While waiting for Interpol to take the stage last Friday, I overheard a guy much younger than I excitedly tell his friends the Pixies are planning a reunion tour in April and that this was great news. I barged into the conversation to inform him that, sadly, this is not great news because they were a terrible live act. He was still in elementary school when I was out of college and seeing the Pixies in 1989-1992, so he never witnessed that, for all their innovation and cool weirdness, the Pixies were largely charisma-free and rather dull on stage.

On the karma scale, I would much sooner see the Pixies finally get rich from their artistic impact than the Sex Pistols if only because John Lydon is an arrogant bastard who needs to get over himself, a criticism I would never lob at Black Francis after interviewing him several times. But in terms of influential bands that broke up before getting their due, I'd prefer to see a reunion tour by the Replacements. They were much more volatile and vibrant live than the Pixies. Besides, it would save Tommy Stinson from having to stay with Guns N' Roses, and, while I wouldn't wish substance addiction on anyone, Paul Westerberg wrote better songs before he got sober.

Maybe it's just time for a kick-ass Pixies box set. Or someone should feature "Gigantic" or  "Debaser" or "Tony's Theme" prominently in a movie soundtrack. At least David Bowie has already done his part in helping to expose them with a great cover of "Cactus" on Heathen.

I'd been saving my "brush with Zevon" anecdote for his death, and I'm sorry to say that his time came.

In late 1990, I parted on bad terms with a boyfriend who was also a Warren Zevon fan. Zevon was in town about a month later. I expected to run into my ex at the show when I arrived during the opening act. The club was crowded, so I wasn't surprised that I didn't see him. Then I realized it was a familiar voice over the P.A. He was up on stage, alone with his guitar.

Afterwards, I got the full story. He'd brought his guitar to the club in hopes of getting Zevon to autograph it. The scheduled opening act was a no-show. The manager of the venue spotted the kid with the guitar and asked if he could fill in for the absent support act.

When Zevon took the stage, he was full of praise for my ex's bravery. I think his exact words were, "Has that guy got cojones or what?!" Afterwards, my star-struck ex was getting Warren and his cohorts to sign anything he could as evidence of his magical opportunity. The irony was that, with an audience of about 700, I was the only person there who already knew him. He quickly realized that unless he treated me right, I could deny that the whole thing ever happened.

Meanwhile, I introduced myself to Zevon. I had done a telephone interview with him earlier that year but had never met him face-to-face. He acknowledged he'd never read my article because his label had already dropped him, so he scribbled down his manager's address where I could send a copy.

Swell guy, underappreciated talent. RIP, Warren.

As part of its college life feature, the October issue of Spin features the "First Annual Spin Campus Awards." Among the designations, they denote Spring Fling at my alma mater, the University of Pennsylvania, as the best fest.

On one hand, having worked with both the local and touring bands that have played Fling, I'm proud of the legacy I helped create. On the other hand, I can't give much credence to the praise considering Spin's history of lazy fact-checking. The blurb mentions bands that have played Fling, including Run-DMC. Run-DMC has played at Penn twice, but in the fall as part of the regular concert bookings, not during Fling.

Eleven years ago Spin ran a tour diary of the Pixies opening for U2. The writer's dated entry for the Philly stop said that it was a Sunday and there was nothing to do. A quick check of a calendar would have revealed that the date in question was a Tuesday.

Maybe Spin's fact-checking is only lazy when it comes to Philadelphia.

I always thought Garbage was a rather generic band saved by a spectacularly charismatic frontwoman in Shirley Manson. My suspicion was backed by the ongoing indifference towards Fire Town, essentially a pre-Manson Garbage, whose CDs are now out of print. But I discovered that their style is just distinctive enough to be ripped off. I hate to begrudge a local band who has been working hard to build a following, but Kill Hannah's "Kennedy" is recycled Garbage, "Only Happy When It Rains" to be specific. Besides, Kill Hannah were already doomed when they chose the title since there's no way it could equal the Wedding Present song of the same name, although KH's lyrics do at least relate to the political family.

Ah, the internet, tool of the perpetually curious. After watching the VH1 doc on Warren Zevon, I started thinking about his ties to my hometown of Philly, in particular when he was engaged to local DJ Anita Gevinson.Philadelphia Weekly devoted a cover story to this last year.

http://www.brainsoap.com/archives/article.asp?ArtID=4694

If I get into full research mode, maybe I'll even track down an MP3 of his alternate version of "A Certain Girl" that he did as a promo for her radio station. The lyrics I remember:

There's a certain girl who's on vacation from 'YSP
What's here name?
Anita
Oy vey

By his doctor's best estimate, Warren Zevon's new album, The Wind, should have been a posthumous release. It comes out tomorrow, a year after he was diagnosed with inoperable cancer and given three months to live. If there's one good thing about the death sentence of terminal illness, it's that everyone gets their chance to say their good-byes rather than realizing until too late that they missed their opportunity. The Wind is Zevon's good-bye, but it was also the chance for his musicians friends to give him his due send-off. He was the rare acerbic talent to emerge from the hedonist L.A. singer/songwriter scene of the '70s, and many of his bigger-name acolytes joined him the studio to help out.

VH1's (Inside) Out documentary chronicles this past year in Zevon's life, including clips from his gallows-humor-heavy appearance on Letterman from last October.  It reruns on Tuesday, August 26 at 1:00 a.m. and 8:00 p.m. EDT.

Concert Recommendation: Jill Sobule, Abbey Pub, Sunday, August 24

To many, Jill Sobule is remembered as a one-hit wonder with a lesbian novelty song, 1995's "I Kissed a Girl." I had the good fortune of seeing Sobule for the first time mere hours before the video premiered on MTV; in introducing the song, she talked about working with Fabio and avoiding revealing the song's subject matter. It was a particularly fruitful opportunity because I was exposed to the breadth of her songwriting, not just her one popular song. Her characters include the popular high school classmate turned porn star, the anorexic workout-obsessed woman at the health club, an elderly acquaintance with a fascinating past and a deluded mind. With cheerful pop melodies, she mines the minutia of life:

One of these days and it'll be real soon
I'm gonna kick some ass
Gonna clean my room

Sobule has a new album out tomorrow, The Folk Years 2003-2003, available only at her shows and on her web site.

Glenn Tilbrook of Squeeze headlines the evening. He should be interesting, but it means enduring Jeffrey Gaines in the middle of the bill. Having suffered through too many his sets when living in Philly, I can only say Jeffrey Gaines, Our Loses.

Jill Sobule plays with Jeffrey Gaines and Glenn Tilbrook at the Abbey Pub, 3420 W. Grace, 773.478.4408, at 8 p.m. on Sunday, August 24.

Clearly it's meant to be be inflammatory and I don't necessarily agree with many of the selections, but it's funny and it thought-provoking.

One Hundred Albums You Should Remove from Your Collection Immediately

Get the hell back to Michigan!

Ted Nugent called Illinois residents "spineless, apathetic, embarrassing wimps" because we have elected officials in our representative government who passed legislation that he, a Detroit native, doesn't support. He was invited onto a radio show to discuss the Second Amendment, but he should have been busy praising the First Amendment, which guarantees the right of ignorant idiots to show off their ignorant idiocy. I have no problem with musicians or other celebrities voicing their political opinions any more than any other citizen, especially when their logic is so easily deflated.

Concert Review: Goose Island Fest, Friday, August 15

I should get this advice posted in time to prevent today's WXRT air personality from getting booed as Marty Lennartz was yesterday: Try for some honesty. Sample script:

Hi, I'm the guy from the radio station that's on the advertising for this concert. Although I may personally be a fan of these bands, we don't actually play them on our station for fear of alienating our target demographic and reducing advertising revenue. This means that I'm insulting the bands by trading on their credibility to promote our station without doing anything for them in return. Let's face it, any money we paid for sponsoring the show goes to the promoter, not the bands. And I'm insulting you, the audience, because I'm telling the thousands of you that are enthusiastic about these bands that your taste doesn't matter. So thank you for allowing me to indulge in hypocrisy. If you really want to hear these bands, you should listen to your local college radio station that plays them all the time but can't afford to be on the concert advertising because they can barely get enough donations to cover their operating budget.

But back to the show itself. Missed all but the end of Yakuza and wasn't upset that I didn't hear more of their noise.

The Waco Bros. are just a damn entertaining band. They're tight, they're spirited, and they have fun. I don't know what they put in the water in Leeds, but I admire the tenacity of natives such as Mekon/Pine Valley Cosmonaut/Waco Brother Jon Langford and David Gedge of the Wedding Present and Cinerama to keep crafting great music even after widespread commercial interest has waned.

Especially because I'm fed up with the indie rock aesthetic, I must point out that Bob Mould looked great. His t-shirt fit, and it didn't look like he slept in it, a criticism that could be lobbed a good chunk of any indie rock audience. Bob was also looking quite fit himself, his paunchy, flannel-shirted days a distant memory. The guy is quite a gifted songwriter, but his set lacked dynamic variation. Whether he was bashing away on his acoustic 12-string or an electric guitar, it all started to run together and it wasn't loud or precise enough. Wouldn't have minded hearing him with a full band, and I guess he's decided that Modulation, his venture into electronica, was a failed experiment.

This was the third time I've seen Guided by Voices. I fail to see what the big deal is.

Sonic Youth are forging a new genre: prog grunge. While I admire them for continuing to experiment well into their career, for following their own creative muse, the fact is that they were too short on songs and too heavy on wanking. It is far less precise and more visceral, less overintellectualized than King Crimson, but it was still wanking.

Despite my criticisms, at least it was a night of outdoor music that didn't entail a trip to the evil Tweeter Center. For this, I am thankful.

Today at the public library where I work, a young woman came up to me. She was wearing a t-shirt with a straight edge slogan on it, which would imply that she's somewhat of a rock music fan. She asked me if I knew what R.E.M. sounded like because she had only heard of them.

