Remember Carly Smithson’s wild ride on season seven of American Idol? The Irish expat, who finished sixth in a strong pack that included eventual winner David Cook, always came off as a natural-born belter– Ann Wilson with a brogue, if you will. Yet sometimes it proved difficult to shoehorn her prodigious vocal talents into the show’s narrow musical themes. (Dolly Parton week was not her best moment.) It’s a treat, then, to hear her tackle a genre for which she’s extremely well-suited, namely the sleek goth-pop-metal forged by her new band, We Are The Fallen.

The group’s debut album, Tear The World Down, should please Smithson’s steadfast Idol devotees, and it’ll definitely go over gangbusters with fans of Evanescence, the multi-platinum act that has surrendered three members to this new ensemble. Evanescence co-founder Ben Moody, who parted ways with partner/vocalist Amy Lee due to creative differences, is the de facto musical director here. There’s an indelible imprint of his former band’s hits, including “Bring Me To Life” and “Going Under,” on many of these new songs. There’s also no doubt that Smithson, singing in this style, sounds a lot like Lee, so much so that some critics may cry copycat. If you can get past these obvious similarities though, you may be charmed by the album’s unabashed drama, executed with a surprising level of sophistication.

Take the lead-off track, “Bury Me Alive.” This robust rocker, the album’s first single, was penned by Smithson before she met Moody and his mates. That it sounds exactly like something they’d write anyway suggests either an inevitable destiny for all involved or that Smithson was besotted with Evanescence early on. (Come to think of it, she did perform “Bring Me To Life” on the season seven Idol tour. Hmm.) But just when you think you’ve got the song figured—angsty verse, wailing chorus, pummeling guitar riff, repeat—along comes a delicate coda of strings and wispy vocals that softens this dark tale of a suffocating relationship.

It’s intriguing twists like these that help the listener weather the album’s rigidly somber tone—hey, lightening up would mean losing cred with the pasty complexion and black eyeliner crowd, right? And the band needs to work on honing its sometimes clunky lyrics. (“Paradigm” sounds like it was borrowed from a college freshman poetry class.) But when it all goes right, as it does spectacularly on the epic title track, which swells to a grandiose hard rock commotion worthy of, say, Metallica, Tear The World Down pushes past guilty pleasure to pure pleasure. And Smithson’s powerhouse pipes put We Are The Fallen in a league with bombastic peers such as Paramore or even, dare I say it, Evanescence itself. Amy Lee, watch your back.

        

Seven long years have passed since Natalie Merchant last put out a solo record. Hold those cries of “slacker” though, if you please. In concept, execution and, well, sheer volume, her new release, Leave Your Sleep, leaves little doubt as to what the former 10,000 Maniacs frontwoman has been up to all that time.

As she explains in the introduction to the 80-page book that accompanies this 26-song double-CD collection, Merchant, now 46, has been raising a daughter. That alone is enough to preoccupy anybody, but she’s also been schooling her progeny in the imagination-fuelling properties of poetry. It’s from these lessons that she takes her inspiration for Leave Your Sleep, which sets verse by ee cummings, Ogden Nash and many others to music written mostly by Merchant, in a dizzying array of musical styles, and performed by more than 100 guest musicians including Wynton Marsalis and members of the New York Philharmonic. Whew! I’m exhausted just writing that sentence.

Divided into two chapters, “Leave Your Supper” and “Leave Your Sleep,” the project brims with the fanciful tales that enchant, and sometimes terrify, the very young. There are ravenous giants, talking animals, exotic locales, cautionary tales and comforting lullabies. “Supper” whets the appetite with some flavorful rhymes, among them Edward Lear’s “Calico Pie,” fashioned into a jaunty country jig. Jack Prelutsky’s “Bleezer’s Ice-Cream” becomes a New Orleans jazz romp with stellar trumpet accompaniment by Marsalis. Here Merchant reels off the odd flavors on offer at a hilariously well-stocked ice cream parlor. (“Avocado, Brussels sprout, periwinkle, sauerkraut…cotton candy, carrot, custard, cauliflower, cola, mustard.”) The music jibes perfectly with Prelutsky’s playful word-flow and entices listeners to check out more works by the former Children’s Poet Laureate of the U.S.

Disc two continues the expansive musical exploration as Merchant marries Celtic folk to the surreal nautical voyage detailed in “The Walloping Window Blind” (Charles Edward Carryl) and even gives reggae a go on “Topsyturvey World.” This short, whimsical verse by William Brighty Rands imagines how upside-down our lives would be if “a pony rode his master” and “a gentleman was a lady.” The latter example betrays the poem’s 19th-century origins, but as sung by the famously p.c. Merchant, Rands’ final stanza sounds like a friendly call for tolerance: “If any or all of these wonders/Should ever come about/I should not consider them blunders/For I should be Inside-Out!”

