Music For That Not So Fresh Feeling

Kimberly Massengill's a big ol' Southern belle who likes gray matter, a slow, grindy groove, and cucumber dip. She lives in Manhattan, where she talks dirty on the radio and bellies up to the bar when nothing good's on TV. Don't be afraid to say hey.
www.hometown.aol.com/kimmassengill

Blues and Black Coffee
December 27, 2001

When the band we'd set out to see the other night turned out to be playing for a largely unappreciative (too too chatty) audience, we headed for that trusty standby of the upper east Upper East Side, the uptown Hogs-n-Heifers. I'm often pleasantly surprised by the quality of bands this place presents, cover-free, and this night was no exception. Popa Chubby and The Black Coffee Blues Band.

The band is a casual collective of Blues musicians seeking gigs for when they're home from the road, and they describe their sound as "vicious 2-beat as guitars sting each other in Telecastic delight." Wish I'd written that.

On snare drum and vocals is Dimitri Archip, "Dimitri The Diminutive" until I realized he was bravely set up on the floor next to the stage, a good 5 inches lower than his bandmates. The girl on bass (don't ya just love a girl on bass?) was Mrs. Chubby, Galea Horowitz, and I'm afraid the drummer was obscured from my vision as well as my memory by the imposing ampleness of the cleverly monikered Popa Chubby and his guitar. I found the Uncle Fester good looks to be the result of unkind stage lighting. Up close he's practically adorable. And you've gotta love a guy who's not afraid to be this big and pose nude from the waist up on an album cover.

Popa and his Black Coffee caffeinated the tiny-ish Hogs-n-Heifers crowd with standard Blues fare, "Red Rooster" ably sung by Archip, some Hendrix, Patsy Cline. So skimpy was the audience that The Big Guy requested that I repeat my "Yee-Hah" several times, in fact, in hopes of filling in gaps in the audience response.

This night Arthur Neilson's guitar work was replaced by the swampy strings of Parkside Lounge regular Matt Smith, host of the sort of perpetual smile that makes his eyes a mystery. Perhaps the smile's because he's got every vintage guitar a boy could ever want. In a 70s funk version of "The Thrill is Gone" his Ovation mandolin was so wonderfully mishandled, that performance alone should get him tossed out of the Mandolin Traditionalists Union. Hunt this guy down and give a listen.

Both Smith and Black Coffee have CDs due out soon, and Popa hizzelf begins a European tour in January.

www.popachubby.com/BLACKCOFFEE.htm
www.mattsmithsworld.com/

Repeat Button Streak of the Week:

I'm in Virginia for the holidays, hundreds of miles from my repeat button, but I continue to be victimized by Pink's "Get The Party Started" which has run continually in my head for weeks now. I'd dismissed her as just another of the crop when the first Pink song to invade my awareness included the lyric "sometimes it be's like that". Use of the non-word "be's" will pretty much get you bounced from my list every time. But this lighthearted dance ditty has some nice bottomy funk, and a recent publicity adjustment revealing a truer shade of Pink has me growing fond of the girl.

Boulevard is freakin' as I'm comin' up fast
I'll be burnin' rubber, you'll be kissin' my ass

Mmmkay. I'm not going pretend these are thoughtful lyrics. But sometimes, a nice, head-bobbing groove is plenty. Y'know?

Clinton and the Coultergeist
December 21, 2001

Phil Coulter is perhaps the most famous person I've never heard of. Couple of weeks ago his people messengered over a pair of tickets to his performance at Carnegie Hall. I'm a total spineless sucker for 'messenger' used as a verb, so I went.

Turns out Coulter is a singer/songwriter/pianist/producer/composer/Irish guy, who has written songs for Elvis, Waylon Jennings, Richard Harris, Cliff Richards, and The Bay City Rollers, and has performed with and/or produced for Van Morrison, Chet Atkins, and Tom Jones, among others. Sometimes classified as Contemporary Folk, World Music, or even Pop ("There's Pop hooks in some of the songs"), Coulter is decidedly New Age. Boasting no fewer than seven albums with the word "Tranquility" in the title, he's sort of an Irish Yanni, and is touring to promote his latest, Lake of Shadows, the follow-up to his Grammy-nominated Highland Cathedral of last year. But he's perhaps best known for penning an ode to his hometown of Derry, "The Town I Loved So Well," with lyrical references to "the smoke and the smell" in the Derry air, chillingly apropos of recent events.

"What I have learned is that the specific can become the general," Coulter says of the song. "That the emotion is not specific to one place, or one street, or one event, but it is a universal thing, as has been proven again with its relevance now to New York."

(Huh. Huh-huh-huh. She said "Derry air.")

The audience at Carnegie Hall was grayer and plaider than most. I felt downright swarthy in this sea of pale faces and peachy heads.

When Coulter took the stage (he looks like a dapper leprechaun, but taller, and more flesh-colored), I feared he'd be more polish than puddin'. Lots of slick showmanship, frequent invocation of the point-and-wave combo, and costume changes - I swear I thought he'd shaved his beard off during intermission. Presentation and poise. Serious smooth. But once I got past the uber-earnest Moody Bluesesque intros (at one point I was certain he was launching into Spinal Tap's "Stonehenge", or maybe Rush's "Cygnus X-1"), I started to enjoy the show.

Among those sharing the stage this night were the multi-talented Brendan Monaghan, playing assorted wind instruments I've never heard of (he learned bagpipes in just a couple months, in preparation for this tour), and the angel-voiced Aoife ni Fhearraigh, who hails from the same 30-house Irish village as Enya and Maire Brennan of Clannad and, well, Enya.

Many of the show's selections were from the new album, currently on the New Age charts (featuring Sinead O'Connor singing, and Liam Neeson not), as well as covers of Mark Knopfler, Shane MacGowan, and Phil fave Jimmy Durante. "When you're gonna make people cry, you have to make them laugh," says Coulter.

My enjoyment soon frothed into full out ethnic envy. The same feeling I get every March 17th, when it's sanctioned that we non-Irish pretend we're "O'Somethings" or "McSomebodies" for a day. The way my heart beats harder when the pipe-n-drum bands pass at the St. Patrick's Day Parade. Like when you hear Black 47. When Coulter performed his rugby anthem "Ireland's Call," the audience was called upon to join in.

Ireland
Ireland
Together standing tall
Shoulder to shoulder
We'll answer Ireland's call

I swear, I was singing with a brogue. I realized I'm a pathetic wannabe. I hereby deny my WASP heritage. I want to be Irish.

