Life in the Fast Lane

I got busted for speeding yesterday. I wish I could say the po-po nabbed me blazing 110 down I-275 (a la half-naked Danica Patrick over there, in town this weekend for the Grand Prix of St. Petersburg).

But the truth is that the boys in blue got me and my MAZD (the "A" fell off) going 46 in a 30 in my sleepy neighborhood. I was late for a meeting, warbling along to Tom Petty's Won't Back Down and two of the world's finest crimefighters pulled me over. They were peering into my backseat like I had the fugitive look, checking out the suspicious binkies and baby seat. Then they sat in their cruiser for 20 minutes, no doubt poring over my impressive criminal past. Then the ticket: $182.50 and three points! What a joke. Guess I gotta take some stupid online class.

Anyway, here's a playlist dedicated to the leadfoots of the world (and here's to Danica Patrick, too. She's only 3-foot-8, but she's a cute lil' speed racer). Feel free to add your own tunes...

Fast as You -- Dwight Yoakam
Go Faster -- Black Crowes
East Bound and Down -- Jerry Reed
Camaro -- Kings of Leon
Theme From Magnum P.I. -- Mike Post
Turbo Lover -- Judas Priest
Hands on the Wheel -- Willie Nelson
Highway Patrolman -- Johnny Cash
Wreck on the Highway -- Bruce Springsteen
I Drove All Night -- Cyndi Lauper
I Play Chicken With the Train -- Cowboy Troy
Let Me Ride -- Dr. Dre
Mess Around -- Ray Charles

Rough Draft: Kings of Leon Review

Praise the Lord and pass the tequila! Here's a rough draft of my Kings of Leon review. Their new album and my story both come out next Tuesday.

Meet the Followill boys: three Southern sons of a Pentecostal preacher. As impressionable kids, they used to pack up with pop and go off saving souls in the family sedan. As restless men, they opted for sin over salvation, calling up guitarist cousin Matthew Followill and starting a Scripture-thwarting band.

Since their 2003 debut, and after opening for U2 and Pearl Jam, the Kings of Leon have been hailed as the future of rock ’n’ roll, and hoo boy has this Southern Gothic quartet embraced both the musical and hedonistic requirements of said designation. First album Youth and Young Manhood was all about danger, debauchery and breaking the old man’s holy heart. Imagine William Faulkner as a member of KISS, and you’ll get the wild ’n’ wooly picture.

2005 followup Aha Shake Heartbreak — which was more like Led Zeppelin covers The Devil Went Down to Georgia — was their “hangover” album, all parts incredulous headaches and foggy memories of mayhem.

On new disc Because of the Times, the Followill imagine trying to go straight, raising a family, getting good with God. Not so much quitting the bottle as tucking it away for special occasions. That’s easier said than done, of course, and the result is a hypnotically pounding album with sharp turns, sweeping vistas, seductive femmes fatales and late-night pleas to the Almighty.

On the first two albums, lead singer and songwriter Caleb Followill slurred most of his lyrics, a Nashville ne’er-do-well speaking in strange tongues. It was mesmerizing, spooky even. On the group’s third try, he’s still howling and crying, but he’s also enunciating more of his lyrics, as if the theme of sobriety is as literal as it is figuarative. The band still wanders down lots of of abstract, prog-rocky paths, but that said, this is still their most accessible album yet.

“I don’t care what nobody says we’re gonna have a baby”: That’s the first line of opening song Knocked Up, a seven-minute fever dream about a young punk trying to outrun his past and settle down. The song is as smooth as a new highway — and then as jarring on a head-on collision. Over steady guitar strums and a faraway ghostly holler, Caleb tries to sound cool, doing his best croaky Tom Petty impression. But as the song slow-burns to a crescendo, there’s a scary edge in his voice, too, as if being good is too much to bear. When Matthew, Jared and Nathan barge in with an angry scrum of guitar, bass and drum — all coated in thin layers of rural grit — you just know the song’s protagonist is about to do some very bad things........

(AND SO ON AND ON. Check out Tuesday's paper for the rest...)

Questions for Kenny Loggins?

Stuck in the '80s host Steve Spears and I will be chatting up Kenny Loggins today for a future podcast dedicated the '70s and '80s pop prince.

