It’s impossible to escape politics in Washington, D.C., even miles outside the city limits—even in a leafy national park, even during a rock ’n’ roll show. Nowhere else in America could you expect to see scantily clad female fans waving magic-markered posters that declare, “Guster *heart*’s Campaign Finance Reform.”

Such light-hearted civics lessons were par for the course Tuesday night, as Guster shared the stage with Rufus Wainwright and Ben Folds at the Wolf Trap’s Filene Center in Vienna, Va. By the end of the night, the unlikely tourmates had treated the audience to several wry soliloquies on their perception of the state of the union (“not so hot,” in case you were wondering). Thankfully, they also remembered they were there to make music.

The co-billed acts have been rotating the performance order throughout the month-long tour, and this was Wainwright’s night in the opening slot. The lanky troubadour ambled into the cavernous outdoor amphitheater to scattered applause, the evening sky still light as concertgoers trickled in from picnic dinners on the lawn.

Alternating between sitting at his piano and perching on a stool with a guitar, Wainwright moved gracefully through a set that gave equal time to his older classics (“Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk,” a sly ode to the seduction of overindulgence), recent hits (the operatic “Vibrate,” before which he invoked the spirit of soprano Renee Fleming to help him sustain the final note), and favorite covers (a simple, unadorned version of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” that rivals Jeff Buckley’s rendition).

Wainwright also introduced several new pieces, including the lovely and tremulous “Agnus Dei”—sung entirely in Latin—from the upcoming Want Two. Evidence of a religious conversion? Who knows. While clearly chastened by a recent recovery from his party-boy days, the diva in Wainwright couldn’t resist anchoring his set with a different kind of hymn—a rollicking, innuendo-laced ditty by the name of (paging controversy on line 1!) “Gay Messiah.” Wainwright (or “Rufus the Baptist,” as he dubs himself in the song) couched the number in a political context, urging the audience to get out the vote against anti-gay conservatives, but “Messiah” is more irreverent parody than outraged propaganda.

As the sinking sun began to cast shadows, Wainwright gave the overwhelming impression of someone haunted by the past—his own, as well as those who’ve gone before him. Dressed in black (and fabulous snakeskin shoes) in honor of Johnny Cash, Wainwright demonstrated he knows the value of homage. Along with carefully chosen covers, he wove the influence of great artists into the fabric of his original work without waxing derivative. He prefaced “Want,” for instance, by noting that it mentions “great songwriters like John Lennon, Leonard Cohen and my dad.”

In that song, Wainwright revealed other ghosts that pursue him, insisting he doesn’t want to be any of those men—except for his father, folk musician Loudon Wainwright III. Family, in all its dysfunctional glory and pain, is a fundamental theme for Wainwright, who invited his mother, the legendary Kate McGarrigle, onstage to accompany him for “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” (“I’ve had to sing this song since the age of six,” he said. “Two,” Mom corrected him. “Since the womb,” he shot back.) In the set closer, “Dinner at Eight,” Wainwright admitted that he’s still wrestling with his upbringing. “This is about my dad,” he said bluntly, and went on to croon heartbreaking lyrics:

Why is it so
That I've always been the one who must go
That I've always been the one told to flee
When it fact you were the one long ago
Actually in the drifting white snow
You left me.

The great shame of Wainwright’s otherwise stunning performance was that it fell prey to all the hazards of a large, outdoor venue. The buzzing audience couldn’t seem to pay attention; the enormous space in the Wolf Trap managed to handle the lush, baroque layers that characterize his album sound, but it also gobbled up the strains of his elegant solo piano. Wainwright’s musical style and personality are better suited to a more intimate setting, and it’s unfortunate that both his subtlety and virtuosity were so ill serviced by the oversized room.

As soon as Wainwright left the stage, it became evident which artist most of the audience was there to see. A small but adamant army (there’s no such thing as a lukewarm Guster fan), they were out in force at the Wolf Trap.

Me, I’m not a natural-born Guster lover. I was prepared to write them off as a boy band for college students who also like jambands (guitarist Adam Gardner could easily pass for heartthrob Nick Lachey). But after witnessing them live, it’s easy to see why they’re so universally adored. Darned if those Guster guys aren’t likeable, energetic fellows whose creativity and talent feed directly off the enthusiasm of the crowd.

The core of Guster—Gardner, Ryan Miller and Brian Rosenworcel—came together at Tufts University in the early ’90s with only the essentials: two guitars and some bongos. Over the years, their sound has evolved from three guys jamming in a dorm room into a five-piece wall of sound, making for a delightful paradox in their live performances. Guster may come across as a well-oiled, pop-rock machine these days (thanks largely to new member Joe Pisapia, a musical jack-of-all-trades who adds both depth and breadth to the repertoire), but it’s also retained its laid-back, self-deprecating hippie soul.

As a live unit, Guster had everything going for it—Rosenworcel’s hyperactive drumming, Miller and Gardner’s tight harmonies as they traded lead vocals, Pisapia’s multi-instrumental chops. What drove the show, though, was the mutual affection between musicians and audience, Guster’s huge, overarching exuberance working symbiotically with the crowd’s. The guys on the stage seemed just as thrilled as the audience on the floor during the opening notes of “Amsterdam,” Gardner mouthing lyrics like a giddy fanboy whenever he stepped away from the mic. A bouncy cover of Belle & Sebastian’s “Boy with the Arab Strap” had the place on its feet, clapping “for five minutes straight” as Miller instructed them.

Guster’s melodies still aren’t particularly complicated—nor the lyrics more than serviceably clever—but clearly, that’s not why people get into them. Most bands give their listeners lip service, but you can tell Guster really, really likes the people who come to its shows, right down to the good natured ribbing fans receive on its website. Sure, sometimes I wanted to say to the girl next to me, “Honey? If you cheer the whole time, you can’t actually hear the sweet harmonies during the breakdown.” But I probably would’ve just killed her buzz, and nobody likes a curmudgeon. It’s easy to be a cynic among Guster fans—but it’s just not as much fun as giving in to the sing-alongs.

When I’m honest, though, I have no room to get snarky about Guster fans. After all, the way they love Guster—shamelessly, zealously, jubilantly—is the exact same way I love the next artist who takes the stage. If there’s one man for whom I will swallow my journalistic pride and pump my fist in the air with abandon, it’s Ben Folds.

Like Wainwright, Folds made pop music safe for the piano again, its popularity having taken a hit during the grunge era. But Folds’ approach to the keyboard, his entire posture before it, was so opposite Wainwright’s that they might as well have been playing two different instruments. As could be expected from a guy with a punk background and more than a little energy to burn, Folds crouched before the piano as if about to pounce. He attacked, he pounded, he pummeled—a kamikaze Jerry Lee Lewis in Buddy Holly glasses hitting gloriously atonal chords.

Folds’ high-strung exuberance played well in the Wolf Trap, which was packed to capacity by then. At that point in the night, the crowd was well-lubricated and ready to do anything Folds asked of them—good thing, since he demands a lot from an audience. Guster worshippers may bop along in rapt adoration, but Folds fans are left to shout key lyrics (“God, please spare me more rejection!” during “Army”) and provide the “bitchin’ horn section” by imitating saxophones and trumpets in the same number. It’s safe to say that Folds spent as much time standing on top of his piano as sitting in front of it, conducting the crowd like the deranged director of a high-school glee club.

But Folds is also capable of taking it down a notch; he’s the master of the delicate, heartbreaking piano ballad. “Gracie,” a new one about his four-year-old daughter, captured endearing snapshots of fatherhood; the line “you’ll be a lady soon / but till then / you gotta do what I say” earned a gentle chuckle from the crowd. Folds quieted the audience completely with another new song “for anyone who loved Elliott Smith’s music as much as I did,” a frank, shattering address to the recently deceased singer/songwriter that concludes, “It’s too late / It’s been too late for a long time.”

Like a musical David Sedaris, Folds excelled at sly jokes that, in the next beat, twisted into woefully bittersweet parables, moving effortlessly from the sardonic to the sentimental and back again. In set opener “There’s Always Someone Cooler Than You,” Folds was plaintive as he indicted hipper-than-thou poseurs, alternating embarrassingly earnest lines with the invective he’s known for: “Life is beautiful / We’re all children of / One big universe / So you don’t have to be / A chump.” Later, In “All U Can Eat,” from the recent EP Sunny 16, Folds envisioned himself on a Wal-Mart loudspeaker, calling out Americans who “give no f*ck / They buy as much as they want.” The song had a deeply sad musical quality to it, as Folds mourned, “God made us number one because he loves us the best / Well, he should go bless somebody else for awhile / Give us a rest.”

Much of Folds’ schtick, however, is just unequivocally goofy. He infused the classic “Philosophy” with pulse-pounding take-offs on “Chopsticks” and “Rhapsody in Blue,” raising his eyebrows at the audience to see if they were enjoying the joke. His notorious potty-mouth played front-and-center, as he took full advantage of the sign-language interpreter provided by the Wolf Trap standing at stage right. He’d throw extra profanity in where it didn’t belong, then glance gleefully at her to “see how you sign ‘a**hole.’” Childish and obnoxious, maybe, but it brought the house down—and had the middle-aged interpreter in fits of laughter.

The night’s best moments came when Folds invited his tourmates to accompany him. Wainwright swaggered out for a mind-melting cover of George Michael’s “Careless Whispers,” a song so terrible it was nothing short of irresistible as the piano men belted, “Guil-ty feet have got no rhy-thm” in soaring harmony. Later, Guster joined Folds for “Give My Notice to Judy,” which disintegrated into the raucous, barely controlled chaos of live favorite “Rock This Bitch,” with Folds screaming incoherently in hair-rocker falsetto and the Guster guys grinning as they switched up instruments and went along for the ride.

In his final gesture, Folds once again called upon the audience for backup, dividing it into sections to provide a three-part harmony in “Not the Same.” After charging through the gorgeous number—one of his best—Folds climbed atop the piano and, assuming his choir director persona, let the audience have the last word. The notes were sung over and over again as he crept off the stage without fanfare, creating a moment so spine-tinglingly beautiful and harmonious that, just for an instant, it was possible to forget we were outside the most politically polarized city in America.

Faced with millions of dollars in losses, Lollapalooza promoters and organizers made the decision to pull the 2004 tour this morning, a mere three weeks prior to kick-off. Despite having arguably the best line-up since the tour's inception in 1991, billing respected artists like Morissey, Sonic Youth, PJ Harvey and The Flaming Lips, the festival still faced weak revenue and poor ticket sales.

Marc Geiger, co-founder of the tour stated, "I am in utter disbelief that a concert of this stature, with the most exciting line-up I've seen in years did not galvanize ticket sales. I'm surprised that given the great bands and the reduced ticket prices that we didn't have enough sales to sustain the tour. Concert promoters across the country are facing similar problems. Many summer tours are experiencing weak ticket sales."

Fans who have already purchased tickets will be given full refunds, according to the festival website.

Congratulations to Nic Harcourt of KCRW who airs the 1,000th show of Morning Becomes Eclectic today, June 21. L.A. band Ozomatli will perform new material during the milestone broadcast, which can be heard again online from 4 to 7 p.m. and from 2 to 5 a.m. (PST). www.kcrwmusic.com

Morning Becomes Eclectic is the signature music program of 89.9 KCRW and has spawned a nationally-distributed weekly show. Host Nic Harcourt promotes a wide range of music, including progressive pop, world beat, jazz, African, reggae and new music. His radio show airs online and out of the Santa Monica station from 9 a.m. to noon weekdays (PST).

For the latest feel-good hits of the summer, look toward San Francisco indie-poppers Rogue Wave. Although this debut album was originally released in 2003, it’s fair to assume that few have actually heard the captivating Out of the Shadow due to it’s irritating lack of availability. Now that the album is being re-released on Sub Pop, former desoto red, Zach Rogue—armed with his killer singing and songwriting—is sure to be breaking and mending many hearts.

With just a taste of sweet, acoustic guitar nestling up to charming harmonies on tunes like “Be Kind & Remind” and “Kicking the Heart Out,” the grassy fields and green trees will come a-callin’. The album provides many upbeat melodies, going over like Belle & Sebastian and Yo La Tengo. “Endless Shovel” mixes up that bright hippie West Coast vibe, throwing in healthy dashes of poppy delight.

If you’re digging the Death Cab for Cutie sound, but don’t want to deal with the emotional baggage that comes with it, take this album out into the sun with a mojito, and simmer.

This month, Chapel Hill, N.C., label Yep Roc has seven scheduled releases to note. Former Flat Duo Jets frontman Dexter Romweber released Blues That Defy My Soul on the first of this month. Today, June 15, Grammy-winner Dave Alvin releases his Yep Roc debut Ashgrove, and Chris Stamey—dB’s co-founder and well-known producer (Whiskeytown, Yo La Tengo)—will release Travels in the South.

June 29 will herald the rest of the releases, with new albums from Philly’s Marah and Atlanta’s The Forty-Fives becoming available. Revival, the new record from Texas punkabilly staple The Reverend Horton Heat, will also hit stores. Tres Chicas—a side project from Whiskytown’s Caitlin Cary, Glory Fountain’s Lynn Blakey and Hazeldine’s Tonya Lamm—will also release its debut album Sweetwater on this date.

This weekend, in a post on the band's website, Leftover Salmon dispeled rumors of its impending breakup, but informed fans the band would be taking a hiatus. After 15 years on the road and after forging-on in the wake of banjo player Mark Vann's death from cancer in 2002, the band felt it was finally time for a vacation. Here's part of the band's message to fans (for more visit www.leftoversalmon.net):

"The band is indeed going to take a break at the end of this year. After years of touring everyone is ready for some time off to spend with their families and to pursue solo projects that Salmon's busy schedule has not permitted. As of right now the future of Leftover Salmon is uncertain but the band is not breaking up, just taking a break.

"Mark wanted us to continue after he left the band and that's what we did. We have toured just as hard, rebuilt the band and put out a new record. Now we feel that we can take a break without letting him down.

"We're all very proud of our latest release, Leftover Salmon, and after experiencing so many ups and downs, it feels right to step back while on this high. We want to thank the Salmon family, our friends and especially our fans as this dream would have never come true if it wasn't for you. We look forward to seeing your faces as we continue to perform in various projects and hope you will all support our decisions and future ventures. This band has created a lifetime of memories for us and that is something that can never go away."

The Pixies have written and recorded a brand new song, the band's first in 13 years.

"Bam Thwok" was penned by Kim Deal and produced and recorded by the band at Stagg Street Studios in Los Angeles this past March. The song's music had its genesis in a chord progression Deal had been toying with for a while, and the lyrics from an art book she found discarded on a city street a number of years ago, while on tour.

"From the handwriting, you could tell that this book must have belonged to a little kid," Deal said. "This kid had written a short story, a paragraph really, about a party that took place in another universe, about people and monsters that were partying together. That's what provided the inspiration for the lyrics."

The song's chorus goes, "Love. Bang. Crash. Wakka, wakka, Bam Thwok."

"It's a song about loving everyone," Deal added, "showing good will to everyone."

The Pixies arranged and rehearsed the song at guitarist Joey Santiago's home studio, which includes a 15-second carousel-esque organ solo performed and recorded many years ago by Santiago's father-in-law while he was doing missionary work in the Philippines.

Said Frank Black, "Recording ['Bam Thwok'] was a nice way for us to break the ice after twelve years. The recording process was very relaxed and it didn't feel like twelve years had passed."

As the Pixies are not currently affiliated with a record label, they had the luxury of making their first new song available to fans everyhwere quickly and at a low price. Starting today, you can purchase it for $.99 exclusively at Apple's iTunes Music Store.

Beverly Hills, Calif. — Music legend and 13-time Grammy winner Ray Charles died yesterday at 11:35 a.m. at the age of 73 from complications due to liver disease, announced his publicist Jerry Digney, of Solters & Digney.

When he passed, Charles was surrounded by family, friends and longtime business associates at his Beverly Hills home.

Charles' last public appearance was alongside Clint Eastwood on April 30, when the city of Los Angeles designated the singer's studios a historic landmark.

Last summer, it was initially reported that Charles—born in Albany, Ga., Sept. 30, 1930, as Ray Charles Robinson—was suffering from "acute hip discomfort."

But when doctors treated Charles in Los Angeles and performed a successful hip replacement procedure, other ailments were diagnosed, including liver disease.

Prior to his death, Charles finalized a duets album, Genius Loves Company for the Concord label, his first new album since 2001. Norah Jones, BB King, Willie Nelson, Michael McDonald, Bonnie Raitt, Gladys Knight, Johnny Mathis and James Taylor are just a few of the artists involved with the project, which is scheduled for release Aug. 31.

"The duets project has been a tremendous experience," Charles said, at the outset of recording. "I am working with some of the best artists in the business, as well as some of my dearest friends."

Said Jo Foster of Concord Records, "We are truly grateful that we were able to work with [Mr. Charles] on his last recording and, like the rest of the world, will always be thankful to have the gift of his music. We will miss him not only for his artistic genius, but also for his exceptional personal character. He was an extraordinarily generous individual, a man of honor and tremendous integrity with an incredible sense of humor."

One of the many examples of his generosity and integrity, Charles recently okayed plans for the building of the Ray Charles Performing Arts Center at Morehouse College in Atlanta. Charles was also awarded the prestigious "President's Merit Award" from the Grammy organization just prior to the 2004 Awards show, and was named a City of Los Angeles "Cultural Treasure" by Mayor James Hahn during an African American Heritage Month ceremony in February. Charles also received the NAACP Image Awards' "Hall of Fame Award" on March 6 this year.

An accomplished pianist and songwriter, Charles was considered the father of soul music, a unique R&B forerunner to rock 'n' roll and other musical offspring.

During a career that spanned some 58 years, Charles recorded over 250 albums, many of them top sellers in a variety of musical genres. A true musical pioneer, Charles became an American cultural icon decades ago. Among his most memorable hits are "What'd I Say," "I Got A Woman," "Georgia," "Born To Lose," "Hit the Road Jack" and "I Can't Stop Loving You."

Charles also covered such popular fare as The Beatles' "Eleanor Rugby" and "Yesterday." Among the singer's most moving and enduring musical recordings is his oft-played rendition of "America The Beautiful."

And he appeared in movies, like The Blues Brothers, and on television, starring in commercials for Pepsi and California Raisins, among numerous others.

After going blind from glaucoma at the age of seven, Charles was sent to the St. Augustine, Fla., School for the deaf and blind, where he developed his enormous musical gift. The young pianist eventually made his way to Seattle, Wash., performing as a solo act, first modeling himself after Nat "King" Cole. While in Seattle, he met a young Quincy Jones and they became lifelong friends.

In the late 1940s, Charles established a name for himself in clubs around the Northwest, evolving his music and singing style, which later included the famous back up singers, "The Raelettes."

While in Seattle, he dropped the "Robinson" from his name to avoid confusion with the legendary boxer. A recording career began in earnest in 1949 and Charles soon started a musical experiment, mixing genres like jazz, blues, R&B, country, pop and gospel. These experiments manifested themselves in 1955 with the successful release of "I Got a Woman."

It's reported that in devising the song, Charles reworded the tune, "Jesus is all the World to Me," adding deep church inflections to the secular rhythms of the nightclubs. "I Got A Woman" is popularly credited as the first true "soul" record.

Last August, Charles—who hadn't missed a tour in 53 consecutive years—cancelled the remaining dates of his 2003 tour due to illness.

"It breaks my heart to withdraw from these shows," he said at the time. "All my life, I've been touring and performing. It's what I do. But the doctors insist I stay put and mend for a while, so I'll heed their advice."

While remaining in Los Angeles, Charles continued a light work load at his studios and offices, overseeing production of new releases for his own label, Crossover Records, mixing a long-planned gospel CD and beginning work on the duets album.

A feature film based on his life story, Unchain My Heart, The Ray Charles Story, starring Jamie Foxx as Charles, completed principal filming early last summer and is scheduled for release this fall. Also appearing in the film are Larenz Tate as Quincy Jones and Usher Raymond as Jackie Wilson.

Charles' final public performance was July 20, 2003, in Alexandria, Va.

"Ray Charles was a true original, a musical genius and a friend and brother to me," said Joe Adams, the entertainer's longtime manager and business partner. "He pioneered a new style and opened the door for many young performers to follow. Some of his biggest fans were the young music stars of today, who loved and admired his talent and independent spirit."

In addition to his multiple Grammy Awards (including one for Lifetime Achievement) Charles is also one of the original inductees into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and a recipient of the Presidential Medal for the Arts, France's Legion of Honor and the Kennedy Center Honors.

He was also inducted into numerous other music Halls of Fame, including those for Jazz and Rhythm and Blues, a testament to his enormous influence.

"You can't run away from yourself," Charles once said. "I was raised in the church and was around blues and would hear all these musicians on the jukeboxes and then I would go to revival meetings on Sunday morning. So I would get both sides of music. A lot of people at the time thought it was sacrilegious, but all I was doing was singing the way I felt."

Sixteen years ago, Charles established the Ray Charles Robinson Foundation for the hearing impaired. Since its creation, the foundation—with Charles' encouragement and generous, on-going funding, has blazed a trail of discovery in auditory physiology and hearing implantation. Each such implant procedure costs upwards of $40,000, which the Foundation pays to have done. And of some 145-celebrity charities, the Ray Charles Foundation is rated by non-profit experts as one of the top five most efficient with zero administrative overhead.

Early last summer, Charles performed his 10,000th career concert at the Greek Theater in Los Angeles and in 2002 also starred in a concert at the Colosseum in Rome, the first musical performance there in 2,000 years.

"Music to me is just like breathing," Charles once told an interviewer from USA Today. "I have to have it. It's part of me."

Despite recent health challenges, Charles was planning to again start touring in mid-June and the sudden setback in his recovery was a shock to all. Eleven children, 20 grandchildren and five great grandchildren survive Charles, who will be remembered late next week in a memorial service at the Fame Church in central Los Angeles with interment at Inglewood Cemetery in Inglewood, Calif.

Of all the articles written about Dios thus far, three specific things about the band members are always mentioned: They hail from Hawthorne, once home to The Beach Boys; they’ve been named NME’s band to watch in 2004 after only having been a band for a year-and-a-half; and their fanatical admiration for the Brothers Wilson is rumored to have driven them to sign their record contract in the exact same diner the Beach Boys used to sign theirs with Capitol.

Brothers and songwriters Joel and Kevin Morales attended nearby El Camino college with keyboardist Jimmy Cabeza de Vaca, bassist J.P. Caballero and drummer Jackie Monzon. And for these five musicians, there’s no place like home. On the way to a Denny’s in San Diego, just down the street from The Casbah where they were to play later that night, Jimmy stops to snap a photo of the Hawthorn Street sign with his point-and-shoot. “I gotta get a picture of this,” he says.

The story of Dios actually goes back six years to when Kevin and Joel started writing songs at home. (“50 Cents,” from the band’s self-titled debut actually has its roots in this period.) Jimmy, J.P. and Jackie joined a couple years later to round out the band’s sunny psychedelic-folk sound and start playing some gigs.

Since then, the band has shared bills with Grandaddy and Beulah, and played major festivals like Coachella, but their earliest gigs were in the most unlikely places.

