Shins album, Port of Morrow, would similarly impress. And I’m sad to report that it doesn’t. In fact, it’s the worst album the band has made, an aggressively mediocre piece of work that may serve to establish them as mainstream indie-pop best-sellers, but won’t do much for the legions of fans hoping for more brilliant James Mercer songs. I’ve heard it three times now, and liked it more each time, but it’s still not rising above average for me, and that’s sad.

Granted, the odds were somewhat against it. Over time, the Shins have morphed into a solo project for Mercer, and this album is the product of a partnership between him and Greg Kurstin, of The Bird and the Bee. Kurstin is a pop producer, no getting around it, and he does to this album what many thought Joe Chicarelli had done to Wincing. There’s a slickness to the sound of this thing that can’t be ignored. This is the Shins dressed up and ready for the radio.

Which would be fine, if the songs were up to Mercer’s usual high standard. But with rare exceptions, they’re just not. By now you’ve all heard “Simple Song,” on which Mercer finds his inner Pete Townshend. It lives up to its title – the chords are simple, the melody singable yet unremarkable. It’s a likeable tune, a good first single. It’s also the album’s finest piece of music, and I was really hoping it wouldn’t be. Opener “The Rifle’s Spiral” is the second-best, and it pales in comparison.

The rest of it? Well, it’s not bad. It’s perfectly sturdy mainstream indie rock, which, in a just world, would be an oxymoron. I mean, there’s nothing particularly wrong with a sweet little ballad like “It’s Only Life,” but there’s nothing inspiring about it either. I can hear Taylor Swift singing this song with very little effort. Similarly, I wouldn’t say there’s anything terrible about a slice of mid-tempo acoustic shimmy like “No Way Down.” It sounds like one of the better tunes from the most recent Crowded House albums. It’s, well… it’s fine. It’s OK.

Lyrically, the record is similarly average, and it struggles to connect. The chorus of “For a Fool” is honestly “Taken for a fool, yes I was, because I was a fool.” (The song is a low-key ramble that meanders around for a while without ever taking off.) Most of these tunes concern “grown-up” subjects like love and family, and all of the obliqueness of Mercer’s prior lyrics has been pretty well sanded off. I hate to keep picking on this song, but you need look no further than “It’s Only Life” to see what I’m talking about. The best metaphor: “How will you learn to steer when you’re grinding all your gears?” One chorus: “I’ve been down the very road you’re walking now, it doesn’t have to be so dark and lonesome, takes a while till we can figure this thing out and turn it back around…”

Again, there’s nothing particularly wrong with that. As a sentiment, it’s nice. But like the song, it just kind of sits there. You may be wondering at this point just what I want. After all, this record is perfectly pleasant, and it even picks up by the end, with the Radiohead-esque title track. Had this not been the new Shins album, I may have cut it more slack.

But it is the new Shins album, and that sets these songs up against some of the more remarkable melodic wonders of the past decade. There’s nothing here on the level of “Girl Inform Me,” or “Caring is Creepy,” or Saint Simon,” or “Australia,” or even “A Comet Appears.” There are no songs here that set my mind reeling at their imaginative melodies, no songs that make me feel like I’m inches above the ground, singing along at the top of my lungs. In short, there is nothing here that, had I heard this record first, would have made me a Shins fan.

As I’ve said, this record is fine. It’s not bad. Your mileage may vary – you may end up liking it quite a bit more than I do. It certainly wants to be liked. But for me, it’s missing some crucial spark. Everything is in its right place here, but nothing sounds alive. I can’t help thinking that this is the way the execs at Columbia Records imagined a Shins album should sound, and Mercer made it to order. It’s not what I want from a Shins album, and it’s the first one I’m probably going to file away without revisiting any time soon.

* * * * *

I’d definitely say the new Shins album is a more accomplished effort than the third White Rabbits record, Milk Famous. But I prefer the latter, for reasons I’m not sure I’ll be able to articulate.

White Rabbits are an interesting case study – they’re sort of a Spoon tribute band, yet fully sanctioned by the object of their affection. Their last album, the striking It’s Frightening, was produced by Spoon frontman Britt Daniel, while Spoon’s longtime producer Mike McCarthy manned the boards for Milk Famous. They have that same sort of staccato, bass-heavy, piano-pounding groove sound Spoon has, and when they’re on, they do it just about as well.

So why would we need this band, when we already have Spoon? Milk Famous goes some distance toward answering that question, particularly in the moments when it sounds the least like Spoon. A lot of this record is given over to really interesting moody soundscapes – check out the remarkably restrained “Hold It To the Fire,” with its dreamy, space-pop chorus. There isn’t much to it, but it changes things up every few seconds, and the effect is mesmerizing.

“Are You Free” works its one groove for three minutes, but in the process it weaves a spell of clean guitars and distortion. “Back For More” resurrects that evil Calypso sound this band did so well on their debut, with an added air of menace. And “The Day You Won the War” is just awesome, a Beatlesque pianos-and-drums explosion with some tremendous lead guitar lines. Not many hooks here, but a definite display of power and grace.

Granted, there are several songs that sound like Daniel’s band, but when White Rabbits adopt this style, they do it fantastically well. Check the slinky-spare “Everyone Can’t Be Confused,” based around a catchy one-finger piano part, or the infectious single “Temporary,” or the truly epic “I’m Not Me.” The chorus figure will come out of nowhere on that one to surprise you. But even when they’re building their own version of a well-known sound, White Rabbits bring something darker and more adventurous to the table.

This record covers a lot of interesting ground in 40 minutes, and you get the sense that every track was labored over. While there’s nothing here that will grab you immediately, like the towering “Percussion Gun” from their last record, Milk Famous weaves a black-cloud atmosphere from the first track, and sustains it, making this White Rabbits’ best and most cohesive effort.

* * * * *

But the big winner of the week is undoubtedly Esperanza Spalding.

Most people probably know Spalding from last year’s Best New Artist controversy. With Justin Bieber, Drake, Florence and the Machine and Mumford and Sons up for the award, Grammy voters opted to give the trophy to a jazz bassist from Portland, Oregon. This led to a flurry of “Who the fuck is Esperanza Spalding?” tweets from enraged Bieber fans. Lots of people considered it yet another blunder in a long line of them from the Academy.

There’s just one problem with that – they got it exactly right.

Well, not the bit about Spalding being a new artist. At the time of her award, she was riding her third album, the splendid Chamber Music Society. But the Academy considers a “new artist” one that established a public identity within the given year, which allows them to comfortably ignore everything until the general public catches on. That’s a whole different rant, though. What they got right was Spalding’s talent and presence as an artist. Put simply, she’s awesome.

Like most, I didn’t find her until Spalding won her Grammy, so I guess they’re good for something. But I’m on board now, and I breathlessly awaited her fourth record, the just-released Radio Music Society. It was worth waiting for. Spalding plays a fascinating amalgam of jazz balladry, soul-pop and funk, with the voice of an angel and the arrangement skills of a master. Plus, have you heard her play bass? She’s tremendous.

Radio Music Society travels further down the path she forged with her last effort, although despite smoothing things out somewhat, there’s still nothing here that radio would touch. Her songs here are reminiscent of Prince at his jazziest, or Janelle Monae without the hip-hop elements. “Crowned and Kissed” is wonderful, a stick-in-your-head melody anchored by Leo Genovese’s slinky piano and a trio of horns. (It was co-produced by Q-Tip, but you’d probably never know it.) Spalding scats her way through this tune with elegance and grace.

Sax master Joe Lovano stops by to add some awesome to “I Can’t Help It,” a superb swinging pop song that changes up the tempo with fluidity. Spalding dabbles in big-band on “Hold On Me,” with a 14-person backing band that rushes to a huge climax, and sets a subtler atmosphere on the lengthy, meandering “Vague Suspicions.” It may surprise you how few of these songs have pop choruses and hooks – if Spalding were aiming for radio acceptance, she could have streamlined this quite a bit more. But I’m glad she didn’t. These songs are tricky and hard to pin down, and worth repeated listens.

That sense of complexity stays until the end. You get the six-minute funk workout “Endangered Species,” with its Zappa-esque melodic fragments. You get “City of Roses,” another collaboration with Q-Tip with some tremendous Rhodes work from Genovese, and you get the abrasive, off-kilter closer, “Smile Like That,” on which Spalding welcomes legendary drummer Jack DeJohnette for some extra muscle. That tune also includes some wild guitar work from Gilad Hekelsman.

