My friend Tony Shore is shameless.

I’ve known this for quite some time. You know what his favorite album of all time is? 90125, by Yes. And he tells people this. The man has no shame whatsoever.

So I suppose I wasn’t surprised when I logged onto his site this week and saw his Beatles Box Fund post. Yes, Dr. Tony Shore is soliciting donations to help him afford the remastered Beatles albums, out today. If you want to help him buy this very expensive set, you can give him some cash, and in return, he’ll mention your name on the ObviousPopcast, his regular podcast.

As I said, totally shameless. And sort of brilliant.

Now, my friend Melissa and I had a conversation about doing something similar a few months ago. I decided I already ask you guys to wade through my endless rambling every week, I didn’t feel like asking you for more than that. But now that Tony’s gone and done it, and I’m putting my pennies together to (hopefully) afford that stereo box set (16 CDs and a DVD, in a gorgeous case, and hell, it’s the Beatles), it looks like he’ll get the last laugh. But you never know. There are a lot of box sets coming out that I want, most notably the $365 Miles Davis complete Columbia albums set. That one’s 71 discs. Seventy. One. Discs. I’m dead serious. Might need some help on that one.

So good on you, Tony Shore. And I’m going to give you some money, just for having the gumption to do this. I hope you pronounce my name right on your podcast.

* * * * *

Speaking of podcasts, if you head to www.linernotesmagazine.com right now (RIGHT NOW!), you can hear a new one starring Derek Wright and yours truly. I talked about this a couple of weeks ago, but it’s a reality now. Hear us both trash The Airborne Toxic Event and Deer Tick, and disagree slightly on how awesome the Antlers album Hospice is. Also, listen as a trained professional radio man (Derek) guides a stuttering, tongue-tied fool (me) through his own points. It’s fun and educational!

In this particular podcast, Derek and I got into a discussion about double albums. I like ‘em, he hates ‘em. It took us five solid minutes of back-and-forth to come up with the crux of our divergence: I am excited by the potential of the double album, and Derek is disappointed that so many fail to live up to that potential.

And you know what, I am too. The wide-open canvas of the double album still thrills me, but so few truly fill that canvas with great art. The thing is, I will never look at getting more music from my favorite artists as a bad thing. I love ambition, and I love it when songwriters feel they have enough to say, enough of a statement to make, that just one CD won’t cut it. I get that they’re not all like that, but no amount of practical accounting of double-album successes and failures will make me less excited about them.

Case in point: the Black Crowes. Longtime readers of this site know how I feel about them. I’ve been a fan since I was a teenager, I cried a couple tears when they broke up in 2002, and rejoiced when they reunited six years later. They’ve re-emerged as a more complex and subtle band – reunion album Warpaint was much slower and more relaxed than anyone could have guessed it would be – but they’re still a superb ‘70s-inspired rock band, and the combination of Chris Robinson’s voice and brother Rich’s guitar still knocks me out, just like it did when I first heard it.

So imagine my joy when I heard the Crowes would be releasing their first double album. Well, the etymology’s a little confused – while there are two discs of material here, they’re separated into two albums, Before the Frost and Until the Freeze. The second album comes as a free download when you buy the first. Unless, of course, you buy the vinyl, which includes all 20 songs, mixed up into an entirely new order. It really makes me wonder how this was meant to be heard.

But all I can do is review what’s in front of me, and the way I have it, Before the Frost… Until the Freeze is a double album on two CDs, individually named. And it’s interesting that they’re separated out this way, because Before the Frost, in this incarnation, is one of the best albums of the Crowes’ long career. And Until the Freeze… isn’t.

Let’s back up. For this album, the Crowes finally did something they should have done years ago – they recorded their new songs live. They wrote 19 tunes, threw in a cover of Stephen Stills’ “So Many Times,” rounded up an audience at Levon Helm’s studio, set up some microphones and went to work. The result is an album simply dripping with energy. If you were concerned that Warpaint had a few too many ponderous ballads, then the first disc, Before the Frost, is for you. The Crowes have rarely leapt from the speakers with such rock ‘n’ roll ferocity.

In this setting, the push and pull between the often-squabbling Brothers Robinson comes alive. The record opens with “Good Morning Captain,” one of their more singalong numbers, but explodes with “Been a Long Time (Waiting on Love).” Opening with a monster riff, the tune just smokes along for four minutes, then breaks down into an awe-inspiring jam coda for another three. After this, Rich Robinson is well and truly warmed up, and he doesn’t put a foot wrong for the rest of the record.

Some criticize the Crowes for staying so true to their ‘70s rock roots, but I don’t mind, for two reasons. First, no one else sounds like this right now. No one is doing pure rock ‘n’ roll like this. And second, the Crowes write great songs. There isn’t a one-four-five blues-rock song on Before the Frost, anywhere, and some of them, like the disco-infused “I Ain’t Hiding” and the funktastic “Make Glad,” go places this band has never gone before.

There are slower moments, like Rich’s solo spot “What is Home,” and the beautiful closer “The Last Place that Love Lives.” But Before the Frost is all about reasserting the Crowes’ rock credibility, and man, it does that well. This is the way they should record all of their albums. I’ve rarely heard them lay into a groove the way they do here, and every single song on Before the Frost is worth hearing.

But that’s just because they put all the so-so ones on Until the Freeze. Before hearing it, I wasn’t sure why the Crowes had decided to make this record a free download. Now I know. Freeze contains all the more traditional and acoustic numbers, and all the ones in which the melodies don’t quite cohere. It opens with a nearly seven-minute, mostly-instrumental jam called “Aimless Peacock,” which lives down to its title, and while it goes up from there, nothing on this album matches the explosive excellence of the first disc.

I don’t want to give the impression that Freeze is bad, though. It’s just simpler and lazier. I quite like the extended acoustic float of “Greenhorn,” with its spectral electric piano bits, and the traditional bluesy stomp of “Shine Along” is nice. “Roll Old Jeremiah” is a sweet old-time country number, and they do quite a nice job with “So Many Times.” But by the time you get to the weepy closer “Fork in the River,” you may be wondering if you’re still listening to a rock band.

All of which really makes me wonder about that double vinyl release. It might be fun to hear just how Before the Frost… Until the Freeze sounds as an integrated unit, but I’m not sure I would sacrifice the momentum and energy of that first disc. And it would – instead of “Good Morning Captain,” the vinyl version opens with “Aimless Peacock,” which likely stops things dead before they get started. And yet, separated out by the more rockin’ tracks, the Freeze material might seem more energetic.

Intriguingly, I appear to be defeating my own argument – as a double album, I’m not sure this works. But reduced to a single disc of the strongest tracks, this is one of my favorite Black Crowes records. Regardless, if you’ve ever liked this band, you owe it to yourself to at least try Before the Frost. 20 years into their career, the Brothers Robinson are still making great music together, and these new songs are some of their best.

And look, I got through an entire review without calling the Black Crowes the best rock ‘n’ roll band in the world.

Ah! Dammit!

* * * * *

There’s a lot of music coming out in the next couple of months, but of the dozens of new records hitting stores, one stands out to me. And it’s not even eligible for my top 10 list.

On October 2, Marillion will release Less is More, their first acoustic album. It’s stripped-down studio recordings of 10 old tracks and one new one. Why am I so excited for this? First of all, Marillion’s one of my favorite bands, and they’re constantly reinventing themselves. But second, there’s the track listing, which was officially released over the weekend.

Rather than sticking to the usual suspects (“Easter,” “The Answering Machine,” “Gazpacho”), Steve Hogarth and the boys have apparently gone for broke, doing acoustic renditions of songs I never expected. Among the lineup: “Interior Lulu,” a 15-minute prog-rock extravaganza from 1999; “Hard as Love,” the near-metal centerpiece of 1994’s Brave; and “If My Heart Were a Ball It Would Roll Uphill,” the nine-minute multi-part Rock God closer of 2001’s Anoraknophobia. This is like Metallica making an acoustic album, and eschewing “The Unforgiven” for “Battery” and “And Justice for All.”

I’m pretty stoked for this. It sounds like these songs have been completely reinvented, and I always love hearing that. But more than that, it sounds like this long-running band (28 years and counting!) is still pushing against its own boundaries, and that makes me a happy music fan. More details here.

That’s it for this week. Next week, Imogen Heap and David Bazan, probably. Don’t forget to listen to Derek’s podcast at www.linernotesmagazine.com. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com, and follow me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I am all about theme.

Each week, as I scan my ever-growing CD pile, trying to decide which records to review, I attempt to group my selections under some thematic umbrella. Even if it’s something as simple as picking two or three CDs on the same label, or manned by the same producer. I like to tie things together into neat little bows.

I have three albums to talk about this week, and I’ve been staring at them for a while now, and I can’t come up with one thing they all have in common. Aside from the fact that they’re all pieces of music etched onto plastic discs, these three couldn’t be more different. One is a Danish art-rock record with a 23-word title, another is a one-man electronic pop project full of disco breakdowns and lyrics about dentistry, and the third is a sweet and simple acoustic session with no drums and some of the prettiest melodies of the year.

Yeah, there’s nothing to connect them. So I’m not even going to try. Here are three reviews of three utterly incongruous albums, tied together by only one thing: I like them all.

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Some of you probably know by now that I’ve started a blog, at tm3am.blogspot.com. I’ve mostly been using it to post my first-listen impressions of new albums, ones I don’t necessarily expect to have time to get to in the regular column. My initial idea was to follow up in this space only if my opinion of an album changes markedly with repeated listens, with tm3am proper hosting the more considered review.

Well, here’s my first follow-through on that plan. On August 1, I posted my thoughts on Ocean Eyes, the second full-length album by Owl City. I said that while I enjoyed the synthetic textures and joyous delivery on display here, the experience of hearing 12 similar-sounding songs in a row was wearying. But I also said that Owl City makes me love life, and that opinion has only grown over the last month. I’ve been watching as critic after critic has picked apart Ocean Eyes, calling it a bargain-basement Postal Service tribute, and at the same time, I’ve been listening to this over and over, enjoying it more each time.

It’s amazing how quickly I’ve gone from “I like this” to “I love this, and stop picking on it.” But that’s where I am.

Owl City is Adam Young, a 23-year-old studio whiz from Minnesota. He has a love of old-school synthesizers and bad puns. The Postal Service comparisons are lazy, but there are superficial similarities, most notably in Young’s voice. It’s high and smooth, like Ben Gibbard’s, although every second of it is Auto-Tuned on Ocean Eyes. But where the Postal Service turned in a sparse album of self-serious dirges back in 2003, Adam Young has made something bursting with joy and color, and unlike his more image-conscious foils, he doesn’t care if he ever gets to sit at the cool kids’ table.

Want proof? Check out “The Bird and the Worm,” perhaps the silliest great song of 2009. It starts with a shimmying acoustic shuffle, but quickly blossoms into a full-blown poptopia, complete with “da-da-da” refrain. It also contains this line: “For all my pals who live in the oceans and the seas, with fronds like these, who needs anemones.” Seriously. That just brought either a grin or a grimace to your face, and you’ll know just from that whether Ocean Eyes is for you.

It’s all satisfyingly silly, from the disco-ball breakdown in “Umbrella Beach” to lyrics like “Take a long hard look in your textbook, ‘cause I’m history.” But there’s something in every song to catch the ear, hidden little touches that make these ditties come alive. I said a month ago that I probably wouldn’t like these songs had they been recorded with guitars, and that still stands, but it’s taken me a while to realize that the synth-pop wonderland Young constructs around his simple melodies is the point.

Young only goes a little too far on “Dental Care,” an admittedly catchy tune that’s actually about, well, dental care. (“I’ve been to the dentist a thousand times, so I know the drill…”) But one track later, on the brief yet gorgeous “Meteor Shower,” he lets his sentimental side out: “Please don’t let me go, I desperately need you,” he sings, over a dramatic synth bed. Single “Fireflies” is in the same vein, building slowly to a pure-pop chorus that’s just delightful.

Ocean Eyes contains three older Owl City songs, completely re-arranged, and it’s to Young’s credit that they’re among the least successful – that means he’s growing as an artist. But the new “On the Wing” is wonderful, and the new take on “Hello Seattle” builds up to that pop explosion at the end masterfully. (“The Saltwater Room” is still too sickly-sweet for words, though.) Young is getting better at this, refining his idiosyncratic synth-pop style into something unlike anything else around right now. Contrary to what some might have you believe, Young is not trying and failing to sound like the Postal Service, or anyone else. He’s trying and succeeding to sound like this.

Here’s the thing. My initial problems with Ocean Eyes are still there – the 12 songs all have a similar sound, and the melodies aren’t particularly original or complicated. But I’m under this record’s spell now, and its failings are nothing compared to the sense of warm, joyous exuberance coming out of every pore. As Young himself sings, he’d rather pick flowers than fights, and it’s obvious in every moment of this album – he just wants you to be happy. I’m glad to oblige. Ocean Eyes lifts my mood every time I play it. I said it before and I’ll say it again: it makes me love life. I can’t help it. I love this record.

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The first thing anyone’s going to mention when talking about Danish band Mew’s fifth album is its title, so let’s get it out of the way. Here it is: No More Stories Are Told Today I’m Sorry They Washed Away No More Stories The World is Grey I’m Tired Let’s Wash Away.

The second thing people will mention is the cover, a picture of a moth superimposed with a cartoon drawing of an egg-shaped monster with its own face on its nose. Yes, once again, Mew has decided to sabotage its own album, just as they did four years ago with the garish cover art and stupid title of Mew and the Glass-Handed Kites. You would never look at either album and imagine the intricate, moving and all-around excellent music that lies within.

Mew straddles the line between progressive rock and epic indie, songs built on a thick foundation of keyboards, guitars and harmonies. On The Glass-Handed Kites, Mew finally took their sound to its logical extreme, creating an hour-long unbroken suite that flowed from quiet moments of grace to gigantic oceans of noise. It was a crushing, expansive effort, one that felt like a plateau, and it’s no surprise that they’ve scaled things back for this new one.

But despite references to grey worlds and washing away, No More Stories is actually much more upbeat and accessible than its predecessor. The songs are shorter and simpler, the arrangements are less cluttered, and the overall effect is much less overwhelming. Of course, it also comes off as slighter, but it’s like saying this mountain is somewhat smaller than that mountain. They’re both mountains, at the end of the day.

