It drives me nuts when people, some of them intelligent and not prone to idiotic statements, say things to me like a colleague did the other day: "Do you ever hear a good record anymore?"

Seriously, if you want to see me turn Mommy Dearest on yo ass, say that or something in the same realm of stupidity. My response after a nasty look and a disgusted shake of the head is, "Go spend some time in a record store or online ya lazy faaa….." There's tons of good records out there if you just look. The mess that the record business has become has not affected the amount or quality of the music that's being produced. Sure, some genres are declining, blues is the best example, but that's an organic, cultural thing, i.e. the genuine bluesmen, African–Americans from the delta or at least the Chicago–born sons of delta boys, are almost completely gone.

Now, I will also admit that there is a problem these days with joining listeners to the music they want to hear. Record stores are going the way of the wax cylinder. And even those that survive, can either be small and too elitist (too cool to talk to customers about music) or big and too loud and confusing (too dumb to talk to customers about music). Another factor is that artists are making their own records these days, which often makes hearing them, let alone buying them, a lot more work. Sit down and Google names of bands or solo acts and go to their MySpace page and listen. That and pay for satellite radio. The combo of the two is really the only way to learn and find new music since terrestrial radio, which has been dying for at least a decade, has lost much of its influence—outside that rarified NPR seal of approval. It's truly amazing how many older folks listen to NPR and then run out or hop online and buy the music they've heard on an NPR show. Labels say they see a sales spike literally hours after their music is featured on an NPR show.

All that aside, here are a few new releases, a few "good records" I’ve heard recently.

Fleet Foxes, Self–Titled

If this isn't a hit, I don’t know what is. Vocal music on Sub Pop? Well, yeah. But it's also folky like Fairport Convention. And lush vocally like Brian Wilson run amok. And there's some kind of Fleetwood Mac thing here that I haven't really figured out yet. All this is produced with a big, echo–y Wall–of–Sound fascination that should have been less compressed. Anyone sure that nothing "new" happens in music anymore needs to hear this record.

Ruby Suns, Sea Lion

Anything that touts itself as being "multi–cultural" immediately makes me suspicious. I mean, try as we might, Americans aren't now nor will they ever be truly multi–cultural. Even uppity New Yorkers are not multi–cultural, particularly when it comes to anything African. So when a lily white "collective" from New Zealand, led by a kid from California, pick a cutesy name, choose a cutesy cover and launch into psychedelic rock influenced by "world" sounds, it sounds like a prescription for eye–rolling nausea. But they pull it off, that is, if you can take sprightly, cluttered, super nerdy tunes filled with samples, percussive instruments of all kinds, and lots of sing–ging.

The Dowland Project, Romaria

A review of this record will appear in an upcoming Stereophile so I don't want to spoil the surprise or steal the reviewer's thunder, but let it suffice to say that this is not 16th century English Lute music. Far from it. Very modern music with very old sources. Extraordinary, with ECM's usual spacious distinctive sonics.

All that is why critics—always the band's best audience—are drooling over the just released Rhino reissues of the band's first four albums, all of which were released on Peter Jesperson’s Twintone label.

While I still prefer Tim and Pleased To Meet Me, the band’s first two post-Twintone records on Sire, this quartet's early records have an undeniable ragged charm about them. And even the debut, Sorry Ma, Forgot To Take Out The Trash proves once again that these monuments to excess were in reality popmeisters from the get-go. The drawback here to promising, embryonic tunettes like "Customer" and "I Hate Music," is that the record sounds like it was recorded in a 55 gallon drum. The energy in the music though is undeniable.

The big draw with these reissues is the healthy slugs of outtakes, alternate takes and demos (much of it unreleased) that come with each disc. On Sorry Ma, the band’s first four demos, dropped off by Westerberg to convince Jesperson to help the band get a live gig, have the kind of songwriting that eludes many bands even two and three records into their careers.

