SONG OF THE WEEK: "Don't Get Me Wrong"

So while the Forever Fiancee and I were out in Vegas not getting married, we decided to take a ride up the Fake Eiffel Tower at our Fake Paris hotel. As we waited in line, we listened to the too-many-Camels, too-many-husbands voice of a train-wreck lounge singer butchering the Pretenders' Don't Get Me Wrong. It was awful, yes, but there was something rather touching in its awfulness. She knew exactly what Chrissie Hynde was singing about -- she just had a little trouble conveying.  Anyway, when I returned from my trip, I was rather excited to find Rhino's recent remastering of the Get Close album waiting for me on my desk. I immediately cued up Track No. 6, Don't Get Me Wrong, and wrote up an entry for a future Listen to This column. If you don't have the song, it's an iTunes special.

SONG OF THE WEEK
The Pretenders
Song: Don’t Get Me Wrong
Album: Get Close: Remastered & Bonus Tracks (Rhino/WEA)
Why we care: The record geeks at Rhino have remastered two more Pretenders albums: 1984’s Learning to Crawl and 1986’s Get Close. And while the former was a sales giant thanks to Middle of the Road and Back on the Chain Gang, our fave Chrissie Hynde vocal is on the latter.
Why we like it: “Who can explain the thunder and rain / But there’s something in the air.” With her dark eyes and working-class grit, Hynde often came off like that hardened waitress in the Brass in Pocket vid. But on this bouncy gem, she reveals a softer side and gets dizzied by the hunk of her dreams.
Reminds us of: That Vegas lounger we just saw destroy Don’t Get Me Wrong. Thankfully, the real thing was waiting for us when we got back.
Song grade: A

Any Soundtrack Geeks Out There?

I loved soundtracks as a kid, from Ghostbusters (a rare Bus Boys track!!) to Raiders of the Lost Ark. When my peers were learning about, say, the Cure or the Smiths, I was geeking out over the Caddyshack soundtrack. Hell, I even memorized Mel Brooks' History of the World Pt. 1 via vinyl. Go on, make fun -- I read all the movie tie-ins, too -- but I recently scored a great interview with Cheap Trick's Robin Zander mainly because I still own the Up the Creek soundtrack.

Anyway, just got a PR email for the new Simpsons movie soundtrack (out July 31 -- movie is out July 27, click here for the awesome website). No Danny Elfman, strangely enough. Instead, the score was created by composer Hans Zimmer, who was once a member of the Buggles. Two versions of the soundtrack will be available: the standard jewel case and "a limited edition in a Homer-approved bright pink donut case, complete with multicolored sprinkles, which is supplied in a classic bakery take-out box." The geek in me is loving that.

I Just Talked to Brian Johnson...

The AC/DC frontman doesn't like sharks. He's not too fond of U2's Edge, either. Now living down the street in Sarasota, he gets up at 7 a.m. every day to jog and do laps in the pool. He has no idea when the next AC/DC album is coming out, but says Angus and Malcolm are in the studio.

Steve Spears and I just interviewed Johnson for a Stuck in the '80s podcast, which will hopefully be online tomorrow. I'll let you know when it comes out. Johnson is absolutely hilarious, as pub-crusty and colorful as a pint of his favorite stout.

In the meantime, he's headlining an all-star charity show in Clearwater next Tuesday, July 3. Here's a little snippet I wrote up for it in today's Weekend section:

Where in the devil is AC/DC? Seriously, Angus Young and his Aussie mates haven't released a new album in years (Stiff Upper Lip, 2000). And, let's be honest, the Back in Blackers aren't getting any younger. What the world needs now is some loud, lewd rock 'n' roll to lift its spirits, and I can't think of a better band of hooligans to deliver. There's been talk of a new AC/DC album for a while, but I'll believe it when I headbang to it.

While we're waiting, we can at least enjoy half of the band. This Tuesday, singer Brian Johnson and bassist Cliff Williams, plus Cheap Trick's Robin Zander and Eddie Money, will put on a benefit show at Ruth Eckerd Hall in Clearwater. The cause is solemn; the John Entwistle Foundation provides free music education and instruments to underprivileged kids. But the show will be wild, as Johnson leads an all-star band cranking out all the AC/DC hits, including a promised finale of Highway to Hell.