“We’d play anywhere that would let us,” says Joel. “We played at coffeehouses, bars, an arcade in Fullerton—anywhere, basically. The thing is, four years ago, we weren’t really trying to play shows. We’d play shows maybe, once every six months.”

Back then, Dios was known simply as God. But, says J.P., they decided to change their almighty moniker after seeing a CD by another band called, “God” when they played a session at underground L.A. radio station KXLU. Joel replies, “I just thought it was because it was a stupid name. Dios is a little less stupid.”

Now, however—thanks to the arrogance of a well-known metal icon—the band has been threatened to change its name, again.

“We got a letter from Ronnie James Dio’s lawyer that said ‘Ronnie James Dio is a legendary heavy-metal vocalist,’” says J.P. “‘Over twenty multi-platinum records sold worldwide.’”

“Now we’re going to change our name to Malmsteens,” Jimmy jests, taking a jab at ’80s neoclassical guitar-shredder Yngwie Malmsteen.

“I guess it’s cool, though,” says Joel. “[Dio]’s heard of us. But we can argue that we’re Mexican and its Spanish.”

So with a name decided on, and a plentiful supply of songs (the band reportedly has three albums worth of material backlogged), it came time for Dios to record an album. The band’s debut—an epic amalgam of Neil Young folk-rock, Beatles-style harmonies, Wilco-esque grit, Flaming Lips head trips and Floydian psych-epics—was finished by the beginning of last year. Not yet inked to Star Time International, who currently signs their advances, the fivesome recorded the bulk of the music in J.P.’s garage, his own home studio. And how did he finance this studio? Sales of highly sought-after bootlegs on eBay.

Gesturing to J.P., Joel says, “He likes to wheel and deal and undercut everybody.”

“He’s an eBay pirate,” Jimmy adds.

“You made a killing didn’t you?” Joel asks his subdued chum.

“I’m not gonna say how much I made, but it’s in the ballpark of one dollar to ten grand,” J.P. says between bites of his club sandwich. “It skews high, though.”

Caballero’s investment must have been a wise one, because the quintet has done all its recording up to this point on his equipment. It was good enough to sell their debut to Star Time and, according to the band members, it’s their chosen method of recording in the future.

“We’ve done everything on our own,” says Joel. “We just don’t have that kind of money. And we don’t have the patience to deal with people who don’t know what we want. We know we’re limited by what we have. And we don’t need super hi-fi equipment.”

The inside cover art of the band’s heady self-titled pop masterpiece of a debut, depicts the Foster’s Freeze where The Beach Boys reportedly penned “Fun, Fun, Fun.” This fact may have been the source of the rumors surrounding their supposed quest to be signed in the same diner that Capitol signed the Beach Boys in. But Joel contends this is merely a myth.

“We went to the diner,” he says. “They probably ate there, but it was across the street from the Foster’s Freeze, where they used to hang out and either wrote a song there or heard their song on the radio for the first time or something.”

Joel pauses to dip a french fry in a glob of ranch dressing.

“I don’t know who made that one up.”

While on tour this April in Fairfax, Va., Amy Dykes— vocalist for electropop duo I Am The World Trade Center—fell ill and had to be rushed to the hospital by bandmate Dan Geller.

After a series of tests, Dykes was diganosed with Hodgkins Lymphoma (cancer of the Lympahtic System). The tour was immediatley canceled, and Dykes is now undergoing chemotherapy.

To help raise money for the ailing singer's medical expenses, there will be a benefit in her hometown of Athens, Ga., this Friday, June 11, at 9 p.m. at dance club Boneshakers.

The benefit will feature like-minded local dance-party acts like the Krush Girls and the Baxterstreet Boyz.

There is also a benefit scheduled for July 4 in Phoenix, Ariz. So far, the group Mighty Six Ninety is on the bill. Further info on bands and a venue will be forthcoming.

For more detailed information on Amy's bout with cancer, and for updates on her condition please visit the I Am The World Trade Center website.

Also, to learn more about Hodgkins Lymphoma, visit the Lymphoma Information Network website.

Brit-pop band the Trashcan Sinatras will release Weightlifting, their first album in eight years on spinART records (Camper Van Beethoven, The Church). The new record will hit stores in the U.S. and Canada on Aug. 31, followed by a tour this fall. The Scottish group expects to play 15 to 25 dates to reintroduce themselves to major markets.

Considered the musical forefathers to Radiohead, Travis and Coldplay, the peaceful sounds of the Trashcans may have been ahead of their time when the group released Cake in 1990. Though it was a well-received debut, by the time the Scottish band released its sophomore effort I’ve Seen Everything in 1993, grunge had taken hold of the industry, and listeners were more apt to smell like teen spirit than the Trashcans. Angst-ridden chords quelled the group’s calmer melodies, and their 1996 album Happy Pocket was never even released in the U.S.

But, at last, musical tastes have shifted, and North American soil may finally be primed for the Trashcan Sinatras to take hold.

Pedro The Lion is currently posting a new live MP3 everyday from the band's summer tour—new songs, old songs, sound checks, record store and radio station performances and more—available for free if you've purchased the band's latest, Achilles Heel.

Each mp3 will be posted at 2 p.m. (Central Time) and will be available for 24 hours. Think of it as a audio documentary of the tour, the band told fans in an email. To download the songs, you'll need a username and password that can be found in the liner notes of copies of the Achilles Heel CD and LP.

If you've already got your password, here's the link: www.pedrothelion.com/downloads.

Finally, something to fill the void left behind when HBO’s fantastically bizarre Mr. Show left us all too soon. Though this live comedy record is a far cry from the program’s out-there Bob-and-David sketches, Cross and his stand-up comedy are the epitome of the underdog. Always looking the part of the nerd—with his shiny head and thick-rimmed glasses, forever in khaki shorts and a faded T-shirt—Cross’ humor skips back and forth from quirky political satire to cleverly observant people-watching.

Recorded earlier this year, the material focuses heavily on Iraq and the War on Terrorism. Spitting forth hysterical diatribes on the idiocy of the terror alerts, Strom Thurmond’s “color-blind johnson,” George W. Bush’s baby-eating habits, and racism in his hometown of Atlanta, Cross sounds fiercely intelligent without crossing over into the overbearing snobbery of some social commentary. Pulling off the “guy at the bar” mentality with seasoned comedy class, he’s a speaker you can relate to, yet look to for insight and answers in today’s slightly mad world.

Jonny Greenwood's Bodysong is the first full-length extracurricular project released by a member of Radiohead. We now have audible proof that supposed control freak Thom Yorke hasn't been entirely responsible for the anti-pop tendencies that followed the band's 1997 breakthrough OK Computer. But anyone who's seen Greenwood put his guitar down at a show and hunch over his effect pedals while simultaneously manipulating a transistor radio and a wall of Moog modules could have told you that.

It's important to distinguish Bodysong as a film score as opposed to a "Jonny Greenwood solo album." Simon Pummell's Brit Award-winning film analyzes human life experience in purely visual terms, and this score provides the only "narration." The fact that Greenwood's signature guitar playing appears on only two of the album's thirteen tracks reinforces this project's role of servitude.

Regardless, there are plenty of markers to help recognize Bodysong as a Radiohead-related project. The lumbering piano chords of the opening "Moon Trills" reflect back to Amnesiac's "Pyramid Song," the keyboard serving as a relaxing element, even as fluttering violins create mounting tension. Greenwood's considerable use of live strings and horns traces back to Kid A's "The National Anthem," while tracks like "Trench" feature the sonic manipulation and sound masking in the rhythm section that has characterized Radiohead's last three albums.

The band’s recent avant-garde flourishes mark the starting point rather than the extreme for this Greenwood project, however. And it's in his use of acoustic instruments, not electronics, where his boundaries are pushed furthest. Jazz-based tracks like the furious "Splitter" compare to David Byrne's recent Lead Us Not Into Temptation (the soundtrack to the Scottish film Young Adam). The gizmos are pushed aside (or at least into the back seat, as in "Milky Drops from Heaven") in favor of several minutes of bebop sax and trumpet scatting over skittering jazz drumming. And the string bass and trumpet give these tracks a seedy nightclub feel.

"Convergence" begins with the cacophony of seemingly random beats played on different percussion instruments. After minutes of clatter, the patterns coalesce into a rhythmic whole. The piece then pulses forward like a heartbeat, with all the random systems working toward one common thrust.

"Iron Swallow" feels like a step backward in time, with its soothing violin melody courtesy of The Emperor Quartet. The quartet also appears on "Glass Light/Broken Hearts," though during this track, the strings share space with electronic instruments. The song offers a melancholy twist on "Rites of Spring" with its fluttering violin refrain.

"24 Hour Charleston" features Greenwood's bluesy, acoustic guitar, reminiscent of recent Radiohead b-side "I am a Wicked Child." Also on hand are plunky banjo, angular electric guitar skronk (pushed well into the background), and Matmos-flavored ambient/rhythmic textures. Brother and bandmate Colin Greenwood provides bass guitar for the track.

After the introduction provided by "Moon Trills," "Moon Mall" launches the journey through Bodysong by simultaneously projecting serenity, chaos and clinical detachment. Without having seen the film, one can imagine this piece acting as an audible metaphor for the maternity ward and childbirth. The set closes with "Tehellet," evoking a somber and mournful funeral procession. These two pieces bookend the growth, order, chaos and range of activities and emotions that fall in between. Experience the sound of a life as imagined by Jonny Greenwood, all in the span of 45 minutes.

Last night I climbed into my beater ’89 Honda Accord and drove across Atlanta to see Harry Connick, Jr.’s performance at Chastain Park Amphitheatre. The dark underbelly of the Chastain experience involves getting within a mile or so of the park, at which point you begrudgingly join the crawling single-file motorcade of luxury cars in search of parking. Bad traffic, the great equalizer, a pox blighting the moods of Lexus- and Honda-owners alike. A mere 45 minutes later, once the idea of parking proved more than just a hypothetical, I finally tramped the final stretch toward the amphitheatre, in a foul mood, determined to hate all things Harry. The party had started without me, but I could already catch the distant brassy squall of Connick’s accompanying big band, which sounded downright elephantine, even from 100 yards outside the amphitheatre.

“He’s on his fifth song,” the gate attendant volunteered as she held out the remaining portion of my freshly ripped ticket stub. “Thanks,” I replied, my mind clouding up with profanity. A few moments later, after shuffling down the spacious aisle to seat #35—apologizing every few seconds for obstructing the view of posh silver-haired gentlemen and their pink-shirted, Ann Taylor-clad spouses, many of whom were refilling wine glasses with Cabernet Sauvignon and picking at spinach salads spread out on small candle-lit, cloth-covered tables (or the odd Igloo cooler)—I slumped down and turned my attention toward the stage. Off in the distance, a speck I took on faith to be Harry Connick, Jr. hunched reverently over a grand piano, bobbing his head like a pious man praying (perhaps he was, in his own fashion), fingers dancing feverishly up and down the ivory keys.

My dour mood sufficiently bathed in song and now glistening faintly around the edges, I settled into my seat while the darkening sky, having apparently soaked up my previous frustration, sent scattered drops onto the heads of the enormous crowd packed into the sloping amphitheatre. But this man on stage, this 36-year-old jazz crooner, consummate entertainer and quintessential fantasy partner of bored American housewives, seemed unfazed by the inclement weather, leading his band charismatically through one swinging big-band chart after another. Every so often, a saxophone or trumpet or trombone soloist would amble toward the stage apron and launch into a wild, inspired, blistering run of notes that left the crowd screaming like Holy Spirit-filled Beatlemaniacs. My personal favorite was the tenor sax soloist who, while honking and squealing in bouts of improvisational ecstasy, strutted across the stage alternately hunched over like some demented musical Quasimodo and reared straight-backed and stiff like rigor mortis had settled in prematurely.

Connick would not be upstaged, however, working the 7,000-person crowd as effortlessly as one of the much smaller New York hotspots at which he performed regularly in the late ‘80s after relocating from New Orleans to the Big Apple. When he wasn’t pimping his newest CD, Only You, a collection of standards from the ’50s and ’60s (“The president of my record label asked me to record an album of songs from his generation. What could I do? Say no?”) he was busy sending the crowd into paroxysms of laughter, riffing with mildly affected lisp—an obvious self-parody—on the metrosexual leanings of a nearby Atlanta mall where he’d purchased a $400 Gucci shirt the previous afternoon for tonight’s concert.

He frequently approached the foot of the stage, schmoozing good-naturedly and mugging for pictures with people who held ticket stubs so expensive they might as well have had Gucci tags hanging from them. At one point, he asked a group of pre-pubescent girls in the front row mock-defensively, “Do you even know who I am?” and then responded for them (with a slightly more exaggerated lisp), “Hmm… he’s not JC Chasez and he doesn’t have the guns to be Nick Lachey.” But Connick didn’t come off all winks and nudges and sport. Toward the end of the show, before easing into a powerful, inspired rendition of “The Old Rugged Cross,” he dedicated the song to Bob, a favorite professor who’d taught theology at his former Jesuit high school and “answered a lot of questions for me.”

Harry Connick, Jr. While his name may not be as instantly recognizable to younger listeners as, say, Incubus (which is how the aforementioned cluster of girls responded when asked by Connick to name their favorite band), he re-planted the holy fear of jazz in this occasionally-more-mature audiophile. And by mixing studied professionalism, off-the-cuff swagger and a true entertainer’s heart, he helped thousands of us huddled together in the midst of a drizzly Atlanta night realize that, while one pair of old blue eyes may have closed six years ago, a new pair are alive and bright.

The reunited hip-hop group Goodie Mob will release its new studio album One Monkey Don’t Stop No Show on June 29. Considered to be one of the most influential hip-hop acts to come out of the South, the Atlanta-based group is known for its pioneering production (provided by Organized Noise) and lyrical content that focuses on serious themes. Along with close friends OutKast, Goodie Mob helped prove hip-hop was more than a strictly East Coast/West Coast phenomenon.

One Monkey Don’t Stop No Show is the group’s first album since it downsized from four members to three, following the departure of Cee-Lo. The remaining members (Khujo Goodie, Big Gipp and T-Mo Goodie) released this statement about the split: "We wish Cee-Lo much success, but...one monkey don't stop no show. The Goodie Mob is a movement—comprised of thousands of fans, in the streets. This is real thrill music; it's down south southern cookin'.”

The new album’s first single “Play Your Flutes” features Sleepy Brown, with a cameo in the video by Big Boi of OutKast. For a limited time, Goodie Mob’s new CD will be packaged with a 40-minute DVD documentary The History of Goodie Mob, featuring interviews with group members as well as Big Boi, Sleepy Brown and Organized Noise.

Since releasing a self-titled solo album last week, Melissa Auf der Maur has a string of upcoming performances. The former Hole and Smashing Pumpkins bassist will appear on Late Night with Conan O’Brien on June 17 and then on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno on July 6. Auf der Maur will also join The Cure’s summer Curiosa tour.

AUF DER MAUR ON THE CURE'S CURIOSA TOUR

• 7/24 - West Palm, Fla., Sound Advice Amphitheater

• 7/25 - Tampa, Fla., Tampa Amphitheater

• 7/28 - Nashville, Tenn., Starwood Amphitheater

• 7/29 - Atlanta, Ga., HiFi Buys Amphitheater

• 7/31 - New York, N.Y., Randall's Island

• 8/1 - Camden, N.J., Tweeter Center

• 8/3 - Cincinnati, Ohio, Riverbend Music Center

• 8/4 - Cleveland, Ohio, Blossom Music Center

• 8/6 - Washington, D.C., Merriweather Post Pavilion

• 8/7 - Boston, Mass., Tweeter Center

• 8/9 - Toronto, Canada, Molson Amphitheater

• 8/11 - Detroit, Mich., DTE Energy Music Theater

• 8/12 - Chicago, Ill., Tweeter Center

• 8/14 - Dallas, Texas, Smirnoff Music Center

• 8/15 - Houston, Texas, Cynthia Woods Mitchell Pavilion

• 8/17 - Denver, Colo., Coors Amphitheatre

Spearhead frontman Michael Franti is currently in the Middle East with a delegation of artists, peace workers, musicians and filmmakers. The group will travel to Israel and Iraq from June 2 through June 15, making a documentary film about its experiences. Though no concerts are planned, Franti and others would like to meet with as many Iraqi musicians and artists as possible.

Regarding the trip, Franti said he intends "to go there with an open mind, an open heart and a guitar, to experience as much as I can in our limited time. I hope that upon our return all of us on the trip will become more effective communicators for those whose voices are going unheard."

The delegation is looking for donations to cover some of the costs of the trip, as well as the production of the film. Anyone interested can go to www.spearheadvibrations.com to contribute to the Power to the Peaceful fund, as well as view Franti’s Middle East diary.

Franti and Spearhead will spend the rest of the summer touring, with stops at the U.K.’s Glastonbury Festival and the U.S.’s Lollapalooza Festival. On July 13, an acoustic collection from Franti, Songs from the Front Porch, will be released.

The Betweeners are aptly named, describing themselves as “blues, bluegrass … and everything in between.” The indie trio’s first CD, Matador Karma, creates a rootsy blend, infusing bluegrass and blues with folk and straight-up country. The result is a hum-worthy Americana mix that's been likened to the Flatlanders and The Band.

The first two songs “No New Tales” and “360 Degrees” immediately induce toe-tapping as the Kentucky musicians combine swing and soul with plenty of pickin’. Frontman Stephen Couch’s classic-country baritone has a warm, thick resonance, and the melodies he sings rise smoothly to the top like cream in a butter churn. But rural stereotypes be damned—this band isn’t just comprised of tea-sipping crooners ‘down in the holler.’

The Betweeners take old forms and tackle the issues—everything from the Grateful Dead to environmentalism and religion. They keep things surprisingly light, delivering solid punch lines and clever word play. In “Beanstalk in My Bed,” the band recalls a Deadhead’s wild past using nursery rhymes, singing, “was it the parties or the stories / that destroyed my mind / they both had a lot of lines.”

The group calls attention to athletic teams’ exploitation of Native Americans in “Chief Seattle’s Blues,” noting, “It’s the land of the free, where the mascots can be red in the home of the blues.” The Betweeners’ lyrics—while playful at times—have depth and, like the band’s sound, are layered and satisfying.

If you’re looking for progressive subject matter from traditional musical genres, your craving will be satisfied somewhere amidst Matador Karma's 13 tracks. The Betweeners would fit right in at a local bluegrass festival or even at other festivals… where grass of another sort is preferred.

To purchase a copy of Matador Karma, visit The Betweeners' website.

Long-running Vancouver-based punk rockers The Smugglers might be releasing their eighth studio album, but they still sound fresh. On first listen, the fast-paced garage-tinged flavor of “The Get Up Syndrome” or the Americana groove of “Mach 1” will have you thinking The Smugglers are a new gem from California’s Lookout! Records. But the band’s been together since 1988.

Occasionally straying from Stones-meets-Clash, dirty garage-punk rock, the group wanders into more melodic territory—the closing track, “That Sound,” soaking you with the sweet and whimsical sound of indie rockers like Belle & Sebastian and Death Cab For Cutie.

But don’t expect any absence of ballsy rocking out on this record. The group takes a speedy ride through AC/DC country on “Shock the Shanker,” and sounds like The Ramones partying with the Beach Boys on “Pirate Ship,” its tribute to UK pirate radio stations. As singer Grant Lawrence belts out, “Turn up the Pirate Ships / and we’ll rock ’n’ roll back and forth with you,” the rest of group chimes in with ironic backup “la-la-las,” invoking images of a mock ’60s female doo-wop group.

For the most part, The Smugglers’ Mutiny In Stereo is more good-and-dirty fun. Whether fast-and-furious, loud-and-obnoxious or soft-and-melodic, the group will win you over with its ear-catching punk rock. If it hasn’t already.

Since returning home from Mule Train MMIV— the tour I embarked upon with my band, The Commonwealth, in early 2004 aboard the Amtrak Crescent—trains both here and abroad have taken a serious beating.

First the commuter-train bombings in Madrid, which (a) killed 191 passengers, and (b) offered a superfluous reminder of the strange and threatening world in which we live. And more recently, an Amtrak train heading from New Orleans to Chicago derailed in Mississippi, critically injuring 15 and killing one. But don’t give up on trains. They played an integral part in the building of our nation and wait patiently in iron stables to carry you wherever you feel like going.

My own journey proved long and difficult and altogether worthwhile. Amtrak was fantastic. The porters, conductors, engineers—the entire crew of the Crescent—were supportive of our trek. My label, Sugar Hill, embraced the idea and did all it could to make things happen. Rick Cady, my booking agent, did a magnificent job putting together a run of 15 cities. The rest, however, was up to us.

Well, the Amtrack Crescent is a Northbound Train
The Number 20. It runs faithfully from New Orleans to New York City, while the Number 19 starts in New York and heads south. Like a word problem from high-school algebra, they pass one another somewhere en route and we actually get to see them both stop in Birmingham at the same station. We’re told this is rare.

So, I Bought the Cheapest Ticket and Carried My Clothes
I’d never traveled first class on anything, and I can assure you that first class on a train does not disappoint. Engineered for the most efficient use of space, the sleeping car resembles the inside of a VW microbus. We regrettably had to downgrade to coach later in the trip, but we were all glad to be back in the Viewline Standard Sleeper for our return trip from New York to Birmingham. Meals are included as well, and we’re not talking camp food. There’s beer and a smoking lounge. A smoking lounge.

And the Blood Beneath My Eyes From a Broken Nose
My mantra for The Commonwealth has always been “one song, one show at a time.” People are forking out their hard-earned cash to come see us play, the least we can do is quit bitching and give them everything we have. Human beings need goals, and on this trip the goal is to rock every stop between New Orleans and New York City, one song and one city at a time. I should also add that during my long career I have generally gained fans in the same way I lose them: one at a time.

When Life Goes Wrong This Train Rolls On
And us along with it. The band, our crew—the Crescent, its crew. You wouldn’t believe the number of people before the tour who emailed to say, “I can’t believe you’re not stopping here because we’re on the line” or “I can’t believe you’re not stopping there because it’s such a nice station.” There may be two trains (running in opposite directions) but there’s only one chance to catch your train.

If it departs from Charlottesville at 6:30 in the morning after you rock ’n’ rolled pretty hard the previous night (because your hometown mayor hauled your father and half your former high school teachers over the mountain for the show, making you so nervous you got piss drunk), you still have to wake up and catch your train. This is not a commuter train. This is a real train, with an engine and crew. It’s been running since 1891, back when it was called the Southern Crescent. The train is its own living and breathing thing. Get on board and you’ll see. Oh, and quit Monday-morning quarterbacking the tour itinerary. Try and put a rock ’n’ roll band on a train schedule and see how you do.

Listen to me, the tour just started and I’m already cranky.

So I Crossed into Georgia & into Eastern Time
Did you know that the railroads created time zones? There weren’t any in America before the train. But from Georgia to New York, we were in the time zone of my youth, Eastern. Or as I like to call it, GT: God’s Time. Exodus, 6am EDT.

When Life Goes Wrong It Just Goes On and On
Especially at this point of the tour—after I had acquired the vicious head cold, bruised ribs and the ever-present road hangover.

