Led Zeppelin: The Ride

Hey Coaster Zombies, this weekend I'm on assignment in Myrtle Beach, S.C., for a "press viewing" of the new Hard Rock Park (HERE). The 140-acre joint officially opens June 2; theme areas include "Born in the USA" "Lost in the '70s" and "Rock & Roll Heaven." There's an Eagles coaster ("Life in the Fast Lane"), and plans for a Bon Jovi suspended-car ride ("Slippery When Wet"). But the mighty centerpiece, the looping, barrel-rolling hammer of the gods, is "Led Zeppelin: The Ride," that sucker to the left: 150 feet tall, with speeds of 65 mph. If you believe the hype, Page, Plant and JPJ were heavily involved with everything from the soundtrack to the look of the cars.

Anyway, I'm a complete coaster/amusement park dork, so I'm pretty stoked -- although the Moody Blues haunted house, "Nights in White Satin: The Trip" (seriously), sounds a little suspect.

"Everybody Calls Me Big Man"

This interview with Clarence Clemons was conducted before the death of E Street Band member Danny Federici, whose passing Thursday caused the postponement of three Florida shows. The Tampa date is Tuesday -- the band's first since losing Federici.

Long before the sax, the solos, the Boss, Clarence Clemons simply wanted to smash mouths. He was a tough kid from Norfolk, Va., the son of a Baptist preacher. And as a college football star in Maryland, he dreamed of going pro. "That was gonna be my career," he says.

Back in the '60s, "we had to play both ways on the field, so I was offensive center and defensive end." The scholarship standout would protect his quarterback, then he'd turn to the visitors and "go beat 'em up." His signature move? "The forearm shiver."

"I'd stop 'em in their tracks," he says with a hepcat heh-heh-heh.

Clemons, who speaks in low, rapid-fire sentences, sums up his injury-riddled gridiron glory by saying, "God had other things for me to do." But in a way, God stayed with the plan just fine. After all, the 6-foot-4 Clarence is still protecting his quarterback, who just happens to be Bruce Springsteen. And he's still slaying the visitors, who just happen to be us.

"It's a Long Way Down the Holiday Road"

Curious convergence of events going on here at Pop Life. I just received the new Lindsey Buckingham live CD/DVD, Live at the Bass Performance Hall, which is mind-blowingly faboo. Seriously, it rocks almighty. That guy might be the most underrated guitar player in the pop pantheon. His baroque reworkings of Trouble and Go Insane are iTunes-worthy and then some. He also tosses in a robust version of Holiday Road, the rollickin' theme from National Lampoon's Vacation, at the tail end of the set (yep, complete with dog barks).

Oddly enough, Steve Spears and I just recorded a raucous, Coppertone-slathered podcast about "Spring Break in the '80s," including the movies, memories and songs associated with hitting the road for rest, relaxation and demoralizing moments in tropical climes. (The show should launch in a day or two.) Anyway, one of the songs we played was Holiday Road, which I'm proud to say I also own on vinyl. Anyway, here ya go, a little Lindsey to brighten your day...or your road trip.

To Sir, With Funyuns

Spent a mind-blowing weekend in Columbia, S.C., with the hot-shot students of the Southern Interscholastic Press Association. Honestly, I was a total waste-case as a high-schooler, a real bonehead. But these kids today, good lord -- they're smart, good-looking, pop-culture savvy and a helluva lot of fun. I judged a review-writing contest and couldn't believe the stuff they were spinning out. (Plus they indulged my love of alliteration. Take that, j-school profs.) I'm supposed to get the winners' work sent back to me. When I do, I'll post the goods here, including brilliant stuff from my new pals Katie Dickson (the cutting social critic) and Megan Lamb (the withering smartass).

Anyway, I taught four classes and gave a keynote address. (Sorry about the anatomical Guns N' Roses story. The kids made me do it.) And although I'm absolutely wiped out today, it never once felt like work. So thanks to the folks at SIPA for having me.

Oh, and I'll never forget the wildest, most potentially litigious compliment I've ever heard. After my speech, a young woman pointed at me and, pretending to rock an infant in her arms, mouthed the words, "I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES." Remember that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark, when Professor Jones' student writes "Love You" on her eyelids? Yeah, like that.

It's a Jungle Out There!

I'm headed to the University of South Carolina this morning to warp the future minds of America. Should be fun. As part of a journalism conference (SIPA), I'll be teaching a few classes on pop-culture writing then giving the keynote address. I might punctuate my rousing speech by slamming the mike to the ground, blurting, "Daly...out!" and coldly ignoring thousands of autograph requests. But more than likely, I'll ask the five people who didn't sneak out during my talk if they wanna grab some Taco Bell.

Anyway, I'll be back and blogging on Monday. Until then, look out for No. 1...but don't step in No. 2!

Welcome Back, Hon

So a family affair is bringing me back to Baltimore Wednesday. I'm expecting a lotta warmth from Mom, Dad and the bustling Daly brood -- and a lotta butt-chapping cold from Mother Nature. Might try to grab a crabcake at the crustaceous valhalla of G&M -- might even zip into PA and see my buddies from back home. (Peace out, H'burg!)

