I know that the big music news tonight is the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductions, but I only just found out that Dave Blood of the Dead Milkmen committed suicide. The obituary from the Philadelphia Inquirer includes quotes from Howard Kramer, curator at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, formerly of the Milkmen's management firm and a really friendly, outgoing guy.

I think it was the summer of '85 when I got to meet Dave. Big Lizard in My Back Yard was a hit on college radio, which I had just discovered. My father's law firm, where I was working for the summer, was handling some copyright matters for the band. I was probably the only employee who was a fan, let alone had even heard of them. So I was awestruck to get introduced to the bass player during a meeting. Our brief conversation wasn't nearly as memorable as merely having the opportunity.

The Milkmen were indirect disciples of the Ramones. What they lacked in technical proficiency, they made up for in spirit. They rode the fine line between stupid and clever; although some would accuse them of being sophomoric, there was clearly a lot of intellegence behind their humor. And the band toured and played constantly. In the late '80s, they played their home town of Philly several times a year, and I rarely missed them. At one show, I was mashed upfront at the Chestnut Cabaret, the lip of the stage driving into my hips with every surge of the audience. At the time, I thought I might be destroying my ability to ever bear children, but I didn't care because I was having too much fun. I wish Dave could have maintained that sense of fun for himself instead of taking his life.

Concert Recommendation: Elvis Costello and Steve Nieve, Oriental Theatre, Tuesday, March 16

As I mentioned in my review of Elvis's show at the Taste of Chicago, as happy as I was to witness his free show attracting a broader demographic than would pay to see him, I missed a more concentrated affair. I prefer to be packed in closer who are there specifically to see him, rather than scattered across the lawn where his performance, for many, is merely incidental to drinking beer. Here's your chance to see one of our greatest songsmiths ply his wares in a more intimate setting than Grant Park. He is joined by Attraction/Distraction keyboardist Steve Nieve.

Elvis Costello and Steve Nieve play the Oriental Theatre, 24 W. Randolph St., Chicago at 8:00 p.m. on Tuesday, March 16. Tickets purchased for the postponed March 1 show will be honored.

Concert Review:  The Church, House of Blues Chicago, March 12

Marty Willson-Piper's looks may be starting to fade, but his status as underappreciated guitar god only grows. Your stereotypical guitar god is way too cerebral about his craft (and it is a wanky male trait), grimacing through the chords to show just how hard he's working to wrest those sounds from his instrument. But Marty's face conveyed only ecstasy, absolute joy in playing. When he hit his extended intro to "Tantalized," all the pain I'd been experiencing from too much time on my feet magically disappeared. His playing was transporting him to another reality, and he taking the audience as passengers along with him. As they wrapped up their performance and he broke yet another string, the roadies exchanged exasperated yet amused looks; clearly Marty breaks strings faster than they can replace them.

Oh, yeah, the rest of the band was good, too.

Concert Recommendation:  The Church, House of Blues, Friday, March 12

How great a live band are the Church? Great enough to make me reconsider my career plans. In October, 1998, I was fed up with the music industry. My love of music was embittered by trying to make a living with it, specifically in seeing too many stupid people success. So I was embarking on a new career by going to library school. But in the middle of an intensive weekend of grad school classes, I saw the Church. I'd seen them several times previously but not in about eight years. To use a bad pun, it was a religious experience, utterly transformative. I altered my job plans and became determined to incorporate music into my career in librarianship, which I have done successfully.

A year later, they were back in Chicago. Guitarist Marty Willson-Piper was once again absolutely on fire, but the band's performance as a whole didn't coalesce. A few days later, lead singer/bass player Steve Kilbey was busted in New York for buying heroin. Draw your own conclusions.

Best known for their 1988 hit "Under the Milky Way," that is hardly their best song or even the best song on Starfish, the album it came from. I'd have to go with "Reptile," which couples an original analogy with a sharper guitar lead. To resurrect one of my own better analogies, I'll copy what I wrote about the band in B-Side Magazine in 1990:

Gold Afternoon Fix is a walk across a velvet blanket spread over a bed of rounded stones. The surface is lush and inviting, but conceals a convoluted terrain underneath, unexpected but never too jagged. Dense and slightly impenetrable, the Church's music stands up to or requires repeated listening. No "I'm in love with her and I feel fine" simplicities here. Like mental New Year's Eve confetti, it soars immediately and ultimately finds its way into unlikely nooks in the mind; months later, those bits of pastel paper caught in one's shoe or pocket recall that blurry, forgotten celebration.

The Church play Sea Ray at the House of Blues, 329 N. Dearborn, Chicago, 312.923.2000 at 9 p.m. on Friday, March 12.

Concert Recommendation: Robert Randolph and the Family Band, Aragon Ballroom, Thursday, February 26

Talk about truth in advertising: Robert Randolph and Family Band's album Unclassified is on display in the Rock/Pop, Blues and Gospel sections at Tower Records.  If their full live show, admittedly only an opening slot for O.A.R., is anywhere near as smoking as their performance on the Grammy's, it'll be a great night of funk/jam band/blues/gospel/pedal steel music.

