Isn't That a Christian Church?!

So Kid Lulu and I are reading Dr. Seuss books in her room last night. Cat in the Hat, The Lorax. We're having a lovely time, father and child, all warm and fuzzy.

When suddenly, Lulu, three and a half years of precious angel, starts tugging at her shorts and says:

"I have a 'gina!"
Me, gently: "You have a what?"
"A 'gina! I have a 'gina!"
At this point, I call for her mother.
The FF comes in: "What's wrong?"
"She says she has a 'gina."
"A what?"
"A 'gina. Your daughter says she has a 'gina. What should we do?"
"She does have a 'gina. Girls have 'ginas."
"SHE'S THREE YEARS OLD! Where is she learning this stuff?"
The FF shoots me a look: "Daddy's just being silly."
"Silly? She's three. What are they teaching at that school? It's a church, fer crissakes!"

The FF just rolled her eyes, kissed her daughter and left me with Lolita. A 'gina? At three years old. Isn't that too young for 'gina chitchat? But I couldn't protest any longer, 'cause then I'd scar her somehow and she'd wind up working the streets by the time she was 12.

I thought about how, when Lu was still in the womb, I used to put headphones on her mommy's belly and play Tom Jones. Well, there's a lesson learned.

I was gonna shoehorn some playlist in here (Innocence -- Go West, Sweet and Innocent -- Donny Osmond). But instead, I think I'll just crawl under my desk and weep.

MAZD for Sale (Sorry, the "A" Fell Off)

BEST CAR SONGS

I've never owned a car built in the current decade. When I got my driver's license in 1987, I drove a beige '79 Toyota Tercel with a broken gas gauge (a guessing game I lost on several occasions). In college in the '90s, I drove an '84 VW.
My current car is a Mazda 626 from '96. I bought it for $3500 right before Kid Lulu was born three years ago -- it's a boring car, but it drove the fam from D.C. to FLA with a minimum amount of smoke and whine, so for that I'm thankful.

But these days, after more than 170,000 miles, the MAZD is having trouble. It mostly sounds like an old man struggling to get off the couch, and has been known to scare young children with its random squeals and groans. So I'm looking for a new used car. I've given up on owning anything with pizzazz. But something made in 2000 would be cool.

In the meantime, let's do a list of the BEST CAR SONGS. This is a MASSIVE topic, but let's take her for a spin...

Here's a start...

1.) Greased Lightning -- John Travolta
2.) Cadillac Ranch -- Bruce Springsteen
3.) Little Deuce Coupe -- the Beach Boys
4.) Low Rider -- War
5.) Cars -- Gary Numan
6.) Rumble Seat -- John Mellencamp
7.) Route 66 -- Chuck Berry
8.) Brand New Cadillac -- the Clash
9.) Drive My Car -- the Beatles
10.) Mustang Sally -- Wilson Pickett

The Only Zeppelin Song I Need

I don't know how I'm gonna tell you
I can't play with you no more...

So I'm sitting on the beach, my family diverted by sand castles and gossip rags, and I'm listening to my iPod. For me, there isn't a better attitude adjuster than strapping the headphones over my giant melon, hitting Shuffle (or, for that matter, clicking the fat Play button on the clunky Walkmen of my youth) and zoning out on the Coppertone action around me. My iPod, usually a thematically minded little sucker, is rather random on this Saturday: Herbie Hancock's Rockit, Ray Charles' Night Time Is the Right Time, A Flock of Seagulls' Space Age Love Song. A fine mix, but nothing spectacular.

But then I hear those acoustic strums, the burbling electric behind them, and Robert Plant, in full flower-powered peace-out hunky-as-hell mode, singing his existential dreamer about tolerance and forgiveness and the inevitableness of it all. Let me tell you, I was just about floored. I nearly starting sobbing, and I wasn't even drunk or stoned. That's the Way. THAT'S THE WAY! I've never been a huge Zeppelin fan (or a hippie), but jeez, at that moment, I was convinced That's the Way was the greatest song of all time. I'm not even sure why. Surrounded by my family and the sand and the waves and the nubiles frolicking in the surf, it just seemed...right.

I hear you, iPod. I hear you loud and clear.

