A collaborative album between Lou Reed and Metallica, two very different and very prominent presences in popular music, is nothing if not intriguing. On the surface, the combination is like water and oil, with Reed’s arty minimalist mentality at odds with Metallica’s mainstream over-produced heavy metal goop. But if one listens closely, there are moments on Lulu where it all comes together, where it seems like this is what Reed has been trying to achieve his entire life, from White Light/White Heat to Metal Machine Music.

There are other, more plentiful moments where it’s clear this must be a spectacularly expensive disaster.

Lulu is an album of controlled cacophony, with Metallica’s buzzsaw distortion grinding away beneath Reed’s incomparable brand of sprechgesang. The words often match the ugly rumble of the guitars, the semi-shocking profanity of lyrical phrases like “puny body and a tiny dick” and “spermless like a girl” rising above the din long enough to turn the listener’s stomach. Occasionally, Hetfield’s trademark heavy metal bark can be heard adding a little harmony to Reed’s tuneless mystic babbling.

If you’re curious what the whole mess actually sounds like, you’re going to have to dig a little in the archives of pop culture to decipher the most accurate comparison I’m able to give. In early-2000s cartoon comedy Home Movies, there’s an episode in which Duane’s rock band, Scäb, plays a heavy metal rock opera interpretation of Kafka’s Metamorphosis. That’s essentially what Lulu is, from the highbrow concept to the heavyhanded delivery. Yes, there is a concept here, but only the musicians themselves may know exactly what it is. Chances are even better that only Reed really understands. It’s based on two plays by Frank Wedekind about a prostitute and Jack the Ripper, but that’s not immediately apparent.

Of the songs here, “The View” and “Iced Honey” actually work fairly well. No, “The View” is not about that daytime TV talkshow, but maybe ABC should considering using it as the show’s theme song. After all, that kind of collision between two vastly different worlds isn’t quite so hard to imagine once you’ve heard Lou Reed and Metallica collaborate on an album.

Though it sometimes seems like Hetfield and Kirk Hammett are just recycling leftover grind-metal sludge riff clichés from their decades in the biz, it’s clear that Reed’s presence actually encouraged them to think outside their heavy metal box. They stray as far from their “sound” as they ever have in the context of Metallica. Most of the songs are still conveyed with blend of heavy distortion and softer acoustic picking that should be familiar to anyone who’s ever heard “The Unforgiven,” but metal chord changes are thrown out the window in favor of a two-chord progression that’s more “Sweet Jane” than “Sweet Amber” on “Iced Honey.”

The whole thing comes off as either an expensive major label joke or nigh-impenetrable high art concept. Maybe both. Either way, it’s not likely to appeal to many. Surely even die-hard Reed or Metallica fans will find the combination of the two difficult to enjoy. At the very least, it’s a curiosity that shows the artists involved are willing to step outside of their normal roles and try something different.

The resulting record, How I Got Over, is everything Roots fans have come to expect. There are Black Thought’s nimble, politically aware rhymes, ?uestlove’s ever-reliable drums, and a sustained high level of musical quality throughout.

As usual, The Roots offer up a healthy alternative to today’s radio hip-hop. Even after all these years, it’s still refreshing to hear the group’s organic real-instrument arrangements. If anything, the rhythm section has gotten tighter, aided perhaps by the constant rehearsal time afforded by the band’s gig as Jimmy Fallon’s house band.

You won’t find any 808s here, just lots of Kamal’s piano and ?uestlove’s sturdy drums to anchor it all. The group, as usual, generally eschews samples, sticking to the live band format that has set them so far apart from the majority of their contemporaries.

Longtime Roots collaborator Dice Raw joins Black Thought, The Roots’ sole principal MC, for several tracks including the title cut. As for impressive guest stars, How I Got Over defies expectations – even more so than the Roots-Fall Out Boy collabo from the Rising Down sessions. Perhaps the most star-studded of the album’s 14 tracks is “Dear God 2.0,” a re-imagining of Monsters of Folk’s “Dear God.” Jim James of the Monsters reprises his role on the song’s mournful chorus.

