People don’t like to think.

Okay, before you fire up those email accounts, this is one of those times where I’m going to start with a generalization and then walk back from it. Believe it or not, I use this technique most often to either change my own mind or figure out how I really feel on any given topic. I’ve been saying for years that when it comes to art – music, movies, books, what have you – people don’t like to think. So let’s dance around that for a bit and see if I think it’s true.

I already think that perhaps it may be more true to say that people don’t like to be made to think. Remember the books you had to read in high school? How many of you really enjoyed that experience? I don’t think the unpleasantness came from the books, but from the enforced, mandatory nature of the reading. There are books I have plowed through in an evening, and books I have sloughed through over more than a year’s time, but I’ve set my own pace. Since graduation, no one has rapped my knuckles if I haven’t read three chapters by Monday’s quiz.

I think that many people consider challenging movies and music the same way – as if the artist is forcing them to think. And I believe a large part of that comes from the societal expectation we’ve stapled to music and films, which is the promise of escape. When most Americans go to the movies, they want to relax for two hours, shut down their brains and enjoy themselves. It’s a mentality that certainly explains the impending Die Hard 4, and in fact the majority of American cinema – brainless, funny, disposable, and gone from your mind once the credits stop rolling.

And when a movie like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind comes along, which casts rubber-faced funnyman Jim Carrey in a mind-bending exercise about truth, memory and the futility of love, I think quite a lot of moviegoers feel like they’ve been tricked. They signed on for a funny romance, and they got a desperately sad maze of ideas. It’s almost like someone pre-empted NASCAR for a physics lecture, only moviegoers have paid their nine bucks and can’t change the channel.

The same goes for music. Most folks relegate music to the background of their lives, scoring their own experiences and matching their own moods. So when an artist decides to create something trickier, something that demands attention and concentration, I think people find themselves annoyed with it, especially if it’s by an artist that has delivered easily digestible material before. That’s one of the many reasons you’ll never see a rock opera by Usher, for example. It’s also why most pop albums follow the same two or three styles all the way through – 17 disposable tracks adhering to a formula makes for successfully pleasing background noise.

And it’s not that pop music fans don’t think, or don’t have ideas, it’s just that they don’t want or expect them from their entertainment. I think that’s because the industry has taken the focus off of artistry and onto lifestyle, marketing everything as stylish and fun. The sales machine is oddly more honed in the music world – it’s very easy to distinguish, just from the cover art most times, the “serious” art from the formulaic static, which makes either one pretty easy to avoid, depending on your preference.

Here’s the thing: genuinely thoughtful, thought-provoking music is out there, but I’ve come to the conclusion that people need to discover it on their own. The problem is that even if you’re looking for it, it’s hard to find, because the marketing machine keeps it on the sidelines, out of the public consciousness. Big labels don’t want you to find something ambitious and powerful that you might like, they want you to down a steady diet of what they’re selling.

So if even those seeking out this type of music will have a hard time finding it, and most of the American population couldn’t give a damn, then why do artists make challenging works to begin with? The simple answer is the most difficult to explain to most people – it’s because they have to. They’re wired to take on the big concepts, and too skilled to allow audience indifference to dictate their direction. Hard as it may be to grasp, for some artists, asking “who’s going to like this?” isn’t even a concern.

Granted, that mentality flowers more in places like Europe, where the American marketing virus has not fully spread – just look at the difference between American and European films. Or look at the catch-all genre that is progressive rock, which has a much larger measure of support in Europe than here. Progressive has become a term for anything that exhibits conceptual development and complex musical composition – anything that requires multiple listens and some concentrated study to fully grasp. And lately, the best of that seems to come from across the Atlantic.

All of this is just a lengthy preamble to discussing an album that nearly slipped past me last year, but one that has taken over my stereo and my head-space quite effectively since then. I’ve bought quite a bit of music already this year, but I keep coming back to this one, and I keep mulling it over and humming it. And I mention the preceding theories here because this album is one that evidences years of thought and planning, one that wears its big brain proudly.

It’s the new one by Swedish band Pain of Salvation, and it’s simply called Be.

Now, right off, this record establishes itself as the musical equivalent of a thesis paper, so if you don’t like that sort of thing, at least you can’t accuse PoS of tricking you. The song titles are all in faux-Latin (or faux-Italian, or some variation thereof), they have subtitles, and the album is broken up into five suites, each with pseudo-Latin titles and subtitles of their own. Just track four, for example, is called “Pluvius Aestivus,” subtitled “Of Summer Rain (Homines Fabula Initium),” and is part three of a suite called “Animae Partus,” subtitled “All in the Image Of.” And that one’s an instrumental, to boot.

As much as you might ponder Be, rest assured that PoS mastermind Daniel Gildenlow has pondered it more. The central thesis of Be is that God created the universe to teach him about himself, making man small shards of a very large mirror. The album also details the story of mankind’s search for God, building a probe that, in the end, becomes God. (Or something like that.) It’s a cyclical examination of origins and rebirthings that poses more questions than it answers, but Gildenlow has provided an exhaustive list of reference materials on the band’s site should you want to explore the concept further.

Really, how many albums come with a list of reference material? Be has been written off by many as pretentious twaddle, probably without cracking open the CD case, because it tackles big ideas with an even bigger sense of its own importance. The album doesn’t hold your hand – it presents massive concepts with an all-inclusive musical explosion that shifts and morphs for its whole running time. No two songs sound the same here (discounting reprises), because, as Gildenlow would say, the concept transcends time and place – it happens everywhere, and circles and winds around itself repeatedly.

But beyond the concept, how is Be as 70 minutes of music? Well… breathtaking, really. It’s full of sound effects and color, and even the simplest of its songs contain hidden depths. It opens with a rush, the sound of God birthing into existence, a heartbeat, and a male/female monologue about what it means to be. This is followed by three minutes of blistering heaviness beneath a newscast-style monologue detailing the population explosion on earth, as a way of conveying the fractal nature of God. In rapid succession, then, come a flute-and-acoustics jig concerning seasons and rebirth, a lovely piano instrumental and a more modern-sounding rock-with-strings piece about the impermanence of death.

And that’s just the first 20 minutes. If that’s not enough to make you run screaming from this record, then it may just be for you. The mish-mash of styles never lets up – I have heard criticism that track five, “Lilium Cruentus,” is the album’s first real song, and if by “real song” one means “guitar-based rock with verses and a chorus,” then one would be right. But typical structure is not the point here. Immediately following “Lilium” is “Nauticus,” a lovely five-minute gospel moan, and “Dea Pecuniae,” a 10-minute epic (subdivided into three parts, naturally) that sounds like David Lee Roth’s favorite waltz. Nothing here is what you’d expect, even if you’re familiar with Pain of Salvation. (I wasn’t – I only picked up earlier albums after hearing Be.)

The first few times through, Be can feel like a scattered mess. Songs are internally consistent, but the threads between them need a few listens to discern. (And the liner notes help.) Still, even on first encounter, there are a couple of tracks that stand out as particularly powerful. Most notable is “Vocari Dei,” a gorgeous collection of answering machine messages. Let me explain that: while making Be, the band asked its fans to call a certain number and pretend they were leaving messages on God’s machine. Gildenlow then strung those together and composed a lilting instrumental for the background. The result is stunning – the messages are heartfelt and aching, coming from all corners of the globe. At the end, when a shaky British voice apologizes for “really screwing things up this time,” the effect is nearly immobilizing.

The climax of the album is “Iter Impius,” a piano-led stunner that adds a layer of unquenchable sadness to the idea of being God. Melodically, this is the closest Be comes to earlier PoS albums, and is the best thing this album has going for it. Gildenlow’s voice is deep and strong, and he tears into this piece. In the end, the album cycles back upon itself for “Martius/Nauticus II” (which contains bits of “Nauticus” and “Imago”) and “Animae Partus II,” ending where it began – breath, heartbeat, “I am.” It’s quite the journey.

Be is not about individual songs, though – it’s about conveying the vastness of its own concept, playing on a grand scale. It avoids the trap of most concept albums by not spelling out its plot in hackneyed “then-this-happened” scene structures, but rather giving us the experience of time the way God might see it, all at once. It speaks to grand themes and huge questions, and is still a swell piece of enjoyable music. It sidesteps its own pretension, in a way, by drafting such a massive scope. The album itself cannot help but be less pretentious than its inspiration.

But you know, I’ve had this problem with the word “pretentious” for some time now, and I think this ties in neatly with my earlier point about the industry’s marketing. To me, having something to say and saying it over 70 (or 120, or 240) deliriously complex minutes isn’t pretentious, because it doesn’t waste my time. Three Doors Down, now, they’re pretentious for assuming that I’d want to spend even 40 minutes listening to them rehash bland rock formulas. They’re wasting my time. Be is a stunningly original and superbly crafted work that rewards my repeated listens with new colors and new insights. It’s not pretentious to me if you actually do have a point of view and a way to express it.

But then, I like to be challenged by my art, and Pain of Salvation have definitely come through for me on that score. There are some dismal-selling records that I wish more people would hear, because they would appeal to most everyone. Be is not one of those. It requires knowledge and appreciation of at least a dozen musical forms, a willingness to follow threads of a concept through non-adjacent songs, and the patience to listen to a 70-minute album at least five or six times before it starts making sense.

If you can do all that, then Be is a masterpiece waiting for you to discover it. I can’t imagine that most people will be bothered to try it, and while I certainly do think it’s their loss, I can’t blame them. This record will make you think. I have no idea who the band had in mind when they created this work, but I’m glad I found it. If you like music that stimulates your brain and your imagination, and doesn’t just fill the space around you with pleasant nothingness, you should find it, too.

Next week, Julian Cope returns with the wonderfully titled Citizen Cain’d.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

I know, I know, I’m late again. I have no excuses – I finished my script on Wednesday, basked in some good early reviews from friends and collaborators, and spent the next two days just recharging my batteries. It’s off to other projects next week – a screenplay, a book of my uncle’s writings – but I am determined to keep my weekly column schedule. No vacations!

* * * * *

Conor Oberst is only 24 years old.

I wasn’t going to bring that up, but then I got a letter from the Saddle Creek Records legal team. Apparently, it’s the law – reviewers are obligated to mention Oberst’s young age within the first paragraph or two of any article about his Bright Eyes project. I’m trying to avoid jail time – last time I was there, well, let’s just say it wasn’t Camp Cupcake and leave it at that. So: Conor Oberst is only 24 years old.

I assume I’m supposed to include this factoid because it’s apparently astounding that he’s such an accomplished songwriter, performer and recording artist at 24. It’s not a new observation – only the number has changed in the last 10 years or so. Oberst was in and out of his first recording band, Commander Venus, by age 15, and releasing albums as Bright Eyes by 17. He formed Saddle Creek Records with his Venus bandmates, who went on to start projects like Cursive and The Faint, and he’s resisted all attempts by major labels to woo him away.

And I think he probably got tagged with the “boy genius” thing by age 18, when the homemade wonder Letting Off the Happiness hit stores. Oberst set himself up as a literary lo-fi poet, garnering a flood of “indie Bob Dylan” comparisons, and with every subsequent release, he’s worked hard to simultaneously live up to and topple that image. He has remained a lyricist first and a melodicist second, like Dylan, and his shaky voice is still the dealbreaker for a lot of newbies, but other than that, Bright Eyes has evolved considerably.

One thing that gets glossed over in all the Dylan references is that Oberst makes weird records. The experience of listening to Bright Eyes’ cobbled-together debut with the cobbled-together title (A Collection of Songs Written and Recorded 1995-1997) has little to do with the songs themselves. It’s about how the impassioned basement recordings wrap you up in their wobbly spell. The missed beats and sub-demo quality become an integral part of the sound and style, in a strange way. Oberst uses the sound of his records to tell part of the story – 2000’s Fevers and Mirrors crashed to earth with snarling guitars and gloomy lyrics, while 2002’s Lifted built huge studio constructs with choirs and orchestras.