You know, I’m not the biggest or toughest guy around. But when I was working on our farm, my dad would hire the football team to come help us bail hay, and I could outwork them all. We still used square bales then and it would take two-to-three weeks to put up two-to-three thousand. Each bale was handled and stacked after it came flying full force out of the kick baler, which could shoot a bale of hay weighing 50 to 70 pounds approximately 30 feet.

The trick to stacking hay is not strength but leverage and endurance. Same goes for touring. And it’s not for everybody. But with rock ’n’ roll, somehow I’m always ready. I feel lucky to have heard my calling.

At a Stop in Charlotte Found a Hog’s Leg Joint
Seemed Like Forever Until We Reached High Point
Charlotte is a strange place. Back in the ’80s, all the talk revolved around the question, “What’s going to be the new city of the new, new South?” Birmingham? Atlanta? Charlotte? Well, I guess Coca-Cola, CNN and a president from the state of Georgia put Atlanta over the top, although Charlotte got the banking centers and eventually a pro football team of its own. (The Carolina Panthers played in the Super Bowl while we were in Charlotte, and it was a good game. I heard some sort of brouhaha about the half-time show and saw Janet Jackson’s bewildered mug on the cover of every newspaper for the next week-and-a-half, so I’m assuming she really knocked ’em dead.)

I used to give Charlotte grief for (a) trying to be Atlanta, and (b) lacking a river. However, a good friend of mine named David Childers informed me that Charlotte did indeed have a river so I reluctantly awarded it some points. A sell-out crowd at our show that night convinced me I’d been too harsh. So, in case you were wondering, Charlotte’s officially back in my good graces.

Incidentally, this was the only stop where the band and crew “went to the sinners” (i.e. visited the mall and a steak house). We could do that anywhere, of course. But guess what? We had a great time. Chalk one up for progress—Charlotte’s and mine.

Now Lynchburg to Danville is a Ghost Filled Rail
If You Listen You Can Hear the Engineer’s Wife Wail
“The Wreck of the ole ’97.” Now that’s a train song.

And we passed by where it took place. My sister lived (and died) in Lynchburg, Va. I spent many days and nights and months there. I really thought it best to pass through, especially since it was late and the sidewalks were more than likely rolled up already.

Funny story involving the Crescent, my family and Lynchburg: My cousin and his father were traveling on the Crescent headed north for D.C. and my Uncle asked the conductor at one point if they had passed Lynchburg.

“LYNCHBURG!?” the conductor responded, yanking the emergency- brake handle located in every car. “You’ve just missed it!” (Keep in mind it takes about a mile-and-a-half to stop a train, almost as much effort as it takes to get it going.) “LYNCHBURG! GET OFF!”

“Oh no,” my Uncle Roger said, “I didn’t want to get off. I just have some family there, that’s all.”

When life goes wrong it just goes on and on.

Better Say “Manassas” if You Say “Bull Run”
‘Cause in Va. You Won’t Get Along With Anyone
Some civil war battles had different names depending on which newspaper (Northern or Southern) covered them. “Shiloh” in the South was referred to as “Pittsburgh Landing” in the North. “Sharpsburg” in the South, “Anteitam” in the North. Hence “Manassas” in the South and “Bull Run” in the North. “Gettysburg” was “Gettysburg” and they were all stupid wastes of life, time and energy. So you’ll get no fight from me.

Somewhere Between Right and Wrong
Somehow I Manage to Keep Moving On
America looks grand, even from inside this train plowing stubbornly through everyone’s backyard. The shows north of the Mason-Dixon were fun and the crowds enthusiastic. I was finding an America I could stand behind. As long as it was standing in front of me.

It Takes So Much Effort to Move this Train
Why Does Everything Around Me Have to Look the Same
I tried to take a picture every 10 minutes on our ride from New York down to Baltimore. On a fast moving train, it does all look the same. But I know it’s not. I was surprised people in the “BOSWASH” corridor took some offense to those lines, but let me explain. The tidewater area I lived in for a time was all swamp grass, tidal rivers, rednecks, Native Americans and back roads perfect for cruising with the radio blasting. The lines aren’t written out of ignorance or inexperience. Once upon a time, the landscape from D.C. to New Jersey looked identical. And I’m sure it still is in some parts. Thank God.

The band, crew and I had a great time in all those cities and met some great people. Baltimore: a Northern city with Southern charm. Philadelphia: a city of neighborhoods. New York: THE city. I shall return to them all, and hopefully soon.

When Life Goes Wrong It Just Goes On and On
When Life Goes Wrong, It Just Drags On
So here we are in April and I’ve been home for a month trying to write songs for the next record. It’s not coming to me yet but it will. My wife’s father isn’t well. My parents aren’t spring chickens anymore either. Someone ran a stop sign and totaled our car, and in the days that followed I answered the phone every five minutes to some ambulance chaser checking up on “our health” following the accident. Our bathtub is falling through the floor and I have a colonoscopy tomorrow (my sister died of colon cancer at my age). The war in Iraq is out of control, the 9/11 Commission is doing nothing but blaming each other for something no one could control, we have a Republican president who spends like a Democrat and taxes are due tomorrow.

Makes me want to get on a train and ride somewhere. Anywhere.

—Scott Miller, April 14, 2004

A simple, descending blues figure played on a banjo, an alluring, slightly weary voice, then a manic, stringed kr-thunk. It’s the first minute of Eszter Balint’s new album Mud (Bar/None), and the singer/songwriter has already staked out a barbed musical territory of her own, somewhere between Nashville and No Wave.

Balint’s backstory is laden with journalistic factoids—born to members of a dissident theatre troupe in Cold War Hungary; emigration to New York during the early ’80s; acting roles in movies by Jim Jarmusch and Woody Allen—but music has been her primary interest since the early ’90s. Mud is the product of four years’ work on the road and in Balint’s home studio, and follows the critical and cult success of 1999’s Flicker. “[At the time,] I was really into Beck, P.J. Harvey, Björk—there was all this cool stuff actually getting played on the radio,” says Balint. “With this record I can pretty honestly say nothing current [inspired me].”

Indeed, Mud—produced by J.D. Foster (who also plays on it)—betrays a sort of inwardness, a patient shaping of thoroughly digested influences. “I had to get on a kind of internal journey—which sounds really pretentious—but I had to work a lot harder to find in me what it is that I like,” Balint says. Which may explain the four-year lag time. “I’ve been sort of working on songs here and there for years, so that’s not a very concise process. … I worked a lot at home doing little home demos, little digital recording units. I set up a bunch of shows to do these songs live,” unlike her first album, she says, because “with these I wanted to feel like they were finished.”

The result is a craggy, erratic blues-rock album with literary touches (Balint is an avid reader of poetry, with Charles Simic being a current favorite). “I’ve been influenced by that kind of poetry that is very—there’s a great simplicity to it, it’s stripped down, and yet there are so many layers going on,” she says. This influence is evident in songs like “This Lie” and “No One,” and perhaps most of all in “Who Are You Now,” the final song on the album and a devastating ballad: “If you left any proof you passed this way / I mostly remember waking up one day / With no more reason to keep your shadow around / Watch it change shape as I hold what I found.” And with that the album ends, a little too soon, like a short visit with an enigmatic, welcoming friend.

You’ve got to hand it to former San Francisco resident Rich Price—as singer/songwriters go, he’s definitely his own idiosyncratic man. At his first hometown gig in years, he shows up in unassuming jeans, sandals and rumpled white T-shirt—no foppish rock finery for this fellow. And the acoustic-based songs he performs—culled from his indie debut, Night Opens, and his new Miles From Anywhere followup for Geffen—are just as basic; friendly, hook-sharp folk-pop, sung in a soft, warm voice somewhere between Jackson Browne and Dan Fogelberg. During the interview, he even allows for an ultimate rock-star faux pas—he lets his Dad sit in on the chat, who proceeds to embarrass Junior with such revelations as, “My son could always balance things on the end of his nose” and “When he was four years old, Rich was already pounding away on the piano, but it wasn’t just noise—it was melodic.”

When Pop begins to mention how much better his boy is than, say, Jack Johnson, Price turns beet-red and moans “DAAAAA-ad!” But the kid has a lot to thank his well-traveled old man for. Price was born on the Ivory Coast and subsequently relocated with his family to Taiwan, Hong Kong, London, New York and the Bay Area, where he settled for his high school years before jetting off to Oxford to earn a Masters Degree in Modern History. He even acted in some off-Broadway plays like Tom Stoppard’s surreal “15-Minute Hamlet,” before opting to record the quiet rock songs he’d been penning in a tiny Rhode Island studio. Originally, Price recalls, he just wanted to track a three-number demo. “But two songs turned to four, four into eight, eight into a full ten-song album.” For two grueling years, he put aside his chosen profession of teaching and tour-vanned it across America, playing Night Opens songs solo and selling the CD as he went.

What exactly is this college grad doing crooning gentle-on-your-mind ballads in such a late-’70s style? The blond-haired, beatnik-goateed Price has an appropriately arcane answer: “I read an interview once with Sir John Gielgud, the great English stage actor. And he was asked the difference between film acting and stage acting, and he said that—although stage acting had been his career—one of the things he loved about film acting was, you can whisper in a film. And when someone whispers, it gets right to the core of their being, and also lets the audience experience a really intimate moment.

“And one reason I chose to perform my music this way is, I’m trying to write lyrics that reveal an emotional truth that I’ve experienced,” Price continues, while Dad beams proudly. “So I try and get to a place where people can be drawn in and experience that same thing, too—experience that intimacy. I mean, look at Norah Jones. I think that’s been the true secret of her success; it’s like a nice, comforting massage, that record. A whisper can be a very moving moment.”

And besides, if all else fails, Price’s father chimes in, “Rich has always got a great education to fall back on!”

It was already far from your standard jazz-trio set when Jamie Cullum climbed under the glass-topped grand piano in the lounge of Austin’s posh, 120-year-old Driskill Hotel in front of a discerning crowd of SXSW buzz-watchers. Not wanting to damage the glass, he began slapping and kicking out a rhythm on the bottom of the piano intended to give his rendition of “I Could Have Danced All Night” a modern house beat.

Before that, Cullum stomped on the piano keyboard to drive home the point of Cole Porter’s “I Get a Kick Out of You,” and pounded on the side of the instrument while inserting “Singing in the Rain” into his jazzy cover of Radiohead’s “High and Dry.” He engaged a group of media people in clapping and singing a jazz riff from his own quarter-life-crisis anthem, “Twentysomething,” and stretched the boundaries of jazz to include a sentimental cover of Jeff Buckley’s “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over,” which rocked pretty hard toward the end. But the biggest surprise was a rollicking shot at The Neptunes’ “Frontin’,” a successful single for Cullum in Europe.

Of “Frontin’” and the rock-artist covers on his Verve debut, Twentysomething, the 24-year-old says he’s simply “moving the jazz tradition on a bit, because that’s what we do.” With a million copies sold in his native U.K., Cullum is eager for a U.S. release, but he’s more eager to begin thinking about his next recording and the possibility of collaborating and recording with Pharrell and The Neptunes.

What you can’t suspect going into a conversation with Cullum is the depth and breadth of his musical interests. He came to love jazz the hard way, discovering it through its progeny in hip-hop, drum & bass and even heavy metal. “It culminated,” he says, “hearing Herbie Hancock Headhunters, Miles Davis’ In a Silent Way and then I heard Harry Connick, Jr., which opened the door to Thelonius Monk and Duke Ellington.”

Just mention that he sounds a bit like Dr. John on a track on the record, and Cullum admits, “I’m a big fan. I really wanted that to come through on ‘Wind Cries Mary,’ which is from Jimi Hendrix.”

For Cullum, the real beauty of his success has been turning his listeners on to other music: “What’s happening is that young people are coming to the shows and being introduced to old music, but to them it’s new. So you get a young fan asking if I wrote “I Get a Kick Out of You,” and then older fans who come out to hear the standards are asking about “High and Dry” and wondering if they would like anything else by Radiohead. That’s cool.”

You can almost hear the pounding hooves. Throughout the eponymous V2 debut from Oxford, Miss., artist Charlie Mars, a spooky Southern Gothic aura gallops like some spectral pale stallion. Underscored by Mars’ haunted ethereal tenor and mired in swampy piano and acoustic six-string, songs like “Silver Buttons,” “Bay Springs Road,” “Gather The Horses” and “When The Sun Goes Down” channel the blood-and-dogwood spirit of decidedly Dixie authors like Cormac McCarthy. And that’s no accident, cedes the singer—“Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian is my favorite book. I’ve read it 12 times. And it’s funny—when I was really f---ed, when I was not in my right mind, I had a copy of Blood Meridian, and I would just lay in the back of my tour van and read it.” He sighs, then bashfully admits, “I don’t even understand it all—there’s so much in that book that’s over my head. But I think it was Salvador Dali who said ‘Just because I don’t understand the images in my paintings doesn’t mean that they don’t mean anything’.”

Mars also idolizes similarly cryptic Southern scribes such as Barry Hannah and Walker Percy. And his own recent circumstances read like some grim Flannery O’Connor novel. Mars, 29, released three failed independent solo efforts. This fourth outing, he says, was truly his Last Chance Texaco. Currently, he’s handled by the prestigious William Morris Agency; A year ago, he was out of money, out of bandmates, out of inspiration and literally almost out of time. “I was on the road for five years, developing some very bad habits,” he recalls. “I mean, you name it, I was using it, if you could use it to try and escape. I got to that point where I was either finished or I was gonna have to make a change. Fortunately, I had some people around me who helped me see that change was possible.”

Clear-headed, Mars determined to make this recording count. Painstakingly, he pieced the cuts together, tossing out any idea that wasn’t up to snuff. “I knew the material had to be great in order for me to rise above where I was,” he says in a loping Delta drawl. “And it took a long time for me to get enough material that I felt was great.” And he swears he’ll never detour down a blood meridian again. “I’m staying in Oxford, not moving to L.A.,” he declares devoutly. “My family lives there, it’s cheap, and the food’s really good—chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and fried okra and catfish. And it’s down-to-Earth. There are a lot of good people there who are very kind and generous, who genuinely care and want the best for you.

“And it’s important for me not to get any delusions of grandeur. I don’t need ’em. I’m happy just talking to the guy at the tire store down the street, ya know what I mean?”

I didn’t discover Joni Mitchell until her 1971 album Blue. I was holed up on a Christmas morning in a Chicago suburb, 16 years old—not wise enough to make it on my own and not foolish enough to pretend my helliday home was normal—stuck with a newly unwrapped album from Joni and a couple parents who hated each other. She sang:

It’s coming on Christmas
They’re cuttin’ down trees
They’re putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh, I wish I had a river
I could skate away on

Me too, Joni. I listened to my parents bickering. I looked at the album cover, which featured the beautiful Joni looking indescribably sad, just waiting for someone—say, a nice kid and decent skater from suburban Chicago—to help her hone those winter sporting skills. And I became an instant and lifelong fan.

There’s no great secret why, and millions of her fans will echo the same sentiments. Joni Mitchell has the uncanny ability to lay bare the most intimate details of her personal life and make them universal. Like Bob Dylan, who once turned a snub from a hotel clerk into the apocalyptic nightmare of “When The Ship Comes In,” Joni Mitchell works her magical alchemy, transforming the slightest of personal incidents into works of poetic insight and grandeur. For my money, outside of anyone named Zimmerman, she’s the greatest popular songwriter of the last half of the twentieth century.

Sometime in the mid-‘70s I saw Joni Mitchell, sort of, from the upper deck of a basketball arena in Columbus, Ohio. She was a tiny figure in the distance who may or may not have been hunched over a piano; it was hard to tell. Her intimate, confessional songs didn’t translate well into oversize barns, and at one point she stopped the concert to chide the audience for its inattention. “Why aren’t you listening?” she asked.

By then I had been listening to her music for a long time. I’d gone back and discovered those wondrous early folk albums. I’d eagerly purchased the folk/pop/jazz hybrids For the Roses and Court and Spark that followed Blue, and which found Joni at the peak of her creative powers. I stayed with her through the late-‘70s jazz experiments, when she lost much of her pop audience, and I was delighted to discover the music of Weather Report and Charles Mingus through Joni’s influence. She lost me in the early ‘80s when she started writing lyrics like, “The three great stimulants of the exhausted ones / Artifice, brutality and innocence,” which sounded like it was supposed to be incredibly profound, and which I still haven’t figured out. But she found me again on albums like Chalk Mark in a Rain Storm and Turbulent Indigo, when she rediscovered the uncharted territories of the heart.

Like many writers, Joni always wrote best about herself, and she turned navel gazing and soul baring into high art. Few musicians have had careers so consistently, relentlessly searching, and nobody has left a body of work that so openly wrestles with the contradictions of love—the magnetic pull of stability and the fear of commitment, a life caught up in a labyrinth of regret, loss, and confusion, and yet drawn on by something bright and shining that makes it all worth the chase. But the battle is full of nuance, difficult choices and uneasy alliances between the head and the heart. Maybe that’s why Joni has always spoken most clearly to me at about 2 o’clock in the morning. That’s when I can really listen. Sitting with all the lights out, maybe with a solitary candle burning in the darkness, I simply listen, and these songs still sing, still resonate with disappointment and disbelief and the stale taste of loneliness:

Richard got married to a figure skater
And he bought her a dishwasher and a coffee percolator
And he drinks at home now most nights with the TV on
And all the house lights left up bright
I’m gonna blow this damn candle out
I don’t want nobody comin’ over to my table
I got nothin’ to talk to anybody about

I hadn’t lived enough to appreciate those sentiments when I first heard them. But these days those thoughts have a peculiar logic late at night, when the past emerges from the shadows and whispers in your ear, and you remember other people and another life. Joni Mitchell conjures ghosts, and invites them to tarry on the fringes of a new life. She’s seen 60 from both sides now, and she conjures those ghosts all over again on her latest album Travelogue, reprising and re-inventing songs from her extensive back catalogue. Now late into a remarkable career, she remains a masterful singer and songwriter. And so I listen hard and listen well, and eventually blow the candle out and wander to bed, where there’s a warm body and welcoming arms. But for a while, I remember the ice, and I remember that aching desire to lace up the skates and glide away.

The narrative style of The Fifth Book of Peace will seem familiar to those who’ve read Maxine Hong Kingston’s memoir The Woman Warrior. A deliberation on violence, peace and loss, the book shifts fluidly between fiction and nonfiction, wending its way through story, philosophy, history and testimony.

In “Fire,” the book’s first nonfiction section, Kingston’s house has burned to the ground. She’s lost the jade heirloom bracelets her mother brought from China and her book manuscript (The Fourth Book of Peace), and she seeks solace from her mother. “Don’t hun things,” admonishes Brave Orchid, thankful her daughter is alive. Kingston explains that hun is “the very sound and word for pain at loss.” Through labyrinthine ruminations on war and peace, Kingston teaches us what Brave Orchid already understands: Focusing on lost objects alienates us from true loss, the wounds of heart and mind. When robbed of peace, we lose not things so much as ourselves—an intangible theft by trauma and the human capacity for violence.

Kingston explores personal loss in “Water,” a fiction section featuring the draft-dodging Wittman Ah Sing, protagonist of Kingston’s Tripmaster Monkey, and also in “Earth,” a nonfiction section. By presenting war as part of a fictional narrative taking place in the past in “Water,” we can briefly keep our distance. But “Earth” shatters that complacency, as present-day (primarily Vietnam) veterans struggle for peace in Kingston’s writing workshops.

Coming full Zen circle, she charges us to create even a moment of peace in our daily lives. She admonishes and encourages us, “The images of peace are ephemeral. The language of peace is subtle. The reasons for peace, the definitions of peace, the very idea of peace have to be invented, and invented again.” Through her narratives, Kingston—a bodhisattva of compassion—recovers life-giving perspectives on loss and shares them with us.

Popular music has been under the influence of LSD for over four decades, but you might not have realized just how pervasive the psychedelic sound has become. Employing his considerable and eclectic knowledge of multiple music genres, Jim DeRogatis’ entertaining overview follows the tendrils of “head music” through hip-hop, metal, prog, funk and numerous other styles. With a loose set of criteria for what qualifies as “psychedelic,” DeRogatis casts a wide net in his lively consideration. Unfortunately, by tossing in artists like the Velvet Underground and ambient pioneer Brian Eno, DeRogatis apparently suggests that anything veering from the norm is LSD-inspired.

That’s not to say the book isn’t a fun read, punctuated with amusing stories about the likes of acid casualty Roky Erickson and funk godfather George Clinton. However, the book disappoints by contextualizing reasons why the psychedelic aesthetic was embraced by genres like hip-hop and punk. There are moments of insight, such as the suggestion that Clinton and dub master Lee “Scratch” Perry derived their fascination for space travel as a liberating answer to the slave ships that carried away their fathers. (But DeRogatis borrows that observation from a piece by critic Robert Christgau.)

Instead, DeRogatis spends far more effort compiling lists, presumably from his own extensive record collection. Each chapter features at least one, while the whole book is a sort of über-list of “The Ultimate Psychedelic Rock Library.” To round everything off, he offers a thoroughly random list of cultural touchstones he considers symptomatic of the ongoing influence of psychedelic thought in pop culture (including the silent film Haxan, which was made more than 15 years before the discovery of LSD). This is poor scholarship and a shortcut to framing the overall work. While DeRogatis’ effort to expand the definition of psychedelic music is admirable, one is left wanting a more enlightening discussion from a book about enlightenment.

G.K. Chesterton, in his wonderful “A Defense of Nonsense,” argued that the gibberish rhymes of 19th-century writers like Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll are implicitly religious: “So long as we regard a tree as an obvious thing … we cannot properly wonder at it.” Nonsense literature undermines this obviousness by injecting “elvish dialect” into “simple and rational statements,” mixing the prosaic with the crazy and rendering the world—and its creator (if any)—interesting again.

Physicist Brian Greene’s books of science popularization, such as the Pulitzer-nominated The Elegant Universe, have an effect similar to that of nonsense literature: he writes clear, straightforward prose about mind-boggling facts. Elegant Universe covered string theory—the idea that basic units of matter are vibrating strings of energy, the character of their vibration determining the kind of particle they become. Greene’s most recent work, The Fabric of the Cosmos, deals with our evolving understanding of spacetime, involving string theory only secondarily. Beginning with the argument between Newton and Leibniz on the nature of space—is it a thing, or a word describing relations among things?—Greene then discusses Einstein’s profound reframing of the question, in which space and time turn out to be one. Next, he lays out the deep weirdness of quantum mechanics—with its probability waves and built-in uncertainty—and the way string theory resolves the difficulties between the Einsteinian and quantum visions, before considering time’s flow (actually, it doesn’t) and how cosmological study (especially the mechanics of the Big Bang) may explain time’s movement in one direction.

Wondrously informative, Greene makes comprehensible both the underlying principles and results of numerous experiments from Newton’s time onward, while—within the profusion of subjects treated—maintaining a steady focus on the idea of spacetime. He does this with a quirky genius for illustrations (many of them starring Simpsons characters) and organization. Books like his are a rare gift to the nonscientists among us, opening to us the Escher-like world of modern physics—a place seemingly invented by Captain Beefheart. This may all inspire some head-scratching, but it also awakens one’s sense of wonder; for any reader with a shred of curiosity, Greene is essential.

