In the Hair Tonight

Love Phil Collins. Love chocolate. Love gorillas. Here's a new U.K. commercial for Cadbury.

My New Pals

Last week I journeyed to Lakeview Fundamental Elementary School to talk to a bunch of 9- and 10-year-olds about my job. I was supposed to talk for 40 minutes; I wound up chatting about Hannah Montana, Corbin Bleu and Billy Ray Cyrus for more than an hour.

The kids were smart, funny, highly entertaining, especially one little dude, who said he was a huge Elvis fan. I asked him what his favorite Elvis song was, and he started crooning Clambake. That pretty much made my year.

Anyway, the gang just sent me a bunch of thank-you letters, so I thought I'd share a few snippets...

"The one thing that I learned from you was famous people have big heads and little bodies."

"You are a great guy. I want to be a writer someday like you. P.S. Like the hair."

"When you said that you made fun of Billy Ray Cyrus for his song I didn't blame you! If I were there, I would just be laughing 'cause it just seemed so funny!"

"You are my most favorite music critic that ever existed. I almost wanted to yell out how I feel. Is that how you felt when you were a child?"

"I hope you come again very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very soon."

Slash Speaks!

Just had a great interview with Slash, who comes to Tampa Oct. 6 with Velvet Revolver. A nice guy and a helluva quote. Nothing was off limits, no warnings from his PR people. The 42-year-old guitar god talked for about 30 minutes, covering everything from:

His addictions: "I'm a real loner. I'm not a social partier. I'm more like the closeted f---ing junkie." These days he says he's "reasonably clean."

His mystical top hat: "It's something I hide behind. Without it, I feel really naked."

His upcoming work on Guitar Hero 3: "I was obsessed with playing Guitar Hero 2. As a guitar player, it's actually harder to play than if you're not a player. I could do medium, but on expert, I can't pull the chords off!"

He even has his own autobiography hitting stores in November: Slash: It Seems Excessive But That Doesn't Mean It Didn't Happen.

And, of course, he talked about Axl and Guns N' Roses: "I'm so sick of it. It just doesn't go away....I haven't been keeping abreast of all of the [Guns N' Roses news]. I'm not really interested. It's been a long time since I left.... Besides the recorded music, the only thing that ties [Axl and I] together is everybody's fantasy about us getting back together."

About a reunion tour, Slash says: "The figures that have been thrown at us have been astronomical."

But alas, he says, it ain't gonna happen.

[Photo: Getty Images.]

Morally Repugnant...and Awesome!

Beneath the blizzards of cocaine, bindles of smack, mountains of pills and gallons of Jack Daniel’s, there’s a vital lesson lurking in The Heroin Diaries, the new tell-all by Motley Crue bassist and world-class dumbass Nikki Sixx. And that lesson is this:

You can totally bag more strippers when you’re sober.

What? You were expecting Hallmarkian sentiment? This is the Crue we’re talking about, the most debauched troupe of dirtballs to be birthed in the sin-stained gutters of West Hollywood. This is a multiplatinum metal band that, during its ’80s heyday, entertained itself in hotels by greeting room service in the nude (and that's when they were being charming).

Strangely enough, though, the boys make for riveting storytellers. In 2001, Sixx, plus Motley bandmates Vince Neil, Mick Mars and Tommy Lee, delivered best-selling oral history The Dirt, the first 250 pages of which are so morally bankrupt...I can’t recommend the book enough. Seriously, it's awesomely shocking, and it makes Led Zeppelin’s infamous bio Hammer of the Gods read like The Book of Virtues.

Equally abhorrent and highly entertaining, sorta-sequel The Heroin Diaries also includes ribald interviews with Neil, Mars and Lee. But this one’s primarily about Sixx, who kept a day-to-day journal in 1987 when Motley Crue was the biggest band in the world — and the band’s leader and songwriter was spiraling down a rabbit hole of heroin and cocaine addiction.

If The Dirt was about the party, The Heroin Diaries is about the morning-after wreckage. It’s bleak, violent, mind-blowingly profane. By embracing both candor and crassness — and dishing on everyone from Jon Bon Jovi to Slash to Heather Locklear — Sixx spins a gross, gripping yarn, the rare celeb to detail every drop of blood, every trashed hotel room, every naked groupie crawling through his window.

