This is a really good question. Saunders doesn’t purport to have an “explanashun,” but as anyone familiar with his body of work knows — from CivilWarLand in Bad Decline, his breathtaking first story collection way back in 1998, to this year’s chart-topping Tenth of December, plus all the stories, novellas and essays in between — Saunders has a powerful knack for exploring the contradictions that drive our era, with an ear for the American idiom that is downright musical.

Happily, for those inclined to take their literature in the oral-tradition-meets-digital-publishing medium of audiobooks, Saunders narrates the audio version himself, adding warmth and wit to the listening experience.

eMusic contributor Amanda Davidson talked with Saunders over email about playing music, writing fiction, and reading stories out loud.

You’ve been on an epic book tour for Tenth of December. Are there any songs or albums that you’re currently listening to in order to refresh your spirits?

I pretty much blew my ears out in the 1980s when I worked on an oil crew and the Walkman had just been invented, so I try to minimize my headphone time these days. But we live an hour and a half from the nearest airport, so I get some good music-in-the-car time in on those drives. I’ve been listening to a mix that someone gave me, and it has on there “Peggy Sang the Blues” by Frank Turner, and “Stop Cryin’ About the Rain,” by Graham Parker. I’ve also been listening to After the Gold Rush by Neil Young, and (repetitively) “One Sunday Morning” by Wilco. Also “God I’m Missing You” — a Rodney Crowell-Mary Karr song done by Lucinda Williams on the Crowell-Karr album Kin. A really beautiful song, and an astonishing performance of it. Other than that — total silence.

There’s a connection between language and music in your new story, as Fox 8 trots past a house and hears “the most amazing sound. Turns out, what that sound is, was: the Yuman voice, making werds. They sounded grate! They sounded like prety music!” Can you describe the genesis of Fox 8′s voice?

As far as I can remember, I’d written a humor piece where the narrator was a dog, and had some fun with that — he was kind of smart and also kind of dumb. And then I wrote another humor piece called “Coarse Evaluation” which was this course evaluation written by a high-school kid who was basically illiterate. It started like this:

At first this class was a pretty easy class to take. The readings were interesting but often tedious. The kids in class always seemed paranoid about being struck down by others. Unfortunately this factor led to an awkward vibe which both contributed and caused the demise of the teacher

And had soon descended to this, re. the class’s reading of “A Christmas Carol”:

When them ghosts came we did not find it scarry. Would have been scarier if one ghosts tongue had shot out and likked Mr Scrooge or Marley or whoever, that one guy who was such a tightass in terms of his money?

So I kind of combined the two: a fox who is only moderately literate.

I like to have some sort of self-imposed constraint when I’m writing. Somehow this has the paradoxical effect of freeing me up. So to be “constrained” to the bad spelling helped me — it seemed like it produced a possibility for a sort of extra level of poetry, if you see what I mean. If you say: “When the sun went down, the world went dark” — well, that’s one phrase. If you say, “When sun goes down, werld goes dark” — it’s got a different feeling. So I had a good time exploring what felt like a slightly new form of English — trying to find the hot spots and funny places and so on.

Fox 8 is full of sentences that are both funny and heated, critical and tender-hearted. Is there a way that your approach to language allows you layer these tones and feelings?

I think there is, yes, absolutely. That is the whole principle underlying the notion of style: that how we say something and what we say are not at all separate, and that there are untold levels of magic possible in the simple arrangement of words — that the human reading apparatus is deeply nuanced and perceptive, beyond our ability to explain or reduce.

But the pisser is, there are not any rules or guidance as to how or where or when to do this — I think you have to just wade in, phrase by phrase, and see what you’ve done and adjust accordingly. That is the fun part and the terrifying part, to me: it is all done (and can only be done) on the line-to-line level, by taste. And then you come back again and again, micro-adjusting each time — which will often introduce new possibilities, and so on and so on…

Was there any particular music, or musical style, that informed Fox 8?

It’s a funny thing. I love music, I play music, but I tend to keep music and writing very separate. Never (never) listen to music when I’m writing, and have learned to run away if a certain song is “inspiring” me too much. When it comes to writing, I am a purist. I think the prose has to do what it does all on its own — has to come forth out of complete silence and move the reader completely on its own, and so on.

All this by way of saying that when you asked that question, I drew a total blank. I mean, I could make something up, but honestly — nothing musical presents itself, related to that story. Or any of my stories.

Writing in silence makes a lot of sense, considering the relationship between silence and music, or silence and language. If you ever listen for dialogue, do you listen for the unsaid?

I think most dialogue is the unsaid. There’s a great comic energy in that move where two people talk around something, or talk past each other.

I’m interested in the way that Americans — well, probably people in general — tend to address their anxiety with yap. I know I do. This tendency to lack the self-confidence to simply not do anything — to refrain, to be silent, not react, not shoot, just stay out of the shit — that seems to be an American thing. It’s like we can’t tolerate being sidelined or inactive or inessential to any moment. We always have to be active and at the center of things. That’s a big generality, but I do sometimes wonder why it is that, if, say, a European gets pissed off, he gets drunk and falls asleep on the curb — takes himself out of the action. He can tolerate being abased, somewhat. But an American guy (again, generalizing like a big dog), especially your generic white guy, doesn’t like that. It’s as if he can’t say: “I am small/minor/temporarily losing.” If humiliated, he has to go out and do something. It’s like the worst thing that could happen is that, for a while, he might be…passive, or absent, or quiet, or inessential.

Except for me, of course. I am one of those virtuous, self-possessed white guys.

I read recently that you play guitar. How long have you been playing?

I started in seventh grade. One of our nuns was offering free lessons, so I went for it. They were basically teaching us to play for Mass, so we first learned “Kumbaya,” and then “We Are One in the Spirit,” with the iconic strumming pattern called, uh, “Down, Down, Up/Up, Down, Up.” And then I played in bands all through college and after.

Do you practice a lot? Does the repetition of that process connect with your writing?

I do practice a lot. When I was in college, for a certain period, I was playing an hour or so of scales a day. Now it’s more that technical approach called “just farting around.”

I think music has informed my writing in lots of (very complicated) ways. There’s an “ear” component in both — a way of training yourself in close listening. There’s also this idea that the real place of communication is sub-rational — just learning to trust that the real magic in a piece of art occurs in sub-conceptual places.

And then, as you suggest, there is no limit to the number of times one may have to play a piece of music before it’s satisfactory. Ditto with writing. Being involved with music taught me early on that, in art, you get no points for mere effort — the thing has to work at the end, or it’s back to the drawing board.

Are you currently working on any guitar pieces?

Lately I’ve been trying to write songs — I have this goal of writing, in my lifetime, one song that doesn’t revolt me. So far, no luck. But it is fun to work on them, and especially fun to work on the guitar parts. I have Logic Express on a dedicated computer in the basement, so I’ve been overdubbing and very slowly learning about recording — just as a hobby, or as a reminder of what “beginner mind” really feels like. (“Beginner mind” is a nice way of saying “How it feels to keep sucking even when you really want to be good.”)

Do the songs that you write and record have lyrics?

They do have lyrics. That is actually the part I’m most unhappy with. The lyrics I write tend to be kind of linear and logical and narrative — and not in a good way. I haven’t found any truths that I could only express via a lyric, I guess is how I’d put it. So that’s interesting to me — I know what a great song sounds like, I understand the qualities of allusiveness and so on, but just can’t seem to summon that up in this context. That’s what I mean by “beginner mind.” And that’s why I like to experience it. It’s good to be reminded that a lot of what I take for granted in prose writing might not be so obvious to, or easy for, a young student writer.  And it’s also interesting (and frustrating) to see that diagnosing or recognizing a problem does not necessarily lead to solution of same.

You recorded your own audiobooks for both Fox 8 and Tenth of December. Did you enjoy the process?

I loved it. I said I’d be willing to, and Random House was nice enough to let me do it. I had a great producer, Kelly Gildea, and we just had a lot of fun with it. I do a good number of college readings, and I’ve come to understand reading aloud as a performance that is quite separate from writing but offers another opportunity to engage with what you’ve written, and also to sort of teach yourself what the next thing is going to be. I think I might also be a bit of a frustrated actor.

It’s an interesting question, this one of writing versus reading aloud. I remember when I was on tour with my first book — those were hard stories to read. They read better on the page than they did out loud — they had lots of strange phrasings and so on. And something about having to read them repetitively and never really finding the right way to do it forced out the first story in the second book. That story was called “The Falls,” and it was much more playful and colloquial and readable than the stories in the first book. I think that, at some level, I was giving myself something to read on the road. It was as if whatever it is in us that forms voice, pre-writing, had taken note, and was trying to come up with something a little more verbally interesting.

Do you make discoveries about the stories you’ve already written by reading them out loud, whether in the studio or at readings?