Despite its title, this is not some dumbed-down concession to the Bieber fans. This is Esperanza Spalding doing what she does – writing cool jazz-pop tunes, arranging them brilliantly, and singing them with confidence. This is an album that will take some time to work its magic, but it’s a pretty terrific effort from an artist more people should know.

* * * * *

I’ll be seeing Michael Roe play on Friday, and picking up the remastered reissue of Sticks and Stones from his band, the 77s. So expect a review of that next week. On the near horizon, new things by the Mars Volta and Cowboy Junkies, and the complete Mermaid Avenue sessions from Billy Bragg and Wilco.

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 am, once again, pretty sick.

I’ve been coughing, sneezing and blowing my nose for days now, and I feel like I’m almost out of the woods. But I also feel like I need to get a good 12 hours’ sleep to really cement my recovery. So this one will probably be pretty short. Apologies, I’ll make it up to you next week.

I’ve also got something weighing pretty heavily on my mind. Late last week, one of my father’s best friends, a truly terrific guy named David Morrison, succumbed to cancer. I have so many good memories of David from my childhood – he was always the funniest guy in the room, but never mean about it. He’d always come up with that perfect quip that would set everyone laughing. If I’d paid closer attention to him as a kid, I probably would have turned out a lot more likeable.

I last saw David at my sister’s wedding last May, and he looked good. He had been battling the disease for some time, but appeared to be on an upswing. But things took a turn for the worse over the last couple of weeks, and on Saturday morning, I got a text from my mother informing me that he’d passed on.

I had a discussion with her about it, and she opined that it’s always the best people who contract and die from cancer. Now, last week, I also did a couple of stories about a local family who lost a four-year-old girl to brain cancer, and two of my best friends’ fathers have also succumbed to the disease, so it’s tempting to agree with her. But that’s not the way it works at all. If there were some sense to it, even twisted, backwards sense, I’d feel better. But there isn’t.

In fact, some of the worst people I’ve ever known have also died from cancer. That’s horrible to say, but it’s true. Cancer doesn’t care who it takes. It’s completely, utterly, capriciously random. Every day we’re told a new way to prevent cancer, and often the new method contradicts an older one. You can do everything right, health-wise, and still be struck down. You can smoke three packs of cigarettes a day for 50 years and emerge unscathed. There’s no rhyme or reason.

And I’m reminded again of the late, great Warren Zevon, and his final piece of advice before dying of cancer himself: “Enjoy every sandwich.” As I get older, that resonates even more. Enjoy every day of your life. Even the smallest pleasures, hold on to them. Wring every drop from them. You never know when it could come crashing down.

Rest in peace, David. If there’s a better place, I hope you’re there.

* * * * *

I know I mentioned I’d be tackling a slew of live records this time, but I only have it in me to review one of them. For the record, though, the others I was set to feature were Chris Cornell’s Songbook, Rhett Miller’s The Interpreter, and the Cure’s Bestival Live 2011. All of them are holdovers from last year, and all of them are worth hearing. I’m especially pleased with Rhett Miller’s, which finds him taking on a bunch of interesting covers, in a relaxed atmosphere at Largo in Los Angeles.

But this is a new music column, and you don’t come here to read my thoughts on last year’s stuff. You want to know what’s worth buying in the record store this week. Well, let me tell you, the first full-length live album from the Decemberists is most definitely worth your cash.

It’s called We All Raise Our Voices to the Air, it was recorded during last year’s tour, and listening to it, you’ll wonder why the hell Meloy’s merry band hasn’t compiled one of these live documents before. Over two hours, the band touches every phase of its decade-plus career, from the first song on their debut EP Five Songs to seven selections from their latest (and most streamlined) album The King is Dead. Along the way, they prove what a singular band they’ve always been – in fact, if you’re looking for a capsule summary of just what all the fuss is about, you can hardly do better than this.

The Decemberists play sprightly pop influenced by centuries of folk music from all over the world. The album kicks off with “The Infanta,” which begins with Colin Meloy strumming and singing, but ends in a cacophony of drums, guitars and horns. As enthralling as the Decemberists are on record, here the energy just crackles, and I sort of wish they’d kept the momentum going instead of launching into a couple of middling tunes from King. (I’ve come around on that record, but it still strikes me as a slight effort.)

Ah, but things certainly pick up with the wonderful “Bagman’s Gambit,” and that forward motion stays with the band through the end of the first disc. “Down By the Water” is terrific, as is golden oldie “Leslie Ann Levine” and the one selection from prog opus The Hazards of Love, “The Rake’s Song.” But the gem is a full performance of “The Crane Wife” – all three parts, over 16 minutes. It’s simply magnificent, and while I wish they’d segued right into the 12 minutes of “The Island,” I guess you can’t have everything.

The second disc’s highlights include a take on “Billy Liar,” from their second album Her Majesty the Decemberists, and a reading of “Dracula’s Daughter,” which Meloy calls “the worst song I’ve ever written.” That slams into “O Valencia,” which gets the second-loudest reaction from the crowd. The loudest, of course, is reserved for “The Mariner’s Revenge Song,” a staple of Decemberists shows. If you’ve never heard this, it’s a blood-soaked sea shanty, and on stage it can last up to a quarter of an hour. (It’s 12 minutes here.) It’s simply amazing, and the closing rendition of “I Was Meant for the Stage” can only be a comedown after that.

Some bands suck live. This is just a fact. You hear the studio records, then see a concert clip, and you can hardly believe it’s the same group of musicians. Happily, the Decemberists have never been one of those bands – in fact, they shine in a live setting. I’ve only seen them once, to experience The Hazards of Love on stage, but based on how much I enjoyed We All Raise Our Voices to the Air, I’m already planning to see them again the next time they come my way.

* * * * *

OK, that’s all. Well, three more things.

Pre-ordering is underway for the new Choir album, The Loudest Sound Ever Heard, which is out on April 10. Not trying to sway you one way or another, just putting the information out there. Go here.

I will try to sway you to do this, though. The local artists compilation I contributed to last year, Made in Aurora Vol. 1, is up for an Independent Music Award. This is kind of a big deal – I mean, look at the panel of judges. You get a vote too, and I’d very much appreciate it if you took a second and cast it for Made in Aurora. Go to this link. And thank you. (For more info on the project, go here.)

One last thing. I discovered BT’s new band, All Hail the Silence, last Friday, and I’ve been mainlining the sole released track, “Looking Glass,” ever since. As BT himself says, this is straight out of 1983, and it’s marvelous. Check it out here.

All right, heading to bed. I’m hoping to tackle the Shins next week, as well as a few others. No need to thank me. Action is my reward. 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 second week in a row, I’m a sad Doctor Who fan.

I’m still mourning the loss of Peter Halliday, and now I’ve received word that Philip Madoc has died. Madoc was another of those supporting actors with multiple roles across the years. In fact, he played four between 1968 and 1979. His first was in the Patrick Troughton story The Krotons, which I still haven’t seen, but the second was as the sinister War Lord in Troughton’s epic swan song, The War Games. He brought his trademark calm, unnerving menace to the part, underplaying just about every moment, and he was immensely memorable.

His final Who role was as Fenner in the forgettable story The Power of Kroll. (Well, the story was forgettable. The giant rubber squid, on the other hand…) But even casual fans of the classic series know Madoc best for his turn as Solon in the classic The Brain of Morbius. Madoc’s unhinged and desperate genius with a Frankenstein complex is one of the all-time great Doctor Who performances, verbally jousting with Tom Baker the way few actors could.

Madoc was 77 years old. Rest in peace, Philip. You’ll be missed.

* * * * *

People often ask me what kind of music I like, and I never know quite what to say.

Lately I’ve been responding with, “I like everything.” And this always provokes a skeptical look. “How can someone like everything? You can’t possibly like everything.” And I just have to shrug and say, “I just work here.”

Because I do like pretty much every style of music. Ska is problematic, and synthetic pop balladry leaves me cold, but I’ve found examples of both that I enjoy. Next week, I’ll be buying three new albums: the latest from metal mavens Soulfly, the fourth album from emo punkers Say Anything, and a live album from indie-folk gods The Decemberists. The following week I’m picking up both the Shins and Esperanza Spalding. On the 27th I’ll be taking home new things from Iron Maiden, Madonna, the Mars Volta, Paul Weller and the Cowboy Junkies.

That’s a pretty wide swath, and I honestly expect to like all of it. It’s sort of a disease – I’d have more money and more shelf space if I only liked certain kinds of music. I’m not sure why my brain is wired this way, and why I can go from Jandek to David Crowder to Jellyfish to Nina Simone without getting mental whiplash. Some people are put off by the relentless positivity of this column, but it’s really that simple: I kind of like everything.