Robert Randolph and the Family Band play with O.A.R. and Toothpick at the Aragon Ballroom, 1106 W. Lawrence Ave., Chicago, 773-561-9500 at 6 p.m. on Thursday, February 26.

An open letter to Henry Rollins:

In your spoken word performance at Chicago's Congress Theatre on February 20, you lamented your inability to find a well-read woman in Los Angeles. I have a simple solution: get yourself to Seattle this week. The city will be overrun with well-read women as it hosts the Public Library Association national conference. I can't make promises on how many will be single and within your preferred demographic since it is an aging profession, but it is a group of thousands that will be dominated by well-read females.

You will also be hard-pressed to find anyone with Nickelback in her CD player. I'll go out on a limb and guess that most attendees will have never heard of the Canadian band featuring the guy with the tragic hair and the three other guys. And I'd like to think that those librarians who have heard Nickelback would agree that you were justified in rejecting a date for liking them.

You would probably find a lot of sympathy in your views on patriotism, that is doesn't mean blindly accepting the policies of the current regime. For librarians, this mean challenging the Patriot Act's potential for civil liberties abuses. But your definition is much catchier: the land of the free, the home of the brave, the country that gave the world the Ramones and P-Funk. Pick your favorite motto for getting people to vote: "Hey, Ho, Let's Go!" or "Shit, God Damn, Get off Your Ass and Jam!"

I'm holding off my essay extolling Prince's virtues until the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony. Until then, here's a piece on why we need him now, specifically because the music world has a split between serious artists and sexy musicians, that the two factions are mutually exclusive. Except for Prince.

Some random thoughts on the Grammys, both the awards themselves and telecast:

Funk ruled the night, starting with Prince's medley that reestablished his preeminence as both songwriter and performer, aided by Beyonce making like Tina Turner. The mid-evening funk jam showed off older and newer generations of funksters, even if Robert Randolph and the Family band's music sounds like it predates Earth, Wind & Fire's or George Clinton's. While most of the musical pairings looked designed to just showcase musicians from less mass media-friendly genres (Foo Fighters and Chick Corea - why?) the inspired teaming of Andre 3000 with a marching band meant that the bassline for "Hey Ya!" was played on sousaphone.

Samuel L. Jackson was also the only non-musician who justified his inclusion as a presenter. As with his appearance on other award shows, he is one of the few actors who clearly memorizes his speeches and imbues them with feeling. Based on his joining in the P-Funk jam, this wasn't just acting; he was clearly excited to be part of the music. He may have a new movie coming out, but he was the only actor who didn't look like he was just there to plug his latest project.

Why don't they create a category Best Late-Career Album by an Artist We Ignored in Their Creative and/or Commercial Heyday so that they can clear out dreck like the Eagles and leave room for artists who are currently doing quality work in the "real" categories.

The Beatles tribute was like last year's to Joe Strummer: musicians chosen because there were there already as nominees, not for any musical connection to the honoree. About all Dave Matthews has in common with the Beatles is that he probably smokes pot. About all Sting has in common with the Beatles is that, like Paul McCartney, he did his best work in a band with creative tension, and his solo work has been boring in comparison. Fortunately, the Warren Zevon tribute was done by people who worked with him and admired his music throughout his career.

And I'm disappointed that Fountains of Wayne was shut out, but perhaps they are destined to be forever on the verge of superstardom.

The rumors I reported on September 22, 2003 are true. The Pixies are reuniting, with a tour starting in April, specific dates yet to be announced. One hopes that the time apart and some rehearsals will make them as good a live band as they were on record.

Update on yesterday's post: Elvis' web site shows that his Chicago concert has been rescheduled to March 16, listed in the Appearances section ("Appearances" refers to public performances, not his "Oh no, my image!" exclamation when Homer Simpson destroyed his glasses at Rock 'N' Roll Fantasy Camp.)

Elvis Costello's concert in Chicago has been postponed, rescheduled from March 1 to March 16, since he will be attending the Academy Awards in support of his nomination for  "Scarlet Tide," the song he cowrote with T Bone Burnett for Cold Mountain. The news does not appear to have otherwise hit the web yet, but the folks from TicketMaster actually phoned people who bought tickets.

Just who invented punk rock? The Who often get credit for the anger, the Stooges for the rebellion, the Ramones for the brevity. But after listening to the Sickidz's Now and Then, it appears that credit should go to Mel Brooks for "Springtime for Hitler."

One night in 1990, I walked into the Khyber, then still officially known as the Khyber Pass, my favorite bar for seeing bands. Well, just my favorite bar since I've never seen the point of hanging out a bar that doesn't have live music. Anyway, I looked to my left and saw most obnoxious bully from my high school class. To my right was the guy who'd recently dumped me. An inauspicious start to the evening. But it improved. Alan Hewitt, of a bunch of different Philly bands, eventually and most famously of the Low Road, regaled me with the legend of the Sickidz. Mick Cancer, at that time a member of local favorites Pink Slip Daddy, got his start with Sickidz. Mick was a Philly writer who started touting Sickidz in whatever publication he worked for, raving about what great shows they put on, attracting the coolest crowds. Except that this was all a figment of his imagination. So he created the band to exploit the hype he'd generated. Eight years later, I was interviewing Palmyra Delran for a story on the Friggs for ROCKRGRL. She'd been in Pink Slip Daddy with Mick and confirmed that the legend was essentially true.