Then comes Stink (full title: The Replacements Stink. Initially they had a thing for self-deprecating titles), which is both more punky than the debut in the headlong rush that is "Dope Smokin Moron," and also more flecked with great hints of songwriting to come like the opener, "Kids Don't Follow," which starts with a recording of the Minneapolis Police clearing out a rowdy Mats gig. The bonus cuts include wonderfully hard-edged, fast versions of "Hey Good Lookin'" and "(We’re Gonna) Rock Around The Clock." No one, I mean NO ONE, has ever been able, before or since, to imbue covers of classics with the verve that the Mats mustered. The more obvious the cover, the more they reveled in it. There's a "hidden track" here, appended onto track 12, that is the recording of a very young Tommy (I'm assuming) talking about his influences an ending with "I Lied." Again, if nothing else, these guys had a good time.

The knockout bonus track on Stink however is track 12 proper which is a rough demo of the Westerberg track, "You’re Getting Married." Although the band played it live and even tried to work up a version for their next record, 1982's Hootenanny album. Long available on bootlegs, this ranks as one of his best unreleased songs.

Next up: Hootenanny and the breakthrough Let It Be.

I was reminded of this salient fact by an incident that occurred today at Stereophile HQ, located deep in the canyons of Murray Hill, Katie Hepburn's old neighborhood. A co-worker from another fine Source Interlink publication came storming into my office and demanded to know what I was listening to. Now this woman is normally very polite and quiet, so the big smile on her face and gleam in her eye told me something serious was definitely up. When I handed her the jewel box—yes, a CD, an SACD in fact—she was astonished to learn it was Mozart; one of the four superlative volumes of his sonatas for keyboard and violin, that English fiddle player Rachel Podger and Gary Cooper have recorded for the Channel Classics label. They've become one of my favorite morning soundtracks because they are so fizzy and nimble, easy on the half awake brain, impossible to hate. The Mats in the afternoon (hence the title of this entry), but Mozart divertimenti in the morning. If there's anything better musically in the a.m. than effervescent chamber music, particularly Mozart, I haven't found it.

Holding the CD, she told me a story I've heard many times before: her dad was a classical music head but she never listened to him or it and now that he's gone she wishes she'd have paid more attention. It's the world's oldest music story: I shoulda listened. I have a nephew, the poor kid, who is well on his way to someday having that tale to tell. "Yeah, my uncle would never shut up; he was a real pain in the ass about Bill Evans but now I kinda like jazz…" I can hear it all now.

Anyway, I ended up giving my co-worker the Mozart record, much to her delight, and then did an impromptu sales job on her for Naxos, Harmonia Mundi, the Brilliant Classics boxed sets (which happen to be sitting on my desk) and classical music in general.

The Brilliant Classics sets from Holland deserve special mention. The complete Mozart for example, 170 CDs containing every piece he wrote, in decent to sometimes near great versions, for one hundred and thirteen dollars on Amazon.com? CD boxed sets in the twilight of physical media? Makes no sense at all. I assigned a story for Stereophile on Brilliant which ran in November 2007, and while it did not turn out as clear or to the point as I would have liked, these completist sets continue to be talked about. I find them profoundly weird. Clearly these Dutchmen are on a pipe of some kind. These sets are, however, as I found out when my colleague decided in front of me that she'd buy one, an easy way to learn about the big, scary subject of classical music. No, it's not Bernstein nor von Karajan that you are listening to, but all in all it's not that bad. And it can be a riot at cocktail parties where civilians, i.e. non-music obsessed folk, can be shocked and awed by the sheer massiveness. "This is all of Mozart," said the tipsy music critic. "Wow!" exclaimed the drunk girl he was trying to impress. Score one for Wolfy! How old are you? How young am I? Oh, feets don't fail me now!!!

But seriously, it's always great when music is playing and someone says something like, "Who's this?" and their eyes light up when they realize it's someone they've always heard about but never actually listened to.

Turning people on to music is still the best part of this gig.

First off let's get one thing straight: it ain't no Last Waltz!

The other night I saw, courtesy of Paramount Pictures, the new Stones–Scorsese picture, Shine a Light at the IMAX Theatre near Lincoln Center here in New York. As anyone who's seen it knows, the "IMAX Experience" is something akin to going over Niagara Falls in a barrel; something that closet Nazi Walt Disney left behind to torture anyone fool enough to slip into its clutches. With a sound system that is the very embodiment of those famous '70s vintage Pioneer ads— you HAVE to sit back in an IMAX theatre— the IMAX ain't for everyone. Seeing Mick Jagger's wrinkled face coming at me four stories tall nearly had a recently consumed club sandwich spilling out of me onto my New Balances. I remember thinking years ago that Vincent Price in the3–DHouse of Wax, with that damned carnival barker armed with the paddle ball winging towards your head was bad, but IMAX is positively brutal.

