Fave movie score? Indy rock, baby

It's a nightmare going to the movies with me. And not just for the obvious reasons. I insist on getting there at least 30 minutes prior to a flick. I need time to look at all the posters, order up a buttery vat of heart-clogging corn (extra salt please) and I can't miss a single trailer, or I'll pout like a baby. Most people assume this is my OCD rearing its (melon)head, but it's deeper than that.

When I was 11, my mother drove me and some pals to the theater (Rt. 3 Cinema in Chelmsford, Mass.) to see a new movie called Raiders of the Lost Ark. I'm not sure who I saw it with, maybe John Hickey or Keith Marciniak. Anyway, we stumbled into the theater 15 minutes late. Hmmm, we thought, this movie gets off to a slow start. We noticed a few people smirking at us, but we weren't sure why. When I saw Raiders again a week later (and again, and again), I realized why people were snickering. Holy crap! We had missed the most rousing opening in movie history. The spiders! Satipo! The giant frickin' ball! I would never make that mistake again. Ever.

You ask me my favorite movie of all time, 27 years later I still give the same answer. Raiders would also goose my love for soundtracks, for big bad rousing scores. I totally geek out for John Williams, but I also dig Danny Elfman, Randy Newman, Thomas Newman and more.

So here are my 15 fave movie scores, all of which are on my iPod. No doubt about No. 1, baby.

By the way, I'll be there May 22 for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Might actually get to the theater an hour early for that one. Say hi if you see me. Maybe I'll buy you some popcorn...

1) The Raiders March (Raiders of the Lost Ark) -- John Williams
2) The Imperial March (The Empire Strikes Back) -- John Williams
3) The Dream Is Always the Same (Risky Business) -- Tangerine Dream
4) Prologue 1915-1923 (The  Natural) -- Randy Newman
5) Walsh Gets the Duke/Main Titles/Diner Blues (Midnight Run) -- Danny Elfman
6) So Was Red (The Shawshank Redemption) -- Thomas Newman
7) Batman Theme (Batman) -- Danny Elfman
8) Ragtime (Ragtime) -- Randy Newman
9) Heaven Can Wait (Heaven Can Wait) -- Dave Grusin
10) Main Title Theme (Billy) (Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid) -- Bob Dylan
11) Going Home (Local Hero) -- Mark Knopfler
12) Main Title (The Blue Max) -- Jerry Goldsmith
13) Building the Barn (Witness) -- Maurice Jarre
14) Main Title (Superman) -- John Williams
15) Promise (The Family Man) -- Danny Elfman

FOB & John Mayer's "Beat It"

For some twisted reason, I like this. I'm not not a Fall Out Boy fan, and Mayer is a dope. But this? Makes me grin. If you have any doubts that history will remember Michael Jackson very, very well, here's proof that it's already happening.

Congratulations, Lil' Bastard

I don't care about the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame. But I care a great deal about John Mellencamp, who was (finally) inducted into said HOF this week. Validation from peers means a lot to Mellencamp, who's always been mentioned after Woody, Bruce and Bob on the list of great chroniclers of the American condition. But growing up, especially as a child of the MTV generation, Mellencamp was my guy, especially his Scarecrow album, one of the great rock statements of all time. (Special shout-out to drummer Kenny Aronoff.)

As I've mentioned far too many times, I spent some one-on-one time with the native Hoosier a few years ago. The Washington Post sent me to Bloomington, Ind., after the "Vote for Change" concerts were ineffective in dislodging George W. from office. Mellencamp and his family (wife Elaine Irwin, sons Hud and Speck) were nice enough to have me in their gorgeous house (and their bathroom) on the shores of Lake Monroe. The interview was mind-blowingly good, but in classic Lil' Bastard style, he picked apart Scarecrow when I suggested it for canonization. "Too many cartoon songs," he grunted in between drags on an American Spirit. I called him crazy, a highlight of my life.

Anyway, in celebration of his induction, here are SD's 10 Favorite John Mellencamp Songs:

10. Minutes to Memories
9. Check It Out
8. Justice and Independence '85
7. My Aeroplane
6. Get a Leg Up
5. What If I Came Knocking
4. Hurts So Good
3. Lonely Ol' Night
2. Jack & Diane (WATCH)
1. The Authority Song

Wino, Kanye Lead Grammy Noms

It's official: The Grammy Awards are madly in love with Kanye West.