And yesterday I saw you kissing tiny flowers,
But all that lives is born to die.
And so I say to you that nothing really matters,
And all you do is stand and cry.   

Can't Get It Out of My Head

Lotta family time this holiday weekend, including Griswoldian road trips to Indian Rocks Beach and Dinosaur World, a sublime roadside valhalla in Plant City, Fla. Kid Lulu enjoyed the styrofoam dinos, but she appreciated the colorful trash cans scattered about the playland even more. Massive T. Rexes would be looming befanged over her tiny head, but the tyke was on a mission: "Dad, I think I see another trash can." Great. Bust out the camera.

As the FF, Kid Lulu and I drove here and there, we played a lot of ELO in the car, a very symbolic soundtrack in the Daly family. When I was a preteen in the '70s, my parents and I (an only child if you haven't caught on by now) would spend summer weekends trekking to Hampton Beach, N.H. Get up early, pack the station wagon with rubbery chicken and soda and be at the beach by 10. Casey Kasem would be the musical tour guide on a lot of those trips. The music I remember? Lotta Wings, lotta ELO. Later Hall & Oates would dominate.

So I was feeling pretty nostalgic this weekend -- son becomes the father, Don't Bring Me Down becomes Sweet Talkin' Woman, and so on and on. That said, when Kid Lulu threw a fit and almost threw her sippy cup into the Prehistoric Bog, I thought about my uncle, the one who never had any kids, the one who seemed content with it all.

Anyway, in honor of many holiday weekends, here are the 10 Best ELO Songs:

10. Across the Border
9. Do Ya
8. Telephone Line
7. Can't Get It Out of My Head
6. Hold on Tight
5. Evil Woman
4. Sweet Talkin' Woman
3. It's Over
2. Livin' Thing
1. Don't Bring Me Down

Feist: She's Good for You

Want a good way to start your Memorial Day weekend? Hop in the hot rod, beeline for your favorite record emporium and buy Feist's The Reminder. It's relaxing, it's sexy, it's smart -- it'll get you centered and make your brain sigh. I also recommend zipping to the grocery store and picking up 3 lbs. of snow crab legs and a six-pack of Tecate. Then go home, eat, drink, listen. It's a holiday. Live it up.

Feist
Album: The Reminder (Cherrytree/Interscope)
In stores: Now
Why we care: This Canadian indie fave (born Leslie Feist) started as a punker, a rocker and a constant presence on best-of lists in Rolling Stone and the New York Times. At 31, she is now a pop-folker and a torch-crooner and another shoo-in for year-end huzzahs.
Why we like it: Feist sings as if she, too, is just discovering the power of her voice, which hovers between the preciousness of Sarah McLachlan and the sturdiness of Ani DiFranco. She likes to paint her spare but plucky songs with hard guitar lines, robotic burbles, cool jazz currents -- just to make sure everyone's still paying attention.
Reminds us of: Norah Jones with brass knuckles.
Download these: So Sorry, Feel It All, 1234 and Brandy Alexander
Grade: B+

FREE Fergie Concert at Ruth Eckerd

Do bridges make you feel all sexy inside? (And how!) Do you wear high heels and little else? (You bet!) Do you refer to yourself in a sassy third-person fashion? (Seantastic!) If so, you could win free tickets to a June 1 Fergie concert at Ruth Eckerd Hall in Clearwater, FLA. This is being called a "free" show, but there’s a catch. In order to score tix, fans have to visit a participating Verizon Wireless store and either (1) dress in "your most Fergalicious outfit" (we’re quoting here, folks) or (2) show that you have Fergie music on your phone. Tickets are available while supplies last, and will not be available at the Ruth Eckerd box office. For more information (and whatever other "catches" there might be), go to http://fergieperformances.com/.

Now If I Could Only Pick the Horses...

How about that Jordin Sparks, huh? (Don't hate the player, Sharon Fink. Hate the beat-box. Finally, someone owes ME a burrito.)

Weird show last night, like watching Battle of the Network Stars, but instead of Erik Estrada in a kayak, it was Jerry Springer crying during "Wing Beneath My Wings."

And how much did they have to pay Joe Perry to play with Sanjaya? Sheesh.