R.E.M. were a staple of my college years. College rock when we didn't have a good name for what came after punk. They earned their fan base with constant touring and college radio support when they were a little too weird for the commercial stations. A DJ on Princeton or Penn or Drexel's station referred to their fourth album as Stipe's Rich Parents, which was funny as a insider joke, that you knew the password, rather than for any real statement about the lead singer's family's financial status. The band whose only concession to mainstream sensibilities was that Michael Stipe stopped mumbling, although even that led to debates of whether they were selling out. A band so big with the youths that references to them were plot points in two episodes of Beverly Hills 90210. The American band of the '80s who are unequivocally headed for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

But she'd never heard them.

I am officially old.

It sounded like fun: the Human League at an outdoor street festival. Resurrecting fond memories of men in eyeliner, women in dark streaks of blush and the early days of MTV. With only a $5 suggested donation, it wasn't too guilty a guilty pleasure, and it also provided the chance to enjoy the summer weather a street fair. New wave nostalgia and fried Twinkies: how could it go wrong?

Egad! The idea was appealing to far too many people, and Northalsted Market Days was just a sea of humanity. It's one thing to enter a mosh pit and tacitly agree to be bumped into, but there was nowhere to avoid being constantly jostled. The massive quantities of flowing alcohol didn't help, but most of the problem was just the sheer volume of people. I came close to telling one guy who did some inappropriate touching as he pushed past me, "I don't care if you're gay. I don't want strangers grabbing my ass."

The unbearable crowds were unfortunate because the performance was showing promise. It was unnerving how much Philip Oakey sounds like Alison Moyet, but he, Susanne Sulley and Joanne Catherall were all in fine voice. "Mirror Man" and "The Lebanon" were the anticipated and necessary reminders that there was more to their career than "Don't You Want Me." But the sheer unpleasantness of being part of the audience made it impossible to stick around for their biggest hit.

One advantage of the $20 entry fee for the Goose Island Fest with Sonic Youth, Guided by Voices, Bob Mould, Yazuka and the Waco Brothers is that it should limit the crowd size. Here's hoping.

Concert Recommendation:  Por Vida, Thursday, July 31, Abbey Pub; Friday, August 1, Fitzgerald's

When Ben Vaughn more or less retired from touring to focus on film and television music, he noted that there's no pension plan for a touring musician. There's also health plan, a situation with unfortunately consequences for Alejandro Escovedo. The Texas singer/songwriter collapsed after a show in Phoenix on April 26, the result of complications from Hepatitis C. Escovedo has cirrhosis of the liver caused by the Hepatitis. And he has no health insurance.

Fortunately, he does have a lot of friends in the music community, who are staging benefits for him. Two such shows, under the moniker Por Vida, are in the Chicago area this week. The Chicago Tribune ran an article on the situation and concerts. Alejandrofund.com has more details on all the charitable efforts, including the means to donate if you can't make it to one of the shows.

POR VIDA: A festival to benefit and honor Alejandro Escovedo happens at the Abbey Pub, 3420 W. Grace, 773.478.4408, at 8 p.m. on Thursday, July  31 with Frank Orrall & Susan Voelz & Poi pals, Robbie Fulks, Frisbie, Jane Baxter Miller, Dollar Store, Nora O'Connor, Danny Black and Puerto Muerto; and at Fitzgerald's, 6615 Roosevelt Rd., Berwyn, 708.788.2118, at 8 p.m. on Friday, August 1 with the Waco Brothers, Sally Timms, Paul Burch, Nick Tremulis, Kelly Hogan, Mr. Rudy Day, Devil In A Woodpile, Deanna Varagona and Stolie, Scott, & Lee.

I haven't heard any reports about it, but I'm hoping that at the Dixie Chick's show tonight in Vegas Natalie Maines announced that Lance Armstrong makes her proud to be a Texan.

Concert Review: Fountains of Wayne with Ben Lee, Metro, July 17

I'm in love with "Stacy's Mom." The new Fountains of Wayne song opens with sharp exclamation points of sound, practically lifted from the Cars' "Just What I Needed." The new wave nod was appropriate given that the song, written from a high school boy's point of view, harked back to an era when "Stacy" was a popular name among teenage girls. And it could be about a subplot in Valley Girl, although in the movie, it was Suzi, not Stacey, whose mom was an object of adoration.

"Stacy's Mom" is the highlight of the new FOW album Welcome Interstate Managers, but it was just one of a myriad of perfect pop songs in their show at the Metro. Lead guitarist Jody Porter gives the songs just enough muscle to prevent pop from being a dirty word, merely kids' stuff. (As for my comments in my preview about FOW being unlike Lollapalooza white guy bands in that they aren't using their guitars to assert their manhood, Porter was approaching that line, which could be an issue for a guy named Jody. But he was more than counterbalanced by lead singer Chris Collingswood, who looks like he got beat up a lot in high school.) Their songs had the audience enthralled because they were meant for singing along, with lots of catchy choruses and harmonies.

For "Radiation Vibe," they went off onto a bunch of musical tangents, including the Cars (and I thank them for validating my continued love of their skinny tied tunes) and ZZ Top. When they branched to Boston's "More Than a Feeling" and much of the audience started singing the lyrics, Collingswood chastised them as losers for knowing the lyrics by heart.

As an epilogue to my comments on Ben Lee and Evan Dando, apparently Lee is doing his best to save Dando from obscurity. He played a song he wrote that appears on Dando's latest album. Lee was a giddily earnest performer, and his covers ranged from Cheap Trick to Smiths.

Concert Recommendation: Fountains of Wayne with Ben Lee, Thursday, July 17, Metro

The return of the Lollapalooza tour has generated little interest. According the Tribune, the Chicago-area stop only half-filled the Tweeter Center. While this could be chalked up to what a horrible venue the Tweeter Center is, with poorly-planned logistics and outrageously priced refreshments, it could be that the Gen X public has grown tired of the Lollapalooza formula. Even after a six-year gap, it's exactly the same: a token black act, a token female act, and a bunch of macho white guys trying to prove their manhood by waving their guitars around like dicks. It's not like there aren't alternatives to hard rock within the alternative genre, but Perry Farrell never bothered to seek out anything like jazz absurdists Soul Coughing, proudly nerdy They Might Be Giants or the totally fey Belle & Sebastian.

Case in point for a band comfortable enough with their masculinity that they can just get on with the business of writing damn catchy songs: Fountains of Wayne. They are clearly a pop band, not a rock band, because it's all about the hooks. Chris Collingwood and Adam Schlesinger write precise songs of being lovelorn and outcast in suburbia. And they don't milk the affectations like Weezer. They're coming to the Metro in support of their new album Welcome Interstate Managers.

Opening up is Ben Lee, who first made a name for himself in 1993 with his former band Noise Addict with the song "Wish I Was Him," expressing his (perhaps tongue-in-cheek) jealousy of Evan Dando. At the time, Dando was the premiere alt-rock pin-up boy, although he was overrated as both a musician and pin-up. Dando had a public off-and-on relationship with the equally overrated but even more irritating Juliana Hatfield, who also had a guest appearance on My So-Called Life. Lee has been involved with MSCL star Claire Danes for years, while Dando and Hatfield are so out of fashion that the press no longer care about their love lives. Between Lee's cute, talented girlfriend and the support slot for Fountains of Wayne, maybe it's time for Dando to pen a new version of "Wish I Was Him" about the song's original writer.

Fountains of Wayne and Ben Lee play the  Metro, 3730 N. Clark St., Chicago, on Thursday, July 17 at 9 p.m.

Shania Is a Punk Rocker?!

Q Magazine ran a story on the trend of pop stars "going rock," donning leather and such as either a fashion gimmick or an attempt to gain more credibility. It doesn't get any more laughable than the photo of Shania Twain in the Chicago Tribune ads for their ticket giveaway for her upcoming Grant Park concert. Along with her artfully torn jeans, she's wearing an artfully torn t-shirt. Just barely legible are a bat-wielding bald eagle and the names Johnny, Joey and Dee Dee. Yes, the semi-country pop star who lip synched at the Superbowl is wearing a Ramones t-shirt. As a credibility builder, it's a failure. Most of her fans won't recognize the logo, and anyone who recognizes the logo won't be fooled for a minute into thinking she knows "Teenage Lobotomy" from "I Wanna Be Sedated." Or "Blitzkrieg Bop" from "Anarchy in the UK," for that matter.

A mere listen to the background music at their respective web sites, http://ramones.com and http://shaniatwain.com, tells you all you really need to know about where Rocket to Russia fits into her record collection.

Concert Review: Elvis Costello and the Impostors, Taste of Chicago, Sunday, July 6

First, I must acknowledge the miracle that there was a very dry hour and a half for Elvis's set between torrential downpours for the outdoor concert. Second, I must acknowledge my mixed emotions about the free show. I would have rather paid $50 for an experience more like the show at the Chicago Theatre last October. Instead we got muddy sound, no direct view of the stage, a camera crew that wasn't aware that Steve Nieve was the second most interesting person on the stage, not bass player Davey Faragher (Although I did get to see enough of Nieve to guess that he did indeed really need to go to the bathroom during the show last fall; my other theory for his jittery mannerisms was that he found the best job for an ADD adult.) Even worse, the camera crew seemed to mistake the concert for a baseball game and thought that shots of the crowd could possibly be more interesting than the band. Because it was more of a general audience than one specifically of fans, they played more old songs and not enough material off last year's When I Was Cruel. The pointedly acerbic "Alibi" was the most frustrating omission. But the worst part of it was the lack of collective appreciation by the audience for the talent presented. Most people were there hanging out because it was a fun, free event, but they weren't paying attention. Songs such as "Pump It Up" and "Allison" were perfect for singing along, but it was like singing along to my Walkman, to music that only I was paying attention to since so many around me were engaged in other conversations.

