Looking for the heart in the center of any Joe Henry recording since 2001's Scar is a labyrinthine exercise that ultimately leads to befuddlement, bemusement, and sometimes, outright frustration. Perhaps that is because it's on display at every moment. So big, so bruised, and papered with tattered words, phrases, and sad but true jokes that echo from a thousand haunted fire escapes and empty rooms where the walls are two-toned from furniture being moved out of them. It doesn't remotely resemble that red pillowed thing most musical romantics would consider when seeking something uniform and readily on display in a small, shiny, or even shattered case. Civilians has as many stories attached as any record Henry's written, but they're so finely crafted now that the singer almost disappears in their flickering appearances on the wall of the mind of the listener. It could be anyone in them, but you know them; that's what you do know. You have no real idea who the songwriter is, which means he's done his job perfectly. The first clues are on the cover and the inside sleeve, but that comes in a minute. First there's the practical stuff: the band on this date is essentially the same one that Henry and Loudon Wainwright used on Wainwright's Strange Weirdos album (that Henry collaborated on and acted and co-produced) that ended up, in its own skewed way, becoming the best soundtrack of 2007 for the film Knocked Up. The recruited are Bill Frisell, Patrick Warren, David Piltch, Greg Leisz and Jay Bellerose (other than Warren, the rest were a quartet who toured in support of Frisell's Good Dog, Happy Man album). Wainwright is here on backing vocals, and there are guests including Van Dyke Parks and Chris Hickey. The Section, a string quartet, appears on "Our Song." On the surface, this record is the other side of 2003's wonderfully surreal Tiny Voices, and a world away from 2001's hunted Scar where Ornette Coleman made his presence felt, known, and in his way informed with his spirit all the songs on the album, though he only really appeared on one. The fragmented, cibachrome soundscapes on Tiny Voices have been replaced by a band playing it (mostly) straight. They lay down Henry's tunes with the kind of subtlety, an underlying net that is required when walking this far out on the observational ledge, but since these are in the first person that's a sleight of hand dodge. The horns and other aspects of the Tiny Voices and Scar mosaics are completely absent, put in a closet for now in favor of something more seemingly organic. That said, those longing for a return to the more "rootsy" sounds of far earlier Henry records aren't getting that either. What this band plays can't be called rock or jazz or folk or pop or anything at all that falls inside the lines; it's music. And that's quite a thing. The mostly relaxed, snaky noise this group does make, accessible as it is, is every bit as lush and warm as its predecessors only in reverse. It's every bit the warm yet torn coat one needs to wear while standing alone in a cold wind without the sunshine for reassurance. And then there are the songs. They have many wise-acre wisdoms to impart, direct experiences from the front of walking the streets and alleys in the neighborhood that we all live in these days, known as Tension Heights. There is a repeat performance here of sorts, Henry recorded his own version of "You Can't Fail Me Now," the finest moment from Wainwright's Strange Weirdos. The difference is subtle but there: Henry's version feels more like a declaration; not of fear exactly, but hoping for an escape from the feeling, whereas Wainwright's was one of romantic surrender and desperate acceptance. Then there's "Parker's Mood," the most beautiful song on an album full of them. Named for one of Charles "Yardbird" Parker's most famous tunes (yeah, Henry's got cojones), it's either the story of a spirit falling out of a body or of leaving its legacy, there are clues here to be continued...

Rovi