Classic Rock Cares, featuring Brian Johnson, Cliff Williams, Robin Zander and Joe Lynn Turner (of Rainbow), begins at 8 p.m. Tuesday at Ruth Eckerd Hall, Clearwater. Benefits the John Entwistle Foundation. $39.75-$75. (727) 791-7400.

In Sean's Mailbox: Kelly vs. Hannah

Why is it that the amount of fun had on vacation is always directly proportional to the amount of soul-sucking work waiting on your desk when you get back? I think this day should be postponed until the troops are better rested.

I've started opening my post-Vegas mail...

Miley Cyrus -- Hannah Montana 2: Meet Miley Cyrus
Kelly Clarkson -- My December
Paramore -- Riot!

Sinead O'Connor -- Theology
Carmen Rasmusen -- Nothin' Like the Summer
Various Artists -- Songs of the African Coast
Michael McDermott -- Noise From Words
Steve Vai -- Sound Theories Vol. 1 & II
1997 -- A Better View of the Rising Moon

Live (nearly) from the Vegas Strip

Hey gang, it's your old buddy Steve Spears from the Stuck in the 80s blog and podcast (click here to subscribe for free on iTunes), subbing in for Sean, who just called in from vacation in Las Vegas. He wanted to make sure that: (a) his readers weren't deprived of his trademark humor, and (b) I hadn't drained his entire alcohol cabinet while housesitting at the Daly residence. (Well, I'm batting.500, which isn't bad.)

Here's Sean's report:

On his gambling luck: "I was down $100 five minutes after I got off the plane."

On his primo seats for the new Cirque du Soleil show about the Beatles: "The seats cost like $300 but I was sitting in third row. The Cirque clowns were staring at me and freaking me out. And then, I had to hit the restroom. Given the price of the tickets, that was like a $30 urination."

On sitting poolside at the Paris Hotel & Casino: "Everyone here has fake breasts, except me, which is sad because mine are still biggest."

Don't worry, gang. Sean and his sunburned breasts will be back soon.

Jack's Back (Okay, NOW I get it...)

I've never been a big White Stripes fan, but good lord, this album is a monster. Consider me a convert. My review runs Saturday -- but here's a sneak peek...

Jack White is a man of wild, shrieking impulses. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if his alarm clock woke him up to the howling first minute of Led Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song. Deemed by critics and fans as the next great guitar god, the 31-year-old ne’er-do-well plays and sings not from his head or heart, but from an unreliable region just south of his rhinestone belt buckle. Ol’ Jack sounds like he’s making it up as he goes.

White, whose influences start with the Delta blues and end in some filthy punk club in his native Detroit, can occasionally be restrained. He produced and played on Loretta Lynn’s masterful Van Lear Rose album — and made her sound like a hellcat only once or twice. Last year, his side project, the Raconteurs, excelled at ’70s-born roots rock; their debut, Broken Boy Soldiers, was endlessly cool and (relatively) safe.

But all bets are off when White reunites the White Stripes, the duo featuring ex-wife Meg White, who plays the drums like Bam-Bam wields a club. The new Icky Thump is the band’s sixth studio effort, and its very first on a major label. But if you’re thinking Jack will calm things down, maybe write a few hits for a larger audience, don’t bother. The man has just made his loudest, toughest, swarthiest album yet, a riff-stuffed jailbreak perfect for a game of Guitar Hero.

Luck Be a Daly Tonight: Best Gambling Songs

I don't leave for Vegas until Saturday -- but I've been short-timing all week. In lieu of grinding out my usual hardcore journalism, I've been studying up on gambling tips. "Always split aces and 8s." Got it. "Always bet on black." Check. "The croupier is flirting with you because you've lost $100 in three minutes." Gotcha. "Plus I'm pretty sure she's a dude." Cool.