And they pretty much kicked Bruce Springsteen to the curb.

When nominations were announced Thursday for the 50th annual Grammy Awards — to be broadcast Feb. 10 live on CBS — rapper West led all artists with eight nods, including album of the year for his best-selling disc Graduation. The deck is so stacked in favor of the Chicago star, still mourning the very public death of mother Donda West, the 30-year-old might sweep 'em all.

Beehived British newcomer Amy "Wino" Winehouse, whose drug-fueled screw-uppery has competed with her prodigious talent, was next with six nominations, including best new artist and album of the year for Back to Black, which blends a girl-group sound with hip-hop beats.

Although such stars as rapper Jay-Z (five noms), R&B siren Rihanna (four) and this year’s chart-rocking dynamo, American Idol baldie Chris Daughtry (four), were also recognized for their work, the Recording Academy, the governing body of the Grammys, is basically setting up its anniversary night the West & Winehouse Show.

Sure, both acts are controversial headcases tailor-made for the tabloids. But the Grammys are constantly berated for being stale, out-of-touch and irrelevant. So Kanye and Amy give them hip showcase acts that appeal to both young and old viewers (in other words, you and your mom). Even better, each act has sold tons of albums at a time when the music biz is struggling.

One of the biggest, and most obvious, storylines of the night will be the relative snubbing of Bruce Springsteen and his new album, Magic, a critical darling for sure. The Boss was nominated for four Grammys, but not the biggest prize, album of the year. In fact, although he’s been nominated twice (1984’s Born in the U.S.A. and 2002’s The Rising) he's NEVER won album of the year, making him the Scorsese of the Grammys — or at least the Susan Lucci.

West, who should have no problem winning best rap album, is also a lock to win album of the year. Besides Winehouse, the other best-album candidates include the Foo Fighters’ Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace, country stalwart Vince Gill’s These Days and jazz icon Herbie Hancock’s River: The Joni Letters. Nice albums? Sure. Albums of the year? Heck no. West, who’s made a storied career out of bellyaching about not winning, can safely start writing his vainglorious acceptance speech.

Winehouse is a lock to win best new artist, a category that also includes folk-popper Feist, country cutie Taylor Swift, R&B singer Ledisi and pop-rock group Paramore.

Winehouse’s anthem Rehab will battle for song of the year (an award for songwriters) against Before He Cheats (sung by Carrie Underwood), Hey There Delilah (Plain White T’s), Like a Star (Corinne Bailey Rae) and Umbrella (Rihanna). Rehab will also compete for record of the year (awarded to singers and producers) against Irreplaceable (Beyonce), The Pretender (Foo Fighters), Umbrella (Rihanna feat. Jay-Z) and What Goes Around…Comes Around (Justin Timberlake).

Winehouse will most certainly be asked to perform on the show, which is gearing up to be one of the Record Academy's most buzzed-about yet. But anyone who’s followed her sad career (just this week, she was found wandering the streets of London lost and topless) has to wonder:

Will Winehouse even be around that long?

PODCAST TIME! Genesis "Invisible Touch"

Ah yes, that glorious sausage-hang known as the Stuck in the '80s podcast has produced another masterpiece. This week we're giving up the love for 1986 Genesis album Invisible Touch. We gush aplenty about Phil Collins, Mike Rutherford and Tony Banks -- but also debate whether this was the last time the Brit boys were any good. There'll be plenty of music: Anything She Does, Throwing It All Away, Land of Confusion. Plus as a bonus, Steve Spears will tell a devastating story about the love of his life leaving him for another dude. Or something like that. I wasn't really listening. But make sure you do.

As always, you'll find the link to the Genesis podcast (and dozens more) on the right side of this page. You can simply push a button and listen on your work computer -- or you can go to iTunes and download it that way. Either way, have fun and drink responsibly!

You LOVE Michael McDonald

That's right: love. Don't give me any of your hipster BS. There have been pivotal moments in your life when the music of Michael McDonald -- whether as a Doobie Brother or a blue-eyed solo act -- has enhanced the emotional peril of your predicament. Yes, you CRAVE the real Eminem, and the sooner you admit that, the sooner we can go about tackling world peace.

Anyway, we have two (2) major pieces of of Michael McDonald news on today's docket...

