"How Do I Know" is, without doubt, the standout jam from Here We Go Magic's freshly-pressed third LP, A Different Ship. It's just as rhythmically-taut and twitchingly-rollicking as "Make Up Your Mind," but blessed with a proud streak of romanticism.

"How do I know if I love you?" Temple asks, as recurring refrain, but it's not some nagging, riddling doubt, rather the warm feelings in the first flourishes of courtship. "You come out clean from the shower/squeak to the touch/and you smell like a flower," Temple sings, in his cutest verse. "Some men die in the fog/not trusting their nose to show them the way."

The song rattles along with the kinetic energy that's become the hallmark of Here We Go Magic, and when Jen Turner's cascading backing vox drift in, and spattering handclaps splatter everywhere, you can hear the sound of Nigel Godrich earning his paycheque. And, o'er the top, Temple sounds for all the world like Paul Simon; even 'wooh-woohing' in a fashion that, to me, openly evokes Graceland.

The rest of A Different Ship isn't nearly this wondrous; this propulsive and inclusive and wind-swept and winsome; this utterly romantic. But take that not as criticism of the rest; just a ringing endorsement of this glorious four-and-a-half minutes.

Here We Go Magic, "How Do I Know"

Photo © Greg Mitnick

Joshua Tillman —a onetime Fleet Fox— has long rolled solo as J. Tillman. No more. Now he is Father John Misty. I don't believe he's actually became a preacher, though. Even if "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings" does throw out the Son's name in this possibly-blasphemous verse: "Jesus Christ, girl/I laid up for hours in a daze/retracing the expanse of your American back/with Adderall and weed in my veins/you came/I came."

Where much else of his debut FJM LP, Fear Fun, does hew towards the stripped down, fingerpickin' style of past Tillman joints, "Hollywood Forever Cemetery" —in all its sex and death and drollery— rolls with a rock'n'roll gait. With raggedy guitar, trebly (felt) hammering piano, and loud drums, there's a mild Wall of Sound vibe, or at least quite a bit of echo.

Spector acolytes Tashaki Miyaki have unexpectedly broken from their run of vintage (Buddy Holly, Everly Brothers, Dylan) covers to cover "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings), too, and for some bonus Free Music action visit their Bandcamp. Their version is suitably Tashaki'd: it's much slower, fuzzy in its lo-fi fidelity, and it sounds plenty like Mazzy Star.

Father John Misty, "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings"

Photo © Maximilla Lukacs

"My back it fucking hurts, but otherwise I'm fine," sings Mark Kozelek, in that inimitable drawl, over that fingerpicked guitar that can still cut through the noise, and slice straight to the bone. It's a big-picture status update for a man who's hit 45, and "Sunshine in Chicago" (from the sprawling new Sun Kil Moon LP Among the Leaves) surveys the songwriter's middle-aged life.

Early Red House Painters records — like the aching Down Colorful Hill, now 20 years old— were steeped in the trauma of one's early 20s; in the existential doubts about growing up, the painful on-again/off-again relationships, the lost childhood friends. It makes sense, then, that Kozelek is writing, now, as elegantly as being in your 40s, in the sad resignations, quiet humiliations, and decades of memories.

The song is steeped in the banality of life-on-the-road, a touring musician at an age long past the rock'n'roll pale. The words reflect that banality with their factual note-taking —"sitting in the Days Inn Hotel in Chicago/Room 222, with the ceiling fan low"; "I took a walk down Lincoln Avenue/got myself a full massage and a manicure, too"— but, when sung by Kozelek, every utterance seems epic. "Sunshine in Chicago," he drawls, in the song's best verse, "makes me feel pretty sad/my band played here a lot in the '90s when we had/lots of female fans, and, fuck, they all were cute/now I just sign posters for guys in tennis shoes."

It's straight-up funny, of course, but in this context it sounds loaded with sadness, with regret. Much of that's due to the tone of the song, which reminds me of the nostalgic melancholia of Kozelek's greatest-ever song: Red House Painters' "Have You Forgotten," even rhyming "name" with "name" as he once, then, rhymed "nice" with "nice." But maybe that's because "Sunshine in Chicago" can only put you in a reflective mood, and, then, the past will only fold back on you.

Sun Kil Moon, "Sunshine in Chicago"

"They shook the earth in 1904," Kristian Matsson —the ironically-named Tallest Man on Earth— sings, repeatedly, through "1904," his new single, and the first taste of the forthcoming There's No Leaving Now (due out June 12 on Dead Oceans). Matsson has long etched away at his own take on Dylan-esque Americana, but, there's no American lore in "1904."

I have no idea what exactly Matsson sings of, but perhaps it's the dawning of what would be the Russian Revolution of 1905; or, maybe, the German genocide in South-West Africa. "But the lesson is vague," Matsson says, unintentionally describing his own lyrical trip back into history, even he turns sweetly poetic by singing "the lightning shows a deer with her mind on the moor."

Early Tallest Man on Earth works were deliberately rough-hewn and spartan; home-made, hand-made records that tried to evoke the dusty crackle of the old field-recordings of Alan Lomax, Harry Smith et al. Matsson recorded them in his bedroom, on analog tape, and welcomed every wobble and crackle. But "1904" suggests a different sound on There's No Leaving Now, with Matsson multi-tracking an almost full-band-ish sound, captured in clear-fidelity.

The Tallest Man on Earth, "1904"

Photo © Julia Mard