Yes, absolutely. You find out where the laughs are, you find out how to pitch a given character via the voice you give her (too much in this direction and she becomes a caricature; go too far back the other way and you start losing humor). Sometimes you can feel when a moment is powerful by the quality of the silence. There is also, I think, a really beneficial effect in that you are getting very close to that ancient storyteller mode: there you are, there’s your crowd, you’ve got 30 minutes; how much of a deep connection can you make? I’ve done a lot of readings since this new book came out in January and I can feel that I am really learning something about connection with an audience — for example, that you can trust them to get the subtle and deep things; that they really are interested in the things I’m interested in; that you don’t have to have a joke a minute to interest them. I can feel that all of this is going to come into play with the next book.

The live audience connection you mention is a rare treat, since there are so few forums in which adults get to listen to stories, together. Children, though, have this experience more often — Fox 8 even learns English by eavesdropping on bedtime stories.

Yes — Fox 8 started out as a kids’ book. But then, it turns out, kids’ books can’t have so many misspellings. I’d sent it out to a few editors and they all said the same thing. That was an interesting moment: What I’d thought of as a kids’ book was…not. For sure. So then I felt a door opening: Well, if it’s not a kids’ book, what is it that separates a kids’ book from one for adults? And I’ve always thought that a kids’ book should serve the function of assuring this scared, new little person that sometimes things turn out well; that goodness has a place in the world. And maybe a story for adults — especially in a fortunate, possibly smug culture like ours — might serve a different function: telling a powerful, self-assured person that sometimes things don’t turn out well, that they aren’t turning out well for some people even as we speak. So when I realized it was not a kids’ book, it gave me permission to change the function of the story, essentially; it allowed (or maybe required) some darkness to come in. And I liked the way that dark event resonated with the peppy kids’ book language — it was kind of like I’d made this complete sweetheart and then lowered the boom on him. A little harsh, but then I thought: Does that ever happen in the real world? Does a real sweetheart ever get the boom lowered on him? And I answered myself: Duh.

Fox 8 is a sweetheart, but he’s not simply a foil for human cruelty — he justifies his own aggression toward chickens, for example. Still, one layer of meaning I took away is that it would benefit all creatures if we humans were more aware and thoughtful about habitat destruction.

For me, the way fiction works is that it always occurs to a specific person (or fox), at a specific time under specific circumstances. So, to the fox, habitat destruction is a big issue, especially at this time. But he’s pretty willing to destroy a chicken habitat, or even a chicken, and then rationalize that. I think fiction works best when it is basically saying, “Ah, see? Sometimes it is thus.” So we can understand why malls get built and how that can be a good thing, and, at the same time, we can see that, whenever a mall gets built, stuff gets destroyed, which is a bad thing — and we can leave the scenario not saying, “Fuck it! Build malls anyway! Capitalism must be served!” and also not saying, “Evil mall-builders! Cease and desist! Never build a mall, if you love animals,” but rather, “Ah, see? Sometimes it is thus.”

Although, on the other hand, who can argue with “more aware and thoughtful”?

My feeling about the moral intention in fiction is: show characters in action, try to be fair to them, and tell the story in the most lively and truthful language you can; admit to ambiguity, and, as you write, try to move closer and closer to the natural energy of the story, and  away from your conceptions/hopes about it — and good things will happen. To the reader and the writer.

Ghost’s version of the Albigensian Heresy surfaced in 2010 when the band’s first album, Opus Eponymous, cut through the underworld of the Scandinavian metal scene with a sense of bold purpose. Beyond the psycho-religious trappings, their riffs ‘n rhythms were precise and catapulting, leavened with a sense of harmony as inventive as Blue Oyster Cult and not sparing the crunching horror show of Iron Maiden or Helloween. Their newest release, Infestissumam, brings them to the Jerusalem that is Nashville, where they recorded with producer Nick Raskulinecz; and as the band approached their venue for this night’s human sacrifice in San Francisco, I made contact through the ether with a Nameless Ghoul — who, if I’m not mistaken, did sound a lot like Papa Emeritus II.

If the first record is about prophesizing the Antichrist, and the second heralding arrival, it seems to mirror your own movement as a band, now undertaking your first headlining U.S. tour and a major label album release.

I never thought of it like that, but that would make sense. Obviously for a band that was for quite some time considered a hype, or by many as a fluke, what we have managed to do is announce ourselves to the world with this record.

This may be a chicken-or-egg question, but which came first, the band or the theatrical concept?

Myself and the other guys are musicians, and we’ve been in several groups together in the past. And while being together in another band, Ghost started when I played a riff to everybody else. I said that this is probably the most heavy metal riff that has ever existed. Then I showed them the opening riff to “Stand By Him.” When the chorus came to me, it haunted my dreams. Every time I picked up the guitar, I ended up playing that progression, and when I fit the words in, it seemed to cry out for a Satanically-oriented lyric. This was in 2006. When we came up with the name Ghost, it seemed only natural to build on the foundation of this heavy imagery. Within that concept we were able to combine our love of horror films, and of course, the traditions of Scandinavian metal.

The shock-horror lyrics, the celebration of devil worship, the guttural vocals and massed slabs of guitar — they’re practically part of Swedish folklore now. The complex overlay of vocal harmonies and the predominance of the keyboards seems to broaden your appeal.

I think on the new record we’re not stepping away from it, but trying to expand on the classical themes of where we come from. When we began we were in an embryonic state, without knowing anyone was listening. Now we seem to be growing along with our audience’s expectations of what we are capable of.

There is a definitely a different feel to this new album than the first. It seems more expansive and inclusive. When you went into the studio with producer Nick Raskulinecz, what kinds of goals did you have in mind, ways in which you hoped the music would develop and grow?

All the songs on the new album, with the exception of “Ghuleh,” were written and demoed in 2011. We knew pretty well what we wanted to do, and going to Nashville was a way in which we could feel a sense of dislocation, of being outsiders. It was almost as if you were a Star Wars fanatic going to a Star Trek convention. Being so out of sync with the city left us to our own devices, like we were on an alien planet, and I think in some ways it pushed us farther out, allowed us to take chances we might not otherwise have were we in our homeland. We are certainly not a country band.

I’d surely agree. In fact, one might say you’re the Anticountry. Speaking of which, how much does the religious imagery you use reflect your own beliefs? Is it more of a theatrical concept, or do you spiritually believe in the dark side?

Let’s put it this way. My whole upbringing was within the extreme metal scene, where diabolical imagery is a way of communicating alienation and otherness. I have been a fan of music like that ever since I was 10, 11. That whole language, that whole way of thinking comes very natural to me. You can view it from different angles, and with Ghost we are attempting to fashion an aesthetic work of art, reflecting the artistic entertainment values of a Biblical linear anti-Christian Satanism. From a personal point of view, we are basically making a mockery of linear religion because it’s such a simplified way of looking at divinity. I think of philosophy and theology as so much grander.

It does seem that your staging and presentation is more for spectacle than hardcore devil worship. No one thought that Alice Cooper was really cutting heads off babies after the show; or that Black Sabbath was drinking the blood of virgins. What are some of the bands you take inspiration from?

We’re influenced by everything ranging from classic rock to the extreme underground metal bands of the ’80s to film scores to the grandeur of emotional harmonic music; that combination gives us a lot of freedom to move our music and staging anywhere. We don’t want to be confined to being any one thing.

So can we expect a Papa Emeritus III with the next album?

Well, I can’t reveal the future. Anything can happen in the antichurch, as within the church itself. In the days of the Avignon schism, back in the 14th century, there were once three Popes fighting for the right to lead the church, excommunicating each other. And that was before the Borgias. There may be a bloody war of succession to come.

Valerie June, Pushin’ Against A Stone The hugely anticipated release from the dreadlocked Tennessee singer-songwriter is an intoxicating mix of Prohibition-era porch music and soulful Southern blues, sung in a voice that’s as rich and warm as old vinyl. June describes her sound as “organic moonshine roots music”, and you won’t hear a better example of it this year.

Public Service Broadcasting, Inform-Educate-Entertain After capturing the bunting-decked mood of the Olympics with The War Room EP last summer, PSB’s debut proper fulfills its brief nicely by exploring the time-frame between the Blitz and the Coronation, and evoking a world of ration books and black market silk stockings. Victoria Segal writes:

“Their make-do-and-mend approach to music comes from their victorious digging through the archives, salvaging scraps of public information films, news reel and propaganda and pairing them with some thoroughly modern music. There’s no smirking kitsch, here, however: these songs are fascinated by the human capacity for wonder, endurance and plain decency.”