Also in attendance this night, sporting a green tie and an orbit of honeys, was perhaps the finest example of the pedigree. Bill Clinton. (The honeys were Elizabeth Bagley, former American Ambassador to Portugal, and her lovely and attentive daughter Vaughan.)

It's true he indiscriminately tosses out thumbs-ups, and he leans over the balcony's edge to peer down at the orchestra seats like a dog with his head out the car window. He talks and swigs from a can during the show, but the boy has a good time when a good time is called for, and I'd still do him in a Westchester minute. (It's my new year's resolution, in fact.)

Lest you think Bill Clinton's living the mad-happy playa lifestyle, think again. Every time there's a sex joke, all of Carnegie Hall turns to Slick Willy's private box to check his reaction. How'd you bear up under such unending scrutiny?

The old guy behind me with the tubercular death rattle asked his wife "Where's Hillary?" The wife replied, "She's in somebody else's box tonight." Pretty sure the woman had no idea what she was saying.

"I've performed in the White House maybe three or four times," Coulter told me the following day. "And I performed for him in Ireland, during his first visit." When I asked what his pre-show thoughts were, knowing Clinton would be in the Carnegie Hall audience, Coulter answered, "Please God, don't let me screw up tonight, of all nights."

Eek of the week:

The Trio Network aired the 100th Anniversary of the Nobel Peace Prize concert, the other night, with acts from all over the world (as long as they're also American Pop Stars). Destiny's Child? Yeah. Nothing says Nobel like bare midriffs and Whitney-style mic-tapping. But they weren't the only offenders. The night was wall-to-wall furs and sunglasses and ignorant sentiments, like "my performance is dedicated to those who are still slugging it out for peace." Yikes. Bruce Vilanch couldn't've written more ironic copy.

Trio, by the way, has some decent music programming, including old installments of PBS's Sessions at West 54th.

Repeat Button Streak of the Week:

Vince Guaraldi Trio's "Christmas Time Is Here" from A Charlie Brown Christmas. Until the Klezmatics do a screamin' Semite version of "Ring Christmas Bells," this instrumental shall remain the best Christmas song ever. Guaraldi's take on "What Child is This?" is a close second.

Happy Hanukwanzmas everybody!

Musical Salami
December 13, 2001

Lower East Side lovers of pastrami and pressed wood paneling will recognize the WWII era slogan overseeing the butchery at Katz's Deli. "Send a salami to your boy in the Army." For as long as governments have been sending men off to kill other men in the name of religion, borders, and access to other people's fossil fuels to fill the tanks of our gas-guzzling SUVs, the folks back home have been sending consolation prizes to those in combat. But with the current fear of Thrax-O-Grams, electronic well-wishes are replacing the stamp-licking sort, and we're all invited to e-mail some good tidings to our military personnel overseas this Christmas.

Before you roll your eyes at the wholesome hokeyness of sending a "Dear Soldier" letter to a stranger, think of this: Why not send a musical message? I'm not suggesting you attach an mp3 to a "duuude - check this out" e-mail. We can't be cloggin' up military hard drives with dogs singing "Jingle Bells," or the latest Neil Young novelty. But you can certainly send 'em the gift of lyrics, can't you?

The Defense Department has provided an e-mail address to which they're inviting us all to drop some feel-good text on an anonymous trooper, and I can't imagine a better gift than knowing someone back home took the time to type out the lyrics of a favorite song to remind me of better days. Perhaps it's not that $4,000 sterling Cartier watch I lust for, or the digital camera Santa won't bring me again this year, but hey, it's free, easy, and it'll leave you with a feeling nearly as warm and melty as if you were handing over the little Cartier box.

Don't think about it. Just do it.

http://anyservicemember.navy.mil/

(1,000 character limit)

Free CD

Once you've made the abovementioned deposit into your account at The Karma Bank, feel free to make the following withdrawal.

The good folks at mp3.com are offering some free music of the tangible, mailman-brings-it sort. The 15 tracks range from mildly trippy to singer-songwriter-y to Huffamoose (who can do no wrong, in my humble). Love Riot, Margot Smith, Feathermerchants.... The standout is the jealousy-fueled "Heart-Shaped Glasses" by Crown Jewels. I've seen no better marriage of lyric and groove since David & David's Welcome to the Boomtown, and a lushlushlush Hammond B3 organ line that'll make ya wanna join a church.

She says she only looks at
Boys who look like me
Am I supposed to feel good?

She says she's only touched
By boys who feel like me
The kind that make her feel understood

When I leave her home
She's having parties in my head
And I'm in some hotel room in the Midwest
With a book I already read

Don't ya just love it when guys get all insecure? Anyway, a few clicks and the thing'll be at your doorstep. Thanks go to Fred "Slimline Case Lover" LaParo for the heads up on this.

www.mp3.com/freecds

It looks as though there will be a couple more such CDs offered in the near future, and I'll let you know about 'em as soon as I hear word.

Repeat Button Streak of the Week:

Blood Sweat & Tears -- "I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know"

Paul Shaffer used it as bumper music on Monday's Letterman, and I had to get up and find it, dust it off, and play it over and over and over and over and over. Cheezus, what a perfectly constructed Blues-Rock song. Revisit it. Horns that sound like the reason horns wuz invented. Untouched Angels singing backup. Building and pulling back. Building even higher, then pulling back again. So damn sexual. That Al Kooper "W'ARRIGHT!" alone is worth the price of admission.

It was all I could do not to wake a friend and jam the phone against the stereo speaker at 2am. I'm sure you know the feeling.

…And Without You
December 5, 2001

I was attending a concert last week, when a feeling came over me. "Tomorrow, I'll be writing a eulogy." That's all. I felt only that I'd be memorializing someone with words, the following day. The feeling was so new and strong, I feared I was about to lose one of my parents.

During the standing O at the end of the encore, I started toward the door, but stopped short and turned back to look over the dimly lit hall. What I saw kept me frozen until the whole crowd moved. On the front edge of the second tier balcony, there stood a woman applauding with her arms extended out into an amber spotlight beam, so that her hands glowed as she clapped. In the dim grays and taupes of the dark concert hall, the only things lit were the stage and this woman's hands. Like a solemn beacon of appreciation.