Thanks to my well-connected, possibly mafiosan editor, the FF and I scored choice tix to the "LOVE" show at the Mirage. We also have reservations at a swanky joint at the Venetian called Postrio. Sure, a cup of potato-leek soups costs, like, a Hyundai. But the memories I'll have of vomiting it up in a strip joint later that night will last a lifetime.

Anyway, in the spirit of my impending winning streak, here are a few songs about gamblers, high rollers, winners, losers and lords of the buffet:

1) Roll of the Dice -- Bruce Springsteen
2) Two of a Kind, Workin' on a Full House -- Garth Brooks
3) Crapped Out Again -- Keb Mo
4) Queen of Hearts -- Juice Newton
5) Stagger Lee -- Lloyd Price
6) Viva Las Vegas -- ZZ Top
7) Ramblin' Gamblin' Willie -- Bob Dylan
8) The Gambler -- Kenny Rogers
9) Atlantic City -- Bruce Springsteen
10) The Turn of a Friendly Card -- Alan Parsons Project
11) Roll the Bones -- Rush
12) Lucky Town -- Bruce Springsteen

You Give Love a Banjo?

Lost Highway is being called Bon Jovi’s “country” album, but rest assured their new album is more Kenny Chesney than Kenny Rogers. The hirsute Garden Staters have a rabid fan base that doesn’t dig change, so the big, booming arena-pleasers are only lightly twanged with geetars, fiddles and cameos by Big & Rich and LeAnn Rimes. In other words, it’s about as country as Sylvester Stallone in Rhinestone.

Recorded partially in Nashville, the 12-track disc, released yesterday, is big on beer commercials disguised as communal anthems (We Got It Going On, I Love This Town, Summertime) and power ballads ultimately suited for prom night in Passaic (Seat Next to You, Till We Ain’t Strangers Anymore). It’s not very original, but those boys sure can reheat a hook.

Last year Bon Jovi scored a No. 1 hit with a down-south version of Who Says You Can’t Go Home, recorded with Jennifer Nettles of country faves Sugarland. And the new disc, for all its generic oomph, also has a chance of being a smash on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. Give ’em credit: As such ’80s stars as Van Halen and Motley Crue have ceased being productive, Bon Jovi continues to walk the line.

Plus, tucked in the new mix is the most likable Bon Jovi song in years. Whole Lot of Leavin’ is a roaring breakup tune with an air-guitar special from right-hand man Richie Sambora. Raise your Bics or your cowboy hats. Everyone’s invited to this party.

BON JOVI BONUS: Inspired by the new album, Steve Spears at Stuck in the '80s has put together his Top 5 Bon Jovi songs -- and a few of the WORST. (He really doesn't like Wanted Dead of Alive.) Click here for an '80s fix.

Music for Smoky Basements

Remember that stoner in high school who was smarter than his leather wristbands let on? That's a lot like Queens of the Stone Age. Maybe some of you have been fans of Josh Homme's L.A. rock band for years. Me, I'm coming late to the QOTSA party. But hey, at least I showed up. I'm digging this new disc, and I wish I had paid more attention to them when they opened for the Foo Fighters last year.

Queens of the Stone Age
Album: Era Vulgaris (Interscope)
In stores: Now
Why we care: QOTSA leader Josh Homme might as well have a mullet. He’s an old-school hard-rocker who builds his fuzzed-out songs one mastodonic riff at a time. His albums are as comfortable as fake-wood paneling, a 12-pack of Schlitz and crackling vinyl. You wanna rock? The Queens are money in the bank.
Why we like it: Homme is known for inviting buddies (such as Foo Fighter Dave Grohl) into the studio. Here he calls on the Strokes’ Julian Casablancas and Screaming Tree Mark Lanegan to raise a ruckus. But you never forget that this is Homme’s party: the stuttering guitars (3’s & 7’s), the macho harmonies (Turnin’ on the Screw), the deliciously awkward romance (Make It Wit Chu).
Reminds us of: Derek Zagzoug's basement, 6th grade, Westford, Mass.
Download these: Battery Acid and Make It Wit Chu
Grade: B+

