I’ve always admired Tim Finn‘s music, usually more than I’ve actually wanted to listen to it. Loved his work with Split Enz, thought his contributions to Crowded House gave the band a needed shot of variety at the right time, and his work with Neil in the Finn Brothers is fantastic.

But his solo stuff? Eh. There are high points, but if I made a list of favorite Finn-related discs, Tim’s work wouldn’t crack the top 10.

Until now. I clicked to listen to the single from his new album, and was hooked. “Going Going Gone” is a simple, pastoral gem, a song that serves as an aural warm blanket, perfect listening as the fall chill turns to winter cold. I took a chance and ordered the album, The View is Worth the Climb. To play off that title, the album is worth the import cost.

What makes it so good? Well, it might sound simple, but it’s the songs. Finn albums always have sounded good. He is a top-notch arranger, and his vocals are among the most distinctive in rock. But the songs weren’t always there. They seemed more hints at an idea than the idea itself. Working with Neil, he added elements that gave texture to his brother’s pop sensibilities. But on his own, he seemed to lack the hooks necessary to put a song over the top.

On The View, he brings the complete package. The songs are simple and direct, their hooks are strong. And the arrangements are simpler still. Where in the past he seemed to want to adorn his songs with bells and whistles, here they are largely conveyed with acoustic guitars and his vocals, with all other elements shading the picture rather than dominating it.

This transition began on his last album, The Conversation. It stripped things down from its predecessor, Imaginary Kingdom. The View maintains that simpler feel, but it contains better songs. Maybe I’m simply getting older and this more mellow music is now in my wheelhouse, but I think it as much that Finn is finally making music that feels organic, natural and content. Whatever the cause, it’s a winner.

It was two weeks ago today that I saw a show by the reunited Sebadoh. I really enjoyed the show and fully expected to post something the next day. Alas, two weeks later, I realize the show was kind of a singular moment. I expected it to fuel a renewed interest in the band, that I would be listening to their CDs non-stop for the foreseeable future.

Instead, that was really all I needed. What happened?

At one time I loved Sebadoh. Top five band, easily. I have all of the studio albums, the vinyl singles, the Sentridoh side project, Folk Implosion, the Shrimper tapes… even the Belt Buckle single (before I knew to be excited because it featured Eric Matthews from Cardinal). One thing you’ll

notice is that my love of Sebadoh came down heavily on the side of Lou Barlow. I could take or leave (and usually leave) Eric Gaffney’s noisier, more out-there contributions, and wasn’t sad to see him depart the band before Bakesale.

That album is the band’s high water mark, an album I’ve listened to hundreds of times. It did everything a Sebadoh album should, with a mix of loud, off-kilter rock and quiet, contemplative weepers. No Gaffney, and in fact, Jason Loewenstein, the third leg of the stool, ramped up his game to be Barlow’s near-equal in the songwriting department.

But that was followed by Harmacy, a misguided stab at more mainstream success (to these ears anyway), that, while it included some Sebadoh classics from both Barlow and Loewenstein (“On Fire,” “Ocean” and “Prince-S” among them), also had it’s share of filler. By the time of the band’s self-titled swan song, I had largely left it behind.

Looking back, I can point to the decreasing quality of the output, and the decreasing quantity, for that matter. The band seemed to know it was near the end. After the frenetic 90s, the aughts were largely devoid of product. A Loewenstein solo album, two Barlow solo albums and a couple of EPs, and that was it. And none of it lived up to Sebadoh at its best.

Fair enough. But when the band reunited, and pledged a set list that leaned heavily on its best work (Bakesale and Harmacy), I was in. The show started off like they were playing my dream set: “Skull,” “Rebound,” “Ocean” and “Magnet’s Coil” all hit hard and had me fully engaged. Then came Loewenstein’s part of the set. I found I was more excited to hear his songs, because they were the ones that had aged best. Barlow’s sugary confections didn’t pack the same punch as these disjointed excursions. But Loewenstein seemed hell-bent on pounding any subtlety out of the songs, shouting his way through the hooks and playing them at breakneck speed in pummeling fashion.
What I was left with was a last hurrah for Barlow’s songs, my reactions based more on nostalgia than anything else, and a missed opportunity for Loewnstein’s. Barlow’s songs simply haven’t aged well for me. Kudos to him for finding dozens of ways to sing about heartache, but those are largely teen-age emotions that I left behind decades ago. I’m more likely to dig up Loewnstein’s gems, these diamonds in the fluff just begging for their own playlist.