So when critics commented on the incongruous physical sound of the two new Bright Eyes albums, I was a bit baffled. No two Oberst projects have sounded quite the same, but the songs have remained identifiably Bright Eyes, and there’s no mistaking that yelping, barely-restrained voice. After Lifted’s 70-plus-minute monolithic statements, in fact, I figured Oberst would have to do one of two things – keep on going, and produce a huge mess of a record drowned in production, or strip back and make a simple little collection of ditties.

And it probably shouldn’t have surprised me that he’s done both. Simultaneous album releases are not a new thing – just ask Axl Rose, if you can find him – but rarely has that tactic made as much sense as it does here. Oberst has picked a direction by going in both directions at once, and his two new albums are so different from each other, tonally speaking, that calling them both Bright Eyes discs can only be a conscious decision to expand his own definition. Perhaps stranger still is the fact that neither one sounds an awful lot like previous Bright Eyes records. This is an expression of artistic restlessness that can’t help but make me happy, if only for its own sake.

But how are the discs themselves? Start with I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning, if only because it shares the most connection with Bright Eyes past. This little record – 10 songs in 45 minutes – follows from the sparser and more country-folk moments of Lifted. The orchestrations are still here, but this time they are more muted and shiny. The horn section on “We Are Nowhere and It’s Now” never even threatens to overpower the sweet acoustic waltz, and Oberst takes away everything but voices and guitar for a couple of tracks, most prominently the single, “Lua.”

These are easily the most traditional-sounding songs Oberst has written. I had to check to make sure “Another Travelin’ Song” isn’t a cover, so old-time country is its sound, and in “Old Soul Song (For the New World Order),” Oberst has come up with a classic, beautifully set to horn lines and piano. This is such a traditional American country-folk record that Emmylou Harris guest-stars on a few songs, and her wavering alto fits right in. After the 10-minute epics on Lifted, I’m Wide Awake sounds positively unambitious, but it revels in its simplicity, and the crashing sound of old does get one workout, on closing Beethoven homage “Road to Joy.”

But by and large, Oberst has reserved his sonic experimentation for the other album, Digital Ash in a Digital Urn. It’s billed as a full-on embrace of electronic studio wizardry, and yet the cover drawing is of a man vomiting numbers into a toilet. With the title and packaging, Oberst seems almost embarrassed by this excursion, providing plausible deniability for his indie cred. Should Digital Ash need to be written off as an ill-advised sidestep in the coming years, Oberst has made it easy by building that sense into the packaging.

Happily, it does not appear in the record itself. Digital Ash is, in fact, a full-on embrace of electronic studio wizardry, especially in its first half. Ambient synths pulse, programmed drums collide, and Oberst’s voice is processed and alien. Sonically, it’s like hearing an old friend in an entirely new setting. Luckily, Oberst didn’t abandon his responsibility as a songwriter – just about all of these songs could be played with his band instead of programmed, and serve as perfectly acceptable Bright Eyes tunes. Had he written for the studio, I doubt this project would be as successful as it is.

Of the two new records, Digital Ash is the more interesting, and not just because of the production. Songs like “Down In a Rabbit Hole” would be fascinating even without the compressed electronic drums and screechy synth tones, and “Light Pollution” is almost rock-band organic as it is. “Ship in a Bottle” may be the best song on either disc, and the screaming baby sound near the two-minute mark ought to startle you a bit. That said, the studio has not freed Oberst as much as it might have, only supported him in new ways. Given a few listens to make sense of the keyboard webs, this is most definitely a Bright Eyes album, and while the songs are good, they are not to the level of the best stuff on Lifted.

My primary criticism of this two-album endeavor is that since Oberst has made some obviously deliberate style choices, his work is of necessity limited on each disc. Whereas Lifted (and, to a smaller degree, Fevers and Mirrors) glimmered with unpredictability, by the fourth song on each of these new ones, you know what you’re in for. A mixture of the two sessions would have resulted in a schizophrenic work, to be sure, but one with a more adventurous nature. In a way, Oberst knew what he was going to get when he started these projects, so the end results are less of a ride than he has delivered before.

These are definitely the two most smoothed-out and accessible Bright Eyes records available, too. Oberst’s voice is reined in, for the most part – he brings the passion at the end of “Road to Joy,” but otherwise his trademark high, fragile caterwaul is largely absent. If this is evidence of the end of his musical adolescence, then there’s nothing to be done – even child prodigies have to grow up sometime.

Oberst has certainly delivered here, and his music is still touching and odd. The trick will be to keep maturing without losing the gut-rumbling edge he has always had. That edge is in somewhat short supply on Wide Awake and Digital Ash, and while it’s great that Oberst is evolving sonically and continuing to branch out, his music doesn’t ache like it used to. But hell, he has time, and a hopefully long and prolific career ahead of him. (Did I mention that he’s only 24?) If he can learn to mix impact with imagination, he’ll be incredible someday.

* * * * *

First Will Eisner, then Johnny Carson, and now Ossie Davis. Damn, this year sucks. Even if I didn’t appreciate Davis as an actor (which I do), I would respect him for this little fact: he was married to the great Ruby Dee for twice as long as I have been alive. That’s just amazing.

Next week, a musical treatise I missed last year, and then Julian Cope and Tori Amos.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

As I write this, I am nearly done with my first graphic novel script. I was up all night on Monday discussing it with my collaborator. And I’m really tired, so this should be a short one this week. My apologies in advance for knocking it out in an hour. I’ll be back up to snuff next week. For now, though, a quick look at the first quarter of 2005:

After a slow January, the music starts flooding in on February 22 with Tori Amos’ new one, called The Beekeeper. I have decided to take a different tack with this one, and not compare it to her first three albums. I found that I could only enjoy Scarlet’s Walk, her 2003 document of banality, if I forgot entirely that it was supposed to be a Tori Amos album and listened to it like the work of some new artist. It still sucked, mostly, but I discovered that listening to all 70-some minutes of it didn’t fill me with quite the same rage as it did the first time I heard it, expecting, oh, I don’t know, a Tori Amos album.

Anyway, The Beekeeper is another epic record – 19 tracks over 79 minutes. And it seems that Amos has discovered the Hammond organ, as well, which could add a blues and gospel element to some of the songs. All well and good, but song titles like “The Power of Orange Knickers,” “Original Sinsuality” and “Hoochie Woman” don’t really fill me with confidence. On the surface, it doesn’t look like she responded to the primary criticism of Scarlet’s Walk, which is that if you don’t have 70 minutes of good material to record, don’t record 70 minutes of material.

On March 1, the Mars Volta screams back into record stores with Frances the Mute, another 70-some-minute slab. (Their website notes the running time as “one million hours.”) The difference is, there are only five songs on the Volta’s record, and three of them contain sub-sections, just like all your favorite ‘70s prog records. Wait, you don’t have any favorite ’70s prog records? Then this might not be for you… I’m excited about it, though. The first Mars Volta album was huge and complex, and this one looks like it tries to construct a skyscraper on that record’s foundation. Ambition is a wonderful thing. And besides, I have to hear a track called “Multiple Spouse Wounds.”

Speaking of ambition, two weeks later System of a Down comes back with the first of two new albums slated for this year. Hypnotize is the March installment, and Mesmerize is set to hit in September. System is one of the most original metal bands to come along in ages, and that they feel emboldened to let loose over two discs is heartening. Perhaps the industry’s polarization is a good thing – it might separate the singles-oriented pop stars from the album-oriented artists, and inspire those artists to go for huge statements. We love huge statements.

New stuff for the rest of March includes Moby’s Hotel, featuring his vocals likely ruining nearly every track; Porcupine Tree’s new one Deadwing; Over the Rhine’s Drunkard’s Prayer; and the long-awaited new Beck beat-o-rama, Guero. The Beck album is interesting – I’m finding that I look forward to his atmospheric, acoustic albums more than his pop-culture-in-a-blender funky-fests, and it’s fascinating to me that he’s divided his catalog so evenly between them. I’ll hopefully enjoy Guero as much as I did Odelay, but I’m happy it’s coming out mainly because that means we’re even closer to another Sea Change.

April kicks off with the second solo album by former Toad the Wet Sprocket singer Glen Phillips. This one’s called Winter Pays for Summer, and hopefully includes a set of lyrics comparable to that on his first record, Abulum. Indigo Girl Amy Ray releases her second solo album, Prom, on April 12, the same day as the fourth Garbage album, Bleed Like Me, and the new Starflyer 59, Talking Voice Vs. Singing Voice. I never got around to reviewing it, but as I expected, most people misunderstood Starflyer’s last album, I Am the Portuguese Blues, which was a collection of older songs re-recorded. This new one should continue their evolution where Old left off.

And then, the really good stuff starts coming. Or, rather, what I expect will be the really good stuff. On April 26, Ben Folds returns with Songs for Silverman, his second solo album. The good news is that it only contains one song from the trio of EPs he released, and that song is the gorgeous “Give Judy My Notice.” The better news is that the single, “Landed,” is lovely – Folds has succeeded again in crafting something deceptively simple that sounds like a classic. If you remember when Elton John was good, well, this sounds like that.

Also on the 26th is Blinking Lights and Other Revelations, a 33-track double album from the Eels. Now, I liked Shootenanny!, the band’s last Dreamworks album, but it turns out that Shootenanny! (I just love typing that title) was cranked out in 10 days while on a break from recording Blinking Lights. Eels frontman E has been working on this thing for more than two years, and he calls it his most personal since 1998’s Electro-Shock Blues, probably his finest record. I mentioned before how Beck likes to divide his more sonically adventurous pursuits and his more emotional explorations. Well, E is a master of combining the two, and it sounds like Blinking Lights could be his masterpiece.

The following week, May 3, brings us the new Aimee Mann, called The Forgotten Arm. Wait… called the what?!? Yep, this is Mann’s first major departure from the low-key sorrow-pop she’s perfected over four previous solo albums. The Forgotten Arm is a concept album set in the 1970s, concerning two lovers who meet at the Virginia State Fair. An Aimee Mann rock opera. Should be fascinating.

And we conclude with Nine Inch Nails, missing in action since 1999’s intense double record The Fragile. Trent Reznor has eradicated the prog-rock influences on the fourth (yes, only fourth) NIN full-length, With Teeth. He’s described it as a bunch of short, explosive songs, which brings to mind his Broken EP. It’s no surprise to me – after The Fragile, there were really only two directions he could go: back to basics, or onward to Tales from Topographic Oceans. We’ll see in May if he made the right choice.

There’s more coming, too, from the likes of Audioslave, Zach de la Rocha, Michael Penn, OutKast, Sigur Ros, Dan Wilson, Weezer, and two albums from the Fiery Furnaces, one of which features their grandmother. Oh, and Operation Mindcrime II from Queensryche, which should be like a really captivating five-car pileup. Don’t ever trust the needle, indeed.

* * * * *

Another year, another Ani DiFranco album.

A year ago this month, the Little Folksinger That Could released Educated Guess, the first album she made after dissolving her band. She’d painstakingly assembled that band, debuting them on the not-bad-in-retrospect jam Up Up Up Up Up Up in 1999, and they became the perfect extension of her experiments in folk-funk. The horn arrangements, especially on her double-disc opus Revelling/Reckoning, grew to titanic, dissonant proportions, and her vocals took on scat-singing elements, complimenting her slap-bang guitar playing. It was quite the evolution, culminating on 2003’s fittingly titled Evolve.