Ghostpoet, Some Say So I Say Light The follow-up to Ghostpoet’s Mercury-nominated debut is not only a more focused and purposeful record, but also a braver one. Sharon O’Connell says:

“Gone are the Beck-ish blues, electro and indie elements of Ghostpoet’s debut; he’s now opted for a far more cohesive and dynamic style of post-everything hip pop. It’s one that allows for chip-tune freneticism with strings and heavily treated vocal loops (“Comatose”), surging and euphoric Afrobeat (“Plastic Bag Brain”, which features drumming don Tony Allen, and guitarist Dave Okumu of The Invisible) and an adventure in pulsing synth house (“Dorsal Morsel”). All represent the confident and considered pushing of his parameters by a distinctive talent who’s in it for the long haul.”

Little Boots, Nocturnes Victoria Hesketh’s 2009 debut Hands generated hit singles, a gold album, worldwide tours and topped the BBC Sound of 2009 poll, and Nocturnes, the long-simmering sophomore effort, isn’t a total break from her buzzy beginnings. It adds to her glossy pop veneer with more eclectic synth sounds, overseen by DFA honcho Tim Goldsworthy.

Van Dyke Parks Songs Cycled The first solo album in 24 years from the legendary Brian Wilson collaborator and composer sees him reinvent himself as a protest singer with songs about “America, warts and all”. Behind the antique arrangements – Parks has never been shy of banjos, accordions and calypso flourishes – it has an affecting emotional power.

Still Corners, Strange Pleasures Still Corners try to rid themselves of the dream-pop tag. Alex Naidus says:

“Greg Hughes smartly juxtaposes the more traditionally “dreamy” elements of Still Corners’ sound with some crisper textures and more insistent rhythms. His songwriting and production style still skews sweeping and epic: On single “Fireflies,” the synths stack — pillowy pads, twinkling upper-octave melody lines and punchy synth-bass — and are buoyed by Tessa Murray’s vampish vocals. With Strange Pleasures, Hughes has carefully crafted a set with songs that inspire grandeur while remaining taut and gripping — an impressive feat.”

I Monster, Swarf A new album of rare tracks recorded around the time of 2009′s A Dense Swarm of Ancient Stars.

Sam Sanders, Mirror Mirror Super rare R&B / soul / funk record (apparently the cover art had to be created from scratch, the original is that obscure). A nice, digging-in-the-crates find.

Despite the success of their debut, it’s still a hard-knock life for these Annies, who smartly chronicle the joys and trials of being a woman in the 2010s. On “Being Pretty Ain’t Pretty,” they spend a lot of time and money applying make-up and even more time and money taking it off, but they never play it off as a joke. Instead, they sympathize with the woman in the mirror and their close harmonies invest the song with a deep melancholy. Songs like “Trading One Heartbreak for Another” and “Dear Sobriety” are quietly devastating, but the Annies’ sass and smarts remain.

Talib Kweli, Prisoner of Conscious: On his latest, Talib Kweli sounds liberated and awake. Says Christina Lee:

While 2011′s Gutter Rainbows updated the neo-soul sound of Kweli’s onetime label Rawkus, Prisoner of Conscious reaches back to even older genres. Samba revivalist Seu Jorge adds wistfulness to “Favela Love,” a song about wandering abroad. On “Come Here,” R&B singer Miguel does his best Marvin Gaye while Kweli composes a valentine made of hip-hop references: “We can do it like Common and Mary and ‘Come Closer’/ We can do it like Barack and Michelle, give me a fist bump.”

Patty Griffin, American Kid: The Americana songwriter’s first collection of new songs in six years. Stephen Deusner says:

American Kid is a meditation on wanderlust of all kinds — emotional, physical and musical — and it may be Griffin’s most adventurous and diverse effort yet. Rather than record again in Austin or Nashville, Griffin decamped to Memphis, where she absorbed the Bluff City’s deep, rich history and recruited Luther and Cody Dickinson of the North Mississippi All-Stars as her backing band. Fortunately, this is no kneejerk approximation of local blues or soul. No musical tourist, Griffin is not interested in re-creating that Sun or Stax sound; instead, she hits the crossroads and goes in all directions at once.

Still Corners, Strange Pleasures: Still Corners try to rid themselves of the “ethereal” and “dreamy” sound they’re associated with. Alex Naidus says:

Greg Hughes smartly juxtaposes the more traditionally “dreamy” elements of Still Corners’ sound with some crisper textures and more insistent rhythms. His songwriting and production style still skews sweeping and epic: On single “Fireflies,” the synths stack — pillowy pads, twinkling upper-octave melody lines and punchy synth-bass — and are buoyed by Tessa Murray’s vampish vocals. With Strange Pleasures, Hughes has carefully crafted a set with songs that inspire grandeur while remaining taut and gripping — an impressive feat.

Natalie Maines, Mother: Dixie Chick Natalie Maines returns scarred, but smarter, on her first real rock ‘n’ roll record. Stephen Deusner says:

Mother is not merely a shift in musical direction or a crossover attempt; instead, it’s the sound of a woman fighting defiantly to redefine herself with a harder, steelier sound. Fortunately, Maines’s commanding voice remains intact. She nimbly navigates the slow build from soft melody to full gospel finale on “Free Life,” while “Trained” binds a torrid sex metaphor to a rowdy blues-rock groove courtesy of co-producer Ben Harper.

Little Boots, Nocturnes: The long-awaited second LP from synth-pop chanteuse Little Boots. Barry Walters says:

Nocturnes isn’t a total break from her buzzy beginnings. For “Broken Record,” Hesketh writes with veteran songsmith Rick Nowels, spinning the same obsessive love angle as her attention-grabbing first single, “Stuck on Repeat.” But here and elsewhere, she downplays the ’80s vibe in favor of more eclectic synth sounds largely overseen by former Mo’ Wax/DFA honcho Tim Goldsworthy.

Joshua Redman, Walking Shadows: A diverse mix of American songbook standards, pop hits and originals. Says Britt Robson:

Redman plays with gorgeous aplomb on Kern and Hammerstein’s “The Folks Who Live on the Hill” and Hoagy Carmichael’s “Stardust” (the latter also features Mehldau’s best solo). He teases out the familiar melodies of The Beatles’ “Let It Be” and “Stop That Train” by John Mayer before taking transformative liberties with them via deft improvisations. The most arresting of the originals is Redman’s atmospheric “Final Hour,” in which his tenor has the low-toned plangency of a bass clarinet.

The Child of Lov, S/T – 25-year-old Netherlands musician, with the blessing of Damon Albarn (who guests here), turns out self-produced record that sounds like late-period Outkast in a bonfire, or a robot with a dying battery singing Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy.”

Astrid Engberg, Poetry is Gone – This seemed intriguing. Cool, Erykah Badu-ish vocals over smoky exhalations of Dilla-esque dusty loops. “Alright” is a jam.

Bajram Bili, Sequenced Fog – Minimal techno mazes built of tiny synthesizer parts. Rudimentary in an intriguing, mysterious way. Sounded interesting.

Shannon Wright, In Film Sound – Pretty brutal, gunky riffing plus Wright’s sneering voice. Basically sounds like the kind of record Steve Albini would have recorded for Touch & Go in the late ’90s. Take a sample, I think it’s pretty boss.

The Hussy, Pagan Hiss – Tinny garage-rock with some Judas Priest-chug guitars, vocals a thousand miles in the mix. One number also seems to be enhanced with a free-recorder solo. Pretty good, bratty-primitive stuff.

Sam Sanders, Mirror Mirror – Pretty sweet, SUPER rare R&B/Soul/Funk record (apparently, this new cover art had to be created from scratch, the original is that obscure). Kind of a nice, digging-in-the-crates type find.

The Uncluded, Hokey Fright – Not the world’s biggest fan of Kimya Dawson over here, but Aesop Rock is good, and this collaboration, while blood-draining on paper, yields a pleasantly quirky (as opposed to unbearably so), finely observed and pleasant listen. If you are even marginally a fan of either of these guys, I feel pretty comfortable recommending this to you.

James Cotton, Cotton Mouth Man – Latest offering of viscerally traditionalist harmonica blues from modern classic bluesman James Cotton.

Spirit of the Garden – Gorgeous chamber art-folk band led by the adventurous contemporary-classical cellist Jody Redhage. Shades of Dead Can Dance…

Lady Antebellum, Golden – Latest studio LP from the pop-country juggernaut.

Michael Hersch, The Vanishing Pavilions Suite – Shuddering, darkly portentous suite for solo piano by the American composer and pianist Michael Hersch. This was a landmark work in the contemporary classical community when it premiered in 2007, and while casually recommending a recording of this monumental work is a little bit like casually recommending that someone read Proust, I still heartily recommend it. (N.B.: I have never read Proust; I just use him as a handy-dandy reference point for “daunting commitment,” because that is essentially what that row of grey books on my shelf represents to me.)