I’ll still play Sebadoh from time to time — “Magnet’s Coil” and “Rebound” are near-required playlist inclusions — but the fire I expected to be rekindled will instead remain a pile of low-burning embers.

Talking with a friend about the new Jayhawks album, Mockingbird Time, we lamented that while it sounded good — and certainly like a Jayhawks record should — the songs weren’t memorable. It has surface appeal, but it lacked the depth that would make either of us pull it off the shelf after the newness wore off.

That conversation led me to give the album a few more spins, and I’ll admit that it is starting to grow on me. I don’t hear anything as soaring as “Waiting for the Sun,” as beautiful as “Ain’t No End” or as timeless as “Blue.” But what I do hear is a very good album that will continue to offer rewards. It sounds less like a comeback and more like a solid mid-period album from a band that has long since found its groove.

If you’ll indulge a bit of lyrical psychoanalysis, I’d argue that this is exactly what the band had in mind.

A mockingbird is known for its ability to sound like other birds. It can’t be a coincidence that this band, named for a bird, has named its comeback album Mockingbird Time. After flirting with glam rock and then breezy California pop, the band has returned to the sound that earned it fans in the first place: a mix of country harmonies and classic rock. This, then, is the band’s attempt to mimic the sound of its younger self.

To a point, that is. On the title track, Mark Olson sings, “Yesterday is gone like the wind, like the wind it is gone.” OK, so we may want the Jayhawks to recapture the magic of the Hollywood Town Hall era, but that time is past.  Olson goes on to sing, “I want to make something for you that brings you joy.” That’s easy enough. Just harmonize with Gary Louris and you’ll put a smile on our faces.

The song isn’t really about this, of course. At least not on the surface. He’s singing to a loved one, noting the “color in the sky that’s in your eyes,” remarking on the moment when “we see each other alone.” But the subtext can easily be read as a commentary on the band and this re-emergence.

On the bridge, Olson, the prodigal singer-songwriter, tackles his return to the fold head-on: “Mockingbird time, I’ve really gone back. You’re all that I have.” His wander into the desert, literally and figuratively, yielded some interest albums that I’ll never play again. It was time for him to return to what he does best, and where he does it best. Time to start sounding like a Jayhawk again, to go back. With his marriage to Victoria Williams now a memory, his solo career one long unsuccessful attempt to shed his past, that past is all that he has left.

The result is an album that caps a real return for Olson. His last two solo albums were the best things he did post-Jayhawks, and his duo album with Louris in 2008 showed the magic between the two musically remained. Now, with the rest of the band back in the fold, they have created something that feels like a Jayhawks record yet doesn’t sound like a natural progression. It is an earthier album, like something Louris and Olson would have helmed between Blue Earth and Hollywood Town Hall. It lacks the confident swagger of HTH and the polish of Tomorrow the Green Grass. It is a modest record. The band is no longer swinging for the fences, content to get on base with a single… without recording anything that comes close to being a single.

I’m not sure why I didn’t pay attention to Two Times Intro the first time around. At the time I was a huge R.E.M. fan, had been for 15 years by the time this came out in 1998. And I had finally discovered Patti Smith by that point, her comeback in 1995 propelling her onto my radar. Perhaps it was the beginning of a period of ambivalence about Michael Stipe, a sort of “how can we miss you if you won’t go away?” vibe, or the thought that an artist as visceral as Smith couldn’t adequately be captured on the printed page.

Whatever the reason, I missed out. Thanks, then, to Akashic Books, which has brought the book back into print. It’s an opportune time. For Smith, it always seems opportune. Times like these call for a cultural mother who can guide us, and Smith is as good a candidate as any. And for Stipe, newly freed of the band that seemed like a constraining dayjob, the book is a reminder of what he offers in the form of artistry beyond singing pop songs.

In Two Times Intro, Stipe captures life on the road for a short tour during which Smith and her band opened for Bob Dylan. It was 1995, and this was her return after years away from music to be a wife and mother. As such, the feel one gets from the photos is that of someone trying to create a homey atmosphere in the by now common backstage setting. We see blurry photos of musicians sprawling on couches, sitting in airports, killing time. This is a pivotal point in Smith’s career — her groundbreaking first four albums behind her, her elder-states(wo)man catalog of the next 10 years still to come — and these pictures are an intimate portrait of that time.