Upon rising the next morning, the eulogy premonition had been mentally back-burnered, but the glowing hands stayed with me. Poured myself some tea and scanned the subject headings of the morning's e-mails:

All Things Must Pass
Beware of Darkness
My Sweet George
And Then There Were Two
RIP
There Goes the Sun
George
George
George

My heart sank before I opened a single one.

I was a painfully shy child. I've never thought to reconsider that description, or even the wording. That's what I was called, that's what I was, and that's the way I remember it. Painfully shy. So, when the pretty girls were claiming The Cute One as their own, the gregarious little girls choosing The Funny One, and the deep girls dreaming of The Smart One, I chose The Quiet One as my favorite Beatle. Chose him, loved him, identified with him. Having a favorite just meant that when I curled up against speaker of our console stereo as a kid, it was George's eyes on the album cover I'd stare into the longest. To me, he was the cute one, the smart one, the funny one. Don't believe it when they say George was the one without a rabid fan base. We were there. We were just quiet.

And now George Harrison is gone.

I headed out to Central Park's Strawberry Fields, where mourners would surely be gathering. I had hoped to beat the camcorder-and-stroller crowd, but already the usual suspects had arrived. The guys in button-covered flack jackets, who cover their growing shine with berets. The frizzy, hippie-girl hostesses in broomstick skirts, who supply the candles and earnestness. Pontificating urban cranks. Folks selling T-shirts and beaded jewelry. Malodorous men, talking to themselves. News cameras, and the histrionic camera-chasers that buzz around their lenses, looking to emote into the red light. The obtrusive and the camera whores seem to feed off one another.

Lots of "look at me look at me"s.

An ad-hoc tribute band has formed, and they were playing the song "Something," prompting the following exchange between two young female stroller-pushers:

Shallow Yuppie Scum #1 -- "Well, I know this one!" (making it clear there were others she didn't)
Shallow Yuppie Scum #2 -- "Yeah? What album is this from?"
Shallow Yuppie Scum #1 -- "It's from 1. You know. The one they put out last year?"

I stood in the drizzle at the Imagine mosaic and paid my respects. The tile monument was quickly filling with mementos, from the standard issue -- candles, flowers, posters, sheet music, photographs, a Union Jack, postcards, bad poetry, an ad for the upcoming John Lennon tribute on the 21st anniversary of his death - to the more creative remembrances. A guitar with "my guitar gently weeps" written on it. A black POW/MIA armband. Jelly Bellies. Pez. A juice box (though that may've just been litter). Green apples, some with sentiments Sharpie-ed onto them. Lots of green apples. A drawing of the angel John welcoming newcomer George into heaven, with one of those good-ol-boy air gunshots made popular by Goober Pyle. And little plastic piggies. I didn't get that, at first.		the "Imagine" mosaic
Beatles fans sing-a-long, Saturday night	I watched the band for a bit, then headed home, disappointed that I hadn't yet had my moment. Walked uptown, through the bolts and clamps littering the bed of wet leaves along Central Park West, in the wake of Thanksgiving Day Parade dismantlings from the week before. Got onto a bus filled with oblivious teens. I wasn't yet feeling the sadness or loss. I wasn't yet feeling anything.
I thought about him being an example of the proper use of religion. It comforted him. Eased his passage. He lived it more than he preached it. George Harrison was a humanitarian before it was sexy (or required). He exhibited a well-tuned sense of humor, through his associations with Monty Python, Saturday Night Live, and The Simpsons. He seemed to perform to please himself, rather than an audience. Someone who's performance you have to seek out, to coax. And in this day of one's worth being measured in face time and newspaper inches, I'm glad that, even in war, he was able to make the lead story.

I thought about the lyric:

Sunrise doesn't last all morning
A cloudburst doesn't last all day

I thought about the amber applause from the night before. Those hands, glowing in the dark concert hall. That seemed to be the visual of what I now felt. Clapping madly, but unheard against the backdrop of a standing ovation. Light against the dark, yet probably unnoticed by most. Luminous, but quiet.

Like George Harrison.

My moment never came. I can't make myself wish he hadn't died. Our Rock icons are growing old, and this one was very sick. He seemed to live well, and die well.

A cloudburst, indeed.

Imagine an unholy union between Charlie Rich and Eartha Kitt, the product of which is a child they raise on a steady diet of Carol King, Ray Price, and Camel unfiltereds. That'd be Norah Jones.

The first time I saw the 22-year-old Dallas native perform, she was standing at a portable piano, singing with her coat still on, purse hanging from her shoulder. Everything about her physicality seemed to suggest tension and youthful discomfort. Then she opened her mouth and a centuries-old soul summoned the centuries-old souls of Billie Holiday and Anne Sexton. At the end of the song, she self-consciously asked me whether I thought she looked like "a dork."

Hardly.

She once again reminded me how undorklike she is Wednesday night at Makor, where she and her band have been performing once a month or more, for the past year. Her piano is plaintive and sweet, and sometimes when she plays, you notice her Texas is showing. Her voice, hard to describe without using words like smoky, Dusty, and Krall.

Norah Jones has the standard, "sang in the church choir as a kid" history. "I listened to Pop music sometimes, but not really that much," she says. "I always listened to older music. My mom always had Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, or Judy Garland playing," she admits with a laugh. "On Sundays…instead of church, sometimes."

But the backstory veers in her favor after she comes to New York to spend a summer, which has now turned into 2½ years. "A chance thing," she calls it. A friend set up an appointment with the President of Blue Note Records, "'cause she thought it would be fun." Bruce Lundvall liked what he heard, and gave her the resources to make some demos. "They liked 'em and I liked 'em," says Jones. "So we decided to put the demos out as an EP."

Though First Sessions has the Blue Note label on it, it's not sold in stores (shows and www.norahjones.com, only). Four of the cuts will be reworked and included in her first real, no-kiddin' Blue Note album, due out February 26th. It'll also include such guests as Bill Frisell, Brian Blade, and Kevin Breit. "I think it's gonna be Come Away With Me, but that's cheesy," she says of the album's possible title, taken from a Jones-penned song to be included. "It's a little too late to change my mind now, but I'm trying to do that."

Joining her Wednesday night were her band mates Lee Alexander on bass, and drummer Dan Rieser. Replacing Jesse Harris this night were guitarists Adam Levy and Doug Wamble, provider of occasional lush vocal harmonies and purveyor of some damn tasty slide.

The sets included originals by Jones, Alexander, and Harris, and were peppered with covers of Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Fleetwood Mac, and a "Tennessee Waltz" the way it's meant to be played - real slow. Lovely Twazz and Jwang from an artist in her salad days.