Though Black Thought said before the album’s release that it would feature more positive content than the group’s last two discs, this isn’t exactly a party record. In true Roots character, the rhymes are focused more on self-improvement and perseverance than boasting. Politics also take a backseat, considering this is the first Roots album of the post-Bush era, letting the MCs take on more universal themes of social strife.

“Now or Never” has a chorus/hook, provided by guest singer Phonte, that sounds like it could be a long-lost Curtis Mayfield track, complete with a carpe diem mentality. Contemporary soul star John Legend provides vocals for “The Fire.” The song is vaguely menacing, a minor key jam with an insistent piano riff that sounds like a prelude to a thunderstorm. It has an edge that several of the jazzier tracks lack.

The instrumental groove on “How I Got Over” could easily have been lifted from a Steely Dan track: bongos, keyboard and clean, jazzy guitar buoy a chorus of “Out on the streets/ Where I grew up/ First thing they teach you/ Is not to give a fuck.”

The sonic vibe that threads through How I Got Over is sedate and melancholy, aided by the subdued instrumentation. The beats accurately match the ruminations in the lyrics, but anyone who has seen the group live knows it can rock as well. The record would have benefited from just one track in the vein of “Here I Come,” but the band is content with more mid-tempo material this time around.

At this point in The Roots’ career, a falter would be far more surprising. How I Got Over continues the group’s tradition of quality records even as the band expands its horizons to television and beyond.

To the guys in The Gaslight Anthem: sorry. This won’t be the review that neglects the Bruce Springsteen name drop. Your new platter, American Slang, is as unapologetic an embrace of influence as ever there was.

Sure, The Gaslight Anthem technically hails from New Brunswick, N.J. – the “Hub City” so often referenced by singer Brian Fallon – rather than Asbury Park, but the distinction is a minor one. American Slang delves into workingman mythology as enthusiastically as The Boss ever did. Fallon’s soulful shout matches the lyrics with raw emotional impact in a way Springsteen trademarked. It’s good, then, that the band has never showed signs of being displeased with the comparisons to that Jersey Shore juggernaut.

“Old Haunts” reads as a “Glory Days” filtered through Joe Strummer’s fuzzed-out Music Man amp, with a chorus of “So don’t sing me your songs about the good times/Those days are gone and you should just let them go.” “We Did It When We Were Young,” mining the same wistful territory that “Old Haunts” ridiculed, is more of a Nebraska-sparse arrangement, Fallon harmonizing with himself over a subdued rhythm section.

Beyond The Gaslight Anthem’s secondary musical debt to The Clash, the major difference between its music and Springsteen’s is a lingering darkness. Bruce certainly didn’t shy away from the plight of his blue-collar characters, but his music often belied the dismal truth in his words – see “Born in the U.S.A.” for the most famous of many examples. The Gaslight Anthem’s music, on the other hand, can almost always be found in a minor-key groove. The songs, affecting and engrossing as their lyrics are, start to blur together across the space of an entire album.

“The Diamond Church Street Choir,” then, is perhaps the track least characteristic of the band’s past. It does retain that clear Springsteen flavor, but it trades in the punk influences that pervade the rest of the record in favor of a distinctive Bob Seger/Billy Joel nostalgic-rock vibe. There are handclaps, finger snaps, uplifting harmonies on the chorus and a blissful hook. It’s misty-eyed without being as melancholic as the band’s signature tunes. This is the Jersey Shore Sound incarnate, the R&B underpinnings at their most apparent, and it serves as a centerpiece to American Slang.

The next track is the polar opposite, the album’s low point in contrast to the triumph of “The Diamond Church Street Choir.” “The Queen of Lower Chelsea” features a spidery, subliminally irritating guitar riff and, oddly, verses that evoke an unfavorable comparison to a Vampire Weekend song. It serves only to bring the preceding track’s high crashing back to Earth.

Surrounding the peak/valley combo of those two songs is a generally sturdy collection of supporting tracks. “American Slang” is an anthemic love song, replete with “woah oh” background vocals. Several of the songs seem just on the verge of being really memorable, but that one key hook is always elusive.