First of all, QUESTIONS FOR MICHAEL McDONALD? The Stuck in the '80s podcast crew will be interviewing the man in anticipation of his 11/29 show at Clearwater's Ruth Eckerd Hall. Perhaps you've always been curious about his soundtrack work for underrated buddy movie Running Scared, starring the incomparable Gregory Hines and Billy Crystal?

And then there's this: This week's Stuck in the '80s podcast -- which can be accessed on the righthand side of this page or free on iTunes -- tackles the most depressing songs of that magical decade. And you better believe MM's I Keep Forgettin' (Every Time You're Near) ranks mighty high.

Death of the Parrotheads?

ENDANGERED SPECIES

When the Parrotheads lose their leader will a new hero appear or will it mark the end of an era in pop music?

On Christmas Day, flip-flop prophet Jimmy Buffett, Coppertoned hero to armchair beach-bums everywhere, will turn 61. And his disciples, those party-focused Parrotheads, will beer-crawl that much closer to extinction.

Now, now, party people, don’t get your feathers ruffled just yet. The singer of escapist mantra Margaritaville has announced no plans to retire. Not when he continues to have one of the highest-grossing concert tours in popular music. Not when Buffett-branded restaurant chains, clothes, blenders, drink mixes and then some ring up fortunes more. Not when he dumped Corona as a longtime sponsor — only to develop his own brew, Land Shark Lager.

But let’s be honest: 61 is still 61, no matter how much you surf. And when he stops, so will a long-standing concert tradition commenced with the Grateful Dead, carried on by jam-banders Phish, and mastered by Buffett: rock shows as all-encompassing fantasylands, rock shows as communal bacchanals that continue long after the lights go up and the mind-altering substances are stashed.

Parrotheads: It’s a way of life — and sooner rather than later, that life will come to an end.

When Buffett plays Ford Amphitheatre in Tampa this Thursday and Saturday, he will create a full-fledged utopia — an inherently singular experience that has taken on a life of its own.

I went through my requisite Buffett phase in college, and indeed, there's a tremendous lose-yourself joy at his shows — like Disney World with thongs. It's drunken, it's bawdy, it's skintastic. Down with the 9-to-5, up with the fins. I stopped going to his shows when the peaced-out buzz turned a little too frat-boy rowdy for my tastes. Nevertheless, there’s nothing like a Buffett gig. Everyone should try it once; just don’t wear nice shoes.

"Parrotheads have feared him retiring — or worse — for the last 10 years," says Susan Blankenship, 51-year-old commander of the Tampa Bay Parrot Heads in Paradise Club, which, at 1,000-plus members, is the largest of its kind in the world. "But whether he retires or not, that’s not going to affect the music we already have. I’m still going to have the albums I bought in 1972."

"We have no plans of stopping," says Rachel Keller, Blankenship’s daughter and the "chief officer of media" of the Tampa Bay club. "We like to say we’re not fans of Jimmy Buffett — we’re fans of the fans of Jimmy Buffett."

That's a nice thought and all. And sure, after Buffett retires, his fans may continue to gather at the neighborhood bar for a group singalong of Boat Drinks. But there’s no mistaking that the concerts are the thing. And when the house lights go up for good, the thing just won’t be the same.

"Caught between the Scylla and Charybdis"

Citing "mountainous pomposity (and) cloying spirituality," Blender magazine has named Sting the worst lyricist in rock history.

In the November issue of the saucy music mag, Rush drummer Neil Peart is deemed the second-worst lyricist, Creed frontman Scott Stapp is No. 3, Oasis guitarist Noel Gallagher at No. 4, and soft-rocker Dan Fogelberg at No. 5.

Haven't seen the whole article, but I gotta imagine James Taylor is up there. They'll probably mess with Dylan and Springsteen, too, cause Blender totally digs screwing with sacred cows.

In Blender's defense, it's fun to mock Sting, mainly because he's much more handsome than I am.

Greatest AMERICAN Rock Band?

Went to a killer party Saturday night. Around 2 a.m., when the girls were dancing and the guys were philosophically besotted, we commenced a debate:

Who's the greatest AMERICAN rock band?

American and rock, American and rock. Tricky. Good one. We looked down into our Red Bull and vodkas, searching for answers.

I opened with Creedence Clearwater Revival.