And after more than two hours of the Stones you do end up feeling like you've been punched or at least kicked a couple of good times in the eyes and ears. Too loud and too large. Some observations:

Best Lines:

Scorsese on lighting at the Beacon Theatre: "We can't burn Mick Jagger."

Keith after being told he had to meet more of Ex-President Clinton's guests: "Hey Clinton, I'm bushed!"

Keith on who is the better guitar player, he or Ron Wood: "We're both pretty lousy, but together we’re better than the next ten guys."

The beginning when Scorsese gets exasperated trying to deal with the Stones is self– serving and dumb. Marty needs to stop trying to be Woody Allen.

Mick Jagger is the most preening, overweening ego on earth. No human has ever loved themselves more. He's also the most in–shape sixty year old on earth. He is a ball of energy throughout the film. Of course that keeps the camera on him all the bloody time. His dancing/mugging/theatrics though are nothing short of amazing. You get fatigued just watching.

I was also struck, mostly during guest Buddy Guy's appearance, that Jagger has no voice at all really. He's made a career out of talking or singing in a very flat, nasal sort of bluster.

Another guest Christina Aguilera was like Jagger treats. He lapped it up. The look on his face when she turns her back towards him and they shimmy together, his hand around her waist, drawing her closer, is priceless. The amount of women that man has had, I mean HAD dammit, is absolutely incredible.

In a number of shots, when the lights were directly on him, Jagger's dye job was showing badly. And Woody's black dye job is just silly. And when Jagger walked towards the drum risers and a camera shot him full in the face, oh lord, did the wrinkles reveal themselves.

Musically, the newer songs like "Start Me Up" dragged while older material "All Down The Line" in particular, really cooked. Missed "Sweet Virginia" though. And for some odd reason, there was no performance of the title cut which is one of the band's very best: "Saw you stretched out in Room Ten O Nine/ With a smile on your face and a tear right in your eye…"

The complete lack of fresh interviews seriously hamstrung the film and made it just another overlong concert film. I mean if this was a show from 1972 maybe, but 2008… please. This will conform for you that you never again have to pay wildly inflated ticket prices to see their now ancient satanic majesties.

Keith Richards, whose wizened visage is a truly a wonder to behold—not to mention that spangle adorned doo–rag thang he's got wrapped around his head—, is the only human being in the band. Charlie is a robot as the vintage interview footage that Scorsese sparingly cuts into the film shows. Woody is a cipher of sorts. No real flavor there. He needs Stewie, and they need to be drunk for him to have a personality again. And then Jagger, well, the authentic juice seeped out of that sweet and bitter fruit a long time ago didn't it? It's Keith who truly benefits from the film and comes off as likable and real. Between his bent fingers and creased face (with eyeliner of course), he IS the Rolling Stones isn't he?

"I feel like it [the record business] is in really dire straights right now, but it's a spirit that can't be killed and no matter what forces are out there trying to do that, it's not going to work. Everyone has music that matters to them and no matter what, there's going to be a way that people get spiritual nourishment from music that's for sure.

"Right now, it's looking bad, I don't see how new artists can break anymore. I'm trying and it's impossible."

"Maybe what we need to get out of is this rigidity and control that people who don't really care about music have been exercising over people who do."

"I feel we're close to a major shift in the way people get music, listen to music and appreciate music."

He say he's working on a download site that replicates the experience customers have shopping at his stores—which for me would be something akin to getting high on retail—although that seems like a very tall order considering the hold that iTunes now has over the business.

"There's no question iTunes cannibalizes the business.

"When iTunes first started out and was doing about one percent of the music business, the CD business was down five percent, so they said we're only down four percent because iTunes is making up one of those points. Okay, good.

"Then when iTunes was two percent they were down seven percent. So they think, `Oh, we’re not [down] seven, we're down five.' Then when iTunes was three percent, they were down nine percent. Every time iTunes takes a point they lose two. Right now, iTunes is about five percent and they're down fifteen percent.