George Tabb endured the pain every geek, nerd and misfit encounters in adolescence, but he also had moments of triumph and revenge of which his peers could only dream. He writes about these experiences in a very real and funny way in his memoir, Playing Right Field: A Jew Grows in Greenwich. That’s no easy task, considering the extraordinary cruelty the budding young punk experienced at the hands of classmates, friends and, occasionally, his father and stepmother.

As readers of his Maximum Rock ’n’ Roll columns or fans of his now-defunct punk band Furious George already know, Tabb is not for the weak-stomached or easily offended. The two prevailing influences on young Tabb, who’s doing his best to grow up in his small Connecticut town, are violence and racism. He and his two younger brothers suffer near daily beatings at school for being the only Jews, and he takes a few more licks at home when he doesn’t live up to his father’s standard of a tough, independent son. He is robbed of his dignity, his lunch and, in one instance, some teeth as he faces a swarm of elementary-school kids armed with their parents’ ignorance and prejudice. But Tabb doesn’t go quietly. He earns grudging respect from a couple of bullies by beating them with his lunch box and pushing them out the backdoor of the school bus—while it’s still moving.

Somehow, underneath all the blood and torture, Tabb weaves together dark and poignant comedy. The lighter moments—hanging out with his mom and her boyfriend, losing his fourth-chair trumpet spot in the school band— are equally vivid and anchor the pain. It’s almost hard to believe that all of this could happen to one child. But luckily for readers, Tabb remembers all of it and remains, then as now, an innocent kid at heart.

Step Right Up fills some kind of niche: Somewhere there must be a slot left in the canon (perhaps just to the left of a collection of odes to goldfish) for an anthology of circus-related vignettes. Hell, we have nearly everything else! Publishing an anthology involves finding and elucidating common threads among disparate texts; here, apart from the circus theme, the unifying motif seems to be that we like to inflict our gaze on others if we can—view their weaknesses and aberrations—without being seen ourselves.

This tendency fuels the characters in this diverse collection, from Ray Bradbury’s boys taken from his classic Something Wicked This Way Comes and in Susan Dickinson’s younger self from “The Wages of Sin Is Death.” What disturbs about many pieces in this compilation is that this voyeuristic impulse is rarely scrutinized; rather, it’s celebrated as a seamy but worthwhile activity, as if we were to argue: “Hey, this may feel taboo, but those freaks are the outlanders—and we’re more Main Street for having seen and left them behind.”

Step Right Up offers exceptions, though. Interestingly—and no doubt deliberately—a piece written by a former carnival worker leads off the collection; thus the opening act in this show reveals the performers’ foreknowledge of all the interpretive tricks to which they are subjected in the subsequent stories. Tales like Edward Hoagland’s “Circus Music: For Clowns, Lions, and Solo Trapeze” demonstrate that the performers feel exactly the same way about the audience—or “lot lice,” as Hoagland calls them. The ordering gaze, as postmodern philosopher Michel Foucault outlines it, is turned back on us from the beginning.

The anthology’s editor asserts that freakishness is a comforting, unifying fact in our lives, and that as such, the circus is a reassuring place for us; the gaze is indeed mutual, but in a positive way. I’m not convinced. An acquaintance of mine wrote his dissertation about freak shows as a cultural phenomenon. By the end of the project, he could not bear to be in the sight of the so-called freaks themselves. When he attended carnivals and paid his 50 cents per viewing, it was clear his gaze—even an academic’s lazy eye—was being returned with extreme prejudice. He stumbled out of the tent with the sense of being judged, and found wanting. You might say the sideshow boils down to paying a huckster to guess your worth. And it can be a painful setting down, as my friend found.

There’s nothing else quite like Step Right Up. Despite the pretensions of cultural theorists regarding the carnivalesque and its importance for diversity, precious few of them actually bother to study real carnivals. Step Right Up, however, goes back to the source, and the book, in doing so, demands a different kind of reading. These stories of freak shows and circus tents highlight our own naked vulnerability—our own grotesque lack, our personal and social deformities—in bright, appealingly striped canvas.

Sometimes, a camel is just a camel. Other times, in Rose Macaulay’s droll and wise The Towers of Trebizond, a one-humped white racing camel of disputed sanity on the bridle trails of Abingdon represents everything from modern high-church Anglicanism to the narrator’s own straining soul. First published in 1956, this newly reissued novel masquerades as one of the travelogues so many of its characters are writing, in that post-war moment of reopened borders, when waves of eager British literati wandered abroad on the excuse (and expense accounts) of their promised books. That pretense both anchors the tale’s dry humor and bridges its progressively roiled depths.

The journey begins as Aunt Dot—venerable adventurer and owner of the questionable camel—determines to write a book on conditions around the Black Sea, convert Muslim women to Anglicanism so they may wear hats rather than headscarves and, not least, catch sturgeon in the Caspian. She musters her stuffy parish priest, a Turkish woman doctor, and her amanuensis niece, Laurie, leading them blithely to the Soviet border, past picky policemen, frugal vice-consuls, obsessed reporters and the Billy Graham tour bus. Thus far the jaunty surface romp. Only then do the tangential revelations of Laurie’s life coalesce into a tale sadder, more common, and altogether more compelling than her aunt’s.

The Towers of Trebizond speaks “Lake Wobegon” with an Oxbridge accent. Like Garrison Keillor’s long-running radio program, Macaulay’s meticulous, understated storytelling traces the hairline crack between laughter and tears, finds grand universals in ordinary foibles, and speaks, without blush or wink, of sin and repentance. Some of the novel’s jibes have faded with the fashions of their day, and unfamiliarity with history and religion will obscure others, but the story draws amusement and anguish from the same unfailing well of human frailty. Macaulay’s narrative never attempts to excuse iniquity or belittle its cost and allure. She makes her protagonist cling to euphoric sin even while longing for the reconciliation that requires rejecting it, and finally pushes Laurie off the fence and into a choice the character never quite means to make. Are all enduring humorists such moralists? Keillor finds his cast in “the little town that time forgot”; Macaulay trails hers through an empire history buried, staring always back at landmarks only legend remembers.

David Sedaris’ reputation as America’s preeminent smart ass is well earned, so much so he can maintain it while living in Paris. In both his print and NPR essays, he has mined just about everything in his personal life for laughs. Nothing—family, race, sexuality or Christmas—is too sacred a topic. He once gleefully bashed a children’s play and defended himself by saying, “If there’s a cancer, it’s best to treat it as early as possible.” He wasn’t much kinder to his own attempts at performance art in his previous book, Me Talk Pretty One Day.

So it should come as no surprise that in his latest, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, Sedaris once again aims his caustic wit at his family, friends and partner. He’s certainly not in unfamiliar territory: castigating his sister Tiffany for living like a slob during his short stay at her apartment, or revealing his brother Paul’s predilection for crude language. For Sedaris, a story like “Six to Eight Black Men,” which skewers Christmas customs in other countries, seems downright traditional and as brutally funny as anything he’s ever written. (The story’s title refers to the Dutch concept of Saint Nicholas who, instead of elves, “travels with what was consistently described as ‘six to eight black men’”). Sedaris has a talent for finding the oddest pockets in culture and behavior and, while turning them inside out, making what should be truly horrifying entertaining.

Most surprising about this book is how often Sedaris forgoes the sarcasm and seems genuinely hurt or affected. “The End of the Affair” is a tribute to his love for his partner, Hugh. His affection for his father is clear in “Slumus Lordicus,” in which the two of them battle a nettlesome tenant in one of his father’s buildings. But the tension over Sedaris’ homosexuality in “A Million Bubbles” is palpable, particularly because Sedaris doesn’t realize that’s why his father is kicking him out of the house. Much more than a comedic memoir about a semi-dysfunctional family, Dress Your Family is as moving as it is funny, leaving the impression that with all Sedaris has revealed, plenty remains for him to explore.

I’ll admit, I’ve been a frustrated Los Lobos fan for years. Frustrated by my friends. “Los Lobos? That ‘La Bamba’ cover band? That’s, like, Latin rock, right?”

Um, right. The kind of Latin rock that ranges from Mexican folk to earthy Americana to gritty blues to tape-looped Alternative. The kind that attracts T Bone Burnett to produce a band’s first three major-label albums. The kind that features some of the most intelligent combinations of music and word craft, ruminating on everything from love, to socio-economic issues, to community and ethnicity, to the Gospel and existential questions. The kind that features one of the most sought-after session guitarists (Hidalgo) and one of the strongest and most distinctive voices this side of Jay Farrar and Johnny Cash (Rosas). The kind that reinvents itself under Mitchell Froom to produce one of the most sonically creative, well balanced and wholly satisfying albums in modern rock (Kiko). Yes, and U2 is, like, Irish rock.

With the all-star lineup of contributors, The Ride just may garner the most attention for the band since “La Bamba.” It’s long overdue and well deserved, and not just on the basis of their history or the new collaborations. The Ride showcases a band that only 30 years of seasoning can produce. It stands alongside their best work. It doesn’t peak as high as some of their previous work, but it maintains an indefatigable excellence throughout. Highlights include the meshing of the band’s “Wicked Rain” with Womack’s “Across 110th Street,” Tom Waits and Quetzal’s Martha Gonzales on the bizarre “Kitate,” and Mavis Staples on “Someday.”

Pick up The Ride for the guests; then track down the band’s back catalog for yourself.

The date is May 25, 2004. Pedro the Lion’s new album, Achilles’ Heel, hits store shelves on an otherwise uneventful day. But as night falls over the Pacific Northwest, a seething mob of overzealous fans spills onto the lawn of frontman Dave Bazan’s Seattle residence. Disgruntled murmuring ensues, polluting an otherwise calm evening and grossly upsetting the neighbor’s tightly-wound Boston Terrier. All the while a menacing array of pitchforks and flickering torches clenched in white-knuckle fists swish violently back and forth, in addition to home-made signs bearing hastily scrawled messages. “Golly Gee, No Part III,” “Pedro the Liar” and “Down With Two-Part Trilogies!”

While Bazan hardly signed a contract with fans, the singer intimated at various stages during 2002 that his next project would wrap up a trio of concept albums. Not so. Unmistakably concept-free, Achilles’ Heel hearkens back to Pedro’s debut LP, It’s Hard To Find A Friend, reminding us that Bazan cares nothing for punch lines, just punches. These tunes simply refuse to furnish answers, spoonfed judgments or easy Ziplock-tidy moralizing. Not while there’s enough ambiguity and frustration in this world to oil the songwriting gears for another few hundred millennia, at least.

But just because the album lacks a unifying Concept doesn’t mean that it’s without a strong thematic undercurrent. Namely, the contemporary male’s sexual identity crisis, pinned as he is beneath the steaming ruins of classical masculinity, choking on patriarchy’s heady fumes. In a jaunty little number set against the dawn of communism, “A Simple Plan,” one father mourns the death of his breadwinning responsibilities: “But now that it’s over, now that we’ve won / It’s back to my bedroom alone with a shotgun / To think of my family no longer compels me / With all things in common they’ll manage without me.”

In the dreamlike, monosynth-dappled “I Do,” another man ruminates on his newborn son’s delivery: “When his tiny head emerged from blood and folds of skin / I thought to myself / If he only knew, he would climb right back in.” The crestfallen timbre of Bazan’s voice and measured delivery ensures these lyrics collide with your heart at breakneck torpidity. Especially later in the song when he resignedly continues, “Now that my blushing bride has done what she was born to do / It’s time to bury dreams and raise a son to live vicariously through.” If you’re not choking back a lump in your throat at this point, chances are you might need to reboot, my dear android friend.

Bazan’s songwriting (at least in recent years) has concerned itself with the human struggle as lived out in a domestic context. What better place to capture all the joy, angst, confusion and fragility of life? The family is, after all, the emotional root that simultaneously nourishes and poisons its offspring; it’s the microcosmic slice of humanity encapsulating all our communal experience. While Heel retains that domestic fascination on many levels, Bazan allows his gaze to wander, instead of hemming the potential for whimsy (yes, whimsy) behind rigid conceptual fences. Case in point, the album’s opener, “Bands With Managers,” a slow-burning dirge of a tune about touring rock stars, the disastrous potential for rolling 15-passenger vans and Bazan’s implicit trust in Pedro bandmate T.W. Walsh’s abilities behind the wheel.

“Foregone Conclusions” untethers Bazan’s acerbic wit in the catchiest indictment of dogmatic pestering since “Magazine” on Pedro’s last record, sporting lines such as “You were too busy steering the conversation toward the Lord / To hear the voice of the spirit begging you to shut the f--- up / You thought it must be the devil trying to make you go astray / Besides it could not have been the Lord because you don’t believe he talks that way.” In the mid-tempo pop stroll, “Arizona,” Bazan details a wonderfully bizarre (and quite possibly the first) geographical love triangle, involving an acrimonious struggle between California and New Mexico, both vying for the hand of the apparently fetching Arizona.

At the same time Bazan was kicking around the idea of putting out his own musical Return of the Jedi, he was also talking about the end of Pedro. If you’re going to call it quits, that’s what you do: you conclude a trilogy and go out with a sense of closure. I’d like to think that the diverse, unconcepted universe of Achilles’Heel means that Pedro the Lion plans to stick around for a while, reigning as King of the Indie-Rock Jungle.

Great Big Sea combines power-pop with the occasional, floating whistle or flute suggesting an Old World influence. On the more traditional Celtic-influenced folk of “John Barbour,” “Chafe’s Ceildh” and the jig “Helmethead”—with its thoroughly modern lyric—we’re reminded of this band’s Newfoundland connections. On its seventh disc, Great Big Sea has winnowed down its obvious folk roots to momentary asides from its hooky pop-rock originals. Fortunately for the band, the songs are as good as they are, but as Something Beautiful progresses, you begin missing what made this band special in the first place.

Just when it seems there’s nothing new under the hip-hop sun, artists inevitably emerge—in both the mainstream (OutKast, Black Eyed Peas) and on the fringes where you’ll find NYC-based group Automato—reminding us the field remains wide open for innovation. With a pair of emcees and a four-piece band echoing everything from Talking Heads and Brian Eno to Wu-Tang Clan, Automato deftly bridges the gap between downtown-New York experimentalism and dance-floor accessibility. The blips and beeps on “My Casio” belie the percolating bass bubbling underneath, while “The Single” weaves keys, guitar and thumb piano into a swinging, sing-song chorus. And this just scratches the surface of an album that reveals more delights with each listen.

On the first half of this impressive double-LP from Canada’s Paperboys, textured landscapes of violin, mandolin, fiddle, dulcimer and dobro support Landa’s voice throughout the collection of mellow-but-elegant Americana with a Celtic tint. Disc two switches things up quite a bit. “Perfect Stillness” is a funk junket, complete with layered horns and Rhodes keys. The upbeat tempo of the James Brown-influenced “Make Them Shine” and “Shining Through You” shuffles feet, while “Easy Chair” could easily find a place in the Van Morrison catalog.

While Landa may not possess the ferocious pipes needed to pull off the soul selections on the second disc, his voice is the perfect complement to the heartland melodica of the first. A good set overall that, with a few choice edits, might have been great.

Aerosmith might have lost you in a sea of bad production and even worse songs during the last 25 years (though, admittedly, 1989’s Pump is a guilty pleasure), but Honkin’ On Bobo is a surprising return to form for Boston’s most infamous bar band. If you dig early Aerosmith rockers like “Mama Kin” and “Train Kept A Rollin,’” or riff-saturated masterpieces like Toys in The Attic and Rocks, you’ll love the bluesy Bobo. Filled with choice, hi-octane covers of masters like Misissippi Fred McDowell, Rev. Gary Davis and Willie Dixon, this new release from Steven Tyler, Joe Perry and company will help us all remember what made Aerosmith matter in the first place … and I don’t mean power ballads.

By the time you read these words, you’ll likely be sick of hearing about “Prince’s second act.” A slobbering fan of his music since the early ’80s (my first honest-to-god “favorite album” being Purple Rain), I eventually wrote him off as closer to throwing out his hip than once more being considered hip. But here we are in the wake of already legendary performances at the Grammys and his own Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony, not to mention a wildly successful arena tour rolling along. All of this may scream out “comeback,” but what of the new record that accompanied it?

Musicology, released on (surprise!) Columbia Records, is without question a return to form (though Mr. Nelson himself might disagree). With moments ranging from classic Prince (“Musicology,” “Call My Name”) to truly funny (“Illusion, Coma, Pimp & Circumstance”) and overtly political (“Cinnamon Girl”), what comes through most clearly is that while most of us were looking the other way, Prince remained his same brilliant self. With funk rather than blood dancing through his veins, this “new” Prince may never again make anthems on the level of “Let’s Go Crazy,” “Purple Rain” or “Little Red Corvette,” but he’s still got it. And he still matters.

The demise of South African Apartheid stands as one of the most inspiring and hopeful events in modern human history. Along with the peaceful way its people, led by Archbishop Desmond Tutu and President Nelson Mandela, struggled with great honesty and integrity to come to terms with the country’s past, tempering justice with mercy for true reconciliation. On Wenyukela (Raise Your Spirit Higher), Ladysmith Black Mambazo—the African ensemble that achieved notoriety with its appearance on Paul Simon’s Graceland—celebrates the 10th anniversary of South Africa’s watershed moment. And who better equipped to deliver this commemoration than Ladysmith, with its long history of joyous hope expressed through a combination of Zulu traditions and Christian gospel? You don’t need to speak the language to appreciate this album, as the music on Wenyukela is both ebullient and infectious. Despite a couple of misfires among the 13 tracks, it’s hard not to extend grace to this collection of otherwise winsome songs.

Holy Electric Warrior. Ultra-fuzz guitars blasting out of the gates, Detroit-based band The Go kicks it with glam-bubble-gum/trash-rock bravado. This eponymous debut snakes, slithers and crawls its way through seedy back alleys of big, dumb, sexy rock ’n’ roll, gets the spins, passes out and wakes up—head pounding and fist pumping—on some graffiti-littered Motor City sidewalk. Amidst the boozed-out shuffles, there are a few Bowie/Donovan/Them-era Van Morrison-inspired moments that will suck you, willing or not, into a vacuum of late-’60s/early-’70s white R&B and art rock. Yes, it’s derivative as hell, but in the best possible way.

The first full-length release by Desaparecidos guitarist and Conor Oberst confidant Denver Dalley, Leave Your Name is perfectly produced indie-rock drama. Falling somewhere between guided shoegazing and the soaring anthemic rock of his contemporaries, Dalley bathes his arrangements in a contemplative ether, pairing pristinely shimmering synths with driving guitar distortion and serenely agitated vocals. Though not as lyrically arresting as Bright Eyes or sonically dynamic as Desaparecidos, the detail and nuance of Dalley’s songwriting requires repeated listens but rewards observant ears. Note the perfect balance between electronic and acoustic textures on the driving “Hours Seemed Like Days” or the slowly building layers and intricate counter melody of the meditative “A Number, Not a Name.” But the album’s textures tend to commingle a bit too frequently, with too many tracks arriving at an inevitable guitar climax and a few ending up a bit indistinctive both structurally and melodically.

Yes, she’s Harry’s daughter, but don’t expect the long, folky story songs her old man perfected. On her third album, Jen Chapin delivers sophisticated jazz-pop inflected by R&B and soul. Comparisons with one Norah Jones seem inevitable, however misplaced. To her credit, Chapin’s scope is broader than Jones’, both musically and lyrically, and her literate, socially conscious lyrics manage to communicate deep personal conviction without turning preachy.

Husband Stephan Crump’s bass work is exceptional throughout, Peter Rende’s keyboards are understated and sympathetic, and at their best these tunes offer fine, updated versions of the traditional jazz-piano-trio format. “Manchild,” a portrait of a gang member in the making, and “Passive People,” a scathing lament about societal apathy, are representative of Chapin’s lyrical reach, and they’re both strong and memorable.

Only one problem: Jen can’t sing like her old man, or like Norah, for that matter, and her flat, nasal delivery is off-putting and distracting. “Good at Love” answers the question of what Olive Oyl would sound like as a torch singer, and on “Hurry Up Sky,” a lament for a lost friend is sabotaged by consistently whiny vocals. There are a few songs that make me want to come back for more, but linger with this one? Only with the remote control firmly in hand.

L.A.-based dada—which saw a modicum of success in the ’90s before falling off the back of the major-label bandwagon—is a throwback to a time before multiple formats and myriad subgenres, when a group of long-haired musicians was simply a “rock band,” period. The utter lack of stylistic referencing on How to Be Found proves oddly refreshing in this age of signifiers; guitarist Michael Gurley and bassist Joie Calio play it straight, purveying virtuosic chops, tight two-part harmonies and unfailingly logical musical compositions. On sturdy rockers like “The Next Train Out of My Mind,” “Crumble” and “Any Day the Wind Blues,” Gurley, Calio and drummer Phil Leavitt scrupulously navigate through the aural architecture, building dynamically, embellishing inventively and arriving at satisfying resolutions. The band’s appeal, however, remains harnessed by the lack of a readily identifiable character and the fact that it doesn’t have anything more profound to offer than “Life is a weird thing”—oh, and love is weird, too, they add. But while the songs may not stick in your head, they sure sound good for as long as they last.

At first blush, Henry Frayne’s echoic, Joshua Tree-inspired guitars—layered over percussion and tape effects—sounds dangerously akin to the music accompanying open-road, luxury sedan commercials. But Frayne’s compositions rise above the New Age/ambient mists because, underneath the atmospherics, Lanterna conjures up solid, memorable melodic themes ranging from edgy (“Brightness”) to elegiac (“Half-Light”). Then you’ve got “Adriatic,” a gentle acoustic number reminiscent of Michael Hedges’ more straightforward compositions. Nothing too earth-shattering here, but no mere “lifestyle” background music either. Highways manages to achieve distinctiveness in a genre that’s all about blending.

Good singer/songwriters understand which emotional buttons to push in order to please audiences. Great singer/songwriters, however, coax listeners deep into another world, a place where fiction mirrors real life. Tom Russell, a lyrical master with a storytelling gift rivaling literary giants long dead, fits rather comfortably into the latter group.

On Indians, Cowboys, Horses, Dogs, Russell sketches out characters and settings rich enough to warrant novel-length treatment. Decades of blood, sweat and drink have soaked through the floorboards of Russell’s mind, irrigating tracks like “Tonight We Ride” and “All This Way For The Short Ride.” Even tunes not belonging to Russell’s pen—Dylan’s “Seven Curses” and Marty Robbins’ “El Paso”—are carefully sanded down and refinished; old relics covered with fresh paint.

This may be the first recorded example of a new sub-subgenre I’ll call emo-alt.country. Jefrey Siler, frontman of Athens’ Clemente, writes miniature narratives that sound like half of an overheard cell-phone conversation; these monologues start quietly, reluctantly, even, until the narrator abruptly summons up his courage and pours his heart out before receding into hushed tones. Siler’s vocals are unremittingly solemn, like Jay Farrar’s and, when he pushes hard, his voice gets stretched to the breaking point, bringing what visceral drama there is to the album. Its parade of ballads and midtempo tunes, adorned by mournful pedal steel and viola over thumping drums, is unvarying in feel and texture, while Siler’s lyrics, which picture everyday life in a tight close-up, typically offer a near-rhyme (or two) early on before eschewing conventional song structure for a kind of free verse. Oddly, on a record in which language is the centerpiece, the mix tends to obscure the vocals, and lacking a lyric sheet I frequently found myself adrift in mid-song. Granted, there’s a ton of heartfelt emotion on Teeth Measure the Need, but it’s delivered so unvaryingly that the end result isn’t engagement but enervation.