In Sean's Mailbox: Seeking Vegas Tips

Hey gamblers, the FF and I are heading to Vegas this weekend. She's going out for work; I'm going out to lose Lulu's beauty-school money. We're staying at Paris (see left). I've been to Vegas a few times -- including the time when my kidney locked up after bad mai-tais at NYNY and I had to go to a sketchy med center -- but all my memories are appropriately fogged by sin. SO...WHO HAS VEGAS TRAVEL TIPS? You know, besides hitching it up at a drive-thru chapel. The FF doesn't want to sully our love by a cheap-o wedding. That's good, cause I'm not sure the divorce went through on my last marriage.

Anyway, if you have any cool hip places to hit, let me know.

In the meantime, here are the CDs I found in my magic mailbox this morning (fair warning: great chunks of the Bon Jovi sound like a Kenny Chesney album)...

Bon Jovi -- Lost Highway
Acute -- Arms Around a Stranger
Mandisa -- Only the World
The Polyphonic Spree -- The Fragile Army
Shop Boyz -- Rockstar Mentality
Boys Like Girls -- Boys Like Girls
Billy Bob Thornton -- Beautiful Door
Bryan Ferry -- Dylanesque

The spirit of Rush

Behold 15,000 Rush fanatics, robustly male, rather sweaty, completely reverent, bowing to the prog-pop power trio famous for feeding urges both primal and cranial.

If you like seven-minute drum solos that'll spin your head around, oh man, was Ford Amphitheatre the place for you Saturday. Rush, which is closing in on 40 years together, played for more than three hours, mixing dense politcal allegory with complex but catchy muscianship. The Canadian-born high-concept band is a little bit AC/DC, a lot Ray Bradbury, brawny and brainy all at one.

Whether you love Rush or hate 'em, it's usually for the same reasons.

From the very start of the show (a rather punctual 7:45, with the sun still shining), the band assumed those classic positions: bassist-keyboardist-vocalist Geddy Lee, guitarist Alex Lifeson and the most worshipped drummer of all time, Neil Peart. Each musician is distinctive, bombastic, an aggressive master of his art. They often play warring, tempo-tricky parts on the same song -- and yet ultimately blend in propulsively rocking ways. This was only the band's third show on a tour backing new album "Snakes & Arrows," but their playing is already flawless.

There's Lee, 53, looking like a grown-up Harry Potter, his helium-tinged vocal one of the most unique in rockdom. He immediately hit those heavenly notes in opening song "Limelight." He sings some seriously heavy stuff, but he's not without humor. He thumped his bass not in front of a stack of amps but a row of rotisserie chicken ovens. (In previous tours, Lee has bopped in front of washing machines.) Even funnier, he had Canuck comedy duo Bob & Doug McKenzie introduce new song "The Larger Bowl," and "South Park"'s Cartman lead into "Tom Sawyer."

And then there was Lifeson, 53, who plays with a bluesman's fury. His riffs are tough, macho, strong, like Angus Young with a doctorate in psychology. On the raucous new instrumental jam "The Main Monkey Business," he pounded out wicked licks as footage of lumbering men in gorilla suits flashed behind him. Weird? Yes. Awesome? Heck yes.

And Peart -- good lord, the 54-year-old's kit is mind-boggling. During "Freewill," a video screen showed an aerial shot of Peart's domain, and his drum setup had more parts than the space shuttle. And then there was that long, sexy drum solo, which touched on tribal beats, bebop jazz and straight-ahead heavy metal. At one point, he stood up, and the entire drum kit rotated, giving him fresh skins to pound on.

Three-plus hours is a lotta of Rush for a casual fan, especially since the boys loaded their 27-song setlist with deep album cuts. That said, they were definitely in the mood to dazzle, firing up a light show reminiscent of the mothership in "Close Encounters." During "Dreamline," the best song of the night, they even shot lasers into the crowd. 

Rush is a thing of beauty, or headaches. Me? I dig three dudes who make the noise of 30.

BEATLES WEEK: BLOG BATTLE!