But then there's the flip side, the fact that Elvis got to reach an audience that wouldn't have necessarily ponied up 50 bucks a head to see him. For one baby, Elmo and Elvis were all the same, as she played with and chewed on a Sesame Street book for much of the set. But at other times, her mom bounced her on her knee in time to the music, much to delight of mother and child.  A girl of about 7 danced in the uninhibited way that only little girls do, with an absolute purity to her joy. A rail thin teenage punk boy in an Exploited t-shirt perhaps came to appreciate that punk once had a much broader scope than just hardcore. So for the dedicated Elvis fans, it wasn't the best show, but it was definitely beneficial for the city of Chicago as a whole.

Concert Recommendation:  The Woggles, Subterranean, Sunday, June 29

One advantage of interviewing musicians I admire is that they tip me off to bands they like. I discovered the Poster Children after That Petrol Emotion's drummer recommended them. I went to see the Woggles after Palmyra Delran of the Friggs raved about them in an interview. The band work a similar vein of garage/frat rock as the Fleshtones, and like Peter Zaremba & Co. put on an amazingly crazed live show. It's pure entertainment with no advance knowledge of their songs required.

The Woggles play Subterranean, 2011 W. North Ave., Chicago, 773.278.6600 at with Mr. Airplane Man at 9:30 on Sunday, June 29.

When Mudhoney played the Metro in '99, I made a somewhat deliberate effort to dress like my early '90s self with the intent of braving the moshpit. I'd stopped moshing around '94 when moshpits became overrun with idiots. But the night of that concert it hit me that once I stopped moshing, I started dressing like a girl. I no longer had to dress for defense: no more leather jacket, Doc Marten's, pants with lots of pockets so I wouldn't have to carry a purse.

I had a sociology TA who posited that the social rules for moshing are just as detailed as those for waltzing. Unfortunately, some people at the Buzzcocks show last Friday at the Metro need a refresher course on the rules. Specifically, if you want to crash into other people, go to the  moshpit where, by implied collective contract, others have agreed to be crashed into. Do not be a moshpit unto yourself.

When I become Queen of the World, I will decree that no one can mosh unless their IQ exceeds their body weight. Until then, I'll stick to wearing miniskirts and open shoes and remaining on the fringes of the pit.

Concert Recommendation: The Fall, The Empty Bottle, June 28 and 29

The great thing about real rock and roll is its unpredictability. Big pop lip-synched productions may offer precision- timed choreography and costume changes, but you're going to get the same show every night of the tour. No highs. No lows. But the fun of a genuine rock concert is the gamble: how will the artist feed off the crowd, the venue, their own mood. The Fall have always been a gamble. With frontman Mark E. Smith's dentist's drill-like vocal punctuation and the band's throbbing rhythm, one can see why the Fall are a tough sell. (Someone joked that the Fall never sell any records in the U.S. because anyone who might buy one is already on a record label mailing list.) But when the cantankerous leader is having a good night, the Fall are the greatest band in the world at that moment.  On an off night, they are just dull.

That said, it's been a different kind of gamble with seeing the Fall lately. In just over a year, they have twice booked tours to include stops at the Empty Bottle only to have the tours canceled. There have been claims that they've finally worked out their visa problems (no doubt related to Smith having been charged with domestic assault in New York in 1998 after attacking his girlfriend and Fall keyboard player Julie Nagle). But I won't believe until I see them on stage.

The Fall play the Empty Bottle, 1035 N. Western Ave., Chicago, 7743.276.3600 on Saturday, June 28 and Sunday, June 29 at 10 p.m. with TV on the Radio.

Weekend Concert Round-Up

It was like Reading Festival 1990 revisited with the Buzzcocks, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds and David Gedge in Chicago this weekend. It's more of a coincidence since many other acts that played the three-day music festival in England have been in town recently or are on their way soon: The Cramps, Wire, the Fall. All we need now is a Pixies reunion, since I'm certainly not hoping to ever see Ned's Atomic Dustbin again.

Buzzcocks, Metro, June 20

I think one of the Ramones said that they didn't think they were doing anything unusual or revolutionary, they were just playing pop songs really fast. The description is even more apt for the Buzzcocks. Their fat-free set was full of sing-along choruses and giddy, revved-up pop songs. Original members Pete Shelley and Steve Diggle are looking a bit paunchy but are still adorable and had a relentless joie de vie throughout the performance.

Opening act Billy Talent was like a second-rate Fugazi tribute band with a pointlessly angry front man. A heckler called out, "Play a good song." They responded with a cover Fugazi's "Waiting Room," a more explicit nod to their most obvious influence. The heckler should have been more specific and requested that they play a good song well.

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, Chicago Theatre, June 21

Nick may be around the same age as the Buzzcocks, but he's as wiry as ever. He and the Bad Seeds delivered a set of intense drama. Highlights included "God is in the House," which sounded like the writings of Dr. Suess if he were southern preacher, and the escalated interpretation of "The Mercy Seat," which started slowly and quietly, creeping up to a frenzied crescendo. They closed with "Babe I'm on Fire," a song so long and densely verbose that he required one Paul (Pall?) Bearer to hold cue cards with the lyrics.

Cinerama, Abbey Pub, June 21

Sally Murrell, Cinerama's keyboard player and backing vocalist, no longer tours with the band. For a band founded on a more orchestral sound to differentiate them from David Gedge's old band the Wedding Present, they sound rather like the Wedding Present in concert, including David Gedge and Simon Cleave's blistering, furious twin guitar attack. They were road-testing new material but mainly focused on their (relatively) better known tunes, including "Superman" and "Quick, Before It Melts." Sally's absence and therefore the absence of her backing vocals could explain why they passed on "Wow," a stand-out song from Disco Volante, but they more than made up for it by resurrecting the Wedding Present song "Kennedy."

Early on, David informally polled the audience about whether they preferred the Abbey Pub or the Empty Bottle, where the band has played frequently in the past. He got a mixed response. Perhaps he should have asked further into the set. Unless one is in the rather limited sweet spot at the Abbey Pub, their sound system is muddy, but the Empty Bottle provides not only better viewing lines with a wider stage but livelier sound throughout the club.

WLUP, 97.9 FM has a billboard in River North that just says, "now MORE PETTY." Yes, there's a picture of Tom of Damn the Torpedoes fame, but didn't it occur to anyone that the phrase means that they are now more focused on unimportant matters?

Concert Recommendations: Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Chicago Theatre; Cinerama, Abbey Pub, Saturday, June 21

My interest in both these artists are the result of personal recommendations. I spent the summer of '88 in London with a boom box and very few cassettes. As a result, I relied heavily on the musical tastes of the strangers with whom I moved in. My roommate, also American, brought along a trove of Warren Zevon tapes. Another flatmate, a musician himself, was a huge fan of Nick Cave. When I returned to the States, I followed up on their musical interests and was turned into a fan of both myself. I was so enthralled by Nick Cave the first time I saw him that I considered driving from Philly to Washington to see the next show on the tour.

Cinerama also has a concerts-in-D.C. connection. In the fall of 1988, I drove down to D.C. to see the Godfathers, who didn't have a Philly show on that leg of their tour. While waiting in line for the last few tickets, I befriended a British guy who was a Congressional intern. He advocated checking out the Wedding Present. I figured anyone who was as into the Godfathers as I had reliable musical taste. So I went to see them when they came to the U.S. the following year. As with Nick Cave, I was immediately enthralled and have been a fan of head Weddo David Gedge ever since. Gedge put that band on hold in 1997 to form Cinerama.

Nick Cave in concert is the personification of intensity. He sings of intertwined love, pain and death as if he were experiencing their throes at that very instant. His world is a mythologized version of the American south as portrayed in traditional blues and folk song, gone through the filter of a reluctant founder of goth.

David Gedge is the consummate love song writer. With both the Buzzcocks-inspired Wedding Present and more melodic, orchestral Cinerama, he shows off an impressive ear for conversational lyrics and an ability to capture the precise emotions in romances, such as the instant of giving in to temptation or the moment of regret when discovering that a new lover has a boyfriend. Cinerama's recorded arrangements may fall near the edge of twee, but he still attempts to saw his guitar in half just with furious strumming in concert. More recent Cinerama tours have also included some Wedding Present selections.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds play the Chicago Theatre, 175 N. State St., Chicago, at 8 p.m. Cinerama plays the Abbey Pub, 3420 W. Grace, Chicago, 773.478.4408, with Parker and Lily and Head of Femur at 10 p.m. Both shows are Saturday, June 21.

Concert Recommendation: Buzzcocks, Friday, June 20, Metro

Wire are coming to Chicago for a couple shows next week. There has been much press hoopla over their reunion. Or maybe it's just a disproportionate share of hoopla from Greg Kot. On one hand, I can understand the excitement. The angular art punk they created with their 1977 debut Pink Flag turns up in lots of "best albums ever" lists. But an important, innovative band is not necessarily a great live band. The Fleshtones are not innovative and they haven't made massive contributions to rock's recorded output, but they are blast to witness in person. Wire, on the other hand, are boring in concert. With all the ink this reunion has been generating, I started to doubt that judgment. I saw them in 1988 and 1990. Maybe these weren't really representative years for their best work. But I mentioned this to a friend who saw them last year, and he confirmed that they are still dull. So I'll just fire up my copy of The Ideal Copy instead.

Which brings us to the Buzzcocks. Their jittery pop punk makes critics swoon just as much as Wire, in part because it portrays a vulnerability in contrast to the aggression of so much other punk. Their influence is heard among young bands who think Green Day invented punk. But, unlike Wire, they're a great live band. They once sang of nostalgia for an age yet to come. The age has come.

Buzzcocks play the Metro, 3730 N. Clark, Chicago, at 9 p.m. on Friday, June 20 with Billy Talent and Serial P.O.P.