With the FF and Lulu keeping the home fires burning, this will be a solo flight, much like the episode of Magnum when he gets lost at sea on a kayak and has to outsmart a shark. (Peace out, Mag fans!)

While I'm gone, my colleague Stephanie Hayes will be entertaining you. She's fiendishly funny and decidedly twisted. Ask her about her job as a literary embalmer. Creepy.

Anyway, I get back Sunday -- Stephanie takes over as soon as my tuchus touches down in Charm City. But before I go, here's a Baltimore-inspired playlist to play over the montage of me falling ass-over-teacups on patches of ice. Oh, the hijinks...

Baltimore -- Nina Simone
Good Morning Baltimore -- Nikki Blonsky
Crab -- Weezer
Tomorrow Night in Baltimore -- Waylon Jennings
Streets of Baltimore -- Coldplay
Raining in Baltimore -- Counting Crows
A Baltimore Love Thing -- 50 Cent
Nasty Crab -- Adina Howard
Baltimore -- Randy Newman
Hungry Heart -- Bruce Springsteen

Celine Is Coming...Uh, Eventually

Celine Dion is coming to Tampa!!!

In 2009.

Well, at least she gave us time to plan.

The umpteen-octave, chest-pounding belter released her "Taking Chances World Tour" itinerary today. And Tampa's St. Pete Times Forum is the second-to-last stop: Jan. 28, 2009.

Say what you will about her. But after that epic run in Vegas, she could have retired. Instead, she's displaying the work ethic of Wayne Newton. I'm impressed. (But I still don't like her much.)

Tickets go on sale Monday, Nov. 19 at 10a.m. at the MCDONALD’S BOX OFFICE at the St. Pete Times Forum and all Ticketmaster Outlets. To order tickets by phone, call Ticketmaster at 813.287.8844 or 727.898.2100.

Tickets are priced at $46.75, $77.75, $112.75 and $152.75.

Those are high, but not as crazy as I expected.

In celebration of this momentous event, here are The Only Celine Dion Songs That Don't Make Me Queasy:

3. It's All Coming Back to Me Now
2. If You Asked Me To
1. If I Can Dream (duet with Elvis)

Better Dry-Clean My Dr. Seuss Hat

You may think you know zip, nada, zilch about hipster DJs and Ibizan sex parties and throbbing trance music, but you’re actually cooler than you think. Take, for instance, British turntablist-producer Paul Oakenfold, who's bringing his beats to St. Pete this Friday. Turns out you know his music well. Remember that strangely addictive Diet Coke commercial with the blond roller-skating hottie? The song playing was Oakenfold’s Starry Eyed Surprise: "Oh my, starry eyed surprise, sundown to sunrise / I dance all night / We’re gonna dance all night, dance all night to this DJ." You can watch the commercial HERE.

I'm thinking of going to the Oakenfold show -- not to write, just to stand in the corner, nod my head and gawk creepily onto the dance floor. Maybe I'll bring Steve Spears with me. That oughta be a sight. Touring behind his new Greatest Hits & Remixes, Oakenfold -- who prefers booming psych-job remixes to Mark Ronson's vintage horns or Moby's soul samples -- will be reworking hits by such pals as Justin Timberlake, Madonna and U2. Showtime says 10 p.m., but you can safely assume that sucker isn’t going to heat up until beyond the witching hour.

By the way, Q magazine lists Oakenfold as one of the "50 Bands to See Before You Die."

Paul Oakenfold performs after 10 p.m. Friday at State Theatre, 687 Central Ave., St. Petersburg. $33-$38. (727) 895-3045; www.statetheatreconcerts.com.

Who Needs Hannah Montana Tix?

Calling all desperate parents...

On Monday (11/12) at noon, the St. Pete Times Forum will release a limited number of additional tickets for the 11/19 "Best of Both Worlds Tour" with Hannah Montana and Miley Cyrus.

You can charge by phone (813-287-8844 or 727-898-2100) or online at ticketmaster.com. Tickets ARE NOT available at the box office, perhaps so mommies and daddies can't beat the snot out of each other trying to please their children.

There is a 4-ticket limit per person. No word on ticket prices, however, original prices were $28.75 to $68.75, not including service charges.

The Tampa show initially sold out in mere minutes. Ticket brokers have been receiving as much as $4,000-plus for front-row seats. I never thought I'd say this, but it's good to be Billy Ray Cyrus.

LIVE REVIEW: Rascal Flatts

TAMPA -- I swear the dudes in Rascal Flatts just sold me tires at Wal-Mart.

Seriously, country's current kings look like reality-show winners, regular Joes who walked through the wrong door and somehow schlepped into stardom. Singer Gary LeVox, bassist Jay DeMarcus, guitarist Joe Don Rooney ought to come with name tags and time cards.

But hoo boy, this Nashville trio is H-U-G-E. They sell music like Velveeta moves cheese, in great gooey torrents for a swoony, swelling fanbase that has made the pedestrian-looking group one of the best-selling acts, of any genre, of the last decade.