That’s not to say I give everything a pass. I still listen critically, and I hope that comes through. But if I had a map, I’d be all over it, taste-wise. Here’s some proof: the three albums I have to review this week have absolutely nothing in common at all. Well, they’re all collections of songs with choruses, I guess, so the difference isn’t as far out as it could be. But I couldn’t find a common thread between them at all. So here they are, in all their scattered glory, three albums bound together only by the fact that I like them all.

* * * * *

Lyle Lovett’s a cheeky bastard.

His eleventh album is his last for longtime label Curb Records, and he’s complained publicly that he doesn’t see a dime from these CDs. So what does he call his final album for the label? Why, Release Me, of course. And the cover photo finds him literally bound with ropes, a world-weary look on his face. The message couldn’t be more clear.

And it extends to the content of the record itself. Release Me is almost entirely covers, and on paper, it’s the definition of a contractual obligation album. There are 14 tracks, and Lovett the songwriter contributes only two of them. Now, Lyle’s always been an interpreter as well as a writer – see his fantastic earlier covers record, Step Inside This House, and his collection of film songs, Smile. So this isn’t a screaming left turn, but you’d be forgiven for thinking that Release Me is a rushed-together, inessential bit of product.

There’s just one problem with that: the album is wonderful.

Lovett’s band has always been blessed with fantastic musicians, and this record is no exception. Russ Kunkel on the drums, Victor Krauss on the bass, Matt Rollings on the piano, Luke Bulla and Stuart Duncan on fiddle, Sam Bush and Keith Sewell on mandolin – the list just goes on and on, and these guys throw their full weight into these songs. That, combined with Lovett’s clear affection for these tunes, transforms what could have been a hodgepodge into an album that can proudly stand with the man’s best work.

Lyle’s usually typed as a country artist (he does wear a cowboy hat), and Release Me’s title track is an old country standard, with k.d. lang on harmony vocals and some fine fiddle and steel guitar. But the record rarely slips back into shitkicker mode. Instead, the band slams through Jesse Winchester’s rollicking “Isn’t That So,” complete with full Memphis-style horn section, before slipping into “Understand You,” a fragile folk number from fellow Texan Eric Taylor.

Lovett and his crack band give us the most laid-back version of Chuck Berry’s “Brown-Eyed Handsome Man” you’ll ever hear, and nimbly navigate the tricky-time traditional boogie “Keep It Clean.” The six-minute take on John Grimaudo and Saylor White’s gorgeous “Dress of Laces” can stand with Lovett’s finest, most heart-rending ballads, and the full-on bluegrass stomp through Townes Van Zandt’s “White Freightliner Blues” is jaw-dropping. The record ends with a brief prayer, Martin Luther’s “Keep Us Steadfast.” (Yes, that Martin Luther.) It’s stately and understated, a fine conclusion.

And what of Lovett’s two songs? They’re not bad. “The Girl With the Holiday Smile” is a shuffling blues, Rollings knocking it out the park on piano, and “Night’s Lullaby” is a pretty piece in waltz time. But this record isn’t about Lyle Lovett the songwriter, and his contributions pale in comparison to his cover choices. In the end, Release Me comes off as a classy move – despite the backhanded title, it’s a heartfelt piece of work, and though it could have been a tossed-off parting shot at Curb Records, instead it’s a little gift, both to them and us.

Thanks, Lyle. Now that you’ve been released, can’t wait to hear what you do next.

* * * * *

Speaking of cheeky, there’s the Magnetic Fields.

Their new album, Love at the Bottom of the Sea, comes affixed with a sticker that reads, “The best Magnetic Fields album on Merge Records since 69 Love Songs.” The joke is that it’s the first Magnetic Fields album on Merge since 69 Love Songs, in 1999. Between then and now, Fields mastermind Stephin Merritt has been plying his trade on Nonesuch Records, and while I wouldn’t say the music has suffered, it’s certainly been different – Merritt indulged his baroque pop tendencies, when he wasn’t dabbling in My Bloody Valentine-style layers of noise.

Love at the Bottom of the Sea pretends like none of that ever happened. It’s a return to computer-pop, and to clever two-minute marvels, and though the sound of the record is much more dense than early Fields efforts, the tone is the same. Fifteen songs in 34 minutes, none of them breaking the three-minute mark, with Merritt trading off lead vocals with Claudia Gonson and Shirley Simms. And it’s chock full of loneliness, pain and sadness, wrapped up in some wondrous wordplay.

The opening one-two shot is typical Merritt. First track “God Wants Us to Wait” is a sardonic look at religion getting in the way of sex (“Now you might like to kiss the dew on my hem, but when male and female God created he them, our lord intended us forever to mate, I love you, baby, but God wants us to wait…”), and killer single “Andrew in Drag” examines an unfortunate case of love at first sight: “So stick him in a dress and he’s the only boy I’d shag, the only boy I’d anything is Andrew in drag, I’ll never see that girl again, he did it as a gag, I’ll pine away forever more for Andrew in drag…”

“Your Girlfriend’s Face” takes that romantic-sounding title and spins a revenge fantasy around it: “So I’ve taken a contract out on you, I’ve hired a hit man to do what they do… they’ll have to hose off your trysting place after he blows off your girlfriend’s face…” (Gonson sings this one with glee, and the joyous synth sounds smile all the way through.) “I’d Go Anywhere With Hugh” is just as adorable as you’d expect, and “The Only Boy in Town” finds Gonson lamenting her unfaithfulness: “If only you were the only boy in town, for then I could not play the field and let you down…” (The last verse makes use of the phrase “more pricks than a cactus,” which is indescribably awesome.)

Melodically, this isn’t Merritt’s strongest set of songs, and it peters out by the end. (Last track “All She Cares About is Mariachi” probably should have been excised.) But for most of its running time, Love at the Bottom of the Sea is a charming return to form for the synth-pop side of the Magnetic Fields. It’s been a while since we’ve heard Merritt’s songs in this context, but it suits them – it adds a layer of plastic joy that only brings out the sadness of the lyrics. No matter the musical setting, I’m always glad to hear more Stephin Merritt songs, and this album delivers some terrific ones.

* * * * *

Speaking of songwriters I love hearing from, there’s Donnie Vie.

Enuff Znuff is pretty high on the list of bands people can’t believe I like. But I’ll defend them to the death – they’re one of the best power pop bands on the planet, and Donnie Vie and Chip Znuff have a batting average most songwriters would kill for. Album for album, song for song, Enuff Znuff is one of the most consistent bands I’m aware of, and they keep on kicking – their last record, 2009’s Dissonance, was just as good as anything they’ve done.

The fact that a band so unfairly tied to the ‘80s hair metal scene keeps pumping out quality material after more than 20 years is amazing to me. I’m not sure what their sales numbers are, but they can’t be great, particularly in the U.S. In fact, I had to import Donnie Vie’s latest solo album, Wrapped Around My Middle Finger, from across the pond. But it was worth it – it’s another solid collection of heavy power pop, in a melodic class far beyond what you’d expect, if you haven’t been following along.

So yeah, the album is actually called Wrapped Around My Middle Finger, which isn’t going to help its reputation, and the groove-metal title track leads it off, giving the wrong impression right away. Not to say I don’t like it, but there are much more impressive delights waiting beyond it. Check out “Wunderland,” a terrific mid-tempo pop song with Vie’s typical shades of John Lennon. “Daddy’s Girl” is as cliched a fatherhood song as you’re likely to find, but it’s pretty in its low-budget epic way. And “Lil Wonder” is the album’s highlight, a swirling slice of prog-pop that builds and builds. Through all of this, Vie sings his heart out – his Beatle John-influenced voice shows signs of wear here and there, particularly on “Flames of Love,” but he still sounds great.

And “Now Ya Know” features a guest appearance from another guy still tied to his ‘80s past, Kip Winger. Here’s a guy who has tried hard to leave that image behind, releasing progressive pop solo albums and composing ballets. And In some ways, I wish Donnie Vie would do the same – it would be easier to argue for him as a swell songwriter if he’d stop coming up with tunes like “Smokin’ Hot Lollipop.”

But then it just wouldn’t be him. For more than 20 years, Vie and his Znuff-mates have married the screaming guitar party-rock aesthetic with some simply wonderful pop songs, and at this point, I’m not sure I’d want one without the other. (Plus, “Smokin’ Hot Lollipop” is pretty great.) Wrapped Around My Middle Finger is another in a long line of solid, sure-to-be-ignored efforts from a guy who deserves more respect than he gets. Here’s hoping he keeps on making records like this anyway.