But DiFranco has a history of taking evolutions as far as she thinks they can go, and then trying something else. Educated Guess erased the slate, stripping her sound down to nothing but guitar, bass and vocals, all of which she performed herself. It sounds like a great idea, and hopefully it was a fine experience for her, but the album itself was a dismal listen, full of go-nowhere songs and demo quality arrangements. That’s the downside of owning your own record label – no one can tell you not to release records like Educated Guess.

Now here’s Knuckle Down, DiFranco’s 15th full-length, and it’s very nearly the exact opposite of its predecessor. Where DiFranco performed every part on Guess, here she is joined by a dozen other musicians, including pianist Patrick Warren and violinist Andrew Bird. Further, she has invited another musician to co-produce this record with her – a first for Ani. That musician is guitar chameleon Joe Henry, and Knuckle Down’s most glaring flaw is that he never plays a note. Still, his presence behind the boards is a whole new level of openness for DiFranco, almost as if she’s done proving her independence, and is strong enough now to let people in.

That newfound sense invigorates the songwriting as well. DiFranco has long eschewed big choruses, and it’s been a long time since she’s made easily digestible records, but she just may have written a hit with “Studying Stones.” It wafts in on DiFranco’s guitar and Bird’s lovely violin, and spreads its wings like few songs she has written since the days of Little Plastic Castle. Some fans will claim that it goes too far in the adult-pop direction, but I think it’s the sweetest thing she’s done in years.

The prickly side of DiFranco rears its head more than once here, don’t worry. “Manhole” pops and crackles, and “Lag Time” has a nifty syncopated melody that takes a few repetitions to sink in. But overall, Knuckle Down is just this side of accessible, especially on “Sunday Morning” and the sprightly closer “Recoil.” Lyrically, it’s an album full of hope breaking through loss, and she confines her political ruminations to “Paradigm,” a story from her childhood about working in a campaign office with her mother.

Of course, it wouldn’t be an Ani DiFranco album if she didn’t throw a curveball, and Knuckle Down has a doozy. “Parameters” is a spoken-word piece about fear and the after-effects of an assault, and it is utterly captivating. In the past, the poetry sprinkled throughout DiFranco’s albums has been little more than a speed bump, and sometimes has even destroyed the flow completely. “Parameters,” on the other hand, is an undeniable highlight, and in some ways, the rest of the album can’t compete. It is her most successful spoken piece, and I won’t ruin it here by excerpting.

Knuckle Down is a confident, assured record, one that finds Ani DiFranco back at the top of her game. It still feels like a step in a new direction – she’s arranged strings here for the first time, for example – and there’s no doubt that she’s continuing to evolve. But for an artist who often makes difficult albums on the way to sublime ones, DiFranco has turned in a delightful surprise here, one that reaffirms the rewards of following her twisty, idiosyncratic career.

Next week, Bright Eyes.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Like many people my age, I swore I would never get old. And now that it’s happening, I’m constantly surprised. The number of questions I ask myself these days that can honestly be answered with “because I’m old” is staggering.

I’m trying not to let my advancing age render me obsolete, especially in the world of new music, about which I care deeply. I vowed many years ago never to turn into an old person, one who has his old favorites from when he was a kid, and lets new stuff pass him by. “I don’t know what the kids are into these days, leave me and Tony Bennett alone.” You know, those people.

But I’m finding that my favorite bands from high school (the Cure, the Choir, the Alarm) all still hold positions in my pantheon, and new acts have to be absolutely amazing (Ben Folds, Rufus Wainwright) to join them. My favorite album of 2004 is technically 38 years old, and this year more than any other in recent memory, the top 10 lists of my fellow critics were stuffed with names I’d never heard, attached to albums I’d never sampled. I’ve lost touch, somehow.

So here I am at the beginning of a new year, once again catching up with all the new records I missed. I know enough about myself to know which ones I will not like at all, just from descriptions and reviews, but I usually find a few I want to hear, and during the course of the year, I usually pick up a few more. This year, I’ve found three that passed me by – and admittedly, I’d heard of all three before seeing them in critics’ lists, so I think I did pretty well. I owned eight of Pitchfork’s top 50 of the year before reading the list, including two of the top 10, which for me is a really good average. (I had three of 2003’s top 50.)

This is usually an exercise in depression for me, as I try to figure out just why certain discs get so much acclaim. But this year was apparently so good for all kinds of music that even the scrappy indie and rap records I have chosen made me varying shades of happy. Not SMiLE happy, by any stretch of the imagination – none of these three are in any danger of bumping any of the records off my top 10 list, or even the honorable mentions. But happy nonetheless.

Let’s start with the Walkmen. Their second album is called Bows and Arrows, and I hated it upon first listen. The songs are simple and noisy, the production is intentionally muddy, and lead throat Hamilton Leithauser has no business being a professional singer, so out of tune and sloppy are his caterwauls. The first few times through, this album is a total mess, and not worthy of release, never mind your 10 to 15 bucks.

But give it time, and the record stops sounding so prickly and lets you in. After a while I stopped bitching that “The Rat” is so dirt-simple and let it take me, and it worked. Same goes for the oddly atmospheric “No Christmas While I’m Talking” and the at-first dismissible piano ballad “Hang On, Siobhan.” Given some time and an open mind, I even stopped thinking of Liethauser as ridiculously untalented and started admiring his emotional delivery and raw power.

I would bet that the Walkmen are a pretty impressive live band, in fact, and that Bows and Arrows is an attempt at capturing that live sound on record. It’s incredibly messy – the guitars and organs bleed into each other, and the drums sound like they were recorded from five miles away – but after some time with it, those qualities become attributes. The blatant Dylan-ness of “New Year’s Eve” is a speed bump, but the band recovers amazingly well with the anthemic “Thinking of a Dream I Had,” and the concluding title track is probably the closest this band will come to an epic track.

Do not expect brilliance or anything resembling polish from the Walkmen, and you’ll be all right. Let it wash over you, and try not to think about it. This is a band that thrives on an emotional wave, and if you let yourself be carried by it, then Bows and Arrows will work for you. If not, you’ll probably be turned off by the thick, noisy mud and the deranged special ed student yelling atop it. Just warning you.

Mike Skinner fares quite a bit better, but to be fair, he doesn’t try to sing. Skinner is the sole member of the Streets, the celebrated British rap outfit, and his second album is called A Grand Don’t Come for Free. I avoided Skinner’s debut, Original Pirate Material, for reasons I can’t recall. It may have something to do with the fact that any given rap album has to work 30 times harder than any given pop album to grab my attention.

Well, Skinner works hard, and he deserves all his accolades. A Grand Don’t Come for Free is ambitious in ways that rap rarely tries to be – it’s a full-fledged concept record, a day in the life of a ne’er-do-well, full of clubs and drugs and missing money and cell phones and cheating hearts. It has a cast of characters, and sets them in orbit about each other masterfully. Skinner’s alter ego (and who knows how autobiographical this record is) starts his day by losing a thousand bucks and meeting a girl, and by record’s end he’s found the one and lost the other.

Skinner tells the tale in British slang, which I only know from British comics and Guy Ritchie movies, but he carries you along despite some confusing terms. “Fit,” for example, means “very good looking,” apparently, but the context of “Fit But You Know It” clears that right up. Skinner wanders all over this record, almost in a stream of consciousness, delineating his character and his relationships through a harsh inner monologue, and it’s captivating, especially in his thick accent, incongruous for those of us used to American rap.

The first half is less successful than the second, with “Not Addicted” and “Wouldn’t Have It Any Other Way” as low points. But “Blinded By the Lights” points the way to the superb second half – it’s terrifically produced, deep and groovy. The record takes off with the single, “Fit But You Know It,” which gallops along on a cool guitar riff, and from there it’s dramatic and powerful to the end. The plot comes to a head with “What is He Thinking,” leading to the half-ballad “Dry Your Eyes” and the huge “Empty Cans.” The story even has two endings, separated by a rewinding sound.

It’s a little depressing that once again, the Brits have co-opted an American art form and done it better than the majority of Americans, but here it is. A Grand Don’t Come for Free is the most imaginative and well-made rap record I’ve heard in ages. The secret, I think, is that the story is so ordinary. Most American rap is about escalating violent reputations, and hence is just over the top with tales of guns and pimps. A Grand Don’t Come for Free is just about a regular guy, so oblivious to his own life that it dissipates before his eyes. It’s almost not deserving of a full rock opera-style album, and that’s why it works – it’s a collection of moments, small and sweet and oddly moving.

And speaking of oddly moving, there is the Arcade Fire. My third pick comes straight from Pitchfork – I almost always buy their number one record of the year, and while I’m often disappointed, this time I’m grateful. I may not have tried the Arcade Fire without those crotchety indie snobs up Chicago way, so I owe them a thank you.

The Arcade Fire is a five (sometimes six) member collective, and they’ve called their first album Funeral, which should tell you about the emotional content. It was written in the wake of several deaths, mostly of band family members, and the whole thing has an undercurrent of hopeful sadness, of working through real pain and depression. The record is also a well-written indie symphony, covered in strings and xylophones and pianos and (of course) loud, lovely guitars. Everything is balanced, yet sounds fittingly ramshackle – it’s an album for the college kids and the Brian Wilson fans.

I think that when people describe Modest Mouse as expansive and grand, the Arcade Fire’s sound is what they mean, and what they wish they were hearing from Brock and his group. Funeral opens with a five-part suite, four parts of which share the name “Neighborhood.” The second part is the ultimate Modest Mouse song, floating on lovely vocals and accordions and a killer melody. A quick break into “Une Annee Sans Lumiere” and we’re off into the second half of “Neighborhood,” and it’s just as propulsive and powerful as the first. The record carries you with such force that you barely realize that it’s half over.

The second half is highlighted by “Rebellion (Lies),” a true powerhouse of a song that captures the anthemic explosion of U2 without the bombast. The album ends on a graceful note with “In the Backseat,” about stepping forward and learning how to drive, metaphorically speaking. The song is lovely, with an extended coda that lingers just long enough. The Arcade Fire is a band worth watching, and Funeral is an album worth hearing, one that combines the textures of pure pop with the energy and punch of alt-rock to come up with something that grabs you at the start and doesn’t let go. Rarely has an album about death sounded this alive.

Or, to put it more personally, rarely has an album about death made me feel so young.

Next week, maybe Ani, maybe a double dose of Bright Eyes.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So, okay.

My friend Mike Ferrier is a technology nut with very little interest in music. I, of course, am a music geek with very little interest in technology. What follows is a conversation between us on the merits of digital distribution and the state of the music industry. We have exchanges like this all the time, and I thought, given the subject matter, you might like to read this one.

It started with a link I sent Mike about a computer used by the music industry to predict hit songs. You can find the original article here. I think I titled the email “This is What I Mean When I Say the Music Industry is Dying.”

I have a tendency to get pumped up and sometimes talk out my ass when discussing things with Mike, so beware – pontification ahead. That said, my comments are in italics, and Mike’s are in plain type. And away we go…

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Wow that’s pretty neat… it confirms your hypothesis that outside of some subjective “do I like it” factors, musical appeal can be broken down into objective measures… and who better to measure them than a statistics crunching computer?

And even if record companies and radio stations use this to choose their songs, I don’t think there’s much to worry about… those kinds of monopolistic distribution channels seem to be fading out anyhow, as mp3s, blogs, XM radio, etc take over…

It also confirms that the record companies are looking for music that mimics music that has succeeded in the past, not new sounds and styles. This computer’s criteria is a compendium of everything that has done well, and it rates songs against the average of 30 years of hits, thus statistically rubbing out the fluke hits that don’t use the same chords and production techniques.