Original Concept, Straight From the Basement of Kooley High! – I do not know what made this come around the New Arrivals turnpike this morning, but there’s no good reason for a self-respecting hip-hop fan not to have heard it. This is the loose, fun, funny and impressive debut LP from Dr. Dre—Andre Brown, that is, of “Ed Lover and,” not the Good Doctor out West. It came out in the earlier days of the major-labels and hip-hop (this was before Yo! MTV Raps) and didn’t sell much, but it’s stuck around because it’s witty and great.

Rod Stewart, Time – Hoo boy, look at that cover. And when there was only one set of footprints, that is when Rod carried you. Do you want to hear 2013-era Rod Stewart sing a song called “Sexual Religion?” Ask yourself that, preferably while looking into a well-lit mirror, and decide what the answer reveals to you about your soul. (NB: I love the first four Rod Stewart solo LPs almost as much as I love anything.)

Various Artists, Music From The Great Gatsby, OST – Here it is – the very expensive soundtrack to The Thing That Baz Luhrmann did to The Great Gatsby. Curated by Jay-Z; featuring Jay-Z, Lana Del Rey, and others.

Courtney Jaye, Love and Forgiveness – Latest from Nashville country singer/songwriter, whose bell-like voice will have sympathetic vibrations with Neko Case and Jenny Lewis Fans. Real Laurel Canyon, Mellow Gold vibes here. Produced by Mike Wrucke, who is known for his work with Miranda Lambert among others.

Inspiring grandeur while remaining taut and gripping

When a band makes music that is repeatedly, almost invariably, described as “ethereal” or “dreamy,” it’s fair to worry whether things might fall too far into the soup. Although the signifiers that often provoke these descriptions — heavy reverb; breathy, obscured vocals; layered effects; wading tempos — can produce a soaring, satisfying cumulative effect, the pitfalls are just as clear: Focus too much on piling up and tweaking lush sounds, an album can end up as a sort of unformed mass of pretty stuff.

Greg Hughes, the primary songwriter, producer, instrumentalist and lyricist of Still Corners, is conscious of this tightrope walk. He spoke to Sub Pop, the label releasing Strange Pleasures, about his evolving approach: “I started taking the production more seriously this time; instead of listening to records and going, ‘Oh, that’s cool,’ I actually studied everything: sound absorption, speaker placement, mixing, mastering, microphones…I see it principally as a widescreen pop album, clear, with upfront vocals…There aren’t a ton of layers this time; everything has its place and is focused.” This thoughtful, balanced method shines through on Strange Pleasures.

Hughes smartly juxtaposes the more traditionally “dreamy” elements of Still Corners’ sound with some crisper textures and more insistent rhythms. On album opener “The Trip,” a delay-heavy, snaking, spacey guitar lead and Tessa Murray’s washed-out, wispy vocals are anchored by prominent, raking acoustic guitar and a krautrock-like pulse. “Beginning to Blue” has wonderfully inside-out sounding production with wobbly, reverse-flanged keyboards and backward cymbal crashes, like a loping, screwed “Tomorrow Never Knows.” Hughes’s songwriting and production style still skews sweeping and epic: On single “Fireflies,” the synths stack — pillowy pads, twinkling upper-octave melody lines and punchy synth-bass — and are buoyed by Murray’s vampish vocals. With Strange Pleasures, Hughes has carefully crafted a set with songs that inspire grandeur while remaining taut and gripping — an impressive feat.

Rather than feeling hemmed in, he sounds liberated and awake

In 1998, Talib Kweli said, “Every day someone ask me, ‘Where all the real MCs at?’/ They underground.” He was proudly pinpointing a shift in hip-hop’s values, how mainstream rappers wanted to be Hugh Hefner while those primarily concerned with artistry were netting only cult appeal. In subsequent releases however, Kweli endured criticism as he tried catchier hooks and wove pop culture references into his lyrics. He epitomized “conscious rap,” but he also struggled to stay within its confines.

So on his fifth LP, Prisoner of Conscious, Kweli raps to music rooted in the time before all that. While 2011′s Gutter Rainbows updated the neo-soul sound of Kweli’s onetime label Rawkus, Prisoner reaches back to even older genres. Samba revivalist Seu Jorge adds wistfulness to “Favela Love,” a song about wandering abroad. On “Come Here,” R&B singer Miguel does his best Marvin Gaye while Kweli composes a valentine made of hip-hop references: “We can do it like Common and Mary and ‘Come Closer’/ We can do it like Barack and Michelle, give me a fist bump.”

Throughout the album, Kweli raps of his connections to people and music. On album opener “Human Mic,” Kweli scrambles through a few opening lines before landing on a memory of 9/11: “I seen them crossing bridges by the masses, covered in the ashes of both towers.” Over celebratory horns in “High Life,” he and Rubix exchange dizzying verses that simulate the bustle of a block party. “Prisoner of Conscious? Nonsense,” Kweli raps at one point. Rather than feeling hemmed in, Kweli sounds liberated — not “conscious,” just awake.

A far more cohesive and dynamic style of post-everything hip-pop

With his debut album as Ghostpoet, London MC and producer Obaro Ejimiwe declared his love of not only hip-hop, electronica and trip-hop, but also of blues, jazz, electro and straight-up indie pop. Peanut Butter Blues & Melancholy Jam heralded the arrival of a fresh, young voice that chimed well with then current enthusiasm for Jamie Woon and James Blake, but spread itself rather too thinly, its rampant diversity signaling a fuzziness of intent as much as broadmindedness. Nonetheless, it bagged a Mercury nomination. Now, the follow-up.

Some Say I So I Say Light is not only a more focused and purposeful record, but also a braver one, yet t sacrifices none of the strangely sun-dappled anxiety or quotidian, small-hours doubt that is Ghostpoet’s trademark. Leaving his bedroom for a studio has seen his production talents mature, too and he strikes a smart balance between vocal intimacy and textured electronic cool. His voice — equal parts Gil Scott-Heron and Tricky – is the album’s heart. Warmly cracked and with an oddly alluring, catarrhal thickness, his sprechgesang deals with everything from the gradual growing apart in a relationship to spending too much money on Amazon. It’s offset to fine effect on “Dialtones” by Lucy Rose’s distanced cooing and on “Meltdown” by alt.folk singer Woodpecker Wooliams.

Gone are the Beck-ish blues, electro and indie elements of Ghostpoet’s debut; he’s now opted for a far more cohesive and dynamic style of post-everything hip-pop. It’s one that allows for chip-tune freneticism with strings and heavily treated vocal loops (“Comatose”), surging and euphoric Afro-beat (“Plastic Bag Brain,” which features drumming don Tony Allen, and guitarist Dave Okumu of The Invisible) and an adventure in pulsing synth house (“Dorsal Morsel”). All represent the confident and considered pushing of his parameters by a distinctive talent who’s in it for the long haul.

A Dixie Chick returns, scarred but smarter

Still scarred from the backlash she endured for dissing George Bush 10 years ago, Natalie Maines has jettisoned any trace of the twang that survived the Dixie Chicks’ last album, Taking the Long Way, and has made her first real rock ‘n’ roll record. Mother is not merely a shift in musical direction or a crossover attempt; instead, it’s the sound of a woman fighting defiantly to redefine herself with a harder, steelier sound. Fortunately, Maines’s commanding voice remains intact. She nimbly navigates the slow build from soft melody to full gospel finale on “Free Life,” while “Trained” binds a torrid sex metaphor to a rowdy blues-rock groove courtesy of co-producer Ben Harper. Her cover of “Lover Your Should Have come Over” may be too faithful to Jeff Buckley’s original to transcend karaoke, but Maines picks up some intriguing vocal tricks — especially a new way to treat vowels — and applies them throughout Mother. Best of all is the Jayhawks’ “I’d Run Away,” which shows the Dixie Chick at her most unguarded. Despite the tough rock exterior she constructs, the song reveals a bruised self-doubt that haunts the album. Maines might love to run away, but she knows she has to stay and keep fighting.

The trio goes from side project to supergroup

In his 2012 memoir Waging Heavy Peace, Neil Young gave a rave review to the Pistol Annies, observing that the Nashville trio was “writing their asses off.” It was an unexpected shout-out, to which the women responded via tweet that they nearly peed their pants with excitement. Such praise was warranted. On their 2011 debut, the group — which consists of Miranda Lambert, Ashley Monroe and Angaleena Presley delivered a batch of sharply observed country tunes that ranged from hilarious to heartbreaking and that appealed even to listeners who profess to love everything but country.