(Speaking of salad days, Makor is under new management, and they've replaced their amazing zucchini appetizer (better than Satan's) with inexperienced-but-pretty waiters. Except for the ever-present Crowd That Won't Shut Up During The Music, it's still a nice, comfortable performance venue.)

<> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <>

Repeat Button Streak of the Week:

I stared into the eyes of romantic obsession this week (the creepy sort), and it got me wondering what makes a person totally lose it over someone who doesn't want them. Are we all capable of such inappropriate focus, or must you first be a bit psycho?

I vote "B."

Arlene Grocery provided excellent stalker-related research material in the form of a second CD compilation of tunes performed live there. The standout, for me, was a pleasant, if mysterious, discovery. Swati. I'd love to tell you whether that's the singer's name, or that of the band, but when I went to the site listed on the CD's minimal packaging, I got a "wanna buy this domain name?" page and a persistent pop-up ad for snuff. I Googled the word, and found that it's the name of a South African people, and a basketball fan with a webpage featuring photos of shirtless boys who've visited her Duke University dorm room. Probably not the Swati I'm looking for.

The song I can tell you about, though, being that I've listened to it several bazillion times in the past week.

"Sick" is about obsession. It starts out as a teeny-voiced girl and her wah-wah pedal, then becomes angrier, with a lyrical to-do list of misguided expressions of devotion, ranging from the whimsical (I would destroy forests for you) to the frightening (I would go to Hell for you), and back again.

I'd smoke crack for you
You know I'd eat dogs for you
I would steal a dress for you
Shave your legs for you
I'd cut myself for you
Paint my lips red for you
Anything to make you think I was cool
Cool enough for you
You're so cruel
I'm sick for you
Just open the door

At this point in the song, she fearlessly makes the sound you tease your dog with when you're trying to get the tennis ball away from him, then she commands the hairs on the back of your neck to salute with realization.

I'd become a Rock star for you

Mmmkay. I guess any of us are capable of sick love.

Keep your ear to the ground for Swati.

That's WHY
November 22, 2001

I've attended the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. You can have it. It doesn't hold a candle to watching the giant balloons being blown up the night before. Where else can you see Spiderman down on all fours, with his partially inflated head still resting on the pavement and his ass wiggling in the air, enticing the bi-curious Big Bird behind him? And unlike the parade, no crowds, no boy bands, no Al Roker. No, there's not much that'll get me to skip my traditional perusal of Inflation Eve.

But Wednesday night, I did skip it.

MurphGuide's Sean Murphy put together a show at Connolly's on West 45th to benefit World Hunger Year's annual Hungerthon fundraiser. I missed the sets of Surrey Lane and Joe Hurley (with Rogue's March bandmates J-F and Pat Robinson), and much of Chris Brown, but arrived in time to see many in the crowd of 150 or so dancing and singing along with Joe D'Urso and Stone Caravan. This Springsteenesque Jersey band tours throughout Europe, and has a fan base so rabid, they've had folks from as far away as England cross the pond to catch their New York shows. The attendees this night seemed to know every lyric.

Black 47's Larry Kirwan and his drum machine thinned out the dancers a bit with his generous helping of Anger Rap, then the Pat McGuire Band took the stage, again relying on a drum machine to replace an absent drummer. Impressive set, drummer or no. Joined by the versatile Shane McConnell on guitar, and keyboardist Brian O'Neill, McGuire (sort of an Irish Hootie) whipped the crowd into a froth with the powerful "I Hate the Lies" (had the T-shirt table lady up and dancing), and the very Ronettesesque "Don't U Know I Want U," both from their latest Love Songs for Astronauts.

And what would a benefit show be without an All-Star Finale Jam? This one started with "Johnny B. Goode" and "Roadrunner," lead by Hurley. Sporting the Lounge Life Triumvirate (blazer/cocktail/cigarette), the butter-voiced Joe Hurley is like a messy-haired Dean Martin, but without the stumbling.

They were banging out "Wild Thing" when I left at nearly 2:30, clutching a photo of Joe D'Urso's drummer Sam "Slam" Lamonica, posing with The Boss, after they performed together at The Stone Pony last year. Got into a cab with "Hungry Heart" on the radio.

Disclaimer List:
~ I obviously work for MurphGuide, the show's organizer.
~ I know a couple of the good folks at World Hunger Year.
~ Joe D'Urso's drummer is a buddy of mine.
~ I once stole a bottle of teriyaki sauce from the table at a Japanese restaurant, on the grounds that they refused to sell me a bottle, because the recipe was such a closely held secret that they brewed it in the middle of the night with the window shades closed.

Whew. Feels good to confess.

<> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <>

Since this column has become a de-facto source for all your Firefighter Mike Moran-related needs, let me give you a heads-up about a song written by Rockaway singer/songwriter Gerald Bair, in honor of Mike's brother (both genetic and in firefighting). You can listen to and/or order "This Changed Everything" at www.geraldbair.com/ .

<> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <>

Repeat Button Streak of the Week:

Speaking of Hootie.

When I saw the movie Shallow Hal, I noted that it was brimming happy, jangly, Hipster-Pop. But when I got the soundtrack home, it was a disappointment. Either the great music I noticed in the film was the incidental stuff created by the band Ivy, or I was hearing the same good song or two over and over without realizing it.

Then the damn thing grew on me.

The CD hosts a surprisingly sucky Phoenix song, and an unfortunate segue where a breezy bit of fluff slams into a wall of earnestness, in the form of Neil Young's "After the Gold Rush," but there's some real tasty stuff here - Ellis Paul, Lucinda Williams, Randy Weeks, a very lime-in-the-coconut track by Rosey, and a great Paloalto song that wasn't actually in the movie - even a couple of Codger-Rock tunes that've got me re-appreciating them (ever notice what a psycho stalker song "Baby, Now That I've Found You" by The Foundations is?). Sheryl Crow's on my perfectly-capable-artists-I-just-can't-make-myself-care-about list (right between Dave Matthews and Ani DiFranco). But the soundtrack's track #1, "Members Only" from her 1998 Globe Sessions LP, not only includes a wonderfully crunchy guitar hook, but it also serves to remind me of the funniest line in the movie.

Odd thing is, it's not one of the quality cuts on this album that's wrangled my attention. It's a Darius Rucker song! "This Is My World," written and performed by the head Hootie, is a schmaltzy, mirror ball song with an "oh my God he's gonna ask me to dance" feel. This song makes me wanna buy blue nail polish with my babysitting money. I swear I think Lou Pearlman said "No thanks - too sappy" to this one.