For what it’s worth, this the best Gaslight Anthem record yet, if only because “The Diamond Church Street Choir” stands out as a truly great piece of songwriting. One day, the band will craft an album that combines its Springsteen-via-punk aesthetic with the songwriting chops it hinted at here. That’ll be the day it sheds those constant comparisons.

From the start with the opening skit, the record tries to create a grand impression. The announcer declares the duo intends create, “a shift in the paradigm of hip hop.” Rather than simply come out with a strong album, the two have placed quite the burden on themselves. While it’s certainly better than most of what’s out there today, there’s not much of anything present on the record that displays this intent. In fact, the album hardly seems to find clarity. Many of the tracks feel as if they’re a starting point, so the record keeps doubling back on itself, never losing or gaining ground. Not to suggest that every album should be a cohesive work, but little on the album seems to mesh.

The album makes a bit of noise about the state of hip hop along with its pledge to move things forward. Skits tossed in on tracks poke fun at the current popularity of what essentially amounts to hip pop and so on, but ultimately, the album doesn’t make any more strides against this. Talib’s social commentary goes little beyond, “To my people sick a being treated like the aliens from District 9.” Ultimately, in fact, this record itself is – albeit a good one – a pop record. Hi-Tek’s laid back production provides radio-friendly potential, potential that was previously used instead by Talib for the great Train of Thought.

Now instead, as hard as it is for me to come down on Kweli, he seems either a bit tired, bored, or ready to simply make some money. Which seems a bit odd: this record isn’t one exactly prepped to make big sales regardless of its material. Yet, nonetheless, Talib disappoints with lines such as, “They gonna smile like Mona Lisa / I’m married to the game, throw the Rice like Condoleezza.” Present throughout the record are some of the usual suspects of respectable hip hop: Bun B and of course Mos Def, as well as more recent figures, Jay Electronica and J Cole. Yet all their appearances don’t really seem to amount to much this outing, they’re lost amongst the whitewash of the smoothed out album.

None of this is meant to suggest the record is bad – it’s not, it’s among the better hip hop albums to arrive this year. However, this isn’t really saying much. “Midnight Hour” serves a good example of the disappointment that this record is. It features a fantastic beat – a really fantastic beat. First listen, I thought, “Awesome, Talib’s gonna rip this.” Instead, it surprisingly features a dull Estelle chorus and – believe it or not – a worse performance by Talib. Rather than use his assured flow, he switches it up to a more sing-song rap, and I had to admit that it mostly grates the ears. It’s these sort of missteps that are unexpected and mar the record. Kind of hope Weezy notices that beat when he’s out of prison, it deserves a great verse.

Now all of this isn’t to suggest that the record doesn’t have its moments. It has some pretty great ones. “Lifting Off” finds Talib talking about drug use, and its both intimate and a bit disturbing. “Ballad of the Black Gold” is the album’s strongest social song, “Ends” – featuring the ever reliable Bilal – begins to close the album on a good note, and so on. It should also be mentioned that Hi-Tek is the album’s greatest asset, while on Train of Thought a focused Talib more-or-less dominated the album; the beats shine this time through. It’s not just because of a weaker Kweli either, the producer is at his very best and nearly every beat is fantastic, again making the listener wish Talib had been more on his game. Yet wishing be damned, he just isn’t. In the end though, Talib disappointing is still beyond many current MC’s abilities, so Revolutions Per Minute serves as a bit of a pleasant letdown.

There are a few fist-pumping, shout-along chorus-filled rockers in the mix, with “Our Whole Lives” leading the way. There’s nothing quite as overtly summer-related as “Constructive Summer,” but there’s no doubt this is a summer record. Anthems “The Smidge,” “Rock Problems” and “Our Whole Lives” fit the bill for warm weather party tracks, while album closer “Slight Discomfort” ends with the sound of katydids in the night, strengthening the summery vibe.