Lotta theories about why American Idol was sucky this year -- poor talent, not enough pretty contestants, not enough backstory, Randy Jackson's endless supply of tacky Sgt. Peppers jackets. But after they flashed that picture of an actual bush baby when that bug-eyed kid came back for his 15th minute, I realized what Idol '07 was really missing: its nasty streak. It was just too nice. Not enough humiliation.

Oh well. I wasn't going to blog about Idol again. But I guess I should take a perverse pleasure in spotting the winner from the start. Yesiree, I can really pick those underage women.

Only 240 days until next season...

Ozzy Osbourne: Death Becomes Him

So I'm sitting here listening to the new Ozzy album, Black Rain. And while the polished metal is all very overstated, over-the-top, over-Ozzy (he's stuck in no man's land or something), it's also strangely comforting, akin to eating Funyuns for dinner or watching The Last Boy Scout. Zakk Wylde's guitar is predictably badass and berzerko (well, at least for the first two tracks). But what I dig best is that, for all his ant-snorting, drug-hoovering, ATV-wrecking antics, Ozzy's voice is still pretty good. Sure, there's no doubt some computer trickery going on, but not as much as you'd think. Ozzy might not be able to stand upright -- or, you know, talk -- but the tottering 58-year-old can still sing pretty well, that searing, soaring archangel wail. Go figure.

The Final Idol Blog: Jordin or Blake?

I spent most of Tuesday on FOX 13 in Tampa, barking incessantly about Idol. Yes, I felt a little silly. But I'm also a total slut for television, which won't surprise anyone. So Sell-Out Sean, ready (and sweaty) for his close-up, had a blast. ("Ah yes, the Sanjaya Factor...")

That said, I'm soooo ready to be done with this season.

So let's keep this brief: Jordin or Blake? If you care in the slightest, who's it gonna be?

I picked Jordin from the start, a fact that's been well-documented in your St. Pete Times, and I'm not ditching her now. The show was a little too pro Blake last night, maybe to even things out, but Jordin did a better job with that crappy final song, which will probably be the difference. (And let's be honest: That beat-box bit of Bon Jovi lost a whole lotta luster the second time around, didn't it?)

Better Breakfast? Denny's or Bob Evans?

Or maybe Cracker Barrel?

I'm going with Denny's, based solely on the Moons Over My Hammy factor. Good shredded hashbrowns, too.

Bob Evans is a close second. Home fries need work. Splendid sausage, however.

In Sean's Mailbox: We All Shine On

Some good stuff in the mailbox today, including a snazzy Genesis box set plus the double-disc benefit comp Instant Karma: The Campaign to Save Darfur.

The latter, which comes out on June 12, features some heavy-hitters covering the work of John Lennon. Green Day unfurls an angsty, elephantine Working Class Hero. Black Eyed Peas pumps up the bass for Power to the People. Bono was born to sing "Well we all shine on!" Compilations are perfect for iTunes shopping (Skip Avril Lavigne doing Imagine -- check out Christina Aguilera's '70s-aged Mother). In fact, 12 additional tracks (featuring Ozzy, Duran Duran and Gavin Rossdale) will only be available digitally at iTunes. Proceeds from Instant Karma will benefit Amnesty International.

I'm having trouble getting started today -- I blame the sausage-intensive breakfast at Bob Evans -- so I'm just gonna sit around and listen to the stuff in my mailbox: 

Jakob Dylan, Big & Rich, Flaming Lips -- Instant Karma: Campaign to Save Darfur (2CD)
Genesis -- Genesis 1976-1982 (5-Disc CD/DVD Box)
Jimi Hendrix, The Who -- Monterey International Pop Festival: 40th Anniversary (2CD)
Young Jeezy Presents -- USDA: Cold Summer: The Authorized Mix Tape
The Bravery -- The Sun and the Moon
King Wilkie -- Low Country Suite
Emerson Lake & Palmer -- Trilogy
Emerson Lake & Palmer -- Remasters

Dump Weiland: Guy on Velvet Revolver

Loyal correspondent Guy caught the Velvet Revolver show in D.C. last week. Here's his sweaty report...

Reports of the demise of rock music may be premature, if judged by the generally incendiary performance of Velvet Revolver at a sold-out 9:30 Club in Washington, DC last Tuesday night.