As far as I'm concerned, if you hear I'm Alright, one of the great Zen statements in rock history, first thing in the morning, you'll have a kick-ass day.

So let's hear 'em: QUESTIONS FOR KENNY LOGGINS?

Revenge of the Poodle Hawk

Chaos is about to reign on American Idol. But first, a few words about Sanjaya, who now has tweens, teens and anarchists on his side.

Sanjaya is smarter than you think. He's definitely smarter than Gwen Stefani. He also might be a little nasty, too. Some say he's a victim, a pawn in game of life. I say Sanjaya is like Keyser Soze. Beware.

As most of America now knows, on last night's Idol, devoted to the songs and influences of No Doubt, the manipulatively hirsute "singer" looked like he was trying out for a high school version of Mad Max. He didn't even bother singing No Doubt's Bathwater, instead letting his locks do the work for him. His appeal has always been that of a 9-year-old girl gripping her hair brush and singing in front of the mirror. But last night, he was almost spiteful, almost eeeevilll, daring you to vote him off, a 13-year-old who hates her parents and is contemplating a tongue ring. Gwen Stefani thought he was doomed, but Simon Cowell was smarter, noting that it doesn't matter what the judges say.

Sanjaya isn't going anywhere. (Chris Richardson, the weakest of the pasty white guys, is doomed, although Chris Sligh's Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic was abominable.) Heck, he might make the Top 4. He's already made the Top 10, which means he gets to tour with his Idol pals at the end of the season. I'm telling you right now: There will be more Sanjaya fans in stadiums across the country than Melinda or Lakisha fans. This is all good news for Idol. Don't believe the crap about the show's integrity being tainted. It's all about buzz. It's all about viewership.

Haley Scarnato, who looks like a 1920s pinup in GAMS magazine, is also safe. Which means very soon, legit talent will start getting axed. Some people are saying that won't happen, that Idol normalcy will soon take over. I don't know about that. This year's different. It is. Sanjaya is wicked. So is Haley. I can see them cackling in a shadowy hotel room, hatching their evil plot, making fun of Phil Stacey, and doing each other's hair. Chaos, I tell you. Chaos. 

Hurricane Mix: NEED HELP!

Hey Gang: I've been asked to put together a playlist for the start of hurricane season. So let's hear some chatter out there. Don't think preparedness so much -- think hunkering down, mixing rum drinks and cranking thematic, possibly ironic party tunes until the weather passes.

Here's what I have so far:

Summer Wind -- Frank Sinatra
Tryin' to Reason With the Hurricane Season -- Jimmy Buffett
Bring Tha Noize -- Anthrax & Public Enemy
Shaking the Tree -- Peter Gabriel
All Things Must Pass -- George Harrison
Brick House -- the Commodores

What's In Sean's Mailbox: You Better You Blech

The Who show was a helluva lot of fun last night, but it would have been more fun had the woman next to me not consistently spat in my face for the duration of Eminence Front ("It's a pfffft on!"). She just wouldn't shut up -- "How old are you? 21? 22? I grew up with the Who? My boys!!!!" -- and her drunken verbosity came with thick, sloppy spittle. I mean, really, couldn't she tell by the way I kept wiping my face off that her "f"s and "p"s were extra juicy? Yes, I have a great job, but at least once a show, some Bud-swilling yabbo sees my press credentials and starts spouting off. Towel, please.

On a much less moist matter, here's the discs I just pulled out of my mailbox. It's a pretty good haul for a sleepy Monday. I'll be reviewing that Kings of Leon next Tuesday (I can tell you now that it kicks butt).

Kings of Leon -- Because of the Times
Modest Mouse -- We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank
Soular -- Love Crash Heal
Good Charlotte -- Good Morning Revival
Martina McBride -- Waking Up Laughing
Son Volt -- The Search
Chuck Brown -- We're About the Business
Pink Martini -- Hey Eugene!
Megadeth -- United Abominations

Sanjaya's Sister!

Just found out that future American Idol champ Sanjaya Malakar's sister worked at Hooters. Why wasn't I notified of this sooner? Shamal Malakar was an early plotline on this season's show. Bro made it to Hollywood; sis went back to the orange hot pants.