This record is likely the least subtle of The Hold Steady’s catalog. Sure, there are slow tracks, but the band’s classic rock influences have never been more apparent, which may be attributed to keyboardist Franz Nikolai’s departure. The loss of Nikolai resulted in a beefing up of the record’s guitar sounds. Most notably, the rhythm figures are meatier and hearken back to the riff-based classic rock of AC/DC and Cheap Trick more than ever before. “The Smidge” features the most cowbell ever to grace a Hold Steady track and one of Kubler’s guitar fills pays direct and blatant tribute to AC/DC’s “Whole Lotta Rosie.” Furthermore, Kubler unleashes several of his finest solos and dips into his effects pedal rack, throwing around double-tracked harmonies, echo and distortion.

The focus on guitar is fine, but it has a side effect: it sells this band’s talents short. Unfortunately, the songwriting seems to have followed suit. This, the fifth Hold Steady album, finds Finn’s lyrical motifs beginning to wear thin. For example: how many times has he rhymed “cigarette” with something at this point? Heaven is Whenever certainly adds to that tally, most creatively coupling it with “majorettes.”

Elsewhere, the plot of “Hurricane J” feels a little like a more uptempo rehashing of “Lord, I’m Discouraged.” For the album in general, it’s the same old story: the girls want to dance at clubs and engage in self-destructive behavior, the boys want to get with those girls, and Finn chronicles it all for his audience. His viewpoint has gradually changed from active participant in the debauchery to older, wiser outside observer, but it all seems a little too familiar.

Purists who have been following Finn’s mythology since Lifter Puller might bemoan his continued progression from sprechgesang to actual singing, if only because his delivery was part of what made the band so unique. Heaven is Whenever finds Finn belting the melodies – and singing real notes – like never before. In any case, his distinctive vocals are still abundant.

Finn’s more melodic approach coupled with the presence of new instrumental sounds – like the swampy slide acoustic guitar on “Sweet Part of the City” and the clarinet solo on “Barely Breathing” – might trick some into believing this is The Hold Steady expanding its musical horizons instead of staying stuck in its rut. The aforementioned adherence to the “Hold Steady formula” means the band isn’t exactly experimenting.

For musical growth and maturation, Heaven is Whenever might have benefited from stronger production. The band brought in Dean Baltulonis, who produced the first two Hold Steady records, to handle the mix. He’s done his best to play up the “guitar album” status of the record, pushing the guitars to the front and hiding all other instruments. There’s a horn section on “Our Whole Lives,” but you’d hardly know it. Baltulonis buried it deep in the mix, to the point that it barely has a reason to exist at all.

The key to deciphering Heaven is Whenever’s strength as an album is to pit it against the other records in The Hold Steady’s discography. On its own, this is an above-average rock ‘n roll album with pleasingly verbose lyrics and plenty of rocking potential. Unfortunately, it often pales when compared to its predecessors. Even Stay Positive, which suffered the same judgments when it was released, has a deeper, fuller sound. The void left by the missing keyboards on Heaven is Whenever is far more noticeable when judged against “Sequestered in Memphis” or “Stay Positive.”

But this is a new Hold Steady album, which should be reason enough to buy it. Great bands always struggle to match their past musical output. Take it for what it is – a guitar-centric party rock record – and it won’t disappoint.

With The Big To-Do, singer/guitarist/songwriter Patterson Hood makes good on his promise that Drive-By Truckers would return to playing rockers, the early tracks rife with the Truckers’ signature gritty electric guitar foundation. The riff-driven “Daddy Learned to Fly” opens the record with high expectations and a guitar solo. “Birthday Boy” features some sweeping slide guitar work that manages to recall The Wallflowers as much as more traditional southern rock.

Despite the good old Southern-rock riffing, The Big To-Do is a grower. The band’s records have often been this way; the hooks are there, but they take a few spins to sink in. “This Fucking Job,” with its somber minor-key chord progression, seems at first to be an unlikely candidate for a brainworm, but the “Makes it all worthwhile” ending of the chorus has a way of burrowing into the subconscious.