In front of 14,119 appreciative fans Sunday at Ford Amphitheatre, Rascal Flatts, on the last night of their tour, proved why they're a punch line for some but heroes to millions. And really, who cares if naysayers call you a twangy boy band when everyone else is singing, screaming and making you millionaires?

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.

Live Report: The Boss Kicks Things Off

A Pop Life exclusive! Loyal blogger Guy reports from opening night of the new Springsteen tour. Guy braved the wilds of Hartford, Conn., on a Tuesday, so please enjoy his reportage...

"And so it begins."

With those words, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band kicked-off a world tour Tuesday night in a sold-out Hartford Civic Center in Hartford, Conn.

Springsteen and his musical compadres were in rare mid-tour form as they deftly merged songs from new CD, Magic, released that day, with older selections. Although the emphasis on Magic (eight songs!), along with songs from The Rising and those originally performed with the Seeger Sessions Band (American Land, Long Walk Home), left little room for Springsteen to explore his extensive back catalog, several of the new additions proved worthy of placement next to warhorses such as Badlands and Born to Run.

Opening with the sonic blast of Radio Nowhere, the most arena-ready of the new songs, Springsteen quickly segued into The Ties That Bind and Lonesome Day, much to the delight of the crowd of more than 16,000. Other highlights included Reason to Believe, which combined the return of Springsteen’s bullet mike with an intro harkening back to La Grange-era ZZ Top and the Night and She’s The One combination.  The wistful Girls in Their Summer Clothes, which kicked off the five-song encore, served as a welcome counter-balance to the heavier subject matter of songs like the ferocious Last to Die and 10th Avenue Freezeout-sound-alike Livin’ in the Future.

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

Boss Announces Tour, Skips Florida

UPDATE: SPRINGSTEEN'S NEW SINGLE RADIO NOWHERE IS NOW A FREE DOWNLOAD ON ITUNES. LIMITED TIME ONLY.

What a shocker -- another major act is skipping the Sunshine State on the first leg of their tour. Oy. Maybe he'll add a date in late November.

Anyway, here are Springsteen's upcoming U.S. and Canada shows with the E Street Band in support of new album Magic (out Oct. 2). For ticket info, etc, go here.

October 2 Hartford, CT
October 5 Philadelphia, PA Wachovia Center
October 9-10 East Rutherford, NJ Continental Airlines Arena
October 14 Ottawa, ONT Civic Centre
October 15 Toronto, ONT Air Canada Centre
October 17-18 New York, NY Madison Square Garden
October 21 Chicago, IL United Center
October 26 Oakland, CA Oracle Arena
October 28 Los Angeles, CA Venue TBA
November 2 St. Paul, MN Xcel Energy Center
November 4 Cleveland, OH Quicken Loans Arena
November 5 Auburn Hills, MI Palace Of Auburn Hills
November 11 Washington, D.C. Verizon Arena
November 14 Pittsburgh, PA Mellon Arena
November 15 Albany, NY Times Union Center
November 18 Boston, MA TD Banknorth Garden

How Def Leppard Ruined My Childhood

"Lady luck never smiles / So lend your love to me awhile..."

Def Leppard's Foolin' sure sounded like a ballad at first, the perfect time for me to screw up my seventh-grade courage and ask Julie Rothera, the girl of my dreams, to dance. Summer was almost here, and I'd blown chance after chance to talk to her all year long. As the acoustic guitars plucked, I knee-knocked my way across the junior-high auditorium and, heart racing, mumbled out an invite. Red-haired Julie took my hand — success! — and we commenced that prepubescent slow shuffle dance.

But then, as Julie and I started to relax, as I envisioned a summer in Westford, Mass., frolicking with this lovely girl, the Brit boys in Def Leppard, kings of rock thanks to 1983 smash Pyromania, started to get louder, faster. Oh no. OH NO. I was sweating at this point, realizing (as the drums and guitars kicked in) that Foolin’ wasn’t a ballad at all:

"IS ANYBODY OUT THERE! ANYBODY THERE! DOES ANYBODY WONDER! ANYBODY CARE!"

With the song pounding in my head, I held on for as long as I could, but Julie wanted to bolt. And who could blame her? The dance floor was empty, her friends were snickering and I was wearing corduroy pants. So she broke the hold, gave me a sad smile and headed back to her pals. I just stood there, devastated, correct in my assumption that I’d never dance with her again. What was I thinking? I should have waited around for Air Supply or Lionel Richie. But no, I had to get fancy and pick Foolin’. And I’ve had to live with it for 24 years. So thanks for ruining my childhood Def Leppard. Thanks so much.

Def Leppard, with Styx and Foreigner, performs Friday, Aug. 24 at 7 p.m., Ford Amphitheatre, Tampa. $25-$75. (813) 740-2446.

Van Halen Reunites...but Skips Florida

Are you ready to run with the devil? Or, at the very least, how about a brisk jog?

Those aging rapscallions in Van Halen — guitarist Eddie Van Halen, drummer Alex Van Halen, vainglorious frontman David Lee Roth plus Eddie’s 16-year-old son, Wolfgang, on bass — announced a 25-date North American reunion tour today.