And, God help me, I cannot stop listening to it.

It must be menstrual. Ask me again next week.

Freak Show
November 15, 2001

I hadn't counted on writing about bad music on television again this week, but Michael Jackson has left me no choice.

Along with nearly 30 million other rubber-neckers, I tuned in to the last half of the 30th Anniversary Concert Tuesday night, taped during a recent "performance." I understand there were actual musicians creating actual music during the first half, but except for a brief appearance by Guns n' Roses guitarist, Slash, trampling his credibility in a fishnet shirt, I saw very little music emanating from the stage. Lots of outdated dancing and lip-synching, though.

I was a little girl when The Jackson Five were peaking out, so I carry a fondness for "I'll Be There" and such, but I think I'd rather buy a CD than visually ponder the assorted back stories of today's Jackson Five. With Macauley Culkin and Momma Jackson watching, front and center? Pass.

I feared poor Michael was having mic woes, then I realized he was cupping his hand over the headset mic to hide the lips that could not properly lip-sync.

But the biggest freak show of the evening was the audience. The concert hall was a teeming bowl of wriggling humanity, with otherwise normal looking folks screaming and crying, all 1964/Ed Sullivan-like. Who are these people?

At least they knew the words.

BYO Music
Attended Wednesday night's Thanksgiving Fundraiser for Musicians On Call, a non-profit organization that brings live music to the bedsides of hospital patients (and since 9/11, to the Trade Center rescue workers). The evening included a premier screening of MOC's new informational video, produced by HBO's Mark Cerulli, and lots of tasty raffle prizes, including a Takamine guitar. But the most interesting element of this soirée (held at East 10th Street's Liquids) was the way music was handled. Director of Development Robert Grabel invited attendees to submit or bring "a favorite song that helps heal or inspire you." Deejay Jon Roth says about 15 or 20 of the 100 or so in attendance participated, submitting "a very wide range, from Kenny Loggins to Foo Fighters to The Beach Boys."

I, being of the "if I'm burning a CD, It's gonna be a full 74 minutes long" school, turned in 19 songs, understanding I could never intimidate the deejay into playing them all. Unlike the few who prodded Roth throughout the night, anxious to hear their tune, I forgot about it until I heard the welcome blasts of Mr. James Brown, followed by a more obscure Josh Rouse & Kurt Wagner song, both from my still-warm-from-the-oven CD.

"Music is a healing tool," says Grabel (who submitted "Love Will Find a Way" by Yes). "We wanted to get people into that spirit by thinking about music that's meaningful to them."

www.musiciansoncall.org/

More Moran
When that plane crashed into Belle Harbor, I first feared that "that bitch" Osama was indeed taking Firefighter Mike Moran up on his offer to come find him in Rockaway and smooch his posterior. Since his enthusiastic invitation to Osama Bin Laden at last month's Concert For New York, Moran has become a local celebrity, reprising (and further naughtying up) his heartfelt speech at bar room tributes and fundraisers throughout the city. Mike Moran lore has spread faster than that of Mahir, last year's Turkish Web Romeo.

And now there's a song.

In remembrance of my brothers, who from earthly bonds did pass
Osama, step right up and kiss my royal Irish ass
You'll pay the price, but first you'll kiss my royal Irish ass

Written by Doug Cogan and Christopher Storc, and performed by The Chamber-Made Brigade (a band made up of former firefighters and such) , The Ballad of Mike Moran is like an Irish drinking song on crystal meth.

Net proceeds from U.S. CD sales are being donated to the families of the fallen NY firefighters and rescue workers.

Sample it, order it, drink up and sing it loud at:

www.firemansong.com

<> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <>

Repeat Button Streak of the Week:
"Thanks To You" from Boz Scaggs' latest, Dig

It's impossible for me to be objective about Boz Scaggs, because the man once saved my life. When a car accident lead to a 2½-week hospitalization, every "what can I bring ya?" call was answered with a "more Boz Scaggs, please." Though not necessarily known for its healing powers, I obsessed over the music of Silk Degrees, Down Two Then Left, and assorted others. Don't know why, but it really got me through a serious funk.

I owe Boz big.

That's why I felt bad to have let his latest (with the unfortunate release date of 9/11) slip under my radar. Until now.

Dig contains many still-growing-on-me cuts, both South-centric and guttural Rap, but "Thanks To You" is a delicious Blue-Eyed Soul standout. Great bottle-of-wine-and-a-couch music.
[ Back to the Top ]

United We Bland
November 7, 2001
It was a great week for good sports and bad music.

The World Series' game 7 and The Emmys proved to be the perfect flip-back-and-forth pairing, and Streisand's appearance was certainly a pleasant jaw-dropper, but it was a bad arrangement of a great song, and kind of poorly executed (sorry, Babs).

The first 8 innings of game 5 gave me an itchy remote finger, so I watched a good, uh, make that large portion of the wildly disregarded United We Stand concert, Washington, DC's answer to the bigger, better one at Madison Square Garden.

My cable guide called it "a musical celebration of the American spirit…hosted by John Stamos." This is what I get for staying home and watching TV on a Friday night.

Aside from the stagnant older acts (Aerosmith, and the stuck-in-time Rod Stewart), I heard not much more than the showy vocal vibrato that's curiously popular throughout ethnic pop these days. Mariah Carey's mental ward grin was scary fun, but the obscenely blatant ads for her Glitter on the stories-high screen behind the stage made me wonder what the film flop had to do with "celebrating the American spirit." Michael Jackson's solo performance had to be edited out, to avoid violating his contract for a 30th anniversary show scheduled to air on another network later this month, but pedophilia fans could still catch him in the evening's finale/parade of egos.

This "enough already" craptacular couldn't come close to comparing with its MSG counterpart, or even the funereal Tribute to Heroes at Day Ten. I'd like to have witnessed the divvying up of artists between the MSG and DC shows....

"David Bowie? You're in. The Who? Yes, we have you at the head of the table here. Destiny's Child? Well, you girls are gonna be at the wobbly card table over there with the Backstreet Boys. Uh, Honey? Can we find a TV tray for P. Diddy?"