Like the new kid at school eager to make an impression, The Veils over-indulge a bit in the atmospheric noodling that’s proven so successful for classmates like Coldplay and Travis. But their debut, The Runaway Found, is a consistently compelling listen nonetheless, leaving you ultimately glad they showed up for class. At their sound’s core is the plaintive vocal delivery of 19-year-old frontman Finn Andrews—a mixture of heart-on-sleeve vulnerability and insouciant cynicism. As maddening a mix as that should be, it works quite nicely with the group’s material. Be it the Phil Spector-esque pomp and pop of “Guiding Light” or the dreamy smoke of “Talk Down the Girl,” one can’t help but be drawn in by the band’s utter chutzpah. So while a few tunes appear to exist solely for the sake of histrionic crescendo, The Veils are a promising candidate for an even stronger sophomore effort.

Matt Pond PA is a band, not a guy, thank you very much, although the bandleader’s name—coincidentally—happens to be Matt Pond. Funny, that. But what’s less funny and more affecting is the band’s new record, Emblems, a lush, haunting collection of superbly crafted chamber pop. Pond’s sad-eyed meditations on the doomed nature of all romance is confessional but not twee, obliquely tragic but never mopey. His voice evokes a younger, less arty Peter Gabriel—a mysterious tenor with just the right balance of distance and emotional commitment. The band fills out the tracks with economy, deference and a relaxed, propulsive backbeat that moves the record forward with palpable urgency. Find Nick Drake too dimly existential? Or Rufus Wainwright too self-indulgently theatrical? Matt Pond PA just might be the honest dose of melancholy you’re looking for.

The history of rock is full of sibling collaborations: the Everly brothers, the Davies brothers, the Wilson sisters, Jack and Meg White (actually, scratch that last one). But does shared DNA guarantee anything? In the case of CocoRosie, the answer is a simple “no.” La Maison de Mon Reve was recorded in a tiny Paris apartment by the Casady sisters (Bianca and Sierra). But while these recording environs seem terribly cosmopolitan, you’ll hear it in the mix, which bears the unmistakable sheen of something that lacks any sort of real editing. While that approach may be okay for the CD you recorded one night while drunk (and still force your friends to abide), CocoRosie’s effort has been released to the public. Samples of rain showers and ringing phones coupled with lyrics like “Oh Sailor / Oh sail me / Silver mast do impale me” (“Tahiti Rain Song”) delivered with affected, Katharine Whalen (Squirrel Nut Zippers) vocal stylings, benefit no one.

The 30 seconds of light falsetto vocals and soft piano chords that kick off Audio Learning Center’s second album are a bit misleading; the first few strands of opener “Waking Up With Eyes Still Closed” are in no way indicative of the remaining 42 minutes. For the rest of the album, vocalist Chris Brady’s voice soars scratchily over his aggressively melodic bass lines, guitarist Steven Birch’s simple but well-placed arpeggios and power chords, and Paul Johnson’s often minimal (not to be confused with quiet) drumming. Though you’ll find a few more upbeat numbers, most of Cope Park is dark, intense and ultimately captivating. Audio Learning Center’s primary strength is the instrumental interplay between Brady and Birch. The pair locks into an unsettling, angular melody on “The Neverwills” that calls to mind San Diego band No Knife. “You Get That From Your Mother” finds the two playing slithering, intertwining lines. Some may tire of both the repetition of some songs and the raw, unrestrained vocals throughout, but Brady’s unconventional lyrics and strong songwriting skills will appeal to fans of indie rock’s slightly heavier side.

Blanche’s Dan Miller and The White Stripes’ Jack White shared the spotlight in a short-lived Detroit band. But while both of their current projects are rooted in the blues tradition, Blanche’s debut, If We Can’t Trust The Doctors, also leans toward Americana and country rock. Steel guitar reigns throughout—furnished by producer David Feeny—bringing an eerie haunting foil for Miller’s already desperate lyrics. White adds a steel-stringed acoustic lament while producer Brendan Benson lightens the mood with infectious vocals on the lead track, “Who’s To Say.” Miller’s nasal twang vocals remain front-and-center for most of the album, but when his wife Tracee adds sensual harmony (for instance, on the gorgeous duets “Do You Trust Me?” and “Bluebird”), it begs the question: why such a small role for the lady?

Whither the female singer/songwriter who relies on craft and lyrical prowess rather than on her own precious little-girl voice? There’s no doubt Olympia, Wash.’s Mirah has a beautiful voice but, unfortunately, it’s a voice with very little to say.

While the songs themselves are pretty enough in a lo-fi, Edith Frost sort of way, the lyrics are so painfully pseudo-earnest that it’s hard to take them seriously. “Jerusalem” is a simplistic plea for peace in the Middle East: “You know that it’s not right / After all you’ve been through / You should know better”. While on the sing-songy “Exactly Where We’re From,” we’re told, “We’ll check the belly of the sun / To know exactly where we’re from.”

C’mon Miracle benefits from gentle, coaxing production. It’s almost aural-erotic. The strongest songs are the ones where Mirah’s voice comes across as just another instrument. In “Look Up!” the lyrics are lost in the arrangement; you can barely understand a word she’s saying, and it’s the best song on the CD. C’mon Mirah, we’re still waiting on that miracle.

Better known as the lead singer/guitarist/principal songwriter for anthemic popsters The Verve Pipe, Brian Vander Ark turns a bit more reserved and introspective with Resurrection, his solo debut. No longer sharing writing duties with Verve Pipe drummer Donny Brown seems to have rendered Vander Ark a bit tentative, still in command of his strong (if somewhat indistinctive) vocals and penchant for slowly rousing arrangements but not entirely well-served by the more humble arrangements.

Though Vander Ark declines the opportunity to revel in the same brand of alterna-pop immediacy characterizing his other band’s output, Resurrection hardly suffers from a lack of production. If anything, the dull paisley swirl of the sonic textures betrays a more careful than creative spirit. And the subtle acoustic guitar that forms the compositional foundation of these songs hardly benefits from being overlaid with fluttering keys and backing vocals that imbue the album with a more repetitive feel than it would otherwise possess.

His sentiments, often landing on themes of heartbreak and mortality, are as stilted as they are searching, often probing urgently into areas of love, death and fulfillment but generally lacking the specificity to give them any deeper resonance. Vander Ark is a top-shelf talent, unassailably sound in the fundamentals of songcraft, but where some artists can make flying under the radar their niche, Vander Ark could benefit from a little more bombast or audacity, as the innate personality of these words and arrangements might not prove enough to distinguish them from the ranks of similarly-minded adult contemporary radio stars.

Sometimes judging an album by its cover can be quite instructive. Consider Standing at the Edge, an album with a cover that bears the smoldering, unconvincingly pouting visage of gloss-pop singer/songwriter/pianist Casey Stratton. Unfortunately, his music proves equally unconvincing—too soaked in half-digested ideas, ham-fisted diary-entry lyrics and emotional poses to catch fire. Though, admittedly, every track displays a prodigious talent for grand, theatrical pop in the October Project/Tori Amos/Sarah McLachlan mold. Let’s hope he outgrows the tendency to over- or under-reveal (a sign of insecurity, not coincidentally one of Stratton’s primary subjects) and matures into an artist comparable to those he emulates on Standing at the Edge.

Jimmie Dale Gilmore has never garnered widespread recognition in country music circles, but he’s reached near-legendary status in the Americana community. On his newest record, Gilmore sounds like he just stepped out of the 1960s. Culled from the singer’s two Hightone albums, the songs on Heartache serve up old-school honky tonk with stinging electric leads, mournful steel and nasally vocals. A warbling Gilmore drags his blue soul through the self-penned “Dallas,” Townes Van Zandt’s barreling “White Freight Liner Blues” and Butch Hancock’s “When The Nights Are Cold.” While there’s no doubt he’s a fine songwriter in the tradition of Van Zandt and Billy Joe Shaver, the Texan’s vocals have always been an acquired taste, which makes listening to the album a mixed experience.

Over three decades since Ian McLagan joined Steve Marriott and Ronnie Lane to form the best mod band this side of The Who, The Faces remain one of the most brilliant overlooked bands of their generation. Given the rock ’n’ roll muse’s tendency to abandon musicians who ply their trade in the genre for more than 20 years, there was plenty of opportunity for this album (only McLagan’s second solo outing in the last 24 years) to end up a nostalgia piece for a man few currently recognize as more than a session keyboardist for the Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan. To that extent, Rise and Shine is an unmitigated success, better than just about any release from his reasonable British rock facsimiles. Having set down roots in Texas, more than a little heartland twang creeps into the tracks such as the effervescent power-pop of “Rubies in Her Hair” and the quasi-choir sing-along in the clever “The Wrong Direction.” Even better are the delicately soulful ballads, evoking Exile on Main Street-era Stones on the earnest “Anytime” and the bluesy dobro and gospel piano of “Lying.” He even channels a bit of Faces swagger in the rollicking “Been A Long Time,” one of the greatest blasts of mod rock since the band’s run ended. Sure, they aren’t all winners here, and the point can be reasonably argued that the sentiments once befitting him as a young man seem more than a little awkward springing from the mouth of a rock veteran nearing his 60th birthday, but the personality and distinction invigorating his work is truly stunning.

The latest album by urbane singer/songwriter Lloyd Cole wouldn’t have been possible a few short years ago, but digital technology now enables artists to create expensive-sounding records on a shoestring budget. Recording directly into a Mac and programming the subtle rhythms and lifelike strings, Cole has created a spare-yet-elegant environment for his bittersweet songs, understated vocals and deft acoustic picking. Music in a Foreign Language eludes producer- or A&R-influenced compromise—the album comes directly from Cole in precisely the form he intended. Its 10 songs, all ballads (including a thematically fitting cover of Nick Cave’s “People Ain’t No Good”), are suffused with ennui, as a hard-core romantic laments a world of ever-diminishing expectations—one in which intimate relationships are conducted by e-mail containing “sideways happy faces” (“Cutting Out”), the mini-bar and Spectravision movie menu of an L.A. hotel room are metaphors for existential isolation (“Late Night, Early Town”) and lifelong commitments come with an expiration date (“Today I’m Not So Sure”). Cole has matured into an ironist of wondrous articulateness, singing his artfully detailed songs in a world-weary voice that’s clarity and nuance recall jazz great Chet Baker.

There’s simply no other voice in pop music like Michael Fracasso’s. Its pure, clarion tone gently but insistently demands your full attention. The closest you’ll come is Patty Griffin, and to hear the two of them together on A Pocketful of Rain’s opener, the lilting “All or Nothing,” is a rare treat. Fracasso traverses all manner of styles here—acoustic blues on “Devil’s Deal” and “Ragamuffin Blues,” pop-rock on the title track, and gentle folk on “Silver Spoon” and “Whiskey Mother”—with equal aplomb. The voice is what pulls you in, but the melodies and words (consistently sweet and smart and soulful) ultimately keep you there. The only thing that could have made this album any better would have been the inclusion of “Laughing Boy,” an anti-Bush ballad Fracasso released as a single last year that is at once beautiful and brutal.

From the acoustic whimsy of The Bedside Drama to the large-scale psychedelic exploration of Coqueliquot Asleep In The Poppies and the concise, lysergic pop-rock gems of Aldhils Arboretum, Of Montreal’s sound has twisted beautifully in a constant flux of evolution and devolution. And with its talented, ever-changing parade of band members, the one golden thread tying everything together has been frontman Kevin Barnes’ idiosyncratic-yet-accessible songwriting. On Satanic Panic In the Attic, he takes control, playing most of the instruments himself. The melodic mastery and indie-pop bliss continue, but with mild-to-heavy injections of glossy ’80s New Wave—minus the brooding darkness of many of the genre’s notable acts. And though cast in a different light, the ’60s psychedelia is still front-and-center on Panic, but Barnes has found some sparkly new keyboard sounds and yet another fantastic muse.

When Joe Jackson burst onto the New Wave scene in 1979 with Look Sharp!, his sophisticated songcraft and the turbocharged assault of his three-piece backing band drew inevitable comparisons to Elvis Costello & the Attractions. Though Look Sharp! and the subsequent I’m the Man were critically lauded hits, Jackson’s ambitions soon prompted him to abandon the lean sound of those records for more expansive stylistic exercises, some cool in their own right—like 1982’s Night and Day. The album’s quintessential track, “Steppin’ Out,” is revisited here in a lovely solo turn by Jackson on piano. But the class and durability of the early stuff and the torque of that killer band—driven by Graham Maby’s jabbing bass lines—is readily apparent throughout Afterlife (culled, sans overdubs, from four West Coast gigs recorded in August ’03) on rip-roaring takes of classics like “One More Time,” “Sunday Papers” and “Got the Time.” Additionally, “Fools in Love” still sports the wired reggae groove Jackson copped from Costello’s “Watching the Detectives.” A quarter century later, Jackson and mates show they can still float like butterflies and sting like a hive of bees.

Indie-rock band Sharks and Minnows transcends its emo roots on The Cost of Living, relocating to the deeper end of the musical pool. The second full-length release from this Atlanta quartet is still centered on emotional Sturm und Drang, but the overwrought pop punk of Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board is replaced by a more varied musical landscape which merges the early punk attack of Superchunk with the indie-pop sensibilities and witticisms of Beulah. The production is also markedly improved over the debut album.

There are loud guitars in abundance, but there’s also a Brian Wilson fan lurking somewhere in this band, and the sunny West Coast pop hooks of “Slow Learner” and “Past Life Regression” are pure gold. Lead singer Christopher Simony’s vocals are stronger and more assured than on Sharks and Minnows’ debut, and on “Saint of Anything” and “Cleopatra Song” he sings with newfound nuance and soul. With minimal filler, strong hooks, wonderfully noisy guitar work, and a nice DIY garage band aesthetic, The Cost of Living should appeal to fans of college radio. Hell, in a more equitable, less narrowcasted world, it should appeal to all fans of quality rock ’n’ roll.

It’s 1974 at the Smiling Dog Saloon in Cleveland, Ohio. The small-but-enthusiastic crowd cheers as the emcee announces Hound Dog Taylor and the Houserockers. “If you came to find out about boogie, you came to the right place,” he says as the bar erupts with shuffling drums and a dirty-ass slide riff that sounds about three miles wide. This is the side of electric Chicago blues that’s still got both of its bare feet planted in the muddy Delta. Which makes sense—Hound Dog was born Theodore Roosevelt Taylor in Natchez, Miss., in 1915 and moved to Chi-town in the early ’40s. If you dig Elmore James’ style, you’ll dig this live compilation of never-before released tunes spanning from 1971-75, the last of the recordings coming just eight months before Taylor died of cancer. Despite the bluesman’s age and illness, the blistering leads, soulful vocals and raw energy of these performances make this essential listening for any blues fan.

The debut of Dutch songwriters Axel Kabbord and Minco Eggersman, Zalig Zijn De Armen Van Geest (translated as “Blessed Are the Poor in Spirit”) is a luminescent collection of slowly awakening, soothing textures. Highly reminiscent of conceptual cousins Pedro the Lion or Red House Painters, the hesitant melancholy inherent in the arrangements echoes the understated yet ethereally gorgeous lilt of the melodies. Whether mixing images of a lost lover and the crucifixion over the dark, moving turns of “In the Light I Wrap My Tears” or presenting an uncomfortably surreal family drama in the rising and falling “The Drive-Way,” the soft, overcast textures give the songs a near-cinematic depth. The ruminative and vaguely worshipful tone of the arrangements exhibits characters straining however apprehensively in the direction of faith in something bigger than themselves. Incredibly, the handful of instrumentals mixed throughout the album’s 12 tracks are arguably the duo’s strongest moments, focusing the aching hymn-like quality of the melodies with an otherworldly precision, filling spaces in a manner that renders words downright impotent.

Radiohead offered listeners a heap of worthy b-sides while releasing singles for its first few albums. Tasty leftovers like “Bishop’s Robes” and “Talk Show Host” continue to inspire audience frenzy at concerts, rivaling reaction to established hits like “Karma Police” and “The Bends.” So here’s my question: What happened following OK Computer? Recent singles have favored guest remixes and alternate takes, several of which can be found on this new release. Devotees will treasure Com Lag’s non-album tracks, recorded gems among which you’ll find the lo-fi blues of “I Am a Wicked Child” and the acoustic folk of “Gagging Order.” Wrapped in lavishly creepy packaging designed by Stanley Donwood and Thom Yorke, this is an appealing but inessential curio. Diehards will have already acquired everything here anyway, barring a live recording of “2+2=5,” via British singles. On a somewhat peculiar side note, Four Tet’s remix of “Skttrbrain” sustained a mastering flaw so pronounced that it scared my kindergartner from the room. Given the steep asking price for this Japanese import, I’d spare your wallet the needless emptying.

The road to Hell is paved with well-intentioned classical “crossover” albums. But here Yo-Yo Ma displays—in a well-paced live recording of material from his two earlier Latin-tinged records—an eclecticism that’s both honorable and delicious. With help from beloved Brazilian singer/guitarist Rosa Passos, Cuban clarinetist Paquito D’Rivera, guitarist duo the Assad brothers and pianist Kathryn Stott—names familiar to fans of Latin and chamber music—the über-cellist gives us live performances of diverse works by Antonio Carlos Jobim (of “Girl From Ipanema” fame), Astor Piazolla, D’Rivera and others. On the faster, more danceable numbers (Piazzolla’s “Libertango”) the cellist is bolstered by the vitality of his collaborators. The slower numbers, meanwhile, offer a lovely, perfectly shaped melancholy, a tonal color of vivid oxblood.

Calexico’s new EP, Convict Pool, encompasses the band’s diverse songbook best as it can in 20 short minutes. At its heart a political outfit (how could they avoid it, chronicling life on the U.S.-Mexico border?), the Tucson-based collective issues a vibes-driven, minor-key lament over the rise of the Far Right (“Convict Pool”); visits the dangerous shoals of love on the flamenco-like “Sirena”; and exhibits its instrumental chops on the accordion-driven, Paris-in-the-’50s cabaret piece, “Praskovia.” You want covers? We got covers—Calexico’s healthy Minutemen fixation gets a high-Mariachi workout on “Corona,” Nicolai Dunger and band join in on a searing live rendition of Love’s “Alone Again Or,” and Joey Burns offers an Anglicized version of Francois Breut’s sexy “Si Tu Disais.” In short, another versatile, topical and well-executed effort.

Blonde Redhead has often been compared to Sonic Youth, but on Misery Is A Butterfly they’ve forged a new, darkly romantic sound. Many of the songs are built around a video-game-synth palette of sounds and intricate drum tracks, but the coldness is tempered by gorgeous, string arrangements by Eyvind Kang, best known for his work with Bill Frisell. As usual, vocal duties are shared by Kazu Makino and Amedeo Pace, and one of the great pleasures of the record is hearing the contrast between their voices. Pace’s strained, paranoid tenor sounds trapped inside the music, while Makino’s soprano, like a tight-rope walker, balances high above the seething mass of sound.

Building on 26 years and 10 studio albums since his 1978 debut, Alive on Arrival, Steve Forbert has matured into a canny observer of the human comedy, capturing his subjects with the sharp-eyed precision of Randy Newman but with greater compassion. In “Wild as the Wind,” a tribute to The Band’s Rick Danko, Forbert journalistically details the late bassist/vocalist’s excesses, but the character study comes off as affectionate as it is unsparing. Elsewhere, the Mississippi native sorts through the fallout of romantic relationships (“I Married a Girl”) and aspirations (“I Just Work Here”) while celebrating the resilience of hope (“About a Dream”). Forbert masterfully employs his unmistakable sandpaper rasp, softening it into a burnished rusticity in the album’s many poignant passages, letting it catch in his throat for punctuation. The studio band—featuring Dan Dugmore’s plaintive pedal steel—nails the spirit of the songs, nestling into the gentle vibe of “There’s Everybody Else (And Then There’s You),” rocking with true grit on “Oh, Yesterday” and bringing majesty to the gorgeous bridge of “What It Is Is a Dream.” True to its title, this is an album where everything just seems to work effortlessly—which is one of the hardest feats to convincingly pull off.

Mavericks frontman Raul Malo downshifts here into a subdued batch of acoustic covers recorded with Nashville session pros Pat Flynn, Rob Ickes and Dave Pomeroy. Malo has a voice for the ages—a pure, aching tenor, reminiscent of Roy Orbison at his melancholy best. So kicking things off with a cover of Orbison’s “Blue Bayou” seems only fitting. But Malo fails to lean into the final chorus, and that patented soaring Orbison coda remains conspicuously absent, establishing a pattern for the album as a whole. Sometimes less is more, and sometimes it’s just less.

On the upside, the selections on this disc are impressively eclectic, a fine mixture of traditional country classics (The Louvin Brothers, Hank Williams and Jimmie Rodgers) and near-contemporary folk gems (Van Morrison, Gordon Lightfoot, Gram Parsons and Bob Dylan). Flynn’s guitar and mandolin, and Ickes’ dobro are never less than tastefully elegant, and the Williams (“Weary Blues From Waiting”) and Parsons (“Hot Burrito #1”) covers at least approach the magnificence of the originals. On the downside, Malo displays a heretofore unseen affinity for Hollywood schmaltz—“Moon River,” “(I Love You) For Sentimental Reasons”—and his vocals are consistently underwhelming.

There’s nothing wrong but very little right with this tasteful, pleasant and ultimately nondescript music. That’s the problem with downshifting. It’s a little too easy to coast in neutral.

On her third release, Mascott’s Kendall Jane Meade still sounds charmingly vulnerable, and still writes like she’s dotting her verse with unusually romantic British vernacular—once again confirming her gift for executing the three-minute pop song. With its timeless cross-section of pop modalities, Dreamer’s Book is a breakthrough for Ms. Meade. She builds her imminently accessible folk-pop tracks upon a foundation of languid, melancholy-dipped ruminations, then fades out on the ether of a few earthbound rockers; this album is defined by Meade’s innate sense of balance. Throughout, every mood and texture finds its complementary match, as the ice-breaking hush of the pristine “Time Waits” is melted by the gritty guitars and glistening drama of “Song from a Dream.”

Given her unassailable indie-rock pedigree, some listeners may be surprised by the decidedly VH1 direction of the sturdy, central guitar riff and quasi-soulful vocals of “Turn Off/Turn On” and thoughtfully effervescent patchwork of strings, dizzy guitar, and bouncy keys on “The Write-Up.” But even if she occasionally sounds more like Dido than Chan Marshall, Dreamer’s Book is the sound of an artist commandeering and combining her favorite moments from the recorded pop canon to create something far more distinctive than its constituent parts.

If, like countless others who discovered Zero 7’s debut, Simple Things, you’ve been using it as mood music during “strategic moments” with the opposite sex, When It Falls will be a boon. Sophie Barker’s vocals are silky smooth and sexy as ever, as are the vocals provided by her male counterpart Mozez. The addition of another female vocalist, Tina Dico, helps vary the tone a bit. But, ultimately, Zero 7 will always be two pasty British guys tinkering in the studio to create warm, rich, slow-jams that seamlessly blend electronic sounds with live instruments playing down-tempo grooves for us to snog to. Amen and amen.