Shamal is free to work where she wants. That said, I hate Hooters. The Forever Fiancee always gives me crap about that, saying I merely don't like the food (which is true). She says that, in actuality, I'm a great fan of the theory behind Hooters. That crazy FF, always busting my chops.

Besides those crappy wings, my big problem with Hooters are those ridiculous pantyhose the servers have to wear, like dollar-store scuba suits. It's totally unappetizing. And I'm not sure I see the health benefits of keeping their legs covered, but it's okay to allow their shellacked hair to swing all over my two-dozen nuclear wings.

By the way, I totally endorse Wing House.

Amy & Lily: So Bad, So Good

It would take a brave man to date Brit brats Amy Winehouse and Lily Allen. But it would take an even braver man to dump either of them. These pop newcomers don’t wallow in heartbreak. Nope, do them wrong, and they’ll melodiously de-pants you, turning your anatomical shortcomings into killer hooks while the rest of us hit the dance floor.

Potty-mouthed, vindictive and tons of nasty fun, Winehouse and Allen are already stars in the U.K., as much for their late-night shenanigans and dating habits as their delicious new albums. It seems every other London tabloid leads with either “Amy Winehouse passed out at...” or “Lily Allen tried to karate-kick the paparazzi at...”

But comparing these boozy birds to our own tabloid trainwrecks is a mistake. Lily and Amy are more akin to golden-age rockers, like Mick and Keith, hearty partiers who have the singing-songwriting chops to make their vices seem almost charming.

With a double-take voice that’s a little Billie Holiday, a little Ronnie Spector, Winehouse is a beehived, tattooed 23-year-old who loves ’60s girl groups, hip-hop beats and intoxicants, all of which she indulges in on sophomore disc Back to Black.

On her debut, Alright, Still..., the 21-year-old Allen is a smarty-pants rich kid with a thing for island riddims, boy-bashing lyrics and a “mockney” accent that gives edge to her tipsy Dusty Springfield impression.

Both budding stars get help from producer Mark Ronson, who displays a deft feel for throwback detail and ear-candy lushness. In fact, these albums sound so timeless, it’s easy to overlook the frisky lyrics. But soon enough, you’ll hear Winehouse trying to hide her “carpet burns,” or Allen’s riding her bike “cause the filth took away my license,” and you realize there’s something else going on here.

Winehouse’s first single, Rehab, is a soul-kissed marvel. Backed by ringing chimes and a chunky Motown groove, the woman the tabs call Wino (or Amy Alehouse) sings: “They tried to make me go to rehab, I said no, no, no.” In an age when everyone’s off getting clean, Winehouse thumbs her nose at taking the cure: “There’s nothing you can teach me, that I can’t learn from Mr. Hathaway,” a romantic reference to soul king Donny.

After that aggressive start, Winehouse, who wrote most of the album, slows things down, preferring to croon her malaise and mischief over a soft, cocktail party vibe. If you want to slow dance to it, great. If you want to smoke and drink and streak the neighborhood, that’ll work, too.

Whereas Winehouse’s sound originates from ’50s and ’60s R&B, Allen prefers Mod melodies with Latin rhythms and a splash of Mexicali horns. It’s the perfect framework for her, a modern girl with a hedonistic Swinging ’60s bent. First single Smile has an innocent reggae bounce and breezy la-la-la’s, but listen to the lyrics and the song turns comically sinister: “At first when I see you cry, yeah it makes me smile.”

Because of her puckish songwriting skills and good-time chronicles, Allen has a better shot at scoring hits with young audiences. At one point she even dedicates a fantastic Big Top vamp to her stoner brother Alfie. But for all the silliness, you can’t overlook her smarts. Everything’s Just Wonderful is a Burt Bacharach-meets-Herb Alpert frenzy, with sterile ba-ba-ba harmonies and spacey keyboard cool. Allen doesn’t want the hassle of being the voice of her generation, but she knows her lack of responsibility isn’t doing anyone any good: “We’re on all fours, crawling on our knees, someone help us please.”

It’s a startling moment of self-awareness — even if the next song is a below-the-belt ex-boyfriend slam called Not Big.