This will be Eddie and Dave's first tour together in more than 20 years. They had previously hated each other's guts.

Unfortunately for eager Floridians, though, we’ll have to travel to hear such classic-rock staples as Panama, Hot for Teacher or Runnin’ With the Devil. No Sunshine State stops are on the schedule at this time, but that could very well change in the next few weeks.

The band, so potent in the ’70s and ’80s, announced the news at a 15-minute press conference Monday at the Four Seasons Hotel in Los Angeles. With the exception of the pubescent Wolfgang, all of the band members are firmly in their 50s. But in typical Roth fashion, he said he’s more than confident in VH’s ability to fight Father Time.

"We think we got it right this time," said Roth, according to a report by Reuters. "You come and judge the performance harshly, please. I beg you, come on down and see."

Beefy bassist Michael Anthony is the only holdout from the original lineup, perhaps because he’s good friends with singer Sammy Hagar, who alienated many a VH fan by replacing Roth in 1985. Hagar and Eddie Van Halen had feuded the last few years, leading to the reconciliation with Roth.

No word yet from Wolfgang’s mother Valerie Bertinelli, who is somehow letting her underage son tour the country with one of the most notoriously naughty rock bands of all time. Wow, some kids have all the luck.

Right now, the closest stops to Tampa Bay include the tour opener in Charlotte, N.C. on Sept. 27 and in Greensboro, N.C. on the 29th. But I have a feeling more dates will be added if this trainwreck manages to stay on the rails. If they add a local stop — and there’s a very good chance they will — it will probably happen in mid-November or late December. The bands itinerary has some available dates at those times, plus Florida is a major market for classic rock.

FAIR WARNING: I saw Roth perform solo a few years ago, and it was the concertgoing equivalent of having your gums scraped. He was lackadaisical, bored; he sounded lousy, barely bothering to finish singing the hits. When he did his famous flying-V split off the drum riser, he looked like Wilford Brimley playing hopscotch.

But with guitar whiz Eddie erupting next to him — an Eddie fresh from rehab, no less — maybe Diamond Dave will find some of that ol’ magic. He certainly seems to think so.

"Usually when a band comes back like us it’s rockers with walkers and this is everything but," said Roth. "Meet us in the future, not the past."

Memphis or Bust

Hey kids, my epic, besotted, lascivious Memphis story hit the streets Sunday. It's a big mutha, so I highly encourage each and every one of you to spend the entirety of your Monday morning reading it.

Here's the link to the main story (ooh, ghosts and drunk girls).

Here's the link to all the food that almost killed me (in a good way).

Here's the link to the music I bought there (Black Moses, anyone?).

Here's the link to where to go, where to stay, etc.

Here's the link to Daniel Wallace's AWESOME SLIDESHOW.

Hope you dig it -- I'll be saving the X-rated portion of my Memphis travails for my upcoming memoirs: THE FUNYUN CHRONICLES.

How Toby Keith Almost Killed Me

Music critics usually get great concert seats. I’ve sat close enough to Christina Aguilera for her to recoil at my marriage proposal. I’ve stood close enough to Neil Diamond to screw with his toupee. That’s the deal. Sit the tubby rock critic two rows from the stage, and maybe he’ll gush aplenty. I’m too jaded to fall for that trickery (plus the paper pays for the tickets), but you get the picture.

That said, the good seats aren’t always so good. For instance, the Toby Keith show a couple years ago. The husky country singer, who's coming back to Tampa in a few days, put me second-row center at Ford Amphitheatre — right next to a muscle-ripped drunk dude in a crusty U.S. of A tank top. I felt like an impostor already; Keith's not exactly my bag. But the World’s Scariest Toby Keith Fan (WSTKF) sniffed me out in a heartbeat. And he didn’t take too kindly to my reporter’s notebook, not to mention the fact that I wasn’t swilling the King of Beers. I was sober and literate. This wasn't going to end well.

So WSTKF put his enormous grizzly paw on my shoulder and bellowed, "WHAT IN THE [BLEEP] ARE YOU WRITING?" He then hipchecked me into Wacahoota. I’m pretty sure WSTKF would have pounded me flat, but he was soon distracted by none other than...Hulk Hogan, who was seated a few rows away. "HOGAN! HOGAN! I’M GONNA KICK YOUR [BLEEP]!" He just kept on with the Hulkster, who looked miserable. Keith put on a pretty good show that night, but if I may speak for Hulk Hogan, I think both of us would have had a better time in the cheap seats.

Toby Keith, with Miranda Lambert and Flynnville Train, performs 7:30 p.m. Saturday Aug. 10 at Ford Amphitheatre, Tampa. $25.77-$65. (813) 740-2446.

That's "Vavoomishly" (Beyonce Review)

TAMPA -- She's only 25 years old, but after nights like this, she must feel 50.

It's not easy being Beyonce these days. Sure, she's incredibly rich, she's vavoomishly beautiful and, unlike many of her peers, she has talent and can actually spell t-a-l-e-n-t. But her Saturday show at the St. Pete Times Forum was a reminder that these are fickle days in the music biz.

