Aimee Mann

The problem with a throat lozenge is that, as it works and your throat cools and your passages clear, you suck it harder, need it more and reduce it to juice. An Aimee Mann disc is a lot like a lozenge: The less attention you pay it, the longer it lasts. Despite its innovations — some pedal steel and a gauzy narrative — The Forgotten Arm is another exercise in plodding tunefulness best spun while cooking or reading or generally not thinking about it too much. You’ll bob to it. You’ll want to hear “King of the Jail House” again. You won’t be disappointed at all if the disc changer plays the whole thing again a couple of hours later. Mellow as they are, each track has a tug and integrity, and the best are warm as PJs fresh from the drier (as in pajamas, not British rock chicks, though we’d prefer the latter). With headphones on, though, or driving, the power diminishes. Most songs proceed thusly: midtempo coffeehouse guitars, a couple of four-line verses, a chorus, new verses, tasteful bridge, the chorus again. Recommended, but only for idle sucking.