Loving the Almost-In-Law

The Forever Fiancee and I have been together for almost 14 years now. And during that time, my relationship with her mother, the Almost-in-Law, has varied from supremely shaky (she once demanded I scavenge a cat-urine-soaked chair out of a neighbor's trash) to downright motherly (she indulges my craving for coconut monkeys).

However, I'm happy to report that we've now reached a glorious new high. Yesterday, the Almost-In-Law sent me a well-packaged box of vinyl, 20 albums from the good ol' days. Some were hers (Loggins & Messina) and some were the FF's (Duran Duran's Carnival, a Japanese import). Kid Lulu and I immediately fired up the Victrola, dancing around to DD's Girls on Film and .38 Special's Hold on Loosely.

We had a blast, of course. And I got a kick out of Lulu studying the album art, much of which, as you can see here, is ridiculously sublime. I especially like the cover of Billy Squier's The Tale of the Tape, in which the '80s rocker looks like he's trying to seduce whomever destroyed his collection of vintage porn.

My daughter and I also enjoyed the liner notes for the Berlin album. The Forever Fiancee, presumably as a preteen, had underlined in blue ink the name of her future husband: bassist John Crawford. I was wicked jealous and immediately feathered my toupee.

So thanks for the swell gift, Almost-in-Law.

And if you send 20 more, I'll totally forgive you for the La-Z-Boy drenched in cat pee.

Coachella or Bust

It's killing me that I'm not going to Coachella this year. Held on an 80-acre polo field just outside Palm Springs, the SoCal festival is an annual event featuring hundreds of the hottest up-and-comers, buzz bands and half-naked drunk pretty people spread out over eight stages and tents. It's not a hippie thing -- it's a hipster thing. Everyone is properly shaved.

A few years ago, I covered Coachella as the pop music critic for the Washington Post. Just before I flew out, I was notified that my tenure at the Post was coming to an end -- not shitcanned so much as just not invited back. I was a new dad, a new homeowner and I was about to be newly jobless. I was majorly effed. As the lil' La Bamba plane herky-jerked into Palm Springs' one-strip airport, I was screwed either way: plane crash or unemployment.

But I wound up having a helluva time covering Coachella, seeing M.I.A. and Wilco and Coldplay during the day, and communing with Bob Hope's skull at the Agua Caliente Casino during the night. In fact, I liked the palm trees so damn much, I moved to FLA.

So it'd be nice to go back to Coachella as a fully employed reporter. But maybe next year. Anyway, with eight shows often going on at once at the festival, you have to make some tough choices. Bjork, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Rage Against the Machine are the headliners, but I couldn't care less about them. So here are the bands I would have seen had I taken the perilous plane ride to Palm Springs this year. Usually a two-day event, this year is three: April 27-April 29. It's $250 for three days. If you have the freedom and the cash to make the trip, get your ass out there. It's a great time.

DAY 1: APRIL 27
Jesus and Mary Chain
Arctic Monkeys
Peaches
Rufus Wainwright
Stephen Marley
Amy Winehouse

DAY 2: APRIL 28
Arcade Fire
The Decemberists
The Good, the Bad and the Queen
Travis
Kings of Leon
LCD Soundsystem
The Black Keys
Ghostface Killah
Fountains of Wayne
The Fratellis

DAY 3: APRIL 29
Air
Willie Nelson
Crowded House
Kaiser Chiefs
Damien Rice
The Roots
Lily Allen
Lupe Fiasco
Mika

The Fratellis: "Costello Music"

I really need a drink...

The Fratellis
Album: Costello Music (Cherrytree/Interscope)
In stores: Now
Why we care: Along with buzz bands the Gorillaz and the Caesars, Scottish pop-punk trio the Fratellis busted out of obscurity thanks to their presence on a too-cool iPod commercial. That featured cut, rowdy pub howler Flathead, is no doubt gamboling in your brain this very moment. Sip a little single malt and that sucker will pop right out.
Why we like it: Jon, Barry and Mince Fratelli aren’t really brothers, and they aren’t really named Fratelli. So there’s a Ramones thing going on here in more ways than one: three faux sibs thrashing about with a sneaky sense of melody and beer on their high-tops. The energy and the accents are infectious, and there’s just enough brains in the bottom of the glass to keep you coming back.
Reminds us of: Happy hour (so listen responsibly).
Download these: Flathead, Chelsea Dagger and Got Ma Nuts From a Hippy
Grade: B+

Get Your Irish Up!