Ms. Knowles, who has topped the charts with R&B trio Destiny's Child and as a solo artist, drew just a few thousand fans to her local stop at a joint that seats more than 20,000.

Attendance figures were not made available, but before the show, fans in the upper levels were invited to wander down to the first level and floor, which I have NEVER seen done at a Forum show. It should have been pandemonium, but it wasn't, another sign that plenty of seats were available.

You can blame it on the rainy weather. But the truth is that these are the downloadable days of disposable pop, when staying power means two weeks on the charts and maybe a date with Avril Lavigne.

You don't even have to be all that talented, but it helps to be cute. Take, for instance, opening act Robin Thicke, with his Kmart Justin Timberlake routine. You know what Thicke's really good at? Breathing heavy. Oh yeah, he's like the Darth Vader of lame R&B. I give him another month.

Beyonce knows the only way to stay on top is to work hard. And that's exactly what she did.

"MEMPHIS: This Town Is Trying to Kill Me..."

...that's what I wrote on the notepad next to my bed after getting back to the Peabody Hotel at 4 a.m. Saturday, my head spinning with jukebox riffs, Soulburger fumes and perilous adventures with a good ol'-boy, an unlikely movie star and two 21-year-old Tampa students who had road-tripped to Earnestine & Hazel's (formerly a brothel, now just about the coolest, oldest, most honest bar in the world) to commune with the spirits. Good lord, what a night.

Ace photographer Daniel Wallace and I had a helluva time in Memphis -- going to Sun, Stax, Rendezvous, Shangri-La, etc -- and the stories will tumble out over time (although maybe not the one of me almost dying Elvis-style at Graceland after a long night of Bud and fried chicken).

For now, I just got home and need to rest/detox/pray. I have the coolest job in the world -- and although you might not believe us, we worked our butts off. Memphis is a different world, a city happy to show off its past -- and not gussy itself up for the future. It's not for everybody -- but it's definitely for me.

By the way, who out there has been to Graceland Too, the Elvis shrine/asylum down in Holly Springs, Mississippi? Wow. We need to talk...

Goin' to See the King...

Just bought my tickets for the Graceland tour: 11:30 a.m. this Saturday, the "platinum" package, which I'm pretty sure gets me a date with Lisa Marie. Better iron my fancy pants.

When I return from Memphis, I'll no doubt have stories involving a dwarf Elvis impersonator, gastrointestinal distress brought on by epic pounds of BBQ (my gastrointestinal distress, not the dwarf's) and besotted tomfoolery from the birthplace of rock 'n' roll, aka Soulsville USA. The travel story (Stax! Sun! Gus's World Famous Fried Chicken!) will run in August, closer to the 30th anniversary of Elvis' death (Aug. 16).

Now I gotta go pack. I'll check in with you guys in a bit...

The Police (or, How Spears Was Wrong)

TAMPA -- They were only together for six or seven years. They stayed broken up, fractured, stubborn for almost 24. But like a certain fab Brit band before them, the Police packed a whole lot of legend in a short amount of time, a compact rock legacy making this summer's 30th anniversary/when-pigs-fly reunion tour one of the musical events of the year.

It was our turn to honor the Police on Wednesday -- an expensive privilege to be sure - as a sold-out crowd of 21,077 stuffed the St. Pete Times Forum to see the brainy rock trio. There they were: vainglorious mouthpiece Sting, still name-dropping Nabokov; guitarist Andy Summers, gnomish and prickly; polyrhythmically agile drummer Stewart Copeland, keeping the boys juiced.

You no doubt know the backstory: The three dudes don't like each other all that much. There's already been bickering. They're getting paid gobs of moola to finally share a stage again face value for primo seats was $226. Will they even make it to the end of the tour?

But backstory is one thing - back catalog is another, especially when it's being sold to you with professional gusto and earnest effort. From the opening riff of Message in a Bottle, the fans -- predominantly older, richer, polo-shirted -- were in love.

Oh my, do the Police have some killer songs, more than 20 of which they rocketed out boom-boom-boom over the course of a two-hour show. And although the aging legends have replaced some of the punk-reggae moxie of their younger selves with a jazzy, jammy sound, they can still deliver the goods, just the three musicians, no backing help, touching on all their albums but paying particular attention to 1983's iconic Synchronicity.

The general appeal of the Police is akin to, say, The Da Vinci Code: crowd-pleasing entertainment that makes you feel smarter as you sing along. Second song Synchronicity II is all about the interconnectedness of life, but it also made for a ferocious headbanger, with Sting's trademark plaintive wail arguably as pure as it has ever been.

And despite their pedagogical reps, the boys do in fact know how to cut loose: The buoyant Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic might have been the sing-along of the night - although Wrapped Around Your Finger, given a spooky sheen by Copeland's full arsenal of gongs, cymbals and tinkly things, was a robust crowd fave, too.

The band's focal point will forever be Sting, who, at 55 years old, obviously has guzzling access to the fountain of youth. Sheesh, this guy. Phenomenally fit in tight T-shirt, snug jeans and black boots, he stood tall and hunky, his tan biceps toned, a smirky rock star fully aware of his magnetism. (Am I gushing?) He gave his voice a full workout, too, hitting and holding all the notes on Don't Stand So Close to Me and De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da.