Who says lightning doesn’t strike in the same place twice? Once again producer T Bone Burnett has collaborated with filmmakers Joel & Ethan Coen in an effort to invest contemporary cinema with the soulful roots music of a previous age. Whereas the O Brother, Where Art Thou? phenomenon introduced pop culture to traditional, white, country gospel through the performances of Alison Krauss, Norman Blake and The Stanley Brothers, Ladykillers works the other side of the tracks. The soundtrack’s highlight is the rousing black-gospel shout-out, “Let the Light From the Lighthouse Shine On Me.” Nappy Roots collaborate on smart hip-hop that samples traditional gospel melodies in “Trouble of This World (Coming Home)” and “Another Day, Another Dollar.” Gospel soul singing by The Soul Stirrers on “Come, Let Us Go Back to God” sets the tone for this triumphant set of lush harmonizing—an album proving just soulful enough to stir up yet another musical revival.

Jim Lauderdale has always followed his muse wherever it moseyed. In recent years he’s collaborated with bluegrass legend Ralph Stanley and rootsy jam-band favorites Donna the Buffalo. This latest disc, a songwriting collaboration with Robert Hunter, should presumably fall somewhere in between. But despite the psychedelic baggage Robert Hunter’s association with the Grateful Dead carries, his songwriting has always been grounded in country and roots motifs (see American Beauty’s “Ripple,” “Brokedown Palace” and “Box of Rain”). So instead of creating twanging Head music, Lauderdale and Hunter have created a hickory-smoked batch of tunes that proves one of the best traditional releases of the year. Of course it doesn’t hurt that Lauderdale is one of the strongest singer/songwriters out there, investing all the considerable charms of his high, lonesome baritone behind the tunes. And he’s ably backed by some excellent bluegrass and country players, including Tim O’Brien, Bryan Sutton and Bucky Baxter. Headed For The Hills is a remarkable effort that finds striking originality in exploring some of the oldest strains of American music.

More a collaboration than a split release, with the two bands condensing their rosters into one amazingly tight-sounding amalgam bridging both Bright Eyes’ rousing folk-dramatic style and Neva Dinova’s somnambulistic sadcore, One Jug of Wine, Two Vessels is a more than appropriate title, as both groups are clearly drinking from the same creative vintage. Sighing with resignation and defeat, the opening “Tripped” melts pedal steel and fluttering keyboards into a beautifully dejected sonic stew. Neva Dinova leader Jake Bellows really steals the show here (which is saying something given the presence of Bright Eyes wunderkind Conor Oberst), his drowsy croon imbuing his tracks with a languid anxiety akin to that of Neil Young’s Harvest.

If anything, the dividing line between the two bands is rendered a bit murky, though the country-folk sonic milieu works extremely well as a concept. And while the tracks generally smooth out the differences between the two acts, “Black Comedy” is an unmistakable Oberst track, his wavering vocals perfectly suited to the swooning bells, sharp melodic turns and arresting imagery. In fact, the rousing chorus of horns and swooning melodies of “I’ll Be Your Friend” ranks among his best recorded moments. Add a few brokenhearted weeps to close out the set and you have the rare split release whose quality is more akin to a full-length than the friends-getting-together-to-waste-time vibe generally dominating these projects.

Athens, Ga.-based Elf Power paints a swath of Mark Bolan’s dark-red rouge across a sunset of psychedelic garage noise, like a mid-’60s Creation-influenced mod band anticipating the next 10 years of British rock. A number of tracks on the band’s latest offering, Walking With the Beggar Boys, could lead off the next Nuggets retrospective and no one would be the wiser. But there’s an intangible ethos weaving its way around bandleader Andrew Rieger’s groovy, gothic imagination that elevates the songs above mere nostalgia. Maybe it’s the quirky authenticity in Rieger’s blend of communal ideals with quasi-eastern religious turns of phrase. Or maybe it’s just the fact that the record has a distinct lack of bum melodies or toss-off tracks. Call it “neo-psychedelia” if you want, Beggar Boys is ultimately a great rock record by a criminally underappreciated band.

Catie Curtis hasn’t enjoyed the commercial success of Shawn Colvin, but her songs define the term folk-pop just as precisely. On her fifth album, the Boston-based writer/singer dresses her relationship tales in folk-based melodies that elevate into layer-cake hooks filigreed by pastoral guitar/organ/mandolin arrangements that sound like organic outgrowths of her acoustic strumming. What Curtis’ voice lacks in distinctiveness it makes up for in conviction; she’s in love with the sound and sense of words, and words are at the heart of the aptly titled Dreaming in Romance Languages.

Though she’s not above the occasional Hallmark sentiment (“It’s the Way You Are”), Curtis is terrific when observing couples under duress. “The Trouble You Bring,” for example, finds her narrator bitterly confronting a straying mate: “Love’s too dangerous or it’s too safe / You bring confusion a human face / When all you want is what cannot be / What you want is all you see.” While Curtis’ writing is impressive, I must confess to a certain dearth of enthusiasm about the experience of listening to her record, which is tasteful and soothing but essentially passive—it begs for musical refrains as impassioned as the characters Curtis brings to life in her lyrics.

Far from being just another coy title from a member of New York’s anti-folk scene, Soviet Kitsch is the third release from the classically trained, Moscow-raised Regina Spektor, an artist who arrived in the United States just as the former Soviet Union crumbled. If it weren’t for a momentary breakaway run of Russian folk melodies at the end of the complexly rising and falling “The Flowers,” you’d never guess her talents have their roots on the other side of the Bering Straight.

Positioning her piano somewhere at the confluence of Björk, Fiona Apple, Tori Amos and Joni Mitchell, Spektor—a 24-year-old with a powerhouse voice and profoundly imaginative arrangements—certainly doesn’t suffer from a lack of original ideas. True, her oddly metered, vaguely Beat-ish verse can be silly, naïve and frustratingly repetitive, but you have to admire her audacity in slurring lines like “won’t you help a brother out?” and “I’m so poor” in a little-girl Bronx coo. At times, it seems as if she’s donning savant-ish affectations. But the complex, constantly evolving arrangements in the tense mélange of frantically pounded keys and spiking violin on the svelte “Us” and the dreamy clip-clopping chords of “Carbon Monoxide” show too much seasoned expertise to be anything but the result of deliberate planning. Even though her work could benefit from some judicious editing, her idiosyncratic, imaginative songwriting should make her the antidote for anyone tired of the indistinguishable crowd of guitar girls and coffee shop crooners.

Before Hank Williams and Patsy Cline, before the manic instrumental workouts and high nasal yelps of Bill Monroe or The Stanley Brothers, country music existed in its purest form in places like Bristol, Tenn., where The Carter Family recorded its cautionary tales and gospel tunes, and where Jimmie Rodgers unleashed his blue yodel upon the world. Ohio folksingers Ann and Phil Case honor that musical tradition on their third album Why Should We Be Lonely? Judging by the results, country music is alive and very, very well.

A few of these 13 songs were, indeed, made famous by luminaries such as Rodgers, the Carters and The Louvin Brothers. A few were never made famous by folks you’ve never heard, such as The Mississippi Mud Steppers and Dwight Diller. And a few more are in the public domain, their origins lost in the mists of an Appalachian holler. All of them are beautifully sung by Ann and Phil Case, and their soaring, plaintive harmonies will call to mind the best this genre has to offer, from A.P. and Sara Carter right on up through Gram and Emmylou and Gillian Welch and David Rawlings. I’m ultimately won over by the simplicity and utter guilelessness of these performances; stark, unadorned love songs and old gospel hymns with minimal accompaniment. Fans of old-time country music and great harmony singing will immensely enjoy this sweetly unpretentious, understated, and quietly beautiful album.

Sam Phillips’ career arc would confound the most eclectic music fan. She’s ventured from formulaic Christian schmaltz to some of the least formulaic music imaginable, from a brilliant evocation of ’60s girl-group pop (1988’s The Indescribable Wow) to ornate Beatles-influenced psychedelia and baroque arrangements (1994’s Martinis and Bikinis) to stripped-down acoustic albums that revel in the open spaces and sparse, uncluttered accompaniment (2001’s Fan Dance). She returns with A Boot and a Shoe, an album that, perhaps unsurprisingly, sounds like nothing that has come before it.

A Boot and A Shoe is propulsive, rhythmic chamber music; equal parts Tom Waits banging and clanging and Emerson Quartet stringed beauty. If that sounds like an odd and intriguing combination, it is. Carla Azar’s and Jim Keltner’s drums and husband/producer T Bone Burnett’s upright bass are mixed well to the fore, and there’s a driving quality, almost a fierceness to them. In stark contrast, the string quartet accompanying most of these songs (that provides the primary musical counterpoint to Phillips’ vocals) is subtle, whimsical, and endlessly creative. On the sweetly beautiful waltz “Reflecting Light” it conjures memories of an old-fashioned oompah band in the park, while on the gently swaying “Draw Man” they soar off into a gorgeous cacophony suggesting Jimi Hendrix and bombs bursting in air.

As always, Phillips’ lyrics are enigmatic and provocative, surreal dreamscapes that probe the intersection of faith and doubt, love both human and divine. “I was broken when you got me / With holes that would let the light through,” she sings on the album opener “How to Quit,” and it’s hard to escape the spiritual connotations. On “If I Could Write,” Phillips is more terrestrial-focused, musing on the ebb and flow of marriage and commitment. As is her wont, she slips in a not-so-subtle dig at the Christian music industry that at one time longed to crown her Jesus’ Favorite Pop Princess: “Camera can’t find me / I’m officially astray,” she sings. “When no one’s listening I have so much to say.”

And she does. Some listeners may grouse about the length of this album (a brief 34 minutes), but there is absolutely no filler here, and the songs open up new vistas of nuance and meaning with repeated listenings. A Boot and A Shoe will appeal equally to fans of adventurous adult alternative music or fans of contemplative, spiritually oriented songcraft. Either way, it’s a kick.

Almost 40 years removed from the start of his tumultuous career, Lou Reed has garnered the potentially dubious distinction of “living rock legend.” While the tag implies membership in a glamorous fraternity of distinguished artists, it can just as easily reference an elephant graveyard containing the barely-animated remains of artists either receding from the public eye into relative obscurity, soldiering on despite laughably declining vocal prowess, or in some way compromising themselves in a desperate groping attempt to needlessly pad both résumé and bank account (say it ain’t so, Bob). But while there’s something to be said for knowing when to walk away, you have to begrudgingly admire artists who seem intent on having their death rattle amplified through a sweaty microphone.

With his latest release, Animal Serenade, Reed puts to tape a live performance, recorded at Los Angeles’ Wiltern Theater on his 2003 tour. The two-hour show is presented in its entirety on this double-disc set. If it sounds long, that’s because it is. Painfully so. Reed drags many of the songs kicking and screaming past the 10-minute mark and, while it’s possible for this approach to strike the right chord with a live audience, on an album it often redefines the word “tedious.”

Fans of the bedraggled Velvet Underground-era Lou Reed beware: Animal Serenade contains very few moments of the unsettling junkie rock that made Reed such a mesmerizing talent. In fact, his contemporary persona establishes him as an icon of the over-the-counter culture more than anything else. His performance here relies far too heavily on the latter half of the album’s title and not nearly enough on the former, trotting out a more subdued, kinder, gentler Lou. He even performs the Velvet Underground song “Heroin” (arguably one of the most enduring and excruciatingly honest drug odes ever written) sans the manic thumping drum, effectively removing the heart of the song on every metaphorical level imaginable.

In addition to “Heroin,” several other tunes from Reed’s early career are represented here and, for the most part, they’re too slick and polished to recreate the power they once possessed. He has surrounded himself with such an incredibly talented supporting cast that the grittiness of his voice and lyrics all but clash with his band’s impeccable musicianship. In another counterproductive move, Reed turns over many of his vocal responsibilities to the vibrato-prone Antony (yes, just Antony—like Prince or Madonna), eliciting mixed results. In “Candy Says,” the delivery of Reed’s occasional “pinch hitter” evokes shuddering thoughts of Peter Cetera sitting on a washing machine (especially in contrast to Reed’s rough-and-tumble vocal approach), contributing even more to the unsettling notion that Antony has been hired by Reed himself in an attempt to dress up a few of the songs. Unfortunately, what you get is a made-for-VH-1 movie where the character of Lou Reed is grossly miscast as Five For Fighting’s John Ondrasik channeling Aaron Neville.

Even with its occasional faltering, Animal Serenade isn’t an outright failure by any means. Reed’s oddly emotive voice works on “The Bed” and “Set the Twilight Reeling,” and his biting, coarse lyrics hit as hard as ever on “Small Town” and “Dirty Blvd.” The album triumphs when Reed is most prominently featured, warts displayed unabashedly. While these moments of revelation are somewhat scattered and often intruded upon, there are enough of them to keep Lou Reed enthusiasts happy. The best Lou is the fearless Lou who isn’t afraid to put his voice and words (and neck) out there, dredging up mental images of a filthy New York City underground. Unfortunately, Animal Serenade still comes across as a less confident Lou Reed, one who’s forgotten what it was that called us to venture into the gutters with him all those years ago.

Move over Jelly Roll, Fats, Professor Longhair and Doctor John. There’s a new Crescent City piano master in town. Standing firmly in the time-honored tradition that has produced piano geniuses for close to a hundred years, transplanted English keyboard maestro Cleary and his Absolute Monster Gentlemen create a glorious groove on Pin Your Spin. Combining doo-wop, gospel, the Cuban Son tradition, blues and—above all—a heavy dollop of P-Funk bass-quake, Cleary and his band stomp through a dozen tracks that considerably spice up the already-rich N’awlins piano gumbo.

It’s a heady mixture. The Cuban polyrhythms of “Zulu Strut” and “Oh No No No” recall Buena Vista Social Club piano master Ruben Gonzalez, while “Ain’t Nuttin’ Nice” recaptures the groove and grit of southern-fried fusion bands like Sea Level and The Dixie Dregs. “Smile in a While” is a gospel-influenced soul workout, while “Doin’ Bad Feelin’ Good” and “Funky Munky Biznis” compare favorably to Stevie Wonder funk-pop classics like “Superstition” and ”Livin’ for the City.” The Absolute Monster Gentlemen are spectacular throughout. Derwin “Big D” Perkins’ impossibly syncopated stop/start guitar and Cornell Williams’ popping bass particularly stand out, and Perkins, Williams and guest Ivan Neville sing up a gospel storm behind Cleary on nearly every track, tossing in revelatory whoops, asides and swooping glissandos. There’s no denying the righteous funk at work here.

Cleary is a solid, if unspectacular, vocalist, and a couple of his songs are generic Mardi Gras party tunes designed to get the Midwestern housewives up-and-dancing on Bourbon Street. “Agent 00 Funk” (with a license to chill, no less) is particularly egregious, leaving me neither shaken nor stirred—only annoyed by the kitsch. But these quibbles aside, this is an absolute monster band, as funky as they come, and they’ve created an album that is an absolute joy to hear.

I’m not sure of many things in life, but of this I am certain: There is truth in Mahalia Jackson’s vibrant contralto. Joy. Beauty. Strength. Sadness. Spirituality and redemption. The collective human struggle is embedded in her voice— the depths of the darkness and the triumphant glow of the light. It’s critically agreed upon that Jackson is the greatest gospel singer ever, but I’d venture a step further and call her the greatest singer ever. At least in the history of recorded music. While she borrowed from masters like Bessie Smith and Ma Rainey—infusing traditional black gospel with their decadent blues sound; a pig foot, a bottle of beer and a Bible—she sang her praise to the heavens like none before or after. And the people—whether black, white, rich, poor, Christian or secular—took notice.

This new double-disc addition to the existing multitude of Jackson compilations spans the heart of the legendary singer’s recording career (1954-67), offering up everything from more polished studio recordings to raw, heart-wrenching live performances. The set’s only flaws are the packaging and liner notes—which leave much to be desired—and that only one of the 37 tracks (a live version of “I’m Goin’ To Live The Life I Sing About In My Song”) is previously unreleased. But in fairness, even Mahalia Jackson can’t draw water from a stone; with such a seminal artist, it’s not long after death before the treasures left behind are ravaged like a Pharaoh’s tomb, and with Jackson there’s been 32 years to plunder. Regardless, The Essential Mahalia Jackson’s songs are so powerful and will make you feel so intensely that the album is a worthy addition to any collection.

Jolie Holland’s voice is a gorgeous, ancient thing, round and dulcet as Satchmo’s muted trumpet, distinct and self-assured like an antique bell in a church window. She churns out pre-war folk and blues with an offhand effortlessness (think Gillian Welch channeling Victoria Spivey) and lyrical turns that invite favorable comparisons to labelmates Nick Cave and Tom Waits. But the most remarkable thing about the Houston native’s latest, Escondida, is her uncanny ability to inhabit songs like a ghost, communicating a deep sense of resignation, as if she instinctively realizes no matter which path she chases this music down, they’re all tramped flat anyway. Capitulation hasn’t sounded this good since Muddy Waters sang “feelin’ mistreated, and I don’t mind dyin’.”

On the opening track, “Sascha,” Holland is a coquette on a cool evening stroll, cutting her eyes about and flirting, with a hurt in her voice belying not only the heartbreak she sings of, but also the darker turn to come. A bleak love ballad, “Black Stars,” gives the first indication we’re not in O Brother territory anymore. A line like “When you arrived / It was as if / We both had died” turns star-crossed romance into a suicide pact before the first ill-fated kiss. “Old Fashioned Morphine” is Blind Willie Johnson’s “Wade in the Water” and the gospel standard “Old Time Religion” knit together with a Burroughsian thread. Morphine, the anesthesia of last resort, replaces “religion” in a telling shift away from transcendence and hope.

It’s as if Holland set out in search of new pathways to follow, only to discover that hordes of Kerouac-wannabes had already turned those beckoning open roads into four-lane tollways lined with featureless strip malls. This claustrophobia wears off the museum-piece sheen plaguing modern purveyors of traditional music. The tragedy at the core of Escondida feels like it’s happening now, not at the arms-length tributary distance that even the most heartfelt rendition of “Man of Constant Sorrow” seems incapable of bridging.

Ironically, it’s this collapsing hope which enables Holland to share space with the original doyens of the dead end, where freedom is deferred and emancipation gives way to 40 acres and a mule—the point of utter finitude. All filtered through the perspective of a white, suburban, female citizen of a strange, valueless century, Holland’s songs become fractured prayers to a hybridized God of the Christian South, the Void at the bottom of an existential crisis, and an abstract pantheistic deity of unknown origin.

“Goodbye California” is a suicide note, gospel rave-up and Zen meditation wrapped into one. The “I’ll Fly Away”-style chorus in praise of a nirvana-like “immaculate calm” is an odd conflation of worldviews that has to heard to be believed. Holland rejects both irony and nostalgia, but doesn’t know what to set in their place. She wraps the proceedings with the incredulous head-wagging of “Damn Shame” and a haunted take on the traditional “Faded Coat of Blue.”

Literate, spooky and utterly compelling, Escondida is not only an astonishing album, but the announcement of a singular, visionary talent.

Massachusetts native Lori McKenna’s fourth album explores territory that will be instantly familiar to fans of Bruce Springsteen or John Mellencamp. Dead-end jobs in small factory towns, Friday night beer busts behind the high-school gymnasium, working-class bungalows populated by desperate characters whose life arcs peak at the prom (or district football championship) but ultimately give way to deferred dreams and diapers and mortgage payments. These men and women may long to board the “silver bus,” as McKenna sings on the song of the same title, but they never purchase the ticket to ride.

The darkness on the edge of this Bittertown has obviously been explored many times before, but McKenna holds her own with the heavyweights, chiefly through the fine, well-observed details of her lyrics, her gritty delivery, and the rootsy Americana of her backing band. Sounding at times remarkably like Patty Griffin (a very good thing), McKenna spins her tales against a backdrop of acoustic and electric guitars, Hammond organ and lap steel. Buddy Miller, Mark Erelli and producer Lorne Entress add soulful, letter-perfect harmony vocals on several tracks, and McKenna finds the heart of regret over and over again in memorable, stinging couplets. On “Stealing Kisses” she sings, “I was stealing kisses from a boy / Now I’m begging affection from a man.” Welcome to life, honey, the prom is officially over.

Despite the often-harrowing realities of life McKenna exposes, I find plenty of sweetness in Bittertown.

David Mead’s third record, Indiana, shows he’s one of the best solo crooners since Jeff Buckley, albeit possessing a mere fraction of Buckley’s dark charisma. Indiana showcases Mead’s silky tenor and a cozier, more sedate approach than previous efforts. The muscular pop leanings of his first two records have been dropped in favor of a Harvest-era Neil Young country feel. You’ll also detect hints of Nick Drake’s lighter material with occasional forays into David Wilcox territory. In contrast to producer Adam Schlesinger’s ear-candy treatment of Mead’s last offering, Mine and Yours, the production on Indiana is sparse almost to the point of blandness. Fortunately Mead’s voice is a beautiful, nuanced instrument capable of bringing life and color to otherwise monochromatic tracks, and his songwriting bears the mark of an emerging master.

The loping, sentimental opening track, “Nashville,” captures the paradox of heartache and exhilaration felt by a lonely soul who ends up on the right side of a 20-something breakup. Its self-indulgent solitude threatens no real pain, but twinges with a satisfying, nostalgic ache. It’s an aura Mead seems intent on sustaining for most of the record—almost every tune performs an artistically death-defying tightrope walk along the razor-thin border between sentimentality and affecting songcraft. “You Might See Him” is another tempting bit of melancholy, filled with cryptic images of Christ-like chimeras and helpless figures that tug at the corner of your imagination. The song’s meaning retreats from a direct gaze, unfolding with rich ambiguity.

This indirectness saves Indiana from death by overstatement; the melodies and arrangements telegraph emotion like a John Williams soundtrack, but Mead’s lyrics are evocative and occasionally brilliant. The fourth track, “Beauty” is really all you need to know about Indiana; a deceptively obvious power ballad with a soaring chorus that shows how far Mead’s best poetic instincts can take him. The piano-driven “Bucket of Girls” is well-written, and Mead’s turns of phrase are nothing short of impressive, if somewhat self-conscious. The cover of Michael Jackson’s “Human Nature” is smart, but certainly doesn’t improve on the original, and from there the record coasts home at a steady, dreamy, unperturbed pace. More than anything, Indiana feels like a transitional album—from David Mead, power-pop hipster, to David Mead, heir to AAA royalty like Shawn Colvin and Marc Cohn. Next album, he should just bring in producer John Levanthal and be done with it.

Given the relative influx of stylishly innovative artists roaring out of Scandinavia in recent years, it’s easy to forget that, not too long ago, places like Sweden were fairly obscure locales on the pop music landscape. Jens Lekman is the latest and (with the exception of Sondre Lerche) possibly greatest Scandinavian export, a modest commercial success in his homeland and a genuinely compelling artist, as evinced on this pair of stellar EPs.