Unlike their last outing, in support of 2004 debut Contraband, the supergroup, anchored by former members of Stone Temple Pilots and Guns N’ Roses, chose to look forward rather than back, mixing songs from the band's first release (show-closer Slither, ballad Fall to Pieces) with previews from their new CD (Libertad, out July 3).

Unfortunately for Velvet Revolver, little about the new tracks, which included first single She Builds Quick Machines, was distinctive, with only The Last Fight, a song about a broken relationship, particularly memorable.

Thankfully, the band did not follow through with its threat to avoid playing any songs from its predecessors, as both the Stone Temple Pilot’s Vasoline and Used to Love Her from Guns N’ Roses were extremely well-received.

The raptuous reception to those songs, plus well-chosen covers Wish You Were Here and Psycho Killer, reinforced the fact that the band’s primary liability remains Weiland, whose lack of charisma and limited skills as a lyricist fail to build upon the rhythmic foundation laid by Slash, bassist Duff McKagan and drummer Matt Sorum.

Weiland’s sartorial style (captain’s hat, aviator shades, scarf) and Lead Singer fumblings (serpentine dance moves, singing into a bullhorn) only served as a sad reminder of what might have been had band members completely skipped over the grunge era when selecting a lead singer (see Bach, Sebastian).

While solid performances of Contraband tracks served as a reminder of Velvet Revolver’s potential, Weiland’s limitations, along with the songs that generated the loudest response, suggested an intriguing future direction for the group: cover band.

Going to the Chapel? A White Wedding?!!

So the Forever Fiancee is going to Vegas next month for a business trip. Earlier this week, her boss said I could go, too. Very cool.

Naturally, as we've done over the course of our illustrious four-year engagement, we started contemplating marriage. Maybe we could take a cab to the Little White Wedding Chapel's drive-thru Tunnel of Love? Or maybe we could hit the Rip Taylor show then beeline for the Wee Kirk O' the Heather wedding emporium and hitch things up? Or maybe Rip can come with us and be my best man! He could mop my brow with his toupee! Can you imagine the confetti?!!!

Or maybe we'll just scrap the marriage, get matching dragon tattoos and hit the buffet.

Could go either way...

As the FF and I keep contemplatin', here's "SD's Wedding Bell Blues Mix."

1) Get It Right the First Time -- Billy Joel
2) A Wedding in Cherokee County -- Randy Newman
3) Dead Man Walkin' -- Bruce Springsteen
4) Danke Schoen -- Wayne Newton
5) I'd Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That) -- Meat Loaf
6) How Do You Keep the Music Playing? -- James Ingram
7) I Wanna Marry You -- Bruce Springsteen
8) I Wanna Be Sedated -- the Ramones
9) I Will Not Go Quietly -- Don Henley
10) I Believe (When I Fall in Love It Will Be Forever) -- Michael McDonald

Dishing the Idol Dirt: PODCAST

We here at the St. Pete Times threw our own post-Idol party last night. It was a celebration of myriad delights: Sanjaya's sister, Elliot Yamin's Willie-Aames-meets-a-hobo haircut, the almost-end of Season 6, soon getting our lives back, etc.

In fact, Eric Deggans, Sharon Fink and I had so much fun, we hit the recording studio and taped the whole shebang. (We even made a call and got connected to backstage in Hollywood.)

Need something to listen to during lunch?

Click here to hear the podcast, including our picks for who's gonna win the whole thing...

(It's so Jordin. Money in the bank.)

Make Your Peace With God

Free absolution -- right here on the Pop Life blog!

What's your FAVORITE God/prayer/faith-based song?

The Dalys aren't overtly religious people, but our 3-year-old daughter goes to a Christian school, and her fiery dinner sermons about "Jesus and the Bad Man" are starting to make us feel bad. So in honor of the late Jerry Falwell (or Larry Flynt for that matter), let's all worship our favorite tunes about the Almighty.

Here are a few hosannas to get us started...

1) God's Gonna Cut You Down -- Johnny Cash
2) Did Ye Get Healed? -- Van Morrison
3) With God on Our Side -- Bob Dylan
4) God's Song (That's Why I Love Mankind) -- Randy Newman
5) Hallelujah -- Jeff Buckley
6) Jesus Walks -- Kanye West

Loving Rufus Wainwright

The irate reader who ripped my gay Diana Ross ramblings is gonna have a field day with this one. One of the best albums of the year. Out today. This review won't run until Saturday. It's a little long, but screw it. Rufus rocks.