Even more than the fabled “triple axe attack,” the Truckers’ strongest suit has always been in lyrical storytelling. It’s an art Hood and guitarist Mike Cooley have mastered: these songs tell the now-familiar stories of the destitute and downtrodden in the American South. The real allure lies in what the lyrics don’t reveal about the characters and the questions that are left behind: what exactly happened to the narrator’s father in “Daddy Learned to Fly”? Why is Lester turning up dead in “Drag the Lake Charlie” the best-case scenario? These are songs that reveal more about themselves on repeated listens. No doubt it would take an explanation from the songwriters to fully illuminate the meaning behind the lyrics, but that would take away some of the fun.

Fans are still waiting for the perfect DBT record, one that always seems to be just out of reach, though some may argue that goal was achieved back in 2001 with Southern Rock Opera. No doubt the band’s sparkling discography eliminates the need for an Exile on Main Street-like achievement – how could anyone ask for more from one of the best rock bands of the past decade? – but it certainly doesn’t seem impossible.

Unfortunately, The Big To-Do is not that perfect record. For the purposes of its stylistic emphasis on a return to rock, Shonna Tucker’s tracks number too many and Mike Cooley’s number too few. Cooley’s songs have often been the hardest-hitting ones on DBT’s past albums, yet he only takes the lead on three cuts from The Big To-Do and one of those is album-closer “Eyes Like Glue,” a pretty acoustic ballad. In Tucker’s “You Got Another,” listeners get another ballad. It’s a nice country slow burner, but it derails the album just as it was starting to pick up steam. And listeners hoping for another “Where the Devil Don’t Stay” or “Lookout Mountain” will be disappointed to find that nothing here rocks that hard.

Fans may still be waiting for the album that sums up Drive-By Truckers’ terrific career, but The Big To-Do is far better than a stopgap. For the past 12 years, no group has more regularly produced such high quality rock music. The only shame is how few people are aware of the fact. But, with this kind of consistency, people are bound to start noticing.

Invisible Girl is the group’s third effort since joining forces, though King Khan and BBQ were both members of Spaceshits in the ’90s.

The music is decidedly (and intentionally) lo-fi. Vocals are crackly and distorted, and amplifier hum can be heard in the background. Songs like “Third Ave” are drenched in vintage Dick Dale tremolo. Likewise, the use of panning on some tracks is likely to induce motion sickness in any listener attempting to absorb the record via headphone. The ramshackle nature of the album is borne out by its literal lean, with several of the tracks favoring one channel over the other.

The percussion is a small step up from the last King Khan & BBQ Show album. Invisible Girl adds a full drum kit to the familiar tambourine-and-bass-drum formula. Don’t expect a John Bonham-style solo, but the addition of drums improves the duo’s cohesion as an actual band.

BBQ has the pipes to be a solid blues wailer, and he leaps from soul to punk with little effort. King Khan provides some nasal backing vocals. The opening track, “Anala,” is backed by the “oom bow bow” of so many songs from the early ’60s.

“Animal Party” is a garage freakout complete with animal sound effects and spoken-word lyrics like “Who the hell ordered pizza?!” that recall Frank Zappa, but the chorus is just gratifying blues. It’d be right at home on Dr. Demento’s radio show. The same applies to “Tastebuds,” an absurdly raunchy, mangled up punk-soul joint that invites a mixture of laughter and nausea, though it’s probably too foul for radio.

The guitar tone on “Crystal Ball” is the garage rock fanatic’s Holy Grail, a perfect mixture of vintage effects and overdrive. “Tryin’” is governed by its title lyric: “I’m tryin’ not to use my mind.”

The record’s centerpiece has to be “I’ll Be Loving You,” a track that sums everything up: there’s BBQ’s soul wail, a period-appropriate bassline, simple but effective lyrics. There’s no demented humor, just a song that’d be at home on the radio at a drive-in or in the American Graffiti soundtrack.

There’s always the lingering feeling that this is all a joke, a fact not hindered by “Animal Party” and “Tastebuds,” and it takes away from the sincerity and emotional impact of songs like “I’ll Be Loving You.” However, a record that errs on the side of fun is far preferable to one that takes itself too seriously.

All in all, The King Khan & BBQ Show’s eccentricities might not jibe with your average music fan, but forget ‘em. This soul revival is far more entertaining than most of the acts that decided to get in on the vintage music boom.