"There has to be answer for the industry that doesn't do that; that's more of an album oriented sales philosophy than a singles oriented sales philosophy."

Although he's full of optimism (he has to be), he's clearly aware that in some ways, he's already the last man standing.

"I hope there's plenty more answers. I don’t want to be the only person out there. That's too much pressure."

For starters, let me take on those pathetic souls who would rather wallow in dissension and what's wrong with SXSW. For all the hating, blogosphere jerk-off's who whine and cry and condemn all SXSW's shortcomings—I refuse to mention them because publicity is what these Me! Me! Me! publicity hounds live for—it remains the vital once–a–year coming together of the tribes. If there's one thing the music world could use more of, it's any shred of a sense of community. If you want to bitch about it, then please don't come. I noticed in some of the most negative blog posts, the writers weren't even there. Kind of like reviewing the Black Crowes without listening to the record. Yeah, it's all dollars and cents capitalism on some levels, but it's also about a mass of music. There were 2000 acts at SXSW 2008. If that doesn't get your juices flowing then you need to get away from music because baby, it's over for ya. I mean can't there still be a little joy about music in amongst all the shifty, trying–to–sell–music rat race? If you want to see and get a feel for what is happening in music today, in nearly all genres, Austin during SXSW is it. If you want to feel good again, if only briefly, about the state of music in the world, Austin for a week in March is the place to do it.

Should bands go in expecting to land some gazillion dollar record deal? Hell no. But playing for rooms full of critics and industry folk sure can't hurt and it's infinitely better than playing on Monday nights in some dumpy club in nowheresville for hundred bucks.

The music business is destroying itself fast enough; let's not add to the fires. In general, we need less hate. Being jaded to the point of no return is a terrible thing. Isn't squabbling about nothing and forgetting about music part of what got the business where they are today?

Two brief episodes may be appropriate. I watched as a German band, fresh from a SXSW gig which must have gone very well, felt flush and bought their first ever pairs of cowboy boots. You're in Texas, so of course you gotta buy boots right? Amidst all the waddling around in new boots—the concept that boots unlike Chuck Taylors need to be "broken in" completely escaped them—they were babbling like parrots about their showcase and how all these people, critics, booking agents and label reps, came up and introduced themselves after the gig. I have the feeling that the entire band is now somewhere nursing their blistered and broken feet so some of these opportunities may have to wait until they heal but still, they made a bunch of valuable contacts and got their music some exposure.

The second fond incident was a Spanish band called Tokyo Sex Destruction. The name alone made me stop in to see what they had musically. At SXSW, one of the key principals is a fairly strict adherence to forty five minute sets. If you want to blow your time singing power ballads or running you mouth at the microphone, that's fine but you ain't getting more than 45 minutes. The boys in Tokyo Sex Destruction used up a third of their time soundchecking like they were the Rolling Stones. When you have a bass player endlessly checking his vocal mike—"Check, check, check" enough already!!!!—time begins to crawl by. By the time they finally launched into their first song, the crowd had thinned out. Their music was your basic thrashy punk with no real songs and vocals (in English) that were unintelligible, but watching a rolly poly bass player convulsing across the stage and a lead singer with a Beatles haircut and greenish velvet jacket, jumping off the drum riser like he was the second coming of David Lee Roth made me smile. You cannot have rock 'n' roll without rebellion and ENERGY. Perhaps that's what's best about SXSW: all the energy. It never fails to recharge my batteries.

On this, the sixth anniversary of the war in Iraq let me quote one salient fact: it IS costing a family of four in this country around 16 grand annually to support this wasteful, lethal, mismanged fiasco. The GOP has spent us into disaster. For American taxpayers, winning this war, the Bush McCain mantra, would be getting out. Soon.

From NYT Arts section ads:

"...evokes the masterpieces of silent cinema and Orson Welles' Citizen Kane."

"...bears comparison to the greatest achievements of Griffith and Ford."

God help critics. Citizen Kane!!!!

Some just like so much that the joy blinds 'em. That and their desire to be quoted in hysterical newspaper ads. 'Course the flip side is, there's nothing worse than critics who hate: their job, their salary, what they're supposed to review, themselves. When critics go permanently dark, it ain't pretty.