Yes.. it confirms that the record companies are big businesses, concerned primarily with making money.

That’s not my point, entirely. I think, for example, that no one would accuse Microsoft of being anything but a big business that is concerned primarily with making money. But Microsoft innovates – they come up with new ways to do things, and sometimes come up with new things to do, things that people didn’t even know they needed. And then they market these things so that they can make a lot of money.

The music industry is not this way – this article supports my long-standing gripe that the industry at large is really only concerned with repeating past successes, not forging new ones. Music is like technology – it keeps progressing along hundreds of straight lines, each innovator coming up with better and better ways of springboarding off the last. And they bring these innovations to the companies most able to distribute them widely, and those companies say, “Oh, sorry, that doesn’t fall within our extremely narrow success parameters.” And since those narrow parameters are all that people get to hear, thanks to the labels’ ownership of the radio stations, most people equate them with goodness, and instantly recoil from other music because it’s not what they’re used to. And then the sales charts reflect exactly what the labels have dictated they would, and they keep on using the same criteria for “sellable.” Seriously, the breakfast cereal industry innovates more than the music industry does…

About the music/innovation and Microsoft comparison… I think they’re quite different.

Microsoft’s realm, software, fills a large variety of human desires, from recreation to word processing to storing photos. Innovation leads to ways of filling the old needs better, and filling untapped desires that no one else has filled yet. So Microsoft stands to massively increase their revenue by innovating.

Music I would think is more like film or literature or any other art when it comes to innovation… I agree that it develops along paths, each cutting edge artist building on the innovations that came before. But in the end most people will remain happily oblivious to these developments, passing over the latest in great literature for another formulaic Danielle Steel retread, passing up the artistic evolution of film in favor of the latest Armageddon-love-thriller, etc.

Music addresses several basic human desires… the aesthetic appreciation of its patterns and sounds, the emotions it evokes, the cultural cohesion it promotes, the delightful combination it makes with dance, and probably more. But these were filled by ancient music as well as modern music, and the “evolution” of music is an interesting path for a minority (especially people involved in creating it) to watch and participate in… but it doesn’t result in better and more effective music, just in new and different music. Software is constantly addressing new needs… there are no new needs for music on the horizon, music will not suddenly begin to taste good or help us jump higher. And the evolution of the cutting edge in music, as in any art (including software design), is irrelevant to most people.

So my point is that while innovation is in the best interest of Microsoft’s bottom line, the tried and true is in the best interest of a record company’s bottom line.

Interesting takedown of my analogy. Let’s see if I can build it back up a bit. I think your argument about the minority not being interested in the evolution of music has only been true for a short while. In the 1950s, rock and roll evolved from the blues thanks to artists like Bill Haley and Chuck Berry, and the public was with them every step of the way. In the 1960s, the Beatles showed up and rewrote the rule book for pop music, and the public responded by making them the most popular band in the world. And the 1970s found rock and pop evolving even further, spearheaded by some of the most widely regarded and commercially successful bands – Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, etc. Each of these artists used their position in popular culture to fund and publicize further innovations in composition, production and performance, and each were rewarded with deserving accolades and public support.

Now, the argument can certainly be made that the stylistic leaps of the Beatles did not quantifiably make music “better” or “more effective.” But their popularity has yet to be equaled, and in the later years, when they were controlling their own image and refusing to play live, that popularity was based primarily, if not solely, on the music itself. You’ve heard Sgt. Pepper – what world-famous, staggeringly popular band would dare release something like that now? It would be considered commercial suicide.

Which, to me, does not mean that the audience for truly innovative music is not much more widespread than we are led to believe. That music has just been quarantined in the subculture ghetto for so long now that the mainstream has missed out on several steps of its evolution. But you said it best – innovation fills untapped desires that no one else has filled yet. The rise of non-traditional distribution methods and satellite radio should be a decent test. If I’m right, the most successful artists of this new paradigm will be the ones who fill in the gaps for people, bringing them up to speed with new sounds and handing them off to established innovators. And I think that if the industry at large had just kept pace with music as it evolved, instead of cynically deciding that people would only like what they’ve already liked, it would have been even more profitable.

Good point about the Beatles. I actually think they were a true innovation, in the sense that they filled a previously untapped desire – not so much because of what they did musically, as that they were the first to do what they did with the new capabilities provided by the latest distribution technology. The 30’s through the 60’s, roughly, was a period when new technological developments (radio, record players, television) opened up new possibilities for music. Glen Miller, Frank Sinatra, the Beatles, Elvis… all accomplished feats of popularity that would have been impossible previously, by finding ways to connect with new audiences via the new distribution technologies. For instance, would the throngs of screaming teenage girls have gone nearly as mad, had they not first seen those charming young faces framed in rebelliously long hair, on TV?

So it could be that the Beatles held on to their popularity even when they tried new musical experiments (whereas Pearl Jam’s popularity slipped away when they tried something different) because they were the first (and for a while the only) band to meet that desire and connect with that audience. Now when a new band grabs attention, there are instantly dozens of copycats looking to share the pie… so Beatles level popularity may be a thing of the past.

The changes in music distribution over the last 35 years have been relatively minor… until now, with digital distribution. I think we can expect some new great successes in the next few years, as new musicians are the first to meet desires that simply couldn’t be addressed before the technology was in place. But the nature of this new technology might (hopefully) spread the success among a much wider group of musicians, since digital distribution can be much better tailored to the individual listener than can radio, television, and CD distribution.

So I would think that over the last few decades, the novel styles that captured the popular attention were relatively few, making it in the best financial interest of the record companies to stick with what they know works, rather than pouring their money into untried experiments, most of which fail. And yes, it makes sense that the record companies (like McDonalds) would work to maintain the homogeneity. Fortunately, digital distribution is gradually wresting this power away from the record companies altogether.

The last time I can remember the major labels being well and truly blindsided was in 1991, when Nirvana came out of nowhere and redrew the map. Nirvana and Pearl Jam all but created a new genre of music marketing and radio called (ready?) “alternative,” which used to mean innovative stuff on little labels, but got co-opted to mean stuff that sounds like Nirvana. And what did the industry do with the Nirvana sound? They copied it. Exactly. Note for note. And they keep on cloning it to this day. You mentioned Pearl Jam – you don’t hear much about them anymore, because they refused to play ball and carbon-copy their surprisingly successful debut record. Hence, their marketing budget disappeared, and they dropped from their major label, and the industry knocked itself out to come up with bands (and prefab studio constructs) that *would* play ball. And it worked. They’ve even co-opted the rebellious attitude of punk and post-punk and turned it into a marketing niche – “Buy this mass-produced product and assert your individuality! Nyar! Two fingers to the man! Drink Coke!”

I agree, the co-opting of punk and alternative was very amusing, and sad.

Occasionally someone will come up with a new style that will catch on with the masses…. but most new styles don’t, and people don’t need a new style to keep buying music, so I suppose record companies find it in their interest to stay with what sells until a new style catches on through someone else’s effort, then go with that.

I actually think it’s more insidious than that. I think the industry goes out of its way and does everything it can to prevent a new style from catching on, so they don’t have to shift their business practices. And I think they learned that lesson with Nirvana and the Seattle craze in the ’90s. Nearly overnight, all of the hair-metal bands and pre-teen pop acts that had ruled the airwaves in the late ’80s fell out of favor, and the industry scrambled to keep up with the public taste. Since then, how many totally new forms of music have caught the public wave? None that I can think of, and I believe that’s down to the industry’s choke hold on media and distribution outlets. They learned their lesson, they won’t get fooled again. These days, if they can use the same production team to create nine different artists’ records, they will. And if one falls from grace, another will rise to take his/her place, crafted by the same team of marketers. They even put the auditions for company-molded superstar on television…

In short, I think people are going online to find new music, because it really is a need that has not been filled by the record industry.

That makes sense… it will be interesting to see how this plays out. Even as the FCC’s rule changes allow the big media conglomerates to all merge together, creating basically a single monolithic media behemoth with one voice and one message, digital distribution is undercutting this, letting every small voice be heard. If Big Media can’t somehow get the government to impose legal restriction on digital distribution, they’re in danger of getting marginalized into oblivion.

As a non-musical aside, I’ve noticed a downside to the many-voices approach, in the world of news. Monolithic voices that are trying to appeal to the broadest possible audience will often be much more educational than narrow voices. Newsweek, Time, the BBC, and their American “counterpart” NPR actually talk about the various sides of each issue. Yes, monolithic voices are subject to bias, propaganda, and dumbing down (eg., People Magazine) but is that worse than the alternative… Fox News telling conservatives what they already think they know, Air America doing the same for liberals (I was really disappointed when I listened to that recently… it seemed just like Rush Limbaugh, but for liberals. Maybe I didn’t listen enough to get a full picture though.)… each blog talking to its true believers, and no one learning anything that challenges their beliefs or helps them understand people who think differently. It seems to me that digital distribution will just continue to amplify that trend.

Anyway, I expect it will be left to the smaller venues that actually like music (your column, for instance) to expose the potentially successful statistical anomalies to the masses.

Agreed. What we need, though, is a larger venue that likes music, and that isn’t concerned with crafting images and then convincing people that anyone not playing to these images is weird and not worth hearing. Most people I know assume, sound unheard, that my CD collection is full of strange stuff that could never sit comfortably on the airwaves, and they’re often pleasantly surprised to find these “weird” bands not only listenable, but enjoyable. My 60-year-old aunt just heard and liked the Lost Dogs, for example. We need radio stations that actually do play everything, and not specialized marketing niches that pit rap fans against hip-hop fans against crunk fans, as if there’s a sizeable difference between the three.

Once there are enough radio stations, and even personalized radio stations, that’s possible. Yahoo’s online streaming radio is very neat. When you hear a song that you really like or don’t like, you tell it. It then brings in songs that other people with similar tastes felt similarly about. This doesn’t always work of course, but it often does. This type of personalized delivery is becoming more and more common (as technology fills a previously untapped desire, by the way), and hopefully will give small new artists a means to break out and find an audience.

Ultimately though, I think a majority of music listeners will never be much interested in the artistic depths of their music, and will be quite content to hear the same few things, and copies thereof, over and over. This might seem like a crime to you, like these people must be freed from their horrible prison. But think about how you feel regarding food… quite content to have a few variations of the same few sandwiches over and over. Many, many people take food very seriously as an art form, and put as much interest in its evolution and subtle qualities as you do into music’s. Ketchup is a threadbare chord progression. But you couldn’t care less. (Neither, of course, could I.)

Actually, I hate ketchup.

And melted cheese, too… are you even American? 🙂

But that’s really not the point you were going for, is it? That analogy sounds about right to me, except for one thing – while it’s true that most people don’t care about the mechanics and the subtle qualities of either food or music, they know when they like something, even when they don’t know why. That’s part of the theory behind McDonald’s brand marketing – associate good and pleasant experiences with McDonald’s food and people will think they like it, even if they don’t know why. But taste something prepared with vigor and love and real skill, and the comparison is just silly. People like good food. They just can’t get it, because fast food places have taken over, and people don’t have time to wait for skillful preparation.

Similarly with music, I am aware that most everyone I have met couldn’t care less about the specific innovations I go nuts for, but they know when they like something. Problem is, they just don’t get to hear new music that they may like – the industry has decided to make those decisions for them. Radio listeners know whether or not they like Usher, but have they had a chance to make that same decision about Marillion, or Rufus Wainwright, or the Arcade Fire? No. Additionally, the industry has done everything possible to convince radio listeners and MTV watchers that they’re not missing out on anything by sticking to the tried and true. Instead of trying to expand their audience, they have disregarded a big chunk of it, and that chunk has moved to other methods of getting what they need.

