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65daysofstatic is trying to be good. Honest.

The English outfit plays epic-sounding instrumental post-rock, not too far removed from Godspeed You Black Emperor and Explosions in the Sky, with some impish, Aphex Twin style electronics tossed in for variety. Opening for The Cure finds them warming up enormo-domes of Robert Smith wanna-bes, most of whom have never heard the band.

“Until recently we tried to be disciplined,” says guitarist Paul Wolinski. “We were sort tof doing song, pause, song, pause, like a normal band would.”

Normalcy proved troublesome for the group, which also includes guitarist Joe Shrewsbury, drummer Rob Jones and bassist Simon Wright.

“The past couple of shows we’ve kind of started with loads of beats and loads of noise,” Wolinski says with a laugh. “We needed to let off lots of steam. The sets were full of weirdness.”

God love those Cure fans, though. Rather than being appalled, the noise-fests “went down really well,” Wolinksi reports. “As it turns out, the crowds seem to be incredibly open-minded.”

In fact, the band has had some notions of the U.S. disabused.

“America is a constant surprise to us,” Wolinski says. “Everyone we meet is brilliant. The attitude here is very different to the way your government behaves, which is really nice to know.”

Not all of the surprises are quite so enlightening, though.

While scouring a strip mall for a guitar store, the band encountered that bane of parental existence, Chuck E. Cheese.

“We’d never heard of it,” Wolinksi says. “We’re looking for guitar gear and we run into this crazy, giant mouse from space.”

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The Fifth Annual Tampa Music Conference offers up-and-coming stars the chance to network with themselves as well as industry representatives. More importantly, panel discussions will focus on the realities of the industry and what performers need to do - and not do - in their search for success.

Entertainment also will be on tap from The Basiqs, Tom G. and the Evenin’ Rydahs, Juice City, Jolli Boi, 454, Smoov-Sho and Tha Grain.

The conference gets under way at 4 p.m. Sunday at the USF Sun Dome, 4202 E. Fowler Ave. in Tampa. Admission is $30 advance, $50 at the door. For more information, check out the conference’s Web site. 

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Guitarist Terrence Brewer has lit up the other Bay area. SF Weekly named him Best Jazz Artist, while the Oakland Chamber of Commerce saluted him as Artists of the Year. He’s studied with jazz maverick Charlie Hunter but his music is solidly rooted in the jazz tradition.

The San Francisco Chronicle’s David Rubien wrote that “Brewer has a natural, inviting sound that instantly transports you back to the heyday of classic jazz guitar… .”

With his latest release, last year’s “QuintEssential,” Brewer is going for national recognition. He’s also touring, and will perform at 7:30 p.m. Thursday (May 29, 2008) at WMNF Mike Eisenstadt Live Music Studio. The station is located at 1210 E. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. in Tampa. Tickets are $20 advance and $25 day of show. Call the station, (813) 238-8001.

The concert is presented by listener-supported radio station WMNF, 88.5 FM, and is part of the station’s effort to bring more jazz to our Bay area.

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When The Beatles albums were released on CD - in their original British configurations - some American fans were dismayed to find that the records they grew up with bore little resemblance to the ones now available for purchase.

How I scoffed.

An insufferable Beatles snob, I had most of the British imports and had no patience for fans used to having “I Want to Hold Your Hand” kicking off “Meet the Beatles.”

This is how they were SUPPOSED to be released, I sniffed. This is how The Beatles INTENDED them to be. The U.S. albums were BOGUS.

As usual, my snobbery has come back to bite me on the backside.

One of my favorite albums of the late ‘70s was Nick Lowe’s “Pure Pop for New People,” the U.S. edition of the far-more cheekily titled U.K. album, “Jesus of Cool.”

Earlier this year, Yep Roc issued “Jesus of Cool” in its original configuration and running order for the first time in the U.S. It is a wonderful package with lots of photos, bonus tracks and an essay. And it drives me crazy.

I grew up hearing these songs in a particular order which was completely different to, apparently, the way Lowe intended.

But I like the “wrong” way better.

I’m used to the album starting with “So It Goes.” “Marie Provost” was the middle of Side 1. “They Called It Rock” led Side 2. “Music for Money” closed the album.

On “Jesus of Cool,” “Music for Money” is the lead off track. What?! “They Called It Rock” is missing, replaced by a reworked version called “Shake and Pop.” “Heart of the City” is live, not studio. “Marie Provost” comes near the album’s end. And so on.

Frankly, the running order is just too jarring. Too herky-jerky. Too, well, not what I’m used to.