* * * * *

Next week, likely a slew of live records from the Decemberists and others. 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 thing about being an obsessive fan of something like Doctor Who is that you notice things the casual viewer may not. While the average person probably only knows Matt Smith, David Tennant and Tom Baker, the more seasoned viewer can tell you which guest actors appeared in which episodes. For instance, did you know that second Doctor Patrick Troughton’s son David has played three different roles in the series, once in the ‘60s, once in the ‘70s and once in 2008? It’s true.

Doctor Who has been on the air for so long that some terrific actors have, like David Troughton, made repeat performances, playing different characters. And after a while of combing through the old series, you start to recognize them as they pop up. Michael Wisher played six different parts between 1970 and 1975, most notably the original Davros, creator of the Daleks. Philip Madoc played four memorable roles, perhaps none more so than Solon in The Brain of Morbius. These are actors who don’t get the limelight reserved for the Doctor and his companions, but without whom, the show would suffer immeasurably.

Peter Halliday was one of those. Now, Halliday had a long career outside of my favorite long-running British sci-fi show, mostly on television, although he was in The Remains of the Day. But it’s his Doctor Who work that I will remember him for. Aside from his awesome voce work, he played four parts on the series, the first in 1968 and the last in 1988. That’s him as the Renaissance-era soldier Tom Baker outwits in City of Death. There he is as Pletrac, one of the more diplomatic aliens in Carnival of Monsters. And there he is in Remembrance of the Daleks, as a blind vicar who stands by as Sylvester McCoy buries the Hand of Omega.

But I will best remember him as the bumbling, hilarious Packer in the 1968 Patrick Troughton adventure The Invasion. Working against the amazing Kevin Stoney, Halliday displayed perfect comic timing, bringing a spry lightness to a part that could have been a simple lunkhead. Halliday and Stoney turned “Packer!” into a Who fan catchphrase, and practically stole the show out from under Troughton – not an easy thing to do.

Peter Halliday died last week at the age of 87. There won’t be many celebrity obituaries for him, but I wanted to express my appreciation for the contribution he made to one of my favorite shows. Those roles, particularly Packer, just would not have worked as well with another actor playing them. So thanks, Peter. Rest in peace.

* * * * *

This may seem like a no-brainer thing to say, but I have a really good musical memory.

If I hear a song, even once, chances are good that I will remember it. If I don’t, it’s usually because the song bores me, and I found nothing to latch onto. It’s very rare that I will hear something I like a great deal, and then not be able to remember it later.

But for some reason, that’s the predicament I’m in with Field Music. They’re a progressive pop band led by brothers Peter and David Brewis, with four albums to their name. I’ve liked every one of them. No, even better – every one of them has left my jaw on the floor. The Brewis brothers write and play music of startling complexity, yet with a firm commitment to melody and lush orchestration. You’d think they would be among my favorites. And while the records are playing, you’d be right.

When the music stops, however, Field Music has an uncanny way of simply leaving my head. A case in point: in 2009, the band released their second self-titled album (and third overall), which fans call Measure. It’s completely brilliant. Twenty songs, 70 minutes, intense yet sweet, with more than a few hints of Yes for good… um, measure. Straight up my street. And yet, I’m looking at the track listing now, and I can’t remember how a single one of these songs go. Play them for me again, and I’ll nod and agree about how good they are. But I never reviewed Measure, because I just couldn’t hang on to it, musically speaking.

I have no idea how the Brewis brothers managed this, or if this is something that’s happening to other people. But it’s definitely happening again with the band’s fourth album, Plumb. There’s nothing wrong with this album at all. Peter and David played nearly every instrument on here, but you’d think you’re listening to a full band with an uncommon grasp of rhythm. Plumb is 15 tracks in nearly 36 minutes, and it flows like a single song, a proggy suite of blissful melodies and odd time signatures. It is, frankly, great stuff.

Except I’ve heard it three times now, and I just don’t remember it at all. Nothing is sticking. I know the hook melody of “Sorry Again, Mate” has made me smile every time it comes up, but I couldn’t hum it for you. “Choosing Sides” is four minutes of essentially the same tricky riff, with variations laid on top, and even though I’ve basically heard that riff for 12 minutes, I don’t recall it. This may be the slipperiest music I’ve ever encountered, and it’s frustrating, because I want to give this a glowing, top-notch review. But now I’m trying to figure out if it’s me, or if these songs just aren’t that memorable.

On occasion, the complexity works against this record, muddying what could be soaring choruses. I like “Who’ll Pay the Bills,” for instance – it leaps from 7/8 to 4/4 nimbly, and it has a nifty descending melodic line in the chorus, and man, those drums are wonderful. But it’s not a song you’re going to be humming for days. In fact, I just heard it not more than five minutes ago, and I don’t think I could tell you how it goes. Some of this album, like “So Long Then,” is loping and low-key, too, which may not take root in the brain as well as the higher-energy tracks.

But on balance, I think it’s just me. Field Music is a band I should absolutely love, and while their records are blaring from my speakers, I absolutely do. Plumb is another superb album, progressive pop of the highest order. I’m near the end of the record now – the lovely a cappella piece “How Many More Times” has just given way to the orchestrated “Ce Soir,” and it’s tremendous. I know when this is over in a few minutes, it’s going to float away, and I won’t be able to hold on to it, and that makes me indescribably sad. If you can remember this album better than I can, I envy you, because it’s great.

* * * * *

Now, Shearwater? Shearwater is a band I remember.

I first heard them in 2008, midway through their Island Trilogy – Palo Santo, Rook and The Golden Archipelago – on a recommendation from longtime correspondent Lucas Beeley. (His brother Steve may have been involved as well.) One minute into Rook, and I was hooked for life. Shearwater makes glorious, dramatic, sweeping music. You could call it rock – they use the same instruments as a rock band – but somehow, it’s more than that. It’s bigger and older and more epic. And on top of all that is the supple, slightly odd, almost ghostly voice of Jonathan Meiburg, taking the material to new places with every syllable.

In retrospect, you could hear the band straining against the more placid tones of the Island Trilogy throughout Archipelago, the loudest of the three. But if you expected Shearwater to go from there to the jagged and earthy music they’ve made on their new one, Animal Joy, well, you’re better at this than me. This record is a surprise, but a wonderful one. It crackles with life, it prowls about its cage with ferocity and confidence. It’s the band’s finest work, at least partially because it takes your idea of what a Shearwater album can be and gives it a good shove.

It’s possible they’ve rocked harder than they do on “Breaking the Yearlings,” but that song’s jagged, stomping beat sounds like fresh energy to these ears. The raw organ sounds only add to the intensity. Meiburg doesn’t try to outdo the music – he just sings the way he always does on top of it, glistening falsetto and all, and it works beautifully. Similarly, Shearwater may have more expansive songs than “You As You Were,” but you’d be hard-pressed to name them while it’s playing. The repeated piano notes, the spine-tingling melody, the damn-the-torpedoes sweep of the thing – it’s just terrific.

The six-minute “Insolence,” at track five, is your first chance to catch your breath. It’s sparse and creepy, with a rolling drum line that occasionally comes out of nowhere. This song gets huge too, Meiburg singing his heart out over big, open chords. Right after this mini-epic is “Immaculate,” a two-minute garage rocker. Yes, I’m serious. Fast, explosive, completely unexpected. But that’s Animal Joy all over. I’m a fan of this band, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard them sound this alive.

The album ends with two of its prettiest tracks. The simple-yet-effective “Believing Makes It Easy” has one of those melodies you’re going to carry around with you for a while, and closer “Star of the Age” is one of Meiburg’s finest moments, an earthy anthem that reaches for the skies. There isn’t a track on Animal Joy that doesn’t move me, and this one wraps it all up perfectly.

If you’re a fan of this band, you’re going to want to hear this, since it subtly redefines them without losing their essence. If you’re new to them, you’re definitely going to want to hear this, because it’s the perfect introduction to where this band is, and where they’re heading. Animal Joy is an absolute stunner, a tremendous effort from a tremendous band.

* * * * *

Next week, who knows? Be here in seven days to find out. In the meantime, watch this trailer for Keane’s just-announced fourth album, Strangeland, out May 8 on these shores. Pretty excited. Plus, that means that Keane and Rufus Wainwright are releasing new albums on the same day. Orchestral pop overload!

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 new Choir album is called The Loudest Sound Ever Heard, and it comes out on April 10.

If you know me, you know that puts just about every other new release announcement on the back burner. There’s certainly music over the next two months that I’m excited about, including new things from the Magnetic Fields, Lyle Lovett, the Shins, the Mars Volta, the Cowboy Junkies, Spiritualized, BT, Brendan Benson, Jack White and Rufus Wainwright. But if I had to pick one that has me scouring the web for any information at all, and counting the days, it’s The Loudest Sound Ever Heard.