Rufus Wainwright, Release the Stars (Geffen) GRADE: A

It is impossible for Rufus Wainwright to be subtle. Or private. Or straight. Or dull. The mischievous son of folk heroes Loudon Wainwright III and Kate McGarrigle, the 33-year-old is Drama Incarnate, a gay icon, a recovering drug addict, a pop star like no other.

Opera, gospel, cabaret. Big band, Broadway, rock. On new album Release the Stars, Wainwright creates a brutally honest, genre-splattered gem even he calls “huge.” How huge? Album opener Do I Disappoint You mixes bird calls, a children’s choir and a crescendoing symphony more akin to a Cecil B. Demille epic. The song would be  ridiculous if it weren’t so ridiculously moving, a lapel-gripping plea for tolerance.

But that’s Rufus for you, always striving for a grand, gussied statement — and almost always making his point.

Better Canadian: Geddy Lee or Bryan Adams?

Tom Sawyer vs. Cuts Like a Knife?

Prog-rock yelping vs. soft-pop overemoting?

Geddy Lee vs. Bryan Adams!!!!

While contemplating your crucial vote, please enjoy the following review of the new Rush album, irrelevant to some, raison d'etre to most of Tampa Bay.

By the way, Rush plays Ford Amphitheatre in Tampa on June 16. That sucker's gonna sell out -- 20,000 dudes air drumming their asses off!!!

Rush
Album: Snakes & Arrows (Atlantic)
In stores: Now
Why we care: Five years after its last album — and 30 years after its artistic height — Rush sees its new disc debut at No. 3 on the Billboard charts. Crazy, huh? Of all the ’70s prog-rockers, Rush was the most accessible, three dudes with high-concept dreams and school-bus hooks. Neil Peart is a folk legend, like Paul Bunyan with drumsticks.
Why we like it: Peart, the band’s lyricist, has gone through hell, losing a wife and a child. As a result, the songs, both political and personal, are angry and self-indulgent, complex and brutally simple. The playing remains over-the-top as always: singer Geddy Lee’s vocal is still elastic, Alex Lifeson’s guitar is still prickly, Peart’s pounding is still spellbinding.
Reminds us of: Air drumming to Tom Sawyer in 6th grade
Download these: Far Cry and The Larger Bowl
Grade: B-

Potty Time, Excellent

Due to entirely suspect parenting (I blame her mother), my daughter has been a wee bit lackadaisical with the whole potty training thing. She basically picks her spots: At school, my 3-year-old is a master of the commode; with her parents, not so much.

At our Mother's Day meal at the Columbia in Ybor City, the FF, in all her queenly glory, sent Kid Lulu  and I down to the hopper for a diaper change. We had to fight the traffic in this massive, bustling dining room, complete with 457 wheelchairs and walkers, to get to the pot. The diaper switcheroo went fine -- but immediately after the changing, Lulu did a little shimmy, looked up at me with those big blue peepers and said, "I peed through." What? What kind of diaper is that? Oh, it sucked. Some bozo was knocking on the locked door; the kid was flipping out.  I cleaned her up best I could, but the return trip through the dining room was a nightmare, with Lulu squirming and whining, and 457 moms looking at me as if I were the worst dad ever.

Anyway, this morning, Lulu walked up to me, tapped on the sports page and said, "I have to go potty." And damn if she didn't do the whole dang thing: pulling down of the trousers, flushing, cleansing. It was awesome. Good job, Lu.

In honor of my kid, here's a potty-intensive playlist...

1) Accidents Will Happen -- Elvis Costello
2) P--- on the Wall -- J. Geils Band
3) Bridge Over Troubled Water -- Simon & Garfunkel
4) Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing -- Chris Isaak
5) Baby Please Don't Go -- Van Morrison
6) Change Clothes -- Jay-Z
7) Dirty Laundry -- Don Henley
8) Hard Habit to Break -- Chicago
9) High and Dry -- Radiohead
10) Let Your Love Flow -- Bellamy Brothers

Dogs on the Run

The Feather Sound boys and I went to the dogs last night. Historic, and surprisingly scuzz-free, Derby Lane racetrack in St. Petersburg, where they shot a scene for the Ocean's Eleven remake. (The one in which Brad Pitt tracks down Carl Reiner, if you're wondering.) If you're in the neighborhood, check it out. Cheap beer in waxy cups, colorful grifters galore, swell payouts, free admission. I won about $20; my neighbor Chuck won $150; my favorite golf pro Chad, well, he won the pity of his pals.