The Sickidz called it quits in 1984 but reformed in 2002, and last year released Now and Then, a collection of new recordings and live material from their original incarnation. It's got plenty of fire, drawing obvious influence from the Cramps but more garage-y and less rockabilly. Little Steven must not have a copy because, if he did, he'd be spinning it regularly on his radio show. It's a toss-up which song, or even which rendition, deserves to be named "Coolest Song in the World This Week."

"Mixing pop and politics/he asks me what the use is" - Billy Bragg
OR
Some things are better left unsaid.

I'm not sure it would swing my vote against him, but Democratic Presidential candidate Wesley Clark told the Associated Press that his favorite album is Journey's Greatest Hits. Politicians can be so cagey on important issues; wouldn't he have been better off not admitting that he has horrible taste in music, an unimportant issue?

Concert recommendation:  Steve & Liam of Frisbie, Double Door, Saturday, January 17

It's unfortunate to consider the musical careers that were derailed by substance abuse. The outright casualties are obvious, but there are also those for whom their addiction destroyed their creativity. One person to not add to that list is Evan Dando, who headlines at the Double Door tonight. His drug problems certainly derailed the momentum of his career as alt-rock pin-up boy, but he was never that great a musician or even that cute. It's unfortunate when anyone struggles with addiction, but it's not like the music world has been worse off without his high profile.

But there's still reason to hit the Double Door tonight: opening act Steve & Liam of Frisbee. Their latest CD period. shows that their beautiful harmonies and catchy pop are still enticing with acoustic backing, not just with a full band.

Evan Dando and Steve & Liam of Frisbie play the Double Door, 1572 N. Milwaukee, Chicago,  773.489.3160, at 10 p.m. tonight.

Concert Review:  David Bowie with Macy Gray, Rosemont Theater, Wednesday, January 14

It's astonishing that David Bowie has never considered live performance to be his strength since he is blessed with so much charisma. Besides showing off his stage presence in his show Wednesday at the Rosemont Theater, he also showed that he is one of very few rock stars who are still cool well into their 50's and that, unlike the Rolling Stones, he views touring as yet another opportunity for risk-taking, not just raking in the cash.

One downside of his making a specific effort to vary the set list each night of his three-date stop in Chicago is that he spent a great deal of time talking to the audience about each song; it came across as an attempt to remind himself and the rest of the band what they planned to play next. On the other had, they clearly put thought behind the arrangements, starting "Let's Dance" with a samba rhythm and "Heroes" with a raunchy guitar line.

He obviously couldn't do all his hits in a 2 1/4 hour set, but he chose from throughout his career, from "The Man Who Sold the World" through his excellent cover of the Pixies "Cactus" that highlights the song's sexual longing by bringing the vocals to the forefront. Plus he did lots of stuff from his latest disc Reality. Two timely selections were "Life on Mars" and "Ziggy Stardust," with enough mentions of the red planet to leave a NASA publicist giddy.

For Macy Gray, "neo-soul" hardly seems the right term.  Considering the sonic and visual references to P-Funk, the Jackson 5 and Morris Day & the Time she and her backing band made, neo-funk is much more apropos. The whole bunch of them looked like they were having a blast, and Gray really knew how to work the audience. It's unfortunate that the public hasn't embraced anything by her since "I Try," because she looks more likely to be written off as a one-hit wonder than  respected for the depth of her talent.

It wasn't just me who thought, while watching Iggy Pop's 2001 tour for Beat 'em Up, that he should get a better backing band, one that matched his magnetic stage presence and wasn't just a generic substitute for the Stooges. Iggy must have reach the same conclusion because the surviving original Stooges have reunited for several tracks on Skull Ring, his latest album. The CD opens with "Electric Chair," where Iggy and the Stooges come up with a song Iggy still might be performing in another five years, which unfortunately can't be said for many of his recent solo albums.

The rest of the albums tracks have varying success. Green Day continue their atonement for Dookie's fake British accents with their support on "Supermarket," carving their own distinctive sound while letting Iggy shine in his innate Iggy-ness. One "Private Hell," Green Day resurrect the staccato propulsion of "The Passenger." The same can't be said of Sum 41, who, on "Little Know It All" not only are generic in their own right but bury Iggy's baritone to the point that it isn't obviously him singing. With "Rock Show," co-vocalist Peaches continues to prove that she is utterly devoid of music ability and her only talent is shock value. When Iggy goes solo and acoustic on "Til Wrong Feels Right," he comes up with something that would fit onto the O Brother soundtrack except for being about the sorry state of radio and containing a profusion of obscenities.

Great music requires great musicians. But for great music to find an audience, it requires the hard work, often unnoticed, of others to connect the great musicians with the listening public. Unfortunately, it sometimes take death for such efforts to be recognized. I never heard of Rick Van Santen until seeing his obituary, but he was crucial to the L.A. concert scene as a promoter for punk shows that others were too wary or unimaginative to work on.

