A mix of ‘attention worthy’ discs for music fans

I have written every one of these columns with some kind of theme. Effortless or strained, some unified thread held the piece together. Until now… Here, in no particular order, are three disparate new discs that are attention-worthy.

Continuing a bit on last month’s column (on Uncle Tupelo and its progeny), I heartily recommend THE BOTTLE ROCKETS’ new one, “LEAN FORWARD.”

The band’s founder, lead guitarist and singer, Brian Henemann, was childhood friends with Uncle Tupelo’s leaders, Jay Farrar and Jeff Tweedy, growing up in Festus, Mo.

Henemann even went on tour with UT as a roadie/guitar tech. He formed the Bottle Rockets as a workingman’s bar band, combining big heartedness, humor and pathos in a plain-rocking country style, with smarts. Their first three albums are great much underappreciated gems, with “The Brooklyn Side” generally recognized as their masterpiece.

A Doug Sahm tribute and three uneven but still eminently listenable albums later bring us to the present.

“Lean Forward” reunites the band with the producer of “The Brooklyn Side,” Eric Ambel. Whether or not the decision was made with the goal of recreating the magic, that’s the end result. Ambel’s played in his share of bar bands, and knows the value of a punchy unadorned sound. But sound means naught if the songs don’t hold up.

These do. “The Long Way” starts things off in ripping fashion, with its reminder that the short cut isn’t always the thing. The message cuts against the tune, with its biting quick chords and urgent delivery. “Shame on Me” mines the endless field of male screwing up, ‘fessing up, promising to do better, and then the screwing up again. Set to a loping beat, the song exudes a “whadda ya gonna do?” shrug.

“Hard Times” is a fiery snarl of defiance in the face of the title’s reality, what with “I’m not broke down, I’m just out of gas” as its rallying cry. Two songs by non-member Keith Voegle, “Done It All” (pop perfection) and “Open Your Eyes” (wistful longing) provide a change of pace until Henemann’s more direct pen takes over again. “The Kid Next Door” is a flat-out weeper about a boy who won’t be coming back from the war.

“The Way It Used to Be” is a rocking love/hate poem to nostalgia, while “Get On the Bus” extols the virtue of public transportation in a country stomper. “Slip Away” (not the stone classic Clarence Carter tune) is as close as the Bottle Rockets get to bedroom seduction. “Solitaire” is an unflinching portrait of a couple gone stale; its sadness is bleak, but so adult in its sobriety that it doesn’t despair. “Give Me Room” closes right after that and seems like “Solitaire’s” protagonist’s response – I’m out of here. The music’s pull is irresistible, funky and tough.

Turn this one up and head out to that place where cars are few and the driving’s easy.

There is no proper segue for THE DIRTY PROJECTORS. David Longstreth is the mad genius here, handling 90 percent of the lead vocals, lead guitar and all of the writing.

He’s been at it for four albums before their new one, “BITTE ORCA.” It’s probably unlike anything you’ve heard (unless you normally play three stereos at once). To say it’s an acquired taste is to be optimistic. I thought the album was a not-so-funny joke on first listen, and then a perfect example of critical buzz creating hip fakery. But lo, I persevered and lived to tell about it and even come to love it for its bent beauty.

Longstreth’s modus operandi is to start a song simply, with a stark acoustic guitar figure, piano lick or drum beat, then either he or his lovely two female vocalists, Amber Coffman and Angel Deradoorian, start to croon. He’s got a lovely instrument himself, reminiscent of Squeeze’s Glen Tilbrook (who himself reminds one of Paul McCartney).

Beats then careen wildly, but with purpose, and the guitar and vocals (with occasional handclaps) take off in seemingly independent directions. Just when you get a handle on the song’s structure, beats will change in whiplash fashion, the vocals will shift to wordless swoons, and so on. All is not chaos, though, as the surface madness reveal its hidden methods with patience and repeated listens. The question is whether you’ll have enough of the former to allow the latter.

“Cannibal Resource” and “Temecula Sunrise” follow the template outlined above, and “The Bride” is a quieter and more precious affair. Things get more interesting with “Stillness in the Move,” as the beat actually approaches funk. “Two Doves” is a gorgeous showcase for the ladies, backed with ravishing strings.

“Useful Chamber” is the album’s tour de force, almost seven minutes of tension and release, multiple ideas raised, played with, then dropped. “No Intention” keeps the attention with the most straightforward beat and coherent structure on the album. “Remade Horizon” employs the string section to swing a little, and then wham, on cue, the vocals are massed to beat the “chorus” into your skull, with spastic stabs of rhythm guitar laying a carpet of lumpy comfort. Crazy and very effective.

I haven’t even tried to glean the lyrical messages of The Dirty Projectors. I don’t get paid enough for that.

Back to normality, in a big way, with DIANE BIRCH. In the very crowded field of white chicks that can sing soulfully, she’s got a real chance at standing out and even lasting. In her mid-20s, her debut, “BIBLE BELT” is stunning. Its mature songcraft and delivery are indicative of an “old soul,” which she claims, proudly.

Birch is the daughter of a fundamentalist preacher from South Africa whose ministry took him around the world. Though born in Michigan, she was immediately moved to Zimbabwe, and from there she lived in Australia and South Africa among other countries.

She moved to America when she was 13 and already a prodigy on piano. Having only been exposed to classical music until then, her instant immersion in American pop, rock and jazz left her elated. She moved to London as an adult, gained some notoriety playing around town and then met the same folks who arranged for Joss Stone’s coming out.

“Bible Belt’s” got so much going for it in addition to its trump card. A crackerjack band, with either Cindy Blackman (Lenny Kravitz and a real jazz resume) or Stanton Moore (Galactic) on drums, George Porter (Meters) on bass, the old Saturday Night Live horn section, Betty Wright (“Clean-Up Woman”) helping with arranging, a real string section and an army of backing vocalists – all the cards were dealt in a winning hand.

But even a sure thing can be screwed up. Burch takes control of the entire project, which could have swamped a lesser talent, and nails it.

Who does she sound like? Carole King, Elton John (early), Norah Jones, Dusty Springfield, Jenny Lewis – most of all, herself. Her songwriting is steeped in the gospel she grew up with, but she’s channeling the history of pop and soul. Retro, for sure, but played as though she just discovered this stuff, which she basically did.

All the songs are standouts. This is the kind of record meant for the days of vinyl, when an entire side was played without a break.

My current favorites are “Choo Choo” (hellhounds on her trail) and “Forgiveness,” on which absolution is bestowed right through the speakers. Last week, my favorites were “Rewind” and “Mirror, Mirror,” and next week they’ll probably be “Fire Escape” and “Valentino.”

This one’s going to last, I can tell.