But give credit to the Other Two. On Voices Inside My Head -- which was great to hear primarily because it's the rare Police song not played to death on the radio -- the 54-year-old Copeland mixed in rifle-shot snares with alternating hypnotic beats, taking the tempo-mad tune through both rock and jazz moods.

Summers, the band's elder statesman at 64, may look grumpy most of the time, but without him and his fire-alarm licks countering Sting's shamanistic wanderings, the band would be lost. He added particular feisty energy to an extended Can't Stand Losing You.

As the night wore on, the hits got bigger. I'd be fine if I never heard Roxanne again, but with the stage bathed in a lascivious red glow, fans fell out of their chairs cheering for it. Two encores followed, the first including the transcendent King of Pain and So Lonely. The show closed with stalker ode Every Breath You Take and the raucous Next to You, from their first album. When the house lights went up, the crowd was still clapping, cheering, appreciating, not sure if they'd ever get the chance again.

Photo: Daniel Wallace 

Meet Me in Memphis

I'm Goin' to Graceland...

Next weekend, photographer Daniel Wallace and I will be flying to Memphis for a feature/travel story on the 30th anniversary of Elvis' death and related rock 'n' rollery.

I've never gone swingin' in the Jungle Room before, so I'm looking for hot TRAVEL TIPS, the weirder and more offbeat the better. Great BBQ joints, bars, music emporiums, etc.

By the way, I kinda look like Fat Elvis, don't I? Or maybe I just look fat.

MEMPHIS TRAVEL TIPS...WHO'S GOT 'EM?

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 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.

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.

The Only Zeppelin Song I Need

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

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

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

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

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

Can't Get It Out of My Head

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

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

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

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

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

Dump Weiland: Guy on Velvet Revolver

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Was Your First Concert?

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

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

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

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

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

The Bald Wonder LIVE

ST. PETERSBURG — Chris Daughtry looks smaller without his trusty video flames.

If you watched American Idol last year, you no doubt remember the warbling rocker’s cheezy performance backdrop, an electric blaze that helped the Bald Wonder stick in the mind of voters. Country dope Bucky Covington could barely get a stool to sit on; Daughtry, a fave of producers, was granted an inferno.

At a sold-out State Theatre Monday, the 28-year-old singer, who famously lost the Idol contest, continued to launch his post-flames career. His 2006 debut album, Daughtry, has sold more than 2 million copies, making him one of the most popular singers to come from the show.

But despite the early success, the question remained: Without all the TV trickery, without studio polish, could Daughtry deliver a ferocious live setting with just a four-piece band behind him — and without Ryan Seacrest hyping his skills?

The answer is yes. A very LOUD yes. Daughtry may be smaller in person, but he sure is a lot louder. In fact, he’s more of a metalhead than we ever knew.

In front of a 700-plus crowd made up mostly of women and their dates, tykes with their patient dads, and a hilarious smattering of middle-aged bald dudes, Daughtry spent an hour grunging up his image and power-chording his way to a promising rock career.

Dressed in black leather jacket and matching beanie — and soon doffing both to reveal gym-toned arms and that smooth-pated dome — Daughtry opened with the slow-burn grind of Crashed. He was fighting to howl over his muddling band at first, but the sound soon cleared: For (relative) ballads Used To and later the catchy hit single Home, Daughtry’s distinctive pipes sounded sublime. The guy can flat-out blow.

With a scowl on his face, a leather wristband soaking sweat, and that goofy wallet chain dangling from his hip, he seemed most inspired by the angry stuff. The best song on the album was also the best song of the night, the swaggering assault of What I Want, which is rocket-boosted by a nasty Skid Row punch.

“You’ll have to bear with me, I’m a little under the weather tonight,” he told the worshipful crowd. “So you’ll have to sing with me. Is that alright?”

And with that, he broke into the bittersweet breakup ballad Over You, which turned into a crowd-wide sing-along, and then the power-poppin’ Cheap Trickery of Feels Like Tonight. The State Theatre is a gloomy rock club (in the best sense, mind you), but it was sweet to see the rock dungeon dotted with preteen faces, mouths agape, crooning along to every world. Daughtry wants to court a non-Idol crowd, but you could tell he was touched the loyal adoration of the wee ones who first fell for him as a prime-time stud.

So Daughtry rocked on and on (Breakdown, It’s Not Over), churning out sounds far harder than anything he unloaded on Simon Cowell & Co. And that bald head, so calm and shiny on TV, was sweating up a storm.

Yes, the flames may be gone, but this boy can still generate some serious heat.

Get your panties ready...

Who told Victoria her saucy little secret? Who helped Frederick seduce the hotties of Hollywood? Who's the top banana in the Fruit of the Loom gang?

Tom Jones, baby!

The 66-year-old Welsh Wonder knows undies like Air Jordan knows hoops. And at Ruth Eckerd Hall Wednesday, the first of two sold-out nights, the chest-hairiest crooner in pop history was drilled with his first pair of unmentionables at the 50-minute mark of a brilliantly smarmy 90-minute show.