Back in 1986, I heard of Ruth Polsky when Rolling Stone ran an obituary for her. The irony was that, had she lived, I would have met her but never known that she embodied my career goal at the time. An American who loved British music, she booked the first U.S. tours for many English bands that would become quite influential. At the time of her death, I think in a car accident, she was scheduled to manage the New Order tour that was playing at my college and for which I worked backstage. In other words, I might have served her lasagna without knowing that she was my role model.

Looking back over my ticket stubs and blog entries, the best concerts of 2003:

Best weekend of music:  In just over 24 hours, Buzzcocks at the Metro, Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds at the Chicago Theatre, Cinerama at the Abbey Pub.

Best overdue comeback:  Forget the idea of a comeback as a return to prominence after dwindling popularity. The Fall made a welcome return for just showing up after numerous canceled tours. It took them a few songs to hit their stride, but when they find it, they are always the greatest band in the world at that moment.

Best double bill:  Highlights of the second wave of garage rock still going strong with the Cynics and the Fleshtones at the Double Door in June.

Best double appearances:  It's impossible to name only one best performance for Fountains of Wayne, who played the Metro in July and returned to the Vic in November. The same holds for the Mooney Suzuki's shows in April and July at the Metro and Double Door, respectively, although the earlier evening gets the slight edge for the worthy-in-their-own-right Realistics as the openers while the October support acts were far less memorable.

Just missed on best triple appearance:  Interpol hit Chicago three times for four shows in 2003. While their January and September concerts were mesmerizing, there were too many distractions, including the Q101 guy wearing nothing but a Q101 bumper sticker loincloth at the free outdoor Belmont-Sheffield Festival.

Doubt-destroying performances:  Ian McCulloch's solo work and a previous lackluster show by Luna when one member had the flu left we waivering over whether to bother seeing Echo & the Bunnymen or Luna again.  But their respective shows in October at the Metro and February at Abbey Pub sent shivers up my spine.

It's time to put to rest a misnomer: file sharing. To share means to take turns using a single item. What most people refer to as "file sharing" with music is file copying, not sharing. Some otherwise intelligent people have said that making illegal copies of music files is no different from what the public library does. No, it's entirely different. If a library wants to allow multiple simultaneous users of a work of intellectual property, be it a book or a CD, then the library buys enough copies to satisfy that simultaneous demand. But if they library only owns one copy of an item, then each person has to wait until someone else is finished with it before they can use Led Zeppelin's Complete Studio Recordings or Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code. And with each copy that the library buys, as with any other legitimate purchase, the creator of the work earns royalties for the intellectual property.

Others have argued that musicians should be happy about illegal file copying because it exposes their music to a wider potential audience. Such people are oblivious of the meaning of "copyright." The words are obvious: it means the right to copy. Joe Schmoe with his PC does not have the right to copy a recording unless Joe Schmoe created the recording to begin with or it falls under narrowly-defined exceptions under copyright law. It's true that many musicians have benefited from encouraging copying and recording of their music. The Grateful Dead allowed taping at their concert and copying of such recordings under the tacit agreement that the recordings are traded, not sold, so that the bootleggers aren't making a profit. Especially for bands that don't get much radio or MTV airplay, offering their songs for free online exposes their music to a new potential audience. But in both situation, it is up to the artist, not the listener, to decide which recordings and under what conditions music is free for the taking.

Some fans have used the dubious justification that illegal file copying is not only acceptable but even righteous because the music industry exploits the artist. No, the appropriate response to unconscionable business practice is a boycott, meaning that you don't buy or use their products. To take their products without buying them isn't a boycott, it's just theft. If you are really outraged by how the recording industry subjugates musicians, then lobby your legislators for government-mandated industry reform. It's a shame that Courtney Love's outlandish behavior has overshadowed and trivialized her efforts supporting changes in recording contract standards because she has a valid point regarding their unfairness relative to contracts in other creative arts.

If you think that recorded music should be free, ergo has no economic value, then make your own instead of copying someone else's work. Write your own songs, either perform everything yourself or recruit others to work with you, record it and listen to what you've created. First, see if you rack up any expenses in doing so. Then decide if you like what you've created so much that you don't need to listen to anything else, particularly the illegal copies of your favorite top-selling act.

Band name of the week and lyrics of the week both come courtesy of yesterday's Full on Friday Show with Nick Tristano on WLUW.

My favorite new band name: the Bloody Hollies. They play garage-inflected rockabilly in the vein of Reverend Horton Heat and the Cramps.  They are opening for Evil Beaver at the Empty Bottle next Saturday, December 27.

My favorite new lyric:

I used to want a girl
Who had a Ph.D.
Who looked just like a model
And never had to pee

Didn't catch the band name while I was driving, but it was from the Healthy Hair EP.

As if I didn't already love the comic strip Frazz enough for the title character's reading VeloNews and lauding Tyler Hamilton's performance in this year's Tour de France, today he was touting Fountains of Wayne.

Once you've sung enough choruses of "Over the River and Through the Woods" and have a hankering for some different Thanksgiving musical entertainment, WXRT, 93.1 FM in Chicago, is broadcasting a Radiohead concert from Earl's Court in London at 8 p.m. on Thursday. The only problem is that they are touting it on the air as a "Thanksgiving homecoming." Someone forgot to point out that Thanksgiving is an American holiday not celebrated in Great Britain.

