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After three solid albums diffidently supported by three labels, English pop-folkster David Gray got the break he deserved when frat-friendly superstar Dave Matthews chose White Ladder as the first release on Matthews’ own label. True to its title, Ladder kept climbing, reaching multiple platinum on the strengths of its effervescent electronic beats and Gray’s sophisticated, warbling tenor, netting memorable singles in “Please Forgive Me” and “Babylon.” That’s a tough act to follow commercially, and on A New Day At Midnight, released in November, it’s clear Gray’s not letting the pressure screw up his songwriting. This time the digital effects are mostly gone in favor of a mellower, more somber mood, less Wallflowers and more Van Morrison. While it may lack the immediately appealing quality of his breakthrough, it passes the test of repeated listens with flying colors. Northrop, 84 Church St. S.E., (612) 624-2345, www.northrop.umn.edu

Neil Finn has been making the musical progression from reckless youth (he joined his brother’s band, Split Enz, at age 18) to pop craftsman (Crowded House) to, on his last couple of solo discs, melancholy crooner. Finn’s rich, textured vocals and whimsical and songwriting make him one of the most underrated performers of the last two decades. Count yourself lucky to be able to see him in such an intimate setting as the Fine Line, with his teenage son, who is also an adept guitarist in his own right. Finn’s recent sets mostly include later stuff, but you’re bound to get a golden oldie or two from his Split Enz and Crowded House days. Fine Line, 318 1st Ave. N, (612) 338-8100, www.finelinemusic.com

There’s just no way around it, so we’ll take it head-on: Jane Monheit is similar to Diana Krall—but, we hasten to add, in all the right ways. She’s a brilliant retro-jazz interpreter, an incredible vocal stylist, and a very young woman with a very bright future. At the tender age of 26, she’s worked wonders with an unlikely old chestnut: Her recently released version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” is already a celebrated signature tune that people are raving about. Jazzbos say it’ll be considered the best interpretation of the song ever, which is saying something. Like Krall, detractors worry that Monheit is just too pretty to be taken seriously. If only we had those kinds of detractors! Pantages Theater, 710 Hennepin Ave., (612) 339-7007, www.hennepintheatredistrict.com

When Johnny Marr unplugged his guitar and walked out of the Smiths in 1987, his time as the king of jangly guitar was effectively over, as much by his own choice as anything else. Beyond a lackluster teaming with New Order’s Bernard Sumner in Electronic, Marr was inconspicuous through the 1990s, interspersing sideman stints with Oasis, The The and Kirsty MacColl with long sabbaticals in the desert. In 2000, he finally took his place as bandleader again, forming the Healers with drummer Zak “Son of Ringo” Starkey and ex-Kula Shaker bassist Alonza Bevan. His new group throws down a heavy rock sound flavored with a bit of dance and world rhythm, reminiscent more of My Bloody Valentine and post-Achtung Baby U2 than the Smiths. Still, comparisons with the old band are inevitable, and in that respect Marr’s choice to write and sing his own lyrics is regrettable. He’s flat, generic and humorless—everything that Morrissey wasn’t. But his propensity for layered, propulsive rock is undiminished, and the reported difficulty in finding a label willing to release Boomslang is hard to understand. Marr’s spirit is best expressed by his six-string, and it’s back at the forefront of the music where it belongs.

It’s unfortunate that sonic groundbreakers like the Cocteau Twins sometimes sound so unremarkable in retrospect—in part because they spawned dozens of soundalikes, some of whom went on to greater glory and radioplay, such as Fascination Street-era Cure. We have fond memories of the Twins’ earliest records from the 80s, like Garlands. These were brooding, proto-gothic dirges with operatic vocals that sounded as if they ‘d been recorded in an empty squash court. But we’ve changed: Today, we actually find ourselves listening to the later, poppier stuff like Victorialand, and discovering the tunefulness with which they invested their brighter maturity. This is the more hummable, less pretentious stuff, and you can play it in the car without scaring the kids.