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The Sony Cards are in!!!! The Sony Cards are in???

"I want my Maypo!!!"

To paraphrase the Doobie Brothers, what was once ridiculous has now become absurd. To the Nth power.

Here's the deal with Sony's latest effort to fight piracy, the piracy by the way that they allowed occur in the first place, an idea straight from the boys in accounting and legal: Platinum Musicpass. You go into a Best Buy, Target or Fred's and purchase a credit card with fancy artwork for each album you want to download in what the press release calls, "high-quality MP3 files." Each card costs $12.99. You then take your card home and scratch the back to reveal a pin number. You then type that pin number into a website to unlock a legal download and extra content, mostly videos, which were not on the original record.

This is blatant sop to retail, the same retail that the labels first, years ago, made partners out of and more recently have cut out like a crazy uncle. And then this isn't even going to record stores; it's going to big box retailers where in theory it has a better chance of success because it will reach the semi-computer literate.

Unfortunately, this is a non-starter of the kind only the record business can devise. First, it's still too damned expensive. Twelve Ninety Nine for catalog pieces? These are records that were paid for years ago. Why not six bucks? Next, it emphasizes entire albums when what downloaders want is the ability to select tracks. This scheme also fails to recognize that getting people to pay for downloads they can steal elsewhere ain't ever gonna happen. And why the claptrap of buying a card so you can go home and plug in a number, blah, blah, blah. iTunes is easy and convenient. This is not.

The ways that this is wrong and unrealistic boogle the mind. The idea that this is going to somehow satisfy anyone's jones for physical media is also crazy although the press release asserts that, "the cards themselves are highly collectible."

I'm in absolute shock that the business is finding ways to make things worse instead of better.

The great Eliane Elias put on a quite a show last night in NYC. Touring in support of her new album, Something For You, Eliane Elias Sings and Plays Bill Evans, the pianist, singer and longtime Evans admirer lit up Dizzy's at Jazz at Lincoln Center, which is easily one of the best–sounding rooms for live music that I've ever been in. The food in there is fairly tasty and not wildly overpriced, a total rarity on the New York jazz club scene. And that behind the stage, floor to ceiling glass that adds a Central Park West backdrops to every performance is genuinely divine. Say what you want about Wynton, but the man did make the three JALC venues happen.

A New York resident since 1981, Elias, her husband bassist Marc Johnson (who was also Evans' last bass player) and drummer Joey Baron (who smiles the whole time and is a fine drummer to boot) put together a mostly melodic, upbeat set of Evans tunes that began with an obscure number, "Five" and included their versions Evans classics like "Waltz for Debby." Elias take on Evans is very strange in that she took everything at a fast pace with only brief patches where she slowed it down and sort of did Evans, before taking the pace back up. She also sings along with several of the tunes, something Evans, of course, never did. Still, the new record is well recorded, sounds good, and also for fans of Evans—"He was a God" enthused one jazz critic in attendance—who doesn't get covered as much as you might think, it's interesting to hear Elias drill down and pay tribute to his technique and then back away and fly off into wildly diverse (from him) interpretations.

After the gig, I was an interested listener and occasional participant in a conversation between artist managers and jazz critics about how the miniaturization of their record collection, i.e. having it all in their hip pocket (literally) thanks to the iPod made them less interested in their home audio system for a time but how they're now growing tired of muddy MP3 sound and are thinking of re&#investing in some new home gear. Comparing iPods, which sounds and actually in practice looks vaguely sexual, ensued, with everyone either oohhing and aaahhing about what someone had on their iPod or howling uproariously at what someone didn't. It was all little boy–esque in a perverse way. My wife supplied the bored, I–can’t–believe– what–a–bunch–of–silly–children–you–are eye-rolling and exhales of mild disgust. The old competition to see who had the best record collection, who had the coolest record collection, has now transmorphed into whose iPod is the most selective and esoteric. Music goons making a circular motion with their index finger and showing each other their little screens. Weird.

Blues movies, movies about the blues, continue to be a treacherous swamp for filmmakers; For some bizarre reason, they just can’t get it right.