I agree that digital distribution will make it a lot easier for unusual music to reach the people who want to hear it, and will greatly increase the diversity of popular music.

But I do think you’re selling short the lowest common denominator a bit. Sure, McDonalds seeks to drill it into all of our minds that we love their brand and their food. But McDonalds’ success grew out the fact that people actually did prefer their food – its taste combined with its convenience – over the other options. Sure I like real good food, but it doesn’t matter a whole lot to me; if it’s a matter of getting food that I like maybe 100% more, but I have to put 300% of the time, effort and money into it, I’ll usually go with the microwavable Lean Cuisine.

I think most people feel about the same regarding music – just not interested in putting the time and effort into finding what they might like a bit better. Digital distribution will decrease the time and effort involved in doing that, so a lot more people will probably try new music.

But unusual music will still have a few hurdles to jump though. First, if a song requires the listener to understand its construction or even just the background upon which it evolved in order to appreciate it, that’s a very narrow audience for it to appeal to. Second, there’s an inherent appeal to the familiar, and I think a lot of people will continue looking for familiarity in their music rather than greatness. And third, music in particular has become associated with personal image and social cohesion for many people, so people will continue wanting to listen to the same music that everyone else in their big social group listens to. (Maybe the record companies helped promote this identification between music and self image, but I think it’s always been there – as far as I know historical groups and classes each seem to develop and celebrate musical styles of their own.)

I wonder, if we each had Star Trek replicators, how many of us would try a new chef and a new meal a few times a week, trying to find new favorites… and how many would hear about a few from their friends and just try those, or even just stick with the old fashioned hamburgers.

You’re probably right about that – given the years of immersion in prefabricated pop, most of it predicated on previously successful pop, there are numerous “old favorites” (chord progressions, production tricks) that the statistical computer will point out as worth duplicating. “Try these, they work every time.” It seems like these criteria would be obvious to anyone who has some musical (as opposed to music business) background, though – the chords to “With or Without You,” as an example, are all but guaranteed to hit the mass pleasure center.

Maybe, but you’re making assumptions about the criteria involved. For instance I’d like to know what criteria the software uses that groups U2 and Beethoven together, or that jazz “crooner” with Linkin Park. Without intimate knowledge of the software it’s impossible to tell how dumb or sophisticated it is, but it’s at least possible that it’s picking up on subtle patterns that fall outside of the normal methods of analyzing musical structure.

The interesting question (at least to me) is one we’ve previously touched upon – are these chords and production techniques representative of what people like, or are they just what people are used to? In other words, are the songs which contain these criteria hits because people like them, or are they hits because they are all that people get to hear? I think of radio as somewhat Pavlovian – we have stuffed the airwaves with just this music for long enough that the very construction of these songs is comforting to people, and if we know how to construct them, then we can make clones of them and get people to buy them because we say so. Hear that A-minor shift? Salivate! Now purchase!

That is an interesting question… one approach to answering it might be to try the music that rates well in our culture, on subjects belonging to a different culture that is used to different music. But the question is probably moot to the big businesses, who don’t care so much why we buy it, as whether we buy it.

Oh, not true, otherwise they wouldn’t go to such great lengths to figure out why we buy it. And then copy those reasons again and again to ensure success. But I get your point. The music industry has, from the beginning, known that it is working in a field full of subjectivity, and they have been trying to determine the lowest common denominator and market that for as long as they’ve been around. It’s just gotten to the point where I’m not sure if they’re analyzing the trends or creating them based on years of exposure to their product. Either way, they control what most people hear, through radio and MTV and prohibitive CD prices, and that’s why MP3s and digital distribution scares the crap out of them.

Well said, and I think all of that can be compared to what places like McDonalds has done with food… are they cooking what people want, or making people want what they cook? Ultimately though, in food and music, the lowest common denominator is what sells. Digital distribution holds great promise for helping “gourmet” music find its audience. Until we all have Star Trek replicators however, no such salvation is in sight for our palates.

I agree the food industry is screwed. 🙂 My hypothesis, though, is a complete refutation of your above point – the lowest common denominator is not what sells, it is what the industry has decided will sell, based on what they have previously decided will sell. McDonald’s sells well because they’re everywhere and they’re fast, not because they’re especially good, IMHO. Same with Usher – he sold millions of his album because his singles and videos were everywhere, and he has nice abs. They are fulfilling their own prophecy by not letting in competition – small labels just don’t have the marketing budgets to compete with the majors. The big guys control the floodgates. I would be a lot more resigned about the public’s apparent choices if I thought they were being allowed to make them. And soon, with digital distribution leveling the playing field, they might be.

I agree that the big companies (in food and music) are promoting homogeneity, but see above for why I think the lowest common denominator would fare pretty well even without their help. Hopefully digital distribution will help diversity flourish much more than it can now in music. But in the end, I think there’ll still be a huge market for copycat superstars with great abs.

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And on that depressing note… thanks, Mike, for letting me run this here. This is undoubtedly an ongoing conversation, and I may (with Mike’s permission, of course) update it as it goes along. In the meantime, check out Mike’s online game here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

For Christmas this year, I joined the 21st century.

I have a bit of a reputation as a luddite, I suppose. For most of my music-buying life, I rejected CDs, preferring to buy cassettes. Yeah, I know, the sound quality is crap, and it’s musical tissue paper, just waiting to be crinkled and crumpled by unforgiving spindles and wheels. But it also presents an artist’s vision in the most uncompromising form – songs are in one order and one order only, and rearranging them takes work and time and effort. Philosophically, cassettes most lined up with my artistic worldview.

That now sounds like horseshit to me too, by the way. As soon as I started buying CDs, I was swept away by the quality and ease of access they provided. I’ve made a lot of mix tapes, and often that process would take upwards to six hours to get right. Mix CDs? Half an hour or so, maybe a little longer if I play around with the sound editor for transitions. And everything sounds so clear, free of the hissy mud that I once professed to enjoy.

I’m actually afraid now. I tend to value principles and ideals, and I have discovered several times now that those principles and ideals that I once loudly proclaimed from mountaintops are easily abandoned in the face of convenience and a sizeable cool factor. Do I not believe in anything anymore? What the hell has happened to me?

To my horror, I got a pair of Christmas gifts that further established me as a world-champion sellout. For years I have railed against cell phones, calling them a virus that’s slowly infecting and choking our society. I may have even intimated that the death penalty was too good for people who answer their cell phones during movies. I might have even hinted that I believe people who talk on cell phones while they’re trying to drive deserve the inevitable brain cancer, and will hopefully die slowly and painfully.

Well, hell with all that, because with my new super-bitchin’ Verizon cell phone-slash-camera-slash-personal data assistant, I have officially joined the enemy. It’s pretty handy, I must say, and I do indeed talk while trying to drive. People can find me if they need to (a definite plus in the deadline-driven newspaper industry) and if I am ever stuck and need directions, I can just call. I don’t even need to pull over. It’s pretty sweet.

Don’t get me wrong, I still think that people who answer their mobiles in movie theaters should be unceremoniously shot in the back of the head. Or at least fined, or something. The first movie I saw as a cell phone owner was The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou (whimsical and yet desperately sad at its core), and I took inane glee in reaching into my jacket pocket at the appropriate time and shutting the damn thing off. Made me feel oddly superior, like I will be the guy who remains uncorrupted by the evil cell phone industry.

“Sure, I have one, who doesn’t?” I will say, with a snooty air about me. “But you won’t catch me talking on it. Not in public.”

Ah, but my other big gift, that struck to the very core of some of my most cherished beliefs about art and commerce and convenience. I now own an iPod, pretentious capitalization and all. This is the device that allows one to store 10,000 songs and take them with one anywhere, and (here’s the important part) play them in any order. This nifty little machine also obliterates the line between music one buys on compact disc and music one downloads from the ‘net, legally or otherwise. It’s all just info to the iPod.

It’s true that you can use the iPod to play your albums, back to front, and not mess with an artist’s original vision. But where’s the fun in that? I’m finding that using my iPod to create my own personal radio station, one which always surprises me with its next selection but never disappoints me with songs I hate, is immensely enjoyable. If the novelty of this doesn’t wear off soon, I may have to rethink some things about my life. How can I be a snotty, pompous, high-falutin’ snobby-snob if I can’t even stick to my own principles?

The iPod, I’m noticing, isn’t really meant for album listening, anyway. It has no respect for mastering – songs that segue end up with half a second of silence between them as the device cycles. Which means that records like SMiLE and Dark Side of the Moon are basically ruined as complete statements. It’s all about the individual song, and while I don’t plan to abandon my love of the album anytime soon, it is interesting to take this very different trip once in a while.

Still, I can definitely see how this method of storage and transport could replace compact discs in the near future. With fewer production costs associated with liner notes, jewel cases and physical discs, labels could sign more artists, but those artists would probably have to abandon any ideas of long-form narrative in their work – no more side-long suites, no segues, none of the little things that draw you into a record like The Wall or The Fragile. Every album will be just a set of songs, and the most successful will likely be the ones that are able to be played in any order. It will be the death knell of the album revolution started by the Beatles, and the end of something special in the music world.

There. That was suitably snotty. I feel better now.

* * * * *

Of all of my friends and family, only one gave me the gift of music this year. Which is fine, because it’s insanely difficult to buy music for me – the odds that anyone will find something that I a) want and b) do not already have are pretty slim. But Mike Ferrier managed it, and turned me on to a pretty neat band at the same time.

They’re called Girlyman, and Mike saw them open for the Indigo Girls on their most recent tour. Girlyman is a trio – Ty Greenstein, Doris Muramatsu and Nate Borofsky – and they play simple folk music, for the most part. Their album is called Remember Who I Am, and it’s a collection of 11 originals and one neat cover. But it’s not the songs – they’re small, effective numbers with minor changes and sweet melodies, but they’re not exceptional. It’s not the lyrics, either, though they are uniformly terrific, heartfelt little gems.

No, it’s the voices.

Girlyman live must be an interesting sight – these three could not look any more dissimilar, yet their voices intertwine as if they were meant to coexist. Remember Who I Am is chock full of some of the most delightful harmonies you will hear anywhere, harmonies that descend and envelop the room. Just listen to the opening track, “Viola” – it’s spare and lovely, with some minor key strums and pedal steels, but the voices just lift it off the ground and float it effortlessly. I was in love by the third “viola.”

Girlyman strikes me as a true musical democracy, as well, which is always refreshing. All three share songwriting credit, and take turns on lead vocals. They change up instruments, too, switching guitar and percussion duties song to song. The result is amazingly ego-free, as if their personalities mesh as beautifully as their voices do. Even knowing the authors of each song, I can’t pick favorites, either. Borofsky’s “Viola” is just as good as Greenstein’s “The Shape I Found You In,” and Muramatsu’s “Even If.” It’s all nice stuff. They even managed to sucker-punch me with the ending of “Montpelier.”

I’m especially impressed with their arrangement of George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord,” a great song by any measure. They open it with a funky bass beat and a repeating acoustic figure, and the shape of the song only becomes clear with the chorus. Harmonized beautifully, of course. It’s a sweet addition to an already fine album. Bottom line: if you’re looking for something challenging and twisted, this is not for you. But if you want music that will surround you and breeze through you, delightfully, then check this out. More importantly, if you want to hear three great voices weave together into one superb sound, in ways that can only be described as magical, then you need to hear this.

Girlyman’s album is available at their website.

* * * * *

Next week, some things I missed during Aught-Four. The following week, Aught-Five begins in earnest with new records from Ani Difranco, the Chemical Brothers and Bright Eyes.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

Will Eisner died on Monday.