It was a tiny pink thong, and it hit him square in his remarkably fit chest. "Oooh," Jones purred.

Soon after, in the middle of classic sing-along "Delilah," an even smaller pair of skivvies landed at his steel-tipped leather boots. "Heh heh heh," he lasciviously chuckled.

And just about every one of his 2,200 fans squealed and swooned.

In a matter of shameless disclosure, I'm a huge TJ fan. All of his the swinging-60's stuff is sublime, of course. But for the past two decades, Jones has teamed up with modern-pop talents as diverse as Wyclef Jean, Portishead and the Stereophonics for techno-cocktail cool. It's cheesy and trippy, like glow-in-the-dark Velveeta.

Dressed in a ridiculous purple suit, Jones played some new songs (including "200 lbs. of Heavenly Joy," a great take on a Howlin' Wolf tune). He played the old songs (for "Help Yourself," he motioned to his bathing-suit area as he sang the line "Love is like candy on a shelf").

"And I'll play a few in-between songs, too," Jones cooed, making the word "between" sound like a four-letter come-on. Jones is a classic Vegas showman in every sense of the word. He chatted up the crowd, which was predominantly gray-haired but also featured a surprising amount of young women. He sweat his tail off -- and shook that tail as much as his hips would allow.

He put together a tight 11-piece rock band, complete with horn section. And he sang every song as if life and libido counted on it. His baritone remains a remarkably strong over-the-top instrument.

He's not so much a singer as a belter, pulling that microphone back two feet from his jet-black goatee for the show-stopping notes. Forget about subtlety or nuance or quiet moments: Tom Jones likes to wail.

Case in point, a cover of "Fly Me to the Moon," which suddenly sounded like the best bar pick-up line in history.

The last 45 minutes of the show was a full-on undies assault, as Jones, doffing his jacket to great effect, uncorked the classics: "What's New Pussycat?" a grinding "You Can Leave Your Hat On," the pulsating "Sexbomb" and hip-thrusting anthem "It's Not Unusual."

But he saved the randiest moment for the encore, a killer cover of Prince's "Kiss," the song that kickstarted his career revival revival in the late '80s. Over a funky hip-hop beat, he hollered "Think I better dance now!" and shimmied and juked and wiggled all over the darn place.

And making sure the crowd went totally bonkers, he then lifted up his shirt, revealing a ripped, hirsute stomach that reminded me of Chewbacca at Gold's Gym. One more time: Tom Jones, baby!

Coachella or Bust

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The New Ol' Blue Eyes?

Here's an essay I wrote for our Weekend mag, in honor of Justin Timberlake's Feb. 22 show at the St. Pete Times Forum. I'm expecting a barrage of hate mail -- all typed on Underwood No.5s.

IT ALL STARTS WITH THOSE PEEPERS, OF COURSE: sometimes flirty, sometimes intense, but always aware, of the cameras, of the crowds, of the cool. Frank Sinatra and Justin Timberlake, Ol' Blue Eyes and New Blue Eyes, singin' joes with the world on a ring-a-ding string.

Then there's this: Frank and JT both started in cheeky boy bands (the Hoboken Four, 'N Sync) and silly variety shows (Major Bowes, The Mickey Mouse Club). Sooner, rather than later, these scrawny, winter-born white boys from humble origins went solo, relying on African-American maestros -- Quincy Jones, Count Basie, Pharrell, Timbaland -- to inject crossover soul into their sound.

And don't forget: They both famously hooked up with femmes fatales -- Ava Gardner, Britney Spears -- and used well-publicized breakups (whether they were the dumper or the dumpee) to make their best music: In the Wee Small Hours, Cry Me a River. Those chart-topping tears would, in turn, help these incurable lady-killers attract even more bombshells.

On the surface, comparing Justin Randall Timberlake, who plays the St. Pete Times Forum in Tampa tonight, to Francis Albert Sinatra sounds preposterous, silly, downright dangerous, considering Frank's clout.

But think about it for a minute, and the similarities are unmistakable. Heck, even Justin seems to know he's chasing Frank's ghost, the young pop stud dressing in Rat Pack ties, fedoras and carefully rumpled suits that beg comparison.

****

Take away those fedoras, the women, the stage lights, and things really get interesting. Two seemingly regular guys, Frank and Justin became larger than life by reading the vagaries of pop culture and using their talent in the right way at the right time: ditching youth-oriented bands, embracing muscular pop, daring to be arrogant, unafraid to be vulnerable, bringing sexy back (in the '60s, in the '00s) when we needed it most.

Madonna reinvents herself. Frank and Justin, two Grammy winners fully aware of their strengths and limitations, redirect themselves, deftly altering their approach without sacrificing who they are.

And because they're so good at manipulating and convincing, Timberlake and Sinatra found acting to be a natural extension of their talents. Sinatra won an Academy Award for his role as Maggio in From Here to Eternity; Timberlake, a critical fave as genial thug Frankie in Alpha Dog, might get a shiny statue someday, too.