This is the way I live my life – always in a state of anticipation. I mark my mental calendar with gold stars representing album, film, book, TV and DVD releases, and I wait, nervously, until those days arrive. I have a little less than a month until that new Shins album, Port of Morrow, hits stores, and I’m excited for it, and dreading it at the same time. Same with Rufus Wainwright’s new one, Out of the Game. His last few have been all over the map, and this one promises to bring back the lushness of prior efforts. Rufus hasn’t knocked one out of the park since Want One in 2003, so there’s a lot riding on this one.

Now, take all that consternation and multiply it by 100, and you have about what I’m feeling as the release of The Loudest Sound Ever Heard draws closer. The Choir may be my favorite band, and they’ve been on such a roll lately – their last two records are among their best ever. I’m sincerely hoping they can keep the magic going. We’ll see in about a month and a half.

* * * * *

I’m anal-retentive about a lot of things. Punctuation is a big one. I truly hate pretentious misuses of punctuation – I’m looking at you, moe., and you, Panic! at the Disco.

So you can imagine how thrilled I am to review the new album from Fun. That’s f-u-n-period. It’s impossibly annoying. Even though I reservedly liked their debut, 2009’s Aim and Ignite, I never reviewed it here, at least partially because I didn’t want to type that damn period over and over in the middle of sentences. But alas, the new one, Some Nights, really deserves some digital ink.

Three years ago, Fun. was a modest little pop band, one that took from the Beatles and Queen in equal measure. But Some Nights is a massive sophomore effort, an ambitious piece of popcraft that rarely sounds like the work of the same band who made Aim and Ignite. This is an album that reaches for the brass ring with everything it has – nothing less than millions singing along with these anthems will do.

And it’s built around “We Are Young,” a single that is, by some measure, bigger than the band. It’s the kind of song they just have to wrestle to the ground, and not screw up. It’s already everywhere – on TV shows, in car commercials, seeping into our lives with inexorable force. It’s almost impossibly catchy, with a fists-in-the-air sentiment that means nothing, but sounds life-changing when you’re singing along. “Tonight we are young, so let’s set the world on fire, we can burn brighter than the sun…”

In many ways, Some Nights feels constructed around “We Are Young,” the other nine songs desperately trying to capture that universality again. To the band’s credit, they actually pull it off more than once. “Carry On” is a synth-driven pick-me-up that will soon be the song of choice for supportive friends to link to on Facebook. “It Gets Better” starts with a nervous squiggle, but soon explodes into an Auto-Tuned flurry of optimism.

There is little on Some Nights that sounds like the work of a real live band – this is almost fully synthetic, pitched somewhere between ‘80s Queen and the Flaming Lips at their most anthemic. “Why Am I the One” is a pleasant exception, built around strummed acoustics and chiming electrics, giving way to real-life strings on the wonderful coda.

The record doesn’t put a foot wrong until near the end, on a song fittingly titled “One Foot.” Its repetitive synth hook gets old after about 10 seconds, and there are 202 seconds to go after that. And the seven-minute finale “Stars” is clearly meant to be the anthem to end all anthems, but it dissipates into an Auto-Tuned mess. But before it crashes and burns, Some Nights gets at least five good-to-great songs out there into the world, and that’s worth celebrating.

It’s true that they never better “We Are Young,” but then, that’s a tall order. You’ll be hearing that song for years, and chances are it will live beyond the band who created it. That’s kind of a shame, so when you hear that song on the radio, remember the band’s name. It’s Fun. With a period at the end.

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I said up top that the Choir’s new album overshadows everything else coming out this year, but that’s not completely true. My other favorite band, Marillion, has a new one slated for this fall, and while I don’t know much about it yet (except for some dispiriting rumblings about “funk rock”), I’m looking forward to it. Marillion is like no other band out there, at once monolithic and intimate, cerebral and intensely emotional. Every time they make a record, it’s an event.

I have no idea when to expect that one, alas. So until it makes its appearance, I will have to be satisfied with frontman Steve Hogarth’s new album, a collaboration with Richard Barbieri called Not the Weapon But the Hand. Thankfully, Hogarth and Barbieri make it easy to be satisfied. This is a dark and ambient piece of work, rich and layered and simply hypnotic. It sounds nothing like Marillion, and I wouldn’t want Hogarth’s main band to sound like this, but as a one-off collection of atmospheres, it’s tremendous.

Hogarth’s partner in crime here, Richard Barbieri, is the full-time keyboard player for Porcupine Tree and No-Man. He brings a lot more of the latter project’s mood to this record – Barbieri composed and performed synth-driven instrumental tracks, over which Hogarth wrote lyrics and vocal melodies. Nothing here rocks, and only one song (the great “Only Love Will Make You Free”) has an identifiable chorus. The rest meanders in the best possible way, taking time to weave in and out of corners and detour down back alleys.

Some of these tracks may test the patience of pop music fans. Despite some fine guitar work from XTC’s Dave Gregory, “A Cat With Seven Souls” doesn’t really go anywhere, and “Naked” takes its one melodic idea and surrounds it with a sea of moody dulcimers and bells. But it’s like someone once said about Marillion – either you’re waiting the whole time for the good part, or you think it’s all basically the good part. The seven longish songs here (and one postlude) all weave a particular spell, and if you’re not under it, you’ll probably find this a bit boring.

But for those of us who can get on this record’s wavelength, it’s pretty cool. The production is dense and intricate – there’s something new to catch the ear every few seconds, if you’re listening for it. Barbieri’s synth tracks mesh with Gregory’s guitar like they were meant to be together. And Hogarth’s voice is amazing. He’s one of my favorite singers on the planet. Here he spends a lot of time whispering – check out “Your Beautiful Face,” essentially a spoken word piece that Hogarth infuses with menace. But he can also put amazing power behind that voice, and aim it straight for your soul.

For proof, look no further than the centerpiece of this album, “Only Love Will Make You Free.” It starts slow and mellow, a rolling synth over exotic percussion, as Hogarth sing-speaks the verse. But starting with the soaring chorus, the tune rises and falls over eight wonderful minutes. The best parts come when the waves crest and crash, leaving nothing but Hogarth’s whispers. In the end, it stands as a fitting counterpart to Marillion’s grand “Happiness Is the Road.”

Not the Weapon But the Hand is unlike anything Steve Hogarth has done, a real shift in tone and direction for one of my favorite singers. But if you like ambient music (which I do), and you’re able to just let a record like this drift over you, it’ll put you in the best kind of trance. It’s an album of surprising depth and beauty, and a fine way to tide yourself over until the Marillion album, which will no doubt sound nothing like this. (Funk rock? Really?) Get it here.

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I am new to the wonders of Chris Thile, and I owe Kevin Trudo for making the musical introduction.

Kevin – an accomplished musician and songwriter – simply loves Thile, and it’s easy to see why. I’ve only heard his now-three Punch Brothers albums and a couple of solo records, but I’m ready to call Thile a once-in-a-lifetime kind of musician. He’s a mandolin player, and an absolute magician on that instrument. He can make it do things that will boggle your mind. But he’s not a showoff, by any means – Thile is all about the song, the arrangement, the full power of music.

He spent his early years in Nickel Creek, a band at the forefront of the “newgrass” movement. But it’s with his new outfit, the five-piece Punch Brothers, that Thile is really making his mark. They’re a standard bluegrass lineup – guitar, bass, banjo, mandolin and fiddle – but the last thing they would play is standard bluegrass. The first Punch Brothers album included a 42-minute prog-rock epic of stunning complexity, and the follow-up Antifogmatic presented a beautiful, streamlined vision of complex bluegrass pop.

The third, Who’s Feeling Young Now, takes that vision even farther. This record contains no drums or percussion whatsoever, but is a full-on rock album nonetheless. These are Arcade Fire-type songs in scope and power, and though they’re played on acoustic instruments, they’ll still bowl you over. Opener “Movement and Direction,” about pitcher Greg Maddux, is one of the most impressively-arranged pieces of music you will hear all year. The banjo and mandolin lock into a wrist-breaking, almost ghostly groove while the bass flits around it, and the fiddle lifts it into the stratosphere. There are points when the instruments seem to be playing in different time signatures, but it all coheres under Thile’s strong, clear voice.