I hate that I have to start my first column of 2005 with those words. I also hate that most of you reading this will have no idea who I’m talking about. It’s not your fault. Will Eisner spent his whole life working in a field with only a few hundred thousand devotees. But among those devotees, he was revered.

Will Eisner was, unquestionably, the father of smart comics.

And when I say he worked his whole life in comics, that’s what I mean. He started his cartooning career in 1936. He died at 87 years old, having just completed a new graphic novel, The Plot. During that time, he never stopped working, never stopped making comics better by making better comics. Here are some of his achievements:

From 1936 to 1939, he co-ran Eisner and Iger Studios, which gave first jobs in the comic book field to such luminaries as Bob Kane, creator of Batman, and Jack Kirby, creator of and artist on the Fantastic Four and the Hulk and the Avengers and Captain America and on and on.

In 1940, he started The Spirit, a four-page-weekly adventure strip included in Sunday newspapers. Eisner worked on The Spirit until 1952, minus a three-year stint in the military during World War II, and he used it as a thesis on expanding the limits of the comic book form. At a time when even the best cartoonists considered their chosen field beneath contempt, Eisner took comics seriously as an art form, and significantly raised the confidence level of the burgeoning medium. Just the title pages of the Spirit sections alone rewrote the rules of structure and panel. The strip was also clever and a lot of fun.

In 1978, he published what is widely considered the first graphic novel, A Contract With God. Up until this point, comics with spines meant for the bookshelf were exclusively reprints of material that appeared in newsstand comics form. Eisner crafted four serious, grown-up stories, all interconnected, and published them all at once in book form, an unheard-of idea. Now it’s the form most preferred within the industry.

More than that, though, A Contract With God proved that comics were not just for kids. Those of us who have grown up in its wake can’t remember a time when genuine literature and comics were mutually exclusive, but Eisner showed the way. He went on to create a staggering 21 full-length graphic novels since then – staggering because these things take an awful lot of work and time. Eisner was 61 when he released Contract, and his career as a graphic novelist was just beginning.

Among his works are such treasures as To the Heart of the Storm, an autobiographical account of Eisner’s life before World War II; A Life Force, set during the depression; Invisible People, a haunting look at the anonymous and the forgotten; and Last Day in Vietnam, a series of true accounts from the front lines. Throughout his career, he has shone a spotlight on the Jewish experience, and never more so than in his most recent books, Fagin the Jew and the forthcoming The Plot, which revolves around Russian anti-Semites. Always – even in his darkest material – Eisner conveyed a sense of wonder and hope for humanity, and drew with a clean, effective, confident line.

In 1985, Eisner wrote Comics and Sequential Art, one of the first books to take a serious look at the art of creating comics. He followed it up in 1996 with Graphic Storytelling and Visual Narrative, and together these books draw back the curtain and give new artists everything they need. Eisner was all about the new stuff – there are countless tales of him praising new artists, touting new books and showing his genuine love for the medium and for the creators pushing it forward.

Coming from a guy so responsible for the great state of comic art these days, that’s pretty amazing. You want to know just how important and influential Will Eisner was to the comic book field? Every year at the San Diego Comic Con, the industry holds its version of the Oscars, where they award the best stuff in numerous categories. You know what that awards ceremony is called?

The Eisners.

And guess what? When you won an Eisner, it was handed to you by Eisner himself.

I got the chance to meet Will Eisner once. It was at the 1995 San Diego con, and I attended as a pro – I wrote a book called Tapestry for Superior Junk Comics. The con was pretty quiet that year, and Tapestry artist Gabe Crate took several opportunities to pull out the pages for issue six that he was working on and plug away at them.

So Gabe and I are sitting there, him drawing and me watching, when out of the corner of my eye I see this elderly gentleman standing behind Gabe, looking at his pages. It took a minute or two for both Gabe and I to realize that this was Will Eisner, right behind us. No sooner had we recognized him than Eisner said, exuberantly, “I could watch you draw all day.”

He was quickly called away, but Gabe put his pencil down, unable to draw any more. I think we both said “holy crap” seven or eight times. It was an unbelievable high, even for me, the spectator in the story. But that was just Will Eisner, by all accounts. He never made anyone feel less than welcome in the comics field, and he had such amazing energy and enthusiasm for the medium.

Eisner died of complications after quadruple bypass heart surgery. His legacy cannot be overstated for comics fans. Almost single-handedly, he gave comics brains, heart and confidence. His belief in the medium as a true art form translated to the industry’s belief. Without him, we might still be stuck in a four-panel grid, making only tepid adventure tales instead of works like Blankets and Palomar and Berlin and Age of Bronze. He was the grand-daddy of it all, and the world of comics (and the world in general) is greatly diminished by his passing.

Rest in peace, Will.

* * * * *

One year dies, another is born. In one of those bizarre New Year’s synchronicities that tug at my emotions, while Eisner was passing away, my friend Chris L’Etoile and his girlfriend Jamie had their first child. They’ve named him Jeremiah Naos, and apparently mother and son are doing well. Congrats to all. I feel really old…

Next week, a bit about my Christmas presents. Year five is go.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

People always ask me what kind of music I listen to.

I kind of find that an odd question anyway, assuming as it does that music can be typed and boxed and labeled, but that’s an old argument and I won’t start it up again. My usual answer is non-committal and all-encompassing: “What kind of music? Well, everything.” This reply has served me well for many years, and I suppose it’s accurate, considering the question – I have not, as far as I know, banished an entire genre or style from my CD collection. (Not even ska, believe it or not. I have some of that – a little Sublime, some Less Than Jake, a Supertones record. And I love the Clash, the band that first married reggae and dub beats to punk rhythms.)

Lately, though, I’ve given it some thought, and here’s why. There’s a radio station in my area whose slogan is “We Play Everything,” and at first I chuckled at that notion. No radio station plays everything, I scoffed, unless by “everything” they mean “these three dozen songs selected from very strict format guidelines.” But then I listened to it, and I was blown away. It’s not unusual for this station to play Styx, Snoop Dogg and Velvet Revolver, all in a row. It is, without a doubt, the most inclusive radio station I have ever heard. And it led me to an interesting conclusion.

I don’t listen to everything.

In fact, I hate most of what this station plays, just like I disregard 90 percent of the songs I hear on a daily basis. If you’ll permit me a moment of hypocritical categorization, the dominant styles of music these days leave me cold. I have never been a rap fan, try as I might, because I’m too addicted to melodies. I can’t get into the angst-ridden three-chord rage-rock or the “sensitive” three-chord rage-ballads that pose as “modern rock.” Similarly, I detest the minimalist clangings of the new garage rockers. When it comes to modern radio and sales charts, I am a man without a country.

If anything, this year’s Top 10 List should firmly cement my status as a fuddy-duddy traditionalist. Unlike most reviewers this year, I did not hear the future in records by Franz Ferdinand, Modest Mouse or the Black Eyed Peas. Oh, I heard all those records, and liked them, but they didn’t strike me as particularly innovative the way they struck half the pundits on the ‘net. No, in a year full of so-called breakthroughs, I’m awarding the top prizes to some old-school musicians, making old-school wonderment at the top of their game. Two of the top five artists have been around for more than 20 years, and the numero uno man has been at it for more than 40.

And you know what? I think this is the best, most consistently rewarding Top 10 List I have done since I started this column. How is this for solid: there isn’t a single song on any of the top five albums that I’m not in love with. Not one bad song. This year was so great that even the honorable mentions would make a fine Top 10 List by themselves. This was the year that melody struck back, and ambition fueled some expansive dreams. 2004 was almost an embarrassment of riches, and my list has as its bottom rung an album by perhaps the best songwriter of my generation, and as its apex one of the four or five finest pieces of pop music I have ever heard.

It’s a great list. Seriously.

And with its focus on melody-rich, old-time songcraft, it is the list that best represents me and my particular taste. Often, there are only a few undeniably good albums in a certain year, and even though they don’t push my buttons as much as they could, they end up on the list. But there were so many good records this year that I ended up getting to pick my subjective favorites. The result is a rarity – these are, I think, the 17 best albums I heard this year, but they are also the ones I love most, for all the silly and inexplicable reasons I find myself loving music.

I didn’t have any of the usual problems coming up with the list this year, either. The rules are still deceptively simple – only new studio albums of original material are considered, which means no EPs, no reissues, no box sets of previously unreleased outtakes, and no live albums. Seems easy enough, but for two years running those rules have excluded my favorite albums of the year. Not this time – this was the year the full-length album statement made its comeback. Whether this is its last gasp or its renaissance, I don’t know, but I’m grateful for this year’s crop.

If you want proof, just look at one of the fall season’s biggest splashes – Green Day’s American Idiot. This thing has sold through the roof and ended up on a bunch of Top 10 Lists (but not this one), and at the moment it sports two big radio singles. It’s also an old-fashioned rock opera, a concept album with a plotline that requires every song to make its point. If even perennial singles band Green Day is taking its cues from Tommy, then maybe we’re on an upswing after all.

Either way, it’s cause for celebration. We love the album here at tm3am, and 2004 was a great albums year. Here, then, are the 17 best, all of which I would recommend without hesitation.

Honorable mentions first. As you may have read last week, Mike Roe and Mark Harmon delivered a superb electro-guitar-pop feast called Fun With Sound. If you’ve been reading my column long enough, you’ve see Roe’s name crop up in half a dozen of these installments. If you’ve never tried his work, this is a good one to start with. Sweet, sad songs with dynamic production and some of the best guitar playing you will hear from anyone anywhere.

Icelandic visionary Bjork made another dizzying left turn with Medulla, an album constructed almost entirely from human voices. It’s a brilliantly written burst of ear candy, with some fascinating guests (Rahzel, Mike Patton). It is a bit too short, and a bit too dissonant at times, but it’s overall another bizarre, yet somehow perfectly right-sounding record from one of our finest experimenters.

Bjork didn’t invent the sampled-voice album, and in fact some of the best tricks on Medulla are copied from Todd Rundgren’s amazing A Cappella record from 1985. Rundgren has always been one to try new ideas, and he was among the first musicians to offer his work through an online subscription service. This year, though, he roared back to the physical world with Liars, a 74-minute masterpiece of electro-soul and carefully considered rage. It is as sweet and tuneful, and as socially conscious and unerringly accurate, as any of his best work, and for a guy who has been making records since the ‘60s, that’s saying something.

I didn’t get around to reviewing it, but Tom Waits’ Real Gone is another powerhouse from the gravel-voiced eccentric. He dives right into the world of mouth-percussion here, constructing rickety bulkheads of popping, jagged sound and then setting them on fire. The molten lava of “Hoist That Rag” is undeniable, but perhaps the finest moments here are the tender ones, like the closing letter home, “Day After Tomorrow.” In a different year, this would have been in the top five, easy.

The Polyphonic Spree finally proved their concept this year with a dizzying full-length called Together We’re Heavy. When the Spree’s more than 20 members kick in full blast here, they earn the album’s title. A lot of pundits have tried to describe this thing using terms like “progressive sunshine pop,” but I think it’s better than that. It’s the sound of a painter (mastermind Tim DeLaughter) ripping up his tiny canvas and aiming higher. You can just hear DeLaughter being told he has the whole roof of the Sistine Chapel to work with, and him saying, “All right. Let’s fill this sucker.”

The Fiery Furnaces dreamed bigger this year, too. In the wake of their slipshod blues debut, they knuckled down and made Blueberry Boat, a 78-minute prog-pop-blues-whatever excursion that ranks as perhaps the most initially off-putting chunk of genius I heard this year. Boat is absolutely fearless in its eccentricity, leaping from 10-minute garage-prog workouts like “Quay Cur” to piano-pounding blues-rockers like “Straight Street” to sad, pretty pieces like “Spaniolated.” It’s daunting, and I guarantee you the first three times you hear it, it will make no sense to you at all. But stick with it, because it’s truly a work of lo-fi art.