Don’t get the wrong idea, however, about the project’s target audience. While the poems evoke childlike wonder, this is no kids’ record. There’s a scholarly sophistication to the enterprise that should hit the sweet spot for the average middle-aged NPR listener. If anything, it may be a bit too studied. The book, consisting mainly of textbook-style biographies of the poets, is informative but a long slog. And of the myriad musical genres Merchant attempts, a few seem more like museum pieces than pop songs. (The Renaissance Fair ballad “Equestrienne” and the klezmer folker “The Dancing Bear” are particularly fusty.) But by and large Leave Your Sleep is an immensely pleasurable experience, chock full of audacious surprises and held together by Merchant’s honeyed vocal tone, which has only grown richer over time. One hopes she doesn’t take seven more years to complete her next project, but if she does, it will surely be worth the wait.

        

Why can’t musical artists just stick to what they do best?

It’s a reactionary, fogey-ish question—I picture one of the old coots in the Muppet Show balcony griping to the other. And sure, theoretically you want your favorite acts to take risks and stretch themselves. Without musical leaps of faith we wouldn’t have The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s, The Clash’s London Calling or Radiohead’s Kid A. But sometimes– like, say, when you’re suffering through Chris Cornell’s ill-fated collaboration with Timbaland or Lil Wayne’s awful rock Rebirth– you can’t help but ask yourself, what’s wrong with the way you usually sound?

I confess that was my first reaction upon hearing Groove Armada’s latest effort, Black Light. In the past, the veteran electronic duo of Andy Cato and Tom Findlay has been known mainly for two things: Lush, languid chill-out tunes such as the breakthrough 1997 hit “At the River,” and festive, accessible dance numbers, including “Superstylin’” and “I See You Baby.” The London pair’s best album, 2007’s Soundboy Rock, was a wild mix of both styles. Careening from the sleek elegance of “Paris” to the randy rap of “The Girls Say” to the reggaeton bounce of “Get Down,” it was the least cohesive, most fun party record in ages.

Black Light, by contrast, is consistently moody– the party it would play best at is an angst ball for emo kids. Yes, in a bid to hold on to club scene relevance, or perhaps simply because Cato and Findlay grew bored with happy, one of electronic music’s most feel-good acts has gone dark on us. Initially, the seismic shift is jarring and not quite convincing. There are plenty of bands who work the kind of brooding dance-rock angle GA is attempting here with more authority, Editors and Metric to name two. Soon, though, you realize the melancholy vibe is just a veneer, and that structurally Black Light is built on the easy-to-grasp hooks that Cato and Findlay have long delivered.

Once again the duo employs an eclectic array of guest vocalists to front the tracks. U.K. Pop Idol winner Will Young is featured on the haunting Bronksi Beat knock-off “History,” though his distinctive high, clear tenor is obscured by clouds of reverb. Legendary smoothie Bryan Ferry lends his cool-daddy croon to “Shameless,” a decadent disco interlude that gets by mostly on style, but what style it is! And Empire of the Sun’s Nick Littlemore graces four tracks with his nasal, MGMT-like croak, giving the proceedings a bit of indie-rock cred.

But it’s two little-known female vocalists who steal the show. Jessica Larrabee, of the indie outfit She Keeps Bees—hey, don’t ask me– is the solid center of the should-be-a-hit empowerment anthem “I Won’t Kneel.” (Think “I Will Survive” with tattoos and a nose piercing.) London singer-songwriter SaintSaviour’s emotive wail gets showcased on Black Light’s two finest tracks: “Look Me in the Eye Sister” brims with the big drama of an old Siouxsie and the Banshees chestnut, while “Paper Romance,” a duet with singer Ben Duffy of the British electronic trio Fenech-Soler, has the makings of a chant-along club classic. Such encouraging highlights should make fans less anxious about following Groove Armada down this new, dimly lit path. Even fogeyish fans like yours truly.

        

Musically speaking at least, the 1980s was a benevolent decade. Many of today’s hit-makers owe their very existence to pioneers from the golden age of new wave and synth pop. Madonna bequeathed her style-over-substance act unto Lady Gaga. Duran Duran gave us the Killers. And Chris Martin borrowed A-ha’s falsetto warbles while the Norwegian trio was off fjord-hopping and poof! Coldplay was born.

Swedish quintet Shout Out Louds makes a third withdrawal from the ‘80s bank for its new album Work, with slightly diminished returns. The band’s two previous efforts cribbed from the Cars, New Order and the Cure—2007’s Our Ill Wills kicks off with a close-enough-for-litigation facsimile of the latter’s “In Between Days,” re-titled “Tonight I Have To Leave It. ” The latest release opts for the polished sound of less iconic artists of the era, say, China Crisis or Split Enz. And the album cover? A cheeky riff on Ultravox’s Vienna.