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I was at a holiday party populated by teenagers, who I immediately played reporter on to find what they were listening to and buying. To my surprise, none hated CDs and all said, casually and unprompted by me, that if they could find a CD that was cheaper than the same album in download form on iTunes, they'd have no problems buying it. I was expecting the usual wash of frowns and noise about how the CD was dead and how they live for their iPods. But these kids, several music freaks among them, were completely nonchalant about it. So an eleven track CD for six bucks tops the same record as an eleven dollar download? Price seemed to be the prime driver in this group. They wanted the music and they wanted it in the cheapest possible form. Ah, if only the record business hadn't gouged them into being cynics and then allowed the download genie out of the bottle.

Is this a test to see if Jason Bonham can cut it behind the kit where his monumentally talented father once sat? Hell yes. And if all goes well, will there be a triumphant tour? Well, that's the question that has everyone holding their breath isn't it? The absolutely staggering amount of cash that a Zep tour would generate leads anyone with half a brain to say yes. Yet there are mitigating factors like, they don't need the money and Page at 63 may well be past dealing with the rigors of the road.

The question I've heard and been asked for the past couple weeks is why no pay-per-view? Future DVD rights are a concern. And the band seems to be little skittish as to whether it's all going to work out. The best reason to be at O2 tonight would be to see the looks on the faces of Plant, Page and Jonesy, to see if they're enjoying themselves or not, whether they struggling or slipping into an old groove. Tomorrow's verdicts will be interesting to say the least.

Say what? So let me get this straight, the music business was primarily driven by a concern for both better sound and audiophiles?

In classical music I can sort of see it, but the rest of the record business, rock records and high quality sound, no way! Never let music reviewers do music business trend stories may be the key lesson to be gleaned from Anthony Tommasini’s semi–ridiculous article in this past Sunday's New York Times ("Hard to be an Audiophile in an iPod World.") Search his name on the NYT website to see this very strange piece.

Tommasini obviously became enamored with a new book, Capturing Sound: How Technology Has Changed Music written by one Mark Katz who teaches college level courses in DJ culture at UNC/Chapel Hill. Katz is quoted as having published absolute nonsense like saying the major labels "stock rhetoric concerned fidelity." Yeah, and if you believe either Katz or the rhetoric, then we got some nice fifty dollar CDs you need to take a look at. Sometimes academia's whole "publish or perish" culture works against it.

Don't be naïve: "stock rhetoric" also touted how much CDs cost to make. And how after an initial period when they’d cost considerably more than the LPs which they replaced, CDs would descend in price. I'm not saying the record business is all corruption and ill will but I think most reasonable people who've had any dealings with it would agree that looking out for consumers and artists, let alone attaching value to an esoteric concept (compared with raw capitalism) like sound quality, have never been its strongest suits.

Did Katz call up the big record labels, let them spew and then assume it was gospel? Sounds like it. And then Tommasini, who should have known better, assumed Katz was gospel? Did either of them actually listen to a record, these paragons of fidelity of which they speak? One audiophile truism concerns just how many bad sounding classical records came out of the "golden age" of recorded classical music. And how many rock records, which routinely sound bad, actually have more fidelity in them that might be expected. Sadly, sound quality is somewhere around fifth or worse on the list of label priorities in these or any other days. All that crap about "hi-fidelity" that was often printed on the inner labels of LPs was pure marketing blather. Yes, records used to sound better and labels marginally cared about it once upon a time, but again let's face it, improving their products has never been a "driving" consideration for major record labels. It was all about raising the prices and moving out the product baby. The allure of music, that fact that people need it, made their chicanery possible. And profitable.

To be utterly self–interested about this piece, the lead of the story that laments the demise of audio magazines and the "big advertising bucks" (I almost choked on that one) that sustained them is a tad insulting. Again, I'm thinking a little research might have cleared this up, because last time I checked, there was a stylish little rag called Stereophile that was reviewing products and music with wit and grace. Hey, we may not be High Fidelity, which is mentioned and which died twenty years ago not last week as implied in the piece, but hey, we do our best.

I know, I know, boo hoo, free tickets for the poor wittle music writer who wants to stay home and watch bad TV. I'm aware this is a rarified problem that only a handful people can relate to but believe me there are times when getting up, or in my case staying in the naked city after work, waiting for an act to come on at 11 pm, can be a slog.