And now we come to number 11, or 10-and-a-half, or whatever infinitesimal fraction you’d like, because this one almost made the list. If not for my enduring affection for the number 10 artist, it would have, and I nearly came down to flipping a coin anyway, so good is this album. It’s the self-titled disc by the Autumns, a mix of guitars and atmospheres so delightfully constructed that it plays like one extraordinary song. It’s an absolute triumph of oceanic tones and Matt Kelly’s astonishing, cloud-reaching voice, and it draws you in early and never stops surprising you. It’s as beautiful a work as anything they’ve done.

The list! The list is life!

#10. Elliott Smith, From a Basement on the Hill.

I still can’t quite type the phrase “Elliott Smith’s final album” without feeling a little chill. It’s no secret that I consider the late Smith perhaps the finest songwriter of my generation – he shares the honor with Jeff Buckley, another who died too young. And even the sting of Smith’s apparent suicide doesn’t taint Basement for me. This is a hell of a record, at least until the final third, when it crashes down to earth. It is raw and ragged in places, which many say is what Smith wanted, but it finds the balance between his indie-rock lo-fi days on Kill Rock Stars and his huge George Martin-style studio records on Dreamworks. Only near the end does it begin to feel like the unfinished project that it is, but even those songs have the punch of the sad and final about them. Smith will never finish this album. It is imperfectly perfect just as it is.

#9. They Might Be Giants, The Spine.

I will only accept hate mail on this one from people who have heard this record in its entirety. They Might Be Giants have always struggled with their perceived identity as a novelty act, despite being one of the best guitar-pop bands around, and despite being led by Johns Linnell and Flansburgh, songwriters who manage to come up with hook after hook, year after year. There are 16 songs squeezed into The Spine’s 35 minutes, and none are less than wonderfully melodic. It’s also the most economical ass-kicker the Johns have produced in many years – there isn’t a wasted second, and if it were any longer, it would lose focus. From now on, if anyone asks why I listen to TMBG, I’m giving them a copy of this.

#8. Spymob, Sitting Around Keeping Score.

I really dislike N.E.R.D. for cribbing from the Prince songbook and passing it off as originality. But I love their backing band, a group that on their off days goes by the name Spymob. And I really love their second album, a mix of perfect pop and jazzy keyboards crafted with wit and charm. These guys take the Fountains of Wayne spot this year with winking winners like “I Still Live at Home” and “2040,” and they draw from the grand tradition of piano-fueled power pop that informed Jellyfish and Human Radio, two of my favorite acts. This is a superb record, and if not for the band that landed squarely at number two on this list, Spymob would be a shoo-in for discovery of the year.

#7. Tears for Fears, Everybody Loves a Happy Ending.

This year, everybody loved a good reunion, and none was more artistically successful than this one. Roland Orzabal and Curt Smith hadn’t made an album together since 1989, but this one picks right up where they left off, Beatles influences and all. The whole thing is wonderfully ‘60s, with the opening title track sounding like the second side of Abbey Road smashed into four minutes. There’s nary a tuneless minute here, and the album is the most relentlessly upbeat one the duo has made. Just dig the harmonies and sweet, sweet chorus of “Secret World.” Not only is this the best reunion record of the year, but it’s the most welcome, as far as I’m concerned.

#6. Rufus Wainwright, Want Two.

Well, it finally happened – pomp-pop supergenius Rufus Wainwright finally wrote a song I don’t like. “Old Whore’s Diet,” the nine-minute conclusion of this, the second half of his third album, is tired and repetitive and too mediocre for Wainwright’s fantastic voice. But the eleven songs that precede it on Want Two are just as lovely and tricky as anything else he’s written, and the production here is just as full and vibrant (without being overblown) as it was on Want One. This is the sadder, more operatic half of the project, and as such it contains some weepy stunners like “This Love Affair” and “Memphis Skyline,” as well as the ultimate camp ditty, “Gay Messiah.” It’s overall a wonderful album, just like its predecessor, if only slightly less so. And Wainwright remains the North American songwriter most worth watching.

#5. Muse, Absolution.

Was a time when this widescreen firecracker was a sure bet for the top three. Muse is often written off as a louder Radiohead, but while they share the blueprint, Matt Bellamy and his crew take it to stratospheric heights Thom Yorke and his haven’t even aimed for in years. Absolution is a concept record about insecurity and wonder, and its sound strains against the confines of any system you play it on. It’s huge. Every song is lovingly sculpted, and every sound is crafted and labored over, from the jackhammer guitars of “Stockholm Syndrome” to the gorgeous atmospheres of “Falling Away With You.” Still, the most arresting and wondrous element here is Bellamy’s voice, unrestrained by gravity and humanity, flying and swooping and spinning all about this album. Yes, it’s huge, but sounds this big need an endless sky to play in, and Absolution takes all the space it needs.

#4. U2, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb.

I, for one, never lost faith. I took every one of U2’s ‘90s albums in stride, no matter how awful they were, and held out hope for a return to greatness. And here is my reward – the first U2 album since 1987 that I truly, desperately love. Bono found his voice, Edge found his amp, and the foursome found some terrific songs on their 11th record. I can’t even adequately describe the joy of hearing an old-time circular guitar tune like “Miracle Drug” or a perfect singalong like “City of Blinding Lights” or a rocker that truly rocks like “All Because of You” from this band again. Cancel the funeral – U2 is alive and kicking, and after a decade in the gutter, they’re reaching for the stars again.

#3. Marillion, Marbles.

This fantastic voyage had a lock on the number one spot for months, and I’m still surprised that not one, but two albums blew it out of the water. That’s because it seems unsinkable – it is the best album ever by one of my favorite bands, and it takes you on a 100-minute trip of head-spinning and heart-rending proportions. Much has been written about the way Marbles was marketed and sold – its recording, mixing, packaging and promotion were all paid for by fan pre-orders, and they ended up with a pair of top 20 singles, stunning the British music industry. But all that would mean nothing if the album weren’t incredible, and it is. From the creepy wonderama of “The Invisible Man” to the pop perfection of “You’re Gone” to the smooth blues of “Angelina” to the blissful playout of “Neverland,” everything here clicks. And then there is “Ocean Cloud,” an 18-minute trip all to itself, which I still consider my favorite song of the year. Through it all, Marillion do what they do best – head music for the soul. This is tricky, complex, literate stuff that somehow cuts through its own pedigree and hits your emotional center. It is, in short, beautiful, and the band deserves all its success. Viva la revolution!

#2. Keane, Hopes and Fears.

So how did this comparatively small and slight album best Marillion’s magnum opus? I’m still not sure. I voted with my heart on this one, and Keane’s debut album simply shone more light into the corners of my year. Marbles is a draining experience, in the most positive of senses, whereas Hopes and Fears is compact and thrilling. It makes you want to press play again the second it stops. That this is the band’s first stab at an album is simply mindboggling, and it sets the bar insanely high for their follow-up. These are 11 of the catchiest and most well-written songs you will find anywhere, delivered with no guitars, but with Tim Rice-Oxley’s gorgeous piano work and Tom Chaplin’s strong, clear, outstanding voice. Keane is the discovery of the year, bar none, and perhaps the culmination of Britpop’s recent journey. From the perfect opening trilogy to the deep and dreamy “Bedshaped,” from first note to last, Hopes and Fears is a treasure.

Which takes us to the best of the best, and when your top five is as impressive as this one, the only thing that can round it out is one of the greatest records ever made. Hyperbole? Perhaps, but nothing flipped my particular switch this year like this one did:

#1. Brian Wilson, SMiLE.

It took Wilson 38 years to finish his teenage symphony to God, and it will probably take another 38 years for pop music to catch up with it. Wilson started SMiLE as the Beach Boys’ follow-up to Pet Sounds, but the sessions were abandoned after the other Boys (and their label) heaped disdain on the material. They called it silly, and goony, and odd, and it is. It’s also unmistakably, unbelievably brilliant, and its completion firmly cements Wilson as perhaps the greatest pop songwriter and composer America has ever produced. No one, before or since, has ever attempted, much less pulled off, a suite of pop songs quite this intricate and joyful. SMiLE is the infinite possibility of music, grinning at you and inviting you in.

If you couldn’t tell, I love this record.

It’s not just that SMiLE’s completion is redemptive for Wilson, although that plays into my love a little bit. Wilson overcame a debilitating fear of this music, and his own mental breakdown, to finally put it all together, and that act of courage alone deserved the huge standing ovation he received at the piece’s premiere. But it’s not just that. Even shorn of its lengthy history and presented fresh, the work of a new band, SMiLE would stand as a masterpiece, and would be atop this list. The music is just that good. This is full-color pop music, the kind that makes everything else seem slow-motion by comparison. It sounds not so much timeless as completely out of time.

It’s not just the composition, it’s the arrangement, the recording, the performance, everything. SMiLE utilizes an array of instruments the Polyphonic Spree would kill for, and still the most amazing thing about it, sonically, is the vocals. They’re inhumanly dense and sweet, and if I didn’t know that the Wilson band (known as the Wondermints in their off hours) can play and sing this stuff live, I’d think it impossible. Instrumentally, SMiLE throws a million ideas a second at you, especially in its goony final third, and the phenomenal vocal arrangements keep pace.

SMiLE is three suites, and while the Americana-inspired first and the absurdly complex third will make your head swirl about, the deeply emotional second suite is the heart of the album. It concludes with “Surf’s Up,” Wilson’s greatest melodic triumph. Given all of pop music from which to choose, I would probably name the ascending chorus melody of this song as my favorite moment. If Wilson had written nothing but “God Only Knows” and this, he would still be in my songwriters’ pantheon.

I do have some concerns about the relative newness of this record. Most of it was written in 1966, even though these recordings are new. It concludes with “Good Vibrations,” which no one would ever mistake for a new song. Almost all of it has appeared in one form or another across numerous Beach Boys releases – there’s even an album called Surf’s Up. How to justify naming an album of 38-year-old songs as the best new release of 2004?

It’s a valid question. I spent a lot of time this year talking about the album-length piece, though, and SMiLE is the perfect expression of my point. Before Wilson sat down with Van Dyke Parks last year and made the final compositional stitches, SMiLE did not exist. The album is much more than the sum of its songs, and I would argue that this new recording is its first appearance. The album is all about context, and hearing “Good Vibrations” as the final act of SMiLE is like hearing “A Day in the Life” at the end of Sgt. Pepper. Wilson intended SMiLE to run in this order when he first conceived it, and the intervening years and scraps from the original sessions don’t prevent this from being a whole new thing, contextually speaking.

Whether this is a rationalization or not, you’ll have to judge for yourself. I can only say that this is easily, far and away, the best thing I heard this year (or last year, or the year before that, etc.), and I couldn’t conceive of this list without Wilson at its head. The biggest reason is almost embarrassing, really – SMiLE is pure joy, pure love, pure possibility, and I haven’t heard anything this open-hearted in so long. Musicians these days spend far too much time defining themselves by what they are not, boxing themselves in and building walls. Wilson’s music is anything and everything, welcoming and warm, joyous and bright. SMiLE is a gift we don’t deserve, and I, for one, am grateful for it.

And that’s it. Thanks for plowing through it. I’m edging close to 4,000 words, which may be a new record. Next week, I’m off for Christmas break, but Year Five starts on January 5, 2005. Should be easy to remember. Thanks for reading Year Four, and have a very merry.

See you in line Tuesday morning… and to all a good night.