Nelly Furtado has a new album, Folklore, and a new baby, daughter Nevis. Her label apparently only viewed the former as good news. According to an interview in Entertainment Weekly (November 21, 2003 issue, "Listen 2 This" supplement):

Last May, before she started to show, Furtado submitted to a marathon photo shoot (14 costume changes in two days), which generated enough images for a year's worth of promotion for her new album, Folklore. While that ploy (the preemptive thinking of DreamWorks, her record label) may have worked to disguise her expanding waistline, there's no covering up her musical growth.

Which invites the question: why was such "preemptive thinking" necessary? Why should a female musician have to hide her pregnancy? It's not like she's an actress playing the role of a non-pregnant woman. That she is not married to the father shouldn't matter considering that male musicians such as Mick Jagger, Steven Tyler and, most prolifically, Screamin' Jay Hawkins (said to have sired at least 57 offspring) have had children out of wedlock. If they were just doing as much work as possible in advance to allow her time off with the new baby, it shouldn't matter what state of pregnancy she was in when the photos were taken

Why not let a woman be a woman and acknowledge that pregnancy is part of womanhood at some point for most of the sex? Maybe all that was really needed was some cool maternity clothes; perhaps Kim Gordon, ultracool bass player, mother and occasional clothing designer can dream up some appropriately kick-ass duds.

I'm not particularly a fan of either, but I was astonished to learn that John Mellencamp didn't make the cut for the 2004 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame while Bob Seger did. Especially since dropping the name "Cougar," Mellencamp has earned a lot of respect as a Midwestern Bruce Springsteen, chronicling the woes of Heartland average Joes. I can't quite imagine any teenager ever dreaming of being the next John Mellencamp the way I could see Dylan as such an ideal, but Mellencamp has definitely carved a niche as a chart-topping artist with a unique vision.

The same can't be said for Seger, who is little more than an unusually popular hack. He's done nothing particularly original, and his most memorable hit, "Old Time Rock and Roll" is an anthem to stagnation. He may have sold lots more records than the Stooges, who were also passed over despite being nominated, but I have never heard anyone refer to an artist as the new Bob Seger. The Stooges were distinct and influential, two traits that could hardly be associated with the utterly generic Seger. Even Rod Stewart has a better raspy voice.

It will probably take the 25th anniversary of Scarecrow, when Mellencamp finally ditched "Cougar" from his moniker, to get him inducted. Unfortunately, as was the case with Joey Ramone, it will take the untimely death of Iggy Pop to get the Stooges in, and the Ig shows all signs of being a survivor.

Concert Recommendation:  Buzzcocks, Double Door, Friday, November 28

As the saying goes, timing is everything. For bands, this can mean the momentum of your set. I recently saw a young band who worked a funky, edgy Gang of Four groove, but they came to screeching halt after every song, taking far too long to get started again. It dragged down everything good thing they had going for them. No such problems with Buzzcocks, though. When they were at the Metro earlier this year, the hits just kept coming and coming. They gleefully went through their set at a breathless pace. For all the lovelorn and youthful angst portrayed in their songs, they were so damn happy to be playing them. They show no signs of subsiding.

Some people may rightfully be confused about when exactly this show is. Fliers hanging inside the Double Door list the show for tonight, November 21. I can understand that bookings change, but the Double Door staff didn't even have to leave the building to scribble corrections on the fliers. How lazy or apathetic are they? Or is it just a scheme to attract an audience for whatever less-known artist is actually playing tonight?

Buzzcocks play with Dummy at the Double Door, 1572 N. Milwaukee, Chicago,  773.489.3160, on at 10 p.m. on Friday, November 28.

Concert Review:  Fountains of Wayne, Caviar, The Vic Theatre, Wednesday, November 19

The problem with being really into a band's albums is that you lose track of which songs are really popular and which are merely your favorites. After numerous listens, "Little Red Light" has surpassed "Stacy's Mom" and "Bright Future in Sales" as the best song on Fountains of Wayne's Welcome Interstate Managers, at least in my mind. So it was beyond comprehension that they wouldn't play it. And I was hoping for "Laser Show," from Utopia Parkway, if only to find out if they'd update the lyrics to reflect the change in Metallica's line-up.

But enough griping. What they did play was great, non-stop insanely catchy pop. Considering that Fountains of Wayne sold out the Double Door between albums, it was astonishing that they didn't sell out the Vic now that they have a genuine MTV hit on their hands with "Stacy's Mom." The good news is that, based on how the singing audience nearly drowned out the acoustic "Hey Julie," their newfound mainstream success isn't likely to make them a one-hit wonder. "Survival Car" became more obviously a Manhattan-based take on a '60s California driving songs like the Beach Boys' "Little Deuce Coupe." "Radiation Vibe" continues to be their platform for musical references; this time they ventured into Foreigner, the Cars, and Steve Perry's solo hit "Oh Sherrie" that was saved from utter awfulness by their mashing it up with the White Stripes' "Seven Nation Army." They also hovered in the era when there were lots of Stacy-aged girls named Stacy with an E.L.O. cover, which they identified as such for the benefit of the youngsters in the audience.