No More Stories actually starts off with its weakest song, “New Terrain,” its backwards instrumentation and meandering tone kicking the record off awkwardly. Thankfully, things right themselves quickly – “Introducing Palace Players” is almost Mew as minimalist rock band, its repetitive guitar figure giving way to Flaming Lips-style synth textures and some soaring vocals. And then comes “Beach,” the closest Mew has ever come to giving us a straight pop song. This one actually has a Shins vibe to it, and lasts a mere 2:46. In an alternate universe, this could be a hit, as could “Repeaterbeater,” a jittery rocker with a hint of Bloc Party. (That one’s only 2:34.)

But don’t fear, prog fans, Mew still has your back. The seven-minute “Cartoons and Macrame Wounds” starts as a Soft Bulletin-esque synth-and-drums anthem, but shifts through a few softer, more meditative sections, singer Jonas Bjerre hitting those chilling high notes, before erupting once again. “Cartoons” is, at once, the centerpiece of the album and the antithesis of much of it, the band finally letting their more expansive tendencies out to play.

The rest of the album is a mix of the two extremes. The brief “Hawaii Dream” sets the album’s title to slow, drifting music, while “Hawaii” itself reminds me of the Dirty Projectors, all clean guitar, percussion and choral chanting. “Tricks of the Trade” is a standout, its synth drops falling like rain over a minor-key mantra, while “Sometimes Life Isn’t Easy” drops back into full Flaming Lips mode, its epic construction diving from sparse piano to huge orchestration in seconds. And yet, that song contains the album’s most memorable chorus. Oh, and a children’s choir.

Yes, despite the sonic detours of No More Stories, it’s a Mew album at heart, and as such, it takes several listens to fully grasp. While they’ve pulled back in many areas, creating a much more immediate record this time out, they’ve expanded their range here as well. It’s still a searching, intricate, unique piece of music. If you can get past the garish cover and the surreal title, you’ll find some of the year’s most interesting music here. There’s still no other band on the planet quite like Mew, and that’s a good thing.

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A new David Mead album ought to be an event.

Here’s a guy who has written more than his fair share of great pop songs, in a variety of styles, over five excellent albums (and a damn good EP as well). In 2006, he released his finest, Tangerine, a chamber-pop extravaganza with melody to spare. Just “Fighting For Your Life” alone would have convinced me to buy anything this guy does, if I hadn’t already been a fan.

So why isn’t everyone lining up to praise his fifth, Almost and Always? Why is a guy this talented relegated to tiny labels and unjust obscurity? I have no idea. Perhaps it’s his restless artistic nature – no two David Mead albums sound alike, and this new one is as far away from the unfolding expanses of Tangerine as that one was from the sweet country-pop of 2004’s Indiana. That makes him harder to market, sure, but the common thread here is that these albums are all terrific.

Almost and Always is Mead’s acoustic project. It is entirely without drums, and has an appealing handmade quality to it, despite including half a dozen guest musicians on a variety of instruments. But the key here, as usual, is Mead’s songwriting, and the sparse production zeroes in on it. These are mostly sweet and wistful folk numbers, the kind to put on during light spring rainstorms, and as usual, Mead’s gift for a memorable melody never fails him.

Take “Blackberry Winters,” for example. A breezy tune, “Blackberry” slips into an elegant falsetto chorus, uses an ascending guitar figure to link the verses perfectly, and includes a glorious harmonized middle eight. But none of these music-nerd terms matter at all – the song is just heart-swellingly pretty. Mead’s songwriting skill is so great that even when he’s firing on all cylinders, it sounds effortless.

Calling Almost and Always a folk album is doing it a huge disservice. This record is remarkably diverse, given its limited instrumentation. Mead pairs the beautiful spirituality of “Mojave Phone Booth,” a song that brings Duncan Sheik to mind, with the show-tune carnality of “Twenty Girls Ago,” complete with lovely clarinet arrangement. He covers Nashville songwriter Daniel Tashian’s “From My Window Sill” like it’s an old standard, and the lounge-y arrangement (with finger cymbals!) suits it well.

Elsewhere, he pulls out the Beatlesque shuffle for the gorgeous “Gramercy Vaudeville,” stops time for the ghostly title track, and pulls out an amazing piano-led refrain on the surprising “Sleeping In Saturday.” And at track nine, he gives us “Last Train Home,” one of his finest songs ever. The tale of two lovers exploring a city late into the night, then sleeping on the way home, it’s simply a subtle, winsome delight. This is the kind of song some musicians wait their whole lives to be able to write. And most never get there.

As I said, the release of this album ought to be an event. But then, that might not suit the delicate music Mead has given us this time out. This is the kind of album you discover on your own, tucked away in a friend’s record collection, and you cherish. I don’t know how many people will hear Almost and Always, but I know those that do will find some of 2009’s prettiest songs, played and sung beautifully. These are songs to hold close, to sing to yourself on rainy Sunday afternoons, songs about finding joy, reconnecting and finally coming home. Almost and Always is a little thing, but in the end, it’s the little things that matter most in this world.

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Next week, the Black Crowes. After that, Imogen Heap, Phish and David Bazan. And, if I can afford it, a trip down Penny Lane with a certain fab foursome. 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.

If all goes to plan, in a couple of weeks you’ll be able to hear a new podcast starring Derek Wright and yours truly at Derek’s site: www.linernotesmagazine.com. It’s the third time Derek has invited me to be a part of his regular podcast, and though I’m writing this before recording the thing, I feel it’s safe to say I expect another sharp and fun debate.

Preparing for these podcasts is an intensive thing, particularly with my work schedule. Derek will usually tell me a week or two in advance which albums he wants to review, and since he’s interested in a lot of music that usually passes me by, I have to scramble, familiarizing myself with bands I’ve never heard of and music I’ve never encountered. This time was easier, since I’d previously bought four of the six albums we talked about, but these songs are the only ones I’ve been thinking about for some time now.

Hence, I’m giving you a sneak peek this time out. Below you will find reviews of three of the six albums Derek and I plan to talk about. I’m using the column this week as a way to organize my thoughts, and come up with coherent things to say about each of these albums. If I ramble a little this time out, that’s why – I have yet to form a solid opinion about any of these records, and I’m hoping to firm those opinions up by the time I’m done here.

The podcast is scheduled to hit Derek’s site on September 9. Check it out when it’s available. In the meantime, he has plenty of solo podcasts and writings to keep you interested and entertained.

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First up is Brendan Benson, back with his fourth solo album, My Old, Familiar Friend.

You might be saying to yourself that Benson’s name sounds familiar. In addition to being a swell songwriter and artist in his own right, Benson has recently achieved some measure of fame as a member of the Raconteurs, with Jack White. Of course, everyone who works with Jack White becomes famous, but I can’t blame Benson for feeling like it’s a double-edged sword – the man deserves acclaim all on his own, and the Raconteurs’ two albums have outsold Benson’s solo records by a factor of four to one.

Friend is Benson’s first album since forming the Raconteurs, and he was quoted saying he wanted it to stand on its own merits, which is why he rejected the idea of a front-cover sticker pointing out his more famous association. Well, it looks like ATO Records won that battle, ‘cause my copy of Friend was adorned with such a sticker. While I understand how Benson feels, I’m not upset about it, because anything that gets more people to discover Benson’s brand of blissful guitar-pop is a good thing in my book.

That said, this is not Benson’s best album. (It’s hard to beat the Jason Falkner collaborations of the first two records.) But it is on par with 2005’s The Alternative to Love, and that’s definitely a high standard. It’s an album on which Benson’s gift for melody never (well, rarely) fails him, and his way with a great guitar line and a vocal hook is on ample display. If you’re a Raconteurs fan coming to Benson’s solo work for the first time, you won’t be disappointed in this.

Friend kicks off with one of its best tracks, “A Whole Lot Better.” Using Ben Folds’ rhythm section (bassist Jared Reynolds and drummer Lindsey Jamieson), Benson lays down a shimmying guitar riff with some cheesy-awesome organ on top, and spins a tale of indecision and love. The song’s narrator feels “a whole lot better when you’re not around” at song’s beginning, and changes his mind by song’s end. “I fell in love with you, and out of love with you, and back in love with you all in the same day,” Benson sings, in one of the song’s more hummable moments. This tune is a pure pop masterpiece.

“Eyes on the Horizon” is even better. Benson lays on the harmonies and electric piano for a song that’s part Todd Rundgren, part Roger Manning, with a sweet chorus and a theremin-fueled bridge. After that, the record cools off for a few slabs of ‘70s pop balladry. “Garbage Day” is based around the kind of silly-yet-satisfying line you might come up with at three in the morning, all bleary-eyed: “If she throws her heart away, I’ll be there on garbage day.” But it works, because the song is so sweet, Motown strings and all.

Benson falls down on “Feel Like Taking You Home,” an overly repetitive burst of paranoia and libido. But he quickly regains his footing, and brings the amped-up guitars for the album’s second half. After the delicate “You Make a Fool Out of Me,” the record explodes – “Poised and Ready” rocks like a house on fire, and both “Don’t Wanna Talk” and “Misery” rank with Benson’s best, and sound the most like his first two albums. These more upbeat tunes don’t have the complexity of the album’s first half, but their sheer energy carries them.

Only “Lesson Learned” drops the tempo, but album closer “Borrow” picks it right back up. In a way, My Old, Familiar Friend is like two little albums in one, the first a chamber-pop studio extravaganza and the second a more live-sounding rock record. But they’re both great, and as a whole, Friend holds up very well. I’m still not sure why Jack White picked him to collaborate with, but as long as Benson keeps putting out solo material this good, I’m glad he’s got that Raconteurs spotlight shining on him.

* * * * *

Fair warning: I’m going to discuss Patrick Wolf’s new album The Bachelor now, and I may end up overusing the word “ridiculous.” But it’s the most fitting word I can think of. The Bachelor is the most ridiculous album of 2009. It’s also pretty awesome, if you can stifle your giggles long enough to appreciate what Wolf’s done here.

Let’s back up. Wolf is an English songwriter too idiosyncratic to be in a band. He’s had three previous albums, each one different from the last. His third, The Magic Position, struck a more pop vein, with hints of disco and techno swirled in there as well. It was the first one I heard, and probably swayed my opinion of his more oblique earlier works. Wolf has always had a touch of the dramatic about him, like Bowie with the heart of a theater kid. (His voice is reminiscent of Bowie’s as well.)

Last year, he announced plans for a double album called Battle, and joined up with Bandstocks to help fund it. Bandstocks works on the Marillion method – fans can contribute $20 towards the production of the album, and get their names listed in the liner notes. After the relatively high profile The Magic Position afforded him, fans lined up. But then Wolf decided to split the double record in two, releasing The Bachelor this year and The Conqueror next.

Listening to part one, it’s clear that Wolf felt liberated and emboldened by the ample recording budget his fans gave him. He used it to turn out something that goes so far beyond anything he’s ever done that it’s… well, ridiculous.

The Bachelor is a collection of hero’s-journey ballads, all of them Extremely Serious, in the same way that Duran Duran’s “The Chauffeur” was serious. Wolf lavishes string sections and gospel choirs and woodwinds and pianos and crazy-awesome production on these songs, and then, as if they’re not melodramatic enough, he sings them as if he’s performing in Cats, betraying no sense that he knows this thing is nuts. Oh, and amidst all that, there’s actress Tilda Swinton, giving us occasional monologues as The Voice of Hope. Seriously. Oh, so seriously.

Despite its apparent thematic thread, this album is all over the place, both musically and lyrically. (It also suffers from lousy mastering, with gaps appearing where segues should be, which doesn’t help.) “Hard Times” is a goth-rock gallop, Wolf pulling a convincing Brian Ferry while violins poke through the electronic noise. The title track is an Irish lament, a duet with fiddler Eliza Carthy, while “The Vulture” pulls in club guru Alec Empire for an ‘80s-style four-on-the-floor stomp.

Through all of this, the trick is to keep from laughing. This is clearly a very personal record for Wolf, and he’s given it his all. When he screams “WAKE UP!” on “Count of Casualty,” he means it – the song is an emotional rail against war and unnecessary death. So even though your first instinct will be to chuckle, hold that in. Likewise the industrial inanity of “Battle,” with its chugging guitars and idiotic lyrics: “Battle the conservative, battle for your, battle the homophobe, but battle without war,” Wolf spits, as backing vocalists repeat the song’s title behind him. You may not be able to contain your giggles at this one, but as it’s sequenced near the end, you should be okay.

The Bachelor does contain its share of unintentionally funny moments (“Your appetiiiiite, so dangeroooous”), but also plenty of true beauty. “Damaris” feels like a love story starring a god, and it starts small, but builds in intensity, until a choir is urging you to “rise up, rise up.” It’s pretty, in an ‘80s sci-fi soundtrack kind of way. “Who Will” is practically a hymn, sung with restraint over a hushed organ. And “Blackdown” is one of those center-stage-with-the-spotlight-on piano ballads, complete with solo dance section, and it leads into the glorious “The Sun is Often Out.” That one’s all strings, choir and Patrick, and it’s genuinely moving.

That is, if you’re willing to scale these dramatic heights with him. I can’t help but wonder what the people who paid in advance for this insane flight of fancy think of it, particularly if they came aboard with The Magic Position. More than any album this year, The Bachelor requires you to buy into its grand conceits. If you don’t, you probably won’t make it all the way through these 53 minutes, and I’d be willing to bet The Conqueror will be just as difficult for you. But nutty as it is, The Bachelor is a compelling and individualistic journey from a guy who will, hopefully, never realize how completely ridiculous he is.

* * * * *

I have saved the best for last.

I will admit it: I bought Hospice, the debut album from the Antlers, because Pitchfork told me to. Their review promised me chiming guitars and anthemic songs that reach for the rafters, and I can never get too many of those. Plus, I loved the simple, iconic cover art. I paid my money and I took my chance.

But what I got was far beyond anything I could have expected.