Then came the Beach Boys. Van Halen. Guns N' Roses.

Green Day got votes, but someone said, "Come back to me in 10 years," and we harrumphed like wise men.

Someone added the Doors, but I berated them until they withdrew the entry. 'Cause as we all know, the Doors suck and Jim Morrison was full of sh--.

Despite having famous backing bands, such inherently singular icons as Bruce Springsteen, Tom Petty, Sly Stone and Bob Seger were not allowed. They transcend the group ethic.

Neither Lynyrd Skynyrd nor the Allman Brothers were mentioned. Neither were the Eagles or Fleetwood Mac or Wilco.

Anyway, we never came up with a definitive answer -- we were ultimately knocked off-task by the dancing girls. But I figured it'd be a good one for you guys...

So I ask you: Who's the greatest AMERICAN rock band?

Your Fave One-Hit Wonder From 1986?

You love Don Johnson, don't you? Hey, I'm not going to mock you. In fact, I need to hear your passion for DJ and other one-hit wonders of 1986. Steve Spears and I are about to record a Stuck in the '80s podcast about this very subject, and we need material.

So tell me your favorite song on the following list and the reason (anecdote, etc.), and we'll read it on the show.

The Final Countdown -- Europe
Keep Your Hands to Yourself -- Georgia Satellites
Heartbeat -- Don Johnson
Let's Go All the Way -- Sly Fox
The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades -- Timbuk 3
Beat's So Lonely -- Charlie Sexton
Feel It Again -- Honeymoon Suite
When the Heart Rules the Mind -- GTR
The Captain of Her Heart -- Double
Welcome to the Boomtown -- David & David
One Step Closer to You -- Gavin Christopher
Digging Your Scene -- Blow Monkeys
Shake You Down -- Gregory Abbott
Tarzan Boy -- Baltimora

You Say It's Your B'day...It's My B'day, Too

I'm not gonna lie to you: Beyonce really does it for me. Her last album was kinda lame -- and yet, this picture from the liner notes of her last album was not. Look at those gators! Look at those heels! My girl B can sing, she can dance -- and her coconut-cracking gams are superheroic in build. A national treasure, I say! She's only 25 years old, but I bet she feels older, with all the Rihannas and such nipping at her diva heels. Poor thing. I'm here for you, baby girl. I'm here for you.

Anyway, on Saturday night, I'll be reviewing "The Beyonce Experience" at the St. Pete Times Forum. Ms. Knowles comes on at 9:15, and plays (or does whatever Beyonce does) until 11:15. I really only posted this blogation in order to run saucy pix, but for anyone who might care in the slightest, here is her setlist for the show, which has been printed in a few places. Let's go get 'em, B:

"Crazy in Love"
"Freakum Dress"
"Green Light"
"Baby Boy"/"Murder She Wrote"
"Beautiful Liar"
"Naughty Girl"
"Me, Myself and I"
"Dangerously in Love 2/He Loves Me"
"Flaws And All"
Destiny's Child Medley
"Speechless"
"Ring the Alarm"
"Suga Mama"
"Upgrade U"
"'03 Bonnie & Clyde"
"Check on It"
"Get Me Bodied"
"Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friends/Dreamgirls"
"Listen"
"Irreplaceable"
"Deja Vu"

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.

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.   

God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut

This is what greets you on Kurt Vonnegut's homepage today. The wrinkly, curmudgeonly truth-teller died Wednesday at the age of 84. I first read Vonnegut in college; the timing couldn't have been better. Slaughterhouse-Five, Cat's Cradle, Breakfast of Champions, Galapagos, even Hocus Pocus. He was savage, hilarious, bleak, and curiously hopeful in relaying his "we're all screwed...unless" message. For a kid who didn't give a crap about anything but beer and Buffalo wings, it was the best education I could get. Someone once called Vonnegut "a moralist with a whoopee cushion," which was just about right. (Hell, for all his crankiness, he was still cool and funny enough to show up in Rodney Dangerfield's Back to School.) Anyway, if you haven't read any Vonnegut, go hit the library and start reading. Start with the titles I've listed above. His dying comes at a rather appropriate time; we should all be heading back to his books these days. I was going to dedicate a few songs to him -- maybe Warren Zevon's Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner -- but I'll just say "So it goes" and move on.

Loving the Almost-In-Law

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

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

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

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

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

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

Questions for Chris Daughtry?