Ciao My Shining Star aims to recognize the impact Mulcahy has had on music. The album’s proceeds will also benefit Mulcahy, whose wife died unexpectedly last year. He has twin daughters to look after, so the money from the album will help him juggle that responsibility with making music.

Mulcahy’s first notable group, Miracle Legion, was a “college rock” band that was a contemporary of R.E.M. However, children of the ‘90s may best recognize Mulcahy’s music from the Nickelodeon show The Adventures of Pete and Pete, a cult classic known for its hip musical taste. Mulcahy’s side project, Polaris, provided the soundtrack for the show, including theme song “Hey Sandy.”

Ciao My Shining Star stacks the early tracks with all its heavy hitters. Michael Stipe’s “Everything’s Coming Undone,” with heavily vibratoed guitars and a Peter Gabriel-esque choir on the chorus, sets the tone on track 3. Dinosaur Jr., in full overdriven-amplifier-and-wavery-vocal glory, knocks “The Backyard” out of the park. Josh Rouse’s matter-of-factly soulful rendition of “I Woke Up in the Mayflower” is another standout, a cool Sunday morning jam.

The flip side of Mulcahy’s widespread influence is the questionable relevance of some of the artists included on Caio, My Shining Star. The 21 tracks total over an hour, and the waning moments of the record may elicit a response more along the lines of “Who is The Autumn Defense?” than a positive one. The Autumn Defense, by the way, is Wilco bassist John Stirratt’s side project, and the band’s contribution, “Paradise,” is solid. The deluxe edition of the album includes an additional 20 tracks that can’t possibly improve the pacing.

The point is that Mulcahy’s music–particularlythe songs chosen for this compilation–is mostly mid-tempo stuff. Nothing really ignites the collection. Only one Pete and Pete song (the National’s lush arrangement of “Ashamed of the Story I Told”) is included, making this collection’s appeal to fans of the show somewhat limited.

As it is with most covers, the original Mulcahy recordings of many of Ciao My Shining Star’s songs are stronger than the ones that appear here. Mulcahy’s version of “Bill Jocko” was dark, smooth and bluesy; Frank Black’s reading is a shouted mess. In fact, only a few of the singers (Yorke in particular) can attempt to match Mulcahy’s beautifully expressive delivery.

Ciao My Shining Star is a worthwhile purchase for fans of Mulcahy or the many artists who appear. It won’t have the same nostalgic effect on anyone who isn’t familiar with Mulcahy’s work with Miracle Legion and as a solo artist. The uninitiated would be better off starting with the man’s original work.

The studio sessions for the album were filmed for use in the Beatles’ Get Back movie, and the presence of cameras may have contributed to the fights that marred the Let It Be studio sessions. Though Abbey Road was actually recorded after these sessions, the band’s disagreements during the recording of Let It Be ultimately signaled the end of The Beatles.

Completion of the sessions didn’t end the contentions surrounding it. The record company chose Phil Spector to produce and overdub the record. Paul McCartney, long dissatisfied with the final release, oversaw a complete remix and remaster of the album that was released as Let It Be… Naked in 2003.

McCartney so thoroughly disliked Spector’s version of the album, especially the “Wall of Sound” treatment given to “The Long and Winding Road,” that his anger over its release largely spurred his decision to dissolve the group. Meanwhile, John Lennon preferred it. Lennon told Playboy in 1980, “[Spector] was given the shittiest load of badly-recorded shit with a lousy feeling to it ever, and he made something of it.”

Unsurprisingly, when Naked was released, it received polarized opinions. As a result, neither version of the record can be considered the definitive Let It Be.

Spector’s version is filled with hee-haws and doo-dads, vocal echo and sweeping strings. The stripped-down re-release sounds more barren but not immensely different, the most important difference being the use of alternate takes on several songs, including “The Long and Winding Road” and “I’ve Got a Feeling.”

Also, despite the less-processed sound of Naked, the original record actually feels more spontaneous. This can be attributed to McCartney’s removal of the between-song studio banter and background noise that had been intentionally included on Spector’s version.