TRAVELING WILBURYS VS. ASIA!!!

Can you say mismatch? That besotted brainiac Steve Spears is irate about the Traveling Wilburys being called the greatest "supergroup" of all time. That hairy-knuckled '80s apologist is convinced that the prog-pop dream teamers in Asia are the supreme supergroup. The Wilburys vs. Asia in a Blog Battle? That's ridiculous. That's insane. That's like me vs. a six-pack of Chalupas. It's unfair and it's unhealthy. But Steve wants to battle, so we'll battle.

So here are 7 Reasons Why the Traveling Wilburys Are a Superior Supergroup to Those "Don't Cry" Dopes:

Reasons No. 1 thru No. 5: Bob Dylan, George Harrison, Tom Petty, Roy Orbison, Jeff Lynne. If I swapped John Wetton or Steve Howe for any of those guys, it'd be like replacing Babe Ruth with Corey Hart or a cardboard cutout of Morey Amsterdam.

Reason No. 6: Asia tinkered and overthought several albums and came up with -- what? -- five or six great songs. The Wilburys made two albums in a ridiculously short amount of time, screwing around and shouting out lyrics and probably smoking Rhode Island-sized bundles of marijuana, and managed to record 15 near-classics. Now that's talent.

Reason No. 7: You can't spell "sad, prematurely balding sex-averse dorks" without p-r-o-g. Seriously, cueing up an Asia album on a date is a sex repellant on par with a massive bobblehead collection and/or doing a Leonard Nimoy impression.

There, that oughta do it. You can click here for Steve's rebuttal, but really now, we all know the battle is over.

BEATLES WEEK: "Abbey" Rules

WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE BEATLES ALBUM?

Unfair question? Probably. Is there, in fact, a Beatles album for every occasion (Revolver for long, dark nights of the soul, the "White Album" for a one-night stand)? Probably. But screw it. Sgt. Pepper's just celebrated its 40th anniversary, and lots of people were proclaiming it as the Fab's masterpiece. Ask me tomorrow, and maybe I'd agree.

But today, I'm all about Abbey Road. I don't really have any highfalutin' reasons. And it's not like I'm going out on a limb; it's Abbey Road fer crissakes. Rubber Soul and Revolver are far cooler answers.

Basically, it boils down to the fact that my two favorite Beatles songs are on Abbey Road: Something and Here Comes the Sun. I never get tired of hearing them, and they're Reason No. 1 & 2 why George Harrison is also my favorite Beatle. (But we won't play THAT game -- that one's even sillier.) There's also a heightened sense of drama on Abbey Road, which was basically their "goodbye" album (or at least goodbye to each other).

So let's hear it, use whatever criteria you like: WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE BEATLES ALBUM?

BEATLES WEEK: Respecting Our Elders

When Paul McCartney released Memory Almost Full, his 21st solo album, last week, dozens of reviewers, including our own Chris Ave, said it was one of his best in 20 years. I haven't heard the album in full, but I sure wasn't surprised by the universal praise. Two years ago, when the Cute One released his 20th solo album, Chaos and Creation in the Backyard, dozens of reviewers, including myself, said it was some of his best post-Beatles output as well.

Chris Ave wrote a helluva review, but here's the truth about me: I haven't listened to that album since, although McCartney songs such as Take It Away and Singalong Junk, stuff he wrote decades ago, are among the most-played on my iPod.

I meant what I said at the time -- I was caught up in Chaos and Creation, it had a chilly sound, and Macca sure didn't sound too keen about love, which I thought was gutsy. In retrospect, he might have been singing about the imminent implosion of his marriage. It's certainly a good album. But is it great? I'm not so sure. If you ask me today what his best post-Beatles output is, I'd probably reel off myriad songs -- Live and Let Die, Band on the Run, Put It There, The World Tonight -- before I got to anything from Chaos.

So what's the deal? Was I telling the truth? Absolutely. In fact, we critics were probably being more honest (and human) than usual. Nobody wants to see a rock god get all gray and wrinkly, phoning it in until death. Because if Paul's getting older, that means we're getting older, too. And then when he releases a good album -- well, we go bonkers for it, we go overboard, a triple becomes a home run. The truth is that McCartney, like many musical geniuses, just doesn't get reviewed on the same scale.