A few months ago, I was gazing out my second-story window as three big men took down a rotten tree in my yard. I did everything I could to turn that into some sort of thematic statement, but I couldn’t get it to work for me. Sometimes, metaphors are tricky little buggers.

And sometimes, they just write themselves.

Just to drive the point home. It’s called the Liberty Tree. And it was taken down for public safety reasons. Wow. It’s modern America in symbolic miniature.

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My original plan for this week was to write a lengthy column catching up on worthy records I just didn’t get to over the past few months. There are quite a few, including missives from Green Day, A Perfect Circle, King’s X, Neal Morse and John Lennon. But then I took a look at January’s barren desert of no new music, and decided to hold on to these reviews, lest I have nothing to talk about until Valentine’s Day.

So I picked one for this week, and it wasn’t hard to choose.

Mike Roe is an absolute renaissance man. He has tried his hand at a dozen different styles, and pulled off each one wonderfully. But that unpredictability has sometimes been a drawback for Roe, since newbies don’t know where to start sampling his massive catalog. The novice who sees an acoustic concert and then picks up Orbis or A Golden Field of Radioactive Crows might not come back for more. Roe skips around, musically speaking, and he doesn’t often leave a road map for curious potential fans to follow.

Lately, though, he’s been neatly dividing his interests into four boxes, each with different names, and while I object to categorization from a purely artistic standpoint, the separation does help with suggesting entry points. With the Lost Dogs, Roe is an Elvis-loving country crooner with strong gospel roots, and you can hear that on every Dogs album since their 1992 debut Scenic Routes. With the 77s, Roe is a full-on blues-inspired rock machine, best evidenced by Tom Tom Blues and Golden Field. On his own, Roe is an acoustic folkie with a knack for self-deprecation and spiritual uplift, as heard on Say Your Prayers and It’s For You.

And when he teams with 77s bassist Mark Harmon, the duo turns out experimental, groovy electronic jam music. This side has showcased Roe the guitarist better than any other lately, with dynamic instrumental records like Orbis. Harmon seems to bring out the ambitious side of Roe, and their projects together have been layered, knotty and demanding, but very worth the time. Orbis especially is a little off-putting at first, opening with a 10-minute sound-effects-laden free-for-all and continuing wordlessly for 78 minutes.

One would be forgiven for expecting the same from an album called Fun With Sound, but one would be wrong. Roe and Harmon’s new record, released under the resurrected Seven and Seven Is moniker, is a full-on vocals-and-guitars collection of glorious pop songs, reminiscent of Roe’s The Boat Ashore. It’s a lovely piece of work, subtle and enveloping, and it continues the amazing streak Roe has been on these past few years, in all of his incarnations.

Fun With Sound is so titled because Roe and Harmon have knocked themselves out on the production front here. The drums are all programmed and sampled, keyboard effects weave in and out, and Roe’s guitar takes on personality after personality. If you’ve heard Orbis, imagine taking the more melodic sections of that piece and writing songs around that sonic template. The grooves are sweet, the melodies sweeter, and the blankets of overdubbed guitar are sweetest of all.

Opener “Gone in a Moment” sets the mood for the record, then bursts out of it with a perfect bridge. Listen to Roe and Harmon playing around each other on the beautiful extended ambient coda, and then dig the intro to “A Quiet Little Place,” on which Harmon takes the lead with his fretless bass. These two have been playing together for more than a decade, long enough to continually push each other to new heights. They harmonize delightfully on the tricky “My World Inside,” and practically duel on the fiery “L’Orbis/Jack Spoiler.”

Lyrically, this album treads familiar ground for Roe – broken hearts and downtrodden souls. He gets positively optimistic on “Ride the Waves,” but takes the emotional current of “Say So Long to Your Sad Old Love Song” as far as it will carry him. And in “Guadalupe” he pens a lovely tribute to Gene Eugene, the former Lost Dog and Adam Again mastermind who passed away in 2000. (Guadalupe was the rumored title of the sixth Adam Again album, which Eugene never got to make.) He ends with a nod to his gospel roots on “I Will Run to the City of Refuge,” with a Zeppelin twist. It’s the heaviest thing here, and makes for an explosive conclusion.

I’ve often said that there are only a few guitarists I will never tire of listening to, and Mike Roe is one of them. His six-string is everywhere on Fun With Sound, adding flourishes and weaving webs. And when he solos, as on “Thank You For Your Dreams,” it’s a wonder to behold. I will never figure out why guitar magazines aren’t falling all over this guy – he’s an obvious master with a lyrical tone and a deeply emotional playing style. Roe should have disciples who transcribe his every lick and try to play them with as much heart as he does. Just listen to the lengthy, lovely ending of “Sad Old Love Song” if you don’t believe me.

It wouldn’t be stretching too far to consider Fun With Sound the best thing Roe has done in years, even considering the steep competition. This is a record that spotlights just about everything he does well – the guitar playing of Daydream, the songwriting of the 77s’ Direct, the perfect production of Orbis, the lyrics and sweet, sweet vocals of Say Your Prayers. This is not an experimental toss-off, it’s the real deal. If you’ve never sampled Roe’s work before, this is a great place to start.

It’s beyond me why you can’t walk into any record store and buy this, but you can’t – like most of Roe’s work, it’s only available at 77s.com and related websites. You can listen to clips from every song there as well. While you’re there, pick up Direct, Golden Field, Prayers, It’s For You… hell, everything. It’s all good.

Next week, the Top 10 List, and likely a lengthy justification of my choice for number one.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So I’m flipping back through my archive, and I’m re-listening to some old records, because I can’t quite put myself into a 2000 frame of mind. I need to ask you all this, though, because I don’t think I imagined it.

Eminem used to have something to say, right?

Back when The Marshall Mathers LP came out, it seemed like we were welcoming a new master of the form. I even named Eminem’s second album as the best record of 2000, feeling pretty confident in my assertion that Em was, in fact, underrated as an artist because of his subject matter and frequent profanity. Marshall Mathers was a grand-scale satire perpetrated on the music business and on its lambs-to-the-slaughter fans, willing to emulate whatever the stars told them to do. It was an exaggerated pile of lies from the mouth of a multiple-personality maniac with a cop-out for every occasion.

And it was thrilling.

Even musically, The Marshall Mathers LP was a good pop album. It’s no secret that Em’s flow is best when it’s fast and sarcastic. He’s got lyrical tricks most MCs never learn, and his internal rhyme structure is second to none. You never know which direction his rhymes will go, largely because you never know which of his personalities will come in to lead the lyrical train of thought next. Some gave me grief about my praise of this record, but I stand by it. As a rapper, a writer, and a cultural theorist, Eminem is almost absurdly talented.

So what happened?

In 2002, he released The Eminem Show, the final act of his opening trilogy, and it broke the mold of his first two by drawing back the curtain. Instead of pathological liar and certified nutjob Slim Shady at the wheel, this one featured just plain ol’ Marshall Mathers, regular guy. He laid bare the joke behind The Marshall Mathers LP in his opening shot, “White America,” and went on to discuss fatherhood, family and emotions. It was the rap equivalent of an Ani Difranco album – here’s what’s going on in my life right now, as plainly as I can state it.

He even started to show signs of social responsibility on tracks like “My Dad’s Gone Crazy,” on which he admitted that he wouldn’t let his daughter listen to his songs. The Eminem Show was a good finale, a decent last bow out. After all, what can a magician do after he’s explained his tricks? Nothing but pack up and go home, of course, unless the audience demands an Encore.

Eminem’s fourth album was more than two years in the making, and it proves conclusively that the demand for his work has outlasted his supply of worthwhile material. The 23-track Encore is so long that three songs spill over onto a second disc, and I can count the ones worthy of release on one hand. With several fingers left, including Em’s favorite one. Its title is appropriate – Encore feels like a collection of leftovers from the last record, played as half the house is heading for their cars.

The joke this time seems to be that Eminem fans will buy whatever half-hearted, uninspired work he turns out. There is ample evidence throughout this record that Em didn’t even try. The lyrics on Encore seem to have been made up on the spot, rambling as they do through every thought that crosses Mathers’ mind. “My 1st Single” repeats belching and farting noises while Em sings “poo poo ka ka” seriously and brags about ruining a catchy song with silly verses. And you haven’t heard anyone waste a beat like Mathers does on “Big Weenie,” which sounds like something Alanis Morissette would have written in her notebook in second grade.

Roughly half the record is given over to stream-of-consciousness freestyles about… pretty much nothing. Shady makes his one token appearance on “Just Lose It,” sadly the sprightliest track, and without his guidance, Eminem just isn’t very funny. His targets are broad and simple this time, too. I mean, Michael Jackson? I tired of making fun of Michael Jackson when I was in a high school band. And get this, Em reserves a whole song (“Ass Like That”) to shoot back at Triumph the Insult Comic Dog. I’m not sure Mathers got the memo, but Triumph is a puppet. He’s not real.

To be fair, Mathers does swing for the big boys once or twice. “Mosh” is a sustained burst of venom aimed right at George W. Bush, on which Em suggests that the president should be given an AK-47 and sent to fight his own oil wars. But mostly, the barbs are blunted and the humor is scarce. Encore is the first Eminem album that really isn’t any fun at all.

Which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing if diary-entry Marshall Mathers weren’t so boring. He gives a dry cataloguing of rappers with grudges against him in “Like Toy Soldiers” that’s a chore to plow through (despite the catchy Martika sample), and even musters up an honest-to-gosh apology on “Yellow Brick Road.” His ode to Kim this time out is “Puke,” a very silly trifle that doesn’t even touch the Shady-fueled murder fantasies of previous records. And his lullaby to his daughter Hailie, “Mockingbird,” is sweet, but doesn’t pack the punch of “Hailie’s Song.” Even the violence fantasia, “One Shot 2 Shot,” is riddled with fear and social conscience. Not that that’s a bad thing, of course, but it is less dangerous and less interesting.

Essentially, we as listeners are the single girls of the world, and Eminem has become the nice guy we all say we want. The truth is, of course, that we don’t want the nice guy, we want the unpredictable, scary, potentially violent guy, because he’s just more interesting. Even the shoot-the-audience finale of this record can’t balance off the nearly 80 minutes of lazy, sensitive, confessional drivel before it.

Now, normally, I am the undying champion of the nice guy. So why in this case am I less interested in Mathers without his psychotic, lying alter egos? I’m not sure, but I think it has something to do with the music. Rap is a lyric-driven art form, much like folk music, and without a captivating perspective fueling the lyrics, the repetition gets dull. The music on Encore is stark, simplistic and hookless. The focus has to be on the lyrics. With his words, Mathers could have taken the blank slate of his backing tracks and shaped them into something gripping.

But no. Mathers has dispensed with his fascinating lies and manipulations, but hasn’t replaced them with anything. He rambles, he talks about what a dangerous rapper he is without once proving it, and he sounds afraid to offend. He writes about his life without giving you a window into it, often adding syllables and lines just to fill up space. Drawing from life is fine, of course – most of my favorite artists do little else – but what separates the artist from the guy on the street is perspective. Mathers has the skill, but he’s failed to present a compelling point of view.

And this from the guy who was all point of view four years ago. The best we can hope for is that Encore is a transitional album, a bridge from the Sybil-esque carnival of the first three into something else. It seems more likely, though, that the master satirist only had the one trick, and he’s all out of things to say. Eminem is too talented a rapper to waste his time on albums like this. Let’s hope he finds his focus soon, because Encore is the least interesting and least forgivable thing he’s done.

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This is the second column I wrote this week. The first is more bloggy, dealing with a wedding and a celebrity death and other personal-type non-music-review things. It’s in the archive if you’d like to read it.

Next week, we play catch-up as a prelude to the following week’s Top 10 List.

See you in line Tuesday morning.