“No Concern of Yours” holds the title of 2012’s prettiest song thus far. Thile’s melody is heartbreaking, Gabe Witcher’s fiddle playing simply lovely, and when the band reaches for that high lonesome sound in the bridge, it’s magic. The title track would be indie rock, if played on electric guitars (and with a lot less subtlety). The fact that this song has no drums at all is simply incredible. “Patchwork Girlfriend” is a drunken shanty, “Hundred Dollars” flirts with blues rock, and “Soon or Never” is soaring, heartrending folk music. The one thing they rarely play on this record is bluegrass.

The Brothers include two covers, both instrumentals. The first is Vasen’s bluegrass workout “Flippen (The Flip),” and is the closest this record comes to the traditional. The second is an astonishing arrangement of Radiohead’s “Kid A.” With nothing but their five acoustic instruments, the Brothers perfectly mimic every electronic blip and whir of the original. They even somehow capture the tone of Thom Yorke’s processed vocals, with nothing but fiddle and stand-up bass. It’s just incredible.

Who’s Feeling Young Now closes with a much simpler piece – the poppy “Don’t Get Married Without Me.” It’s a showcase for Thile’s voice, and the arrangement is top notch, and it ends the record with a bang. This is the best and clearest elucidation yet of Thile’s vision, of the directions he believes bluegrass can go. And it’s just awe-inspiring stuff. Thile’s one in a million, and with this band, he’s reaching new heights. I may be new to his world, but I’m excited to follow wherever he goes.

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I did finally get that Guided by Voices album, but I may just refuse to review it for a while, just to keep the streak going. By the time I get to it, there will likely be another – Class Clown Spots a UFO, which has already been announced. Before that, Pollard has another solo record, called Mouseman Cloud, set for March 6. Seriously, when does the man sleep?

Next week, Field Music and Shearwater. Spoiler alert: they’re both fantastic. 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’m a piano player.

I’m not good enough to do it professionally or anything, but I started playing when I was six, and I’ve stuck with it when I can. I was the guy who knew how to plunk out Journey’s “Open Arms” and Richard Marx’s “Right Here Waiting” in high school, and I pretended to grumble each time I was asked to play them, but really, I loved it. And I still do love it whenever anyone asks me to play.

So naturally, I’ve always been drawn to the piano as an instrument. I was a Bruce Hornsby fan at an early age, I stuck with Billy Joel and Elton John far longer than anyone should, and you can just imagine how excited I was to hear Ben Folds for the first time. The ebonies and ivories still do it for me – from Keane to Jack’s Mannequin to Over the Rhine to Quiet Company to Kate Bush’s new record. I think it’s the most beautiful instrument there is, if it’s played right.

Which is why I’ll give anything that promises piano-pop a try. That’s how I ended up with so many Gavin Degraw records, but it’s also how I first heard Rufus Wainwright, and the amazing Jukebox the Ghost. It’s also the only excuse I have for liking the Fray, a band so average and banal that most critics have simply dismissed them. But not this idiot. I’ll keep buying their stuff and hoping to like it, largely because Isaac Slade plays piano, and the band puts that at the forefront of their sound.

Or at least, they did. The band’s self-titled second album was a huge step in the right direction for me, with some tricky and memorable songs, and a strong focus on the piano melodies. “Syndicate,” “Absolute,” “Say When,” “Enough for Now,” “We Build Then We Break” – all pretty nice songs that found the Fray sounding like an honest-to-god piano-pop band. There were some lame tracks, and of course they were the hits, but The Fray sounded like the work of a band determined to forge its own identity, limitations be damned.

Alas, here’s Scars and Stories, the band’s third, and all that work has been washed away. The band hired Brendan O’Brien to produce, presumably hoping he would add some punch to their sound. And he has, by de-emphasizing the piano, moving the guitars up front, and smoothing everything out. Slade’s keys are now just a part of the sound – it’s there, on every track, but it never grabs the spotlight the way I want it to. The guitars are certainly louder and more prominent, but everything’s been blanded up to a sad degree.

The problem isn’t just with the sound, though. It’s the songs. I’ve heard Scars and Stories four times now, and I still don’t remember most of these tunes. The hooks just aren’t there, and the melodies that are there are completely forgettable. First single “Heartbeat” sets the whole tone – the simplistic chorus sounds like it’s building to something, but it isn’t. That’s it. A song like “Run For Your Life” ought to be better – it’s dramatic and massive, but it never gets off the ground.

You have to wait until track six, “1961,” to hear a melody that will stick with you. And you have to wait until track seven, “I Can Barely Say,” to hear Slade’s piano take center stage. That’s a slight song with a shaky, emotional falsetto chorus, but it’s drowned in a goopy orchestral arrangement. The record gets better near the end – “Here We Are” is a somewhat convincing attempt to ape early U2, complete with raging electric guitar, and I like the simple sentiments of closing hymn “Be Still.”

Otherwise, though, there isn’t much here you wouldn’t find on your average Lifehouse album, and that’s pretty depressing. The band members say they took some time to see the world before writing tracks for this album, and found inspiration in other countries. “Munich,” for example, was supposedly inspired by the Large Hadron Collider, the world’s largest particle accelerator, located at CERN in Switzerland. But you’d never know it from the average love song lyrics: “Girl you know it terrifies me, and I don’t know why, there you go, you paralyze me, and I don’t know why…”

It’s all so blasé, so achingly normal. I expect this album will do very well for the band, but speaking as someone who enjoyed the piano-pop direction of their last effort, I’m disappointed in this one. They’ve taken everything that set them apart and ground it into dust, emerging as just another in a million typical radio-ready pop acts. Sad, really.

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So yeah, sometimes it doesn’t work out, but quite often, it does. It was my fascination with piano pop that led me to the work of Jonathan Jones, for instance, a little-known California songwriter who has been pounding the keys (and singing winning melodies over them) on record since 2004. He’s led two bands, Waking Ashland and We Shot the Moon, and though the latter is still a going concern, he’s also embarked on a solo career. Last year, Jones took to Kickstarter to officially launch that career, asking fans to help fund a new album.

That album is now here, and it’s pretty great. It’s called Community Group, and though it’s barely half an hour long, it’ll give you a good idea of Jones’ sound. He eases you in with the brief, plaintive “Last Place,” cellos sighing longingly, and then smacks you with “The Living Dead,” a world-class pop song. With one “wait it out, wait it out,” he’s got me. I love this. And the quality never lets up over Community Group’s 10 tracks.

I’m simply in love with the title track, a nostalgic vision of meeting the one you love at “Tuesday night community group.” The fun brass parts only serve to accentuate the heartfelt chorus. I also adore “Hey Andy,” the album’s most brash rocker, all about convincing a friend to start a band. (“So put in your two weeks at the factory, Andy…”) And “Brand New Eyes” balances off the piano and electronic drums with a rustic banjo.

Lyrically, this is Jones’ most searching, spiritual record, with several songs dedicated to seeking out lost faith. “Duracell” is a head-swaying, tuba-honking, Beatlesque number, over which Jones asks, “Where’d the spirit go?” “My Faith” is the most straightforward – over tender piano chords and glorious strings and brass, Jones pleads, “Where’s my faith, please come out of hiding, my poor heart is crying for you.” But by the time he reaches the album’s sweet acoustic conclusion, “Morning Light,” he’s ready to hope: “Morning light, sweet morning light, be my strength ‘til the day I die, a brand new life for you and I…”

I feel pretty safe in saying you likely haven’t heard Jonathan Jones. But this brief, terrific little album is worth your time. You can hear it all for free here. Jones is working on a new We Shot the Moon record now, but I hope he doesn’t give up his solo work. Community Group may be the best thing he’s done.

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And sometimes, great piano-pop simply passes me by.

My friend Tony Shore hosts a splendid podcast at www.obviouspop.com, and I’m sure at one point over the last year or so, he recommended Ian Axel to me. And I dropped the ball. It took hearing Axel’s tremendous song “Waltz” on the Obvious PopCast year-end extravaganza to get me to wake up. “Waltz” is a devastatingly good song, and most of Axel’s 2010 debut album, This is the New Year, lives up to it. When I say I love piano pop, this is what I’m talking about.

New Year starts with “Leave Me Alone,” a bouncy kiss-off set to pounded chords, handclaps, and a joyous sound that hides the bitterness beneath. “Afterglow” is all joy, the melodramatic strings giving way to Axel harmonizing with himself. It’s just a great song, and its follow-up, “Gone,” is just as good – in fact, it’s as good a left-and-leaving song as any I’ve heard. The title tune is delirious, Axel adding flailing guitar heroics to his keys, and then stripping it all away at the most dramatic moment.