Sad news for those in need of indie CDs, Ramones t-shirts or Smiths stickers or those who wish to avoid paying exorbitant service charges for advance sale concert tickets. The Clubhouse, the retail annex of the Metro, is closing June 28. The store, at 3728 N. Clark, Chicago, is having a going out of business sale. Not everything is reduced, but it will be your last chance to buy advance tickets for shows like the New Pornographers or Dismemberment Plan without the Ticketmaster clerks at Carson's giving you odd looks when you utter the band names.

Concert recommendation: Frisbie, Saturday, June 14 at Schuba's

As any fan of Tom Waits can tell you, a pretty voice is not a requirement for being a great rock vocalist. As any detractor of Mariah Carey can tell you, a pretty voice itself is no guarantee of music worth listening to. Frisbie have two fine vocalists in Steve and Liam. They create beautiful harmonies in power pop songs without trying to sound like the Beatles.

Frisbie finally have a second album out, period. The long delay since 2000's The Subversive Sounds of Love was caused by drummer and songwriter Zack Kantor's ongoing struggles with his mental health. New City has a piece on what they went through. The new album features only Steve, Liam and bass player Ed and was recorded live, but it's all Kantor's compositions. They'll be celebrating with an early show at Schuba's tomorrow night. The limited edition CD will be on sale at Saturday's show and at their web site beginning Tuesday, June 17.

Consider this an alternative or a prelude to the garage/mod musical events of Saturday night. The show is early enough to make it to other venues without missing even an opening act.

Frisbie plays Schuba's, 3159 N. Southport, Chicago, 773.525.2508 at 7 p.m. on Saturday, June 14.

In addition to (or conflict with, depending on how you look at it) the garage night on Saturday at the Double Door, ModChicago is running Our Way of Thinking 2: Love's Happening, a whole weekend of mod music, both live a DJed, as well as a scooter rally and Mod garage sale/record swap. Events start tonight at Delilah's, 2771 N. Lincoln Ave., Chicago, 773.472.2771.

Concert recommendation:  The Fleshtones and the Cynics, Double Door, Saturday, June 14

The press is all over the new kids in the garage. I have nothing against Detroit or Sweden and happen to think the Hives are damn fine band, but the tunnel vision of some music scribes means that they ignore real talent in the garage realm just because it doesn't fit the very tight definitions of what's the in thing. Case in point: the show this Saturday at the Double Door. Neither the Cynics nor the Fleshtones are cute skinny boys in their 20's, the kind that Winona Ryder clamors to date. They are from Pittsburgh and New York, respectively, not Detroit. Instead, they have been roaring since the second wave of garage rock in '80s and both bands are still going strong. But a recent Tribune article on the movement ignored them to tout, among others, the total Dullsville Paybacks just because they're from Detroit.

Two years ago the Fleshtones headlined a show with neo-garageniks the Insomiacs at the Empty Bottle. The youngsters may have had the spiffy haircuts and wardrobe, but they had no spirit, while the Fleshtones ignited the joint the moment they hit the stage, and the party never let up throughout their set. The Cynics give so much to rock and roll that lead singer Michael Kastelic ended up in the hospital for a week after falling from the stage and continuing to perform at a show in Spain earlier this year. Forget the Vines and go see the real deal.

The Fleshtones and the Cynics play the Double Door, 1572 N. Milwaukee Ave., Chicago, 773.489.3160 on Saturday, June 14 at 10 p.m.

Concert Recommendation:  The Clean, Saturday, June 7, the Vic

At this point, you can take headliners Yo La Tengo for granted. The Hoboken indie rock stalwarts are always touring. But the Clean is really big deal. Before the Datsuns and the D4 were trying to turn New Zealand into the next Detroit or Sweden buzz land of new garage rock, the Clean were the font from which all the jangly and fuzzy and melodic pop from New Zealand sprung. And they haven't toured the U.S. since, like, forever. Bass player Robert Scott, who went on form the Bats while continuing with occasional stints with the Clean, downplayed their significance when I interviewed him about 8 years ago, claiming that more bands branched off from the Chills just because they'd had more members in their ranks over the course of their history.

If you can't make the show, they have a new anthology out entitled Anthology.

The Clean open for Yo La Tengo at the Vic Theatre, 3145 N. Sheffield Ave., Chicago, 773.472.0449 at 7:30 p.m. on Saturday, June 7. The show was moved from the Riviera Theatre

Concert Recommendation:  Electric Six, Double Door, Friday, June 6

For some reason, I can't get my review of the Electric Six show in March at the Empty Bottle to actually appear on my blog. So I'll repeat what I said about them back then:

The most pleasant surprise of the evening was opening band Electric Six. The little press exposure they've gotten already feels like hype. Their semi-hit "Danger! High Voltage" shows high potential for annoyance value, with the lyric "Fire in the disco" being painful so soon after the Great White tragedy. If anything, that songs sells them short. They start from a base of garage, but bring in much more. Singer Dick Valentine recalls Sonics raspy vocalist Gerald Roslie. The throbbing, metallic tinge of the bass and rhythm guitar bring in hints of Gang of Four and Big Black. And somehow a guy with a geometric '80s 'do snuck in with the long-hairs and provides synth lines that match his haircut. Believe the hype on Electric Six, but don't be put off by their budding status as one-hit wonders.

In retrospect, perhaps I overestimated how much hype and one-hit-wonderdom is really generated by a few dozen spins on WLUW. On the other hand, the hyperbole-prone British music press like them, so there is hype-and-backlash potential. Regardless of the high or low hype level, the band is worth seeing, especially on 6/6, such an appropriate date.

The Electric Six play at the Double Door, 1572 N. Milwaukee Ave., Chicago, 773.489.3160 on Friday, June 6 at 10 p.m. with the Greenhornes and the Peelers.

I suspect that the tour name was the creation of a marketing department rather than the musicians themselves since neither mentions it on their web site, but Tori Amos and Ben Folds are hitting the road together on the Lottapianos Tour. It'll be like Elton John and Billy Joel but cool. Or Lollapalooza without the token treatment of women or the overly aggressive masculine music aimed at teenage boys insecure about their heterosexuality.

Concert Recommendation: Belmont-Sheffield Music Festival, May 31 and June 1, N. Sheffield from Belmont to Barry

As semi-free (there's a "suggested donation" at the gate) Chicago neighborhood street festivals goes, this one is offering unusually good music. Local power popsters OK Go, a reliably fun live act, go on at 9 p.m. tonight.  Tomorrow features sorta-new-wave-revivalists Enon at 7:45 and sorta-goth-revivalists Interpol at 9 (just late enough that they don't have to fear risking tans.)

Not all the acts are worthwhile. Today also features a tribute band and local singer/songwriter Ike Reilly. I heard an interview with Reilly on a local music radio show when his debut Salesmen and Racists was released. He gave a lengthy, portentous explanation of what one song was about, but the subject matter was not at all obvious from the song itself.  It was as if when he was writing the lyrics he made the mistaken assumption that everyone already knew what he was talking about.

Concert Recommendation:  The Cramps, Tuesday May 27,  House of Blues

Lux Interior has vomited on stage in the middle of concert and kept performing. Lux Interior has literally torn off all his clothes to end a concert. Even at a run-of-the-mill Cramps performance, Lux Interior streams off seemingly gallons of sweat. In other words, the guy is committed to putting on a great rock and roll show. Add to that Poison Ivy Rorschach's big rockabilly guitar and their odes to depravity, and you're looking at one hell of an entertaining evening. The highlight of the Cramps latest album, Fiends of Dope Island, is "Elvis Fucking Christ." The song is even better than the title.

The Cramps play the House of Blues, 329 N. Dearborn, Chicago, IL, 312.923.2000 at 8 p.m. on Tuesday, May 27 with Quinton & Miss Pussycat and the Phenoms.

Sprinter Mario Cipollini just earned his 42^nd stage win in the Giro d’Italia bike race, breaking Alfredo Binda’s 70-year-old record. The fast, flamboyant Cipollini has earned lots of nicknames through his career: Super Mario, inspired by the video game; the Lion King, based on his mane of blonde hair, although he’s keeping it shorter and less bleached these days. But my favorite was coined by commentator Bob Roll after one of Cipo’s numerous victories last season: Mar-I-O Speedwagon. REO Speedwagon may have committed many crimes against music, “Keep on Loving You” and “Can't Fight This Feeling” among the more heinous, but at least they inspired a good sports nickname.

Concert Recommendation: Ash, Tuesday, May 20, The Bottom Lounge

You can't blame Ash for not trying to break it big in the U.S. This is their fourth time to Chicago in less than a year. Their music has evolved beyond the Buzzcocks-meet-Dinosaur Jr. sound of their debut. Especially with the addition of second guitarist Charlotte Hatherley, they're a stronger live band, and they put together a glorious assortment of songs on Free All Angels, their most recent studio album. They've gone from flirting with greatness to dating greatness and are maybe even on their way to getting engaged and married to greatness.

Ash play the Bottom Lounge, 3206 N. Wilton Ave., Chicago, IL, 773.975.0505, at 7 p.m. on Tuesday, May 20. Circle & Square and McIntyre open.

I recently heard the originals of two different songs for which I'd only ever heard the cover versions. More to the point, they were cover versions that left me wondering why anyone had chosen to cover them. If "Last Kiss" isn't the worst song Pearl Jam ever recorded, it's certainly the worst that ever got radio airplay. I assumed that Jimmy Barnes was to blame for the INXS travesty "Good Times" since he was the unknown variable with that otherwise predictably great band.

In both cases, the originals sounded little like the versions I knew.  Frank J. Wilson's take on "Last Kiss" was clearly of its era. It's early '60s doo-wop and so clearly part of the teen tragedy subgenre of  that period it is the title track of a compilation of songs about dead young lovers. The subject was depressing, but the rendition was upbeat. In contrast, Pearl Jam's stab at it was maudlin and morose, which only pointed out the weaknesses in the songs lyrics. "Oh, where, oh, where can my baby be?" just doesn't cut it at a lethargic tempo.