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

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

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

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

Song of the Day: "Dogs on the Run"

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

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

Song: Dogs on the Run

Album: Southern Accents (MCA)

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

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

Song grade: A

Album grade: A

When Pete Met Sting

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

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

Monster of a Video

MICHAEL JACKSON: I have something I want to tell you.
OLA RAY: Yes, Michael.
MICHAEL: I'm not like other guys.
OLA: Of course not. That's why I love you.
MICHAEL: No, I mean I'm different.
-- from the Thriller video (1983)

Oh, he was different all right. Graceful, incandescent, but definitely different. Soul Kid No. 1, Motown's Fred Astaire, spinning like a top in Chess King red leather. Michael Jackson: werewolf, zombie, the first black artist to crack MTV's white stranglehold. And we loved him.

In 1983, Jackson and director John Landis made the music video for Thriller: a 14-minute, $800,000 musical chock-full of dancing zombies, Vincent Price's cackle and Playboy Playmate Ola Ray, her saucer eyes signaling that she, too, was smitten with the Boy Who Would Be King.

A year earlier, a 24-year-old Jackson released the album Thriller, not only the bestselling pop album of all time, but the best pop album period. Billie Jean, Beat It, P.Y.T.: pure boogie-down goodness.

Twenty-five years after the album's release, we still love Michael Jackson. But hoo boy, has this become a tricky relationship.

And it's just getting trickier.

On Oct. 12, 2005, iTunes, Apple's online music store, started selling videos for $1.99 per clip. Since then, Jackson's Thriller has been a phenomenal seller, either topping the charts or hovering within striking distance, beating out videos old and new. Last week, it was the fourth most-purchased video, between Fergie's Fergalicious and Beyonce's Irreplaceable. Apple would not release Thriller's download numbers, but the company did allow that MJ's crowning achievement has been "clearly a popular video."

Apple has always been tight-lipped about sales figures, but in this case, not fully commenting on Thriller's resurrection makes sense. After all, no one ever wants to praise Michael Jackson in public anymore. Not after the child molestation allegations, the trial, his disappearance into the sands of Bahrain.

Our love for Michael Jackson is now strictly a private affair, making Thriller's popularity on iTunes even more understandable. Our iPods are inherently intimate devices. They contain our songs, our playlists, our memories, our secret pleasures.

In these days of intense pop-culture overload, the least cynical place to process Michael Jackson -- taking his good, leaving his bad -- is in our iPods. We've compartmentalized Michael. We've split him in two. In my mind, the Michael Jackson in Thriller has absolutely no relation to the Michael Jackson whose nose now looks like an electrical outlet.

Thriller was the essence of MJ, before the real world broke in. For many of us who grew up in the MTV age, Thriller represents our innocence as much as his. Anyone responsible for such a wonderful pop-culture moment can't be all bad, right?

Heck, if I had been on Michael Jackson's defense team, I would have played the Thriller video for the jury. As soon as Juror No. 8 lost control and giddily moonwalked out of the courtroom, I would have motioned for a dismissal. When it comes to Thriller, we choose to believe what we're seeing -- not what we've heard, read, believed.

The video's subtext has sadly become as subtle as a white-gloved slap to the face. There's Michael, the smiling, childlike good guy, comforting a scared innocent. Then, just when all seems peaceful and sweet, MJ morphs into a werewolf, a zombie, hungry for flesh, a severe about-face. And so on and on, until the final frame, when a seemingly normal Michael, taking Ola Ray's arm, turns back to the camera, eyes aglow, a ghoul in MTV's clothing.

And yet, while watching Thriller recently, I was instantly swept up not in scandal, but in how incredibly good those 14 minutes make you feel, especially when Michael and Ola come bounding out of the Palace theater, that funky, loping beat, those handclaps, Michael singing: "It's close to midnight, and something evil's lurking in the dark." Cute, curvy Ola uses that sexy little stutter-step to keep up with MJ as he dances around her. How could you not root for him?

My favorite part of Thriller has never changed, from 1983 to 2007. After he has been zombified, Michael dances around with the undead, all those spectacularly silly monster-disco moves. He turns away from the camera, shuffling down the street, before spinning back and boom: " 'Cause this is thriller, thriller night!"

