It’s impossible to escape politics in Washington, D.C., even miles outside the city limits—even in a leafy national park, even during a rock ’n’ roll show. Nowhere else in America could you expect to see scantily clad female fans waving magic-markered posters that declare, “Guster *heart*’s Campaign Finance Reform.”

Such light-hearted civics lessons were par for the course Tuesday night, as Guster shared the stage with Rufus Wainwright and Ben Folds at the Wolf Trap’s Filene Center in Vienna, Va. By the end of the night, the unlikely tourmates had treated the audience to several wry soliloquies on their perception of the state of the union (“not so hot,” in case you were wondering). Thankfully, they also remembered they were there to make music.

The co-billed acts have been rotating the performance order throughout the month-long tour, and this was Wainwright’s night in the opening slot. The lanky troubadour ambled into the cavernous outdoor amphitheater to scattered applause, the evening sky still light as concertgoers trickled in from picnic dinners on the lawn.

Alternating between sitting at his piano and perching on a stool with a guitar, Wainwright moved gracefully through a set that gave equal time to his older classics (“Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk,” a sly ode to the seduction of overindulgence), recent hits (the operatic “Vibrate,” before which he invoked the spirit of soprano Renee Fleming to help him sustain the final note), and favorite covers (a simple, unadorned version of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” that rivals Jeff Buckley’s rendition).

Wainwright also introduced several new pieces, including the lovely and tremulous “Agnus Dei”—sung entirely in Latin—from the upcoming Want Two. Evidence of a religious conversion? Who knows. While clearly chastened by a recent recovery from his party-boy days, the diva in Wainwright couldn’t resist anchoring his set with a different kind of hymn—a rollicking, innuendo-laced ditty by the name of (paging controversy on line 1!) “Gay Messiah.” Wainwright (or “Rufus the Baptist,” as he dubs himself in the song) couched the number in a political context, urging the audience to get out the vote against anti-gay conservatives, but “Messiah” is more irreverent parody than outraged propaganda.

As the sinking sun began to cast shadows, Wainwright gave the overwhelming impression of someone haunted by the past—his own, as well as those who’ve gone before him. Dressed in black (and fabulous snakeskin shoes) in honor of Johnny Cash, Wainwright demonstrated he knows the value of homage. Along with carefully chosen covers, he wove the influence of great artists into the fabric of his original work without waxing derivative. He prefaced “Want,” for instance, by noting that it mentions “great songwriters like John Lennon, Leonard Cohen and my dad.”

In that song, Wainwright revealed other ghosts that pursue him, insisting he doesn’t want to be any of those men—except for his father, folk musician Loudon Wainwright III. Family, in all its dysfunctional glory and pain, is a fundamental theme for Wainwright, who invited his mother, the legendary Kate McGarrigle, onstage to accompany him for “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” (“I’ve had to sing this song since the age of six,” he said. “Two,” Mom corrected him. “Since the womb,” he shot back.) In the set closer, “Dinner at Eight,” Wainwright admitted that he’s still wrestling with his upbringing. “This is about my dad,” he said bluntly, and went on to croon heartbreaking lyrics:

Why is it so
That I've always been the one who must go
That I've always been the one told to flee
When it fact you were the one long ago
Actually in the drifting white snow
You left me.

The great shame of Wainwright’s otherwise stunning performance was that it fell prey to all the hazards of a large, outdoor venue. The buzzing audience couldn’t seem to pay attention; the enormous space in the Wolf Trap managed to handle the lush, baroque layers that characterize his album sound, but it also gobbled up the strains of his elegant solo piano. Wainwright’s musical style and personality are better suited to a more intimate setting, and it’s unfortunate that both his subtlety and virtuosity were so ill serviced by the oversized room.

As soon as Wainwright left the stage, it became evident which artist most of the audience was there to see. A small but adamant army (there’s no such thing as a lukewarm Guster fan), they were out in force at the Wolf Trap.