Last week in San Francisco at Herbst Theatre I saw the great Kronos Quartet. Now over the years I've seen David Harrington and Co. many times. I was an enthusiastic supporter of their whole late 80's heyday when they transformed the music of Thelonious Monk and most famously, Hendrix's "Purple Haze" by coming up with innovative, strangely organic transcriptions for string quartet. The stuff was undeniably weird but a whole lot of fun and brilliant in its way. Since those days they’ve collaborated with musicians from nearly every genre yet they've sort of lost their luster a bit, become old hat. At least that's what I thought until the overly chatty cab driver ("I'm going to run off to Vegas and get married")dropped me off at Herbst Theatre.

Once inside, one of the first people I'm introduced to is the legendary Orrin Keepnews and right then I knew why I'd come to that concert. It was a rare pleasure to meet the great engineer/producer who at 84 and not in the best of health, is still making it out to gigs. Keepnews is best known as the co-owner of Riverside Records (Monk, Bill Evans, Sonny Rollins), the time he spent at Fantasy Records (1972-1980) and finally as co-owner of Landmark Records where he recorded a couple of Kronos albums. Along with the not-so-nice Rudy Van Gelder, he's one of the music businesses true remaining legends. It was a very great pleasure to meet him and tell him how much I loved many of the records he's made. I mean just his Bill Evans recordings alone make him damned near immortal.

As for Kronos, the half of their performance that I saw, reminded me again what a bunch of fearless explorers they are. Their physicality is always a shock: they do not sit even remotely still when they play. In a John Zorn piece, Selections from Dead Man, they showed their sense of humor by whipping their bows back and forth up in the air, together and apart, in silence, for at least five minutes. One great Kronos maxim has always been keep it short and sweet and this they accomplished wonderfully, proving the classical music need not drone on for hours, past the point when many ears turn off.

The most breathtaking point in the show came when they mimicked the sound and approach of a downtown jazz ensemble. The concert was part of the San Francisco Jazz Festival after all so some nod to jazz was expected. Other highlights included one of their constant staples, sawing away on a mishmash of the music of the great Raymond Scott whose music ended up being the centerpiece of many Warner Brothers cartoons and also a gorgeous, evocative piece by Indian composer Ram Narayan. In the end, their performance reminded me that more than a string quartet, they're really more an experimental music act who were once based in classical music.

CMJ week in NYC and the collective reaction I've heard from the local music writer rabble is a deafening, "Ho Hum." Most mystifying this year is who are all these acts no one's ever heard of? One theory is that these are all bands from the Midwest who don’t know that CMJ turned ripe and fell off the tree many years ago. The only act I’ve seen on this year's schedule that was worth schlepping downtown fir was UK angry young (now old) man Billy Bragg, who everyone who cares about music has already seen five times. Part of the problem is that New York is entirely too spread out to host a music conference. In Austin, SXSW works because everything, seminars, hotels, music, are all in a compact area. In Manhattan, there's too much going in just in the normal course of events for this festival to be able to foster any sense of community which is exactly what makes events like this go.

On my very first visit to SXSW many years ago, during the Austin Music Awards which we were clearly not watching, Gary and the band somehow got my friend Jeb and I into an inescapable whirlpool of beer drinking—Shiner Bocks of course—from which none of us emerged even remotely sober. We bonded that night and I'm proud to say the friendship lasted until Sunday night.

The list of labels he recorded for reads like an all-star list of who's who of defunct roots labels: Blacktop, Amazing and Antones among others. Of his records Mr. Freeze from 1995 is a favorite of mine though his last Ridin' the Darkhorse is also good. Somehow the title of a musician or film star's last project is always prophetic and Primich was no exception. Vaya con Dios amigo. The blues world has lost a great one.

On the sick and twisted end of things, I spent some (not all) of the past weekend trying to figure out if the woman shown in the now infamous Meg White Sex Tape (Google it) is actually the drummer of The White Stripes or more likely a look alike who is unfortunately trying to rattle not only poor Meg but also the rest of the pathetic sex-tape obsessed world. If I had to vote I'd say no, it's not her. Her body looks in the ballpark but I'm not so sure about the face.