These days, girls kick ass all the time. Buffy, Michelle Yeoh, the Power Puffs—it’s not even remarkable anymore. Which makes it hard to believe that’s it’s been a mere 12 years since Thelma & Louise, Ridley Scott’s feminist buddy movie. But in those ancient days of 1991, the damsel in distress wasn’t expected to stand up and fight back. Geena Davis and Susan Sarandon give terrific performances as the two friends who unintentionally kill a would-be rapist and flee the law across the Southwest. But it’s really screenwriter Callie Khouri that makes the engine go here. Her classy, feminist revamp of the outlaw road movie is too deft and nuanced for the inevitable charges of man-bashing to stick. It helps a great deal that it’s also funny, and infused with a sense of liberation, in all senses of that word.

We’re not sure why PBS has let Mystery! go to hell, and if their idea of customer service is another Hetty Wainthrop sequel, we’d rather have another hole in our head. Time was, they ran the good stuff, like Morse—a virtual institution on the other side of the Atlantic. Granted, the series has been uneven over the years—as is readily evident on cable’s BBC America. In fact, most of these particular episodes are in saturation rotation on the American Beeb. But they’re the good ones, and a worthy keepsake by which to remember John Thaw—whose death last year brought Morse to an irredeemable and permanent end. (Hetty: The bell tolls for thee, too!)

The marketing behind DVDs has been clever. Videotapes are disposable, and after about 25 viewings, utterly worthless. DVDs have acquired the “preciousness” of keepsakes—heirlooms to pass down from generation to generation. (“That was your grandfather’s Godfather trilogy—and now it’s yours!”) Combine that with our post-9/11 anxiety and need for the comforts of our youth, most notably, sitcoms of the 1970s. Did we ever think we would want the entire Land of the Lost series in wide-screen with digitally-enhanced surround-sound? 70s fare like All in the Family, Good Times, and Sanford and Son, had their share of laughs, but also dealt with rape, gang violence, racism (and chronic fake heart attacks). They had the gravity and substance that reflected that tumultuous time in America, while these days we prefer to retreat to Temptation Island and Survivor: The Amazon.

Here comes the second of a projected trilogy about a sweeping, epic battle for the future of a civilization; instead of orcs, this one has Kentuckians. Gods and Generals takes us back two years from the action of the first film, Gettysburg, to chronicle the most destructive war ever fought on American soil from its beginning to the titanic Battle of Chancellorsville in 1863. That’s a lot of ground to cover, so be prepared for an epic three-and-a-half-hour battle between your butt and the theater seat. The DVD supposedly will clock in at twice that length. The combat scenes promise to be stunning, given the participation of thousands of re-enactment hobbyists who’ve had years to get this right—that’s what we call Method acting. Bob Dylan fans take note: he’s got a new song, “Cross the Green Mountain,” on the soundtrack.

Gus Van Sant’s Drugstore Cowboy helped jumpstart the late-80s wave of new indie film voices, and Van Sant’s work remains compelling thanks to his willingness to experiment rather than stay safe. That also breeds maddening inconsistency, and so his career is peppered with misfires and outright failures which are still some of his most interesting work—yes, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues has its moments. Good Will Hunting balanced indie cred with the needs of mainstream Hollywood drama, although launching the stardom of Ben Affleck and Matt Damon may yet be an ancillary effect to regret. The Walker’s month-long retrospective screens Van Sant’s entire filmography, winding up with an appearance by the man himself for the local debut of his latest film, Gerry. It’s an audacious jump back to his experimental roots, a relief after the cliché-ridden Finding Forrester, which threatened a future of earnest male-bonding tearjerkers. Gerry is a minimalist, nearly plot-free road movie (co-written with stars Damon and Casey Affleck, Ben’s brother) that’s more avant-garde in its formlessness than any of Van Sant’s previous features. It’s opening to mixed reviews elsewhere, and based on his track record, it’s too soon to tell whether that means misunderstood classic, noble experiment gone wrong, or both. Walker Art Center, (612) 375-7622, www.walkerart.org