Say what you want about Sixx — he’s been pronounced dead twice — but in this day and age of milquetoast rock stars, it’s refreshing to be repulsed by the old-school guys. Using old journal entries and modern-day commentary, he paints scene after pathetic scene of his drug use, impotence and increasing paranoia: "There is something about spending Christmas alone, naked, sitting by the Christmas tree gripping a shotgun, that lets you know your life is spinning dangerously outta control."

Eddie Vedder's "Into the Wild"

What took Sean Penn and Eddie Vedder — two surly, ranting iconoclasts — so long to collaborate? Penn asked the Pearl Jam singer to score his adaptation of author Jon Krakauer’s best-selling true story. You know the drama right? A young man ditches a life of affluence for a tragic existence in the Alaskan wilderness. Total exit the rainmaker job.

I've never been the biggest Pearl Jam fan -- I have five PJ songs on my iPod, including a great cover of Dylan's Masters of War. But this album is 33 minutes of jarring music. Playing almost all of the instruments, and writing all but two of the 11 songs, Vedder delves into the mind of someone rebelling against society and trying to find peace in an unforgiving land. The kid could also be completely bonkers, so Vedder has to factor that in, as well.

This is heavy-duty stuff, as the percussively intricate songs range from prickly ruminations to jarring, giant rockers. It's moving, but also rather disturbing. In related news, St. Pete Times film critic Steve Persall — yet another surly, ranting iconoclast — says Into the Wild could be movie of the year.

Sean's Suspect Parenting, Part 374

Kid Lulu got into the comic books last night. Spidey, Silver Surfer, Captain America. She liked all the guy crime-fighters, but she flipped when she got to She-Hulk, a tough female superhero. "I wanna be She-Hulk!" I've never been more proud.

So this morning, I wore my Incredible Hulk shirt and referred to her as She-Hulk during breakfast. Lulu was loving it. During our walk to school, she asked me: "Can you have my teacher call me She-Hulk?"

Sure. Where's the harm in that?

So we get to her home room, and I say to her teacher, Miss Holly: "Hey, do you mind calling her She-Hulk today?"

Miss Holly looked like I goosed her: "She-Hulk?"

"Uh, yeah. She-Hulk. She's like the Hulk, um, but a girl." I pointed to my Hulk T-shirt, as if that explained everything.

"I'm She-Hulk!" my daughter said triumphantly to all of her classmates.

That's when the Big Girl in the Class, the Loudmouth, the Bully, the Meanie, walked over to my daughter and said, "She-Hulk? YOU'RE WEIRD!!!"

And all the kids started giggling.

Uh-oh.

My daughter then gave me a look, a horrible look, a trembly look, that basically said: WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME? SHE-HULK? YOU COULDN'T PROMOTE A MORE NORMAL SUPERHERO? MAYBE BATGIRL? OR WONDER WOMAN? NO, YOU HAD TO GO WITH A MARVEL LESSER-KNOWN, A CULT FANTASY FOR NERDS WHO CAN'T GET GIRLS. SHE-HULK?!! GREAT. NOW I'M THE WEIRD KID. HOPE YOU'RE SAVING UP FOR THERAPY, 'CAUSE OL' SHE-HULK, SHE'S GOT SOME SERIOUS BAGGAGE TO UNLOAD.

I tried to correct the situation, sizing up the Bully with a: "She-Hulk is the coolest. Don't you know anything?" But by then, the damage was done. Miss Holly came over and started talking to Kid Lulu about dolphins. Dazed, dizzied, I staggered out of the room.

I left feeling pretty bad. But c'mon, if a 3-year-old girl can't be She-Hulk, who can? So in honor of my crime-fighting daughter, here's today's playlist:

Superhero -- Jane's Addiction
Stronger -- Kanye West
Heroes -- David Bowie
Born to Fly -- Sara Evans
Fire Woman -- the Cult
Flash -- Queen
Superman (It's Not Easy) -- Five for Fighting
Herculean -- the Good, the Bad & the Queen
I Believe I Can Fly -- R. Kelly
Iron Man -- Black Sabbath
Learning to Fly -- Tom Petty
Believe It or Not -- Joey Scarbury

[PICTURE: Marvel Comics]

Take Your Apology and Go

I BLAME NIKKI SIXX.