Also this week was my favorite sporting event, The New York City Marathon. I've been looking forward to this one since last year's, and Sunday morning I joined tens of thousands of others from all over the globe in carbing up, lacing up, and limbering up. Then, at 10:50am, the race launched, with Sinatra's New York, New York thundering across the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. I can't even convey to you how powerful that moment was to me. The sweat. The burn. The throwing up at the finish line.

Yeah, really something.

Little while later, I turned the TV off, grabbed a Coke, and headed out to cruise music along the Marathon route.

You didn't think I was running, did you? Me? Tssss.

Several years ago, I saw a completely inappropriate band playing along the route, and I've been fascinated with Marathon music ever since. They normally do a great job. It's fairly easy to produce a serviceable shoeleather groove for runners, but doing it well is another story. I've heard the gamut along the Manhattan stretch.

Watching the 34,000 marathoners pass my First Avenue perch, I noticed a surprising number of jiggly bellies, remarkably few personal stereo headphones, and a wider variety of Breathe-Right strips than I knew existed.

I was in the Power Bar "Energy Zone," a few-block section of the route "purchased" by the advertiser. They set up tables and staff handing out packets of Power Gel to the runners as they get from mile 17 to mile 18 on the Upper East Side. I haven't heard so many shouted commands to "Suck it! Suck it!" since I talked someone into siphoning a waterbed back in '82.

(Yes, I know that's not what you thought I was going to say.)

Here's a slice of what Tom, the Energy Zone deejay amped up the runners' spirits with:

"Where the Streets Have No Name" - U2
"The Wall" - Pink Floyd
"Believe" - Cher (the way-too-extended dance mix)
"Who Let The Dogs Out" - Baha Men
"Celebrate" - Kool and the Gang
"Mambo #5" - Whoever did "Mambo #5"
"Hot Hot Hot" - Buster Poindexter
"What I Like About You" - Romantics

Serviceable. Not the best runners' set I've heard, but certainly appropriate, particularly when peppered with am-radio-style words of encouragement shouted into the mic every few songs.

"We have rock bands, we have acoustic harmonica, we have an Irish accordionist," says Ed Nitekman, Promotions Manager for New York Road Runners, and in charge of recruiting volunteers to provide music for the course each year. "Some Jazz, some Blues. What I ask for is upbeat music, because we need to keep the runners running."

This year, there were 31 bands and 4 or 5 deejays. Nitekman prefers the deejays, but they're not free, and are generally only used in sponsored zones, to fulfill obligations to the advertiser. "A deejay's always safer," he says.

He hasn't met some of the deejays I know.

(badaboom)

The only real limits are no profanity and no Heavy Metal. Other than that, pretty much anything goes. Hell, they even let John Tesh play the marathon back in the early '80s. No word on whether he helped, or induced mass narcolepsy.

<> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <>

Repeat Button Streak of the Week:
Shelby Lynne's cover of John Lennon's "Mother"

The first time I saw Shelby Lynne live, she was singing back-up for Willie Nelson at a taping of PBS's Sessions at West 54th. It was pre-I Am Shelby Lynne, so I, like most others, didn't know who she was. Nor did I know that she'd witnessed her musician parents' murder/suicide at 16. But I could see she had a compelling sadness about her. I couldn't take my eyes off of her.

Shelby Lynne is now headed in the direction of kd lang. No, she's not exploring Sapphic love, but expertly avoiding radio pigeonholing (and airplay) with her genre-bending ascent into Country/Torch Twang/Grits Groove/Blues/Soul/Rock/Singer-Songwriter-hood. And on her latest, Love, Shelby, due out November 13th, she bares all. And that's just the album cover!

(another badaboom, please)

The album is no I Am, but there are other stand-outs, particularly the single-ish "Trust Me," and "Jesus on a Greyhound," a gritty story about meeting you-know-Who on a you-know-what.

It's hard to distinguish her tragic history from her ability when listening to her loyal interpretation of Lennon's "Mother," but, either way, it haunts.

Watch for her on Letterman November 20th.
[ Back to the Top ]

Cannibal Jazz
October 31, 2001
Though he was standing in a radio studio, when bassist Jonathan Flaugher heard the familiar strains of his band's song over the speakers, he looked around in a quizzical near-panic, trying to figure where the music was coming from. Like it was raining frogs, or something. Made me re-re-think that whole bass player thing (big hands, small brains).

Then they began to play live. That shut me up.

Some music simply cannot be produced without an abundance of functioning brainstuffs, and the music of the Howard Fishman Quartet epitomizes that.

Fishman displayed all those brains (and a perfectly good head of hair), as he donned neither a porkpie nor a newsboy cap Saturday, when I caught the second of four performances they'd play between noon and midnight at the Museum of Television and Radio and The Bottom Line.

Oddly enough, it was that bassist's performance I had the most fun watching.

Standing room only crowds at their Joe's Pub gigs recently lead to an invitation for Fishman to write a theater piece for The Public, a run-through of which has already been performed - scripted by Fishman and enacted by the band, who interpret the story musically, as well. The finished product will include "new songs, plus a lot of text, and some scenes," says Fishman, "and a lot of multimedia stuff with it too."

Fishman's chosen subject matter - the Donner party.

Okay. I'm envisioning something Springtime For Hilter-ish. I can hear it now…

I am hungry
You look good to me
Meet me for dinner
We're the Donner party
You can be the dinner
At the Donner party
Donner party
Dinner parteeee…

And let's not forget the tender, show-stopping love ballad….

I love you
Really I do
But I've lost my appetite
Couldn't eat another bite
Doggie bag of spice and sorrow
I'll have you for lunch tomorrow

But what do I know? I saw Squonk five times. Pretty much the only theater I like is theater that makes fun of theater. That, and anything by Tennessee Williams, Shoog. But anyone who can write the word "dirty" into a song 61 times can doubtless handle the story of the Donner party with uh, taste. No, uh, handle it with grace. Screw it. Everything's about food, isn't it?

"Letter One," a song from both the upcoming show and the Howard Fishman Quartet's next album due out this winter, is sweet upon first listen, dark and chilling when heard in context. Very nice.

Unsavory subject matter notwithstanding, I'm sure I'll be fogging up the box office window, waiting for tickets to go on sale. And you'd better line up, too. Remember, Springtime For Hitler was such a hit, you can't even get tickets to the show about the show.

In the meantime, you can catch the Howard Fishman Quartet every Thursday night at Pete's Candy Store in Williamsburg.