INXS and Jimmy Barnes retained the Easybeats' revved-up pace on "Good Times," but like Pearl Jam's version of  "Last Kiss," the most notable thing was how inane the lyrics are. "We're gonna have a good time tonight/Rock and roll music's gonna play all night." Yeah, right. The '80s version from the Lost Boys soundtrack had big '80s production. But the original had big '60s production, which was an entirely different animal.

These examples pointed out the difference between a great record and a great song. After hearing the originals of "Last Kiss" and "Good Times," I could understand the appeal. But it both cases it was the total package that made them successful: the compositions themselves as well as the arrangements. What the cover artists failed to realize was that the songs wouldn't hold up with an overhauled production style.

Good news.  Pete Townshend has been cleared of child pornagraphy charges.

The idiot in front of me at the Ministry concert thought he was being really cool by pulling out his cell phone, presumably dialing up a friend and holding his cell phone in the air pointed towards the stage. Phones in general and cell phones well inside buildings are not known for their high fidelity sound transmission. I'm sure his buddy was thrilled to hear a bunch of indecipherable noise.

Here are some guidelines to keep in mind for cell phones and concerts.

1. At most concerts, it is too loud for you to hear the person you're calling or the recipient of the call to hear you.
2. If it is quiet enough for you to hear each other, then you are so loud that you are distracting the people trying to listen to the concert and you are disrupting the performance.

If either case, the solution is simple. Leave you cell phone off at concerts. If you have to make a call, go to the back of the venue, as far from the performance and attentive audience as possible. If you and your calls are so important, then you should have a silent vibrate mode on your phone. If it's really a matter of life of death, then you shouldn't be at the concert but should stay at home or your office where you can be more reached more reliably.

Some fans are suing Creed for putting on a bad concert. Caveat emptor. If they wanted a good concert, why did they pay to see Creed?

Concert Recommendation: Mike Doughty and Dan Wilson

There are pluses and minuses to Doughty touring solo. The old Soul Coughing songs miss something without Sebastian Steinberg's supple funk on upright bass, M'ark de Gli Antoni's unexpected samples or Doughty's shouting, "Yuval Gabay!" since the drummer isn't present. On the other hand, the spareness of just Doughty and his guitar makes it easier to decipher his absurdist lyrics. Also, he has always provided great between-song banter.

Opener Dan Wilson is worth catching in his own right. He has an angelic voice and has written some beautifully catchy songs with both Trip Shakespeare and Semisonic. Don't dismiss him as a one-hit wonder for "Closing Time."

Mike Doughty and Dan Wilson play Schuba's, 3159 N. Southport Ave., Chicago, IL, 773.525.2508, at 8 p.m. on Sunday, April 27 and 7 p.m. on Monday, April 28.

Concert Review: Ministry, Wednesday, April 22, The Vic

Asked in The Wild One what he was rebelling against, Marlon Brando replied "Whaddya got?" The same could be said of Al Jourgensen. He rebelled against the major label machinery that tried to turn him into Chicago's answer to British synth pop, complete with fake English accent. He rebelled against the Reagan/Bush era. Some of the results were glorious: Ministry's transformation to create loud, snarling, aggressive and inventive music. Okay, there was also that drug abuse. When I told several people about going to see Ministry, they shared the response, "They're still around?!" But with another Bush in the White House and another war with Iraq, Ministry has something to rebel against. Fortunately, now they're doing it just with the music, as Al has reportedly kicked drugs.

In their show at the Vic, Ministry created an impressive din. They had a pair of drummers and up to three guitars going at once. Songs like "N.W.O." showed that Limp Bizkit and their nu-metal ilk are petty whiners and wusses in comparison. On the other hand, large chunks of the show were just about the din without enough shape to the songs. One doesn't expect any open space in a Ministry composition, but at least "Stigmata" was punctuated with a distinctive guitar riff.

Paul Barker is still thin enough to go shirtless. On the other hand, with his added girth and impish dancing, Al looked like Silent Bob. He also looked joyous to be performing. When Chris Connelly joined them on stage to take over vocals, Al gave him several heartfelt hugs and used the break to repeatedly stage dive. Ministry make me proud to live in Chicago.

Madonna has a new album out today. To put it another way, today is the release date for a project designed by Madonna to maintain her fame, which really is the ultimate purpose of any of her "artistic" endeavors.

She's been around long enough that the sheer longevity of her career has given her artistic credence.  But most critics still fall for the style and ignore the shortage of substance. The woman didn't make a video in which she tossed a live hand grenade at a George W. Bush look-alike as any sort of political statement; she did it precisely so it would generate media attention. I guess she couldn't time another pregnancy to deliver a child near a release date the way she did with her first kid and Evita or the second one and Music. The music on her albums is barely memorable compared to her outrageous acts to promote them.

Since I was recently listening to one of these songs, I provide this High Fidelity-inspired list of:

Top 5 Songs to Listen to When Unexpectedly Laid Off

1. "Mr. Suit," New Bomb Turks. Their cover version is much more visceral than Wire's detached original.
2. "Hate The Police," Mudhoney
3. "You're Gonna Miss Me," 13th Floor Elevators
4. "Head Like a Hole," Nine Inch Nails. Really an all-purpose song about karmic vengeance.
5. "Birth School Work Death," The Godfathers

And Song 5.5, for after the initial shock has worn off and you've move on to bitter sarcasm: "Rainy Day Parade," Jill Sobule.

Concert Review: The Mooney Suzuki, The Realistics, Tuesday, April 15, Metro

The Mooney Suzuki may be the hardest working band in America. This was their third time through Chicago in less than a year. I generally scoff at bands that play Simon Says in encouraging the audience to clap along, but their drummer is so propulsive that it's impossible to ignore the directive. They were infectiously energetic. The set ended with the rhythm section carrying the guitarists on their shoulders through the crowd while they continued to play. It's refreshing to see a band earn their fans one at a time through such close contact with the audience rather than just spending shitloads of money for commercial radio airplay and image consultants to make them MTV-ready.

Speaking of MTV, I hadn't heard that they ran a contest to be the Mooney Suzuki's roadie, but the apparent winner was there. After setting up the stage, he changed out of his black Coney Island High t-shirt into band uniform, plain black button-down shirt, for the set. Besides the typical roadie job of scrambling around stage keeping microphones upright and wires untangled, he was also the band's biggest cheerleader. I have never seen a roadie so happy to have his perch at the side of the stage.

The Realistics also opened for the Mooney Suzuki last October. Had they opened for a less phenomenal live act, they would have been more memorable. It was like 1979 all over again, pulling in bits of Elvis Costello & the Attractions (although the keyboard player is less shpilkesy than Steve Nieve), the Cars and the Knack. Plus, they had good footwear.

A few Passsovers back, a Jewish publicist I've worked with found herself in London on tour with Napalm Death. They held a seder backstage before the show. She said it was quite the experience teaching Napalm Death to sing "Dayenu." I can only imagine what the contract rider looked like: beer, whiskey, beer, roasted lamb shank bone, beer, etc.

Concert Recommendation: Jurassic 5, Wednesday Apr. 16, House of Blues

Some call Jurassic 5 old school hip hop because they aren't gangsta rappers, which is ironic since gangsta is more than a decade old. They also aren't about the bling-bling. Rather, their music is more musical and their lyrics more verbosely eloquent than what's popular now, which might explain why "What's Golden" didn't explode despite being so damn catchy.

Jurassic 5 play the House of Blues, 329 N. Dearborn, Chicago, IL 60610, 312.923.2000 at 9 p.m., Wednesday April 16.

Concert Recommendation: The Mooney Suzuki, Tuesday Apr. 15, Metro

Like the Police, no one really sounds like the Who because they were too intense a melding of individual talents. The Mooney Suzuki sound more like the MC5, but at least they have some of the trappings of the Who: windmilling on guitar, skinny guy with a good rock star-size nose, power chords lifted from "I Can See for Miles." And at this point, the Mooney Suzuki, with no deceased members, puts on a better show than the Who.

The Mooney Suzuki play the Metro, 3730 N. Clark, Chicago, at 7 p.m., Tuesday April 15 with the Realistics, Loudermilk and Koufax.

Just released last week was From the Attic, the debut from Damone. The Boston-area band sounds like a young Letters to Cleo. They sound young because their lead singer is still in high school. They may sound like Letters to Cleo because From the Attic was mixed by Tom Lord-Alge, who handled similar duties to LTC. One can only hope Damone share LTC's pleasant demeanor; Kay Hanley and Michael Eisenstein were among the friendliest musicians I've ever interviewed.

Although the Metro billed them as "Ceasars," the band spelled their name on the their bass drum as "Cæsars," and their U.S. label spells it "Caesars." Whatever you want to call the band formerly known as Twelve Caesars, they are finally releasing their second U.S. album. 39 Minutes of Bliss (In An Otherwise Meaningless World) comes out April 22 on Astralwerks. And I can only guess that they changed their name because clubs feared they couldn't fit them all on stage; Ben Folds Five is still a manageable number of musicians, and 10,000 Maniacs is clearly an overstatement. But there are only five Caesars.

Concert Recommendation: Ceasars, Tuesday, Apr. 1, Metro

Ceasars, the band formerly known as Twelve Ceasars and the subject of my first blog entry, are opening for fellow Swedes the Soundtrack of Our Lives at the Metro. Appropriately enough, my friend Carla to whom I referred in that entry was the one who tipped me off about the name change and the support slot. Should be fun.

Ceasars are the second band on, between Palo Alto and the Soundtrack of Our Lives, at the Metro, 3730 N. Clark, Chicago, at 8 p.m.

I was listening the Little Steven's Underground Garage the other evening. You gotta love any DJ who would follow Dion singing "Donna the Prima Donna" with a song by the Donnas. The show is a fun mix of modern garage rock, obscure tracks by famous artists and songs that just don't get played on the radio very often any more. In other words, it is music selected by a person with eclectic taste, not by a market research consulting firm.