It's certainly no coincidence that I spent yesterday morning absorbing the Motley rocker's debauched, disorderly tell-all -- and then spent yesterday afternoon (and, um, night) doing my damndest to act like a complete buffoon. Without getting into the details, I'd like to apologize to the following people:

The entire city of Boston
The Tampa Bay Devil Rays
Pitcher Edwin Jackson
The beer vendor who tried to dress like Johnny Depp but instead looked like Little Steven stuck in the rain
The Walt Disney Co.
That girl at Ferg's with the cigarette in her cleavage
The Forever Fiancee
Kid Lulu
Most of my Feather Sound neighbors
That girl in the Jason Varitek jersey who couldn't take a joke

To all those people, I'd also like to dedicate the following playlist...

All Apologies -- Nirvana
Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word -- Elton John
I'm Sorry -- Brenda Lee
Hard to Say I'm Sorry -- Chicago
Sorry, Blame It on Me -- Akon
Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing -- Chris Isaak

My Unhealthy Alicia Keys Crush

Alicia Keys' new album, As I Am, doesn’t come out until Nov. 13, but her passionate, piano-pounded first single, No One, makes me think her third studio effort could be lethally good.

Of course, my ability to fairly critique the classically trained Keys has been hindered ever since I met her face-to-face at the MTV VMA's and realized she was THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN OF ALL TIME. I also saw her at the Grammys a few years ago. Now I'm no fashion expert, but I'm fairly certain her backless dress was THE MOST AWESOME SARTORIAL CHOICE IN THE HISTORY OF CLOTHING.

On No One, currently available on iTunes, the 26-year-old New Yorker borrows from Bob Marley and Brahms, weaving classical and Kingston threads into this sweaty, pleading hit. How romantic is this sucker? Nine months from now, there will be thousands of babies named Alicia. That's how romantic.

Questions for Slash?

Next week, my hirsute dreams come true.

In anticipation of Velvet Revolver's Oct. 6 stop in Tampa, I'll be interviewing Saul "Slash" Hudson, if not one of the most influential guitarists of all time, then definitely the hairiest.

But here's the deal: I'll probably get 20 minutes at best. So where do you start? Maybe lead with a few VR queries and then go for the G N' R gold? And you have to devote at least 6 minutes to his top hat, right? Gonna have to plan this sucker just right.

WHO HAS A QUESTION FOR SLASH?

The iFlush? (This is NOT a joke.)

"Now you can Enhance your Experience anywhere..."

Or say so the scientists at Atech Flash Technology.

Can you imagine? I shudder at the thought of one of my friends, after a pitcher of beer and 20 hot wings, saying, "Hey, Sean, you mind if I borrow your iPod. I need to hit the head."

For more info, go here.

"Pret-ty...Pret-ty...Pret-ty Good"

I'm a total Curb Your Enthusiasm junkie.

Each year, I'll sign up for HBO solely for a new season of Curb, and then, because I've already seen The Wedding Crashers 500 times, I'll cancel HBO until good ol' LD puts together a new batch of genius.

There are certain episodes -- Tabasco finger, beloved "aunt," hooker at the Dodgers game, the Nativity scene -- when I'm thoroughly convinced it's the greatest sitcom of all time. Next to The Simpsons, I've never laughed at a show so consistently for so long.

Two episodes in, Season 6 has been solid ("Then why did you take home the balls?"), if not classic.

Anyway, I'm happy to report that iTunes has a comprehensive selection of music from Curb, including the theme song, Frolic, by Luciano Michelini.

We all have our Larry David moments. So we should at least have the music to go with them.

Tiny Dancer

This morning, Kid Lulu starts dance class. We bought her a pink leotard and wee ballet shoes. She's totally pumped for this -- Monday and Tuesday morning began with tears when she asked, "Is today dance day?" "Uhhhh, no...dance class is only on Wednesdays." She BAWLED. Thursday morning is gonna suck. I'll have to bribe her with M&Ms or something. My little fat dancer. At least she'll stop crying.

Anyway, the kickoff to Lulu's dance career is exciting and all. But it's also the beginning of 14 years of dance class and soccer games and violin lessons and sleepovers. Today I become a chauffeur.

It's times like these when I'm reminded of the Forever Fiancee doing her seductive Copacabana dance back in '03, her Lola-showgirl shimmy that changed my life forever. Had I resisted her romantic overtures, I'd probably be driving a Porsche and partying in Ibiza right now. But thanks to Barry Manilow, I instead have to cram a squirmy 3-year-old into a leotard. No regrets. I love my life. But there better be free food at those dance recitals.