Openers Caviar were also mining the musical past. One song began and ended with the guitarist singing through Peter Frampton-style vocal modification while the piano line from Little River Band's "Lady" played as an underlayer. They closed with several movements from the early Who mini-opera "A Quick One (While He's Away)." Their coolness in choosing such an obscure Who song was nearly obliterated by the guitarist's blatantly Townshendesque windmills.

Concert Recommendation: Fountains of Wayne, Vic Theatre, Wednesday, November 19

Fountains of Wayne write such hook-filled pop songs that it should be a guilty a pleasure. But for starters, there's Jody Porter, who gives their songs just enough guitar muscle to avoid the cloying coyness of bassist Adam Schlesinger's other band Ivy. But their real strength is in their lyrics. Songs like "Stacy's Mom" and "Fire Island" are written from the perspective of teenagers, but songwriters Schlesinger and Chris Collingwood are in their 30s and drop subtle hints at the delusion of that younger age. Choruses like the one from "Little Red Light:" "It's not right/it's not fair/I'm still a mess/and you still don't care" are like clichés in the making -- the words flow together so well it's astonishing no one has thought to assemble them previously like dance/chance/romance. Their concerts lend themselves to audience sing-alongs, and the band members have the self-deprecating sense of humor needed to survive when they look like they got beaten up, or at least teased, frequently in high school.

Fountains of Wayne play with Caviar at the Vic Theatre, 3145 N. Sheffield, Chicago, 773.472.0449 at 7:30 p.m. on Wednesday, November 19.

Concert recommendations: Kristin Hersh, Howe Gelb and Andrew Bird, Old Town School of Folk Music, Saturday, November 15; Steve Turner and Marc Olsen, Empty Bottle Sunday, November 16

It's "band members going solo" weekend in Chicago. Tonight at the Old Town School of Music, Andrew Bird appears without his Bowl of Fire, Howe Gelb appears without Giant Sand and Kristin Hersh appears without the Throwing Muses. Hersh has been doing solo shows for over a decade, and what she loses in not having the full band, she makes up for with great between-song banter. At one show, she talked about her difficulty in leaving her young son behind when touring; the crucial phrase of the anecdote was, "Big fat dog butt." Bird and Gelb worked with her on her latest album The Grotto.

Tomorrow at the Empty Bottle, Steve Turner leaves behind the Superfuzz and the Big Mufff of Mudhoney for a solo show. Don't expect acoustic renditions of "Touch Me I'm Sick," but it is an interesting turn for Turner. And Marc Olsen is the former guitarist for Seattle psychedelic goth outfit Sky Cries Mary, not be be confused with Victoria Williams' husband Mark Olsen, the former guitarist for alt-country outfit Jayhawks.

As for Gelb and his Giant Sand connection, it reminds me of the "Clown Without Pity" segment of the Simpsons "Treehouse of Horrors," when Homer buys a Krusty doll for Bart at the House of Evil.

The only time I saw Giant Sand, they were really boring.
That's bad.

Since they were so boring, I suggested to the guy I was talking to that we leave and get something to eat, leading to our dating off and on for six months.
That's good.

He turned to be a jerk.
That's bad.

His jerkiness made the next guy I dated, my future husband, look even better.
That's good.

So I have mixed feelings about Giant Sand, but at least they never tried to kill Homer Simpson.

Kristin Hersh, Howe Gelb and Andrew Bird play at the Old Town School of Folk Music, 4544 N. Lincoln Ave., 773.728.6000 at 7 p.m. on Saturday, November 15.  Steve Turner and Marc Olsen play with Matt Marque at the Empty Bottle, 1035 N. Western Ave., 773.276.3600 at 9:30 p.m. on Sunday, November 16.

Concert Recommendation: Firewater, Empty Bottle, Friday, November 7

Imagine the Pogues but with less alcohol cutting a wider swath across Europe. Firewater are less overtly folky and incorporate gypsy and Eastern European sounds into their rock, and frontman Tod A has a cigarette-burnished voice, less raspy than Tom Waits but more in control than Shane MacGowan.

Firewater play with TV on the Radio and Birdland at the Empty Bottle, 1035 N. Western Ave., Chicago, 773.276.3600 at 10 p.m. on Friday, November 7.

Concert Recommendation: David Mead, Schuba's, Friday, November 7

Not sure why Mead is touring now since he hasn't released an album since 2001's Mine and Yours. But it's a fine album. Unlike many singer/songwriters, Mead realizes that songs consist of more than just lyrics, and he crafts some catchy melodies to accompany his words. Or maybe all you need to know is that it was produced by Adam Schlesinger of Fountains of Wayne and bears an obvious stamp of the collaboration.

The other good thing about his playing Schuba's is that they've redesigned their web site, making it far less cumbersome.

David Mead plays with Mark Johnson at Schuba's, 3159 N. Southport, Chicago, 773.525.2508 at 7 p.m. on Friday, November 7.

I'm generally all for anyone taking their inspiration from Who lyrics. But why must the entire indie rock aesthetic be based on a pair of lines from "I'm One" on Quadrophenia?