My apologies to all those Beatles fans to whom I felt superior. I feel your pain.

And trust that my iPod soon will have a “Pure Pop” playlist with the tunes in the right wrong order. 

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Alicia Keys Africa project

Fans attending Saturday night’s Alicia Keys will see a preview of her documentary “Alicia in Africa: Journey to the Motherland.”

The documentary covers Keys’ visit to African communities affected by HIV and AIDS.

Keys is co-founder of Keep a Child Alive, the goal of which is to raise money and awareness to help combat the spread of and effects of AIDS and HIV.

“Alicia in Africa” can be downloaded in its entirety from the Web site.

Keys performs Saturday at the Forum in Tampa. For more information, call the box offvice, (813) 301-2500. 

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(Originally ran May 2)

For the record, I don’t really care for the music of Bon Jovi.

To be honest, I’d be happy to never hear another note of the band’s music. In fact, I’d be happy to have never heard a note of the band’s music. Or even be aware of their existence.

This may not have been apparent in the review I wrote of Bon Jovi’s Sunday night concert at the Forum. I just tried to describe the band’s music and the show.

This is either being fair-minded or being cowardly.

I don’t like getting hate mail and nasty phone calls from irate fans. But more than that, I think, as best I could tell, it was a good show if you’re a Bon Jovi fan.

Not that I am. But what’s the point of trying to convince 20,000-plus people that they didn’t really have a good time?

I’ve written negative reviews of lackluster performances, both of acts I’m fond of and those I’m not. A performer who’s not giving their all, who obviously doesn’t want to be there or who doesn’t care about the audience, is inexcusable.

But Bon Jovi didn’t do that. The band was energetic and tight. It knows its audience and gives them what they want. And the crowd loved it.

(Not me, of course, but if the worst thing about my job is having to go to a concert I wouldn’t attend otherwise, I don’t have much to complain about.)

Actual conversation with a friend of mine which has been repeated time and time again:

Him: Hey, I read that review of the (insert band name here) concert. Sounds like you really liked it.

Me: What?! God no! I hated it!

Him: (Rolled eyes, disgusted look).

There are venues for going off on music I don’t like. Here, for example. Here I can say that I think Bon Jovi’s lyrics are greeting-card bland, its music is bloated and bombastic, and the songs a shallow mockery of everything good rock ‘n’ roll should be.

But you know, the show was OK. If you’re a Bon Jovi fan.

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(Originally ran April 25, 2008)

Jon Landau had it wrong. Bruce Springsteen wasn’t rock ‘n’ roll’s future.

Landau, then a critic, now Springsteen’s co-manager, made his prediction in 1974. Perhaps Landau envisioned an army of similarly dedicated artists who believed they could deliver both the truth and good times, who could touch hearts and move hips.

A precious few took up the challenge. But rock ‘n’ roll’s future was in empty entertainment, self-conscious spectacle and corporate posturing.

Expressing emotions, saying something meaningful, attempting to communicate with an audience - how terribly quaint.

It’s so much more effective to find a formula, adopt a look and whore yourself to a corporate sponsor - that’s where the bucks are, baby.

And it’s so much neater.

Emotions are messy and unpredictable. They don’t fit into the script. Better to have every move plotted out and every word scripted. Otherwise, you might have to respond to what’s going on around you at that very instant and … well, how do you do that, anyway?

We’ve been conditioned by Clear Channel, MTV and “American Idol” - not to mention the thousands of performers who eagerly play along - to accept sentimental gloop as emotion, cynicism and cheap irony as intelligence, and hollow rage as passion.

Watching Springsteen perform Tuesday night in Tampa was, as always, a revelation about how powerful rock ‘n’ roll can be - it can make you feel, it can make you think and it can make you want to take action.

That is when rock ‘n’ roll is truly dangerous, not when some pouting bad boy with oh-so carefully mussed hair drops f-bombs and brags about his coke habit.

There are still some artists - in rock, hip-hop, country and R&B - who try to make that connection, to create something real and human, and to prove that entertainment and substance aren’t mutually exclusive.

Pray that more of these artists find their way to us through the static.

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So there’s this spaceship, right? And it’s hurtling through the galaxy in search of inspiration because earth is out of creativity, or so the voice-over tells us.

Anyway, it crashes, the spaceship does, right there on the stage of the Ford Amphitheatre and who should emerge from the smoldering wreckage but, “the brightest star in the galaxy” - there’s that voice-over again - Kanye West!

Well who else? He’s established that he believes himself to be the greatest thing to hit the universe, so why not play it up?