Anyway, in honor of my Tiny Dancer, here's today's playlist, Kid Lulu's Pirouette Party:

1) Dance the Night Away -- Van Halen
2) Land of 1,000 Dances -- Wilson Pickett
3) Twisting by the Pool -- Dire Straits
4) Get Down Tonight -- KC and the Sunshine Band
5) Mystery Dance -- Elvis Costello
6) Dance on Your Knees -- Hall & Oates
7) Harlem Shuffle -- Rolling Stones
8) Dance With Me -- Orleans
9) Let's Face the Music and Dance -- Diana Krall
10) Everybody Loves to Cha Cha Cha -- Sam Cooke   

Feelin' Perky (or: Crushing on KT)

It really annoys me when record labels -- trying to save money, trying to curb piracy, trying to tick me off -- send review copies in digital form only. Seriously, James Blunt does nothing for me on CD, so I sure as hell ain't downloading a "special player" to listen to that dope.

If that sounds grumpy and unreasonable, too bad. One of the great perks of this gig is free crap. Thankfully, most labels still bust it old-school (but certainly not for long), and over the last two days, there's been a tsunami of new CDs and related perks flooding my desk.

I'm really digging KT Tunstall's new Drastic Fantastic. I think people are buzzing about the Scottish pop star because she's a newcomer at a relatively ripe 32 years old. She has her sh-- together. She's not vapid and blonde. Sure, her music is nothing revolutionary, but it has backbone and catchy melodies. You feel like rooting for her, and there's nothing wrong with that.

Anyway, here are some of the other goodies that have shown up today (not counting my 10th copy of 50 Cent's Curtis)...

Eddie Vedder -- Into the Wild
John Fogerty -- Revival
Diana Krall -- The Very Best Of
Emmylou Harris -- Songbird (4CD/DVD)
Hot Hot Heat -- Happiness Ltd.
Athlete -- Beyond the Neighbourhood
John Scofield -- This Meets That
Sea Wolf -- Leaves in the Rover

Gypsy Mountain Hop?

Raising Sand, the curiouser and curiouser duets album by crotch-driven rock god Robert Plant and bluegrass fairy Alison Krauss, doesn't come out until Oct. 23. But because I'm special, I received my copy last week. I was skeptical. I expected wispy, folky crap driven by Plant's love for the Sixties.

But lo and behold, this sucker is good. Haunted. Creepy. Moody. Like menacing gypsy carnival music. A little Danny Elfman, a little Daniel Lanois. Usually, one of them will take the lead, while the other provides background wails, Plant's iconic muezzin's call, Krauss's crystalline soprano coo.

The album is produced by the great T Bone Burnett, who, among myriad achievements, produced the O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack. The guy's money in the bank.

I'll write longer about Raising Sand closer to the release date; in fact, I'm sure a lot of people will. But put it on your wish list. It'll be one of fall's big buzzmakers.

What Was Your First CD?

The compact disc turns 25 years old this year.

It's definitely a bittersweet nostalgia for the ol' CD -- we all remember our first. (Neil Young's Live Rust, Journey's Greatest Hits). That was a brave new world we were entering.

At the same time, a lot of people these days have no problem moving their music to iPod and selling their discs. Adios, CD -- no tears, no remorse.

Me? I'm a freak. I still have vinyl. I still have CDs. Hell, you could even find a few Springsteen cassettes around the Daly manse, too.

I'm writing a birthday rumination on the CD this week, but for now, I really wanna know...

WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CD?

Dora's Dirty Dance Party

You are an obsession
You're my obsession
Who do you want me to be
To make you sleep with me?
-- Animotion, Obsession (1985)

This is the last story from my vacation. I promise. But I just had to tell it. So...the Forever Fiancee and I tool Kid Lulu to the Nickelodeon Hotel in Orlando last weekend, which, as you can imagine, was basically a madhouse, like Munchkin Land with more urine. The pools and slides are really cool -- but by 10 p.m., the water rides are unseasonably warm, if you catch my drift.

Anyway, Lulu really wanted to meet Dora the Explorer. So against the pleas of my wallet, I booked reservations for the Nickelodeon character breakfast. Now, as anyone who's done this at Disney will tell you, the character breakfast is often a hellacious experience. You pay $75 bucks to essentially beg some creepy dude in a Goofy get-up to bless your table for 17 seconds. Parents freak out, ready to spray the place with gunfire if Tigger doesn't pose for another Polaroid.