Anyway, it's Friday, I have a few extra bucks in my pocket, so let's cut loose with a canine-friendly playlist. Feel free to slobber along...

1. Bark at the Moon -- Ozzy Osbourne
2. Spike -- Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
3. Puppy Love -- Donny Osmond
4. Atomic Dog -- P-Funk
5. Chasing Cars -- Snow Patrol
6. Givin' the Dog a Bone -- AC/DC
7. Black Dog -- Led Zeppelin
8. I Wanna Be Your Dog -- Iggy Pop
9. Get a Leg Up -- John Mellencamp
10. Hound Dog -- Elvis Presley

Wilco: Overrated? Underrated?

...or maybe just poser BS?

For awhile there, maybe a week, maybe two, back in the mid-'90s, I kinda liked Wilco. Although the y'alternative/No Depression movement was a club I had little interest in joining, Wilco's A.M. had great, swaggery songs on it. Casino Queen? Smart, fun, rural.

But then something happened. Maybe it was the band, or maybe it was the band's loner-hipster fans (middle-class white guys who brag about NOT having a TV and/or health insurance -- you know the types). But Wilco, and especially frontman Jeff Tweedy, became tiresome. His songs became vague, detached, unlistenable, not nearly as deep as the loner-hipsters gave him credit for. The critical huzzahs continued to pour in, of course. But if I were a record label chief, I'd drop his ass, too. A Ghost Is Born? Feh.

Well, at least I thought I was done with Wilco. Turns out maybe I'm a loner-hipster after all (although I proudly have two TVs and dental!).

The band's new album, Sky Blue Sky, comes out May 15. I begrudgingly popped it into my CD player the other day, and lo and behold...

Wilco
Album: Sky Blue Sky (Nonesuch)
In stores: May 15
Why we care: The gallons of critical drool slathered upon Wilco have always been indirectly proportional to the amount of people who actually care about the Chicago band. Sorry, but it’s true. That said, their sixth studio album turns out to be one of their more accessible: a dreamy, straightforward gallop through alt-country twilight.
Why we like it: Wilco’s past musical abstractions, driven by Jeff Tweedy’s emotional instability, were often unlistenable tinkerings of experimental malaise. But with guitar help from Nels Cline — and Tweedy’s newfound 12-step acceptance (“Maybe the sun will shine today,” he sings rather brightly) — this makes for a sweet, mellow mood.
Reminds us of: Campfire songs for cool kids.
Download these: Impossible Germany and Sky Blue Sky
Grade: B

What Was Your First Concert?

Best ice-breaker of all time? "What was your first concert?" It's one of the great equalizers, and without fail always leads to  great conversation. So I'm thinking of doing a story on the "first concert" experience. Not sure how I'll frame it -- maybe I'll tag along with some tyke at his/her first show, maybe I'll just BS all poetic-like and stuff about how the first concert shapes us and so on and on.

But I seek your help: WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CONCERT?

I want to hear details, too. Barf on someone's shoes? Make out with a roadie?

I've told the story on myriad occasions -- including on this blog -- but just to recap, my first show was Judas Priest, Hersheypark Stadium, the "Ram It Down, Shove It Up Tour." I went with Dustin "Chaps" Chapman. He wore a mesh workout jersey with plenty of hot nipple action; I wore a Red Sox jersey 'cause that was the most "subversive" thing in my wardrobe. We were basically terrified: of the religious nutter protesting in the parking lot, of the topless metal babes toying with our innocence, of the sheer loudness of it all. We were so clueless, we left before the encore, and drove away to the sounds of Rob Halford roaring his Harley onstage. I remember us trading a look like, Uh, I think we're missing the best part. But Chaps, he and his mesh shirt just kept on driving.