Indeed, it would take an ego the size of, well, West’s to perform a full-length live set with absolutely no-one else on the stage save for yourself (and a cameo by opening act Lupe Fiasco near set’s end).

But it takes something for stronger than hubris to do that and make it an entertaining, even memorable, show.

It helps, of course, that West had three album’s worth of hip hop’s strongest pop music from which to draw.

West sequenced the set list to tell the story of his crash landing and eventual rescue from an unknown planet. When his talking spaceship reminded him that “this isn’t your first crash,” it cued “Through the Wire,” the story of the car accident that temporarily derailed West’s career. A prayer for rescue - in which West promises God that he’ll “stop spazzing out at awards shows” - preceded “Jesus Walks.” When West discovered that he and he alone could - naturally - could power his broken spaceship, the vocoder intro to “Stronger” pulsed from the speakers.

What saves West’s ego from being insufferable is that it’s combined with a sense of humor and also with genuine emotion, displayed most openly on “Hey Mama,” a song written before the death of his mother last year. Afterward, West sat on the side of the stage as his band, hidden away beneath the stage, played Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

West makes no bones about the fact that he thinks a lot of himself, and on nights like Monday, it’s hard to disagree with him.

Lupe Fiasco took the stage at 6:15 p.m. with a blistering sunset threatening the retinas of the early crowd. His no-frills set - a black backdrop, a DJ and some contributions from a pair of vocalists and a second MC - didn’t detract from the strength of numbers such as “Go Go Gadget Flow,” “Superstar” and “Hip Hop Saved My Life,” although some over-singing robbed “Paris, Tokyo” of its lazy sensuality.

N.E.R.D. positively burned through its set, bringing audience members on stage to dance, and building anticipation for the group’s third album, out June 10. The group’s rock and hip hop hybrid gets the balance right in a way the nu-metal crowd never could.

In contrast, Rihanna seemed subdued by comparison during her 35-minute set. The set ended, not surprisingly, with her biggest hit, “Umbrella,” featuring her dancers twirling the titular objects. An earlier song may have overshadowed West’s concept with Rihanna’s dancers swinging light sabers.

The crowd was reported at about 9,500. 

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Swiss pharmacist Albert Hoffman passed away Tuesday at 102. I don’t know if Hoffman ever played a instrument, but his influence on music continues as long as drugs remain a part of the equation with sex and rock ‘n’ roll.

Hoffman invented LSD, the mind-bending substance that fueled so much great music of the 1960s and beyond. The Beatles’ “Rubber Soul” and “Sgt Pepper’s Lonely hearts Club Band,” Pink Floyd’s “Piper at the Gates of Dawn” and The Beach Boys’ “Pet Sounds” are some of the most famous works associated with the chemical. The Grateful Dead’s “Dark Star” is another. Even harry Nilsson’s soundtrack for the children’s feature “The Point” was produced under the influence of Hoffman’s creation. Todd Rundgren, a late-comer to the psychedelic buffet, made 1973’s “A Wizard, A True Star” as an audio interpretation of a trip. Al Jourgensen claimed he dropped acid before mixing Ministry or any of his other myriad works, back in the day.

Far be it from this column to endorse the use of dangerous chemicals, but if you’ve ever tasted the music or watched the walls move, you have Hoffman to thank.

Hoffman deserves a spot in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s non-performer category, don’t you think?

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(Originally ran April 18)

It took me three visits to make my first purchase at Vinyl Fever.

Mind you, I had disposable income in my pocket and a wealth of choices at my fingertips.

I was simply overwhelmed. It was 1987 and I had just moved to town, and I’d never been in a record store as big and well-stocked as the Fever.

I can’t tell you what my first purchase there was, but I can assure you I’ve been back many times since.

I’ve also patronized Sound Exchange, Bananas, Asylum and a host of other great stores that sadly are no longer with us.

For all the cackling I like to do about the impending demise of the recording industry and the major labels, independent record stores are the good guys who are taking a hit in the digital music wars.

Sure, I like the convenience of downloading. But spending a few hours - and I can spend hours, easily - in a great record store is one of the great pleasures of my life.

Pointing and clicking just isn’t as satisfying as working my way down the aisles, flipping through the CDs or albums or 45s, weighing my options and pondering my choices.

Not to mention that independent record stores usually are staffed by music freaks just like me who can offer suggestions, steer me away from a questionable choice or just argue about bands and albums. You’re not going to get that at the mall or a huge, soulless mega store.