But at Nickelodeon, we ate at 10:10 a.m., and the dining room was essentially empty. Which meant Dora, Diego and Spongebob were all ours. In fact, it ultimately got awkward, as we eventually tried to eat our money's worth, but kept getting interrupted by someone in a costume. "Hey, Diego, yeah, um, we're just gonna eat a little, you know. No offense. Catch you later?" And Diego would slouch away.

Now: We had a great time at Nickelodeon, and especially the breakfast. But like Disney and Orlando, Nickelodeon is desperate to appeal to both parents and kids. Everyone's competing for your tourist dollar. So at the Nick breakfast, they blast grown-up pop songs. A little TOO grown-up.

I'm walking back from the buffet line, when I see my daughter and Dora the Explorer dancing together. Cute, right? But then I slowly realize that the song playing is Animotion's Obsession. You remember that '80s ditty: You are an obsession / You're my obsession / Who do you want me to be / To make you sleep with me." And they have the volume cranked.

Now granted, it's not Gin and Juice or Me So Horny. But come on. Who's the DJ back there? The FF thought I was overreacting -- she also thought I was misquoting the song. I have a feeling some wise-ass kid thought he was pulling a fast one, a buncha dumb parents would never know. But I got you pegged, pal. I got you pegged real good. Let the power of my mighty blog commence!

Reader Mail: "Cream of the Crop"?

S.D.,

I grew up as Como, Sinatra, Crosby, etc., etc., etc. were growing in popularity. They never screamed hatred for their country, law and order, women, etc., and they never shot or stabbed each other.

These scum that you refer to as artists ("Rappers Kanye West and 50 Cent are own biggest rivals," 9/13) are not fit to tread the earth with decent people! Art refers to a talent, thus artist relates to talented.

While I played guitar a little, I never could sing a note, BUT I, from about age 9 to present could and can write FAR BETTER lyrics on ANY decent subject; and grate and shout them out at least as well as they. That does not make me talented or an artist.

The fact that these low lifes become millionaires says a great deal about society and those who worship and write about them! ! !

Further, there were also women, Clooney, Starr, Page, etc., they didn't make public sex videos, or appear practically nude. They didn't go without underwear wearing mini dresses, purposely exposing their crotch to anyone in the area!

Lest you think me a religious nut, or prude. . . . I could write a few thousand pages of the MANY ladies (cream of the crop) with whom I shared REAL adventures, likely far exceeding those that the guys in bars and elsewhere fantacize and lie to each other about!

Yet neither they nor I could stoop to the gutter level of these so-called celebrities, and those who idolize them!!!!!

Mark Knoplfer's Stunning New Album

Dire Straits, like Creedence Clearwater Revival, is one of those acts that most women hate. If I'm wrong, ladies, let me know about it. But I'm sticking to my guns. I hear it again and again. [UPDATE: The above statement has not been received well by my female co-workers. When I tried to explain that my attempts at generalizing were puckish, they scared me with mean looks.]

That said, if you played "most women" Mark Knopfler's solo work, from Darling Pretty to his soundtrack stuff, they'd no doubt swoon. There's something about Knopfler when he's away from the boys: more sensitive, more baroque, more romantic. [UPDATE: Yeah, this part's not going over too well, either. Instead of "swoon," I might as well have said "they'd no doubt get the vapors."]

New album Kill to Get Crimson, in stores Sept. 18, is phenomenally atmospheric, dreamy, smart. I can't get enough of it. It's instantly gratifying. There's a song on there, The Scaffolder's Wife, that has a gentle, vaguely Celtic swoon -- until about a minute in, when Knopfler's signature guitar (that tone!) kicks in, and you realize the heroine is not as innocent as you once thought. Wow. I'll write more in the future, but for now, keep Kill to Get Crimson on your radar.

Questions for BRAD PAISLEY?

This weekend I'm scheduled to interview country cut-up Brad Paisley, who's coming to Tampa's Ford Amphitheatre Friday, Sept. 21.