Finding it very hard to do work right now. I should be writing up reviews of Amy Winehouse and Lily Allen + an accompanying feature on why some Brit stars make it stateside (Coldplay, Radiohead) and some don't (Robbie Williams, Cliff Richard).

But because of my heritage, I'm instead looking up pictures of terrifying leprechauns (anybody remember Darby O'Gill and the Little People? Chilling...).

Tomorrow I'll be hitting the Rays-Indians spring training game, then going to a much-too-long St. Patty's party, another Saturday lost to my vices. I'd enjoy myself much more this weekend if I got actual work done today, but screw it. I'm much rather go thru my CD stacks and pretend to look busy.

By the way, if you want some fun party music for this weekend, try out the Fratelli's Costello Music, featuring the sloppy pub-pop hit Flathead.

Now drink up, have fun and walk your ass home!

Questions for Chris Daughtry?

If all goes well, I'll be chatting up Chris Daughtry on March 26. This would be a pretty good get -- especially considering the fallout after the EW article, which he reportedly wasn't too happy about.

So let's hear 'em: Questions for Chris Daughtry?

You had some good ones for Pete Townshend, which I wound up incorporating into my interview.

By the way, bonus points for Chris questions that have nothing to do with Idol...

I've Got a Feeling...

Any mopey, dopey Brit-pop fans out there? Here's some new music for you... (When you're done reading, click here for sound clips.)

The Feeling
Album: Twelve Stops and Home (Cherrytree)
In stores: Now
Why we care: Just when you thought Brit-pop (Coldplay, Doves, Travis) was losing its charm, those melodious mopes evolve in a natural direction: ’70s soft rock. Bloody brilliant! This quintet from Sussex and London channel the sound of SoCal pop circa the Carter administration.
Why we like it: The jaunty piano and guitar hooks might as well come with sideburns and sunburn. Lead singer Dan Gillespie Sells has memorized the phrasing of every America album — and is not ashamed to sing like he’s courting Sister Golden Hair. The band runs out of ideas on the disc's back end, but this is a swell start.
Reminds us of: Coldplay meets Pure Prairie League.
Download these: Never Be Lonely and Love It When You Call
Grade: B+

What? No Who? Here’s why

As if fighting Father Time isn’t hard enough for aging rockers, another nasty foe felled British legends the Who at Ford Amphitheatre Tuesday: bronchitis.

After less than a minute of the opening song I Can’t Explain, guitarist Pete Townshend waved off the band, the group fell silent and ailing singer Roger Daltrey, 63, promptly walked off the stage.

After a few minutes of discussion in the shadows — and with the crowd of 9,000 murmuring restrained dissent — Townshend returned to the stage and cancelled the show.

This was the first show the Who have cancelled like this in 40 years, according to Simon Townshend, Pete’s brother, who also plays in the band.

"I just talked to Roger and he can barely speak," 61-year-old Pete Townshend told the crowd. "I tried to get him to come out here, but he’s really, really sick."

Townshend said the cause was "bronchitis," although band officials did not confirm Daltrey’s malady.

Perhaps calming the masses, Townshend quickly announced that the show has been rescheduled for March 25 at Ford Amphitheatre. Tuesday’s tickets will be honored for that show. Refunds also will be available at point of purchase. Refunds will be granted until March 25.

As fans of the band wandered out of the venue, there were scattered boos and dejected harrumphs, but for the most part, the crowd was collectively understanding.

"Twenty five years ago, we would have had a riot," said Joe Backes, 45, a big Who fan from Spring Hill. "We’re older and more mellow now."

Formed 40-plus years ago, the Who, along with the Rolling Stones and the Beatles, helped spearhead the industry-shaking British Invasion. Ironically, as the band tried to play I Can’t Explain on Tuesday night, black-and-white images of the boys in their 1965 salad days flashed on a video screen behind them.

Go figure: The Who famously sang about hoping to "die before I get old." They never said anything about hoping for bronchitis.