One regular feature of the show is the "coolest song in the world this week." Introducing a track by Finland's Flaming Sideburns, he commented that finding songs is easy nowadays but would have been difficult just two years ago, when it felt like rock was dead. The resurgence in good new rock bands hit me, but I felt the previous dearth on other ways. I spent several years lamenting my inability to find good young bands. Most concerts I was attending were by artists I'd been following for years. Even my newer discoveries were musicians around my age, like Moby and New Bomb Turks. So it's been refreshing in the last year or so to find great bands still in the throes of youth - the Hives, the Mooney Suzuki, Interpol. I'd been a fan of Ash since their 1995 debut but went about six years without hearing or seeing them; they bounced back with Free All Angels, and they're still in their mid-20s. The music industry may be struggling, but the young talent is still there.

Concert Review: BellRays, The D4, Electric Six, Empty Bottle, Friday March 28, Empty Bottle

It sunk in while watching the BellRays that it has been about three years since I saw them, and a lot can change in that time.  Previously, they were a garage soul band. But new lead guitarist and young Lee Marvin look alike Tony Fate is a Jimmy Page wannabe. While the concept of Led Zeppelin fronted by Tina Turner is good in theory, the songs were too amorphous, just jams and would-be guitar solos which overshadowed frontwoman Lisa Kekaula as she tried to get a lyric in edgewise.

The D4, like the Datsuns, do put a new spin on the stereotype of New Zealand rock, as obscure a stereotype as it is. I was screaming at the TV that they would allow such ignoramuses on Rock and Roll Jeopardy when none of the three contestants knew the Chills were from New Zealand. To me and other '80s/early '90s college radio aficionados, New Zealand rock is all about Flying Nun Records, about bands with no more than two degrees of separation from the Clean, melodic guitar pop like the Bats or the dense wall of sound of the Straitjacket Fits. The D4 may be on Flying Nun but sound little like their precursors. They were rather like Sweden's Hellacopters, incorporating elements of garage rock, early punk and early '70s Black Sabbath. Despite a pair of very energetic and very flashy guitarists, they had little new to offer musically. The individual songs weren't great, but they do show promise in that the weakest song in their set was a cover of Queen's "Radio Ga Ga."

The most pleasant surprise of the evening was opening band Electric Six. The little press exposure they've gotten already feels like hype. Their semi-hit "Danger! High Voltage" shows high potential for annoyance value, with the lyric "Fire in the disco" being painful so soon after the Great White tragedy. If anything, that songs sells them short. They start from a base of garage, but bring in much more. Singer Dick Valentine recalls Sonics raspy vocalist Gerald Roslie. The throbbing, metallic tinge of the bass and rhythm guitar bring in hints of Gang of Four and Big Black. And somehow a guy with a geometric '80s 'do snuck in with the long-hairs and provides synth lines that match his haircut. Believe the hype on Electric Six, but don't be put off by their budding status as one-hit wonders.

Concert Recommendation:  The BellRays, Friday Mar. 28, Empty Bottle

It's likely the BellRays will be overshadowed by their support acts. Electric Six have quite the buzz going over the disco parody "Danger!  High Voltage" which has all the makings of a novelty hit. New Zealanders the D4 are getting mentioned on commercial radio, surprising for any band playing the Empty Bottle, particularly in an opening slot. But those who stick around until the end of the night will be richly rewarded. Singer Lisa Kekaula is quite the presence to behold, like a spirited "Proud Mary"-era Tina Turner, fronting a soul-inflected garage rock band. "Stupid Fuckin' People" is a vital anthem for anyone who ever has to deal with, well, just read the song title."

The BellRays play the Empty Bottle, 1035 N. Western Ave., Chicago on Friday, March 28 at 10 p.m. with Electric Six and the D4.

Concert recommendation:  Atom and His Package, Fireside Bowl, Sun. Mar. 23

I have only heard one song by Atom and His Package. I have only heard it three times. But when it's as memorably funny and giddy a piece of synth punk as "I'm Downright Amazed At What I Can Destroy with Just a Hammer," I'm intrigued by the very thought of seeing him live.

Atom and His Package play the Fireside Bowl , 2646 W. Fullerton, Chicago on Sunday at 6 p.m. with Sole, Brazil and Grand Buffet.

Concert Recommendation:  Idlewild, Friday Mar. 21, Double Door

Scottish quintet Idlewild's album 100 Broken Windows and the accompanying tour were musical highlights of 2001. They've been compared to Nirvana, but they sound nothing like a Nickelback power ballad. Even the Nirvana reference falls short because their greatest strength is their two guitarists Rod Jones and Allan Stewart's. They switch from complexly interwoven harmony to a dense barrage of sound and back again, usually in the same song. And the band puts on an energetic show.

Idlewild will be opening for Pearl Jam in May and June, so see them now in front of a few hundred people rather than several thousand.

Idlewild play at the Double Door, 1572 N. Milwaukee, Chicago, IL, 773.489.3160 on Friday, March 21 at 10 p.m. with the French Kicks and .22.  

I've got Reagan/Bush the Elder-era punk lyrics on my mind.

By Lee Ving, as performed by Fear: "Let's have a war! Jack up the Dow Jones!"

By Billy Bragg, from "North Sea Bubble:" "War!  What is it good for.  It's good for business."

We need the return of political sarcasm, but political sarcasm from the past will do for now.

Concert Review: The Streets, Monday Mar. 17, Metro

The Streets' Chicago debut invited two questions: How well would the bed-sit hip-hop translate live? Would main Street Mike Skinner look like he sounded, like someone I could beat up? Based on his ongoing difficulty in popping a balloon by stomping on it, I'd say yes, I could take him on in a fight. But he brought along a whole band, so I'd be outnumbered. He was joined by a drummer, bass player, electronics guy (keyboards and whatnot) and another vocalist.

As for the first question, the answer is disappointing. Attending the sold-out show was better for hipster bragging rights than actual entertainment. Skinner name-checked Chicago so many times that he was clearly pandering to the locals. His only non-generic reference to the city was "We Become Heroes," his homage to Chicago house music. The band were clearly having fun, spraying beer and pouring beverages on one another, but such playfulness became even more filler. The show had no momentum. Still, "Let's Push Things Forward" was especially strong for segueing the syncopated beat into a few lines of the Specials' "Ghost Town."

Original Pirate Material is still a great album, but it's shame it wasn't matched by the live performance.

Tom Morello is my new favorite rock star. The music he's created isn't my favorite, but he's really everything I'd want in an idol. Maybe it's just that as a writer, I so appreciate the articulate speech he gave in honoring the Clash at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony, conveying not only the band's music and social impact on the world, but their musical and social impact on him. By comparison, Billy Joel often found it easiest to explain the wonders of the Righteous Brothers by singing, hard-pressed to find spoken words to communicate his emotions.

My main complaint with Gwen Stefani's speech is that for all her professed love of the band, it sounded like she discovered them with Synchronicity and never dug into their back catalog. I can't say she was obviously worthy of making the Police induction speech, but as the leader of the most enduring band of the third wave of ska, and one that expanded their musical boundaries beyond that same, repetitive syncopated beat, there wasn't an obviously more worthy choice. Any disappointment I have with her being less articulate than Tom Morello is offset by her willingness to show such an unflattering photo of her overweight teenage self getting an autograph from a disinterested Sting.

But I'm absolutely disgusted that they allowed John Mayer on the stage with the Police. He's this year's Jewel, utterly out of his league. Watching the broadcast, I thought it was Rob Thomas of Matchbox 20, which says it all about how hopelessly generic Mayer and Matchbox 20 are in both their appearance and their music. The Police were the antithesis of generic, a band of such singular musicianship that no one else is capable of sounding like them. Men at Work simplified the reggae influences, but it was never like the Rolling Stones formula where any garage band could pull off an adequate version. Twenty-five years from now, people will still extol the glories of the Police, and John Mayer will have been long forgotten.

Lots of people talk about the connections between music and fashion, but those connections are often tenuous. Spin regularly features fashion spreads, usually modeled by up-and-coming musicians who are so desperate for exposure they'll wear anything, and it's clear that the magazine only makes the effort so they can convince clothing companies to advertise. Fashion magazines invoke the "rock chick" aesthetic, blissfully unaware that stiletto sandals wouldn't cut it in a mosh pit or that Sheryl Crow's '70's California singer-songwriter motif isn't punk rock.

The Style Network just had an extreme example of one side not quite getting the other. In presenting designer Cynthia Steffe's fall 2003 show, they discussed the mod influences. Someone must have been aware of the basic tenet of writing to not reuse the same expression, so they clearly tried to come up with synonyms for "mod." Someone compared the looks to Quadrophenia. I'll give them credit for trying, although the women's fashion in that mod chronicle movie were indistinct compared to the men's, and Steffe's design details were more like what was seen on That Girl and The Avengers. Then fashion correspondent Lloyd Boston called the look "rockabilly." The guy may know fashion, but he couldn't wouldn't know Jerry Lee Lewis from the Who, the Stray Cats from the Jam, or maybe even a pompadour from bangs.

After watching the Behind the Music on Rick Springfield, it really sunk it that there's a huge difference between music that happens to find its biggest audience with teenage girls and music that is created specifically to appeal to teenage girls. Rio by Duran Duran and "Jessie's Girl" may be guilty pleasures, but they are pleasures nonetheless, while the works of Journey and New Kids on the Block are still painful.

Proving that Rick Springfield does have a sense of humor, he is embarking on his "1st Annual Farewell Tour." Tickets went on sale today for his June 14 appearances at the Navy Pier Skyline Stage. Can't say I plan to attend, but I do admire his wit.

Yesterday morning I read the Reuters news story on the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony. According to the report, the Clash presentation was made by Tom Morello, formerly of Rage Against the Madness [sic]. I wondered what sort of bozo they had covering the event who didn't even know the correct name of one of the biggest rock bands of the '90s. I checked the byline: Larry Fine. It wasn't a bozo; it was a Stooge.