In a way, they even sing the same kind of songs. Sure, JT isn't crooning big-band swing, and Sinatra didn't go hip-hop. But put a young Frank in 2007, or Justin in 1942, and maybe you'd see Sinatra cooing Senorita and Timberlake nailing Night and Day. After all, these two are pop stars through and through.

****

As for the major differences? Well, there's really only one glaring difference worth mentioning. Frank Sinatra is the greatest pop vocalist of all time, male or female. Timberlake wasn't even the best singer on the Grammys last week.

But Timberlake certainly has skills: His pillow-talk falsetto is a marvel. He can put together a bumpin' boogie track. And for a skinny punk from Memphis, the kid's one heck of a dancer. Frank was the ultimate showman, but Justin is already getting props for being the most complete young star stomping the boards today.

Besides, Timberlake just turned 26. Sinatra died in 1998 at the age of 82 after a career that lasted six decades and featured myriad comebacks; Timberlake started recording in 1998 and he has cleared one professional hurdle, the boy band curse. The kid's got a lot of living to do.

Is Timberlake the new Sinatra?

Maybe, maybe not. But the fact we're even discussing it tells you just how good Justin could be -- and just how much the world needs another Frank to brighten things up around here.

Live Review: Gnarls and the Chili Peppers

TAMPA -- It was the best-dressed band vs. the notoriously naked band.

Two brainy pop weirdos against four too-cool punk-funkers.

Or simply, one of the hottest new groups opening for one of the hottest veteran groups.

The juicy plot lines were myriad at the St. Pete Times Forum on Sunday, as the possibly insane sonic scientists in Gnarls Barkley joined randy rock stars the Red Hot Chili Peppers for a raucous, sloppy but highly inspired double-bill in front of 16,947 rowdies.

If you've never heard of Gnarls Barkley, you certainly know the duo's ubiquitous hit: Crazy was THE song of '06, a pop oddity about misplacing one's marbles that introduced portly soul singer Cee-Lo Green and tall, silent Danger Mouse, the beat-making DJ who first made headlines by blending the Beatles' White Album with Jay-Z's Black Album for a concoction called The Grey Album.

GB's platinum debut, 2006's sublime St. Elsewhere, was a swirling blend of rock, techno, hip-hop and sociopathic tendencies. But wait, it gets weirder: Cee-Lo and Mr. Mouse, fully indulging their split-personality schtick, have taken to performing in theme costumes, including sartorial nods to Star Wars, A Clockwork Orange and Austin Powers.

What would the dudes wear this night? Hitting the stage right at the 7:30 ticket time, and with the crowd still trickling in, Cee-Lo, Danger Mouse and a 10-piece backing band strutted out in boarding-school uniforms and headmaster jackets, Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall cranking. If you couldn't guess the gimmick, allow Cee-Lo to explain: "Unfortunately, Gnarls Barkley couldn't be here tonight, so we're gonna cover some of their tunes. We are, of course, the School of Rock!"

They then kicked into Go-Go Gadget Gospel, a cacophonous, cartoonish but highly entertaining racket, with Danger Mouse working the bleeping keyboard consoles, Cee-Lo howling behind the mike and the rest of the band flipping out. The sound was muddled and too loud, proof that Gnarls is better as a studio act. But hey, you just can't look away from these guys.

The band worked through most of St. Elsewhere, with the less-nuanced, more rock-centered songs playing best. The Boogie Monster was straight out of a creature double-feature, a menacing track with a mind-messing twist. A thumping cover of the Violent Femmes' Gone Daddy Gone was a bona fide rumpshaker, with a nubile string section (called the G Strings, no less) dropping their instruments and flipping their hair.

And finally, as the 40-minute set wore down, there was this: "This song is the reason that I am rich and famous today," Cee-Lo cracked as the band jumped into the spooky groove of Crazy. Cee-Lo uncorked that soul-town howl, and the crowd crooned along. Gnarls need to work on their live sound, but man, those nutters make for good theater.

Closing in on 25 years together, SoCal's Peppers celebrated '06 with double album Stadium Arcadium, proof that the men who once bounced around in nothing but tube socks had matured musically but still maintained that frisky party appeal. The quartet has also conquered a few demons along the way, including drug problems that almost felled a couple of the players.

So what wouldn't they wear tonight? For gnomish bassist Flea, a shirt was out of the question. But the rest of the crew was considerably bundled: drummer Chad Smith in mechanic's garb, guitarist John Frusciante in shirt and pants, and long-haired frontman Anthony Kiedis in black workout wear. But the lack of skin didn't mean the bounding boys had mellowed any.

RHCP opened with Can't Stop, one of their trademark fast-hard hits, blending rappish aggression with a golden-sunset melody. Just as good was followup smash Dani California, a surf-mystic ode to their home, complete with a sing-along chorus that sent the throngs into an early frenzy.

The two-hour set's highlights were Frusciante and a totally awesome light show, the two often working in tandem. During his solo on Scar Tissue, his picking merged beautifully with the IMAX-sized backdrop, four square-dancing video screens and tendrils of light that stretched over the crowd.

The band's songs have a tendency to blend into one another (especially the non-hits), and the setlist's midsection was too heavy with murky