The Antlers is the vehicle for singer/songwriter Peter Silberman, and Hospice began life as a solo project. In a way, it still sounds like one. This is one of the most emotionally devastating records I’ve heard in years, a single-minded exploration of one person’s slow, agonizing death, and its effect on Silberman. Whether anything on Hospice is true is beside the point. It feels true, even if what we’re listening to is a sonic novel.

And it is a novel, in that the entire thing holds together as one piece of music, reaching toward one goal. Pitchfork was wrong – there are very few chiming guitars here, and only one song (“Sylvia”) that aims for the sky. Most of Hospice is simple and sad and pretty, with reverent pianos and gently plucked acoustic guitars making up much of the sound. Silberman’s voice has hints of Jeff Buckley, in its seemingly endless reach, but he uses it most often to quietly observe, not hammer everything home.

Hospice displays an unwavering commitment to telling its story, even if that means including long stretches of quivering mood music. There will be a tendency among some to skip this and head for the “real” songs, but those people will be missing out – Hospice works best, and in fact only works at all, as a 51-minute piece. In its construction, it reminds me of Marillion’s Brave, with everything flowing into everything else, heading for an inevitable, sad and yet uplifting conclusion.

Hospice starts with a prelude, a slow piano crawl over wavering noise, and it sets the tone. The accompanying text gives you the background: our narrator is a hospital worker, and a woman named Sylvia has been sent there to die. She has a terminal disease, and as our narrator meets her in the second track, “Kettering,” he is told there is no saving her. In the song that shares her name, the only obvious single here, Silberling pleads with Sylvia to “let me do my job” as he tries to check her temperature. And in the final verse, he confides that at night, when Sylvia is sleeping, he talks to her, telling her everything about his life.

The seven-minute “Atrophy” is next, and this is the one most will skip. I think it’s amazing. The first three minutes are a quiet, harrowing confessional, Silberman concluding, “I’d happily take all those bullets inside you and put them inside of myself.” Then the music turns to clouds, symbolizing the sound of Sylvia’s body deteriorating. The song ends with a dark acoustic coda, Silberman whispering, “Someone, oh anyone, tell me how to stop this, she’s screaming, expiring, and I’m her only witness…”

“Bear” is the light between poles of darkness, a tale of Sylvia’s childhood set to bouncing guitars and pianos. But when Sylvia finally speaks, on the terrifying “Thirteen,” it’s not of better days. “Pull me out, pull me out, can’t you stop all this from happening,” she pleads, and guest Sharon Van Etten’s voice is chilling. Sylvia dies in “Two,” which is subtitled, “I Would Have Saved Her If I Could.” It’s a nimble acoustic piece in which our narrator admits relief amidst the sadness.

These songs, it must be said, are not extraordinary things on their own. They are merely competently constructed – “Two” is very simple, repeating its one melody line again and again for five minutes. But it’s the narrative force that makes them undeniable. The flood of words that makes up “Two” perfectly mirrors the rush of thoughts and emotions it describes, and it’s perfect in its place on the album. Its successor, “Shiva,” is delicate and dark, its lyrics fully exploring the fantasy of “Atrophy,” Silberman taking Sylvia’s place in the hospital. By itself, it is slight and forgettable. In its place on Hospice, it is amazing.

The album’s centerpiece is near its end – the eight-minute “Wake,” in which our narrator decides it is still worth letting people in. He may be damaged by Sylvia’s death, and he is still haunted by it, but he won’t let it rule him. “Some patients can’t be saved, but that burden’s not on you,” Silberman sings, then launches into a repeated refrain: “Don’t let anyone tell you you deserve that.” The song begins quietly, but ends majestically.

But the album doesn’t end there. “Epilogue” is a sparse acoustic piece, set to the tune of “Bear,” our narrator remembering Sylvia in his nightmares. He wakes up, imagining he is still in the hospital, sharing Sylvia’s bed as she sleeps, and it terrifies him. In fact, the last line of the lyric sheet is, “I’m too terrified to speak.” I was initially put off by the last song, coming on the heels of the transcendental “Wake,” but I have come to love it. It’s like the final seconds of The Graduate, when the camera holds for too long on our characters as they turn from joy to fear and uncertainty. Epiphanies and breakthroughs don’t last forever, and our narrator will forever be haunted by his experience.

If all this seems too depressing for you, I can understand that. If someone had suggested to me that perhaps I would like to spend 51 minutes listening to a story about someone dying painfully, I probably would feel the same way. But Hospice is just breathtaking stuff, a sad and spectacular novel in song that remains riveting from first note to last. The first time through, I was stunned, and the second, I was moved to tears.

In a way, I hope the Antlers never make another album, because this singular achievement feels like a one-off, not a debut. I’m not sure I’ve heard anything this heartfelt and emotionally devastating in quite some time. I bought Hospice expecting to like it and file it away, but I can’t stop listening to it. It may not be one of the best albums of the year, but it is certainly one of the most moving. And in many ways, that’s much more important.

* * * * *

Next week, some Owl City, some David Mead, and maybe some Mew. Don’t forget to check out Derek Wright’s website. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com, and follow me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

The Internet makes me laugh.

If you woke up Monday morning and were disappointed to discover Radiohead had not self-released an EP called Wall of Ice, you’re not alone. Lots of people were expecting it to happen, despite the fact that it doesn’t exist, it never existed, and Radiohead never promised anything of the sort.

How did this happen? Therein lies a tale, of the cautionary kind.

Sometime last week, a new Radiohead song appeared on a message board. No fanfare, nothing. Many assumed it had been leaked, although we don’t know that. What we do know is this: the song is called “These Are My Twisted Words,” and data with the file included Monday’s date (8/17/09) and the phrase “Wall of Ice.” We also know this: Thom Yorke made a statement in the last few weeks that his band will not be recording or releasing any albums anytime soon. They’re not interested in the album format, he said.

All right, so that’s all we know. But within a day, online speculation had reached a fever pitch. Some took Yorke’s statement to the press and extrapolated that Radiohead would be releasing EPs. Then someone else speculated that Wall of Ice would be the name of the EP that Radiohead would release. Then someone else took the ball and ran with it, saying Radiohead would likely be putting out a digital EP called Wall of Ice on Monday, August 17. Someone else noticed that www.wallofice.com directed visitors to Radiohead’s online store. It was all happening.

You see how this snowballed? By Friday, it was an accepted fact online that a new Radiohead EP called Wall of Ice would be coming out Monday. I even saw one online pundit who stated unequivocally that the EP would contain four tracks. Really.

So Monday rolled around, and Radiohead did only what they seemed to say they would do: they made “These Are My Twisted Words” available for free download. That’s it. No EP. But online speculation had reached such a whirling height that some were actually let down by the band’s “failure” to deliver Wall of Ice. What should have been a celebratory moment, the release of a new Radiohead song, turned into a disappointing situation thanks to Internet guesswork and hysteria.

There’s still no proof that Radiohead didn’t engineer this whole thing just to make a point. Either way, the point has been made. One thing no one seems to be pointing out is that www.wallofice.com now leads to a strongly-worded admonishment against online speculation. “Don’t publish bullshit only to get hits on your webpage,” it reads. “Don’t create your own stories after reading one post on a message board. Get your facts straight.”

Amen.

Of course, the big question is, how is the song? Well, you can hear it for yourself at www.radiohead.com. It’s another formless web of guitars that meanders around for five minutes, never landing on any sort of melody. It’s not particularly good, has nothing on the songs on In Rainbows, but is certainly better than, say, “Pulk/Pull Revolving Doors.” If that’s any kind of recommendation.

* * * * *

So. Let’s talk Mutemath.

There have been bigger, more important albums in 2009. There are bigger, more important albums still to come. But there are none I’ve been anticipating more than Armistice, the second album from Louisiana’s Mutemath. There’s a certain mixture of dread and out-of-my-skin excitement that happens when a band I love follows up an album I adore. It’s not so much a question of whether the new album will be as good as the old one, but whether it will mean as much to me.

I discovered Mutemath on my last day at Cornerstone 2005. They were, in fact, the last show I saw, and my traveling companion Chris Callaway tried to convince me not to go. I almost missed out, and I would have considered that tragic, since Mutemath live blew me away. Their sound is very much indebted to the Police – Paul Meany’s voice, Darren King’s drumming, a fondness for dub-style basslines – but updated and refined. On stage, they are madmen, kind of an acrobatic musical carnival.

That said, they’re a very serious band, tackling big themes and big ideas. Their self-titled debut, released in 2006, was pretty much perfect. The songs were huge and memorable (particularly the one-two punch of “Chaos” and “Noticed”), and in his lyrics, Meany took on the big questions – “Stare at the Sun” is about looking for faith and not seeing it, “Chaos” is about holding on to something bigger as the world crumbles around you. Their sound, equally fueled by razor-sharp guitars and an array of synths, and held together by King’s dazzling hi-hat, was like nothing I had heard in years. And with each listen, the album grew and grew.

I ended up calling it the third-best album of the year, behind Keane’s amazing Under the Iron Sea and Joanna Newsom’s inhumanly enchanting Ys. But truth be told, I still listen to it more than either of those. I hold the self-titled album (the original issue, mind you) in such high regard that I don’t know if the band could ever have equaled it in my estimation.

But of course, they had to follow it up. They just took their sweet time doing so. My sense of dread mounted as I read reports of studio in-fighting, of scrapping whole sessions, of multiple producers. I heard new songs played live, and didn’t like them. I started to worry. Did Mutemath pour everything they had into a perfect first album, leaving nothing for the second? Just how disappointing would this be? I started counting the days until August 18, like a condemned man.

I’ve listened to Armistice three times now. That’s the minimum I think this record will take to sink in. The first time, you’ll be comparing it to the debut, and counting the ways it falls short. The songs aren’t as powerful or as serious, the running times are shorter, and the album is diverse to the point of randomness, in contrast to the first one, which played like a single piece of music. You’ll be reading the lyric sheet, too, which will only be a distraction.

The second time, you’ll start to hear things. Little bass figures, tiny countermelodies, Darren King’s indomitable drumming. You’ll notice that a song like “Odds,” which you dismissed at first as a three-minute trifle, is suddenly compelling. You’ll hear the Mutemath-ness in seemingly incongruent tunes like the jazz-ballad “Pins and Needles.” Songs like “Electrify” and “Backfire” will come to life for you. The album will still sound like a collection of songs, as opposed to a singular statement, but you’ll start to care less and less.

The third time, you’ll be under its spell. Armistice is a very different kind of Mutemath album. It’s sharper, it’s a little more surface-level, and it’s surprisingly varied. There is nothing here with the immediate shock and awe of “Chaos” and “Noticed.” Opener “The Nerve” still hasn’t clicked with me, with its single-note chorus and less-than-stellar lyrics. Some of the band’s decisions will seem strange at first, like the title track, a slice of horn-driven soul that ends with screeching strings. But give it a few spins, and it (mostly) all works.

I was initially surprised how little of this record sounds like Mutemath. Now I can’t imagine thinking that way. On third listen, this all feels like Mutemath to me, albeit a new-model version of the band. The essentials are there in every song. “Backfire,” one of several to come alive for me on repeat spins, is startlingly minimal. King holds it all together, but Greg Hill’s guitar is almost nonexistent, while Meany’s synth bass rattles and hums, leaving holes in its wake. The melody is bare-bones, and as the song progresses, it almost seems to be made of nothing. This is a huge departure from the everything-all-the-time sound of the debut.

That sound is certainly here, though. Just check out “Spotlight,” which you may know from the Twilight soundtrack. This is Mutemath, all blistering hi-hat, kinetic bass, killer melody and enormous sonic weight. Just try not to love this song. You’ll get similar vibes from “Electrify,” a killer song that is unabashedly about sex, and features some of King’s best, most exhausting drumming. You’ll also dance to “Goodbye,” a surprisingly ‘80s pop confection that will get lodged in your skull. In a good way, of course.

But it’s the songs that sound nothing like you’d expect that thrill me. “Pins and Needles” finds King delicately brushing his drums while Meany croons over processed electric piano, some of it recorded backwards. This one takes some time to sink in, but the subtle melody is just incredible. “I’m growing fond of broken people,” Meany sings, “as I see that I am one of them.” Listen to the chord changes under his “I’m one of them.” They’re unexpected, and terrific. Nothing about this song grabs you immediately, but after a few listens, everything about it does.

“Clipping” is a minor masterpiece, opening with fuzzy, distorted synth, but slowly blossoming into a beautiful, dark ballad. The chorus shines, and the processed strings are breathtaking, especially after everything else drops away in the middle eight. “I don’t know who to trust anymore, I don’t know what I want anymore,” Meany sings, and even if you don’t share his existential despair, you’ll be singing along.

“Odds” seems like an interlude at first, caught between two more immediate songs. I’m not sure which of the other three is singing it, but it’s not Meany, and the song is slight – it’s just electric piano and drums, for much of it. But listen to it unfold, layer by layer, and by the last chorus, you’ll be mesmerized. Similarly, “Lost Year” seems to take the place of “You Are Mine” as the ballad of the bunch, and I was initially underwhelmed by it. But after a couple of listens, the gorgeous strings and subtle melody took hold. This song is the emotional heart of Armistice, examining a broken relationship with defeated grace. “If there was something that could have saved us, we’d have found it by now,” Meany laments. It’s just lovely.

And then there is “Burden,” the nine-minute finale. It’s the only song on Armistice that significantly breaks four minutes, the one song on which the band’s vaunted musical experimentalism is given free rein. And oddly, it’s one of the least successful. The song runs out of steam quickly, and as it slides into an unrelated second half and an unnecessary drum coda, I can’t help but think that the album would have been better without it. I’m sure this will be impressive live, but on record, and particularly as the final track, it’s cluttered and overly long.

And it exemplifies my biggest problem with Armistice, still. It just doesn’t hang together very well. One by one, these songs are terrific, and the production is top-notch throughout. But the self-titled debut took you by the hand and led you from one song to another, using segues and interludes, and the music itself was of a piece. Here, you can tell Mutemath is changing, transitioning into something else before your ears, and the result, despite the sharper songs and briefer running times, is messy and unfocused. Perhaps in time I will grow to understand how it all works as a whole, but as of now, I’m not feeling it.