Idol Breakdown: The Top 12

By Sean Daly and Sharon Fink, Times Staff Writers
Designed by Josh Engleman
There is no better couch potato sport than American Idol. But this year the singers have all the charisma of your basic Idaho russet. So today we handicap the field and rate each hopeful’s appeal on the Spud-o-Meter. Instant mashed, start packing. Loaded, you are so in. Get ready for hot spud-on-spud action!

 

What's In Sean's Mailbox: The Fat Saint

This month marks the 10th anniversary of the unsolved shooting death of the Notorious B.I.G., who has since become a faded saint on tribute T-shirts. Much will be written about conspiracies and violence and squandered talent and West Coast-East Coast rivalries. But for me, the most notable thing about Biggie, and what is rarely mentioned, is the most obvious: He was really, really large. As a fellow corpulent young man, I was always impressed by Christopher Wallace's prowess with the ladies. Sure, he was a talented millionaire on MTV. But he was also grossly obese (with mythic scales tipping at 400 lbs.). And yet, the babes still flocked to him: Lil' Kim, Faith Evans, a bevy of video hotties.

If that's shallow of me, so be it. But while the fat pop star is a rarity (Meat Loaf, the Fat Boys, Mama Cass), the fat pop star with legitimate sex appeal and menace is an anomaly. R.I.P. Biggie. Thanks for giving the rest of us chunky-but-funkies hope and dreams.

Herewith, the contents of my work mailbox...

The Notorious B.I.G. -- Greatest Hits
The Fratellis -- Costello Music
James Morrison -- Undiscovered
Aqualung -- Memory Man
Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, Ray Price -- Last of the Breed
The Innocence Mission -- We Walked in Song
Girl Authority -- Road Trip 

Genesis: Overrated/Underrated?

Genesis, the post-Peter Gabriel prog-pop trio, recently announced a reunion tour. I'm digging that idea. Back in my youth, I was a pretty big fan of Phil Collins, Mike Rutherford and Tony Banks; I must have played the Abacab album on my sh---y 1979 Toyota Tercel tape player 200 times. (Oh yeah, I was a total babe magnet.)

I was never into The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway version of Genesis; nor did I follow the trio into their I Can't Dance phase, which was damning to their legacy. But there's some great stuff in the middle, especially 1983's self-titled album, which had Mama, Home by the Sea, the incredibly rockin' Just a Job to Do and Illegal Alien (come on, you know you love Illegal Alien). That output was highly UNDERRATED, I say. The band takes hits for Phil Collins' descent into wussydom, I think. They get slapped with a soulless, corporate tag. And yes, their videos were pretty white-guy dorky. But man, Genesis had a ton of great hits and album cuts, and yet I feel the rock history books will not remember them too kindly.

So what's your call? Genesis -- Underrated or Overrated?

While you ponder, here's my dream setlist for Genesis' upcoming tour...

OPENING LIGHT SHOW/MUCH THUMPING OF DRUMS/KEYBOARD WASHES
Turn It On Again
Just a Job to Do
Keep It Dark
Me and Sarah Jane
Invisible Touch
Misunderstanding
Man on the Corner
Follow You, Follow Me
Abacab BLENDS INTO Land of Confusion
TONY BANKS KEYBOARD FANTASIA
Illegal Alien
Home by the Sea
Paperlate
No Reply At All
ENCORE
Mama
Throwing It All Away
That's All

BLOG BATTLE! The Police vs. Sting

My chunky-but-funky co-host on "Stuck in the '80s" has been smoking in the shower again. Steve Spears insists that (1) the Police are overrated and come mighty close to sucking (2) Sting's solo output is better than the Police's output, and (3) that he, Steve Spears, has three nipples. I'm with him on (3) 'cause I've boated with Steve. But (1) and (2) are just PLAIN ridiculous, right? Can you believe this guy? (To see Steve's asinine argument, GO HERE.)

So guess what? We're gonna have an ol'-fashioned BLOG BATTLE!!!