Me, I’m not a natural-born Guster lover. I was prepared to write them off as a boy band for college students who also like jambands (guitarist Adam Gardner could easily pass for heartthrob Nick Lachey). But after witnessing them live, it’s easy to see why they’re so universally adored. Darned if those Guster guys aren’t likeable, energetic fellows whose creativity and talent feed directly off the enthusiasm of the crowd.

The core of Guster—Gardner, Ryan Miller and Brian Rosenworcel—came together at Tufts University in the early ’90s with only the essentials: two guitars and some bongos. Over the years, their sound has evolved from three guys jamming in a dorm room into a five-piece wall of sound, making for a delightful paradox in their live performances. Guster may come across as a well-oiled, pop-rock machine these days (thanks largely to new member Joe Pisapia, a musical jack-of-all-trades who adds both depth and breadth to the repertoire), but it’s also retained its laid-back, self-deprecating hippie soul.

As a live unit, Guster had everything going for it—Rosenworcel’s hyperactive drumming, Miller and Gardner’s tight harmonies as they traded lead vocals, Pisapia’s multi-instrumental chops. What drove the show, though, was the mutual affection between musicians and audience, Guster’s huge, overarching exuberance working symbiotically with the crowd’s. The guys on the stage seemed just as thrilled as the audience on the floor during the opening notes of “Amsterdam,” Gardner mouthing lyrics like a giddy fanboy whenever he stepped away from the mic. A bouncy cover of Belle & Sebastian’s “Boy with the Arab Strap” had the place on its feet, clapping “for five minutes straight” as Miller instructed them.

Guster’s melodies still aren’t particularly complicated—nor the lyrics more than serviceably clever—but clearly, that’s not why people get into them. Most bands give their listeners lip service, but you can tell Guster really, really likes the people who come to its shows, right down to the good natured ribbing fans receive on its website. Sure, sometimes I wanted to say to the girl next to me, “Honey? If you cheer the whole time, you can’t actually hear the sweet harmonies during the breakdown.” But I probably would’ve just killed her buzz, and nobody likes a curmudgeon. It’s easy to be a cynic among Guster fans—but it’s just not as much fun as giving in to the sing-alongs.

When I’m honest, though, I have no room to get snarky about Guster fans. After all, the way they love Guster—shamelessly, zealously, jubilantly—is the exact same way I love the next artist who takes the stage. If there’s one man for whom I will swallow my journalistic pride and pump my fist in the air with abandon, it’s Ben Folds.

Like Wainwright, Folds made pop music safe for the piano again, its popularity having taken a hit during the grunge era. But Folds’ approach to the keyboard, his entire posture before it, was so opposite Wainwright’s that they might as well have been playing two different instruments. As could be expected from a guy with a punk background and more than a little energy to burn, Folds crouched before the piano as if about to pounce. He attacked, he pounded, he pummeled—a kamikaze Jerry Lee Lewis in Buddy Holly glasses hitting gloriously atonal chords.

Folds’ high-strung exuberance played well in the Wolf Trap, which was packed to capacity by then. At that point in the night, the crowd was well-lubricated and ready to do anything Folds asked of them—good thing, since he demands a lot from an audience. Guster worshippers may bop along in rapt adoration, but Folds fans are left to shout key lyrics (“God, please spare me more rejection!” during “Army”) and provide the “bitchin’ horn section” by imitating saxophones and trumpets in the same number. It’s safe to say that Folds spent as much time standing on top of his piano as sitting in front of it, conducting the crowd like the deranged director of a high-school glee club.

But Folds is also capable of taking it down a notch; he’s the master of the delicate, heartbreaking piano ballad. “Gracie,” a new one about his four-year-old daughter, captured endearing snapshots of fatherhood; the line “you’ll be a lady soon / but till then / you gotta do what I say” earned a gentle chuckle from the crowd. Folds quieted the audience completely with another new song “for anyone who loved Elliott Smith’s music as much as I did,” a frank, shattering address to the recently deceased singer/songwriter that concludes, “It’s too late / It’s been too late for a long time.”