But enough about me. Let's hear 'em. YOUR FIRST CONCERT MEMORIES!

In Sean's Mailbox: Dwarves, Etc.

Like I've always said, this job would be awesome if only there weren't so much music involved. Enough already. With a steady slew of features, foofaraw and concerts lately -- Christina Aguilera on Friday, Jerry Lee Lewis tonight, Gwen Stefani on Tuesday -- I haven't had time to open my usual onslaught of mail. My desk is awash in new releases (including the new Big & Rich and their pal Two Foot Fred. I've met Fred. He's good people). Anyway, I'll probably get another 20 CDs tomorrow, but here's the top of the heap. I'm gonna review the new Rufus, and probably do something on Travis and Feist. What else deserves a review?

Travis -- The Boy With No Name
Raul Malo -- After Hours
Big & Rich -- Between Raising Hell & Amazing Grace
Rufus Wainwright -- Release the Stars
Wilco -- Sky Blue Sky
Feist -- The Reminder
Rush -- Snakes & Arrows
Bone Thugs-n-Harmony -- Strength & Loyalty
Tori Amos -- American Doll Posse
Barbra Streisand -- Live in Concert 2006
The Used -- Lies for the Liars

Music for Bar Fights

When I was 11 years old, I wanted to be Colt Seavers when I grew up. Not because I wanted to be a stuntman, but because Colt, aka the Fall Guy, was always getting into barroom dust-ups. That looked like a lot of fun. Sometimes after cracking a bad guy on the jaw, Colt would wince for comic effect. But it's not like he ever broke anything. Anyway, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club makes me wanna cause a fist-flying row in, like, Ruby Tuesdays.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
Album: Baby 81 (RCA)
In stores: Now
Why we care: Named after the biker gang in Brando’s The Wild One, this noisy Brit-U.S. trio excels at fuzzed-out Americana: blues, rockabilly and rebellion all coated with raunchy grit. This one’s a lot louder and more electric than their last disc, 2005’s Howl.
Why we like it: We here at Listen to This have macho fantasies about being in a barroom brawl, and this is the perfect soundtrack for such mayhem. The way I imagine it, I’ll smash a chair across someone’s back at the exact moment the guitar squeals in on Berlin.
Reminds us of: Leather jackets and switchblade combs.
Download these: Took Out a Loan, Berlin and Cold Wind
Grade: B

Irony Devours Nosferatu, Timberfake

Lesson No. 1 When Choosing A Song on American Idol: Never sing something that hints to your potential demise. Because when Seacrest says you're goin' home, back to the 9-to-5 where you belong, you don't want to be the loser who has to choke out "Another One Bites the Dust" or "Last Dance." It's hard enough getting eliminated. But when America is also snickering into its collective Dorito bowl as you warble about getting "shot down in a blaze of glory," as Phil Stacey did Wednesday night, that's tough.

Poor Nosferatu. I almost felt bad for the bald dude. But he'll be fine. Vampires always land on their feet.

As for Chris "Timberfake" Richardson, his song was also telling. "Wanted Dead or Alive"? Uh, dead, please.

By the way, I was totally waiting for Chris and Blake to kiss. Am I wrong in thinking they're in love?

KiKi goes next week. Then Melinda. In the finale, Jordin trumps Blake in a squeaker. Then we all go back to our lives. Huzzah!

New Wolfmother!

I was gonna get a haircut this weekend. But in honor of a blazing new cut from Wolfmother on the Spidey 3 soundtrack, I'm gonna let my sweet 'do poof out...

Wolfmother
Song: Pleased to Meet You
Album: Spider-Man 3 Soundtrack (Record Collection)
In stores: Now
Why we care: The Australian fuzzballs are back! Anchoring the soundtrack for the latest Spidey flick, the shaggy trio contribute this herky-jerky Hendrixian pounder. Guitar theatrics galore. Much bong-smoking shall commence.
Why we like it: Lead singer-guitarist Andrew Stockdale — he of the sagebrush hair and high piercing wail — is in particularly frisky, circa-’67 form. Now if they’d only stop touring and make that second album.
Reminds us of: Why Wolfmother’s ’06 debut was our album of the year. We still can’t believe how good that sucker is.
Song grade: A

You Give Love a Beat Box

Here's what's cool about my relationship with the FF. She'd totally leave me for Jon Bon Jovi; I'd totally leave her for Gwen Stefani. We're cool with that. It's an open relationship based on alcohol + lust for recent American Idol guests. (In related news, Kid Lulu would leave both of us for anyone with M&Ms and a vague resemblance to Greg Wiggle.)