The centerpiece of this album is still undoubtedly “Waltz,” a powerhouse piece of writing. It lurches forward on an inexorable three-four beat, and builds up and up to the magnificent chorus: “You can’t stop us now, no, you can’t stop us…” The album never quite hits those all-together-now heights again, but its second half is still strong. “Cannonball” is a brief piano-and-strings interlude that strikes gold, “Girl I Got a Thing” is a wonderful pop song, and “We Are” is a simple number that somehow unfolds into an epic. (Sad-sack conclusion “Say Something” is also simple, but doesn’t fare as well.)

I owe Tony Shore a lot, and this superb album puts me even further in his debt. Ian Axel is a talent worth following, and I plan to follow him from here on out. Check him out here.

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Next week, Field Music (for real), Shearwater, and that damn Guided by Voices album. 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 is the one-year anniversary of my Patch site.

I rarely talk about my real job here, and I probably won’t even make a big deal of it on my site today, but considering where I started – trying to gain a foothold in a town that had never been covered by its own dedicated news source, a town in which a full third of the village board doesn’t even own computers – I’m pretty proud of where I am now. Last month I topped 12,000 unique visitors, in a town of 18,000 people. That ain’t bad.

So happy anniversary to me. And thanks to everyone who reads both sites. (I know there are a few of you.)

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I am listening to the new Van Halen album. And there’s a sentence I never thought I’d type again.

I’ve been a Van Halen fan for as long as I can remember. I’m pretty sure the first song of theirs I heard was “Jump,” which came out when I was 10. In that sense, my story isn’t unique: “Jump” was most of America’s first Van Halen song, atypical as it was. I’m fairly certain I heard 1984 first as well – my cousin had a wide selection of cool music on tape, and I think that was how I heard my first Van Halen record. I definitely remember the chain-smoking cherub on the cover from my early days.

But it was Brian Miller who really got me into them. Brian was the guitar player in my junior high school band, and it was through him that I started listening to guitarists, like Steve Vai and Frank Zappa. And of course, Eddie Van Halen. Brian showed me how Eddie played “Cathedral,” still one of the most impressive feats of six-string wizardry I’ve ever heard. And I remember listening to “Eruption,” the explosive solo piece on the first Van Halen album, and seeing his eyes light up. “Eruption” sounds like every fleet-fingered guitar wanker now, but in 1978, no one had ever played anything like it.

I quickly devoured every VH album I could get my hands on. This was 1987, so that meant everything through 5150, Sammy Hagar’s debut as the new singer. I loved David Lee Roth’s swagger, especially on fun and funny records like Diver Down, but 5150 had a few of my favorite Van Halen tunes on it. “Dreams,” especially, worked for 13-year-old me, as did “Love Walks In” and “Best of Both Worlds.” I didn’t realize at the time what a seismic shift 5150 represented. I just knew the band was taking itself more seriously, and as a moody and self-obsessed teenager, I related to that.

I believe I heard OU812 at Christian summer camp, which is pretty funny, if you think about it. Van Hagar’s sleaziest record is also their best, I think – it would be all downhill from there, through the blasé cock-rock of For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge and the uninspired slop of Balance. I remember the latter album hitting stores my junior year of college, and arguing with a couple of diehards about it. I thought it sucked from the outset. (My feelings on it have lightened somewhat, but not much.)

I have a much more complicated relationship with Van Halen III, also known as the Gary Cherone Experiment. When that album came out in 1998, I was a paid professional music reviewer. Also, I was (and still am) a big fan of Extreme, Cherone’s band. I thought Cherone was an inspired choice to take over vocal duties in VH – the man can sing pretty much anything well. Unfortunately, Eddie and Gary apparently decided to stick with a Sammy Hagar impression.

Cherone was a disappointment, but I still contend that Van Halen III is a terrific little record. It’s Eddie’s last-gasp bid for respectability, and Cherone’s politically-minded lyrics certainly helped. But it’s Eddie’s songwriting that really shone. “Year to the Day,” just by itself, is eight minutes and 47 seconds of awesome. Van Halen spent 13 years growing up, and on Van Halen III, they finally pulled it off.

So of course, it was a huge flop, and even the brothers Van Halen don’t like to talk about it much these days. They essentially took the next decade off, and with each passing year, Van Halen felt like the product of a different time. It’s interesting trying to put forth the argument that VH is an important band, despite the fact that they self-evidently are: before Eddie Van Halen hit the scene, no one played guitar like him. After, everyone played guitar like him. They practically invented a style of music that dominated the airwaves for the next 12 years.

But the band itself seems to defy any notions of importance. Their best records are effortless, fun, ridiculous things, the true talent of the band hiding behind the showiness of the whole thing. David Lee Roth had an outsized carnival huckster personality that turned everything into a circus, and it’s hard to make a good case for songs called “Everybody Wants Some” and “Bottoms Up,” to name a couple of killer tunes. It was a different time, and artistry wore different guises. (And every time Eddie Van Halen decided to aim for the respect he was due, his efforts fell flat.)

So what to make of A Different Kind of Truth, that new Van Halen record? It is defiantly a return to the original sound. The Van Halens have reunited with Roth, they’ve dug up a bunch of older songs that were never officially released, and they even brought the old winged VH logo back into service. This should be the punchline to a joke – Eddie Van Halen is 57, his brother is 58, and Roth is 56. To make matters worse, they’ve enlisted Eddie’s 20-year-old son Wolfgang to replace Michael Anthony on bass. This should be a pale shadow of the Van Halen of old, a wheezing, sputtering jester, falling flat on his face.

Except for one thing: it isn’t.

Believe me, I went into this thing ready to sharpen the knives. The first single and leadoff track, “Tattoo,” seemed to confirm the worst: it’s a lame song with a sleazy theme, and Roth’s aging voice is hung out there to twist in the wind. (Although I have to admire the particularly DLR line “mousewife to momshell.”) And in retrospect, I have no idea why this song is on A Different Kind of Truth, never mind leading it off. The rest of the record is so much better.

In fact, it’s kind of great. If you had told me that at age 57, Eddie Van Halen would be able to play like this, I wouldn’t have believed you. This is his loudest, heaviest, most technical and just plain badass work in 25 years. Check out second track “She’s the Woman” – it starts with a terrific bass-led figure, slams into a great riff, and midway through, evolves into this complicated power trio showcase. And Wolfgang! It’s not hard to be a better player than Michael Anthony, but man, this kid is great. He ups Alex’s game, and Alex was pretty awesome to begin with.

For my money, the opening track should have been “China Town.” It’s a fast and furious slice of metal – like real, heavy metal, not like “Don’t Tell Me What Love Can Do.” In this setting, Roth sounds wonderful. He’s always been more of a showman than a singer, and when the band is chugging forward on full throttle, that works as well as it always has. He strains on some notes here and there – “Blood and Fire” is problematic – but as usual, he gets by on style.

And with Roth, and with this material, the swagger is back. This record struts about like it knows how good it is, and even its lesser moments are carried along by sheer confidence. “Told you I was coming back,” Roth says at one point. “Tell me you missed me. Say it like you mean it.” Swagger. And then they hit you with “Bullethead,” 2:51 of tight, focused, killer metal, with a screaming solo.

The best thing about A Different Kind of Truth is that it never lets up. “As Is” will drop your jaw, it’s so tight and heavy and just blistering. “The Trouble With Never” rides a funky lick and a stomping riff to glory. (This one could have gone, just as it is, on Van Halen II.) Eddie breaks out the acoustic guitars for the first minute or so of the super-fun “Stay Frosty” at track 11, and it’s the first moment you’ll have to breathe. And of course, the band kicks in with full force seconds later, and they don’t stop until album’s end.

That end is “Beats Workin’,” a classic David Lee Roth-style number about the band’s longevity. Roth’s voice is at its weakest on this one, but after the previous 40 or so minutes, you won’t care. This tune is just the kind of comedown this powerhouse of an album needed. Here’s hoping when this incarnation of Van Halen starts writing new songs, they’re like these.

I truly did not expect to like A Different Kind of Truth as much as I do, and if the fifty-somethings in this band can keep up this level of energy on stage, they’re going to have a triumph on their hands. This is a band I have liked for pretty much my entire life, and they’ve overcome my doubts and hit me with a new classic. I can barely believe it. Thirteen-year-old me loves this record, and 37-year-old me likes it quite a bit too. Are they an important band? When they’re playing this well, it almost doesn’t matter.

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Next week, piano pop with the Fray, Ian Axel and Jonathan Jones.

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.

It’s February! Holy hell.