Paisley recently scored a hit with the quasi-novelty come-on Ticks, which covered the romantic side of searching your mate for blood-sucking parasites:

I know the perfect little path
Out in these woods I used to hunt
Don't worry babe I've got your back
And I've also got your front
I'd hate to waste a night like this
I'll keep you safe you wait and see
The only thing allowed to crawl all over you when we get there is me.

A best-selling hat act, Paisley also has a rep as a ferocious guitar picker. A lot of these country dudes are just frustrated rock stars in Dodge City getups, so I'm gonna ask Brad if he ever closes the dressing-room door and secretly jams along with Van Halen's Eruption.

The rest I leave up to you: WHO HAS A QUESTION FOR BRAD PAISLEY?

Kid Lulu Attacked by Bird!!!

So the Forever Fiancee and I took Kid Lulu to SeaWorld last weekend. It's yet another Florida attraction in which you can feed animals that should only be fed by skilled professionals: sharks, dolphins, killer whales. My 3-year-old daughter was melting down by the end of the day, but before we left, she really wanted to feed the sea lions at the Pacific Point Preserve. So naturally, being entirely suspect parents, we said yes.

Bad idea.

As the FF was buying a carton of bait fish, the pimply $5.50-an-hour SeaWorld employee behind the counter said, "Be careful of the birds." Birds? What birds? Yeah, whatever, kid.

When the sea lions see us coming with the fish heads, they start going nuts, barking loud, thrashing, belly-bumping each other out of the way. This is TOTALLY FREAKING OUT Kid Lulu. But me, I'm like Clark Griswold, intent on my daughter having some good ol-fashioned aquatic fun. So I pick her up, put a fish in her wee hand and shout, "Throw it!" She's crying pretty good now, saying, "They're too loud!"

Bless her heart: Right as she's about to toss the fish, this monster-sized water fowl, a bird with a 20-inch scimitar beak and a wingspan of two school buses, beelines for Lulu and her fish -- CAW! -- and swipes it out of her hand, nicking her thumb in the process.

MELTDOWN! Now Lulu is screaming -- "WAAAH!! I HATE SEAWORLD! WAAAH! I NEVER WANT TO COME BACK TO SEAWORLD!" -- the Forever Fiancee is in frantic medic mode, the sea lions are enraged...

...and I'm thoroughly convinced I've just spent $200 in SeaWorld park admission so that my kid will have a lifelong fear of birds.

With that in mind, here's today's playlist:

1) Bird Flu -- M.I.A.
2) Fly Like an Eagle -- Steve Miller Band
3) The Bird -- The Time
4) Broken Wing -- Mr. Mister
5) Blackbird -- the Beatles
6) Born to Fly -- Sara Evans
7) Flight -- Gomez
8) Flying High Again -- Ozzy Osbourne
9) The Raven -- the Alan Parsons Project
10) Bird on a Wire -- the Neville Brothers

REVIEWS: Kanye, 50 Cent

On his new album, Kanye West dubs himself "the fly Malcolm X, by any jeans necessary"; on his new album, 50 Cent frowns that he "still will kill." The always eccentric West samples Steely Dan and Parisian electronica oddballs Daft Punk; the forever gangsta Fiddy unloads more gunshot effects than a Rambo flick. Mr. West’s new liner notes feature a cartoon bear; Mr. Cent’s liner notes feature the star eating a handgun with knife and fork.

For all the talk of the hyper Kanye West and the brooding 50 Cent battling for hip-hop supremacy this week, there’s one thing to remember: They excel at two totally different styles, and their new albums, West’s Graduation and Fiddy’s Curtis, both released today, will no doubt appeal to different audiences.

Sure, they both rap, they both brag, they both sport egos the size of zeppelins. They also have myriad special guests to spare: Coldplay’s Chris Martin and rappers Mos Def and Lil Wayne back Kanye; Justin Timberlake, Akon and Mary J. Blige help 50.

But West, who calls himself "the Louis Vuitton don," hails from the middle-class ’burbs of Chicago. He’s famously vainglorious, but he’s also insecure, a bipolar act that never fails to entertain. The Queens-born 50 Cent, aka Curtis Jackson, is a former drug dealer who’s been shot nine times. He’s John Wayne in da club, an asphalt gunslinger, and he plays the part of the ultimate, all-id male, no apologies.

So instead of comparing them to each other, you should compare them to themselves. Graduation and Curtis are third albums for both, and while one artist continues to push the envelope on hiphop song structure, the other is content to strut down the same ol’ bang-bang street, guns cocked, banks robbed, the clock set to High Noon.