Perched at the center of an unbelievably lush swirl of strings and background cooing, Lekman comes very close to evoking the early solo work of John Cale on the Maple Leaves EP, his somewhat detached vocals an odd pairing for jingling sleigh bells and xylophone. But, like Cale, Lekman appears similarly comfortable with the naked vulnerability of tracks like the fragile solo-piano reading of “Sky Phenomenon.” Of course, the template for this kind of baroque pop was already laid down some 35 years ago by Michael Brown and the Left Banke. In fact, the foundational hook of that band’s classic “Something On My Mind” is borrowed perfectly (and blatantly) for the melodic phrase carried by the gorgeous “Black Cab”’s harpsichord.

The Rocky Dennis EP takes a half-turn toward the coy, pop-culture-referencing Belle & Sebastian, with no less than three of its tracks alluding to the Mask star to some degree. But the songs benefit from slightly brighter production here—with the piano and finger snaps of the self-referential “Jens Lekman’s Farewell Song to Rocky Dennis” and the Burt Bacharach nod and wedding-singer narrative of “If You Ever Need a Stranger”—and they’re glistening with pristine crispness. Lekman may not be the most recognizable face from his homeland, but with his full-length debut slated for release before the end of the year, he just may end up its most prolific.

Former punk iconoclast Patti Smith once said the older she got, the more she appreciated beauty in the mundane—ordinary folks who performed their jobs exceptionally well, like a dry cleaner who took pride in delivering perfectly-pressed shirts every single time. Smith’s own craft has matured along similarly classy lines. Lately, her prose and poetry have received numerous awards, both at home and abroad, and she’s just explored the touchy subject of 9/11 via her drawings, silk-screen prints and silver-gelatin-processed Polaroids. This grande dame even helped launch the Tate Gallery’s exhaustive William Blake exhibit in London. Gone, then, is that cocaine-eyed firebrand who glared out from the cover of Smith’s ragged 1975 debut, Horses.

And in its stead? A wiser, mellower malcontent—as Smith appears on her new Trampin’—with roughly the same amount of Horses steam, but delicate, gracious new ways of releasing it. She no longer needs to scream to be heard, which is certainly becoming, if not always entertaining. For example, the half-spoken, half-quasi-blues “Radio Baghdad” pushes its “Extend your hand” metaphor way past its neighborly parameters into heavy-handed pedantic territory. It’s neither informative nor topical—just more rehashed headlines that have already been ground into grist. Smith is at her most awkward when she attempts to emulate that ’70s-punk stance on the tribal stomp “Jubilee” and the AC/DC-ish “Stride of The Mind.” But when she treats her topics—and tones—with adult-size kid gloves, the results are almost magical. Smith tips her hat to the Tate with “My Blakean Year,” a sonnet set to a tick-tock beat and purple poetry like “One road was paved in gold / One road was just a road.” “Trespasses” treads through traditional English folk, “Mother Rose” ching-chings along on a taffy-tambourine rhythm, and the title track—an old Gospel cover—wafts past on pliant piano chords, played by Smith’s daughter Jesse. A gorgeous processional, “Cartwheels,” was penned for Jesse, and is brimming with genuine motherly concern: “Want to grasp what brings you down / Open up those eyes of brown.” Smith’s once-baying voice has somehow grown stronger through the years, more adept at wreathing its way into lyrical emotion.

A gentle folk-fueled ballad, “Peaceable Kingdom,” finds Smith at her passionate best, subtly praying for a Rousseau-serene world-peace setting, firmly believing that one day frail humanity might allow it to occur. Fat chance, of course. Not as long as there’s fossil fuel to be pirated. But at least Smith has the optimism—and well-seasoned wisdom—to dream of some future Eden.

Looking back on the bands dominating radio station playlists in 1993, it’s not hard to understand why so many labels passed on Weezer before the four-piece eventually signed with Geffen. Electronic-based mainstays of the ’80s like Depeche Mode and New Order were enjoying considerable success with their latest releases. Pearl Jam and Stone Temple Pilots, churning out angst-laden arena rock, were busy riding the tidal wave of grunge’s surging popularity. And the Spin Doctors, well, nobody is quite sure exactly what they were doing. But while each of the aforementioned bands had its own comfortable niche—the alt-rock pioneers, the angry rebels, the funky party band with the heart of gold—Weezer stuck out like an oddly-spelled thumb. As Geffen A&R rep Todd Sullivan writes in the liner notes to the reissued Weezer, “they played sloppy, they looked like normal schleps, didn’t have that rock star presence, wore glasses.” But as Sullivan and millions of listeners found, Weezer’s songs caused the group to transcend any sort of predisposed notion of what a modern rock band should sound (or look) like.

Ten years after the Blue Album’s release, it’s clear Weezer has had a significant influence. (Check any fledgling alternative band’s “bass player wanted” flyer and either Weezer is listed, or they’re trying to play it off like they think the band is just OK while secretly burning incense at home in front of a giant “W”-shaped shrine.) While Nirvana reopened the doors to simple, unadorned, bare-bones rock, it did so with an overwhelming sense of torment and rebellion. The songs on Weezer are also unschooled, but they’re less anguished and more frustrated; less revolutionary, more… geeky. And that’s the charm of Weezer, isn’t it? All of a sudden, uncool is miraculously, inexplicably cool. Vocalist/guitarist Rivers Cuomo’s horn-rimmed glasses may have been considered dorky at the time, but some variation of them can now be found at mall LensCrafters locations the world over. His songs, dealing with loquacious girlfriends, suburban dislocation, unraveling sweaters (huh?) and more, may seem trivial compared to some other artists’ “big idea” songs, but they clearly resonate with like-minded geeks across the globe, those less concerned with foreign policy than the mad crush they have on their chemistry-lab partners.

So the reissued, augmented Blue Album is a welcome treat. Not so much because of the remastered tracks from the original album—it’s doubtful anyone other than audio engineers will notice a difference—but because of the added artwork and liner notes and the second disc full of b-sides, live tracks and previously unreleased recordings. And, of course, the feeling of buying a great album all over again.

While a young band clawing its way to the top of the club circuit is far from a given, the question of what to do once the stars of chance have aligned is often too difficult for its members to answer. Next to actually learning the craft of writing, recording and performing songs, arriving at some semblance of a unique creative identity has to rank as the most pressing goal on the agenda of a band straining toward credibility. Unfortunately, this also happens to be the most difficult goal to achieve, straddling the tenuous line dividing innovators and imitators. For The Damnwells, Bastards of the Beat is the story of a band searching for its creative identity.

Having ridden a half-wave of hype that placed them somewhere between the next-big-thing in roots rock and the newest version of Wilco-lite, it would seem likely that The Damnwells’ true identity falls somewhere between these two descriptions. Over the course of the two EPs comprising their current recorded catalog, the New York quartet has shown just enough promise and plagiarism to justify the comments of journalists in either camp.

Vocalist Alex Dezen certainly does little to discourage the Jeff Tweedy comparisons, his charcoal croon and earnest phrasing almost welcoming the inevitable with prickly sentiments, acoustic strum and harmonica opening the disc. Having clearly blossomed from the sometimes tentative Americana of their earlier recordings into bolder, more polished sounds, those original elements which encouraged some to believe The Damnwells were auditioning for on-the-verge status (and, incidentally, prompted Epic to offer them a multi-album record contract) are similarly solidified. And if the mélange of ringing organ, cooing horns, and countrified guitar licks of “I’ll Be Around” or the ethereal swirl of “Sleepsinging” are any indication, there might be a couple modest radio hits on the way.

Still, no matter how much growth they display over these 12 tracks, the band’s triumphs are measured against the more commonplace elements rising prominently to the fore of the arrangements. Dezen, while a more-than-able vocalist, still lacks distinction as a writer, dealing in the stock metaphors of the genre while spinning out his odes to lost love. While he may deserve credit for taking the occasional lyrical risk, lines like “I will feed you fries with steak sauce / I will keep the price below cost,” are neither silly enough to be clever nor strange enough to be interesting.

And while their musical aesthetic is impressively long on craft, it is short on imagination, leaving the resulting songs immediately palatable but predictably familiar to more adventurous ears. Too many are crafted upon the same template: building from a pensive, questing verse into a gliding or rousing chorus. No doubt the payoffs are many and immediate, but one can’t help but get the feeling The Damnwells are capable of much more.

With their best moments falling somewhere between the humbly climatic pop-Americana of The Wallflowers (“The Lost Complaint”) and the gliding roots-pop of the Pernice Brothers (“Electric Harmony”), this is still the sound of a band working its way toward a consistent creative identity. And while moments like the disinterested string of non sequiturs comprising the R.E.M. shimmy of “New Delhi” suggest they may be inching within range of something truly their own, most of the disc is fairly indistinguishable from scores of like-minded bands.

The Damnwells may end up closer to Matchbox 20 on their way to Wilco, however Bastards of the Beat surely isn’t all bad news. Unlike Wilco, The Damnwells just might get played on the radio.

Some things catch you off guard when you really stop and think about them. Consider, for instance, the fact that it’s taken Jay Farrar no less than 14 years to find himself party to a proper live album. Various and sundry reissue tracks and the Long Cut + Five Live promotional disc excepted, Uncle Tupelo never released a live album, and the now-on-seemingly-indefinite-hiatus Son Volt threatens to go off into that dark night without a frenzied audience barnburner to its name. For some who have seen (and tried hard to be moved by) Farrar onstage over the years, perhaps now’s the time to swallow our reverent silence and admit that there may be a reason for all this. Memory drifts back to more than one Son Volt show where the night’s primary excitement involved watching the cigarette dangling ravaged from bassist Jim Boquist’s lips and wondering where the ash would land while Farrar, forever glued in place, listlessly warbled lines to some indeterminate spot on the back wall. Expressionless and all but cruelly sober, Farrar onstage has long been the patron troubadour of the aloof mumble, all beauty and somber wisdom getting lost somewhere in the haze of vague boredom.

So much more the refreshing then to hear this, an elegant odyssey through Farrar’s expanding solo repertoire in all its sincerity and vitality presented live with sensitivity and warmth. Credit goes to Canyon, who served as his backing band throughout the September and October 2003 tour from which these songs were culled. Embellishing the songs with skywide steel-guitar swells, carefully cascading drum work and glistening organ ripples, Joe Winkle, Brandon Butler and company supply Farrar with a full, rich and textured sonic tableau on which to lavish his musings. Farrar, for his part, responds with a supple, natural vocal delivery that sounds softer and better lived-in than it ever has. Chalk it up to a good recording perhaps, or maybe a determined comfort with the mission at hand. With 15 of its 19 tracks comprising a set list that roughly and evenly represents Terroir Blues and Sebastopol, Farrar’s clearly trying to flesh out his solo career, adding two new songs to the canon—sets opener “Doesn’t Have to Be This Way” and “6 String Belief.” For their part, “6 String Belief” is the stronger of the two, although vocally there are moments when Farrar seems to struggle to inflect properly over the spurring tempo he establishes with his chiming acoustic self-accompaniment.

More self-assured is his closing cover of Neil Young’s “Like A Hurricane,” fed by a committed but sludgy rendering of Pink Floyd’s “Lucifer Sam,” which finds Farrar sounding oddly Stipe-like, peeking through the organ-and-guitar shadows of Syd Barrett’s psychedelic phantasms. Together the covers with their jammed-out abandon provide a nice capstone to a selection that admittedly hovers around mid-tempo. Warm and enveloping, Bright Lights finds Farrar at the top of his game—still not much stage patter, but plenty of heartland rhapsody to go around.

It’s difficult to capture—or even describe to the uninitiated—the ephemeral, magical, people-pleasing essence of a Saw Doctors concert. Once you’re there, lifting your Guinness pint and singing along to overseas classics like “Clare Island,” “I Useta Lover” and “Green And Red Of Mayo,” no explanation is necessary. You simply can’t resist the spell of this hard-partying Celtic combo, which seamlessly fuses pop, folk, punk, reggae and traditional Irish sounds with guitarist Leo Moran’s booming Duane Eddy hooks and co-axeman/vocalist Davy Carton’s gruff-but-neighborly rasp. As Carton himself put it in a recent interview, “You come to a Saw Doctors gig, you’re instantly in the band.”

After 15 years together, these old mates nearly disbanded last year when their founding bassist quit. But they soldiered on with this live document, which serves as a reaffirmation of artistic intent. And they enter the ring swinging, opening with their biggest-ever UK hit, “N17,” and its signature call-and-response chorus (revealed in all its glory on a companion DVD); When Carton croons “I wish I was on that N17,” the audience automatically responds with its rejoinder, “Stone walls and the grass is green!” On paper, it might sound childish, Edward Lear-nonsensical. But in a packed, sweaty nightclub, after several pints of porter, it’s positively inspirational; uplifting as a good, old-fashioned church sermon. And in this hometown gig from last July, The Saw Doctors (named for historical traveling tinkers who honed saws from town to town) really pound the pulpit, wringing a soulful new angst from ballad standards such as “Red Cortina” and “Same Oul’ Town,” and investing their Celtic stompers (“Tommy K,” “I’ll Be On My Way”) with a frantic new urgency. And somehow, it makes perfect stylistic sense when they close the concert by melding the workingman’s chant “Hay Wrap” with The Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Sedated.” You exit this experience breathless, a born-again rock ’n’ roll believer.

Ironically, Carton and company have always been viewed with skepticism by an elitist Irish music industry, as if they’re a bunch of country yokels who succeeded sans Dublin-hub blessing. But Live In Galway should permanently shelve such misconceptions—you simply can’t argue with elegiac anthems that can get an entire nightclub on its feet, singing along.

Having delivered post rock’s landmark release (1996’s Millions Now Living Will Never Die) and single-handedly making prog rock fashionable for a generation of indie-rock fans—who otherwise never would’ve considered listening to their parents’ Yes records—the members of Tortoise are in a comfortable but precarious place, possessing a built-in fanbase but one expecting the band to practically reinvent itself with every release. If anything monumental is going to come from instrumental rock, it’s been assumed Tortoise would have a hand in creating it, and It’s All Around You can’t help but fail against such long odds.

With its fifth album, the Chicago quintet is assuredly in fine form, its arrangements still replete with dazzling detail and sophisticated interplay, making its work more akin to the artfulness of jazz improv than the self-serious, unicorn-riding progressive rock of yore. In fact, the burbling beats, chimes, vibraphone and lushly synthesized vocals (courtesy of Kelly Hogan) of “The Lithium Shifts” and the dark collapse and tip-toeing starburst of “Crest,” cut a straighter, more emotionally directive path than nearly anything in the band’s catalog. The dark simmer and overlapping dissonance of “Unknown” and the ominously shuddering “Dot/Eyes” expand upon Tortoise’s established sonic motifs before disintegrating into an amorphous ether.

The problem then is that the band’s done most if not all of this before, and while some might contend this release is a refinement of its previous sound, others could just as easily claim that its precision comes at the expense of a life-giving spontaneity. Whatever the case, it should be more than enough to placate those who find themselves solidly in the band’s camp and frustrate those unwilling to pay attention.

In a perfect world, the notion behind compiling a box set by a seminal artist from the rock ’n’ roll canon is as follows: to present the argument for why that artist is truly essential to the history of recorded music. This can be accomplished in any number of ways, but the ideal method involves assembling the best-known album and single tracks, live stuff and (if possible) unreleased material that shows the artist in the best possible light—all this in a dynamite package. Too often, however, record labels get lazy and go for the quick easy fix, doling out too many previously released catalog items with a couple of inconsequential rarities to make the purchase necessary for diehard fans.

Not so in the case of Rhino’s Faces retrospective, Five Guys Walked Into A Bar. Building on the band’s excellent Good Boys When They’re Asleep best-of, this collection is the new standard by which box sets should be judged. The Faces—Ronnie Lane (bass), Ron Wood (guitar), Kenny Jones (drums), Ian McLagan (keyboards) and some guy named Rod Stewart (vocals)—were, between 1970 and 1973, one of the most exciting live rock bands in the world. During these years they toured the States almost incessantly and it was in rust-belt towns like Detroit where they made their mark—in jaded L.A. they’d play a club, in the Motor City, a 6,000-seat auditorium. That their records were never properly received is an injustice that has slowly but surely been amended by time.

Produced by McLagan with Rhino’s Patrick Milligan as executive producer, this four-disc set collects 67 cuts. Only 22 of those come from the four proper Warner albums issued under the band’s moniker—First Step, Long Player, A Nod Is As Good As A Wink… To A Blind Horse, and Ooh La La. The remaining 45 are studio outtakes, singles and B-sides, stuff from the soundtrack to Mahoney’s Last Stand, studio and live cuts, rehearsals, television appearances and the band’s final recording session. Take note: there’s no filler here, no padding to make this set bigger than it has any right to be. In addition, the sound is phenomenal on both the studio tracks and the live stuff.

A few nuggets, among the many highlights, are a 1971 studio cover version of John Lennon’s “Jealous Guy,” a first rehearsal version of Willie Dixon’s “Evil” from 1969, live versions of the Barret Strong/Norman Whitfield composition, “I Wish It Would Rain” (originally recorded by the Temptations), “You’re My Girl (I Don’t Want To Discuss It),” “Love In Vain” and a medley of “Around the Plynth/Gasoline Alley” and “Maybe I’m Amazed” all live at the BBC, an early performance of “Maggie May,” from “Top Gear,” “The Stealer,” and “Angel” from BBC Radio: In Concert, a rehearsal of Big Bill Broonzy’s “I Feel So Good,” and an impromptu rehearsal between Lane and McLagan of “I Came Looking For You,” from a room at the Marie Antoinette Hotel in New Orleans.

In addition to the music, the package contains a great historical essay and appreciation by Rolling Stone’s David Fricke in his loosest, most immediate and engaging prose ever, two different pieces by McLagan, one to introduce the box and one as a memorial to Lane who passed away in 1997, appreciations by Jeff Tweedy, Billy Bragg, Glen Matlock, Black Crowes guitarist Rich Robinson, Slash of Guns N’ Roses, and Gaz Coombes of Supergrass, and an extremely detailed set of track notes.

It’s easily the finest reissue thus far in 2004, and will be tough to beat by year’s end. Rhino’s team and McLagan have exceeded all expectations here, and hopefully, the long deserved reassessment of The Faces’ place in rock history can now begin.

“I used to think I was an artist … come to find out I’m a beer salesman,” croaks James McMurtry to a lively Nashville crowd in his dry-as-dust deadpan, never shying away from his role as one of the most legitimate stepchildren of the outlaw movement. Such is the life of a genuine Texas troubadour, and McMurtry has never cut an ambiguous profile in that regard, his seven albums reveling in the kind of smartly evocative and slyly probing songwriting that characterized a generation of down-and-out bards. And as any troubadour worth his salt lives and dies on the stage, it’s only appropriate that he have a live album to document his authentic muses in their naked glory.

Live in Aught-Three captures one such moment (actually, a number of moments spread out over four shows). Having inherited his father screenwriter Larry McMurtry’s eye for cinematic detail, he’s a master in shrinking a fully fleshed narrative down for the small screen of the story-song, making the stage—with its attendant vulnerability—the perfect setting for his craft. Here, first and foremost, McMurtry serves the function of storyteller, the lurching blues stomp of “60 Acres” and the uneasily biographical “Levelland” breathing with a deep humanity and believable authority, touching on something both tangibly immediate and unsettlingly universal. As always, his Nick Cave-via-Kris Kristofferson phrasing lends his songs an even greater sober confidence, rendering the smart wordplay of “No More Buffalo” and the agitated guitars and threats of retribution coloring “Red Dress” all the more direct and cautionary.

As his best work has always had the effect of seamlessly pasting listeners into the setting of his impeccable illustrations—so as to draw them away from him as creator—it’s here that we get what might be our first real glance of ‘McMurtry the person,’ as opposed to ‘McMurtry the persona.’ Whether inhabiting the role of thoughtfully redolent redneck, admiring the American expanse with a detached and queasy reverence, or as the self-effacing sage with the jaundiced eye and lascivious smirk, his ability to command the stage with little more than the power of his words places him among the best songwriters in his idiom.

Frequently criticized for getting stuck in one sonic gear on his studio albums, McMurtry stretches out here, as Aught-Three’s 14 tracks allow him ample room to explore the different moods comprising his admittedly single-minded oeuvre. Even if his range as a musician and arranger isn’t nearly as considerable as his depth as a writer, he uses such limitations to his advantage. He moves with extraordinary ease from the sad, fragile acoustic lilt of “Out Here in the Middle” to the rumbling garage blues riffage of “Choctaw Bingo.” In fact, the lack of polish provided by the live setting finally puts McMurtry in a setting that intuitively feels right, allowing the characters in his songs to emerge even more clearly under the guise of his stage persona.

Still, he tends to get lost in the slow simmer of reverb-driven electric guitars, and it’s an amazing testament to his power as a songwriter that he can get away with stretching so many of these songs out over six minutes without sacrificing the listener’s attention.

It’s not hard to see why McMurtry’s work remains largely unknown outside Texas troubadour aficionados and similarly-minded singer/songwriters. While his talents are fairly immediate in their presentation, the full effect of his artistry does require the attention of an observant listener, and some might not be able to see through his general lack of commercial polish to discover the more subtle appeal of his songwriting. Somewhat paradoxically, the lack of polish on this recording makes such nuances stand even more starkly apart from the commonplace trappings of his music’s artifice, making it obvious why everyone from John Prine and Joe Ely to John Mellencamp and Dwight Yoakam have counted themselves as fans. James McMurtry is the rare songwriter whose actual work trumps the inferred credibility of the company he keeps.

If ever a recording’s title belied its contents, Rachael Yamagata’s Happenstance would be it. Through 14 exquisitely crafted, meticulously plotted pop gems, the 27-year-old former backup vocalist exhibits a perfectionist’s attention to detail, leaving nothing to chance, an approach which turns out to be the record’s strongest quality and, paradoxically, the closest thing it has to an Achilles heel.

No one’s going to argue with Yamagata’s chops. She’s a big-throated vocalist comfortable with a variety of styles absorbed from a host of groundbreaking female artists and strong enough in her own songwriting to avoid sounding derivative or clichéd. “1963,” for instance, delivers a hybrid homage to the ’60s and ’70s singers Yamagata’s parents exposed her to as a youngster, like Roberta Flack, Carol King and Joni Mitchell; “Letter Read” combines Fiona Apple’s confessional piano comping with a sing-along chorus worthy of Aimee Mann; “I Want You” has a cabaret-jazz vibe reminiscent of Rickie Lee Jones; “Worn Me Down” is a rocker combining Shirley Manson’s grrrrrowl with some Beth Orton-like electronica accoutrements; and “I’ll Find a Way” is a piano-driven, orchestrated wonder Kate Bush would be proud of.

Vibrant and luscious arrangements accompany Yamagata’s versatile piano and adorn most of the songs. French horns, flutes and strings reveal the production aesthetics of John Alagia (Emmylou Harris, Dave Matthews), and flesh out all but the barest songs in concise—if at times predictable—fashion.

And therein lies the rub. Happenstance is so well executed, so comprehensive and so clean it seems too good to be totally authentic. You virtually yearn for a moment of Chan Marshall vocal paranoia, an off-kilter Neko Case yodel, PJ Harvey’s limited range, Kristen Hersh’s warble—anything remotely flawed and human. It may seem unfair to tar Yamagata—and, believe me, it’s a light-but-telling coat—for being quite good at what she does. But these (and plenty more) gritty female singers made their mark as an honest reaction to the hermetically sealed studio perfection of records like Happenstance.