Despite that success, it’s still a hard-knock life for these Annies, who smartly chronicle the joys and trials of being a woman in the 2010s. On “Being Pretty Ain’t Pretty,” they spend a lot of time and money applying make-up and even more time and money taking it off, but they never play it off as a joke. Instead, they sympathize with the woman in the mirror and their close harmonies invest the song with a deep melancholy. Songs like “Trading One Heartbreak for Another” and “Dear Sobriety” are quietly devastating, but the Annies’ sass and smarts remain. First single “Hush Hush,” a kissin’ cousin to Robert Earl Keen’s “Merry Christmas from the Family,” is a devious ode to the open secrets and hidden conflicts that bind a family, even if it sends Monroe out behind the barn to spark one up. The Pistol Annies may have started as a side project for these solo artists, but on Annie Up, they prove themselves as a supergroup.

A travelogue through America and American music

Patty Griffin’s seventh album — and her first collection of new songs in six years — opens with “Go Wherever You Wanna Go,” a delicate rural blues number that bristles with slide guitar and promises of travel and escape. That song establishes American Kid as a meditation on wanderlust of all kinds — emotional, physical and musical — and it may be Griffin’s most adventurous and diverse effort yet. Rather than record again in Austin or Nashville, Griffin decamped to Memphis, where she absorbed the Bluff City’s deep, rich history and recruited Luther and Cody Dickinson of the North Mississippi All-Stars as her backing band. Fortunately, this is no kneejerk approximation of local blues or soul. No musical tourist, Griffin is not interested in re-creating that Sun or Stax sound; instead, she hits the crossroads and goes in all directions at once.

The songs on American Kid represent points on a map. Griffin pleads for her life on “Don’t Let Me Die in Florida,” whose urgency is sharpened by Luther Dickinson’s gritty guitar work, while “Ohio” (inspired by the Underground Railroad) establishes a rustic folk drone that’s simultaneously lovely and unsettling. Even on the more direct tracks, like the lusty beerhall sing-along “Get Ready Marie” or her tender cover of Lefty Frizzell’s “Mom and Dad’s Waltz,” her exquisite twang gives life to a range of characters: prodigal sons, itinerant laborers, deserting soldiers, horny bridegrooms. Griffin loses herself not only in American musical traditions but also in American history, as though to escape some horrors of the present. As a result, American Kid sounds like her own version of the Great American Novel, expansive in narrative scope and generous in its earthy humanity.

Synth-pop chanteuse favors more eclectic synth sounds on her long-simmering second LP

A lot happened very quickly for synth-pop chanteuse Little Boots: Her 2009 debut Hands generated hit UK singles, a gold album, worldwide tours and topped the BBC Sound of 2009 poll. What followed in the ensuing four-year gap between albums wasn’t quite silence: Victoria Hesketh filled it by DJing, making mixtapes and working with more club-oriented cohorts, such as Hercules and Love Affair’s Andy Butler and Simian Mobile Disco’s James Ford. But like her compatriot in ’80s-derived dance-pop La Roux, Boots has distanced herself from her initial hype simply by dragging her heels.

Nocturnes, the long-simmering sophomore effort, isn’t a total break from her buzzy beginnings. For “Broken Record,” Hesketh writes with veteran songsmith Rick Nowels, spinning the same obsessive love angle as her attention-grabbing first single, “Stuck on Repeat.” But here and elsewhere, she downplays the ’80s vibe in favor of more eclectic synth sounds largely overseen by former Mo’ Wax/DFA honcho Tim Goldsworthy. Album opener “Motorway” steers in the urbane direction of indie-dance pioneers Saint Etienne, gradually building up a mood that’s more wistful than amorous. “Confusion” pairs her with ex-Junior Senior member and “Born This Way” co-creator Jeppe Laursen, who helps Boots write a troubled, simple love song that shines over Goldsworthy’s finespun production.

Nocturnes hits its stride halfway, where she digs deeper both lyrically and groove-wise. “Beat Beat” repeats the octave-jumping bass bumps of ’70s disco funk, while both Butler collaborations, the house-y “Every Night I Say a Prayer” and the slow-grinding ballad “All for You,” reveal a spiritual side to Boots previously hidden behind her glossy pop veneer. She doesn’t have a big or distinctive voice, but she does pick the right henchmen, and here she even bares a soul, an aching one that compliments all that’s tidy and efficient elsewhere.

A diverse but simpatico mix of American songbook standards, pop hits and group originals

This is Joshua Redman’s “ballads with strings” record, a venerable tradition that most includes such torrid beboppers as Charlie Parker and Clifford Brown. It continues Redman’s recent penchant for putting himself in new settings — his membership in the egalitarian ensemble James Farm and the knotty skronk he’s delivered guesting with The Bad Plus are other examples — but on Walking Shadows he allows himself the security blanket of deploying sidemen. It isn’t easy to come up with three more acutely creative jazz balladeers than the other members of his core quartet — pianist (and album producer) Brad Mehldau, drummer Brian Blade and bassist Larry Grenadier. Their low-key sensitivity is a secret ingredient here.

The material is a diverse but simpatico mix of American songbook standards, pop hits and group originals. Redman plays with gorgeous aplomb on Kern and Hammerstein’s “The Folks Who Live on the Hill” and Hoagy Carmichael’s “Stardust” (the latter also features Mehldau’s best solo). He teases out the familiar melodies of The Beatles’ “Let It Be” and “Stop That Train” by John Mayer before taking transformative liberties with them via deft improvisations. The most arresting of the originals is Redman’s atmospheric “Final Hour,” in which his tenor has the low-toned plangency of a bass clarinet.

The presence of the strings — conducted by Dan Coleman, who also arranged them along with Mehldau and Patrick Zimmerli — varies significantly from song to song. Ironically, Bach’s “Adagio,” featuring a sublime Grenadier bass riff, is among the least ornamented offerings, while on the ’30s standard “Easy Living” and the intro to Mehldau’s “Last Glimpse of Gotham,” they’re more integral to the song than Redman’s sax; Billy Strayhorn’s “Lush Life” is a compelling but messy pastiche. Nothing here is trite or bathetic however — no mean feat for jazz-with-strings endeavors. Walking Shadows is another colorful plume in Redman’s steadily adventurous career.

Inspiring grandeur while remaining taut and gripping

When a band makes music that is repeatedly, almost invariably, described as “ethereal” or “dreamy,” it’s fair to worry whether things might fall too far into the soup. Although the signifiers that often provoke these descriptions — heavy reverb; breathy, obscured vocals; layered effects; wading tempos — can produce a soaring, satisfying cumulative effect, the pitfalls are just as clear: Focus too much on piling up and tweaking lush sounds, an album can end up as a sort of unformed mass of pretty stuff.

Greg Hughes, the primary songwriter, producer, instrumentalist and lyricist of Still Corners, is conscious of this tightrope walk. He spoke to Sub Pop, the label releasing Strange Pleasures, about his evolving approach: “I started taking the production more seriously this time; instead of listening to records and going, ‘Oh, that’s cool,’ I actually studied everything: sound absorption, speaker placement, mixing, mastering, microphones…I see it principally as a widescreen pop album, clear, with upfront vocals…There aren’t a ton of layers this time; everything has its place and is focused.” This thoughtful, balanced method shines through on Strange Pleasures.

Hughes smartly juxtaposes the more traditionally “dreamy” elements of Still Corners’ sound with some crisper textures and more insistent rhythms. On album opener “The Trip,” a delay-heavy, snaking, spacey guitar lead and Tessa Murray’s washed-out, wispy vocals are anchored by prominent, raking acoustic guitar and a krautrock-like pulse. “Beginning to Blue” has wonderfully inside-out sounding production with wobbly, reverse-flanged keyboards and backward cymbal crashes, like a loping, screwed “Tomorrow Never Knows.” Hughes’s songwriting and production style still skews sweeping and epic: On single “Fireflies,” the synths stack — pillowy pads, twinkling upper-octave melody lines and punchy synth-bass — and are buoyed by Murray’s vampish vocals. With Strange Pleasures, Hughes has carefully crafted a set with songs that inspire grandeur while remaining taut and gripping — an impressive feat.

Perhaps more than with his other groups, Us Five gives Lovano a lab in which to try out new ideas, new configurations, and new sounds. The group’s latest release, Cross Currents (Blue Note), takes the group forward while Lovano looks back. Over the course of its running time, Lovano plays an assortment of horns and percussion, from Hungarian tarogato and Belgian aulochrome to Nigerian log drum and gongs; the group group includes Grammy Award winning bassist Esperanza Spalding and drummers Otis Brown III and Francisco Mela. This amalgam of unusual instruments, and the group’s dual drummer configuration, recalls the boundary-stretching ’60s recordings of John Coltrane and Ornette Coleman.

“Some of the instruments I play on the album I have collected through the years,” Lovano says. “They’re ancient sounds, they go back in time in the history of the world of music, from Asia, North Africa, Nigeria. These sounds feel like the earth, like having it come from your soul. It’s not just a technical thing. When you vibrate on the tonalities of these instruments and don’t try to play any specific kind of music, you feel the soul of the music in a different kind of way.”