Kanye vs. Fiddy: Super Tuesday Showdown

Between Britney Spears' chunky-zombie cha-cha and Justin Timberlake’s snotty disdain for the network that made him, Sunday’s MTV Video Music Awards were yet again an awkward, unlikable affair. But there was one glimmer of puckish fun, a surprising show of humor and optimism from a crew of talents that could use a little ha-ha.

After reports came out that dunderheaded rockers Tommy Lee and Kid Rock had scrapped in the name of Pamela Anderson’s bust size, hip-hoppers from P. Diddy to Yung Joc to Jamie Foxx started whooping it up, cheekily calling for an end to "white-on-white violence." It was a great gag, finally a much-needed respite for musicians plagued by ugly news of feuds, bloodshed and wayward braggadocio.

Even more important, it was a big boost and a positive lead-in for what could very well be the biggest sales day the music industry has had in years. Tomorrow, on what is called a "Super Tuesday," Chicago rapper Kanye West and Queens rhymer 50 Cent — both of whom hammed it up on the VMAs, going toe-to-toe in mock Ali-Frazier (but forgoing fisticuffs)— are releasing new albums. Adding fuel to the fire, country star Kenny Chesney is also entering the fray with his new disc.

Super Tuesday is an industry term for that rare occasion when heavy-hitters drop albums on the same day. Much like movie studios jockeying for choice summer weekends, music labels prefer to release their biggest albums against little or no competition, giving music fans but one way to spend their hard-earned cash.

Not tomorrow. Mr. West, who is on the Roc-A-Fella label, and Mr. Cent, who is on Aftermath, are releasing what could be the two biggest albums of 2007. There was talk about moving the release of one album or the other, but neither has chickened out. You gotta dig that.

Both new discs — Kanye's Graduation, Fiddy's Curtis — are the artists’ third studio efforts. Together, the musicians have sold close to 30-million albums. So not only will Kanye and 50's sales figures determine whether the dismal, dizzied music industry has a bad year or a horrific year — album sales are down 14 percent compared with '06, which was one of the worst in history — but it will also influence the future face of hip-hop.

Is This Van Halen's Setlist?

Loyal blogger Guy and his eagle-eyes picked up this item on MelodicRock.com, which has pix from Van Halen's rehearsal and a possible setlist for the upcoming tour, which still doesn't have a Tampa Bay date. Anyway, here's the "rehearsed" setlist. Looks good to me (no Van Hagar stuff), especially I'm the One...

YOU REALLY GOT ME
ROMEO DELIGHT
SOMEBODY GET ME A DOCTOR
I'M THE ONE
MEAN STREET
UNCHAINED
PRETTY WOMAN (No "Intruder.")
DANCE THE NIGHT AWAY
ICE CREAM MAN
BEAUTIFUL GIRLS
GUITAR SOLO
SO THIS IS LOVE?
AND THE CRADLE WILL ROCK....
EVERYBODY WANTS SOME!!
SECRETS
I'LL WAIT
RUNNIN' WITH THE DEVIL
LITTLE GUITARS
JAMIE'S CRYIN'
ATOMIC PUNK
FEEL YOUR LOVE TONIGHT
LITTLE DREAMER
ON FIRE
PANAMA
HOT FOR TEACHER
AIN'T TALKIN' 'ABOUT LOVE

ENCORE:
1984
JUMP

In Sean's Mailbox: Slave to the Grind

I really resented Brit-Brit's performance last night. Not because her weave looked like Barbie hair or her chunky-zombie cha-cha was a Xanaxian sham. No, I was ticked at Spears because her performance signaled my return to work. After a 10-day vacation, the last thing I wanted to do was watch the MTV VMAs, which, not surprisingly, sucked. But I did watch them -- well, until the Curb Your Enthusiasm premiere at 10, the second half of which was hi-larious.

Anyway, it's gonna take me awhile to get back to speed, but here's the start of the myriad CDs that were waiting in my mailbox:

Kenny Chesney -- Just Who I Am: Poets & Pirates
Patti Scialfa -- Play It As It Lays
Swizz Beatz -- One Man Band Man
The Sadies -- New Seasons
Travis Tritt -- The Storm
Genesis -- Turn It On Again: The Hits
Matt White -- Best Days
Atreyu -- Lead Sails Paper Anchor
Just Jack -- Overtones

Sean's Vacation: Coffee, Tea or Me?