He's not a monster anymore. The makeup is gone. He's just MJ, dancing his butt off, finally getting to the song's whopper, synth-washed chorus. There he is, the sweet-faced kid who lives on our iPods, the sweet-faced kid with no relation to the sad man he became. All is right in the world. Everything is okay. 'Cause this is Thriller. And that's what we tell ourselves as we push to play it again and again.

Regrets: James Brown Edition

I never saw James Brown in concert. That's the first thing I thought of yesterday, when the Forever Fiancee told me the Godfather of Soul had died. The remembrances are pouring in today, of course, and almost all of them start and end with sweaty descriptions of James Brown strutting, spinning and wailing onstage, a regimen that legend says lost him 7-9 lbs. per gig. I had chances to see him over the years, but I never did, no good excuses either. He'll now join my short but sad list of folks I coulda, shoulda seen but never did: the Grateful Dead with Jerry Garcia, Ray Charles, Johnny Cash. In related news, Chuck Berry plays Moscow Jan. 17. Who's up for a road trip?

The Unbearable Lightness of G-ing

Kenny G fascinates me. The curiously tressed smooth-jazz king has sold 75 million albums, and yet my mother is the only person who admits to liking him. In advance of Thursday's gig at the Clearwater Jazz Holiday, I chatted with the G Man about being one of pop culture's great polarizing personalities.

Here's an excerpt from my Thursday profile:

Chomp on this, jazz snobs: Miles Davis was a Kenny G fan.

You read that right. One of the most revered trumpeters in jazz history adored one of the most reviled saxophonists. In the ’80s, Mr. G even opened shows for the famously moody “Prince of Darkness.”

“On many occasions, Miles would come into my dressing room and tell me what I was doing was great,” says the 50-year-old Kenneth Gorelick, who tonight headlines the Clearwater Jazz Holiday. “If Miles says I’m doing good, and some critics say I stink, why would I listen to them?”

Kenny is defending his art as he cruises through Los Angeles. (“When you drive in L.A., you have plenty of time to talk,” he laughs.) For a guy who has sold 75-million albums, he’s incredibly easy to reach. Mere seconds after I sent a message to his Blackberry, he called: “Hey, man, let’s chat!”

You gotta love the G Man.

Or not.

It has become fashionable of to rip and ridicule the Clearwater Jazz Holiday for not doing enough to showcase "serious" jazz. But when organizers announced that this year’s main attraction was Kenny G, whose lazy-river soprano sax style is the very definition of “smooth,” jazzbos set a new record for vitriol.

Kenny G, the haters cried, is not jazz. He’s Mantovani with a perm!

G knows the drill. Great achievement, more jokes.

(To find the rest of this story on Thursday, go here.)

ENTER SANDMAN: Metallica Gets iTuneful

WHAT'S THE FIRST METALLICA SONG YOU'LL BUY ON ITUNES? What's that Metallica song(s) that goes "Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!"? That's the first one I'm buying.

Indeed, the metal icons have FINALLY made their studio catalogue (plus live tracks from a 1989 Seattle show) available for single-song purchase on Apple's digital download store.

That leaves the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Radiohead and Garth Brooks as the biggest remaining holdouts. But who needs those guys anyway?

Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!

Let's Make Out! (C'mon, just a smooch...)

Born with one of the smoothest, most seductive voices in popular music, the Mavericks' Raul Malo is a classic "phonebook singer," a husky, hirsute 40-year-old who could croon the Yellow Pages and have you naked by the time he gets to Air Conditioning Contractors.

His new solo album, the 12-track You're Only Lonely, is a mostly covers collection whose sole (soul?) function is to show off Malo's all-world pipes. The album art and the quiet musical vibe hark back to '60s cocktail cool and conversation pits. This is music for lovers only (or at least friends with benefits).

Sure, Rod Stewart has ruined covers albums for everyone, but Malo's disc is unmistakably original. He puts such heartbreaking spin on J.D. Souther's title track ("When the world is ready to fall on your little shoulders") and Etta James' version of At Last, it's as if you're hearing them for the first time. On Willie Nelson's Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground, Malo invites some powerhouse gospel mavens to join him, but that's mainly to make his vocal derring-do even more impressive.

Two versions of Randy Newman's heart-wrenching Feels Like Home appear on You're Only Lonely: One Malo performs alone, the other a duet with country darling Martina McBride. Both renditions are sublime, but I flinch at the idea of boozy karaoke couples butchering the duet for years to come.