A similar philosophy extends to the makeup of Lovano’s group. “To have a quintet with double drummers, a lot of points of reference can happen,” he says. “Anything can happen if everyone is paying attention and sharing a space together. That’s the idea. The double drummer configuration was inspired by Art Blakey, Max Roach, Billy Higgins and Ed Blackwell with Ornette, and Rashid Ali and Elvin Jones with Coltrane.”

As the masters have influenced Lovano, he has in turn influenced the new guard of younger jazz musicians.

“I realize what a deep relationship I have with all of these cats.” Lovano says. “It’s a beautiful scene today. As a musician, for a long time you’re in people’s audiences. Then all of a sudden, they’re in your audience. I was in Joe Henderson’s audience a lot,” he continues. “And the audiences of Dexter Gordon, George Coleman and Clifford Jordan. Once when I was playing the Berkhausen festival in Germany, Dexter was in the audience. That night I somehow held my notes just a little longer. I got up the next morning and Dexter was just coming in and we hung in the hotel lobby. I got the chills. That happens for all of us and it’s happening for these cats now. It’s a continuum. That’s how these things are handed down: in real time.”

eMusic’s Ken Micallef asked Lovano to listen and comment on new recordings from his favorite current saxophonists.

Remaking himself as a soulfully wronged but never spiteful lover

More than a decade ago, indie rocker Sean Tillman was reborn as a campy R&B leg-humper keen on tickling your unmentionable zones with his freaky antics. Now Tillman has re-remade himself as a soulfully wronged but never spiteful lover, his vocals filtered for full retro effect, his effortless swoop drawing inspiration not just from Sam Cooke, but from white Cooke heirs like Rod Stewart.

“Please Don’t Make Me Hit You” accentuates that persona shift, as Har Mar resists a lover’s S&M demands (rhythmically indebted to Cooke’s “Cupid”) with a heartfelt “I’m not so into all that kinky stuff.” But it’s the opener, “Lady, You Shot Me,” with its pained virtuoso cry soaring over tricky Stax-via-Daptone horns and a sharp tempo shift, that justifies his newfound fascination with classic soul. And the jaunty “Restless Leg” suggests that Har Mar might fancy himself a haircut, a gym membership, and the right licensing deal away from becoming Bruno Mars. Stranger things have happened.

Remaking himself as a soulfully wronged but never spiteful lover

More than a decade ago, indie rocker Sean Tillman was reborn as a campy R&B leg-humper keen on tickling your unmentionable zones with his freaky antics. Now Tillman has re-remade himself as a soulfully wronged but never spiteful lover, his vocals filtered for full retro effect, his effortless swoop drawing inspiration not just from Sam Cooke, but from white Cooke heirs like Rod Stewart.

“Please Don’t Make Me Hit You” accentuates that persona shift, as Har Mar resists a lover’s S&M demands (rhythmically indebted to Cooke’s “Cupid”) with a heartfelt “I’m not so into all that kinky stuff.” But it’s the opener, “Lady, You Shot Me,” with its pained virtuoso cry soaring over tricky Stax-via-Daptone horns and a sharp tempo shift, that justifies his newfound fascination with classic soul. And the jaunty “Restless Leg” suggests that Har Mar might fancy himself a haircut, a gym membership, and the right licensing deal away from becoming Bruno Mars. Stranger things have happened.

That explains why guest vocalist Justin Vernon ventures down paths both familiar (the harmonies that carry “And in Truth” to such great heights) and freakish (the guttural agony of “Brute,” which could double as a Pig Destroyer scratch track) on the trilogy’s third and final installment, To See More Light. Meanwhile, the record itself revolves around Stetson’s strictly analog — no overdubs, no loop pedals, nothing — approach to attacking his alto sax. In many ways, it’s not all that different from the devotion he had for a year-round sports regiment in high school.

“Wrestling encapsulates most of my physical discipline,” explains Stetson. “Ultimately, I had to quit the sport because it was so destructive — dropping 12 pounds in water weight before you go in and compete, then competing well [Laughs]. It was extreme, but it was one of the things that made me.”

Speaking of extremes, we asked Stetson to discuss some of his favorite metal songs down below. Sure enough, they’re all about as dizzying and dynamic as Stetson’s own records.

Metallica, “For Whom the Bell Tolls”

Why were you drawn to Metallica’s early records? Because they were thrash-y but still had a strong melodic sense to them?

Exactly. It’s such powerful music — angst-ridden, but educated. These are guys who did their homework, and are contextualizing what they learned in the world that they see. So you’ve got all of that youthful rage and aggression, but there’s also a nuance to it. And compositionally, I feel like a lot of that was coming from classical traditions in that it was very symphonic.

So you had this convergence of all these strains of music. Metallica was the first one to bring in a pop sense, in terms of how they delivered vocals. Not how the songs were structured though, because they were still doing things their own way. Because of the age I was and the background I had — largely in melodic music — I latched onto them. In my early teens, there was a lot of gaming with my shop friends, and so we would listen to those records. I remember Ride the Lightning was huge with my wrestling team when I was 12, too.

You used it to psyche you up then?

Oh god yeah. I still do that shit.

Before shows?

Yeah, it depends on what I feel I need before a show. Sometimes I need to be very peaceful and level out feelings, and other times I need to conjure up more of that aggression so that’s something that’s been with me since I was a kid. Like, I remember listening to Tool before I’d compete [in wrestling].

Why did you pick “For Whom the Bell Tolls”?

I was running the other day and listening to that record. When it got to that song, it was as if I was listening to the lyrics for the very first time. It was really crazy realizing that, thematically and image wise, there’s this whole thing in the new record with an eagle that’s basically the angel, or spectre, of death. It has these cracked eyes that prevent it from seeing in the light of day or the dark of night, so it can only hunt at the break of dawn or as the sun sets [Laughs].

There’s this death imagery with the main character in my narrative, and so “Who the Waves Are Roaring For” is really “For Whom the Bell Tolls.” There are a lot of weird parallels to the lyrics of that song, and I did not notice that until now. Which is always interesting to me — how things can be filtered through the creative process.

You mentioned gaming before. What kind of games are you talking about?

Oh, when I say “gaming,” I assume everyone knows I’m talking about role-playing games. This was back in the days of Dungeons & Dragons, before everything got complex. This was the mid-to-late-’80s [Laughs].

Were you hanging out with the jocks just so you wouldn’t get beat up for playing Dungeons & Dragons?

I was never a fighter, but I got bigger and more physically imposing by the time I was 11 or 12. It all happened kinda quickly, so no one fucked with me or my friends after that. I guess if you intimidate the jocks, they’ll leave you alone, no matter how many games you play.

Slayer, “Angel of Death”

So this song makes perfect sense now that you mentioned that storyline with the eagle.

Yep. They were working in broad, archetypal stuff too; they were all drinking from the same fountain.

Slayer was obviously a part of thrash’s Big Four, along with Metallica, but what sets them apart?

The scales are tipped towards the thrash, towards the speed and aggression. It’s, I don’t want to say “messier,” but the edges are definitely frayed and it’s more rooted in punk than rock. I don’t know; they’re extremely similar, yet completely different — worlds, in a way. Back then, and still now, I’ve always been driven and excited by songs with such an impassioned, aggressive delivery of something that’s so immaculately structured and precise. It’s riding the fine line between control and oblivion. I feel like that’s what bands like Slayer are all about.

Did you realize what “Angel of Death” was about Josef Mengele when you were a kid?

I’ve lived my life almost entirely oblivious to words. In music, especially. Not that I’m not a reader; I’ve always read a lot. But I’ve never really focused on the language aspect of music. It’s as if I’ve viewed the lyrics and vocals as shapes rather than delivering language and poetry.

That’s something that’s changed for me over the years. It’s one of the bigger shifts I’ve found as I’ve gotten older. At some point in the past five years, I found myself wondering, “When did I start listening to NPR a lot?” Because when I was in my 20s, I’d listen to music a lot in the car, but I wouldn’t sit and listen to the news or want to hear the language that they’re speaking. It made me wonder if my father experienced the same shift as he got older. Because I remember he always wanted to listen to some form of talk radio when I was a kid. And I kept thinking, “Why the fuck does he want to listen to more people talking?” I could never understand it. There must be something to how our brains intellectually relate to words as we get older. I don’t know if that makes sense, but they get brought into play more over time.

It makes sense; as people get older, they basically find peace in NPR or sitcoms. It’s all about having that sound of voices around. It’s comforting in a way.

Yes! Why is that?

Rainbow, “Man on the Silver Mountain”

So let’s talk Dio…

Oh man, I always wanted there to be a compilation of “castle rock” in the same way there used to be ones for things like ’80s rock ballads. Like there’d be Rush with all of those wizard voices…

And Zeppelin!