When I was a kid, my mother owned a used bookstore in Londonderry, N.H. I used to spend long days wandering the aisles, searching for (1) movie tie-in novelizations and (2) pictures of half-naked women. This is also where I mastered the delicate art of finding all the "dirty parts" in used romance books: cradle the Harlequin, spine down, gently in your hand and then slowly, ever so slowly, rock book from side to side, until the pages separate in great divides. Nine times out of 10, you'll inevitably find the word LOINS.

Anyway, the book that really made my Toughskins feel funny was 1967 bestseller Coffee, Tea or Me?, the hubba-hubba tale of two sexy stews, Trudy Baker and Rachel Jones, making the friendly skies so much friendlier. The drawings of zaftig ladies and giant boobies were sublime.

When selecting what book to read over my current vacation, I somehow remembered Coffee, Tea or Me?, which was reissued (original drawings included!) a few years ago by Penguin. Turns out a ghostwriter, the magnificently horny Donald Bain, was the real genius behind the book. No matter: Forty years later, the bawdy travelogue is breezy, politically incorrect fun, the perfect beach book, with Frank Sinatra's Come Fly With Me the acknowledged soundtrack. From a historical standpoint, it also says a lot about where we've been (flying as ring-a-ding fun), and where we are (flying in a terrorized world).

The boob pictures are still really cool, too.

Sean's Vacation: The Face of Evil

So I took Kid Lulu to a classmate's b-day party at Chuck E. Cheese the other day. Things were cruising along rather well...until our hostess, a skittery blonde 18-year-old with a nervous condition, summoned some guy in a rodent suit from the back room.

"And now here he is, kids...Chuck E. Cheese!"

The 3-year-olds started to clap and laugh until they realized, rather quickly, that something was horribly wrong with Chuck. He just stood there, motionless, a cold, lifeless stare in his dead rodent eyes. His head slowly cocked to the side. Chuck E. Cheese might as well have been wearing a Michael Myers mask.

The nervous blonde hostess, now the only one clapping and dancing, grabbed the rat by the arm and half-whispered, half-hissed, "Come on, Chuck E!" But there was no reaction from the rat. Kids started giving him a whole lot of room. And soon enough, Chuck E. just stood there in the corner, alone, lurking, staring.

Yep, I'm having one helluva vacation.

Tomorrow, we go to the Nickelodeon Hotel. Here's hoping the guy in the Spongebob suit isn't a psychopath.

The Dave Matthews Lesson

One of my first great freelancing gigs was covering a Dave Matthews Band show for Rolling Stone’s fledgling Web site. This was back in ’96, when the jamband star from Charlottesville, Va., was charting with hits So Much to Say and Crash Into Me. The show was at the old Cap Centre in Washington, D.C. I didn’t know Matthews too well, but I couldn’t turn down the job. So I brought a friend, Mike Cohen, who claimed he was a huge DMB fan. The plan was simple: Mike would give me all the song titles in exchange for a ticket, I’d write up the review — and with a cornucopia of highfalutin' wordplay, I’d be a Rolling Stone stud in no time.

But as the night wore on, my friend’s knowledge of Dave Matthews turned out to be suspect. The band would kick into another cut, I’d ask Mike for a name, and he'd scrunch up his face, think for a second and say, "I don’t know the name...but I call this one the Scorpion Song!" What? The Scorpion Song?! What in the hell is that? This went on for three hours. Mike didn’t know a damn thing; most of the time he hadn’t even heard the song before. In all fairness, Matthews was already a prolific songwriter, with more than enough material to swap out setlists night after night. Regardless, it was a bleepin' nightmare. My heart was racing. I was sweating profusely. My notebook was basically empty. There was a cute girl in front of me distracting with her undulations. Rolling Stone was going to slaughter me.

Long story short, as I crouched over my computer later that night, minutes ticking down 'til deadline, I learned some very valuable writing lessons: (1) Go with what you got and (2) Stretch like hell. The review wound up running, and if I recall, I was reeeaaally impressed with his live versions of So Much to Say and Crash Into Me.

Dave Matthews Band, with the Wailers, performs Wednesday, Sept. 12 at 7 p.m. Ford Amphitheatre, Tampa. $40-$65. (813) 740-2446.