In a world of one-hit downloads, The Circus is an album. When vinyl ruled, this might have been “the record” of a particular summer. A friend tells you she aspires to be like the girl who’s not afraid of being sad. “Priestess put your ghost to bed, away, away-ay-ay-ay-ay…” chant the kids on their bikes. You hear the headphone-flat pitch of someone singing along with the man who fancies the lady pirate.
  This unabashedly pop album might be what Brian Wilson would be doing if he had grown up in the ’90s, had the use of digital equipment, and couldn’t build a sound around brothers with heavenly voices.
  Despite the obvious craft of this new song cycle and its dense references and textures—which range from echoing children to a muezzin’s loudspeaker—The Circus seems uncomplicated, unpretentious, and open—even unfinished. The words and music both invite you to complete the work.
  But in the end, the inter-connected songs—like most great pop—are all about love. And it’s a grand love, full of longing, twists and turns, always returning to the realization that “it’s been you all this time.”
  Play it loud. And play it again.