On to Idol chatter about last night:

Phil Stacey, Blaze of Glory: FF praises Nosferatu, "He's nailing it! He's nailing it!" Yuck. I've changed my mine. The FF and I are sooo over.

Jordin Sparks, Livin' on a Prayer: Love the dirty rock chick look. Too bad she killed the chorus. Could be trouble for my incandescent beauty. Don't give up on her America.

KiKi Jones, This Ain't a Love Song: Not bad. But to be honest, I was too distracted by her bazooms-enhancing two-tone top. Who dresses these people?

Blake Lewis, You Give Love a Bad Name: The kid's got extra-large huevos, I'll give him that. Plus he was smart enough not to mess with the classic chorus.

Chris Richardson, Wanted Dead or Alive: Timberfake is the epitome of this season's perilously shallow talent pool.

Melinda Doolittle, Have a Nice Day: Call me crazy, but she was damn sexy doing that one. Total Tina T.

Rough Draft: Arctic Monkeys

This sucker won't run until Thursday. Here's what I'm currently grinding out... (Cliffs Notes version: Not as fun as the first one.)

When we first met the Arctic Monkeys, the blue-collar scruffs from Sheffield, England, could barely afford to buy a girl a drink.

Their debut disc, 2006’s revelatory Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not, was built on frustration and instinct, as the indie kids raged about being poor, raising hell, getting snubbed by rich girls, repeat, repeat, repeat. The album sounded like it was recorded in one take — or as long as it took the band to chain-smoke a carton of cheap cigs.

Thanks in part to the raw guitars, frisky beats and cash-poor malaise, the Monkeys became the fastest-selling new band in British history, moving 400,000 copies of Whatever in its first week. Overnight, the Monkeys, all just 19- and 20-years-old, went from struggling to famous, suddenly having fat wallets to woo the upper-class birds.

That was great news for the Monkeys — but what about their music? What does whiplash success do to a band that’s inspired by fast food, romantic rejection and living check to check? The bittersweet answer is found on the new Favourite Worst Nightmare, as anticipated a sophomore effort as we’ll see all year.

Led by singer-guitarist-lyricist Alex Turner, the simian-in-chief, the Monkeys continue to rockabout the beauties and beasties they meet in the clubs they loiter. But this time, fame has provided a new vantage point.

Opening cut Brianstorm, about a nouveau riche Lothario, is their fastest, hardest song yet. It’s a speed-metal indictment of a ladykilling creep who seduces women into his posh jacuzzi. But it’s not just a cheap dig. With his guitar sounding like it’s surfing a fatal wave, Turner is unnerved by this dude, realizing that the titular Brian is exactly who he doesn’t want to be.

A steady touring schedule has made the Monkeys become far better musicians, and that, oddly enough, is where the bad news starts. What’s missing from Nightmare is that previous sense of recklessness, pent-up aggression that could (and did) explode at any second. The Monkeys are now more polished, more controlled, their songs featuring layers and layers of fancy parts.

Unfortunately, the band is also more stable, more sane, more content. Teddy Picker ridicules the machinations of fame, including the soulless entertainment press. But the song’s rebellion sounds forced; it’s missing the crucial ingredient of genuine emotion. Often a wickedly acerbic songwriter, Turner just can’t muster the knockout punch.

The most troubling part of the new album, however, is that the Monkeys don’t seem to be having much fun. In fact, on the gauzy romance of Only Ones Who Know, the band gets a bad case of the touchy-feely Coldplay blahs. Yes, there were slow songs on the first disc, but they were hungover laments about slagging the cops. Big difference.

Favourite Worst Nightmare was turned around lickety-split to ride the band’s buzz, and it’s still more inventive than most rock albums out there. But as their star continues to rise, the band has a big challenge ahead of them. Where does a previously poor Monkey find passion, grit and fire when his pint glass is always full, the rich girls won’t stay away and the world expects greatness with every hot lick?