The error was corrected by later in the day.

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony is tonight. Time to reflect on the inductees, the induction and the process as a whole.

The Ramones redistilled rock and roll to three chords and three-minute songs. The Sex Pistols were all about theatrics and staged outrage. But the Clash gave punk both the heart and the brains. They were politically and musically aware. Their music was visceral but lyrically substantive - it had a good beat and you could think to it. They stood up for social injustice in ways that many modern-day musicians won't out of fear of alienating their audience. And it'll be bittersweet to see them honored after Joe Strummer's death. At least, unlike the Ramones, it didn't take the sentimentality of someone's untimely death for them to get the nod.

Elvis Costello's even brainier than the Sex Pistols. I've already enthused about his career in Best of 2002 entry on December 20. What can you say about the man who has written the best pop song ever about senility, and that its popularity became an albatross?

The Police hold a unique place in music history as probably the only popular trio in which the guitarist was the least interesting member. Like Elvis Costello, like had a sharp lyricist in Sting. Like the Clash, they built their musical foundation on the brashness and exuberance of punk and the syncopated rhythms of reggae. But they moved beyond such basics, especially with the help of Stewart Copeland's complex drumming. No wonder guitarist Andy Summers was overshadowed.

I'll have to admit that I've come around somewhat on AC/DC. They were at their commercial peak when I was in high school, and they were among the groups banned from my car radio along with Ozzy Osbourne and Journey. About 20 years on, Journey still suck and Ozzy's entertainment value has very little to do with his music. And maybe AC/DC aren't so bad after all. They've been influential, and they're certainly better than the hair metal that arrived later in the '80s. I reviewed one of their concerts in 1990 as a favor to a friend, and they exceeded my low expectations.

The degree of commercial and musical impact comes into question with both the Righteous Brothers and others who have yet to make it past the nomination stage. The Righteous Brothers are well past their initial eligibility year of 25 years from the first recording. The fact that it took this long for them to be inducted shows the balance of factors needed to make the cut. The Righteous Brothers were very popular and very talented, but the never revolutionized rock, and they left no obvious wake of influence on later musicians. By contrast, the Stooges were revolutionary and had a massive impact on followers but were never popular, so they still haven't been tapped for induction. Looking down the line, does this mean that someone like Bon Jovi deserves recognition? They aren't revolutionary, but they are very popular. They were the biggest of the hair metal bands, clearly an inspiration for many others, but does that mean that they should be awarded for both creating crap and inspiring more of it?

There's also the question of who makes the presentations of the individual artists. Last year it made sense to have Anthony Kiedis and Eddie Vedder as presenters since they are likely to be inducted with their own bands eventually. But the Talking Heads' and Ramones' influence on the two musicians wasn't obvious until they made their heartfelt speeches. It is premature to call Alicia Keys a shoo-in for later induction, but her speech for Isaac Hayes showed that she grasped his musical and larger social impact and that his music is part of her life. Jakob Dylan has yet to match his father's talent, but his recalling his envy of Tom Petty's kids for having Tom as a father was a unique perspective. Then there was Jewel, a pleasant singer of little consequence who read her induction speech about Brenda Lee like a high school student who had just done her research the night before. I haven't heard who will be making the presentations tonight, but I can only hope they find people who are worthy and articulate.

The ceremony will air on VH-1 on Sunday, March 16 at 9 and 11 p.m. ET.

Last night, I attended a party for Chunklet at Quimby's. A copy of the latest issue, with the "Pay to Not Play" cover story, provided endless entertainment during the lulls between calls when I was volunteering at the WLUW pledge drive, and it didn't leave me feeling guilty the way the Double Stuff Oreos did. In the same spirit as the Well Hung at Dawn Column on RollingStone.com, the 'zine pokes fun at bands and makes jokes about semi-obscure music that are funny just for the obscurity of it. For example, a piece in Chunklet pondered which label was most likely to reissue Hunters & Collectors albums. I can think of maybe two people other than myself in the whole United States who even know of Hunters & Collectors well enough to care.

Issue 17 of the irregularly-produced Chunklet is available at Quimby's, from the Chunklet web site, or I suppose wherever else fine zines with irregular production schedules are sold.

If only it were true.

I recently received email with the subject line "Geek Music Library New Webpage." Suddenly my mind was swirling. Was it a library of music by geeks, a whole collection devoted to works by the likes of They Might Be Giants and the Talking Heads? Was it music about geeks, and I couldn't think of anything other than the Dr. Demento hit "Pencil Neck Geek"? Or was it simply a library for music geeks, people such as myself and those chronicled in High Fidelity who obsess over the minutia of music?

Sadly, it was none of those. It was just a typo in an announcement about a Greek music library. The email, from the library in Greece, had other misspellings, but I can't scoff because the writer's English is still far better than my Greek.

Today is my birthday, which gives me cause to reflect on happy musical memories of birthdays past.

1979 I get Cruisin' by the Village People, with the song "Y.M.C.A." as a bat mitzvah gift.
1982 I have recently broken up with my first boyfriend. I no longer pretend to be a Beatles fan to win him over. I have nothing against the Beatles, but there are lots of bands I'd rather listen to, like the Police.
1987 My alarm clock goes off and I hear "With or Without You," the first single off The Joshua Tree, for the first time.
1992 I interview David Gedge of the Wedding Present for the first time.  Later that day, at my request, my brother gives me the The Trouser Press Record Guide for my birthday. Little did I imagine that years later I'd be writing about David Gedge for another incarnation of Trouser Press.
1998 I see Fatboy Slim for the first time.
1999 I see Love and Rockets on what turns out to be their final tour the night before my birthday and write the review of the show on the day itself.
2002 My husband gets me Message in a Box, the Police box set, for my birthday. Scarily, I guess what it is from the shape of the package. Listening to it makes me feel 16 years old again for all the good reasons (see description of 1982 above.)

Alas, this isn't looking like a good year for forming new musical memories.

Concert Review: The Detroit Cobras and the Greenhornes, Friday Feb. 28, Double Door

The Greenhornes displayed why they have largely been just a footnote in all the neo-garage movement press. They lacked charisma. They lacked enthusiasm. Their best song was a cover I can't quick place although it sounds like it should have been a Nuggets track. The band is just a pastiche, an excuse for the stylized haircuts and retro typeface of their logo.

Fortunately, the Detroit Cobras had the spirit that the Greenhornes lacked. They looked like degenerates, and I mean that as a compliment. Throaty singer Rachel Nagy exhorted the audience to start dancing, but the rest of the band provided reason enough. As a cover band, albeit one that chooses obscure songs to cover, they will never change rock and roll. But if all the punk kids from all the high schools joined forces to hold their own prom, the Detroit Cobras would be the perfect band.

The most laughable consequence of the Nirvana revolution was the birth of the fake indie label. Eager to capitalize on Nirvana's success, the major record labels signed lots of independent label bands, causing some purists to lament the indie labels being used as farm teams. The majors bought ownership stakes in other indie labels, causing some purists to wonder whether, say, Sub Pop was still really an indie label if Warner Brothers controlled a big chunk of their stock. When there was nothing left to buy, some major labels resorting to manufacturing indie credibility by setting up new imprints that were designed to resemble indie labels. They used intentionally amateurish graphics and minimized to logos of the real corporate behemoths that were the ultimate owners.

The scheme fizzled. Anyone who really cared about indie cred, who had brand loyalty to SST or the indie ethos in general saw through such chicanery. Anyone who didn't care about indie cred didn't pay enough attention to labels to make the scheme worth the effort. The trend died long before the majors realized that Babes in Toyland and their ilk were never going to have multi-platinum albums and before the cool, marginal bands broke up or retreated to the indies.

I was reminded of this because I just received a mailing from one of the satellite radio companies. Rather like the products on the fake indie labels, it was too conspicuously devoid of corporate logos, too conspicuously "badly" printed to look like a zine on newsprint. The corporate behemoth was trying painfully hard to look like a renegade outsider while also, eventually, promoting that they have ESPN radio, i.e. part of the Disney empire.

I can see the value of satellite radio, rather like cable TV, in the ability to narrowcast. On a recent vacation, my parents really enjoyed the "best of Broadway" station on their rental car's satellite radio; it's a musical taste to which broadcast radio stations can't afford to cater. But the companies shouldn't try to imply their indie cred to the few people who are informed enough to know better. I'm guessing I'll still need to tune in to my favorite college station if I want to hear both Gang of Four and Radio 4.

Concert Recommendations for Friday, Feb. 28:
Detroit Cobras with the Greenhornes and the Drapes, 10 p.m., Double Door, 1572 N Milwaukee, Chicago, 773.489.3160
Ladytron with Simian and Out Hud, 10 p.m., Metro, 3730 N. Clark, Chicago, 773.549.0203

Friday is a good night for concerts in Chicago. The Detroit Cobras ply old soul covers but make them their own. Singer Rachel Nagy's presence comes across even in recording, and the rest of the band takes a garage/rockabilly approach rather than a strictly historical recreation. The Greenhornes are getting press as part of the neo-garage movement, which bodes well for the Double Door line-up.

Meanwhile, Ladytron are at the Metro doing vaguely kitschy synth pop, not until Stereo Total.

BTW, the Double Door does have a web site but I refuse to link to it in principle. The Metro site is annoying with its Flash splash page, but at least it doesn't force you to listen to music like the Double Door site does.

I didn't really go out of my way to watch the Grammy Awards, missing the first hour.  Particularly in the rock/pop realm, the Academy has too much of a tendency to reward what sells well over what has genuine artistic merit, then realize their errors by rewarding late-career works by artists who are past their creative peak, if they get around to it.

But especially after Ricky Martin's career-making performance 1999, it's been worth it if only for the occasionally inspired live act. If nothing else, this would seem to be the one television performance where the audience can be assured that no one will lip synch.