Rolling Stone is almost comical when it comes to gushing about new product from Dylan, U2, the Stones or any of the Beatles. But that's the magazine's essential job, whether it admits to it or not. As far as RS is concerned, the Old Guard must remain dipped in gold; any new album is almost always a classic. Unfortunately, the last Rolling Stones album was, in fact, a turd in the punchbowl, and I was one of the few critics to openly admit its crappiness. One reviewer called it the Stones "most honest album ever." That's laughable. But I'll tell you, it wasn't easy telling Mick Jagger that he fired out a dud.

BEATLES WEEK: Nelson Wilbury Lives

You remember how the Wilburys game worked, right? Back in 1988, five legends casually formed a supergroup, sitting around a kitchen table and shouting out silly ditties that, upon closer inspection, were pop masterpieces. It was a lark, a one-off among musical brothers, and they took up jokey familial aliases: George Harrison was Nelson Wilbury, Bob Dylan was Lucky, Tom Petty was Charlie T. Jr., Roy Orbison was Lefty, and Jeff Lynne was Otis.

Their first album, Traveling Wilburys Vol. I, sold more than five million copies; it was the sublimely breezy coming together of each man’s particular gifts (Harrison’s woozy guitar, Orbison’s high-lonesome croon, Dylan’s wordsmithery, etc). In 1990, they released the winkingly titled, rather uneven Vol. III, which was made sans Orbison, who had died two years earlier. Not long after that, both Wilbury albums inexplicably went out of print for more than a decade, which lent even more mystery to the curious project.

It’s been a long time coming, but finally, the boys are back. This week, Rhino Records re-released both Wilburys albums complete with full remastering, four bonus tracks, a DVD plus extensive liner notes that explain how it all happened. The Traveling Wilburys Collection is tons of fun, but it’s also taken on an air of poignancy, as Harrison, the head Wilbury, has since passed away as well.

BEATLES WEEK: Lavigne & Lennon?

Green Day covering Working Class Hero? Majestic. Avril Lavigne warbling Imagine? Majestically tone deaf.

Released tomorrow, Instant Karma: The Amnesty International Campaign to Save Darfur is a double-disc charity compilation of pop hotshots paying tribute to John Lennon. The entire 23-track CD will cost you about $22. But this is the iPod age, and drastically uneven collections such as this were made for picking and choosing. So here’s a download-friendly guide to the disc's best and worst:

Instant Goodness
• The Flaming Lips, (Just Like) Starting Over (Singer Wayne Coyne’s spacey sweetness soars over laser-gun synth. Go hug somebody. Now.)
• Regina Spektor, Real Love (The Moscow-born singer will flat-out floor you with this vaguely baroque, chilly take on an overlooked gem.)
• U2, Instant Karma (Too easy, too obvious for the Dublin Four? Maybe. But Bono was born to sing “Well we all shine on!”)
• Corinne Bailey Rae, I’m Losing You (British neo-soul chanteuse nails the smoldering desperation in this classic take on romantic breakdowns.)
• Green Day, Working Class Hero (Billie Joe Armstrong’s everyman rallying cry swells to an epic, rumbling finish. Using Lennon’s voice in the finale is yet another stroke of genius from a band that can do no wrong.)

Cold Turkeys
• Aerosmith featuring Sierra Leone’s Refugee All-Stars, Give Peace a Chance (Makes me want to declare war on Steven Tyler.)
• Snow Patrol, Isolation (When comparing snoozy, self-important Brit-pop bands, Snow Patrol makes Coldplay sound like the zany life of the party. That ain’t easy, kids.)
• Lenny Kravitz, Cold Turkey (This is right in Lenny’s wheelhouse. That said, Lenny’s wheelhouse is overflowing with cheap, slimy knockoffs of his heroes.)
• Avril Lavigne, Imagine (We could be really mean here. But remember: John Lennon preferred women who couldn’t sing a lick.)