Even with all the distractions, the quality of the songwriting on Let It Be did not flag, and the strength of the tunes shines through on every version of the album. Abbey Road may have been a more complete statement, but little – even in the Beatles’ unparalleled catalog – can compete with the sun-breaking-through-the-clouds splendor of “Let It Be” or the road-ready “Get Back.”

Much of Let It Be bore signs of the Beatles’ progression into the ‘70s, leaving Summer of Love psychedelia behind in favor of hard rock. “Get Back,” “I’ve Got a Feeling,” “One After 909” and the chorus of “I Me Mine” wouldn’t have sounded out of place on Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs, with their chugging blues rhythms and Billy Preston’s soulful Hammond organ.

“I’ve Got a Feeling,” a joyous showcase of McCartney’s delirious roar, hints at what the world might have heard from the band had it managed to survive into the next decade. The “Oh yeah!” shouts and major key rhythm guitar line belie the bad vibes flowing in the recording studio, sounding every bit like the start of something big rather than the end. The slightly out of tune guitars simply add to the charm. Even Lennon’s slightly more pessimistic verse, taken from another unreleased song, is buoyed by McCartney’s irrepressible glee. It’s a perfect example of how the delicate balance between the band’s two main songwriters made everything work. Without Lennon, McCartney’s optimism entered the sickly-sweet; without McCartney, Lennon’s cynicism overtook his musical sensibilities.

“The Long and Winding Road,” then, is the spiritual opposite of “I’ve Got a Feeling.” A fitting final single for such a storied band, McCartney already had the band’s dissolution in mind when he wrote it. Lennon played bass on the song, making several well-documented mistakes that were as symbolic of the band’s breakup as McCartney’s sorrowful lyrics. Spector cited the need to cover up Lennon’s flubs when defending his decision to include massive orchestral overdubs. Uncharacteristic of the band’s normal recording style though it was, it became the The Beatles’ final farewell as a group.

Several of the other tracks are almost ramshackle in comparison to the sheen of Spector’s additions. “For You Blue” is mostly acoustic, an exercise in the 12 bar blues, while song snippets “Dig It” and “Maggie Mae” both clock in at under a minute. The record would probably have formed a more cohesive statement had either or both of those unfinished song ideas been deleted. Yet they add to the charm, proving The Beatles’ humanity.

Which brings us to the high points of an already stellar set. “Get Back” closed the Beatles’ rooftop concert, and the studio version closes the record (with banter and applause from the live version edited in to the album by Spector). It’s the quintessential road song, its rhythms almost syncing with mileposts whizzing past the windows. It also sums up the record, in which the band was trying to “Get Back” to its roots in Chuck Berry rock ‘n’ roll.

And “Let It Be” may be the greatest musical pick-me-up of all time, a cathartic burst of piano, choir, organ and guitar. The raucous horns on the original album version seem a little out of place, but Preston’s organ line and Harrison’s heavenly solos elevate the song even above McCartney’s falsetto “be-eee”s in the chorus. Many have tried, but no one since has captured the sad-yet-happy feeling that “Let It Be” embodied.

While its prominent role in the demise of The Beatles tarnishes its image and its flaws ensure it will never be in contention for the title of the band’s best album, Let It Be stacks up with the rest of the catalog. If nothing else, goes to show that even one of The Beatles’ lesser albums is still one of the best records ever.

Instead, it’s the newest release by Wolf Parade frontman Spencer Krug’s side project, Sunset Rubdown. It certainly seems doubtful anyone has ever mistaken Wolf Parade for a metal band. However, Dragonslayer does share more with metal than one might expect from the indie veterans.

Dragonslayer manages to sound both esoteric and accessible, sometimes fluctuating between the two multiple times within a song. The sonic experimentation of past Sunset Rubdown releases has been significantly tightened up this time around. And just when a track seems to be losing itself in abstraction, a hooky slice of pop cuts it back down to size. This dynamic quality is what makes the record so intriguing. Though many of the tracks run relatively long, they never seem to lack purpose.