Armistice is at once a more streamlined and more difficult album. As such, I remain conflicted on it. Its pleasures are very different than that of the first album, and yet, every song sounds like Mutemath to me now. It’s just a completely different Mutemath, if that makes sense. But that’s okay, because I like this band too.

But do I like them as much? Not yet. Armistice is an excellent little record, for the most part, but had it come out first, I don’t think I would be the Mutemath fan I am. It feels like a troubled effort, like 12 songs that refused to be born easily. Mutemath felt effortless, this feels labored. It reveals itself slowly, but doesn’t coalesce, and it’s never quite as magical as the first album was. There are songs here that will blow you away, but as a whole, Armistice is a lesser work.

Can I forgive that? Sure. Mutemath is a restless and creative band, and their album is similarly restless and creative. Next time, I hope the sessions aren’t as fraught, and the evolution not as strained. Mutemath is becoming something else, and when they get there, the results will be spectacular. Armistice is merely a postcard from a way station, a stop along the path. Even so, it’s pretty great stuff, and a worthy follow-up, if not quite an unqualified success.

I plan to keep on listening, and in the end, that’s all I can ask for – an album I want to play over and over. What I’m feeling isn’t disappointment. It’s more akin to meeting someone again after many years, and finding out the ways both of you have changed. That’s a process that takes some time, and I expect I’ll keep finding things to love about Armistice in the weeks and months to come. The hope is that I like where they’ve been enough to stick around and find out where they’re going.

Next week, catching up a little bit, with Owl City, Patrick Wolf and Brendan Benson. After that, we’ve got new ones from David Mead, Mew, Arctic Monkeys, the Black Crowes, David Bazan, Yo La Tengo, Phish, Muse, the Elms, and many, many more. Not to mention a certain box set of remasters out on September 9. Stay tuned, it’s going to be a busy fall.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

My friend and fellow music writer Derek Wright had an interesting observation about Lollapalooza. He believes no one actually has a good time there.

It’s hard to argue with him. The things I enjoyed about my first Lollapalooza experience – the chance to see so many bands play so many different types of music, and the opportunity to discover new acts every day – would have been much better without some of the more difficult aspects of this (or any, really) massive festival. In the end, while I loved seeing this much live music over so short a span, I don’t think I will do Lollapalooza again.

But that’s it for the bitching, because I really did enjoy my time there, all in all. I am still sunburned, and somewhat woozy, and my feet have not completely recovered. I spent roughly 30 hours in Grant Park last weekend, and after a while, it started to feel like my life had always been this. I get up, I shower and change, and I go stand outside and listen to bands play. It was equally amazing and mind-numbing.

I had planned to see 21 shows over the weekend, but I quickly found that my initial schedule was impossible. I wasn’t quite prepared for the length of Grant Park, or just how crowded it would be, which made traversing back and forth a lengthy and patience-testing experience. I ended up just picking spots and staying there, which led to some interesting shows I hadn’t planned on seeing. It also meant I missed a few acts I wanted to see. I hear TV on the Radio’s set was transformative, for instance, and might have given me that long-sought way in to enjoying them.

What follows is an expanded and smoothed-out version of my daily diary entries at tm3am.blogspot.com over the weekend. Hopefully you’ll forgive me for posting the same material twice in different forms, but this was the most important musical event of my week (or month), and I feel it deserves its own permanent column entry. If you disagree, I’m sorry, but I’ll be back to reviewing new music in seven days.

Special thanks to Jody Bane, who made my weekend possible by securing a hotel room a few blocks from the park. I wouldn’t have been able to afford it otherwise, so I truly appreciate that. And thanks to all the people who hung out with me at Lolla: Jeni LoDolce, Tony Martin, Derek Wright, Amy Simpson, Lis Martin, Alex Kilpatrick, and Lacy Weathersbee. I feel like we all went to boot camp together. Thanks for everything.

* * * * *

Day One: Friday, August 7

Day One was cold, wet, rainy and miserable. It was also fantastic.

I started it off by nearly missing my train. I’d decided that I would travel light – I had a hotel room for the first two nights, thanks to my friend Jody, but whatever I needed for the weekend I would have to carry with me on Sunday. Clothes, toiletries, sunscreen, and that was it. And I decided to walk everywhere, which led to me severely underestimating the amount of time it would take to get from one place to another. Like, for instance, my house and the train station.

Luckily, I made it, just as the raindrops started falling. Of all the contingencies I’d considered for my Lollapalooza weekend, “What if it rains?” just wasn’t one of them. I was in jeans and a t-shirt, my standard summer uniform. (A side note: I discovered when packing for Lolla that I don’t have any summer clothes that make me look like a grown-up. It’s all t-shirts with band logos on them. I look 17, or worse, homeless.)

I spent Day One with my friends Jeni and Tony, and we stuck to my previously posted schedule, pretty much. My first observation about Lollapalooza? There are a lot of people there. I mean, a lot. The three of us got separated in the rush of the crowd more than once, and by the end of the day, I gave up fighting to get nearer to the stage. Also, the kid at the gate attached my “do not remove upon pain of death” Official Bracelet very loosely to my arm, and it was almost torn off by flailing limbs next to me several times.

Here’s another one: there just isn’t enough time to see every band I want to see. My Friday schedule was packed solid, no breaks, from 2 p.m. to 10 p.m. The thing is, I had to leave some concerts early to get to the next show on my list, or risk being stuck at the back of the crowd. While I didn’t skip anybody (except Andrew Bird), I did miss the last 15 minutes or so of nearly every set I attended.

We started with New Jersey’s Gaslight Anthem, who sparked through a strong set of their Springsteen-meets-Social-Distortion pop-punk. Their new album, The ’59 Sound, is very good. It’s also just about 30 minutes long, which, as it turns out, is the perfect length – the band played for about 50 minutes on stage, which was 20 minutes too long for me. Their songs do tend to sound the same after a while.

But I was more interested in figuring out just how my rainy Friday would go, and whether I’d catch pneumonia just standing out there. After the show, I bought a hat, to keep the raindrops off my glasses. I was soaked through by 2:30, and shivering the rest of the day. But after a while, I didn’t even notice.

We spent the rest of the day, with one exception, at the north end of the park, so I quickly got an opportunity to make The Walk. Grant Park doesn’t seem that large when you’re looking at it on a map, but with the sheer number of people crammed into its gates last weekend, traversing from one end to the other turned out to be a 20-minute affair. In my head, I was already restructuring my Saturday schedule, which would have found me making The Walk five times. No way.

So, to the north end. Bon Iver’s set was hushed, as you might expect – his For Emma, Forever Ago is a one-man show, mostly acoustic, and though leader Justin Vernon had some help on stage, the sound was essentially minimal. And it didn’t really work as outdoor festival music, although the rain added to the atmosphere. I enjoyed seeing Vernon, but I’d like to see him again, in a smaller room.

Ben Folds… well. Despite having seen Folds about six times already, I was excited to catch his early afternoon set. But it was the worst, most awkward show I’ve ever seen from him. He focused on material from last year’s lame Way to Normal, mixing in his cover of “Bitches Ain’t Shit” for bad measure, and the set had no pace and no heart. Folds and his band looked bored, even while pulling off the complex runs in “Dr. Yang.” He did give us “Army,” and that’s all right, but my heart sank at the dreary, forced “fun” of the rest of the selections.

Fleet Foxes were excellent, of course. They come off as a ramshackle bunch of laid-back hippies just goofing around, but when they launch into those spectral harmonies, it’s just magical. They’re another band I would like to see in a smaller room, since their quieter moments got lost in the crowd noise. Of course, I left early to get a spot for the Decemberists show, and missed my favorite Fleet Foxes song, “Mykonos.” Typical.

But that’s okay, because the Decemberists delivered my favorite show of the day. They pulled off a complete reading of my favorite album of 2009 so far, The Hazards of Love. It’s essentially an hour-long song, and they played it as such, with all segues intact. The most surreal moment came when the entire crowd, thousands of people, sang along to “The Rake’s Song,” a tune about a guy who kills off his children one by one. As the guy next to me said, “It’s the darkest song I’ve ever heard, but I’ll dance to it.”

By this time, as Galactus might say, the hunger was upon us, so we skipped Andrew Bird and ate some five-dollar burgers. (That’s a good burger. I don’t know if it’s worth five dollars, but it’s pretty fucking good.) Then came decision time. Lollapalooza makes you choose between headliners each night, and since they’re separated by The Walk, there’s no way to catch both. (At least, not if you want to get close enough to see anything.)

Friday night’s headliners were Kings of Leon and Depeche Mode. Two bands I’m not in love with. I decided to go wherever my concert companions wanted to, and Jeni was out-of-her-mind excited about seeing Depeche Mode. So we did, and I braced myself for a long set of boredom.

But you know what? The Mode was awesome. They played a lot of new stuff from Sounds of the Universe at the beginning, but soon they were crashing through old classics, and I forgot just how much I like some of these songs. “I Feel You” was amazing, “Policy of Truth” knocked me out, and “Enjoy the Silence” was the highlight of the set. The final encore was “Personal Jesus,” of course, and the crowd ate it up. Fantastic show, slotting right behind the Decemberists for best of the day. I am still surprised at how damn much I enjoyed it.

It wasn’t until the last strains of Martin Gore’s guitar had faded that I realized just how wet and exhausted I was. And we still had to walk a mile to get to the hotel. But it was worth it. In some ways, Friday was the best day, since the cooler air helped my stamina. I certainly was not prepared for the sweltering beatdown the sun would deliver over the next two days.

* * * * *

Day Two: Saturday, August 8

In the immortal words of Danny Glover, I am getting too old for this shit.

Day Two was hot. Very, very, unbelievably hot. That alone would have made for a long slog of an afternoon, but it was also crowded. I am sure you have some idea in your mind what I mean when I say the word “crowded.” Take that, whatever it is, and multiply by 10. There were a few terrifying moments today when I could not move in any direction. I was suffocated by people.

Also, Saturday was the day I truly discovered that my schedule was impossible. I was hoping to walk back and forth, from one end of Grant Park to the other, a couple of times. But each attempt at that on Saturday took about half an hour, just moving with the slow tide of people. In the end, I chucked the schedule and only caught a few shows. But they were (mostly) superb. I started the day alone, but eventually found friends, and met new ones. Of course, they all abandoned me at the end of the day, but we’ll get to that in a minute.

I started Saturday with Thenewno2, the electro-rock outfit fronted by George Harrison’s son, Dhani. The young Harrison looks exactly like his dad during the Hard Day’s Night era, and he took the stage in a pirate hat. They played two long, droning electronic tunes, and then the sequencing computer broke. This was the best possible thing that could have happened. The keyboardist donned a guitar, and the band rocked for the rest of their set. And I mean rocked. Nothing on the album (You Are Here) moves with as much force as the last half of their show did.

Then, on Tony’s recommendation, I saw the Constantines, and they were excellent. Sludgy post-punk with some complex instrumental passages, and enough energy to get me pumped for the rest of the day. They were probably my favorite show, until the headliner. I found that for all three days, the sets at the beginning and those at the end stick out for me. The ones in the middle flew by without sticking, except for Vampire Weekend. But as you’ll see, there were other reasons for that.

I met up with Derek and his girlfriend Amy, and we wandered over to the north end to see Los Campesinos. I ended up feeling bad for the band, because they knocked themselves out to entertain us – Los Campesinos sound like the Arcade Fire scoring a John Hughes movie, all huge orchestration and manic beats, and lead singer Gareth Campesinos (uh huh) was like a madman, yelling and jumping and flailing about. But I was bored. I don’t know why. The songs didn’t grab me, and the set, though energetic, just fell flat for me.

In contrast, Texas songwriter Robert Earl Keen was perhaps the biggest surprise of the day. His low-key country-folk was exactly the tonic I needed, all acoustic guitars and pedal steels with sweet melodies. I was standing in front of three shirtless college kids, obviously drunk, and they started yelling out Keen’s name. “Robert! Roooobeeert!” I felt certain they were making fun of the 53-year-old singer, until they began singing along with his songs. They were fans. I was stunned, and the wide grin didn’t leave my face for half an hour.

I left that show early to get a spot for Arctic Monkeys, who sleepwalked through a set of old and new songs. The third Monkeys album, Humbug, hits at the end of the month, and the songs they played from it were slower and more stoner-rock than the hyperactive British craziness of their first two albums. But that’s okay, I was barely paying attention by that point.

I skipped TV on the Radio to get to the south side for Animal Collective. I wish I hadn’t. Animal Collective was bad. I’m not sure why I even thought that show would be good. I love the new album, Merriweather Post Pavilion, but have hated everything else the band has done. This was an hour of drum loops and formless noise, with moaning on top of it. I tried to like it, I really did. But there’s only so much amorphous repetition I can take, and the moments of melody were few and far between. Had I been on some form of controlled substance, I might have liked this better.

For me, the biggest dilemma of the day was the headliner. Did I want to see the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, or Tool? They could not be more different, and yet, they each feed a unique part of my musical personality. In the end, unlike every other person there I knew, I picked Tool, for a number of reasons. First, I was already on the south end of the park, and didn’t want to make The Walk again. Second, the Yeahs were the replacement band for the Beastie Boys, and are, I suspect, not quite ready for the big stage. (Post-show reports bore that out.)

But most importantly, I fucking love Tool. And they did not disappoint. They were amazing. Tool uses the classic minimalist lineup (guitar, bass, drums, vocals), but they compose these astonishing mini-symphonies, full of shifting time signatures and difficult, yet pummeling, instrumental work. I don’t know how they kept them all straight live, but they did, and they were astoundingly good. They closed with “Vicarious,” from the latest album, 10,000 Days, and the energy of that performance kept me wired on the long walk back to my hotel.

Once again, the fading strains of the headliner gave way to the realization of just how tired I was. My ankles were screaming at me, my clothes were soaked through with sweat, and I honestly considered bailing out on Sunday, since the weather forecasters were predicting hundred-degree heat. I collapsed into bed, exhausted but happy.

* * * * *

Day Three: Sunday, August 9

Day Three was just plain weird.

First of all, while there were a lot of people at Lollapalooza on Saturday, there were just too damn many people there on Sunday. Perhaps that’s my impression, colored by exhaustion, but I felt suffocated all day. I remember arriving at noon, and looking through the gate at the earliest show of the day, and seeing hundreds upon hundreds of people already there.