Mr. Impaler, I'd Like to Date Your Daughter...

Lord knows I have a lot of weird kinks. But postpunk newcomer Carina Round, a gothy English Midlander, reminds me that I also have a funky vampire fetish going on. Not so much the blood, biting thing. That doesn't do it for me. But Carina's whole can't-resist-her-vampirial-mind-control vibe is totally rocking my world.

Carina Round
Album: Slow Motion Addict (WME/Interscope)
In stores: Now
Why we care: Part punk banshee, part pretty pop star, this striking English Midlander looks like a Bram Stoker fantasy, all dark edges and vampirical sex appeal. Her music ranges from jagged rock confessionals to postpunk in the key of Breeders.
Why we like it: Produced by Glen Ballard (who helmed Alanis’ Jagged Little Pill), Round’s breakout album is built to knock you down. She writes all her songs and plays a whole lot of instruments, including making “electronic beats,” ravey proof that Round is indeed a creature of the night.
Reminds us of: Vlad the Impaler’s hot daughter
Download these: Stolen Car and Gravity Lies
Grade: B

Love This Song: "Ticks"

I saw Brad Paisley last year at the Dallas Bull, a honky-tonk in the boonies of Tampa. It was an intimate album-release party, so he didn't play for long, and he only brought an acoustic guitar, robbing people of his alleged mad electric pickin' skillz. I'd never been a big fan; in fact, I knew more about his wife, actress Kimberly Williams. But damn, the guy was funny. He was more of a stand-up act than a hat act. I remember being impressed. He had a subversive streak, the kind you don't see a lot of on Music Row.

Well guess who just got weirder. Paisley's label Arista Nashville sent me a copy of his new single awhile ago. It sat under the stacks of crap littering my desk. (And it's been on the radio for weeks, but hell, I don't have time for radio.) Anyway, I finally dug it out and listened. Brilliant. Here's a little write-up on it. (And if you want to see a live version featuring Kellie Pickler dressed up as a tick GO HERE.)

Brad Paisley
Song: Ticks
Album: 5th Gear (Arista)
In stores: June 19
Why we care: For some odd reason, there’s never been a plucky country-rock tune about picking parasites off a paramour. With twangy sex appeal, behatted country cutup Paisley has finally filled that void with this ode to blood-suckers. Genius.
Why we like it: “I’d like to see you out in the moonlight / I’d like to kiss you way back in the sticks / I’d like to walk you through a field of wildflowers / And I’d like to check you for ticks.” Can’t ask for much more in a song.
Reminds us of: Getting lice checkups in 3rd grade — and flirting with Katie Howe while waiting in the nurse’s office.
Grade: A

Opening Acts: First Concerts Redux

It’s the greatest icebreaker. It should be asked on all first dates, at all job interviews. It reveals who we were at the crossroads of cluelessness and Clearasil.

What was your first concert?

A few weeks ago, I asked Blog Nation about that unsung rite of passage. The response was passionate and immediate, and funny as hell; click here and check out all the stories for yourself. You won't be sorry. Everyone, the Led Zeppelins and the Shaun Cassidys, had a killer story. So thanks for that.

In today's FLORIDIAN section of your St. Petersburg Times, I wrote up a little something on the first concert experience. Kinda waxed poetic and crap. Check it out. There's also a sidebar plugging some of the best reader stories, but I have no idea where that currently exists in cyberland. Might have to buy a paper to read that one.

And if you missed telling your story the first time, let 'er rip here: What was YOUR first concert? We really wanna hear it.

A New Level of Suckdom

Last night, the Tampa Bay Devil Rays took their punchline status to a whole new laughable low, giving up six (6) runs in the bottom of the ninth, losing to the Toronto Blue Jays, 12-11. I watched the whole thing. It was brutal, pathetic. Pitchers Shawn Camp, Chad Orvella and Tim Corcoran looked terrified out there. Hitting a baseball is arguably the hardest thing to do in sports, and they made it look as easy as Whack-a-Mole. I've interviewed manager Joe Maddon, and he's a cool guy. But jeez, man, your loyalty to lousy players, your incessant need to boost their confidence, is gonna cost you your dream job.