The Bee Gees were awarded for their best work back in the '70s; they got an uninspired live tribute. *N Sync sucked the soul out of the Bee Gee's blue eyed soul. The Clash never won a Grammy, so the Academy did their belated best to memorialize Joe Strummer. Well, not quite their best. Rather than recruiting the most appropriate musicians to play a tribute, they roped in the most appropriate musicians who were going to be at the show anyway. So rather than a real all-star tribute, you got two big stars, a guy in the same band as one of the stars but not quite a star in his own right, and a guy whose second-string band wouldn't get nearly as much attention if the lead singer hadn't been in one of rock's most important bands ever. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Elvis Costello, Bruce Springsteen, Little Steven and Dave Grohl.

On one hand, I really like urban documentary songwriting on the Streets' debut, Original Pirate Material. It's more hip-hop than punk, but the occasionally reggae-influenced beats suggest an update on Clash motifs. But it's really hard to take sole Street Mike Skinner's toughness seriously when he sounds like someone I could beat up.

I'll get the chance to size him up in person on Monday, March 17 at the Metro. Tickets go on sale this Saturday.

WZZN-FM 94.7's previous incarnation as "The Eighties Channel" reminded me of the stupidest public statements by radio executives. In touting the concept to the press, some high muckety muck from the station told a Chicago Tribune reporter that the '80s was the last time everybody listened to the same music. To avoid using a cruder expression such as, "He had his head up his own ass," I'll just say that the guy clearly had blinders on if he believes that. To put it one way, in the '80s I listened to Hüsker Dü, but I was subjected to Bryan Adams. To put it another way, I didn't hear Neil Diamond, the Chills or Dazz Band on "The Eighties Channel." There was a lot more to the music of that decade than what they played on that station, and the listen audience was already segmented back then.

But obliviousness about '80s radio doesn't just happen in hindsight. In 1989, the New Music Seminar was the most important event in the industry. A panel originally entitled "Does Radio Suck?" was renamed "Why Does Radio Suck?" because, as the moderator pointed out, otherwise everyone would answer the initial question "Yes," and we'd be done in five minutes. So in pondering why radio sucks, a high muckety muck from a Top 40 -- excuse me, Contemporary Hit Radio station bragged that only his format played new artists. Someone from Beggars Banquet quickly challenged this dubious claim, "thanking" him for playing the "new" band Love & Rockets since no one had ever played them before. At the time, L&R were enjoying their first mainstream success with "So Alive" after three albums worth of airplay on college radio.

Most recently, stupidity surfaced in Entertainment Weekly. In response to an article on satellite radio and particularly how it allows DJs more creative freedom than the tightly controlled, market research driven broadcast radio stations, Steve Smith, Production Director/Imagining Director of Clear Channel wrote in. "If you are actually looking for a station that will play Norah Jones, B-Tribe, Ned Otter, etc., then look for you closest college radio station. Give them a good listen. I guarantee you that after 30 minutes of pure hell, you will switch back to a Clear Channel station because we play the hits." Pure hell? Then why do I regularly leave my radio on WLUW, Loyala's station, and only listen to Clear Channel in my car with lots of presets so that I can get away from that "pure hell" after a song or two?

As long as radio is in the business of selling advertising rather than music, commercial radio will, on the whole, suck. It's laughable that radio executives try to pretend otherwise. I've certainly heard good songs on commercial stations, but that's just something squeezed in between the ads.

Concert review: Paul Weller, Saturday Feb. 15, The Vic

I gotta stop spending so much time reading British music magazines. In England, Paul Weller is a deity, and I was infected by the worship. I'd always liked the Jam and Style Council, but certainly never loved them. I got a promo copy of his 1995 solo album Stanley Road, and while I've enjoyed, it never took up semi-permanent residence in the CD player. But his new album Illumination and its first single "It's Written in the Stars" have been getting good press. So I went into the show hoping to be converted from someone who respected him to an actual fan. He certainly did his best, with an energized, enthusiastic performance. Despite his forgetting to remove his backstage pass, the guy still radiates coolness. But I was never transformed.

Still, I'm glad I gave it shot rather than going to see the Pretenders coast on their past glories yet again. And his cover of "What's Going On?" was especially timely and poignant, especially with the line, "War is not the answer."

Chicago's WZZN, 94.7, has gone through a circular evolution.  Initially they called themselves "the '80s station" but soon discovered that the format was a novelty that wore off quickly for listeners. So they became "The Zone." The implied pitch was, "We play alternative, but not that really noisy stuff they play on Q101." Then they gave up on that, and the only discernible difference was that the Zone actively courted a female audience while Q101 is indifferent to that half of the population.

And I thought they had happily carved out that niche until I was listening today. They claim it's "today's new music first," but it's really just a trip back to Altera-'80s. They played American Hi-Fi's "The Art of Losing" which lifts the drum pattern from the Adam Ant theme song "Antmusic" and quotes the chorus of "Kids in America." Next up was the guitar riff from the Cult's "Fire Woman." Yeah, it was part of some Foo Fighters song, but the back-to-back '80s references, coupled with their being the only commercial station to play Interpol suggests they are reverting to the original game plan.

Concert Recommendation: Apples in Stereo, Friday Feb. 14, Abbey Pub

As with last week's Luna shows, I'm halfhearted in touting this one. At least Luna had a history of greatness, but Apples in Stereo has a limited track record for me. I've only seen them once and found them disappointing, but it was also the same day I was turned down for a job I was really excited about, so their failure to move me may not have been their fault. In their favor: several great albums. Tone Soul Evolution was one of my favorite discs of 1997. I've only heard Discovery of a World Inside the Moone once or twice, but it continued their streak of wonderful indie pop. It's like '60s bubblegum music but with an air of sophistication.

So they're probably best avoided if you're really bummed about Valentine's Day, but worth a shot otherwise.

Alejandro Escovedo is also in town that night and is always mesmerizing, but both his shows at the Old Town School of Folk Music is already sold out.

Concert Review:  Luna, Thursday Feb. 6, Abbey Pub

Clearly Luna were having an off night when I saw them two years ago because they were back on form last night at the Abbey Pub. During "Friendly Advice," Dean Wareham and Sean Eden made a strong case for the electric guitar being the greatest invention of the 20th century.  "23 Minutes in Brussels" has to be the sexiest song ever to reference Belgium.

When I interviewed Palmyra Delran of the Friggs a few years ago, we talked about her Pink Slip Daddy bandmate Mick Cancer becoming so engrossed in performing that it was like he was off in another place. Luna went there and brought along passengers.

The same could not be said for openers Slumber Party. They generated some good fuzzy drone and droning fuzz with occasional Jesus & Mary Chain-worthy feedback, but they were lifeless. The drummer for the all-female quartet was especially Stepford Wife-like. Call me an old-school punk, but what you lack in technique you should make up for in passion. And the biggest shortcoming of the Pavement school of indie rock is too many bands with neither technique nor passion. My college art professor who used Brian Eno's "Needle in the Camel's Eye" to illustrate negative space also declared that there is a big difference between painting, writing or making music because it's a nice thing to do and needing to create. Slumber Party were playing because it was nice. Luna need to do it.

Luna play the Abbey Pub again tonight, but it is sold out.

I was reading a magazine recently with a photo of the White Stripes and was suddenly struck by how much Meg White and I look alike. I don't mean in the way that my friend with really long blonde hair who went to concerts frequented by Smashing Pumpkins fan was mistaken for D'Arcy in the early '90s; that was the product of a generic distinctive trait. No, in the sense that if I were to shun makeup, severely pluck my eyebrows and wear my hair in long pigtails (three things I am highly unlikely to do), I probably wouldn't even need to don the White Stripes team colors for hipsters to assume that I were she. Especially in England, I could really have lots of fun exploiting someone else's fame. Just think of the false rumors of celebrity sightings I could instigate. Or the free drinks I could score. Good thing I'm an ethical person. Or that I'm not willing to pluck my eyebrows that thin.

Or maybe it was just the camera angle in that particular photo.

Anyway, if there's a chance of being mistaken for a famous person, I could do far worse. She's not someone I aspire to emulate, but it's cooler than when someone repeatedly yelled "Spice Girls!" out a car window at me because of the dress I was wearing.

If you enjoy hearing music on the radio that they don't play on commercial radio, then please consider volunteering for the WLUW pledge drive from February 12 to 22.  If you don't have the time, then tune in during the pledge drive and donate money.

The only down side: you'll also be supporting having the wire service news read in a monotone and with numerous mispronunciations (my only pet peeve about the station). I haven't decided if that's better or worse than WNUR, the home of squawky saxophone music. Their phoneathon starts February 20.

The only good thing about the Columbia tragedy is that would-be space traveler Lance Bass wasn't aboard. It's not that I think he deserves to live more than the seven brave astronauts. But this way *N Sync can continue their gradual descent into obscurity unfettered rather than having their status propped up by martyrdom. Say what you will about the acting careers of various New Kids on the Block, but at least we no longer have to hear them sing.

Concert Recommendation:  Luna, Thursday Feb. 6 and Friday Feb. 7, Abbey Pub

Gotta admit I'm a little hesitant to give a full-on recommendation for this show. In the mid 90s, Luna had been a reliably mesmerizing live act, and their second album, 1994's Bewitched, is still quite bewitching. But the last time I saw them, about two years ago at the Double Door, they were just so-so. On the other hand, one of the members, most likely leader Dean Wareham, was suffering from the flu, so there's good reason to hope it was just an off night. Plus, at the February 2000 show, one member was wearing a Strokes t-shirt, the first I'd heard of that band; I'd noticed the graphic style and assumed it was some obscure '70s band, and then I heard both the hype and the hype-justifying music, so clearly the Luna folks have good taste beyond their obvious Velvet Underground influence. They also scored coolness points for not playing "Slash Your Tires," the closest thing they ever had to a hit record.