It's 2004 and we're back! With the help of some new and slightly complicated hosting solutions, mp3s are back and hopefully nothing will buckle under the bandwidth. Many, many thanks to Dustin, Andrea and Kyla. Also thanks so much to those who sent in words of support.

So, without further ado...

Bubba Sparxxx - "Nowhere". In the wake of my Top 20 Albums List, I'm doing the inevitable re-evaluations. Reading other peoples' lists draws attention to all the stuff that you didn't hear but should have, and as I try to gather my bearings and work out my top singles of the year (to be posted on TM within the next ten days), I'm also trying to listen to the most glaring omissions from my 2003. The highlights of these adventures so far - Sun Kil Moon, MF Doom's King Geedorah disc (lauded by Exclaim), and Deliverance, Bubba Sparxxx's masterful, enigmatic, folk-roots hip-hop record. [Incidentally, if any of you are curious about the King Geedorah, let me know.]

"Nowhere" is representative of what makes Deliverance so obviously great. It opens with a peculiar, ghostly collage - the crunch of O Brother Where Art Thou chain-gang, a truncated operatic note, a mocking delivery of the typical wise words from an old man. Then - beats, r&b swooning, rap. Strings climb in a way that's entirely emptied out of schmaltz - as the chorus steps out, as those operatic themes come back, there's this overwhelming feeling of tragedy... And then that determination, the talk of self-improvement, and after a nod to Eminem, Bubba turns to Justin Timberlake and self-effacingly steps back into the shade. It's not mere pastiche, it's the full integration of all sorts of different things - hip-hop, romantic, opera, r&b, pop, folk. Integration, and then transformation into something new. golly.

Jason Molina - "Long Desert Train". The beautiful closing track to Jason Molina's upcoming vinyl-only release, Pyramid Electric Company. Though he's abandoned the Songs:Ohia name, "Long Desert Train" has that classic Songs:Ohia feel, along the lines of Axxess & Ace, rather than the whinsome rawk of Magnolia Electric Co. In short - it's a man with a guitar and his remarkable, supple voice. The resignation here is stronger than the frustrated sadness that has marked much of Molina's earlier work. He takes his time, mourns in peace - the pacing is wiser, more natural than even the slow burns on Didn't It Rain. It's gorgeous, robust - something that might bend but will not break. It slowly disappears. (Cf. Gillian Welch's "I Dream a Highway.")