After all, some songs are for listening purposes only

.

In Defense Of...PHIL COLLINS

Kid Lulu has been mainlining Disney's Brother Bear these days, yet another Mouse House flick soundtracked by Phil Collins. The songs are pretty cheezeball, but my daughter digs 'em. Whatever works, you know?

Anyway, I tend to process Phil Collins, sans Genesis, the same way I do Michael Jackson. In my mind, present-day Phil (aka "Dance Into the Light" Phil) has no relation to the likable "solo" Phil of the early- to mid-'80s (that is, before Buster, before Groovy Kind of Love). His voice was sterile but strangely cool, and his best songs had a vaguely creepy gravitas to them (hence their placement in Miami Vice, Risky Business, etc.). 

There are some great Phil Collins solo songs out there, you just have to be careful where you step. So herewith:

8 Phil Collins Songs to Proudly Sing With the Windows Down (+ 2 for the privacy of your own home)

1) I Don't Care Anymore -- from Hello, I Must Be Going
2) I Missed Again -- from Face Value
3) In the Air Tonight -- from Face Value
4) Against All Odds -- from the Against All Odds soundtrack
5) Don't Lose My Number -- from No Jacket Required
6) Easy Lover (duet with Phillip Bailey )-- from Hits
7) Long Long Way to Go -- from No Jacket Required
8) Take Me Home -- from No Jacket Required
BONUS TRACK: Separate Lives -- from the White Nights soundtrack
BONUS TRACK: You'll Be in My Heart -- from the Tarzan soundtrack

John Fogerty: Best Voice in Rock History?

Fire up the Frankenstein machine, 'cause we're building the perfect rock star:

For looks, we’ll start with Bowie. Stage presence, you gotta go with Jagger. Guitar pyrotechnics: Eddie VH. Go-go-go stamina that'll keep 'em churning in the cheap seats? That's the Boss, baby.

And for voice? Well, that’s easy:

John Fogerty, who comes to Tampa's Ford Amphitheatre this Sunday.

At 62, his hair may be thinning and his skin may be stretched, but his vital stats remain rock steady.

I was lucky enough to see Fogerty at D.C.'s intimate

9:30 Club a couple years back. Honestly, the rock god’s pipes haven’t aged a day since his 1968 coming-out party with Creedence Clearwater Revival, arguably the greatest, and certainly the most efficient, AMERICAN rock 'n' roll band of all time. Fogerty’s well-worn voice has always had that ragged strain, that born-on-the-bayou twang, that high-note howl that can still send shivers.

I was also astounded at how Fogerty can still sound so remarkably relevant, especially when he performed Fortunate Son and Who’ll Stop the Rain, antiwar roundhouses as vital and cutting today as they were during Vietnam. The guy can still pick like a demon, too, but it's that ragged-glory voice that's brings you to your knees.

Slow songs, fast tracks, monumental jams: Fogerty’s wail forever sounds on the verge of breaking down, of blowing out.

But it doesn’t.

It just keeps raging forth.

Do You Believe in Huey?

Three Possible Explanations Why I Like Huey Lewis and the News (Besides the Obvious One in Which You Call Me a Giant Loser) 1. Huey Lewis, performing at Tampa's Ford Amphitheatre this evening, was king when I was 15 years old. MTV was a tsunamic cultural phenomenon, and Huey's ubiquitous videos were cheezy fun (the beachiness of If This Is It in particular). Plus Back to the Future, for which Lewis performed two songs, was tops at the box office, and being Marty McFly seemed like a solid lifestyle choice for me. 2. Huey Lewis would make a good drinking buddy. He's your friend, your pal, your bowling partner who always buys the first round. He'll flirt with your wife, but he'll never steal her away. He's takin' what they're givin', 'cause he's workin' for a livin'. Plus Huey's "reputation" with the ladies was legendary. Perhaps it was the exaggerated harmonica playing. 3. Nothing bad can ever happen to you while a Huey Lewis song is playing. Seriously. Cue up Do You Believe in Love, and your plane won't crash, your car won't spin out of control and your dog won't croak. Why? Because Huey is the soundtrack for a romantic comedy, not a drama. Huey is airy and light. Huey is innocence. Huey, my friends, is good.