In a huge way, yeah. If we expanded what we are talking about here, Zeppelin was definitely a huge influence on me in high school. They just fit seamlessly into what I’d been listening to, particularly because of those elf and magic references.

But yeah, Dio — he was a big one for me.

So if you had to choose between hearing Black Sabbath with Dio or Ozzy, you’d choose Dio?

Oh, I don’t know if I’d do that! They’re two different beasts, and I’ve had much more exposure to the Ozzy Sabbath. I don’t know why that was, but Ozzy Sabbath…it fucking had Ozzy’s voice, in the same that Morrissey only has Morrissey’s voice. There’s something about the timbre, and the color of the vocal chords coming out of his mouth that shifts the space in a way. It’s so unique. I could never disparage Ozzy.

Why did you pick this Rainbow song in particular?

“Man on the Silver Mountain”? There’s some overlap in the imagery of [that song] and this record — something shining on top of this mountain, and we’re in search of it, trying to find our way up to that point. What’s up there is this fortress that’s old and made of mirrors. And there’s a man up there, so [laughs]…

Meshuggah, “Soul Burn”

Meshuggah was very much a “thinking man’s metal band” in the ’90s. Is that how you got into them — through how technical they are? Did Destroy Erase Improve blow your mind?

Blew my mind, yeah. And I came to them late. The mid ’90s was college for me, and I wasn’t doing an enormous amount of metal listening then. I was learning so much about so many different things in music school instead — things like European folk music, minimalist composers, jazz, funk, soul and R&B. It wasn’t a hiatus, but it was definitely a point where I wasn’t keeping up with what was popular in the world of rock.

But in ’99, or maybe it was 2000, a friend gave me that record and it rekindled my love for all of that. Now I listen to Meshuggah almost exclusively when I run. I find the way they write incredibly meditative. No matter how odd and intricate the forms are, everything is driving around that [drummer's] pulse.

Did you pick “Soul Burn” for any reason in particular?

“Soul Burn” is one of the ones I landed on when I was writing “Brute.” I gave it to Justin when he asked me, “Where in metal am I looking for inspiration?” He sent me a “Fuck, yeah” back.

Wolves in the Throne Room, “Dia Artio”

What elements of Wolves in the Throne Room’s music are you most attracted to — the black-metal elements, the ambient ones, or the more operatic?

The black metal thing is something I’ve only had a relationship with over the past few years. They’re one of the ones I gravitated toward immediately, probably because of all the elements you just touched upon. There’s something that’s so gorgeous about the way they write, almost this clichéd longing to all of the chord progressions. And there’s a multiplicity in the way they deliver the music. It’s not just one singular voice or style; it’s more symphonic, at least in terms of the sounds and structures they use. But overall, there’s a beauty to it that’s pretty undeniable.

What’s up with this song?

“Dia Artio” is one of their more ambient songs, with a slower pulse. I could recommend any song on this record, but I thought I’d pick this one to set it apart from the other songs on this list. There’s a real patience in this piece, like there is with Sunn O))) or something. Everything is able to breathe, which is something I tried to explore on this record with pieces like “To See More Light” and “Part of Me Apart From You.” There’s this stasis of forcibly slowed down progressions so you can wander through the minutiae.

Krallice, “The Clearing”

In some ways, Krallice is the total opposite of the Wolves track you picked; they’re both capable of really long songs, but Krallice is much more relentless about it.

I find that density very satisfying, the fact that so much can stimulate your mind within it. A lot of different layers are happening sonically. It is very relentless and exact, and it’s surgical, but it has this thick, dense atmosphere around it. They also juxtapose the super low bark-metal man with the Skeletor voice, which I like [laughs].

What do you get out of a newer band like Krallice that you maybe didn’t get out of Metallica when you were younger? Or do they both provide you with the same thing?

Well they’re doing what Metallica was doing then, now — forging new ground. You almost never hear something like that. Like, the first time I heard Liturgy, everything just stopped. A lot of the black metal bands I’m into are not traditional ones. There’s crossover elements to what they’re doing, and that’s what brought me to have such affection for it. There’s a parallel between what I wanted to do with my music and what they were doing with theirs that almost made me say ‘Eureka!’ the first time I heard it. Here’s what I’ve always wanted to do, and these guys are doing it already. It was inspiring, but it also made me buck up and get back into the game. There’s moments where I hit brick walls and wonder if I can push it much farther. But then, when I hear bands like this, I think I can push it much farther.

Don’t you feel like you’ve pushed things as far as they can go sometimes, especially since you perform in such a physical way, without pedals or overdubbing?

Well I haven’t reached a breaking point yet. That said, I went on vacation for a week in March, and when I got back, the chances of pulling off most of the music I’d normally play were absolutely nil. It goes away in a second — the endurance of face muscles, and the fluidity of the tendons in my hands and arms. When there’s a lack of discernible progress in something, I can get pretty sad, so you just have to turn it up. It’s not like you have to play more and more hours; you just have to push things further and further within those hours.

Liturgy, “Generation”

You already talked about Liturgy a bit. To someone who’s maybe not so familiar with them and Krallice, what are some main differences between the two?

That’s a good question. Shit. There’s something about the way Hunter [Hunt-Hendrix] sings that is melodic in a similar way as to how I used to relate to Metallica. Something about the color and timbre of his voice puts that Skeletor thing into a place that, for me at least, is filled with such longing and beauty. At the same time, there’s this churning, aggressive, Wagnerian density happening through all the guitars and drums. The key difference between any band and Liturgy is that they don’t have [drummer] Greg Fox in it — and now Liturgy doesn’t either, which is fucking tragic. But yeah, sometimes there’s these key combinations of players and personalities that are maybe fleeting, but when they combine, it’s something intangible that no one can replicate.

You’re someone who actually has a classical background, so when Hunter says he’s inspired by someone like, say, Steve Reich, can you actually hear that in the music?

[Laughs] I wouldn’t be surprised if he said that. So much of that is happening in music and art these days — this grand, obvious swipe back at the hyper-paced life we’re all living. Everything’s back to the earth and out of the city, a return to the contemplative and meditation. So you could find your way to Liturgy through something other than musical means.

Before you go, can you explain the notion of “ambient grindcore” that supposedly inspired one song on your album?

[Laughs] In all honesty, that was Ian over at Constellation [Records]. I won’t take credit for that one. But “Hunted” was my attempt at, after hearing Aesthetica specifically, dealing with things…I remember I wrote the song “The End of Your Suffering” because I was going to cover a song from Aesthetica but realized I wanted to do something that was more of a nod to that and went so much further. I did think about how blast beats and that density would relate to the bass, so basically it is taking those textures and that sentiment and slowing it down, filtering it through this other medium. I probably would have called it something a lot less awesome. But in the end, his description was apt [laughs].

They clearly know the blues masters well, but their most obvious inspiration is the Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band that in 1972 released Spotlight Kid and Clear Spot, the two “accessible” albums that preceded Beefheart’s hapless attempt to “go commercial” with Unconditionally Guaranteed. But despite some of the sprung rhythms, clanking guitar and singer Joe Doerr’s voice, this band doesn’t really sound that much like Beefheart; the biggest thing they took from him is the understanding that the only way most white kids can play blues credibly and keep ‘em sounding fresh is by using blues only as a taking-off point — and that having done that, you’d damn well better have something to say or you’re just wanking in the wind. Doerr was a founding member of Austin’s Leroi Brothers, a harder-than-hard-edged roots band that played every song like it was trying to stay one step ahead of the police. Churchwood has much the same approach: You can practically feel the sweat pouring out of your speakers, except it’s much thicker — swampier — than real sweat. Doerr rides it like some weird water-park attraction. His voice has Beefheart’s power and gruffness, with a little Tom Waits mixed in there too, and when he breaks into one of his versions of Howlin Wolf’s nonverbal semi-yodeling articulations he is without affectation. He sounds really cool.

Doerr quit music in the ’80s for nearly two decades to go back to college, ultimately winning his doctorate from Notre Dame and then returning to Austin to teach writing and literature at a local private college. The lyrics he writes for Churchwood are a sort of gutter poetry in which French symbolism meets American beats’ free verse, stirred up by a bit of a Screaming Jay Hawkins gross-out. He is not the type who wakes up in the morning and looks around for his shoes because he has those mean ol’ blues. On “Keels Be Damned,” he bellows, “I’m coughing bullshit through my fists/ Crossing fables off my list.” Those lines are more like the bellows of Muddy Waters in “Mannish Boy” and “Seventh Son,” Bo Diddley in “Who Do You Love.” Plus, they’ve got terrific rhythm. Don’t always rhyme, but that’s okay.

