A few weeks ago I remembered how much more I like Joseph Arthur than, like, Chris Martin and Michael Stipe. I was watching a rerun of Coldplay's 2004 Austin City Limits performance, where Stipe is a guest, and I saw the two balladeers sing Arthur's "In the Sun," which, if you recall, would later appear on a Hurricane Katrina benefit EP sold through iTunes. Now it's three years after two of the biggest musicians on the planet attach their names to one of his songs, and what's happened? Three more albums, a new band, a new label, and no one to tell him not to put a tripartite 20-minute studio jam in the middle of his newest full-length album. The jam in question is "Lonely Astronaut" and the singer is Joseph Arthur, the greatest coffee-shop success story that wasn't. And in many ways, that's a good thing.

From 2000-2004 Arthur was absolutely devastating in his output, releasing three albums that showcased both his penchants for melancholic, poignant lyricism and quirky pop sensibilities. Even at his most "singer-songwriter," he used his impressive vocal range and unique arrangements to, at bare minimum, keep you interested, if not break your little heart. But the sheer boringness of Nuclear Daydream (2006) signaled Arthur's need for a new game plan, and here he happily gets one that separates from his undeserved "radio-friendly" image. Adding a band (taking a cue, perhaps, from the man he is most often compared to: Ryan Adams), Arthur's work sounds fresh and adventurous while remaining heartfelt and provocative. A major label might not have allowed "Lonely Astronaut," a song that is at once sweet and utterly sickening, like a kid gorging himself on Skittles and then vomiting in the movie theater aisle.

"Lonely Astronaut" begins with acoustic and slide guitars, a shaker keeping the beat, and Arthur singing like a streetcorner wino. In the background, from the first strums, we hear a distant "hey!" which will soon join Arthur in an echo-like second vocal track, just a bit off-key and out of time, setting the stage for the literal space odyssey to ensue. This voice will alternate between whispering and shouting throughout this first section, Arthur's childlike voice of innocence and inner Mick Jagger. The song picks up in tempo and intensity around the 6 minute mark, with guitar solos and drums collapsing into noise, marking the transition from tender ballad to the psych-folk freak-out that will consume the next 10 minutes of your life. At this point the song is still really good, nothing more abrasive or intense (or innovative) than what we've been hearing from Wilco all decade.

But then things go wrong. Arthur appears to have a mid-song revelation: I'm fronting a band! And they'll just keep playing! The middle section is dominated by Arthur singing simply the word "I," only to unceremoniously switch to "love" several minutes later. Interestingly, he never completes the sentence, and while this song is easily recognizable as a lonely love song, it begs the question: what exactly does he love for the middle ten minutes of this song. Himself? Music? The emptiness of space? This is a song literally about a man lost in space; Arthur getting lost in himself and in studio magic is both self-indulgent and obvious, but not unforgivable. The final section reels us back in with guitars and Arthur's astronaut drifting further and further away: "I stay out of reach / Because you lack vision." Whether or not I'll have the "vision" to tolerate this song after a few more listens remains to be seen, but if Arthur needed to go to space to reinvigorate his earthly music, then I'll go along for the ride.

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