So let’s talk about singers and voices, and why I think they’re different. I’ve been getting into a few musical arguments lately (some of which have gotten out of hand – sorry about that), and one of the topics has been just what qualifies someone as a good singer, and whether those qualities are important. One of my frequent sparring partners is a trained singer, and looks for the same kind of training in any singer he encounters: good pitch, good control, good tone.

And that’s admirable, I think, but so few singers in the worlds I inhabit ever get there. Kathleen Edwards, whose terrific new album Voyageur I reviewed last week, is one of them – her voice is a strong and supple instrument. But I’d be hard-pressed to say the same about Matthew Caws of Nada Surf, last week’s other contestant. And I like the new Nada Surf album more.

This is going to sound disingenuous coming from a guy who doesn’t like Bob Dylan, but if your voice is interesting, and holds the listener, and you’ve arranged the music to suit it, then it doesn’t have to actually be “good.” A classic example is Tom Waits. He sounds like a gorilla that’s spent the last 30 years swallowing razor blades, but there’s no one else I want singing a tune like “Flower’s Grave.” Tom Waits sings Tom Waits songs like no one else.

And then there’s Leonard Cohen. Never the world’s greatest singer – he sounded like an old poet even at 32 – Cohen’s voice has atrophied into a low, tuneless bass rumble. He’s 77 now, and on his 12th studio record (cheekily titled Old Ideas), he doesn’t really sing. He speaks, in a whisper that could move mountains. But sweet lord, this record is wonderful, and I wouldn’t want anyone else at the microphone. Cohen’s voice, far from being some sort of detriment, actually makes this thing.

Old Ideas isn’t much different from the work Cohen’s been doing lately. The songs are spectral blues pieces, spare and ghostly, and his voice is contrasted with female backup singers (longtime collaborators Sharon Robinson and the Webb Sisters). Anjani Thomas and Jennifer Warnes make appearances, as they have for years. Cohen’s mind is on God, ruined love and old age, and he’s still finding new ways to plumb these well-worn topics.

So yeah, this is a Leonard Cohen album, but it’s a particularly good one. It’s largely shorn of the synthesizers Cohen’s been using since the ‘80s, with producers Patrick Leonard and Ed Sanders casting him in more timeless jazz and gospel settings. The absolutely wonderful seven-minute “Amen” is drums, banjo and pump organ, and little else, as Cohen sings of his own unworthiness: “Tell me again when I’m clean and I’m sober, tell me again when I’ve seen through the horror, tell me you want me then, amen…”

“Darkness” is a dirty blues that tackles the album’s grimmer themes head-on: “I got no future, I know my days are few, the present’s not so pleasant, just a lot of things to do, I thought the past would last me, but the darkness got that too…” Its follow-up, “Anyhow,” is a plea for mercy: “I know you can’t forgive me, but forgive me anyhow…” Cohen is close-miked here, and you can feel the shape of his voice, over a shimmering shuffle and some lovely piano work from Leonard.

There is light within these shadows, however, as there always is. “Come Healing” is a prayer for solace, for water in an endless desert, and it sounds like it. Dana Glover’s harmonized vocals take center stage for nearly a full minute, over spare electric piano: “And let the heavens hear it, the penitential hymn, come healing of the spirit, come healing of the limb.” Cohen’s voice fits into this perfectly, worn and weary and seeking grace.

And on “Lullaby,” he offers that grace in return. One of the few songs here with the Casio percussion that has been a Cohen trademark, “Lullaby” is a balm: “If your heart is torn, I don’t wonder why, if the night is long, here’s my lullaby…” It’s almost a shame when the album ends with the bitter “Different Sides,” a song of recrimination. But it’s just as well. Cohen remains a fascinating figure, torn between the sacred and the profane, and the off-kilter conclusion to Old Ideas retains that tension.

Leonard Cohen remains a singular artist, and this album would not work nearly as well with a more traditionally “good” singer. It’s his old-as-time, deeply authoritative voice that gives Old Ideas its power. For more than 40 years, Cohen has found the perfect collaborators and written the perfect music for that voice, and on Old Ideas, he does that better than he has in some time. His is a voice worth treasuring.

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Another idiosyncratic singer is Craig Finn of the Hold Steady. I’m not sure just how to describe his voice, if you’ve never heard it – it’s pinched, with a rough-hewn quality and something of a sneering tone. It works well in his band, which spits fire all over its tumbling Springsteen grooves. In that setting, it’s another part of the vibe – rousing, nostalgic and yet pissing on nostalgia at the same time.

But so much of what makes the Hold Steady work is that fire. Would Finn’s voice work apart from that setting? Finn’s first solo album is a chance to find out. It’s called Clear Heart Full Eyes (an inverted take on Coach Taylor’s catchphrase from Friday Night Lights), and it’s a quieter, more diverse take on the Hold Steady sound. Finn the storyteller is in full bloom here, but the music behind him is more acoustic, more sparse, and full of color.

Does it work? Sure. Finn doesn’t sound much different here, spitting out complex lines full of consonants, but where the Hold Steady would turn something like “Terrified Eyes” into a punky wall of noise, Finn’s crack band renders it as a sorta-folksy driving song. You’ll notice the difference right away: “Apollo Bay” starts off with a slow beat and fumbling guitars before bringing in the lap steels, and the song takes off about halfway through, but never picks up steam.

“New Friend Jesus” sounds like Uncle Tupelo, Finn’s voice taking on a Jay Farrar twang over rollicking acoustics. It’s my favorite lyric here too: “Now people give me sideways looks when we set up on the strand, but it’s hard to suck with Jesus in your band.” Jesus is a recurring character on this record, cropping up in “Western Pier” and “Honolulu Blues,” and conceptual links connect most of these songs. When the album ends with the sad “Not Much Left of Us,” you feel like you’ve been following a set of characters that have come to their dissolution point.

The sonic shakeup seems to be exactly what Finn needed – this is a much stronger effort than the Hold Steady’s last release, Heaven is Whenever. In retrospect, that album may have been an attempt to do songs like these within the Hold Steady framework, and it simply didn’t work. Clear Heart Full Eyes works, and I hope Finn can bring some of this more reflective sense of adventure with him when he rejoins his band.

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I haven’t heard a lot of complaints about John K. Samson’s voice, but I’ve always found it a little odd.

The Weakerthans singer has a high, reedy quality about him, sort of like Ben Gibbard, but less distinctive. It works very well in the context of his band’s driving, folksy rock, but like Craig Finn, Samson has just stripped everything down to its quietest point for his solo bow, Provincial. And where Finn’s effort is decent, even pretty good, Samson’s is wonderful.

Like the best of the Weakerthans’ stuff, Provincial is sad and wistful, but the music here matches – it’s acoustic guitars and strings and icy textures. A few songs (most notably “When I Write My Master’s Thesis” and “Longitudinal Centre”) crank up the volume and hit the distortion pedal, but for much of the running time, Samson is reflective and thoughtful. These tunes are twisty things, full of little surprises, and Samson’s voice is in fine form.

There’s real sorrow here, and a true sense that these people and places Samson is describing live in his head. Samson has long been an underrated lyricist, and his poems here read like little stories. “The Last And” so completely paints its picture of a broken love affair between a schoolteacher and a principal that you’ll feel like you’ve watched the movie of their story. “After Christmas holidays you never asked to drive me home again, and sometimes in the staff room I catch your eye with ‘why’d it have to end,’ but I know from how you worry at your wedding band, I was just your little ampersand…”

“Grace General,” in fact, could stand by itself as a short story in an anthology. Here it is, in full, in paragraph form as it appears in the liner notes:

“Cruel snow, cracked lips, sun lost by 4. Cold winces through the cardboard window where the cobblestone was smashed into glass, and the bare bulb of moon swings over Portage Avenue, lights the icy ruts they sprinkled with sand, down the dim hall of chain stores to Grace, where the parking lot is full again and I don’t bother locking up. The face, before the doors slide apart, is hers, the day they took away the candy and left gift-shop tulips to frame her alarmed ‘what will I do now?’ What will I do now?”

Elsewhere, Samson devotes an entire song to a petition to get former Philadelphia Flyers hockey player Regge Leach into the hall of fame. But he also finds new ways to describe isolation and inertia in “Stop Error,” and puts you in the driver’s seat in a dead-end small town on “Cruise Night.” Provincial is a lyrical tour de force, and is musically just as strong. It’s a fine solo project from an underrated talent, and his voice carries it beautifully.

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That’s it for this week. Next week, Van Halen. I’m actually hoping this isn’t horrible, but I’m not counting on it. Also possible: Of Montreal, Paul McCartney, and the Fray, plus catch-up reviews of Ian Axel and Jonathan Jones.

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.