In the end, there’s nothing wrong with it—and that might be the only thing wrong with it.

Leave it to a band called The Sweet Hereafter to discover musical reincarnation. The late, great Sandy Denny might be my favorite female vocalist, and on those early Fairport Convention and Fotheringay albums she conjured the kind of quiet soulfulness that conveyed the deepest, most searing psychic wounds. Jesse Sykes, with her dusky, rich alto and devastatingly aching delivery, sounds like the reincarnation of Sandy Denny, and she’s transplanted that miraculous voice to desolate and desperate alt.country territory. Yee haw, pass the razor blades.

Oh, My Girl, the second album from Seattle-based Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter, is, if anything, an improvement over 2002’s impressive debut Reckless Burning. Phil Wandscher, former Whiskeytown foil for the mercurial Ryan Adams, is Sykes’ guitarist, and he turns in a revelatory performance here that’s part Duane Eddy twang and reverb, part Neil Young sonic squall, and all slow burn. He’s the perfect complement to Sykes’ supple voice, and the less-is-more aesthetic of his expansive, winding solos sets off these 10 tales of loss and dislocation like glittering jewels.

Sykes is an oblique lyricist and it’s occasionally hard to tell just what she’s so sad about, but there’s no denying the melancholy that drapes over these poetic tales like a shroud. “You Are Not Gotten Here” and “The Dreaming Dead,” with their hushed, world-weary vocals and overpowering sense of alienation and loneliness, are typical. But even relatively upbeat, optimistic tunes such as “Tell the Boys” move at their own dirge-like pace, and in truth these 10 songs are of a piece.

There are no standout tracks, no obvious singles, no breakout songs just waiting for heavy rotation on MTV or CMT, and yet they all stand out in their own insistently understated fashion. Oh, My Girl is the soundtrack to loneliness, and rarely has a record sounded so quietly riveting or intense. This kind of raw, naked vulnerability can be fraught with navel-gazing perils, but Sykes, to her credit, manages to steer a steady course that avoids self-pity and narcissism. The glacial tempos and languid arrangements may suggest Cowboy Junkies or Portishead, but the weeping pedal steel, the downhome viola flourishes (yes, there are such things) from former Walkabouts standout Ann Marie Ruljancich, and Sykes’ songs of inconsolable hopelessness are pure cry-in-yer-imported-beer collegiate country dreampop.

Oh my, girls and boys, this is a beautiful, heartbreaking album. Country gothic at its bleakest and most starkly poignant.

Better known as the star of such Broadway productions as Tommy and Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Michael Cerveris undoubtedly surprised a few listeners with his new album Dog Eared, a decidedly low-key affair. Lacking the grandiosity or showmanship that might be expected from someone who regularly projects his talents to the back row of a packed theater house, the intimacy and earnestness of his solo debut becomes the album’s defining feature.

As Cerveris is also the frontman of alt-rock band Retriever, his decision to go the solo route necessitated calling on a few friends to help him fill out the shadowy textures and serene arrangements of these 12 tracks. In fact, much of the album’s resulting character springs from these contributions. Emboldened by the support of everyone from Teenage Fanclub’s Norman Blake to noted popsmith Ken Stringfellow, Cerveris swings from the buoyant jangle pop of the title track to the heartbroken solitude of “Snowbound.” Sleater-Kinney’s Corin Tucker stops by to co-write and sing on the uncharacteristically driven “SPCA,” a song that veers a bit too close to the labored drama of emo rock for comfort. Laura Cantrell shares vocal duties on “Two Seconds,” molding the song into an even more solemnly quieting rendition than the version on her debut.

No matter how impressive his gifts are, it feels like Cerveris is in audition mode here, playing understudy to Elliott Smith with fairly indistinctive results. Granted, Cerveris is not nearly as evocative a writer as the sadly departed Smith, a fact made obvious by the more inventive imagery of the Bob Pollard-penned “Drinker’s Peace.” The album’s mood gets a bit heavy at times. And moments like the simply written, hushed space rock of “Golden”—its seasick guitar lines draped over a Pink Floyd-ish mellotron hum—add much-needed textural variation.

As the album is the story of his broken heart, the vision is ultimately Cerveris’ sole possession. But while his talents are evident, he fails to display them in sufficiently bold strokes.

Enigmatic singer/songwriter Chris Whitley has weighed in with not one but two new albums, both stripped-down solo efforts showcasing him accompanied only by his guitar and a stomp board. Both are available only at shows and via his label’s web site.

Weeds features acoustic recordings of material from Whitley’s previously issued catalog. It’s revelatory, primarily because it captures the depth and breadth of Whitley’s songwriting. When Living With the Law was issued, fans identified with the record’s sound as well as its material. Over a decade later, the songs, naked and alone, continue to haunt with their spectral power and desert-blues ethos. Alternately, selections from Din of Ecstasy, Terra Incognita and Rocket House can be re-evaluated as the work of a master songwriter. Apart from their overdriven beat consciousness and razored guitar scree, they come off as vulnerable, yet still insistent and lyrically sophisticated. They’re anchored to American roots music despite their rhythmic adventurousness.

War Crime Blues features eight new cuts and three covers. There’s Lou Reed’s “I Can’t Stand It,” The Clash’s “The Call Up” from Sandinista and the jazz standard “Nature Boy.” If any lingering doubts existed as to Whitley’s abilities—as either a brilliant and original songwriter, or as a bona fide American bluesman in the tradition handed down from the American South—this disc should eliminate them. “Invisible Day” bears haunted witness to ghosts, evil and loss-saturated shadows (having been recorded under a bridge in Dresden), bemoaning those left alive as lost and those who’ve returned from “victorious” conquests as full of emptiness and grief.

The smoking crunch and stomp of “God Left Town” showcases Whitley’s awesome bottleneck pyrotechnics. His rhythmic command of his instrument and bleeding lyrics fuse in an assault on all that is mediocre or clichéd in postmodern interpretations of the blues. Tunes like “White Rider,” “Ghost Dance,” “Her Furious Angels” and “Dead Cowboy Song” don’t interpret the blues so much as revise them as a living, dangerous, fire-breathing tradition. Whitley’s cover of Reed’s “I Can’t Stand It” is ragged, switchblade rock done on distorted solo acoustic guitar with organic foot-stomping percussion that shudders through the speakers.

The set ends on a haunting note with an a cappella rendition of “Nature Boy,” and Whitley surprises us again, this time as an effective, nuanced, interpretive ballad singer. Whitley is a bluesman, pure and simple, and the evidence lies in his songs. To fans, these two offerings will come as welcome new directions. For others who have never heard Whitley, they will embody the sound of rough-and-tumble Americana, unapologetic and powerfully seductive lyrically, musically and emotionally.

With the odd exception here or there, there’s not much room on the airwaves dedicated to adventurous lyrics. But that wasn’t always the case. Could you imagine great songs like “Eleanor Rigby” or “Night Moves”—or even “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia” or “Run, Joey, Run,” for God’s sake—becoming hits today? Give or take the occasional hip-hop track, the story song (or at least the song evoking a world outside the bedroom or ‘da club’) is practically nowhere to be found.

Case in point: Could you imagine Al Stewart songs like “Year of the Cat,” “On the Border,” or “Time Passages” becoming hits today? Hell no, and not just because the tunes sound dated, with their Alan Parsons production. Radio programmers just ain’t interested in songs lacking cross-promotion potential, nor are they interested in songs about pirates, Nostradamus and aging. Let’s face it, lyrics like “strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre contemplating a crime” don’t lend themselves particularly well to Pepsi advertising jingles.

More’s the pity, because one listen to Stewart’s Year of the Cat, just reissued by Rhino along with Time Passages, reminds us what we’re missing. Despite his success in the mid-’70s (both albums went platinum), the Glasgow-born Stewart has never quite gotten his due, at least in the States, partially because his songs are so literate and evocative. “Lord Grenville” makes no reference to the British politician’s efforts to abolish the slave trade, but Stewart knows a lyrical name when he hears it, and Year of the Cat’s opening track beautifully captures the bittersweet feeling of leaving one way of life behind for another.

The title track and “On the Border,” both Top 20 radio hits, are sophisticated and cinematic, exhorting listeners to step outside their own place and time. “On the Border” does it with Spanish guitar and lyrics that again mark the line between Old World and new: “In the islands where I grew up / Nothing seems the same / Just the patterns that remain an empty shell / There’s a strangeness in the air you feel too well.”

Most rock fans and critics are predisposed to dismiss songs that explore myth and mystery as unbearably pretentious, and for good reason. (Have you listened to Yes’ Tales from Topographic Oceans or Emerson, Lake & Palmer’s Tarkus lately? Didn’t think so.) But Stewart tackles prog-rock lyrical themes with a musical approach that comes off as adventurous without being pretentious, mysterious without being melodramatic. And, once upon a time, accessible enough to become radio hits.

Man, I miss Iris DeMent. Ever since she decided making guest appearances on other artists’ albums proved more satisfying than recording her own, few have been able to wrestle with the big questions of belonging, home and identity with as much grace (and as little pretense) as she once did.

Kate Jacobs, now on her fourth release, has always been a somewhat improbable applicant for DeMent’s slot in the Americana pantheon. Her girlish soprano and stoic sentimentality have always been the defining elements of her work, and even if she has yet to combine them in such definitively dynamic ways as the greatest voices in her line of work, her deep humility, clever tunefulness and emotional directness have always hinted that she has a great album in her. On You Call That Dark, Jacobs delivers her masterstroke.

Preternaturally consumed with the longing for a world (and a way of life) that seems to be slipping away, these 13 tracks cut a deep swath to the heart of loss, told through the stories of those most deeply affected. To that extent, the noble, quiet dignity she invests in her idealized cast of characters becomes the album’s defining quality.

We’re introduced to Helen, the elderly subject of “Helen Has a House,” a hymn-like ode to a woman watching her grip loosen on her way of life while reassuring others to worry for themselves. And there’s Pete, the protagonist of the sing-songy, tear-jerking “Pete’s Gonna Sell,” the story of a family farm going under. Further, “What a World, What a God”—a tasteful guitar-and-mandolin duet telling the story of an elderly immigrant who refuses pain medication while dying in a hospital, to save his family from bankruptcy—continues the succession of tragic dramas. Still, the story of this album is far from being just that of heartbreak and loss.

Full of open, warmly organic textures and song structures full of little twists and unexpected melodic hitches, Jacobs’ considerable pop acumen keeps things from growing as dire as they seem. From the full-sounding organ and 12-string guitar that form the rich tapestry of opener “Your Big Sister,” to the banjo and clarinet that close the Shakespeare-penned “That Time of Year,” the generally effervescent folk-pop arrangements serve to ensure that the album’s mood never becomes too heavy-handed. The Rubber Soul-ish pop and multi-part harmonies of “Let Dusty Be Your Guide” are so lushly and effectively arranged that you hardly notice it’s one of the most distressed break-up songs ever put to tape. And the prancing piano lines and softly falling melodies of “Tall Buildings” mask a claustrophobic lament for the encroachment of development into rural life. And while, on the surface, these songs are almost crushingly sad, the brave resilience with which Jacobs imbues them becomes the album’s most resonant theme.

You Call That Dark is an unlikely concept album, humble enough in its execution that such a designation would cheapen its intent. A detailed reading will show that no song is without its glimmer of hope, however fleeting. The resounding message is one of finding meaning in the subtle details of existence, appreciating every simple pleasure, living in the moment. Jacobs faces mortality without succumbing to fear; she encounters pain without turning morose; she retains her humanity without turning cynical or defiant; and she finds beauty in the face of loss.

Listening to The Cardigans’ catalog, one might get the impression the Swedish group has a horrible case of Attention Deficit Disorder. Over 10 years and five albums, their style has evolved rather dramatically. The band recorded two refreshingly saucy albums that sound like throwbacks to ’60s lounge-pop mixed with disco and a sense of humor (hence the Black Sabbath covers). Traces of this sound bled onto 1996’s First Band on the Moon, but The Cardigans also moved into darker territory on some of the album. After 1998’s even moodier, electronic-heavy Gran Turismo, it was unclear whether they would return, as the group’s members began concentrating on various solo and side projects.

Fortunately, The Cardigans pressed on, and now they’ve returned with an album on which they sound more comfortable than ever. Where vocalist Nina Persson’s lyrics have seemed a bit cryptic and restrained in the past (which fits nicely with Gran Turismo’s music), they are now more introspective. On “Live And Learn,” she sings, “I got blistered and burned / And lost what I’d earned / But I lived and I learned,” displaying both her weariness and wisdom in a way she probably couldn’t have a decade ago.

Long Gone sounds more sonically mature, too. Guitarist Peter Svensson’s songs sound less like they’re being performed and more like they’re being played—an important distinction. The bassoons and recorders that added a quirky charm to previous work have been replaced by a string section. Smooth, organic guitar and organ tones abound. Though a lo-fi recording style used to be part of The Cardigan’s magic, this latest album benefits from lush production that complements the new songs perfectly. And while I thought Persson’s soft, girly voice didn’t need improvement, her pipes are surprisingly stronger this time around, featuring a warm, newfound vibrato.

Not to say The Cardigans have gone soft (or returned to being soft, I suppose). Noisy guitars and killer drum fills are the norm on “Good Horse” (which features backing vocals by fellow Swede Howlin’ Pelle Almqvist of The Hives). The punchy, driving “For What it’s Worth” lifts a few stylistic elements from American folk and country—as do quite a few cuts on the album. Fans looking for another “Carnival” or “Lovefool” might be disappointed, but those desiring something more will like these Cardigans just fine.

With his non-narrative film trilogy, Koyaanisqatsi, Powaqqatsi and Naqoyqatsi, Godfrey Reggio used documentary-style footage to create a metaphoric wake-up call for humanity, portraying a dangerous global imbalance between nature and civilization. The late Stan Brakhage also eschewed formal storytelling, manipulating the physical medium to make movies about film itself. Bill Morrison’s remarkable Decasia falls somewhere between these approaches. Using remnants of decaying film stock culled from archives, Morrison places images from disparate sources together, combining badly damaged cowboy movies with eroding ethnographic footage of whirling dervishes and carpet weavers. But the original context of the images is not as important as the result of their decay: by turns achingly gorgeous and horribly distorted. Perhaps most striking of all is one passage in which a fighter seems to battle a dark, formless blob of oblivion. As these endlessly compelling images unfold, they establish Morrison’s almost accidental subtext: decay is something wholly natural, but no less disturbing in its slow destruction. This feeling of sinister beauty is driven home by Michael Gordon’s evocative score, which crests and recedes, providing a discreet rhythm to the film. In the end, Decasia is an oddly emotional cinematic experience.

As evidenced by films like M*A*S*H, Nashville, Short Cuts and Gosford Park, Robert Altman has achieved his greatest success with ensemble works that follow intersecting lives around a single event or setting. In 1977 he focused on a more concise character study with 3 Women. The result, perhaps more than any other work, illustrates the filmmaker’s best and worst impulses.

On one hand, 3 Women offers memorable characters, an idiosyncratic structure and touches of Altman’s signature style, injecting documentary-style moments into a quirky formal approach. We’re drawn into the story of terminally chatty physical therapist Millie Lammoreoux (Shelley Duvall in one of her best performances) who befriends the painfully naïve newcomer Pinky Rose (Sissy Spacek). The two become roommates, but Pinky’s admiration for Millie—she gushes that Millie is “the most perfect person I ever met”—leads to an irrevocable change in their lives. Lurking on the sidelines is Willie, the pregnant artist and long-suffering wife, who represents the maturity and depth Millie and Pinky cannot attain. But it soon becomes clear Altman doesn’t really respect his characters, preferring instead to poke fun at them with increasing contempt (most notably in Millie’s slavish devotion to recipes from McCall’s and pathetic attempts at romance). More damaging to the film overall is its lack of cohesion. His refusal to offer a comfortable resolution is admirable, but he regrettably indulges in self-conscious artiness. As a result, the symbolism of water, burgeoning sexuality and a shared nature between the three women feels like an afterthought.

Ultimately, while not a completely satisfying film, 3 Women is an interesting part of Altman’s oeuvre, and the DVD includes a commentary track by the filmmaker that helps clear up some of its muddier aspects.

Psychologist Stanley Milgram’s landmark study Obedience To Authority suggested human beings are easily led to do horrible things, especially when a domineering figure is calling the shots. Years earlier, director Fritz Lang came to a similar conclusion with his masterful The Testament of Dr. Mabuse (1933), now available in a fine two-DVD set. By the time Lang made Testament he’d been incorporating the figure of evil authority into many of his films. He contributed to script development for The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) and went on to explore the theme in Dr. Mabuse: The Gambler (1922), Metropolis (1927) and M (1931). But for Testament, Lang revived the figure of Mabuse, expanding the role of the twisted überman, whose mad genius and hypnotic power prove irresistible even to medical science.

The film begins with Mabuse confined to an asylum, spending his days in a catatonic state and scribbling his plans for an “empire of crime.” As his blueprint for anarchy begins to come to life in a string of illegal acts, the dogged Inspector Lohmann (Otto Wernicke reprising his colorful role from M) is called in to crack the case. Lang’s sly incorporation of elements from another great German commentary on totalitarianism, Dracula, makes his intensions all the clearer (including hypnotism and the clear parallel to the lunatic Renfield in the role of Hofmeister). It’s no surprise Joseph Goebbels immediately banned the film, causing Lang to flee Germany and the Third Reich.

With impressive bonus material, such as filmed interviews with Lang, supporting actor Rudolf Schündler and Mabuse expert Michael Farin, the set offers a particularly enlightening view into one of the great fascist cautionary tales ever committed to film. It doesn’t hurt that it’s also an endlessly entertaining potboiler.

The Lovers on the Bridge, a 1991 movie about two homeless people, is unfortunately more famous for its folly than its quality. One of the most expensive French movies ever made, it flopped in Europe (despite winning three European Film Awards) and only found limited release in the U.S. But don’t let its reputation or relative obscurity fool you. Lovers is one of the most spectacular movies to come out on DVD this year.

The film centers on the homeless Michele (Juliette Binoche) and Alex (Denis Lavant), who spend most of their time on the Pont-Neuf bridge in Paris while it’s closed for construction. It’s never clear why Alex has been reduced to sleeping on hard stone, although some sort of drug dependency is clearly a factor, but Michele is distraught over a failed relationship and her degenerating eyesight. Already blind in one eye with the other slipping fast, she sees her career as a painter fading to black.

Alex and Michele meet when he notices a drawing she’s done of him. Transfixed both by his own picture and the thought behind it, he pursues Michele until—during a night of wine and fireworks—she falls in love with him. The two embark on a tender and obsessive relationship—tender in its closeness (beautifully rendered in numerous nighttime scenes on the bridge and at the ocean), obsessive in the way the lovers, particularly Alex, try to exclude the outside world.

Obsession is a broader theme in the film, particularly noticeable in its amazing set design. The movie was originally supposed to be shot on the famous Parisian bridge itself; but when the production fell behind schedule, director Leos Carax ordered an exact replica of the bridge, along with the surrounding buildings, built in the French countryside so that filming could continue. The enormous set reportedly bankrupted two different producers and became more notorious than the movie.

Nonetheless, even if the accountants disagree, the finished product makes a powerful argument that the money was well spent. As rivers become a main character in Jean Renoir’s films, the Pont-Neuf—along with the Seine River—is a wonderful, almost living, entity. Stunning night shots with gorgeous, soft-focus lighting capture the grandeur of the structure as well as the romance blossoming on its arch. And when Michele and Alex steal a boat and go waterskiing down the river, the effect is magical.

Contributing to the film’s success is Jean-Yves Escoffier’s breathtaking cinematography—bridge scenes and iconic images like a ferris wheel lit up at night, a military parade that becomes a whirling montage of color, abstract river shots worthy of Monet’s water-lily paintings and an awe-inpiring 10-minute pyrotechnic display celebrating the 200th anniversary of Bastille Day.

The fireworks are clearly an homage to Hitchcock’s To Catch a Thief. But where Cary Grant and Grace Kelly were suave, beautiful and wealthy, Carax’s two lovers are, despite Binoche’s radiant beauty, disheveled, crass and—in society’s eyes—worthless. The contrast is striking and is raised in the movie’s first scene.

The camera shoots from a moving luxury vehicle as it smoothly glides down the streets, tunnels and bridges of Paris. On the way we see Alex and Michele but, at first, they seem like extras cast for atmosphere. Cinema tradition guides us into assuming our focus should be on the beautiful people in the car we’re “traveling with.” But we never see them again. The wealthy are extras in Carax’s movie; his focus is on the downtrodden.

He reminds us that we all have dreams, stories and obsessions—and we need those stories told back to us. When Alex sees his portrait, his joy at being represented is palpable. When Michele and Alex meet again on the beautiful snow-covered bridge, their happiness is moving. Hearty praise must go to Binoche and Lavant for bringing the full range of humanity to characters we usually ignore.

Millennium Mambo is the first movie in director Hou Hsiao-hsien’s 25-year career to be distributed theatrically in the U.S., and that’s reason alone to seek it out. It’s the story of Vicky, a modern young woman in Taipei with a little money in the bank and not much to do besides smoke, drink and hang out at clubs with her friends. She bounces between her controlling, on-again-off-again boyfriend Hao-hao and the older, possibly wiser Jack, with occasional detours to a snowy part of Japan. Each of these three locations has a gravitational pull on Vicky, sometimes defying all reason, and the movie artfully balances them and seems to weigh them for their worth, just as Vicky is doing the same.

Every frame of the movie pulses with color and light. One of Hou’s strengths, evident in all of his movies, is his masterful sense of space. He fully utilizes the three dimensions of his locations, but not by roving the hallways. His camera usually sits still, but he makes the audience aware of spaces beyond its reach so that his worlds feel observed rather than acted. People disappear through doorways, but they still exist. They don’t stand artificially in front of the camera. If they need to move into the kitchen to get something, they do, and Hou’s camera waits for their return. The spaces in Millennium Mambo are more cramped than usual, and the situations more urban and tense. He packs the frame with people and furniture, reflecting not only the characters’ physical locations, but their lives as well, bouncing off each other, unstable, in need of fresh air. The way the music both connects and contrasts the settings is often mesmerizing.

Millennium Mambo is narrated from the future. “This happened 10 years ago, in 2001,” says an oddly detached, strangely reflective female voice, presumably Vicky’s, even though she refers to herself in the third person. It’s as if she sees her younger self as someone else. On a trip to Japan, briefly escaping the techno beats of Taipei, Vicky strolls down an “avenue of film” and presses her face into a snow bank. The indentation that she leaves behind, like the faces on the movie posters hanging above her, is sure to melt, but she’s a woman beginning a search for permanence.

The characters in Millennium Mambo sometimes seem hollow, but Hou pays them such careful attention that when they begin to gravitate toward serenity, the film is quite moving. Hou has repeatedly told the story of his country through its individuals, and in Millennium Mambo he clearly hopes for a day when turbulent Taiwan will achieve some stability. A country and its histor