Anway, enough of that. Here's a playlist dedicated to one of the sorriest sports franchises in history. If you'd like to dedicate a song to the Rays, and maybe make yourself feel better, have at it. If you want to just flat-out rage about the Rays, go to sports-page supastar Tom "Two Cents" Jones' blog. And a one, and a two, and a 10, 11, 12...

Loser -- Beck
I Started a Joke -- the Bee Gees
Blowin' in the Wind -- Bob Dylan
It's a Laugh -- Hall & Oates
Sucks to Be You -- Danielle Peck
You Think We Suck -- Ape Fight
Bad -- Michael Jackson
Another One Bites the Dust -- Queen
Mr. Pitiful -- Otis Redding

This Thing...Behind My House...Not Good

I saw one of these damn things in the ravine behind my house. A Florida cottonmouth. Nasty SOB. Up 'til now, I've only had black racers (benign but spazzy) scaring the ever-lovin' crap out of me whenever I mow the lawn. But it's just a matter of time until ol' Cotton Joe over there moves into my grill and launches at me the next time I make turkey burgers. I hate snakes. Really. Hate them.

Because I must conquer my fears, here are a few songs about snakes...
Rattlesnake Shake -- Motley Crue
Slither -- Velvet Revolver
Long Snake Moan -- PJ Harvey
Tube Snake Boogie -- ZZ Top
Snakes and Martyrs -- TV on the Radio
Snakes and Ladders -- Joss Stone
Union of the Snake -- Duran Duran
Hold That Snake -- Ry Cooder
Mongoose & Snake -- Shakira

In Sean's Mailbox: Suzee Spittle & Her Sis

So my good pal Guy was in town this weekend, intent on getting a tour of St. Pete's finest watering holes. Because that's how I roll, I took him to the St. Pete Ale House, where we sidled up to the bar and had a few pints. We were seated next to a lovely sister combo, born and raised in St. Pete, each one drunker than the next. We chatted for awhile, and when I told the older, drunker sibling what I did for a living, she kinda did this cough-laugh combo ("Ka-ha!") and proceeded to loogie over my entire person. I mean, I was soaked in her saliva, and not in a good way. I was also pretty sure she had tuberculosis. It was so horrifically awful, I started to laugh, which made her laugh again ("Ka-hee!"), this time hocking a spit bomb on my finger that looked like a diamond ring. Except it wasn't a diamond ring. It was a plague-carrying ball of phlegm. She didn't notice a thing. This is the second time I've been spat on in two months. I'm obviously doing something wrong.

We could do a playlist salute to spit right now, but let's just check out the contents of my mailbox, which overflowed with new CDs today...

Bruce Springsteen -- Live in Dublin (CD + DVD)
The Pretenders -- Get Close (Remastered)
The Pretenders -- Learning to Crawl (Remastered)
Nick Lowe -- At My Age
The Afghan Whigs -- Unbreakable: A Retrospective
Marilyn Manson -- Eat Me, Drink Me
Herb Alpert -- Rise
Chris Cornell -- Carry On
Ibrahim Ferrer -- Mi Sueno
Daddy Yankee -- El Cartel: The Big Boss

The 'Gina Monologues

Update on My Wee Daughter's Advanced Awareness of Her Naughty Bits: After peppering the air with giggly talk of her quote-unquote 'gina last week, 3-year-old Kid Lulu has been blessedly quiet regarding her bathing suit area. HOWEVER, it apparently runs in the family. When told of her granddaughter's new favorite word, my mother reported that when I, too, was a wee tyke, I asked her, in all wide-eyed seriousness: "Mommy, what's a b--- j--?" Reportedly, my mother started to say something about a woman kissing a man...but I'm fairly certain I blacked out after that. By the way, if Kid Lulu EVER asks me that, I'm fleeing to Mexico, never to be heard from again.

Still waiting for my mailbox to fill with new CDs. I'll write something vaguely related to music in a couple of hours.