Ill fit clothes
I blend in the crowd

The just-slept-in look is not only a cliché, but it is an utter lack of style. The only thing more tired than the trend of trucker hats is media references to the trend of trucker hats. One band looks exactly like another looks exactly like the audience, like they grabbed the clothes off the floor that smelled the least. Even the once-stylish Robert Plant fell prey to the anti-look on his last tour. The current perception of the punk look may have been distilled to the Sid Vicious/Johnny Thunders spiked hair/black leather jacket motif, but at least it was deliberate. And besides, the Ramones all had long hair, except C.J. who immediately grew out his military cut.

This was particularly obvious at Halloween. I attended a party where four people went as the different members of Kiss. With few other bands could outsiders figure out not only what group but what specific members each costume was. Just try dressing up at Pavement or Bright Eyes or Modest Mouse for Halloween. Even the most hardcore indie snob would have a hard time guessing you were in a costume, let alone which distinct band you were supposed to be.

Fortunately some new bands are making an effort to forge a unique image. The Hives and the White Stripes have color schemes. The Mooney Suzuki all don black but pay attention to details, such as the drummer's neckerchief. Interpol always look like they've gotten their hair cut within the last month, while most indie rockers barely look like they've gotten their hair washed within in the last  month. And older acts that are still strong musically are also still strong on the style front: the Fall's Mark E. Smith took the stage at the tiny Empty Bottle in a freshly-pressed shirt and well-cut trousers. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds all sported their unique take on haberdashery. And there's always the Echo & the Bunnymen option: keep the lights dim and swath the stage in so much fog that no one can quite tell what you're wearing anyway.

Concert Review: Echo & the Bunnymen, the Stills, Metro, Chicago, October 29

Consider the Who and Echo & the Bunnymen. Both lost their drummers to tragic, early deaths. Both continue to tour despite being down to just their original singers and lead guitarists and apparently past their creative prime. As their frontmen find diminishing interest in their solo careers, soldiering on with the band could be interpreted as desperate cash-in on nostalgia. The difference is that Echo & the Bunnymen still make their songs sound vital. Any doubts I had as to whether Ian McCulloch, Will Sergeant and the four new guys (bass, rhythm guitar, drums and keyboards) are still worth seeing were immediately replaced by the shivers up my spine.

The newer songs lack the jagged edges that  make their '80s output so much more intriguing, but they were mainly trotting out the old hits and the old obscurities. The tour is in celebration of the band's 25th reunion; in December, Rhino will be reissuing remastered versions of their first five albums. The ones with the memorable, moving songs. The ones before Pete de Freitas died and McCulloch embarked on a solo career. The good ones.

I've given up on their playing anything from the underrated Electrafixion, Sergeant and McCulloch's precursor to the Bunnymen reunion, and they passed on the driving "Do It Clean." But what they did include was inspired. "Crocodiles," "Rescue, "Lips Like Sugar," "The Killing Mind." One encore included a localized cover of  "Walk on the Wild Side," rhyming "Chicago" and "Metro." They closed with "Ocean Rain." McCulloch started with a nearly-whispered delivery, Sergeant eventually came in with a searing guitar line. By the time McCulloch finally went for the high notes at the song's close it was orgasmic.

One of the great mysteries in life, one which I have given up on every figuring out, is what the hell Ian McCulloch is saying between songs. I've been left befuddled at numerous venues with otherwise clear sound systems, so the problem has to be a semi-indecipherable Liverpudlian accent combined with a tendency to mumble except when singing.

As for opening act the Stills, they've been compared to the Chameleons and Echo & the Bunnymen, but I just kept wondering when Gay Dad changed their name.

Concert Recommendation: Echo & the Bunnymen, Metro, Wednesday, October 29

I have mixed feelings about recommending this show. On one hand, Echo & the Bunnymen have created the epitome of grandiose songs of yearning, and Ian McCulloch's soaring voice sends shivers up the spine. On the other hand, their albums since reforming in the late '90s have come nowhere near their prime '80s output, essentially watering down the brand name. If the Chameleons are Interpol with better vocals, Echo & the Bunnymen are Interpol with better lyrics. Come discover where the sharp haircuts got their start.

Echo & the Bunnymen play with the Stills at the Metro, 3730 N. Clark, Chicago, on Wednesday, October 29 at 8 p.m.

Concert Recommendation:  Mr. Scruff, Metro, Friday, October 24

In one of proudest moments in my career as a music librarian, I was able to answer the question, "What's that song that's used in the Lincoln Navigator commercials?" I had been exposed to the commercials, and therefore the song, innumerable times because Lincoln Navigator was a major sponsor of cycling coverage on OLN last year, and OLN provides lots of cycling coverage. I was already familiar with music of semi-obscure jazz musician Moondog, the fortuitous result of being on Atlantic Records' mailing list in the mid '90s. One Google search for "Lincoln Navigator Moondog" later, I discovered it was "Get a Move On" by Mr. Scruff, who will be hitting the Metro tomorrow night.

I subsequently found out about Music from TV Commercials, an index that answers many such questions.

Mr. Scruff plays with DJ Spinna the Metro, 3730 N. Clark, Chicago, on Friday, October 24 at 10 p.m.