Thus, here are three reasons why three Police are better than one Sting:

(1) Stewart Copeland never bragged about having eight-hour nookie. Neither did Andy Summers. And back when Sting was still in the Police, he was too tired rocking out fat jams a la Invisible Sun to tantrically hump half the day away. But check it out, yo: Sting's solo output is so WEAK AND WUSSY, he had plenty of time to pleasure his wife for a fortnight. That's a tell-tale sign. It was either the band or the bone. Sting chose his wife over rock 'n' roll. That's traitorious in my book. ROUND ONE? DALY!!!

(2) "Another suburban family morning / Grandmother screaming at the wall / We have to shout above the din of our Rice Crispies / We can't hear anything at all." Holy crap, how good is Synchronicity II? Only the Police -- the steady machine-gun beat of Copeland, the prickly siren wail of Summers, the encyclopedic paranoia of Sting, all merging as one anti-establishment battle cry -- could paint the 'burbs as so heinously horrific. I've been stuck in suburban hell for a few years now, and I mainstream this flat-out rocker every week just to get through the day. ROUND TWO? DALY!!! 

(3) The Police are the best adult-education teachers in rock history. And I do mean adult. And education. And pervs. Is there an aging hetero schlub out there who hasn't taken solace in the Lolitan discomfort of Don't Stand So Close to Me? Hey, if the Police get randy for wanton coeds but are strong enough to say no, then I can, too. Thank you, Stewart, Andy and Sting. And thank you, too, blonde intern whose name I can't remember. ROUND THREE? DALY!!!!!!

Chomp on that, Tri-Nips.

Antonella Gone Wild?

Here's a press release from that slimy dude behind Girls Gone Wild. You know, I'm shocked that some irate father of a topless coed hasn't shot Joe Francis in the head yet. Plus isn't he supposed to be in the slammer for underage antics? Anyway, Joe Blow is trying to seduce American Idol's Antonella Barba to be a GGW co-host. I can hear her Dad cocking his shotgun as I type.

New York, N.Y. -- Joe Francis and Girls Gone Wild (GGW) have made a public offer to controversial American Idol star, Antonella Barba, to become the newest member of the Girls Gone Wild family. In the deal, Barba is being offered $250,000 to be the newest celebrity host following in the footsteps of Snoop Dogg and former REAL World celebrities, Syrus, Tonya, Cameran and Ace.

Barba became an instant sensation this season when racy photos of her appeared on the web. This is happening on a regular basis with Katie Rees being disqualified from the recent Miss USA pageant and the recent Newsweek cover story featuring Paris Hilton and Britney Spears "behaving badly".

"Girls gone wild has become part of pop culture, capturing real carefree college age students cutting loose. There’s a little Girls Gone Wild in every woman," says GGW founder Joe Francis, "and this should be embraced as a positive, not a negative."

Thanks to Barba’s overnight popularity, GGW and Joe Francis want to reward the young lady from New Jersey with a $250,000 hosting contract to join the GGW brand and lifestyle.

"Antonella Barba is an unbelievably sexy girl who obviously knows how to have a good time," said Joe Francis, CEO and founder of Girls Gone Wild. "Why are people being ridiculed and punished for being sexual? It’s ridiculous."

Song of the Day: "Dogs on the Run"

This might be my favorite Tom Petty song. I've been listening to '85's Southern Accents lately for a travel-section piece, and I forgot how good (and vastly underrated) this album was. Dogs on the Run, a deep album cut and never a hit, reminds me of riding bikes with my father through Valley Forge, Pa., some 22 years ago. We were highly dysfunctional back then (divorce, puberty, the '80s, the usual), but cranking this TP rocker on my Sony Walkman and pedaling like mad was rare solace. Dogs on the Run has all the makings of a classic "road" song, whether you're on two wheels or four. Here's a chunk of that travel piece, a playlist for cruising to Key West.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

Song: Dogs on the Run

Album: Southern Accents (MCA)

Why we care: Petty’s figurative Florida is usually a landlocked affair, all parts greasy garages and haunted highways. But on this overlooked ’85 album cut, the Gainesville guy washes up on a beach and tumbles into the arms of a young bleached blond. This rocker is about where you’re going more than where you’ve been — the very stuff of shoreline daydreams.

Why we like it: Dogs on the Run has all the right ingredients for a road trip classic: a floor-it beat, jangly guitars, a killer brass section and great quotable parts: “She said, ‘Honey, ain’t it funny/How a crowd gathers ’round/Anyone living life without a net?’”