It’s the epic feel of Dragonslayer that evokes heavy metal’s bombast, though that’s where the tangible similarities stop. The record is vast in scope, full of sweeping atmospheric synths and strings. On tracks like “Dragon’s Lair,” Krug’s echoing voice sounds like it’s billowing down a snowy mountainside.

The album opens with a rising piano figure. “Dragon’s Lair,” which is the homophonic title track (say both “Dragon’s Lair” and “Dragonslayer out loud), is over 10 minutes long, starting with a slow piano-and-keyboard line and building majestically for its duration.

It should be said that Krug’s voice is an acquired taste, but acquiring it is a task Wolf Parade and Swan Lake fans will already have accomplished. Rather than sharing singing duties, as he does with those two bands, Krug is the sole lead vocalist in Sunset Rubdown. Neophytes have a little bit of work ahead of them, but this record may just be one of the best places to start for those interested in getting into Krug’s work.

Dragonslayer sounds a little like a collection of Spencer Krug’s Wolf Parade contributions, or at least what the band might resemble if Dan Boeckner was not a member of that group. While Boeckner’s songs are largely guitar-driven, Sunset Rubdown scatters the instrument sparingly throughout Dragonslayer’s eight tracks.

The crunchy guitar riff on “Idiot Heart,” then, comes as somewhat of a surprise, considering the relative absence of “rock” guitar on the rest of the album. In fact, the track digs up several classic rock idioms, from the aforementioned riff at the beginning to a distorted solo breakdown near the end. Krug and vocalist Camilla Wynne sing a sweet call-and-response on the verse, a recurring device on this record.

Sometimes, Krug’s singing veers away from where it seems like it should be headed, hitting dissonant notes when more logical ones were available in a way that would make a listener with a musical sweet tooth wince. However, it’s hard to say whether this hurts the record or just makes it that much more satisfying when the music returns to pleasing harmony.

All in all, anyone who was expecting Dragonslayer to sound like the new Mastodon album might be disappointed. Otherwise, this record will please fans and newcomers alike.

In a departure from his more rock-oriented recent output, Secret, Profane and Sugarcane is clearly a country record. The Imposters, Costello’s backing band from many of his recent releases, have been replaced with an acoustic country string band complete with Dobro, fiddle, mandolin, accordion and banjo.

Though it’s been some time since his last true country album, 1981’s Almost Blue, this isn’t new ground. For those new to his work: Costello is an unapologetic genre-hopper. Though his first few albums didn’t sound much like anything that had come before, records like Get Happy!! and King of America blatantly paid tribute to specific pop music traditions – soul on the former and folk on the latter. Despite his Liverpool roots, Costello has always borne a deep fascination with the pop music of America.

So, the country flavor of this new record shouldn’t come as a surprise; on Almost Blue and King of America, Costello was doing this long before Old Crow Medicine Show came along. The tracks on Secret, Profane and Sugarcane cover a range of styles within the overarching genre, from country blues to folk, heartbroken ballads to chugging shuffles.

Costello’s timeworn voice has little trouble settling into the country groove. He lacks the genre’s customary American Southern accent, but the laid-back arrangements are masterfully handled by Costello’s band. The sound is more open and organic than it was on Momofuku. Fiddle licks blend with accordion and acoustic guitar on “The Crooked Line,” while mandolin subtly dances beneath the verses of “I Dreamed of My Old Lover.”

“My All Time Doll,” a minor-key lament, evokes the somber feel of The Beatles’ “Girl,” while the upbeat and bawdy “Sulphur to Sugarcane” is built on constant location-referencing that evokes Johnny Cash’s “I’ve Been Everywhere.”

Unfortunately, the middle of the album drags and runs together. The hooks aren’t strong enough to help distinguish one mid-tempo country strummer from another. Every song is solid, but it’s reasonably easy to understand why a forgettable tune like “She Handed Me a Mirror” might have been passed over on a previous album.

Costello closes with a slow cover of Bing Crosby’s “Changing Partners,” a fitting finish that sees Secret, Profane and Sugarcane riding slowly off into the night. Even if the country shtick seems a little too grating, the album doesn’t break Costello’s string of solid work.