Sunday also vaulted past 100 degrees, which didn’t help. I spent something like $15 on water, in one day, and I brought in a one-liter bottle to boot. I used super-SPF sunscreen, and the back of my neck is still sunburned. The performers were commenting on the heat all day as well. I could try to tell you how hot it was, but I don’t think I’d be able to adequately convey it. It was bloody hot.

Despite all that, the day started out rather well. Ra Ra Riot kicked things off with a driving set of indie pop fueled by violin and cello. I like their sound so much, I just wish they would write some compelling songs to go with it. But live, it worked just fine. Plus, on the way over to that show, I caught a few songs from Los Angeles band Carney, and they were swell – fine, fun pop. I’ll be buying their album.

Bat for Lashes was magnificent. Part Siouxie, part Bjork, all Kate Bush, Natasha Khan danced through a set full of magical songs. She played piano and autoharp, and was backed by a three-piece band that brought the songs on Two Suns, her extraordinary new album, to life. She closed with “Daniel,” and I’ve heard six versions of this song now, none of them the same. Great, great show, despite the eight-foot-tall basketball player who decided to stand in front of me.

I was going to avoid the Airborne Toxic Event, so unimpressed was I with the songs I’ve heard. I’m so glad I showed up for their set, though, because they rocked. They closed with a 10-minute version of “Innocence” that was simply superb. Like Bruce Springsteen (and the Gaslight Anthem), TATE plays simple, inspiring rock music that works much better on the stage. Still, I’ll probably be buying this album now too.

Later, I hooked back up with Lis Martin and her sister Alex, and we fake-fought about Nirvana’s place in the music world. All was well. And then, during Vampire Weekend’s set, I had a panic attack.

I was looking forward to this band’s show all (ahem) weekend. Their self-titled debut was one of my favorite records of last year, and their unique blend of Afro-pop and college rock works on many levels. Unfortunately, one of those levels is “drunken party music.” My friends wanted to be closer to the action, and despite my hatred of crowds, I went along. Before I knew it, we were enclosed, and couldn’t leave if we wanted to.

And then a group of drunken college kids pushed their way through to stand in front of us, and as the band launched into “A-Punk,” they began shoving each other into the people around them. Including us. That, coupled with the heat and the crowd, proved too much, and I fled, taking refuge near the exit while my heart raced and I hyperventilated. It was not my finest moment.

The guard by the gate was something else. I was told that the gate, through which I had exited both of the last two nights, was not an approved way out during the day. So I collapsed by the gate, breathing quickly, trying to slow my heart, and the guard yelled at me to get out of the festival, and to not come back. I argued, explaining what had happened and my reaction to it, and he calmed down. But he was seemingly unable to communicate very well – instead of explaining calmly that the gate was intended as a media entrance only, he barked at people. “Not an exit! Please go away!” I watched him physically maul one woman who tried to get out through the gate. It was crazy.

Still, I enjoyed Vampire Weekend. They played a bunch of new songs, and while they sound superficially similar to the old stuff, I could tell they’re stretching out, becoming more ambitious. I did listen to the last half of their set from the steps by the exit, my head in my hands, though, so you may not want to listen to me.

I recovered in time for the three sets at the end of the night, on the north stage. It took me forever to find my friends again, but as they were determined to see the Killers at the end of the night, we parted company once again. I trundled down to the north side, listening to the strains of “Sweet Jane” as Lou Reed kicked off his set, 20 minutes late.

Now, I don’t like Lou Reed. I can’t believe it took sitting through half his ass-aching set Sunday night to remember that, but it’s true. I know why the man’s a legend, and I understand his importance, but he’s an awful musician, and just a complete douchebag. Despite the late start, he played his whole hour set anyway, which would have been forgivable if he’d been playing songs, but his band spent most of their last 20 minutes spewing forth squalling feedback over a keyboard loop. And then they launched into “Walk on the Wild Side.” As I remarked to the man next to me, Reed is on Heroin Standard Time, so the show could have gone on indefinitely.

Meanwhile, Band of Horses stood by the side of the stage, waiting for Reed to finish torturing our ears. The crowd grew restless, and started chanting “Fuck Lou Reed,” but he pressed on. So Band of Horses started 20 minutes late as well. I quite enjoyed their set, though, especially the grand “No One’s Gonna Love You,” an ethereally beautiful piece. Hearing it live was wonderful.

Then something strange happened. Band of Horses, quite rightly, decided to play their entire set as well, planning to conclude 20 minutes late. Unfortunately, noise ordinances keep Lollapalooza from continuing past 10 p.m. So the reunited Jane’s Addiction decided to take the headlining stage on time, launching into “Up the Beach”… while Band of Horses continued to play on the stage directly facing them.

That’s right, for 20 minutes, we got two bands playing at full volume atop one another, like two stereos blaring simultaneously. It was, to say the least, odd. Most people were just bewildered, but neither band backed down, so all we could do was wait for Band of Horses to finish their set. Now, here’s the thing with me and Jane’s Addiction – I’ve been waiting to see them live for 20 years. It’s been 18 since all four original members shared the stage. I’ve been breathlessly awaiting this show for months.

And the first few songs were just ruined.

Now, my very favorite Jane’s song is the mammoth “Three Days.” I knew I’d have to leave early to catch my train, but I’ve been saying to myself, “As long as I see “Three Days” live, I’ll be okay.” Well, they launched into it as their third song, while Band of Horses was still playing. And I shook my head in dismay. But “Three Days” is 10 minutes long, and it simply outlasted its competition. I got to hear all the good parts, and then another hour of Jane’s besides, including my other favorite, “Then She Did.” Jane’s was extraordinary, playing like they hadn’t been away for even a day. It was a terrific capper.

Yes, I did have to leave early, during “Summertime Rolls.” I missed Joe Perry’s cameo on “Jane Says,” and I didn’t get to hear “Stop.” But I didn’t care that much. “Summertime Rolls” was a great song to go out on, long and languid and nostalgic, and as I exited the park for the final time, I thought back over the weekend. While a lot of it felt like watching live music in a pressure cooker, I did actually enjoy myself. It was a tremendous commitment, and an exhausting ordeal, but it was also a fine, fun time.

* * * * *

Next week, Mutemath. The releases are coming thick and fast over the next few weeks, so watch both here and at tm3am.blogspot.com as I try to keep up. Follow me on Twitter at www.teitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So of course, the Fiery Furnaces waited until I was finished with my review of their new album last week before making what I believe is the weirdest announcement of their career.

Yes, weirder than that “Democ-Rock” thing they tried, where they posted insane descriptions of what the next Furnaces album might sound like, and asked fans to vote for their favorite. And yes, weirder than their plan to release twin solo projects this year, each a song-for-song cover/deconstruction of the band’s new record, I’m Going Away. You ready for this?

The next Fiery Furnaces album will be a silent record. Really.

It’s apparently a protest – “Since bands can no longer sell audio,” the press release reads, “FF refuse to provide it.” It’s not clear whether they believe that file-sharing has killed the notion of selling recorded music, but the concept of their silent album is actually pretty cool. They’ve written a bunch of songs, and they will release them as sheet music. Then, they will help arrange concerts, at which local musicians will play the songs on Silent Record any way they wish. It sounds to me like a new way of getting their songs out there, and engaging their audience at the same time.

Of course, as soon as these concerts start happening, bootleg recordings of them will no doubt surface, feeding the very file-sharing networks the band is opposing. But the idea is interesting. Another potential hitch: Matthew Friedberger’s songs are notoriously difficult to play. Will these makeshift bands get the songs right? Will that matter? No word on whether we’ll ever get a “definitive” recording of the songs on Silent Record (or even if such a concept applies in this case).

Naturally, there’s also no word on whether this will actually happen. But of all the crazy ideas the Furnaces have had, I like this one the best.

* * * * *

A friend and I were talking about the Dead Weather last week, and he asked an interesting question: does Jack White hold the record right now for the musician leading the most current bands? He’s masterminding three – the White Stripes, the Raconteurs and the Dead Weather – and he treats all of them like his main gig. It’s an interesting question – I could think of a few, like Tim Kasher (Cursive, The Good Life) and Alex Turner (Arctic Monkeys, The Last Shadow Puppets) juggling two, but none taking on three at once.

A day or so later, it hit me: Jason Martin.

Not only is Martin the singer/songwriter/leading light behind the long-running Starflyer 59 (15 years and counting), he juggles a number of other going concerns. He writes and plays all the instruments for Bon Voyage, with his wife Julie – their third album Lies, out last year, was very good. He works with his brother Ronnie in The Brothers Martin, though time will tell if that’s more than a side project.

And he’s (somewhat secretly) a main member of Neon Horse, an anonymous rock band that reared its head last year. Like Gorillaz, the members of Neon Horse hide behind cartoon analogues, in this case looking like the cast of Deadwood done up animation style. In reality, it’s a collaboration between Martin and Mark Salomon of Stavesacre, whose voice is simply unmistakable. Their sound is junkyard ‘80s, with sloppy kickass guitars and plastic synths backing up Salomon’s affected howl. Their self-titled debut was 30 minutes of high-speed awesome, Martin stretching out on guitar in ways I’d never really heard before.

The second Neon Horse album is pretty much the same, but this one has a much cooler title: Haunted Horse: Songs of Love, Defiance and Delusion. It is, once again, 30 minutes of non-stop rock, although this one is even more ‘80s – the synths are more prominent, the melodies more Devo. But the attitude remains the same. Under his Norman Horse persona, Salomon whoops and snarls all over these songs. He’s much more restrained and precise in Stavesacre, but here, he’s like a madman. The first four songs on this album rush by in 10 minutes, Salomon a whirling dervish atop the din.

Martin has experimented with jagged guitar lines in Starflyer, but I’ve never heard him play like he does in Neon Horse. Loud, angular, just ripping – check out “Follow the Man,” the riff-heavy explosion at track four. The main guitar line is pure trash-rock, the chorus is awesome, and the Jim Morrison-style breakdown section is well-placed. “Yer Busy Little Beehive” drives forward on Martin’s synths, while “Strange Town” combines his strengths, the propulsive guitar riffs augmented by droning keys. But there’s nothing clinical about this music – it’s all just full-on fun.

Lyrically, Neon Horse is very worried about you. “Strange Town” is similar to Poison’s “Fallen Angel,” and a million songs of its ilk – it’s about lost innocence, about “shadows grow(ing) under street lights in a strange town.” “Follow the Man” finds Salomon pleading for a prostitute’s salvation, and “Chain Gang Bang Bang” follows a line of miserable souls off a cliff. The whole album balances the seamy, dirty music Neon Horse makes with a fatherly, almost spiritual sensibility. (Except “Cell-o-Phone.” That one’s about an annoying person who calls too much.)

But if you’re not looking for the shafts of light, you’ll never notice them. Haunted Horse is a sleazeball rock record with a pure heart, and if you think they can’t do both, you haven’t heard it. Neon Horse is like the logical extreme of Starflyer’s New Wave material, and at the same time, it’s like nothing Jason Martin’s ever done. It’s sexy-cool-fun, and just long enough at half an hour. Long may this Horse ride.

What of Martin’s main gig, you ask? Don’t worry, you can get double your Martin fix this week, in the form of Starflyer 59’s two-disc collection Ghosts of the Past. These 100 minutes serve as a victory lap and an anniversary celebration, collecting all of the non-album tracks from the last five years. But it’s not just an odds-and-sods compilation, bringing together as it does all of the A- and B-sides from last year’s Ghosts of the Future 7-inch series.

Ghosts of the Future was a 10-record set recorded and released during the run-up to Starflyer’s 11th album, Dial M. The A-sides were demo versions of the 10 songs that appeared on that album, while the B-sides were all exclusive new tunes and covers. The 20 tunes are arranged in order, each B-side following its A-side, so it’s like listening to the box set in sequence. The whole thing is an ‘80s-inspired festival of reverbed guitar and wondrous melodies.

The demos are stripped-down, of course, but they sound complete to my ears, and some of these arrangements beat out the more colorful ones on Dial M. Ghosts of the Past kicks off with “Automatic,” here just bass, drums and violin, and the bare-bones arrangement adds immeasurable atmosphere. The focus is on Martin’s low-key, low-register voice, which sounds as great as ever. “Concentrate” is much less propulsive here, more keyboard-driven, and I think this version is the equal of that on Dial M.

It’s the B-sides, though, that make this an essential purchase. Martin pairs “Minor Keys,” which references the Smiths, with a subdued cover of “Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want.” He backs “Easy” with “Spooky,” a dark and lovely instrumental. The acoustic version of “Mr. Martin” is a lot closer to what made the record, while the electrified version here is revelatory. Martin covers Bread’s “Guitar Man,” then teams up with David Bazan for “Broken Arm,” a song that makes me want to hear more from this unlikely team-up.

The second disc of Ghosts is more spotty, bringing together B-sides from Starflyer’s three recent EPs. These are definitely second-tier Martin songs, for the most part, although instrumental “White Fog” is a standout. But the three tunes from last year’s Minor Keys EP are terrific – acoustic takes on two Dial M songs, followed by a majestic cover of the Church’s “Under the Milky Way.”

The whole thing is rounded off with “Magic,” a bonus track from the vinyl version of Dial M. Easily the best thing on disc two, “Magic” probably should have made the album proper, but it ties things up nicely here. “Sometimes the magic works, sometimes it don’t,” Martin sings, over a breezy acoustic strum and a galloping drum beat. The magic works far more often than it doesn’t on Ghosts of the Past – it’s not only a collection of missing pieces for the Starflyer fan, it’s a fine overview of where Martin’s been over the past half-decade. If this is your first Starflyer 59 album, you’ll want to hear more. What else can you ask for?

As always, Jason Martin’s music is out on Tooth and Nail Records, and their commitment to his work is commendable. Both Jason and his brother Ronnie, who is Joy Electric, have been on Tooth and Nail since the early ‘90s, and they’re both prolific, low-selling artists with small yet dedicated followings. I’m always grateful to T&N for allowing both Martins to flourish creatively for as long as they have. I, for one, have enjoyed every minute of it.