Shout Out Louds have never been the edgiest band around, but here whatever quirks they might have displayed in the past have been smoothed to the point of anonymity. Under the influence of producer Phil Ek, who helped give The Shins a classic pop patina, the group has created a work that is long on hooks but short on personality. Lead singer Adam Olenius’ previously croaky vocals — think Robert Smith in the throes of puberty—have been sanded and layered. Tempos sit squarely in the midrange between pokey and perky. Guitar and keyboard melodies move things along without exertion, and none of the 10 tunes here would challenge even the most timid listener.

Still, every one of them is undeniably catchy; there’s not a clunker in the bunch. And if you are of a certain age—i.e. if you remember swooning over the first Haircut One Hundred single—Work will make you giddy with déjà-joy. It’s difficult to pick out highlights because the songs are of a wrinkle-free piece, but “Four By Four” has a certain campfire sing-along charm and “Paper Moon” builds to a lovely, swirling climax. Here and there Olenius, the group’s lyricist, shows he hasn’t lost the knack for detailed image-conjuring. Sample verse from the opener, “1999”: “Your band came to town, I was too young to know/You were younger than I am now in 1983/You came home with a black eye.”

But about that name, Shout Out Louds. As the group’s sound grows more muted with each release, it’s clear that the moniker is becoming awkwardly ironic. Time for something a little less bold, perhaps? Too bad Modest Mouse is already taken.

(For another example of wanton ’80 homage, check out Empire of the Sun’s latest album, reviewed here.)

        

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I’m ashamed to admit that I kind of dreaded hearing this album.

When Corinne Bailey Rae’s debut dropped in 2006, it landed like sunshine on a murky musical landscape. Here was a pop-soul chanteuse who eschewed the pungent vulgarity of fellow Brit Amy Winehouse, not to mention the manufactured beats of the Top 40 hitmakers, to focus on upbeat themes and warm, organic arrangements. And with the smash single “Put Your Records On”—just go ahead, let your hair down!– she created an enduring balm for the blues.

Rae was at work on her much-anticipated follow-up when the unimaginable happened. In the spring of 2008, her husband, Jason Rae, suffered a fatal overdose after sampling a friend’s methadone prescription. In recent interviews, Rae has said that the tragedy left her devastated and doubtful that she’d ever record again. She eventually mustered the strength to finish the new album, a superhuman feat that warrants the admiration of fans and detractors alike. (Some critics carped that the debut lacked depth.) However, the release of The Sea raised questions: How would Rae’s loss affect her songs? And could her fans, including this one, an avid avoider of harsh reality, bear to listen to them?

The Sea’s cover art offers clues to the mood within. Rae lies on a forest floor, looking nearly catatonic, her wedding band gleaming on her hand in the foreground. A dense canopy of trees above her darkens the scene. Yet there are patches of blue sky peeking through the branches, just as there are bright spots among the album’s 11 tracks.

Make no mistake, The Sea is often achingly poignant, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the sweetness of the first album. The good news is this sophomore effort is lovely, mature and occasionally brilliant. The innocent we heard on the debut may be gone forever, but in her place stands a compelling survivor who’s now equipped to convey a wider range of emotions.

The Sea begins with Rae in a state of shock. “Are You Here,” written in the months following Jason’s death, addresses a ghost-like presence that the singer is not quite ready to let go of. (“Are you here, ‘cause my heart recalls that it all seems the same.”) Ultimately, the presence manifests itself physically and offers comfort. (“When he comes to lay me down in a garden of tuberoses/When he comes around there’s nothing more to imagine.”) Rae’s reverie may be delusional, but hey, whatever works.

By the second song, rays of hope begin to pierce the dark. On the slow-building soul ballad “I’d Do It All Again” Rae asserts that falling in love is worth the risk. (“It’s bigger than the pain you got, for all it hurts.”) On “Feels Like The First Time,” she pauses to reflect on that initial blush of romantic infatuation, as an easy-sway melody and earthy organ fills urge her out of her despair.

To further balance out the heaviness, The Sea accommodates a couple of tracks that are just plain sexy fun. “Closer” is a baby-making jam worthy of Prince in full boudoir mode. The jaunty “Paris Nights/New York Mornings” finds a pair of lovers cuddling in a Greenwich Village diner after a wild night in the City of Lights and the subsequent exhausting plane trip. In the end, though, the album returns to its sad heart with the astonishing title track. Here Rae acknowledges the enormity of her loss (“goodbye, paradise”), sounding fragile but ultimately accepting. As the mournful music drops to a hush and she sings “the sea…crushes everything, cleans everything, takes everything from me,” we understand that hers is a pain that no perky self-help ditty like “Put Your Records On” can lessen. The only life raft on this ocean is time.