Interspersed throughout are reminiscences from friends and colleagues, from a short poem by Tom Verlaine to longer, more analytical offerings from Lisa Robinson and Paul Williams, and more. At first, I assumed these would hope the real value of the book, the meat and potatoes surrounded by the gravy that is the photos (surely Smith is a vegetarian, right? Horrified at the metaphor… alas). Not so. The text is fine, if predictably laudatory. Instead, it is the photos to which I’m drawn again and again, Stipe’s odd yet compellingly composed windows into Smith’s world.

The previous meeting of these two camps was billed as a fight: Antipop vs. Matthew Shipp. Perhaps that was a statement about the times, though by that point jazz and hip hop already had met, circled each other warily and eventually shaken hands. Or, more likely, it was marketing; check out this rumble between the genres! Alas, it was a respectful summit rather than a fracas.

Here, the simpatico nature of the meeting is reflected in the title. Much as on a jazz record, where the participants are simply listed, the album is credited to Matthew Shipp, William Parker, Beans and HPrizm (formerly Priest). Four men enter… and one band exits. Yes, this really is a band. As on the first album – more so, even – these musicians combine their talents to create something that often transcends the individual contributions.

At its heart, Knives From Heaven is a hip hop record. The beats and rhymes are simply too dominant for it to be anything but. However, the base of the songs is most definitely jazz. There is a swing to these songs, a skittering pulse that is uniquely Shipp’s, that grounds the music.

The person who seems to get lost here is Parker. Bass is such an important part of hip hop that this comes a surprise. It’s not that Parker isn’t there, of course, but that his work is obviously subsumed by the whole more than Shipp’s. It’s easier to here Shipp’s block chords rise and fall through some of the quieter passages of these tunes than it is to discern Parker’s low-end rumbling through.

The musical base of the individual tracks is more sample-based than on the previous album. For every tune like “Terra Cotta” or “Deadpan Stare” that is essentially Shipp and Parker as an unaccompanied duo, there are tracks where their presence would be unremarked were their names not on the CD cover. Part of this stems from the fact that drummer Guillermo Brown, vibraphonist Khan Jamal and trumpeter Daniel Carter – who all performed on the first disc – are absent here.

Interestingly, tracks like “Half Amazed A/B” and “Rockers Hifi” owe their hooks to short sampled saxophone lines. Too bad long-time Shipp/Parker collaborator David S. Ware wasn’t called in to really add some fire to these sessions.

At its heart, Knives From Heaven continues what Antipop vs. Matthew Shipp started, a fruitful collaboration that isn’t likely to draw hardcore fans from either genre, but which will please the open-minded few in the overlap.

R. Stevie Moore, who has recorded and released a reported 400 albums on his own and through very small, boutique labels, had never toured before the current schedule of dates that took him across the U.S. this summer.

Knowing little more than Moore’s name and that he was a quirky artist with an eclectic catalog, I supposed that this was simply in keeping with his eccentricity. But, having seen Moore perform Sunday night in Iowa City, I have a new theory: He didn’t tour because nobody bothered to ask him.

There is a reason that Moore has self-released his music. Actually, there are two. Taking no credit away from his do-it-yourself ethos, I’m sure that he was content, if not resolute, in releasing his own work. But that work is at best a bit off kilter, at worst nearly unlistenable.

All of that was on display in the live setting. Moore was clad in a pair of red pajamas and a green silk jacket with “Brooklyn” embroidered across the chest. He was backed by the Brooklyn band Tropical Ooze, an unfortunate name for a perplexing band. After a short set during which the band tried on a number of styles, none with much success, Moore joined them on stage. He played bass and read his lyrics off sheets stacked on a music stand (one item on the merch table was a $60 collection of CDRs promising 922 songs; given that output, he can be forgiven for needing assistance remembering his own work).

Things started promisingly. The songs had a melodic thread and instrumental verve that Tropical Ooze lacked when playing its own material. Moore was an oddly captivating presence, like a recluse who stepped out to get the morning paper only to be surprised when an instrument was thrust in his hands and a crowd materialized to watch his performance. But when he played the closest thing to a hit he has penned, the mid-80s oddity “I Like to Stay at Home,” it was clear this was not going to be a top-shelf show. Moore’s voice, never a clarion of pop perfection, seems to have largely abandoned him, leaving the singer to shout his lyrics angrily, changing the tenor of the song from content to sociopathic.