This weekend, I’m at Lollapalooza, and next week, you can read all about it. Watch this space. Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Keeping it short this week. I had a great vacation, thanks for asking. Hung out with old friends, ate good food, and did essentially nothing at all. Found six hours to watch all of The Trial of a Time Lord in a row (thanks, Mike), and took in the director’s cut of Watchmen. (It’s excellent, of course.) The week went by in a flash, but I’m glad I did it – I feel refreshed and alive right now.

Still, I’m pushing the deadline for this column, trying to get it done in between all the work and home duties I’ve neglected for a week. Hence, keeping it short and simple. But then, that kind of works with this week’s theme. Here, see for yourself.

* * * * *

I have an uneasy relationship with simplicity.

The simpler something is, the less likely I am to enjoy it. I love Margo Timmins’ voice, but I have to force myself to sit through albums by her band, the Cowboy Junkies. I get why people like the blues, but I can’t listen to it – it’s all basically the same to me, despite the oceans of feeling behind it. I’ve grown to appreciate simplicity as I get older, but my first reaction is still vague disappointment whenever I hear the same three or four chords being used again and again.

This quirk comes almost exclusively from my teenage metalhead years, when everything had to be bigger, faster, louder and more complex than everything else. When Metallica embraced the blues on their self-titled album from 1991, it was like shoving a dagger in my heart. Where was the band that crafted …And Justice for All, assembling each technically amazing piece one at a time, emerging with a tight, progressive metal masterpiece? Why were they repeating boogie riffs over and over?

Of course, like all boys obsessed with finding The Best Players on Earth, I drifted into prog rock, while many my age were discovering punk. Here, God bless ‘em, were those 30-minute symphonies I’d been craving, songs which continually moved and blossomed, never repeating, always exploring. Here was music to study, to pore over, to test the skills of all but the best. The longer and more complex the songs were, the happier I seemed to be.

But over time, I discovered that most prog rock is, relatively speaking, emotionally empty. I still appreciated what bands like Dream Theater and Spock’s Beard were doing, but I’d heard Tori Amos, and the Choir, and others capable of bringing out emotional responses with two or three chords. And sometimes, two or three notes. It’s still a struggle for me – I usually respond to music cerebrally before I respond emotionally, so I’m quite often deconstructing the chord structure of a song before I even realize that I like it. I don’t know why this is, but I work with it.

The bluesy simplicity of his music kept me away from Jack White for a long time. Too long, honestly – I rejected the White Stripes as garage-rock throwaways after hearing “Fell in Love With a Girl,” and it took until 2005’s Get Behind Me Satan to bring me into the fold. Yes, the music is simplistic, and minimalist, and doesn’t stand up to the same scrutiny as Close to the Edge might. But fuck all that, because it rocks, and that’s all that matters.

Now I follow Jack White wherever he goes. I picked up the two Raconteurs albums just to hear him in a new setting, paired with a lush pop songwriter like Brendan Benson. I bought Loretta Lynn’s Van Lear Rose to hear how White’s style would translate behind the boards – he produced the album, co-writing a few songs while he was at it. And now, I’ve bought Horehound, the debut album from White’s new band, the Dead Weather.

This is exactly the kind of album I probably wouldn’t have listened to five years ago, but I love it now. It’s pure blues-rock, swampy and dirty and simple and mean. The Dead Weather is a collective – White on drums, Raconteur Jack Lawrence on bass, Dean Fertita of Queens of the Stone Age on guitar, and Alison Mosshart of the Kills on vocals. But unlike other so-called supergroups, this one forges its own identity immediately. And it’s sleazy-sexy-awesome.

First, there’s the sound of this thing. The whole album sounds like it just crawled out of the muck – there isn’t a sharp, cleanly-produced moment here. Horehound is a lumbering beast of a record, lurching forward on White’s thunderous drums and Lawrence’s thick (THICK) bass lines. Mosshart’s vocals are half-buried in the swamp, but her husky vamp works extremely well with this material.

What material, you ask? Horehound is full to the brim with minor-key blues-rock, and not the kind you might have heard on an Aerosmith record. This is deep, crawling blues, shambling, but mighty enough to clock you one when you’re not paying attention. Opener “60 Feet Tall” is deceptive, starting things on a slow and slinky note, but Fertita’s guitars burst out of nowhere, dumping chunky, viscous noise all over everything. Second track “Hang You From the Heavens” rips through its 3:37 on a relentless Jack White drum beat, Mosshart barking out all the things she wants to do to you: “I’d like to grab you by the hair, and sell you off to the devil…”

White steps out from behind the drum kit to sing a few numbers with Mosshart – “I Cut Like a Buffalo,” for instance, and the totally kickass “Bone House.” Single “Treat Me Like Your Mother” is a full-on vicious stomp with a mantra-like coda from White, instrumental “3 Birds” interrupts its blues for a piano-organ interlude of sorts, and the band crashes their way through a nigh-unrecognizable take on Bob Dylan’s “New Pony.” The album ends as it began, with a slower shimmy entitled “Will There Be Enough Water.” Over six terrific minutes, the band rocks their baby to sleep, White and Mosshart sharing vocal duties. It’s a beautiful thing.

So yeah, Horehound is basically just a dark blues-rock album, one that might have passed me by a few years ago. It’s not passing me by now. I’m not sure what it is, but the Dead Weather may already be my favorite of Jack White’s three bands – it has the icky thump kickass of the White Stripes, filled out with some dirty, dirty bass, and a dingy basement vibe that seeps swampwater and attitude. If these songs were more complex, this wouldn’t work. White and his band know exactly the kind of blues they are going for here, and they do it wonderfully.

The Dead Weather’s a good example, but no band illustrates my struggle with simplicity quite like the Fiery Furnaces.

When they started out, siblings Eleanor and Matthew Friedberger played a relatively straightforward variation on the blues. Their 2003 debut album Gallowsbird’s Bark was full of piano-boogie tunes and uncomplicated rock, and of course, I hated it at the time. But 2004’s follow-up, Blueberry Boat, knocked me on my ear – imagine Yes as a garage band, and you have the idea. 10-minute songs, multi-part suites, progressive rock monsters, all performed with a junky indie verve that worked. I’d never heard anything quite like it.

Of course, fans of the first album hated it. And with subsequent releases (seven in all, not counting Matthew Friedberger’s two-CD solo album), the band pushed things farther. Rehearsing My Choir was a song cycle about the siblings’ grandmother, narrated by the woman herself, and as impenetrable an album as you’re likely to find. Both Bitter Tea and Widow City played with lengthy song structures, changing things up every 10 seconds – it was impossible music, played astonishingly well.

But a funny thing happened – Fiery Furnaces albums started to sound tiresome to me. By the time they got to the two-hour live collage Remember, which spliced together bits of songs from all stages of their career in a relentless mess, I was pretty much done. By being as complex as possible, the Furnaces had started to bore me.

But now here’s I’m Going Away, the most straight-ahead record the Friedbergers have made since their debut. And I can only describe it as refreshing. This is not Gallowsbird’s Bark all over again – for one thing, this new album is slower and more sedate. But it does strip back all of the fussy arrangements and nearly-random structures of the past half-dozen albums, sticking with drums, guitar, bass, piano and Eleanor’s voice. Remarkably, I’m Going Away sounds more like a live album than their so-called live album did – I can imagine all of these songs pounded out as you hear them, one take, in the studio.

If nothing else, this album proves Matthew Friedberger can write a terrific pop song when he feels like it. The opening title track is a bluesy rave-up, with swell ride cymbal work from longtime drummer Robert D’Amico, and first single “Charmaine Champagne” makes judicious use of the term “folked up.” But it’s the slower ones that catch my ear. “Drive to Dallas” is a timeless-sounding ballad, the kind you’d hear in a smoky nightclub. “I’m not gonna drive to Dallas with blurry eyes again,” Eleanor sings, and it’s one of the most direct moments on a Furnaces album in recent memory.

The best of these songs come at album’s end. “Keep Me In the Dark” has moments of funk, but grafts a memorable chorus to them, and makes room for a bizarre keyboard solo from Matthew. “Lost at Sea” is a simple delight, one of Matthew’s finest melodies performed as minimally as possible, the focus on Eleanor’s voice. It’s one of only two that breaks the five-minute mark, with closer “Take Me Round Again” being the other. That song could have fit nicely on Gallowsbird’s, its rhythm and blues reminiscent of the Furnaces’ more traditionally-minded past.

And perhaps its future. If there’s anything I’ve learned about the Furnaces, it’s that they will never do what’s expected. I certainly didn’t expect a simple pop record from them at this stage in their career, but I’m Going Away is just about perfect, a palate-cleanser for whatever’s next. This is a band known for its meandering side paths, but sometimes, you’re just in the mood to walk straight on down the road. I expect I will keep on struggling with simplicity, but when it’s this good, it’s barely a struggle at all.

Next week, a double dose of Jason Martin. Write me a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

By the time you read this, I’ll be on my first mid-year vacation since 2007.

I tried last year to save up all my vacation days, and take half the month of December off. Those three weeks at the end of the year were terrific, but the 11 months leading up to them nearly killed me. So I’m taking some summer vacation time this year, visiting old friends and basically doing nothing. Hooray for me!

So I’m writing this on Sunday the 12th, long before its scheduled posting date of Wednesday the 22nd. I’m sure some truly significant things in the world of music will happen between now and then, and trust me, I’ll touch on them when I get back. I don’t even know what they are yet, but I’m sure something will happen. Also, I will, in fact, review Horehound, the debut from Jack White’s new band The Dead Weather. But you’ll have to wait a bit. I’m relaxing with a glass of limeade and a good book. At least, I expect that’s what I’ll be doing while you’re reading this.

I didn’t want to leave you in the lurch for an entire week, though, so here are two quick reviews of new releases, and a look ahead to the fall lineup. Some good stuff coming our way soon. Here’s hoping I can afford it all!

* * * * *

I missed Cornerstone again this year.

When I was a teenager, just getting into the spiritual pop corner of the music world, Cornerstone was this mythical thing I would never see. Once a year, these bands I was growing to love – the Choir, the 77s, Daniel Amos, the Prayer Chain – would get together for a week-long festival, playing all these songs I adored, and no one else knew. But visiting Cornerstone was an unattainable goal – it takes place in a faraway land called Bushnell, Illinois, which may as well have been one of the rings of Saturn when I was 16.

The irony, of course, is that I live here now. I’m only a couple of hours from Bushnell, and yet, I keep missing Cornerstone, year after year. Granted, it’s not the same show it was years ago. I was lucky enough to attend in 2002, one of the last great years there for the spiritual pop music I love – I saw Daniel Amos, the Choir, the Violet Burning, the full 77s rock show, acoustic sets by Terry Taylor and Mike Roe, and basically every spiritual pop musician I’ve wanted to catch in concert since I was a teenager.

And I discovered new ones. 2002 brought me Ester Drang, and a return trip in 2005 netted me Sufjan Stevens and Mutemath. Pretty good batting average, I’d say.

Oh yes, and I bought CDs. Lots of them. My first trip to C-Stone, I must have spent more than $100. New things from the Lost Dogs, the 77s, Mike Roe, Daniel Amos (the When Everyone Wore Hats book set, which I love), and several others. These bands had firmly established their internet sales presence by this time, but before that, I imagine you could only find these discs by going to Cornerstone. My first trip there was like my first few years going to music stores – I had no idea what I’d find, and I came away with dozens of little treasures.

Of course, nowadays these bands don’t have to rely on festivals to move CDs. The internet has become the saving grace of many of these musicians, and some of them, like the great Bill Mallonee, have turned to selling nothing but downloads online. The upside is, even if I miss the festival, I don’t have to miss out on new records from some of my favorites. And this year brought me two of them, from Michael Roe and the Violet Burning.

Full disclosure: I wrote the press bio for Mike Roe’s new album, We All Gonna Face the Rising Sun. That means I’ve had the thing (in mp3 form) for about a month now, turning it over in my mind. And I’m glad I’ve had the extra time, because this is a deeply weird record. But it’s also a pretty amazing one, a full-speed left turn for one of my favorite singers and guitar players.

If you enjoyed Holy Ghost Building, last year’s old-time gospel and blues album from Roe’s band the Seventy Sevens, you’re halfway there on Rising Sun. This is another album of dust-covered spirituals, all but one old enough to be in the public domain. But while the Sevens updated and re-arranged their versions of these venerated tunes, Roe has taken a much more difficult tack – he’s done his very best to emulate the sound and feeling of the original records.

That’s harder than it might appear at first. I know from talking to him that Roe dug through a couple hundred old vinyl sides to come up with the 11 songs that made the final cut, and the main criteria was emotional response. The songs had to move him. Once he’d picked the songs, he had to figure out just what it was that inspired him about them, and try to replicate that on his own versions. In some cases, that meant imitating the voices – Charlie Patton’s, for example, or the Bailes Brothers’. In some cases, that meant capturing the ancient, musty production techniques used to record the originals. In every case, it meant getting inside the lyrics and feeling them.

Even more than on Holy Ghost Building, Roe’s selections here are songs of conviction and redemption, and they may strike some as preachy. These are straightforward gospel numbers, with titles like “Come to the Saviour” and “Satan Your Kingdom Must Come Down,” and they speak of turning from and returning to Jesus in plain language, without metaphor. But these are songs that, as Roe said, scare him near to death, and they are messages he needs to hear.

Because Roe’s work has always been about redemption, about finding that light you’ve lost. Here, he digs deep to find the source of those themes, and in the context of his body of work, this album plays like a letter to himself instead of a sermon. Whatever voice he’s using, the connecting thread of this album is pure Mike Roe. And in many ways, this is the most intimate and revealing album of his 30-year career.

Musically, it is absolutely fascinating. Only the second track, “Dry Bones,” sounds like familiar Mike Roe. It’s acoustic, with some subtle banjo touches and some absolutely beautiful guitar atmospheres. Roe’s voice is in top form on this track, which finds him sounding the most like himself. If you were hoping for a sequel to 2002’s extraordinary Say Your Prayers, well, this song comes closest.

