Alright, let's slough off all of pretenses here for a moment. I admit it. I'm a Neil Diamond fan. I own three of his albums. As a matter of fact, at work yesterday, I was listening to Tap Root Manuscript, kicking forth with "Cracklin' Rosie," moving along to the suite of the album's second side, with its children's choruses and African rhythms. Whaddafuc?! The lone slip-up is the cover of "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother," a song I've never had much of a taste for since the Hollies' version of it. It's the kind of album you pause when somebody walks into the office, and you get a good reading on whether or not it's safe to continue. Yes, truly, an album that causes sweaty remorse in the listener, but such a damn guilty pleasure that I can't resist popping it in on many rainy spring days to come. . .