Howard Fishman - guitar, vocals, perfectly-placed yelps and grunts
Russell Farhang - violin
Erik Jekabson - trumpet
Jonathan Flaugher - bass

www.howardfishman.com

<> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <>

Repeat Button Streak of the Week:
"Her Mystery Not Of High Heels And Eye Shadow" from Jonathan Richman's album of the same name.

A friend once asked me who Jonathan Richman was. I gave maybe a 4-word response, three of them being something like "whimsical," "jangly," and "writes-intelligent-lyrics-with-a-somewhat-childlike-view-of-the-world." Based solely on those few words (compound words do so count as one), he asked whether this was the same guy who provided the Greek Chorus in There's Something About Mary. That's a testament to what an original Richman is. No other artist matched my skimpy description.

Another friend told me he injured his finger diving for the fast-forward button when a Jonathan Richman song turned up on a mix CD I'd made for him. That, too, is a testament to what an original Richman is.

Much of Richman's sound requires forgiveness, in my humble. But I do forgive, because the music is the fluid in which his wonderfully naughty-innocent lyrics are suspended. Lyrics dug out from deep brain folds, which normally house thoughts and observations we all have in common, but never share with one another.

Much of his latest effort is too Latin to interest me, and the runner-up tracks are distant -- "My Love For Her Ain't Sad," and the very "Groovin'" -esque "Springtime in New York" (the literate step-child of B-52s' "Follow Your Bliss"). But when Richman, with his Modern Lovers/Punk roots carefully Clairol-ed, bangs on a lead pipe and sings what any woman would want to hear about the way she's regarded, it's love at first sight for me.

Well she don't act cool
And she don't go hot and cold
Her mystery not of high heels and eye shadow
[ Back to the Top ]

All Mixed Up (And No Place to Go)
October 24, 2001

JOHN BARTLETT, compiler of Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, said, "I have gathered a posie of other men's flowers, and nothing but the thread that binds them is mine own." Thanks, Quotations Dude. I'm gonna use your own quote to describe radio.

At its best, freeform music radio epitomizes the reason sex is more fun than self-pleasure. Sure, no one can scratch your itch better than you, and if you're choosing your own music, it would, technically, be exactly what you want to hear at that moment. But, like sex with a partner, good radio can have that "Oh God, yes! Right there!" -factor. Can surprise you. Can give what you didn't know you wanted.

All Mixed Up with PETER BOCHAN on WBAI gives you the "God, yes!" then sticks around to order the post-coital pizza.

A jester of juxtapositions, Bochan will take you on a top-down ride from DYLAN to BIG JOE TURNER to DWIGHT YOAKUM to THE STROKES, without even messing up your hair much. And he's not afraid to play a deserving mainstream morsel, here and there. "I'm a total champion of MADONNA," he says. "Being of the moment is really hard to do over a twenty year period" And he should know. He's been bumping genres against one another for the better part of thirty.

It's no surprise that Bochan is being courted by other radio entities, though he seems determined to stick with the limping (from a self-inflicted wound) station until what might possibly be the end. Drag your finger down his client page, and you'll find an A-list of folks for whom he's done production work. Amongst the nearly 100,000 albums and CDs in his home studio, he sits under the watchful eye of a bust of ELVIS The King, and works on projects for Broadway and feature films (The Producers, The Perfect Storm, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon), NPR, HBO, SPIN, THE CITY OF NEW YORK, and such recording artists as OASIS, SPRINGSTEEN, and PEARL JAM. You can even catch him appearing in the occasional skit on the classic Saturday Night Live episodes of the late '70s.

That alone earns him big cred in my book.

Creator also of the syndicated Shortcuts radio series, obnoxiously frequent winner of local and national radio awards, and voted "Best (and most eclectic) Radio DJ of 2000" by the Village Voice, Bochan is an established radio destination at the tempestuous WBAI.

And now this radio truffle is buried even deeper.

The beleaguered PACIFICA station has effectively dismantled their mid-morning music programming, and the uprooted show producers are having to bite and scratch for airtime. Bochan has, in recent weeks, been keeping the Saturday 3pm - 6 slot warm for Gutbucket Blues host JASPER McGRUDER, who's off being a movie star. McGruder and Gutbucket are due to return in November.

Former WPFW Operations Manager, ROBERT DAUGHTRY, has taken over as WBAI's General Manager, replacing UTRICE LEID, whose bizarre and divisive management style earned her a promotion to the slot of Pacifica's Director of National Programming. While it's too soon to sing "ding-dong…," there is a light at the end of this tunnel. Daughtry's background includes producing a highly regarded Jazz show, indicating more music may be in the station's future.

"We're in utter, total, complete transition," admitted Arts Director MATTHEW FINCH, who suggests that the morning music hosts will soon settle into regular spots elsewhere on the schedule. "I'm hopeful that all of these people will find a decent place to set up shop here at the station, but I can't guarantee you anything at this point"

The one slot in which he can guarantee you'll hear Bochan's All Mixed Up is this Saturday's broadcast from THE MUSEUM OF TELEVISION AND RADIO, part of their annual Radio Festival. I had the pleasure of being one of the twenty or so to attend last year's intimate show, with PROFESSOR AND MARYANN and the relaxed-fit OLU DARA, and I look forward to being there this weekend. The show will include performances by HEATHER EATMAN, THE HOWARD FISHMAN QUARTET, and MARY LEE'S CORVETTE. 99.5 FM, 3pm to 6.

www.mixedup.com

Repeat Button Streak of the Week

Hey, America
Come to New York
Do some shopping
Catch a play
And if you see
A lonely fireman
Give that guy
A thank-you lay

~ Adam Sandler's Operaman

Any concert that kicks off with DAVID BOWIE sitting cross-legged on the floor has got to be a winner, and a tape of Saturday night's CONCERT FOR NEW YORK at MADISON SQUARE GARDEN on VH1 has been on a loop in my VCR since Sunday morning. Short films by such New York directors as WOODY ALLEN, KEVIN SMITH, and ED BURNS, and lighter moments provided by JIMMY FALLON, the stage-diving JIM CAREY, and the still-got-it-(sometimes) BILLY CRYSTAL broke up the evening's earnestness and trembling chins quite nicely.

These comic professionals, however, could take a lesson or two from the crimson-mugged Firefighter who referenced his "royal Irish ass," and dared that "bitch" Bin Laden to come find him in Rockaway.

The high point? THE WHO. Marred only by claustrophobic camera work and, well, ROGER DALTRY, they rocked more expertly than the time I saw them live back in 19-(mumble mumble).