But it’s the least familiar ones that intrigue and amaze me here. Check out Patton’s “I’m Goin’ Home,” a back porch blues that finds Roe emulating Patton’s throaty shout, something he said took boatloads of courage. I can hear why. The impression is amazing, and the vocals, guitars and production all work to bring a deep sense of feeling to the whole thing. It’s contrasted with “Come to the Saviour,” a folksy waltz that sounds like an outtake from Wednesday Morning 3 A.M., complete with a dead-on Art Garfunkel in the high duet vocals.

But even the backwoods gospel of most of these songs will not prepare you for the title track. Originally performed by the Delta Big Four, it’s an a cappella spiritual that sounds for all the world like it was recorded around a single microphone in the middle of a field 80 years ago. The voices are all Roe, harmonizing with himself – and, just for the right touch of authenticity, not-quite-harmonizing in places. It’s mixed as if you’re peering at it from five miles away, through an ocean of hiss. If anything here fulfills the mission statement of catching the feeling of these old gospel records, this song does it. (There’s another a cappella piece, “I Know My Time Ain’t Long,” but this one is produced crisply and clearly. It’s still amazing, though.)

The album ends with its oddest piece, “We Need More Rattlesnakes.” It’s a story, the kind people might have told around a campfire once upon a time, about a man praying for God to smite his town into repentance. Roe delivers it in such a “read along in your book as you listen” voice that I half-expected to hear bell sounds to let me know it was time to turn the page. This song made me wish, just for a minute, that Roe had not decided to be so faithful with his renditions – a Mike Roe song would have ended with the narrator asking for one more snake for himself.

But that’s the only time I felt I wasn’t listening to Mike Roe doing what he does. This may initially sound unlike any Roe album you’ve ever heard, but dig down deep and you’ll hear the connections – this is an album about being broken, about needing something bigger, and while Roe has always sung about that in the spiritual sense, here he complements that by tapping into a surprisingly rich musical vein. The man himself describes Rising Sun as a detour, but it is far more than that. It is a loving tribute to music that frightens and moves him, a tour of the origins of the music he’s made for 30 years.

It’s a strange album, and it probably shouldn’t be your first Mike Roe. But for longtime devotees like me, this one’s a revelation, and a tremendous listen. Get your copy here.

* * * * *

The other new release is from the Violet Burning, and this one has an even stronger link to Cornerstone: it’s a live album documenting the band’s 2007 concert on the Gallery Stage.

The Violet Burning is a band, but the mastermind is Michael Pritzl, one of the most emotional performers you will ever see. I first caught Pritzl at Cornerstone in 2002, doing a swell acoustic set, and I was hooked – I’d bought the albums for years, but never quite connected with the songs until then. And when I finally got to see the full TVB rock show, well, I think “bowled over” might be the appropriate term. Live, the band is a maelstrom of atmosphere and feeling, and at its center is Pritzl, singing his heart out. The songs are personal and prayerful, but the music is massive, expansive, enveloping.

This new live document is called Sting Like Bees and Sing, a typically Pritzl title taken from a line in his song “Fabulous, Like You.” At the time, TVB’s latest studio opus Drop-Dead had just been released, an album that found Pritzl bringing back the gothic undertones and the dark moods of earlier Violet records. Some of Pritzl’s best and most rocking songs are on Drop-Dead, and the live album kicks off with a string of them. “Do You Love Me” crashes out of the gate full-throttle, but I’m most impressed with the Cure-like “More,” all clean guitar webs and shivery tones.

The album is broken into suites, in a way – after “Fabulous,” we get four songs from the 1996 self-titled album, and the huge expanses of sound start to work their way in. Live favorite “Low” is a monster here, and “Underwater” sounds larger than the stage can contain. The record ends with two tracks from 1998’s Demonstrates Plastic and Elastic, concluding with the gorgeous “Elaste,” here stretching to 11 minutes. It builds and builds, Pritzl repeating “let your love cover me” as the guitars explode beneath him, finally ending in a miasma of distortion and feedback.

It’s always good to hear the Violet Burning, particularly in a setting like this – Pritzl and company truly shine on stage. Sting Like Bees and Sing is not quite a new album, but it fills the empty spaces nicely. Buy it here.

* * * * *

And now, a quick look forward at some things I’m anticipating. I’ve been saying that the next few months look amazing, and here’s why:

July will wrap up next week with a new album by Neon Horse, the pseudo-supergroup that includes Jason Martin of Starflyer 59 and Mark Salomon of Stavesacre. Expect sleazy rock goodness. Starflyer also has a two-disc set called Ghosts of the Past coming out, comprising everything from their Ghosts of the Future vinyl box set and various EP tracks. And I hear a rumor that Phish might have reunion album Joy ready to go by the end of the month, but that’s looking less and less likely.

August will see new things from Modest Mouse, Robert Pollard, Brendan Benson, Arctic Monkeys, Collective Soul, David Bazan, Imogen Heap, Cheap Trick (playing Sgt. Pepper live), Patrick Wolf and Hank Williams III’s death metal band Assjack. We’ll also get the new Vertical Horizon, Burning the Days, and I mention it because there’s an unlikely guest star – Rush drummer Neal Peart wrote lyrics and hit the skins on this record. That’s a weird match, and I must hear it.

We’ll also see the new one from art-rockers Mew, and this is the actual title (deep breath): No More Stories Are Told Today, I’m Sorry, They Washed Away, No More Stories, the World is Gray, I’m Tired, Let’s Wash Away. It’s not quite Fiona Apple long, but it’s a mouthful. Mount Eerie will release Wind’s Poem, Richard Thompson will put out a box set chronicling his entire career, and oh yeah, Mutemath will give us their sophomore album Armistice on August 18.

But September is where the action is. Start with the big one: the entire Beatles catalog gets the remaster treatment on the 9th. They’ll be available separately, or in a big, beautiful box for $200 or so. The Black Crowes have two albums coming: Before the Frost will hit stores on CD, while Until the Freeze will be available for download. Plus we’ll get new things from Yo La Tengo, Megadeth, Muse, Living Colour, Bruce Hornsby, Mark Knopfler, Hope Sandoval, former Cockteau Twins guitarist Robin Guthrie, Pearl Jam, Islands, Porcupine Tree, Fleet Foxes drummer J. Tillman, Alice in Chains (with the new singer), The Swell Season (also known as the stars of Once, Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova), and Bon Iver main man Justin Vernon’s new project, Volcano Choir.

Sheesh, huh? But that’s not all. We’ll also see box sets from Big Star and Genesis, the latter a collection of live material from their entire career. Plus remasters from the Stone Roses, Sunny Day Real Estate and (amazingly) My Bloody Valentine. And September will bring us a new project from Sufjan Stevens. I’ll be broke, but I’ll be happy.

We won’t see the new Beastie Boys, Hot Sauce Committee Part 1, however – the band has postponed it while Adam Yauch, also known as MCA, battles cancer of the salivary gland. It’s operable, I’m told, and I wish him a speedy recovery. For those going to Lollapalooza, like me, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs have agreed to take the B-Boys’ headlining spot.

That should do it for me this week. I’ll be back in the saddle next week with… something. Probably the Dead Weather and the Fiery Furnaces. Time will tell. If you’ll excuse me now, I have a vacation to attend to. Be good to each other while I’m gone.

Leave a comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I have a complex relationship with Wilco.

I’m not sure how much of it is me, and how much is them. I don’t give star ratings on my reviews, but if I did, Wilco’s catalog would have seen the full range – 2002’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot would have received five stars, and 2004’s A Ghost is Born would have been slapped with one, or none. Depending on how my hypothetical rating system might work, of course. I have loved them, I have loathed them, I have been indifferent towards them, I have held them up as shining examples of greatness.

If I think about it, only someone like Tori Amos provokes similar reactions in me. And I’m not sure why this ragtag group of tradition-minded rockers brings out such emotions. It’s not territorialism, since Chicago is my adopted home, and my strongest opinions of Wilco were formed before I moved here. I was never an Uncle Tupelo fan – I caught up with them later – so I had no preconceived notions of how Jeff Tweedy’s post-Tupelo project was supposed to sound, or why his later railing against those notions was significant.

But the strong feelings, they are there. So I greeted news of Wilco’s seventh disc, cheekily titled Wilco (The Album), with a mix of dread and curiosity. The album hits shops less than two months after the overdose death of Jay Bennett, the multi-instrumentalist who added immeasurably to Wilco’s terrific early records. Bennett’s death, to me, was the sound of a door slamming – Tweedy hasn’t been the same since Bennett left the band, after the making of Foxtrot, and now we’ll never know if they could have patched things up, both personally and musically.

That said, the more recent six-piece iteration of Wilco is fantastic, at least on paper. Guitar genius Nels Cline is in the band now, as is pianist Mikael Jorgensen and renaissance man Pat Sansone, all superb musicians. Live, they are a force to be reckoned with, as you can hear on the dazzling concert document Kicking Television (and see on last year’s live DVD Ashes of American Flags). But in the studio, they somehow lose all of that verve and fire. I snoozed my way through 2007’s Sky Blue Sky, barely making it all the way through more than once.

After the twin disappointments of Ghost and Sky, I was pretty much done. But then Tweedy hooked me again by penning the funniest, sprightliest song of his career. Last October, Wilco appeared on The Colbert Report, and debuted “Wilco (The Song).” It’s half advertisement and half celebration, pivoting around the terrific line “Wilco will love you, baby.” It was a self-referential joke, but a great one, and a simply wonderful little ditty to boot. And then I heard that “Wilco (The Song)” would lead off the band’s new record, and that it would be called Wilco (The Album), and well, I was in.

Just to seal the deal, the album cover features a camel in a party hat. I’ll repeat that: a camel in a party hat. Add all that jocularity up, and you’d be forgiven for anticipating a fun-loving little rock record, inventive and sparkling and all that good stuff. But no. Wilco is exactly the kind of middling, lazy, flimsy, half-hearted effort I’ve grown to expect from Jeff Tweedy at this point in his career. It’s not just that the rest of the record doesn’t pick up the gauntlet thrown down by “Wilco (The Song),” it’s that it doesn’t even try.

I don’t know about you, but I can only go a couple of years with this sort of thing before I start reassessing my relationship with a band. I heard Wilco (The Album) once, then twice, then decided to hop in the Tardis for a trip through their discography, trying to figure out where the rot set in. Is it me, or is it them? Have they changed, or have I? I wanted to find out.

I said before that I didn’t have preconceived notions about Wilco, but that’s not entirely true – I did completely avoid picking up the band’s debut, A.M., for years because of a single review. Of course, that review ran in Face, the magazine I worked for at the time, and was penned by Rob Comorosky, easily the funniest and most cynical writer on our payroll. I believe he dismissed it, and all country-flavored music, by calling it the soundtrack to a satisfying evening spent sodomizing Ned Beatty. I seem to recall the adjectives “slack-jawed” and “hayseed” in there, too.

So the first Wilco album I picked up was Being There, their double-disc sophomore effort. (Double albums, one of my peculiar weaknesses…) I liked it then, and I like it now, despite a couple of weak moments. It is Wilco’s Exile on Main Street, an extended blues-folk-rock excursion that pushes at the limits of all three styles. It also includes “Say You Miss Me,” one of Tweedy’s finest ballads. As good as it is, you can feel the band bursting at the seams here, aching to try new things.

But let’s back up first. As much as I liked Being There this time around, I was stunned at how much I enjoyed A.M. This is a shit-kicking country rock record, through and through, but it has serious swagger, and songs like “Casino Queen” crackle with an energy you just don’t hear from Tweedy and company any more. Comorosky may consider this backwoods yokel music, but it’s pretty swell stuff from where I’m sitting.

Wilco left those pastures behind for good on 1999’s Summerteeth, an album I liked more this time through than I ever have. It’s pure pop, when it’s not dabbling in experimental textures, and the melodies Tweedy and Bennett came up with here are the best on any Wilco album. At some points, it sounds like the Flaming Lips’ Soft Bulletin, and at others, a Tin Pan Alley throwdown. The pure joy of “Nothing’severgonnastandinmyway(again)” wouldn’t be duplicated until… well, “Wilco (The Song).”

Ah, but then we come to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. And it’s the strangest thing – I felt this time through that I may have overrated the record a little bit. It’s still outstanding, but there are weak moments, and I never really keyed in on them until now. Sonically, it remains their finest work – the record rises and falls rhythmically and gracefully, and its high points, particularly “Jesus, Etc.,” “I’m the Man Who Loves You” and the gorgeous final minutes of “Reservations,” remain moving and extraordinary.

But it’s not the flawless masterpiece my own reviews led me to expect. In particular, the sonic frippery and melodic simplicity of “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart” grated on me this time, and I found the album as a whole slower going than I remembered. Enough of it is achingly beautiful that it still holds up as the best Wilco album, but I’m reconsidering its place in the canon.

Still, I think I can definitively trace the decline to A Ghost is Born. Lifeless, listless, self-indulgent, boring, endless – Ghost is all these things and more. It is Wilco’s Kid A, an album of sonic exploration with very few actual songs to prop it up. I forced myself to sit through the 12 minutes of formless, ridiculous noise at the end of “Less Than You Think,” but I promise you, it’s the last time I will do so. There is no reason for this album to last nearly 70 minutes. It is the nadir of Tweedy’s career, and the surest sign that without Bennett, he was lost.

But lo and behold, I think I may have underrated Sky Blue Sky – I ended up enjoying it more than I expected this time. The new six-man Wilco rocked convincingly on the Kicking Television live album the year before, and I guess I expected more in that vein. What I got was a breezy nothing of a record, simple and pretty. It’s the least ambitious thing Tweedy has done in a long time, but on this trip through, I found that to be a plus. It’s nowhere near as good as Summerteeth or Yankee, but nowhere near as bad as I originally thought.

It is, however, complacent, which makes it a good primer for the new album. Wilco has settled into a comfortable groove after its rocky beginnings and growing pains, and my bet is they will never make an album I like as much as Yankee again. Theoretically, the sextet version of Wilco should be able to knock the socks off of earlier lineups, producing a fuller sound and more energetic interplay. Theoretically. But the results so far have been surprisingly lightweight.