Vinyl Fever used to have a bumper sticker that read “We’re Not Afraid to Say It Sucks!” And they aren’t. Nor are the other stores mentioned above or most any other shop that proudly declares itself to be independent.

Independent record stores are where you find out about the bands the rest of the populace gets hip to in another year or so.

Saturday is Record Store Day, a chance for the music-buying troops to rally in support of our favorite emporiums and hangouts. Grab some cash and help keep this vital artery of the music lovers’ soul intact.

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One band hails from Atlanta and was playing new wave back when it really was new. The other lives in Brooklyn and jams on a mix of funk, jazz and grunge. But both feature members from the Tampa area and both are back here for concerts this weekend.

Jeff Calder made his first rock ‘n’ roll noises while growing up in Lakeland before moving to Atlanta and forming the Swimming Pool Q’s. The band’s 1981 debut, “The Deep End,” is one of the finest examples of twisted Southern sensibilities set to music that’s inventive yet accessible. The band, which also features vocalist Anne Richmond Boston split after 1989’s “World War Two Point Five” but reunited to record 2003’s “Royal Academy of Reality.”

The band played several memorable gigs in Tampa, including opening for the Police at Tampa Theatre, and at the Artists and Writers Ball in 1981 at the Cuban Club (pictured).

The Q’s return to Calder’s hometown Saturday for a concert billed as “Living by Night in the Land of Opportunity: Returning to Lakeland after 30 Years on the Road in the Music Business.” The Mudbreakers, featuring Charlie Souza of The New Tropics, and Take Five also are on the bill. The show takes place at the Polk Theatre, 127 S. Florida Ave. in Lakeland. Doors open at 6 and tickets are $22.50. Call (863) 682-7553.

Chroma drummer Alex Hayward is the son of Tampa’s longtime musical court jester Harry Hayward. He and bassist Adam Mantovani met at Adams Junior High School and played together in the ska band Majik Dirt. After graduating from Chamberlain High School, the two attended the University of North Florida, where they met guitarist Paul Piller. The trio moved to Philadelphia and then Brooklyn. They’ve been making inroads on the festival circuit and according to their MySpace site, they’ve backed George Clinton and Blues Traveler’s John Popper.

Chroma plays Sunday at New World Brewery, 1313 E. Eighth Ave. in Ybor City. Call 248-4969.

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(Originally ran April 11, 2008)

I would like to think that I am a reasonable man. There is, however, evidence to the contrary, mostly concerning music.

For a millisecond somewhere in the not-too-distant past, I thought that digital music would relieve me of some of my more compulsive music collecting habits.

You know, no album jackets to house in plastic sleeves, no broken jewel boxes to replace, that sort of thing.

And my ongoing shelving crisis is getting worse at a much slower rate.

But once a compulsive music organizer, always a compulsive music organizer it seems.

As with so many other things, I blame iTunes, which now displays album art, making my virtual collection so much more tempting to fuss over.

If iTunes can’t find the album’s cover, I search Amazon’s or All Music’s sites. If it’s not there, I go to Google. If I can’t find it there, I’m stuck with a generic sleeve.

I loathe those generic sleeves. Every time I flip through my virtual album stack I come across one or two, each one screaming FAILURE at the top of its lungs.

And then there’s iTunes’ endless multitude of cataloging quirks. Why does every hip-hop album with multiple guest stars get credited to “various artists”?

How did “Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers” wind up in the Compilations folder and why was it credited to Petty alone? Why are “Safe as Milk” and “Ice Cream for Crow” credited to Captain Beefheart & the Magic Band while “Trout Mask Replica” and “Lick My Decals Off, Baby” claim to be by Captain Beefheart AND the Magic Band?

Why do I need to - not want to, need to - fix all of this?

The sad fact of the matter is I enjoy it. It’s embarrassing, a little, that I get such peace of mind knowing my digital files are all housed in their proper folders, accompanied by the highest-resolution cover I could find.

I’m amazed I ever leave the house.

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(Originally ran April 4, 2008)

One of the first 45s I purchased with my own money was “Johnny B. Goode.”

Not Chuck Berry’s original single, which turns 50 years old this month, but a version by Buck Owens and the Buckaroos, taken from “Buck Owens in London.”

I bought it less for the song than because it was by Owens, then starring on “Hee Haw,” which I watched faithfully every week.

But it was my introduction to what might be rock ‘n’ roll’s quintessential song.

“Johnny B. Goode” is about the promise of rock ‘n’ roll, about loving the music and how it can change your life.