Song grade: A

Album grade: A

Remember Luscious Jackson?

In a perfect world, this would be a hit...

Jill Cunniff

Album: City Beach (The Militia Group)

In stores: Now

Why we care: Remember Luscious Jackson, the electro-driven alt-rock band from the '90s? (Their big hit was Naked Eye.) Cunniff was the smart, feisty leader of that too-brief quartet. We're happy to have her back, especially since her solo debut is a fun, catchy tribute to easy days on urban shores, her beloved Coney Island included.

Why we like it: Like a plugged-in busker working some metaphysical boardwalk, Cunniff creates a funky concept album about orange ice pops, beepy Jeeps, scuffling feet, pretty people and lazy summer breezes. When the sun sets, Cunniff's surfy tunes get sexier, as she works in Latin rhythms, jazzy saxophones and trippy dance beats.

Reminds us of: How much we rock at Skee-Ball.

Download these: Lazy Girls, NYC Boy and Future Call

Grade: B+

When Pete Met Sting

My Pete Townshend profile should run this Friday (the Who are here March 13), and although I used a lot of his mad-hatter ramblings, there's still a good bit of interview carcas on the cutting-room floor. Unfortunately, I couldn't fit this cheeky comment on the Police reunion and tour.

              *********
The Police are big news simply because Sting has left this so long. He is going back to his old band in good heart, and I'm happy about that. I hope he won't mind me telling this story, but when he left the Police to start a solo career, I met him in a London restaurant and suggested he really didn't need to end the Police to have a solo career. He could do both as long as he was willing to be the sole man in charge. There I stood, exhausted and battered from trying to run two careers (only Phil Collins had managed it), and he said politely: Pete, I'm learning from your example. 

What's In Sean's Mailbox: Lost Weekend

After two straight days of baseball (opening of spring training), libations, golf (I shot a deceptive 130), and a related arsenal of punishable sins, I woke up this morning feeling guilty, achy, broke, vomitious, coughy...but, all in all, pretty damn great. (Playing with Kid Lulu for three hours straight did a little something for the guilt.) I'm currently stuck at work on a perfect FLA Sunday, but that's a small penance for a perfectly lost weekend. A good friend calls it "cleaning the slate." I always liked that. Sometimes you just need to do a few bad things in order to do a lot of good things. Pretty sure the Forever Fiancee is not buying into that game plan, but a fancy dinner and some flowers should do the trick.

So: The sun is shining, the Rays-Jays are playing down the street, and I'm stuck in the fluorescent glow of the 9-to-5. I have to write up my Pete Townshend profile, which should be fun. But first I have to dawdle, so here are the mailbox goodies I just opened...

Arcade Fire -- Neon Bible
Kenny Loggins -- How About Now
Karyn White -- Superwoman: The Best of Karyn White
Natalie Cole -- Love Songs
Last Train Home -- Last Good Kiss
Air -- Pocket Symphony
The Feeling -- Twelve Stops and Home   

The Police Are Coming!

THIS JUST IN! According to the Police's official website (oh, and Ticketmaster), Sting & Co. are coming to Tampa's St. Pete Times Forum Wed. July 11. Tickets go on sale March 10. 

To be brutally honest, I'm a bit tired of the Police, who recently reunited after decades apart. I hear them every day. Much like the actual authorities, I can't escape them. That said, their version of Roxanne was relatively fresh on the Grammy Awards. And Sting is too much of a vainglorious freak NOT to sing a couple of his solo hits, which could spice things up a bit.

So here goes, a possible Police setlist (with two Sting solo goodies)...

[Lights dim/Creepy opening music/Sting's disembodied wail]
Synchronicity II
Spirits in the Material World
Walking in Your Footsteps
De Doo Doo Doo, De Da Da Da
Can't Stand Losing You
So Lonely
Murder by Numbers
Fortress Around Your Heart
We'll Be Together
Demolition Man
Invisible Sun
Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic
Don't Stand So Close to Me
Wrapped Around Your Finger
King of Pain
ENCORE
Roxanne
Every Breath You Take
Message in a Bottle