When The Decemberists released The Tain EP last year, it was quite apparent that Colin Meloy and his band of merry men (and women) were on to something special. The Decemberists first two albums, Castaways And Cutouts and Her Majesty, while very good, begged comparison to Belle & Sebastian. Not so with The Tain. The Tain showed that The Decemberists could easily marry meatier rock hooks with Meloy's penchant for creative minstrel-like lyrics and their already established twee pop sound. Wisely, The Decemberists recruited Chris Walla of Death Cab For Cutie to help beef-up their sound on the production side, and the resultant Picaresque is a confident and brilliant record that shows a band (and especially it's leader) hitting their stride and probably the zenith of their creative arc.

Right off the bat Picaresque proves the Decemberists a stronger, more evolved beast with the booming, almost operatic album opener "The Infanta." Drums pounding, guitars blazing, piano and organ swirling in and out, and Meloy sounding more assured as a singer than ever before, "The Infanta" is the most exhausting tune The Decemberists have ever put together. Meloy, who earlier this year released a tour-only EP of Morrissey covers while out on a solo jaunt, shows the influence of the old Smiths singer on "We Both Go Down Together." You can almost picture Morrissey himself belting out the chorus of "And O my love! My Love!" while listening to Meloy do the same.

Heartache reigns supreme on "From My Own True Love (Lost At Sea)" and "Eli, The Barrow Boy" (the latter of which is the inspiration for the cover art photo), two of the most commanding tracks Picaresque has in it's arsenal. The Decemberists are at their most powerful, however, when they create with epic strokes, and two tracks here certainly qualify. One, "The Bagman's Gambit," is a sprawling tale of espionage and love between a spy and a government agent, and the second, "The Mariner's Revenge Song," is a larger-than-life account of two men being swallowed up by, and living in, the belly of a giant whale. With lines such as "Its ribs our ceiling beams/ its guts our carpeting/ I guess we have some time to kill," Meloy paints two wonderfully vivid characters on the canvas of the mind. And while Meloy isn't given to a lot of candid introspection, he conjures up one of his greatest choruses by going inside out on "The Engine Driver." He's at his most sobering while singing the tormenting lines "I am a writer, a writer of fictions/ I am the heart that you call home/ And I've written pages upon pages/ trying to rid you from my bones."

With Picaresque, Meloy has quickly established himself as one of the greatest songwriters of his generation, and is rapidly approaching the realm of someone like a Morrissey or Elvis Costello; he's just that talented. And as a whole, the Decemberists have crafted the first truly essential album of 2005. More than just the flavor of the month, to be sure . . . I couldn't leave that one alone.