So it goes on Wilco (The Album). Leaving aside the sort-of-title-track, the record actually starts strong, with the ebbing and flowing “Deeper Down” and the pretty “One Wing.” We’re in Sky Blue Sky territory again, but it’s not bad. But then we get the nearly unlistenable drone of “Bull Black Nova” (not quite as self-indulgent as “Spiders (Kidsmoke),” but close), and from there, it’s one letdown after another.

Ballad “You and I,” a duet between Tweedy and Leslie Feist, is so featherweight it almost doesn’t exist. It’s one of those songs Paul Simon would have written during his There Goes Rhymin’ Simon period, lame major-key folk that dissipates in the air. “You Never Know” has a cool ‘60s melody and some George Harrison moments, but it’s also inconsequential, and both “Country Disappeared” and “Solitaire” are so boring I don’t even remember them.

Things pick up near the end – “I’ll Fight” has a nice little melody, and the amps actually get switched on for “Sonny Feeling,” before being shoved off the stage for piano-ballad closer “Everlasting Everything.” And that song is pretty good. It has an actual chorus, at least, and some nice textures. But it’s too little too late. The vast majority of Wilco (The Album) is bland, wishy-washy, forgettable stuff. I bet it will come to life on stage, but here, it barely wakes up.

Which is a shame, because “Wilco (The Song)” is ten kinds of wonderful, and is worth hearing on its own. The studio version is a bit noisier than other versions I’ve heard, but the feel-good celebratory atmosphere is preserved intact. And I can’t stop singing it. “Wilco, Wilco will love you, baby…” It’s one of my favorite songs of 2009, kicking off one of my biggest disappointments of the year so far.

That’s not really true, though, because I’ve stopped expecting to like Wilco albums. I don’t enjoy being in this place – I want to like this, not least because I’ve invested a lot into Tweedy and his band, and I don’t want to feel like buying new Wilco albums is an obligation instead of a pleasure. This is the third one in a row that I haven’t felt inspired by, however, and at some point, you just have to call it. I want to love you, Wilco. But you keep trying to break my heart.

Next week, I’m on vacation, but I’ll have something for you anyway. A little Michael Roe, and a little Violet Burning, perhaps. Comment on my blog at tm3am.blogspot.com. Follow me on Twitter at www.twitter.com/tm3am.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

The best, most accurate description of progressive metal I’ve ever heard is also the most vulgar: it’s dick-off music. It’s the musical equivalent of two guys dropping their pants and pulling out the rulers.

I know I’ve just revolted half my readership, but let me explain, because it’s an apt analogy. Prog-metal is entirely – entirely – about how well you can play your chosen instrument. And it’s not enough to be fast and precise, you have to be faster and more precise than anyone else. You’re a drummer? You have to hit those double-bass pedals faster than any other drummer, and come up with the most imaginative (and difficult) fills you can, and play at the upper limits of your skill and pain threshold at all times.

Because you’re always being measured. Fans of prog-metal only want to hear your most intricate, complex, impossible-to-play material. If your song is 15 to 20 minutes long, and has 300 different sections, and an instrumental interlude loaded with lightning-fast solos, you’re on your way. But next, you have to play each of the 65 million little notes exactly right, in exactly the right time, atop 45 shifting time signatures, because the fans will be listening, and they will be grading you.

I say they, but of course, I’m a fan of this stuff too. I like Opeth and Symphony X and Vanden Plas and most of the Inside Out roster, for all the same reasons their other fans do. It’s something of a holdover from my teenage metalhead days – I would spend hours talking with fellow fans about which band could kick which band’s ass, musically speaking, and I love hearing talented players really push themselves. Plus, there’s an absurdity, a heightened sense of the dramatic about this music, and I love that.

But you know, you grow up and you calm down. I’ve found myself less and less excited lately about the prospect of hearing another 78-minute head-spinning metal monstrosity. (Because they are all 78 minutes long, unless they are double albums.) There’s only so much musical exhaustion you can take. I can’t even imagine how the members of these bands play this stuff night after night. In my old age, I’m finding I need some sweetness to contrast with the mayhem.

For more than 15 years, the standard bearer for this kind of thing has been Dream Theater. They play an insanely difficult brand of symphonic metal, equal parts Iron Maiden and 1970s Yes. When I first heard them, around the time of 1992’s Images and Words, they were more traditionally progressive, and I still remember being knocked on my ass by “Lie,” the heavyheavyheavy first single from their next record, 1994’s Awake. It was like Ride the Lightning-era Metallica went away and practiced for 10 years, emerging as this tightly-controlled, complex beast without losing their edge.

But you know, I’ve grown strangely weary of that sound. Because it hasn’t changed, not that much, in the last decade-plus. Sure, they harnessed it for a rock opera (Scenes From a Memory) and a 42-minute interconnected suite (Six Degrees of Inner Turbulence), and with the addition of keyboard genius Jordan Rudess in 1998, they locked into a dizzying groove, but things have become predictable. You know what you’re getting with Dream Theater now, especially since they’ve upped the metal content over the past few albums. “Oh, here comes the four-minute guitar solo.” “Oh, here’s the part where Rudess and John Petrucci play super-fast together, in harmony.” “Oh, here’s the bit in 27/8 time, just because.”

Truth be told, everything from Train of Thought on has bored me somewhat. So I’m stunned at how much I’m enjoying album 10, Black Clouds and Silver Linings. And I think I know why.

Despite the crazy song lengths – four of these six songs blow past 10 minutes, with the longest clocking in at 19:16 – this is the least patience-testing Dream Theater album since Images and Words. The long and flailing solos are still here, but there are fewer of them – the longest is in “A Rite of Passage,” over an extended interlude that could be excised from the song with no harm done. Rather than take every possible opportunity to show off their considerable chops, the DT quintet has written actual songs here. Complicated songs, yes, but memorable and melodic ones as well.

Okay, yes, this album does contain all 12:49 of “The Shattered Fortress,” the final installment of drummer Mike Portnoy’s hour-long saga about his recovery from alcoholism. And this one is pure raging metal, just like all the others – the band’s been doling out this disasterpiece in segments, one an album, since Six Degrees. This final piece is made up mostly of riffs and melodies from the other four, tying things together, but it’s the most difficult 12:49 of the album for me. I much prefer the progressive metal hybrid of opener “A Nightmare to Remember,” which earns most of its 16:10.

Through the first four tracks, this is merely an above-average Dream Theater album, with some mellower moments mixed in. But it’s the final two songs that set this one above and beyond anything DT has done in 10 years. “The Best of Times” is dedicated to Portnoy’s father, Howard, who died this year, and it is the most sustained exploration of pure beauty in this band’s catalog. The song is 13 minutes long, but it feels like half that – it starts with a lovely piano and violin prelude, but soon the full band chimes in with a rocketing skyward ride that reminds me of Rush’s “Red Barchetta.” It never degenerates into showmanship – each change is melodic and strikingly pretty, and the extended, gorgeous guitar finale knocks me out.

And then there is “The Count of Tuscany,” the aforementioned 19:16 closer. Normally, even the thought of a 19-minute Dream Theater song called “The Count of Tuscany” would have me shaking my head, but this one ranks among DT’s very best. It is a tightly-controlled, consistently melodic masterpiece, with virtually no solos and lots of acoustic guitars. This is what I want from Dream Theater. There isn’t a weak moment here – one of the finest progressive epics I’ve heard in a long time. And the concluding minutes? You’d expect a grand finale, with wanking solos all over it, but what DT delivers is actually quite pretty and moving.

So okay, the album itself is 75 minutes long, but if you want to shell out for the deluxe edition, you get another two hours of stuff. The second disc is all covers, and it’s interesting stuff – they do a ripping version of the “Flick of the Wrist” trilogy from Queen’s Sheer Heart Attack, and knock out a fine take on King Crimson’s “Larks’ Tongues in Aspic Part 2.” But there aren’t any surprises. They close with Iron Maiden’s “To Tame a Land,” as if we didn’t know they’re all Maiden fans.

And the third disc consists of instrumental mixes of the entire album. These aren’t just instrumentals, though, they’re backing tracks – the solos are all missing as well, so you can really hear the musical hoops the band is jumping through behind them. But it truly exposes and emphasizes the biggest weaknesses of this (and every) Dream Theater album: the lyrics, and James LaBrie’s voice. I won’t go into specifics here, but the lyrics on this album are abysmal, and LaBrie’s metal vibrato is in full force. Despite some great vocal melodies on this record, I find myself preferring some of the instrumental cuts.

But hell, that’s okay, when the musical interplay is as good as it is here. In many ways Dream Theater’s subtlest and prettiest album, Black Clouds and Silver Linings breaks a depressing streak of boring records from this dazzlingly talented group. For a band that often gets lost in its own speed and skill, this record is surprisingly down-to-earth, and reining in those chops turns out to be the best thing they could have done.

As much as Dream Theater has annoyed me over the years, they’ve never made an album I can’t get through. I hesitate to admit this, since I see I reviewed it on March 19 of last year, but I don’t think I ever listened to all of The Bedlam in Goliath, the Mars Volta’s wank-heavy fourth LP. It was everything I can’t stand about them – Cedric Bixler-Zavala screaming and screeching nonsensical lyrics over and over, while Omar Rodriguez-Lopez solos and solos and solos, atop needlessly complex and empty funk-metal backdrops. I don’t think the Mars Volta has written a song I remember since Frances the Mute, honestly.

So imagine my surprise when I spun album five, Octahedron, for the first time, expecting more of the same. Lo and behold, they’ve mellowed right out, and it’s worked wonders for them. Octahedron (their eighth release overall, hence the title) actually begins with a minute and a half of nearly-inaudible keyboard texture, before the slow acoustic guitars of “Since We’ve Been Wrong” slide in. Rather than open with another furious noise-beast that gallops past 10 minutes, the Voltas have opted for a pretty ballad, one that never picks up the pace – and it turns out to be a tone-setter.

The album has one rocker, the brief “Cotopaxi.” Songs stay within reasonable lengths for this band, with only one breaking the eight-minute barrier. The sound is full – this is not an unplugged album, by any means – but the tempos remain in the mid-range, and just about all of them have memorable choruses. “With Twilight as My Guide” is almost a sea shanty, and is the prettiest song the Mars Volta has written. Even when the anthemic shout-chorus of “Desperate Graves” kicks in, the subtle undertones carry over, and the genuine epic at the album’s close, “Luciforms,” displays a sense of real dynamics missing from every other Mars Volta album.

Granted, the lyrics are still incomprehensible nonsense – “Banished to 5th dementia, cables of ringworms have hung themselves, of this I ate, communion shaped, serpent rays in prism tail rainbows escalate…” I can’t honestly decide which is worse, though: the ludicrous nothings on Octahedron, or the plain-spoken and wretchedly simplistic words on Dream Theater’s record. I know the Mars Volta lyrics make me cringe less often, even though I understand almost none of them.

But that’s my only complaint with what is, pound for pound, my favorite Mars Volta album since their debut. I honestly didn’t think they had a record this restrained, this melodic, this flat-out pretty in them. Chances are good that next time, they’ll be back to their flailing, empty-calorie frippery, but I hope they take some lessons from Octahedron, and inject their next record with some of this well-earned subtlety.

I can’t say I’m quite as surprised by Devin Townsend’s new album, Ki. But that’s only because I’ve learned through the years to expect almost anything from Townsend. Over 15 years, the Canadian mad scientist has turned out some of the heaviest music I’ve ever heard, particularly with his band Strapping Young Lad. But he’s also made some monumentally gorgeous records on his own – he’s the originator of what I call ambient metal, a sound so thick and heavy and full that it almost floats in the air. You can listen to a Townsend production a hundred times, on headphones, and hear new things each time.

And truth be told, he’s probably never going to surprise me quite as much as he did in 2007 with Ziltoid the Omniscient. A hysterical concept album about an alien coming to Earth to seek out the universe’s best cup of coffee, Ziltoid managed to be zany and moving at the same time, and take Townsend’s over-the-top metal craziness in new directions. From there, he could have gone anywhere, and it appears that’s exactly what he’s decided to do.

Ki is the first of four Devin Townsend albums slated for release over two years, each in a different style. But even knowing that going in, Ki is a shocker. Townsend has always been about piling on, about packing as much sound as physically possible into each song. But this album is stunningly minimalist, full of clean guitars and genuine ambience. Yes, there are songs like “Disruptr” and “Gato” to keep the headbangers happy, but there is virtually nothing here that could be accurately described as metal. Townsend has stripped down to barest essentials on most of this album – when there are iron fists, they are wrapped in velvet gloves.

The other surprise is Townsend’s voice here. He has an uncommonly strong one – he first came to prominence as the singer for Steve Vai’s band in the early ‘90s, and has alternately belted out melodically or screamed atonally on every song since. But he whispers his way through most of Ki, singing in an almost hushed, reverential way. Take “Terminal,” for example – as a softly thumping bass drum keeps time, Devin spins lovely webs of clean guitar, and graces them with an achingly pretty vocal. It’s just as captivating as it could possibly be.

What’s no surprise is that this album is fantastic. Townsend can play guitar like you wouldn’t believe, but his work here is graceful and understated, never playing ten notes when one will do. His gift for production is in full bloom here as well, minimal as the album is – these songs don’t pack the sonic punch of his other work, but they’re deceptively layered and atmospheric. I certainly don’t want to give the impression that this is a confessional folk offering – some of these songs are even sort of funky, and there are practically no acoustic guitars – but it is remarkably quiet and often beautiful.

Only the rockabilly number “Trainfire” breaks the hypnotic mood, but that’s all right, because it’s great. The majority of the album is given over to tiny epics like “Lady Helen” and the title track. It closes with the brief and subtly menacing “Demon League,” the core of which is just Townsend’s whispered voice and clean guitar. Ki is a stunner – while Townsend has flirted with beauty before, here he dives straight in, and the results are superb. I’m sure future albums in this series will bring back the heavy, but I’m enjoying these dark shadows, these abstract brushstrokes.

I don’t know if this left turn into subtlety counts as a prog-metal trend, but I’m enjoying it. Next week, thoughts on the new Wilco, and a new gospel record from Michael Roe. As a side note, I’m wrapping this up at 9:30 at night on Tuesday, the closest I have cut my Wednesday morning deadline all year. If you’re reading this Wednesday morning, I made it. If not, I’ll make it up to you next week.

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See you in line Tuesday morning.