Album Review: Joe Strummer & the Mescaleros Streetcore

This is more of a gut reaction since I haven't even listened all the way through twice yet. This posthumous release is unnerving in its ruminations and allusions to life and death considering Strummer's sudden, unexpected death last year. Eeriest of all is the closing track, "Silver and Gold," a renamed Fats Domino tune about kissing the girls, dancing every night and generally living life to fullest "before I grow too old."

Apart from the after-the-fact symbolism is the bigger issue that the album raises: why do you keep doing what you're doing? Athletes' bodies wear out, so they definitely reach a point where they can no longer match the top professionals in their field. With musicians, it's more vague: once you've reached a commercial and/or critical peak, is it possible to surpass or even match earlier successes? So why do you continue? Is it for the process or the outcome, the joy of the activity itself or the glory that results in terms of fame, money, acclaim and power? Cyclist Sean Yates was always happiest helping other teammates win races and was uncomfortable with the attention when he was in the lead; rather than retiring, he started racing on the masters' circuit just for the love of getting on a bike and going fast. And it's obvious from Streetcore that even if the Mescaleros were never going to be labeled "the only band that matters these days," former Clashman Strummer was recording and touring for the love of playing music. The album is joyous.

Especially in light of Elliott Smith's apparent suicide, Streetcore is a needed reminder of a musician ending his days doing something that made him really happy.

Concert Recommendation: The Strokes, Aragon, Sunday, October 19

The most important news item about this show is the venue and date change; it was originally scheduled for the UIC Pavilion for Saturday, October 18. The Jam Productions site has the updated information, but Metromix does not currently. Tickets for the UIC show will be honored at the general admission Aragon.

The second most important thing about this show is whether the Strokes can outlast the hype. The furor over this band was so strong that the backlash against them started against them before their debut album was even released, mainly in the form of resentment that they achieved too much too soon and the boys didn't come from dirt poor backgrounds. This Is It proved that the songwriting was sharp and their musical style drawing on many elements of New York '70s punk. But the main indictment I've heard of the petty jealousy of this band was in an article in Q. A music industry veteran in their camp observed that the Strokes are the only band he'd ever seen that practiced on their days off when they toured. Not only are they talented, but they are clearly working hard to achieve their moderate commercial success and enthusiastic reviews.

Get over your trauma and go see the band.

The Strokes play the Aragon, 1106 W. Lawrence Ave., Chicago, with the Kings of Leon and Regina Spektor at 7:30 p.m. on Sunday, October 19.

Movie Review: School of Rock

In School of Rock, Jack Black plays more or less the same character as the music-obsessed Barry, his role in High Fidelity. The main difference is that where Barry's taste in music was willfully obscure as a form of password to the indie-cred secret society, Dewey's interest is straight up rock and roll.  Belle and Sebastian never merit a mention, but neither do the Beatles, because they never rocked hard enough. The premise is that Dewey, hard up for cash, takes a gig as an elementary school substitute teacher, a position for which he is completely untrained. To beat the boredom, he teaches the 10-year-olds the only thing he knows: rock music. They hit all the key points: the Who, Led Zeppelin, the Clash, the Ramones, AC/DC, Yes, Rush, Kiss. The movie is hilarious not only for nailing obsessive rock fandom but also for Black's wonderful physical humor. The guy can do the wave with his eyebrows, for starters.

For some reason, my fellow audience members did not share my enthusiasm for the cameo by the Mooney Suzuki. They don't get to play or even speak, but of course they look cool. And they cowrote the movie's title song.  Maybe we'll see them perform on Oscar night. If nothing else, the kids in the School of Rock look like they could beat up those magic-endowed students at Hogwarts.

How boring were the Occasion opening for We Ragazzi last Saturday at the Empty Bottle? Their own bass player looked ready to fall asleep while he was playing. And the group included a woman with an overly difficult set-up for tape loops on an open reel player. It added little to the sound, so it looked like the complexity only existed to give her a hobby. Maybe they're unionized and it was a make-work scheme.

172 fans have filed suit against Limp Bizkit for playing a short set at a Chicago festival where they were ridiculed and booed off the stage. More notably, several thousand other people who attended the show were thankful for not having to endure more of that bonehead Fred Durst.

What a difference a www makes. http://www.spiritualized.com is the URL for Spiritualized, the feedback-heavy band led by Jason Pierce. http://spiritualized.com takes you to the Official Iron Maiden website, as does http://ironmaiden.com. Makes one wonder what other talented, relevant band name URLs Iron Maiden bought up in a lame attempt to attract attention to their untalented irrelevant selves.

For those whose tastes don't turn to disco chanteuse Goldfrapp at the Park West on Thursday night, consider the Ramones documentary Hey! Is Dee Dee Home? at the Siskel Film Center. Heck, since the film starts at 6:30 and is only 64 minutes long and the Goldfrapp show is at 7:30 with an opening act, you could probably do both. Those moved by my call for a Replacements reunion tour may be more interested in Come Feel Me Tremble, a doc about Paul Westerberg featuring lots of fan-shot footage. It airs September 28 and October 2.

In any case, it's safe to say that these movies will not be coming to a Blockbuster near you any time soon.

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.