Slide guitarist Billysteve Korpi is perhaps better known for his work with the Crack Pipes, arguably Austin’s top garage band. Guitarist Bill Anderson first made his name with the local post-punk roots band Poison 13. There’s no apparent reason why they should sound as stirring as they do, because they don’t really play off each other the way you’d expect; usually it’s more like they’re both soloing at the same time but both soloes work together sublimely. Check out this interplay on the likes of the swampy “Weedeye” or the vehement “Fake This One.”

The other thing the band does to keep things interesting is change tempo several times in one song. The rhythm section doesn’t lay down a blues groove in the conventional sense; they maraud through three or so grooves in one song. That can’t help but keep things from becoming too predictable in that white blooz way. You’re never quite sure what’s coming next, but you know it’s worth sticking around to find out. Until he joined Churchwood, drummer Julien Peterson had been a bass player. But he had the notion that the drummer of this band had to be able to play just behind the behind. Not coincidentally, that’s where you’ll find all the great blues band rhythm sections, and it allows the other players to slide in and out of the groove like Chuck Berry’s cool breeze. In the case of Churchwood, it gives the other players the opening they need to take the sound wherever they wish to while still remaining anchored. And that’s what they do on this album, much more than on their first. This one marks a significant growth over their debut, while leaving plenty of room for further growth on (what will presumably be) Churchwood 3.

Nothing will ever replace the great old bluesmen, and nothing should try. Because this band in fact doesn’t try, it sounds and feels pretty good alongside them. Similar, but different, it occupies its own little niche. Most listeners will describe them as a rock band rather than a blues band, but there’s nothing saying you have to believe that.

Lonely treatises about loss and redemption

Marcus Ryan is a songwriter from Texas who wound up traveling to New Orleans in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Somewhere along the way, he found time to write and record Walk to the Light, an album full of lonely treatises about loss and redemption. The tunes are big in the sense that they are heavily produced, with power guitars, acoustic pianos and processed drums layered over hooky themes. The core of the pieces is the bedrock messages. Ryan leaves a woman in “If I Fly” and tells her, “It’s gonna be alright,” but, despite the soaring guitars, you get the sense that it might not be. “Who would be there for you if nobody knew where you stayed?” Ryan asks on “The Road That Has No End.” The entire album is preoccupied with questions like this: What happens to people who leave their homes, leave those who matter to them and head toward an unknown and solitary future? There’s a sense of inevitability about these departures, a dour fatalism that surfaces in many of the tunes. There’s also a kind of dark honor. In “On My Own,” he tells the woman he’s leaving that it “doesn’t mean I don’t wish I was there,” and it rings true.

There’s a long musical tradition of restless songwriters, lonesome travelers all, who struggle to find solace. Ryan is part of this tradition, and the album plays like a man searching for a way to make peace with himself. That its final track is Walk to the Light, suggests that Ryan’s wanderings might have at last brought him to a place where he can rest for a while.

One of ESP's lost gems, a convincing effort from start to finish

During the 1960s, Bernard Stollman’s ESP label worked a side of the street that was largely left untouched by any other labels. The jazz end of their roster was dedicated almost entirely to obscure (at the time) avant-gardists, and although Stollman claimed to know little about the music he was presenting, his historical track record has turned out to be remarkably good. Some of the musicians represented by ESP have acquired legendary status: among them, Albert Ayler, Don Cherry, Archie Shepp, Paul Bley, Sunny Murray and Gary Peacock. But even the artists who eventually drifted into obscurity turned in efforts that are worthy of close attention.
Alto saxophonist Byron Allen is one of them. The Byron Allen Trio is a no-frills affair by Allen, bass player Maceo Gilchrist and drummer Ted Robinson. It’s evident that they’re young players, largely still in thrall to the Live at the Golden Circle trio of Ornette Coleman, David Izenson and Charles Moffett. But they’re good students, finding ways to make valuable use of what they’ve been taught. That makes The Byron Allen Trio a fine album on its own terms, although you wonder what the trio might have turned into, given time to develop.

“Time is Past” begins things briskly, with Robinson skillfully pushing an engaged Allen forward. The altoist is by turns bluesy, boppish and free. There are times when his linear playing resembles Jimmy Lyons, but the twisting lines are straight out of Ornette, and they retain the master’s sense of order and logic. Maceo Gilchrist’s role is harder to define. When he’s not using the bow, he tends toward observational commentary. He doesn’t add much to the pulse and he doesn’t engage in dialogue. Still, he’s effective; he knows what to put in and what to leave out. The music needs a third voice as a kind of mediator, and GIlchrist provides one. “Three Steps in the Right Direction” is a blindingly fast piece that features long, articulate lines by the leader. Robinson utilizes some left hand snare figures that come out of Sunny Murray. Although “Decision for the Cole-man” is, like the other tunes, taken at a fast tempo, Gilchrist’s lyricism is on display during large segments of his solo. Dedicated to Ornette, it’s the piece that most strongly pays homage to the Golden Circle trio. There’s enough individuality to keep it from being Coleman-lite though, and the prowess of all three players is easily apparent. “Today’s Blues Tomorrow” is the genuine article — a real blues in spirit, loose and funky and slightly off-kilter in an appealing way. The drums bully the saxophone a little (which works in this context) while Gilchrist holds down the fort with a steady walk. Gradually Allen takes up the challenge of the drums, ratcheting up his playing enough to hold his own, but steadfastly maintaining a heartfelt blues feel. After a thoughtful bass solo, the saxophone returns elegiacally, but again intensifies, moving briefly to a 6/8 semi-flamenco, to take the piece, and the album, out. The Byron Allen Trio is a convincing effort from start to finish, and one of ESP’s lost gems.

Her best album, by a considerable margin

How has Alison “Alf” Moyet become one of the UK’s most underappreciated artists? At a time when her spiritual descendant, Adele, dominates global album sales, the former Yazoo vocal powerhouse has struggled to find a record label that doesn’t demand a set of Etta James cover versions for her next album. The ever-likeable and honest Moyet would probably happily take some of the blame for her spell in the cultural wilderness. By her own admission, she has suffered from crippling anxieties and made some questionable creative choices. Her 1985 cover of “That Ole Devil Called Love” may have been her biggest hit, but Moyet isn’t even a jazz fan. Rather unfairly she’s become known as a reliable purveyor of safe, sanitised blue-eyed soul when, in truth, the childhood buddy of most of Depeche Mode and collaborator with Wilko Johnson, is a rather more restless, adventurous soul.

Kudos then to Cooking Vinyl for releasing the minutes, Moyet’s eighth solo album and, by some considerable margin, her best. Key to its success is Moyet’s producer, Guy Sigsworth, who has worked with Bjork and Madonna, and who shares Moyet’s desire to ruffle the hair of orthodox song structures.

Album opener “Horizon Flame” is a gentle signifier of what to expect: The Eastern-flavored intro gives away to delicate, skittish dubstep beat patterns swathed in plump clouds of synthesizer. Lead single “When I Was Your Girl” doesn’t even manage a curt nod in the direction of modernity, with its big, chunky frame and bold ’80s-friendly chorus. But gradually, Moyet and Sigsworth’s pioneering ethos takes hold. “Apple Kisses” is as light and lovely as its title suggests, little flecks of electronica playfully skirting its edges, while “Right as Rain” majors on big, fat squelchy synths. All the while Moyet refuses to give full rein to her mammoth voice, understanding fully that vocal power is more effective when hinted at rather than let loose.

The second half of the minutes is when things get really interesting. “Remind Yourself” is part Massive Attack with a big dollop of Scott Walker; on “All Signs Of Life” sudden squalls of ravey electronica punctuate what might otherwise have been a gentle Moyet ballad. But ‘Filigree’ is the real landmark track. It’s a distant cousin to Yazoo’s “Only You,” a lush cocoon of melody-drenched emotional electronica. It’s the most beauty-laden song on an album slathered in loveliness. Alf is back — and how.

Whether he’s whipping up whirlpools of noise as Prurient or delving into the darkest corners of dance music as Vatican Shadow, Fernow has always followed that path — music as a purification process, only instead of the poison being drawn out of his productions, it’s harnessed in the form of distorted tape decks, chain-linked synths and rust-encrusted samples.

He’s not alone either; while house producers have been revisiting their rave cave roots as of late, underground techno has turned 50 shades of grey. Literally and figuratively, as melodies get maimed, tempos get turned on, and rhythms embrace the very notion of electronic body music.

In the following guide, eMusic breaks down 10 essential avant-dance albums that will flood your endorphin levels (or plunge you into a pit of despair) faster than a midnight screening of Spring Breakers. Think of it as EDM’s evil twin, music that makes you move without resorting to crowd-pleasing power chords or answering the question that seems to be on everyone’s minds these days: “Where’s the drop?”

And as a bonus, we’ve also included a secondary set of recommendations and a “Panic Room” collection of deviant downtempo tracks…