The tailor-made-for-this-disaster BILLY JOEL and ELTON JOHN doing it FERRANTE AND TEICHER style was much easier to look at than their dancing cheeks-to-cheeks a few months back at the BRIAN WILSON tribute, and even PAUL McCARTNEY, whom I've regarded as not much more than a big, dumb oaf in recent years, gave it his old-guy best, further endearing himself by swigging from a bottle and singing a BEATLES song along with the crowd at the YANKEES game the following night.

Speaking of which…….

Misspeak of the Week:

(Yankees game, Monday night, quotes are approximate)

Fox Sports Announcer #1, referring to the song being broadcast over the stadium speakers: "That's Baba O'Riley, a song performed by The Who at Saturday Night's Concert for New York…."

(silence)

(more silence, while I marvel at the fact that he didn't call it "Teenage Wasteland")

(a bit more silence -- baseball's a slow game)

Fox Sports Announcer #2: "Originally done by The Drifters…."

(silence)
[ Back to the Top ]

A Hard Day's Night at Arlene Grocery
October 17, 2001
I spent many a frenzied night during the mid-80s squealing up at a stage filled with the tribute band 1964 AS THE BEATLES. I think they're still playing county fairs in the fly-over states. Not only were they note-perfect, but they dressed and coiffed the part, and wrapped themselves with the same equipment the Fab Four used during their touring years.

Tribute bands mean something completely different to me now (not much), and I'm not sure I get the purpose of bands mimicking artists that are still kicking. But I'm thankful for those now presenting shows to a generation who never had the chance.

JOSH MAX AND FRIENDS don't dress the part, and any similarities in coiffing may be purely accidental, but when they performed the BEATLES' A Hard Day's Night Sunday night at Arlene Grocery, the sound was note-for-note.

And that's the idea.

They begin where the needle scratched and popped before settling into the first groove, and perform the entire album in its original vinyl order, pausing to indicate when it's time to flip the record. The stylus drags the label's edge with plenty of time left over (these were 2-minute songs, remember) to play the few that made the movie, but not the album. The show wraps with Beatles requests from the energetic audience, most of whom are young enough to have caught the Beatles bug from their parents.

"Be funny, like the Beatles!" the drunker of the Gen-X-ers would shout, and I'll be damned if the band didn't rise to the plea.

The first few songs were banged out to perfection, but when they nailed the vocal harmonies (and I mean nailed) in the more ambitious "If I Fell," this un-band had the grown-ups in the audience nodding and nudging. The screamy "You Can't Do That" brought an unsolicited summation from the bartender. "I'm just now realizing what a great song this is," said Kevin, who hopes being quoted will help him get dates, "…. because of these guys!"

This merry band of fakers first gathered a couple of months ago to give Rubber Soul the same treatment -- Andy Resnick as George, Rich Zucker as the jaunty, wobbly-headed Ringo, John Montagna (who made me want to put away the bass-players-have-big-hands-and-small-brains jokes for the night) as The Cute One, and Max himself ably filling the John Lennon slot.

"No one puts down cabaret singers for doing Cole Porter," Max defends against critics of tribute shows.

"Josh Max and Friends" (only with different friends this time) will be reprising their earlier album recreation of Led Zepplin II for 2002's SUMMERSTAGE, and watch for their upcoming interpretations of NICK DRAKE'S Five Leaves Left (at THE BOTTOM LINE in February, with members of EMI's EROICA TRIO), and THE MAMAS AND THE PAPAS' If You Can Believe Your Eyes and Ears, with JULIE JAMES providing the Nick Drake (an octave higher) and CASS ELIOT vocals.

Ms. James also belts 'em out in JOSH MAX'S OUTFIT, a blazin' "ultra lounge-o-billy" band currently working on a second album, and she'll be appearing as Josh's own personal Yoko, when they wed this Sunday.

<> <> <>

Repeat Button Streak of the Week:
"A Thousand Kisses Deep" from LEONARD COHEN's Ten New Songs

"You lose your grip
And then you slip
Into the Masterpiece"

Who can keep track of all the Leonard Cohens? There's Leonard Cohen, the Nehru-jacketed Seventies Space Folkie. Leonard Cohen, the Mr. Rebecca de Mornay. Leonard Cohen, the Monk. Leonard Cohen, the Monk-who-occasionally-comes-down-from-Monk-Mountain- for-women-and-cigarettes. Leonard Cohen, the guy who releases a recording of a 1979 concert in 2001 to remind us of Seventies Space Folkie Leonard Cohen. And finally (and thankfully) there's Leonard Cohen, the singer who doesn't actually sing but nevertheless lends his considerable songwriting skill and seasoned growl to such gifts as The Future and I'm Your Man.

Fortunately, that's the Leonard Cohen who released Ten New Songs this week, his first such in nine years. I haven't yet spotted the runt on this album, but "A Thousand Kisses Deep" is definitely the pick of the litter.

"In a certain way, Ten New Songs is an answer to The Future," Cohen said during a chat on Tuesday.

The obligatories: No current plans to tour, "but you can never tell… I'm putting together a new live album right now, and I hope it will be released next year." Would he perform "First We Take Manhattan" now, in the wake of September 11th? Yes. "In a way it's a better song now than it was before." When asked when exactly "closing time" is (reference to his song of the same name), he digs deep.

"It's that wild, or beautiful, or terrible time when things reach their maximum point of expansion, and then begin to contract. It's the time we're in."

Apparently a semi-monastic life has amplified his Leonard Cohen-ness.

Or maybe it was the trips into Mount Pilot for women and smokes.
[ Back to the Top ]

Joke of the Day	Overheard at...	Bar Reviews	Bar Survey	Links
Bar of the Week	Notes from the Field	Articles	MurphGuide Sports column	Kimberly's Music Column
Shots! (Party Photos)	Shot of the Day	Shop on Line	Feedback	Hot Spots

Bar Links	Beer Lovers	Brew Pubs	Comedy Clubs	Dancing
Don't Go There... (closed bars)	French Bistros	Guest Bartending	Hot Spots	Irish Bars
Jazz Clubs	Karaoke Nights	Latin Nights	Live Music	Lounges
Mexican Bars	New Bars	Nightclubs	Outdoor spots	Pub Quizzes
Poetry Readings	Raw Bars	Romantic Spots	Saloons	Singles
Sports Bars	Tapas Bars	Tiki Bars	Trad. Irish sessions	Wine Bars