After just a handful of songs, the musicians left the stage. Tropical Ooze’s members took up spots in the crowd and Moore returned alone. He grabbed a guitar and started pacing back and forth across the stage, speaking (one couldn’t call it singing) into the microphone each time he passed. His strums occasionally resolving into chords, he began lyric that seemed to be about perusing the menu in a seafood restaurant. Great pop songs have been built on less – this wasn’t one of them.

When the next “song” continued in similar fashion, the lure of the pillow proved to be too great. Perhaps it was seeing Moore in his pajamas, but I was more interested at that point in sleep than in giving the mental energy necessary to find anything redeeming in Moore’s performance. So, take this criticism with a grain of salt. It’s possible that he pulled it together and absolutely killed in the latter half of his set. For the sake of the couple dozen people who were braver/more dedicated than I, I certainly hope that was the case.

If there is a silver lining, it is that I spent some time before the show familiarizing myself with Moore and his work. His is a name that floated around my periphery. I was aware of him but not necessarily his achievement. His web site has a lot of free material to peruse, and I’ll spend some more time with it in the coming weeks. Interest in Moore seems to be peaking, as far as that goes, with a documentary film in the works and some of his most high-profile releases having come in the past couple of years. It makes sense; when you last as long as Moore has, that simple fact generates interest. But it’s a shame that Moore wasn’t coaxed out onto the road a decade or two ago when he could perform in a way that lived up to, rather than tore down, his reputation.

It’s funny; the term “singer-songwriter” is casually tossed around to indicate a certain sound, as if a guy singing his own songs sounds just like another doing the same thing. I’ve been guilty as much as anyone, falling back on the shorthand when searching for a way to describe something. Thing is, most people probably conjure something specific when they hear the term, something quiet, introspective. Maybe just a singer and a sensitively plucked acoustic guitar.

That serves as the base for one of two artists with new albums out now. Peter Bradley Adams is a quiet, introspective performer. His songs are sweet — sometimes falling toward the bitter end of that sweetness scale — and rarely rise above a polite decibel level. The other artist, Chris Velan, is positively raucous in comparison. Of course, that means he’s not terrible raucous at all, but his album is a spirited affair, a jaunty collection of songs that shake, shimmy and occasionally swagger.

So, why write about both of these guys at the same time? They have the same publicist who sent their albums for review at roughly the same time, and they were released around the same time. But the real reason is to point out the limitations of the “singer-songwriter” tag. These two would fit comfortably together on a bill, but no one would suggest that they sound alike.

Adams has the higher profile of the two, having been part of the acclaimed duo Eastmountainsouth. His new album, Between Us, is his fourth under his own name, and it ranks among his best. Adams moved from Nashville to New York between his last release and this one, and whilie there is nothing harried or urban about it, you can hear a change in songs. I might be reading into this, but there seems to be a longing here, a sense of loneliness that can only be experienced by someone isolated in a sea of people.

That solitude is conveyed in understated, gorgeous fashion. Adams is often joined by female vocalists here, including his former Eastmountainsouth mate Kate Maslich-Bode and Crooked Still’s Aoife O’Donovan. The only drawback is that there is a sameness in tone here. It would be nice to hear Adams tackle something with a backbeat, but he does what he does very well, so it’s understandable that he would want to stick with that.

Velan, in comparison, mixes things up. His fourth album, Fables for Fighters, is a spirited affair. The disc opens with the bouncy “Any Number of Ways,” a tune built on ukelele and handclaps.  That segues into “Oceans Ago,” a tune with the kind of beat I’d like to see Adams attempt. Nothing radical, but one that’ll have your head shaking while you hum along with Velan’s infectious melody.

Attempting to put my finger on the added ingredient in Velan’s sound, I hit upon it when reading a glowing review of his work on Jambase. While there is no aimless noodling here, I can see how Velan’s music would be embraced by jamband fans. His tunes are light and fun and are probably a blast to hear live. Listening, I’m put in the mind of a less-polished Guster fronted by Gary Jules.