It’s about how rock ‘n’ roll can make a poor boy from nowhere a star; and, if you care to extrapolate, how rock ‘n’ roll can save a bored teenager from the stultifying sameness of suburbia, school and the like.

I think that’s how Lou Reed heard it. He wrote “Rock and Roll,” which is way more explicit about what music can mean: “Her life was saved by rock ‘n’ roll,” Reed sang.

Berry’s version is slyer, more of a nod and a wink than Reed’s wide-eyed adoration. But the message is the same.

“Johnny B. Goode” used to be a garage band litmus test. It was one of the first songs you played when you got together with friends and tried to make it through a song. It’s the first lick many guitarists ever learn.

In 1977, a recording of the song was launched aboard the Voyager spacecraft. It was part of a series of recordings representing Earth’s languages and cultures. Imagine some interplanetary being encountering Berry’s story of a country boy strummin’ to the rhythm that the drivers made - a quick and easy way to tell if they’re intelligent or not.

I’m not sure if this anniversary is going to get the sort of attention the Summer of Love got last year, or Woodstock is sure to get next year, but it should.

Every time a kid picks up a guitar for the first time and learns three chords, “Johnny B. Goode” lives again.

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(Originally ran March 28, 2008)

I keep intending to make a mix CD for my almost-5-year-old son.

It will have a bunch of songs he’s discovered through their inclusion in kid-friendly movies. Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song,” used in “Shrek the Third,” was a big hit around our house for a while. Hearing Malcolm sing “hammer of the gods” was one of my proudest moments as a parent.

I’ll also include other songs he’s happened along and shown some affection for: Yaz’s “Situation,” Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades” and Queen’s “We Are the Champions.”

His current favorite is “All I Want Is You” by Barry Louis Polisar, the first song on the “Juno” soundtrack. We hear it between four and five times on the way to school every morning. So that will undoubtedly make the cut as well.

And there will be some Ramones on there as well. Not “I Wanna Be Sedated” or “You’re Gonna Kill That Girl” or “Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue,” obviously, since I’m trying to be a responsible parent in my own stumbling way.

But I’ll definitely have some of the fun sing-along stuff like “Blitzkrieg Bop” and “Rockaway Beach” on there. “Oh Oh I Love Her So,” maybe. “Sheena Is a Punk Rocker” for sure.

And that’s what’s holding me up.

I’ve never played the Ramones for Malcolm and I’m worried about his reaction.

What if he doesn’t like it?

I’ll grant you this doesn’t rank very high on the scale of parental worries. But let’s face it, I make a living writing about pop music so trivialities probably matter more to me than to, say, a reasonable human being.

And if he doesn’t like the Ramones, how will we get to The Clash, Cheap Trick and The Who?

What if he one day decides he actually likes the watered-down post grunge, hollow nu-metal and pointless emo that fills the airwaves?

My wife and I decided early on to raise our kids to think for themselves. I wish I’d thought that one out a little more.

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(Originally ran March 21, 2008)

Rapper Rick Ross talks about dealing drugs prior to stardom in the recent issue of Rolling Stone (the one with Barack Obama on the cover with the headline “A New Hope,” the irony of which should be apparent to everyone but Rolling Stone).

Later, Ross talks about popping open bottles of champagne during his concerts. The interviewer asks Ross which is more satisfying, popping open champagne or popping off a few rounds.

Champagne, Ross answers, reasonably enough. “But you got to pop a few guns to pop a few bottles. That’s just the way it’s designed.”

That’s just the way it’s designed.

It’s not the statement itself that rattled me, but the nonchalance with which it was tossed off; that and Rolling Stone’s callow acceptance of violence as part of the hip-hop stereotype.

Questioning a rapper on his gunplay would seem like questioning a ‘70s rocker on his drug use or on-the-road sex life. Hey, man, it’s just one of the perks.

But it’s not. Where rockers constructed their own hedonistic fantasy worlds (the ones that make such good “Behind the Music” stories), rappers are talking about real-life violence with real-life victims. Only with the mainstreaming of gangster rap - and the mainstream’s refusal to question those messages or at least put them in context (as long as it sells and the bad words are bleeped out for the radio version) - that reality is being sold as a fantasy to an audience jonesing for the newest shock.

It’s like the Roman gladiator battles being played out in the projects, filmed for MTV and supplied with a hip-hop soundtrack.

So why not just cordon off the inner cities behind bullet-proof glass, install stadium seating and sell tickets to suburban voyeurs? Rappers can perform while the crowd watches young black men sling crack, jack cars and kill each other. Sure, you could stay home and watch it on TV, but nothing’s better than the live experience, right?

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