Both artists seem to be hitting their stride on these fourth outings. they are very different — Velan offers a Saturday night record, while Adams’ soundtracks the following Sunday morning. Whatever you choose to call them, these two singers of their own songs are worth watching.

Back when we were dating, I wooed my wife with occasional mixtapes (yes, I’m that old). On an early one, I included (perhaps even began with) Freedy Johnston’s “Two Lovers Stop.” I did so because it’s a great song, a driving little pop number that was among the most accessible on his then-new album. Listening once, she asked me, “Should I be worried that you put a song on here about a couple committing suicide together?” Somewhat horrified, I assured her that she shouldn’t, and vowed to pay a bit more attention to the lyrical content of the songs I gave her.

That points out, as clearly as anything, that I’m into music for the music. If a clever lyric snags my attention, so much the better, but I need a big fat hook to grab me or all bets are off. Having learned my lesson, I was smart enough a couple of years later to put Johnston’s “You Get Me Lost,” a clear-cut love song, on a subsequent tape.

This came to mind because, as I sat listening to Johnston perform a solo set last night, I was struck by the words to songs I’d heard for 20 years. A song like “Mortician’s Daughter,” performed because he was playing at the Yacht Club, housed in what was once an Iowa City funeral home, has depths that I’d never really plumbed. It’s a melancholy little gem, with keen details about the singer and the girl in question drawing hearts on dusty coffin lids. But, really listening to the song for the first time — as opposed to just hearing the melody and music — I heard the short-story worthy tale being told.

As a writer, I marveled at the economy of Johnston’s lyrics, able to convey complex emotional situations in a line or two.  That’s a big part of why his music continues to resonate. Yes, it lodges in the ear because it’s catch and unique, but it has permanence because there’s always something new to discover and marvel over. In a set that hit high points from throughout his career, he proved himself to be a remarkably consistent  songwriter.

His set (not in exact order): We Will Shine/Remember Me/Lonely Penny/Cruel to Be Kind (Nick Lowe)/The Morticians Daughter/Underwater Life/Don’t Fall in Love with a Lonely Girl/You Get Me Lost/Bad Reputation

My fandom of Marshall Crenshaw has gone on even longer than that for Johnston. I first encountered Crenshaw when I was in high school and checked out the vinyl album Attack of the Killer B’s from my library. It was a compilation of B-sides from Warner Brothers artists, released in 1983. I probably picked it up in 1985 or so, tempted by a rarity by then-new discovery Talking Heads. But it was Crenshaw’s “You’re My Favorite Waste of Time” that hooked me. Oddly, it didn’t lead me to go get his first album, but I did pick up a copy of Downtown on cassette for cheap not long after.

I’ve since acquired Crenshaw’s entire catalog, and save for his last couple of albums that aren’t quite as immediate for me, there’s nary a bad song  in the bunch, and a whole lot of classics. Crenshaw’s set last night began with a mix of relatively recent material, and I found myself appreciating it more in this setting. The hooks aren’t as towering, but like contemporary Nick Lowe, he has found a way to offer a more subtle, no less satisfying take on roots-inflected pop.

As the set continued, he began to salt it with more “old stuff,” playing a good chunk of his debut album. He avoided much of his middle catalog, however, opting only to indulge a shouted request for “Like a Vague Memory” and zipping through “Fantastic Planet of Love” from the underappreciated Life’s Too Short. His guitar playing was stellar and clearly the focus. His vocals took on a jazzier tone, with oft-times different phrasing from what fans have heard on record for years.

His set (Not in order and not complete): Someday Someway/Girls/Cynical Girl/Mary Anne/Like a Vague Memory/Fantastic Planet of Love/What Do You Dream Of?/2541/Dime a Dozen Guy/Television Light/Passing Through/Live and Learn/My Favorite Waste of Time/Something’s Gonna Happen/Nervous Breakdown (Eddie Cochran)/Crying, Waiting, Hoping (Buddy Holly)

The marvel of this show is how intimate it was. Each performed alone standing on a six-inch stage in the corner of what is essentially a basement, about 60 people scattered about taking it in. At one time, each man was slated for bigger things, but each proved to be a blip on the pop culture radar rather than a fixture. That meant a harder life for them, but surely a more creatively satisfying one as well. And it meant being a few feet away from two of the best songwriters of the past 20 years (30 in Crenshaw’s case) for a night of great song after great song.