Like a musical David Sedaris, Folds excelled at sly jokes that, in the next beat, twisted into woefully bittersweet parables, moving effortlessly from the sardonic to the sentimental and back again. In set opener “There’s Always Someone Cooler Than You,” Folds was plaintive as he indicted hipper-than-thou poseurs, alternating embarrassingly earnest lines with the invective he’s known for: “Life is beautiful / We’re all children of / One big universe / So you don’t have to be / A chump.” Later, In “All U Can Eat,” from the recent EP Sunny 16, Folds envisioned himself on a Wal-Mart loudspeaker, calling out Americans who “give no f*ck / They buy as much as they want.” The song had a deeply sad musical quality to it, as Folds mourned, “God made us number one because he loves us the best / Well, he should go bless somebody else for awhile / Give us a rest.”

Much of Folds’ schtick, however, is just unequivocally goofy. He infused the classic “Philosophy” with pulse-pounding take-offs on “Chopsticks” and “Rhapsody in Blue,” raising his eyebrows at the audience to see if they were enjoying the joke. His notorious potty-mouth played front-and-center, as he took full advantage of the sign-language interpreter provided by the Wolf Trap standing at stage right. He’d throw extra profanity in where it didn’t belong, then glance gleefully at her to “see how you sign ‘a**hole.’” Childish and obnoxious, maybe, but it brought the house down—and had the middle-aged interpreter in fits of laughter.

The night’s best moments came when Folds invited his tourmates to accompany him. Wainwright swaggered out for a mind-melting cover of George Michael’s “Careless Whispers,” a song so terrible it was nothing short of irresistible as the piano men belted, “Guil-ty feet have got no rhy-thm” in soaring harmony. Later, Guster joined Folds for “Give My Notice to Judy,” which disintegrated into the raucous, barely controlled chaos of live favorite “Rock This Bitch,” with Folds screaming incoherently in hair-rocker falsetto and the Guster guys grinning as they switched up instruments and went along for the ride.

In his final gesture, Folds once again called upon the audience for backup, dividing it into sections to provide a three-part harmony in “Not the Same.” After charging through the gorgeous number—one of his best—Folds climbed atop the piano and, assuming his choir director persona, let the audience have the last word. The notes were sung over and over again as he crept off the stage without fanfare, creating a moment so spine-tinglingly beautiful and harmonious that, just for an instant, it was possible to forget we were outside the most politically polarized city in America.

Faced with millions of dollars in losses, Lollapalooza promoters and organizers made the decision to pull the 2004 tour this morning, a mere three weeks prior to kick-off. Despite having arguably the best line-up since the tour's inception in 1991, billing respected artists like Morissey, Sonic Youth, PJ Harvey and The Flaming Lips, the festival still faced weak revenue and poor ticket sales.

Marc Geiger, co-founder of the tour stated, "I am in utter disbelief that a concert of this stature, with the most exciting line-up I've seen in years did not galvanize ticket sales. I'm surprised that given the great bands and the reduced ticket prices that we didn't have enough sales to sustain the tour. Concert promoters across the country are facing similar problems. Many summer tours are experiencing weak ticket sales."

Fans who have already purchased tickets will be given full refunds, according to the festival website.

Congratulations to Nic Harcourt of KCRW who airs the 1,000th show of Morning Becomes Eclectic today, June 21. L.A. band Ozomatli will perform new material during the milestone broadcast, which can be heard again online from 4 to 7 p.m. and from 2 to 5 a.m. (PST). www.kcrwmusic.com

Morning Becomes Eclectic is the signature music program of 89.9 KCRW and has spawned a nationally-distributed weekly show. Host Nic Harcourt promotes a wide range of music, including progressive pop, world beat, jazz, African, reggae and new music. His radio show airs online and out of the Santa Monica station from 9 a.m. to noon weekdays (PST).

For the latest feel-good hits of the summer, look toward San Francisco indie-poppers Rogue Wave. Although this debut album was originally released in 2003, it’s fair to assume that few have actually heard the captivating Out of the Shadow due to it’s irritating lack of availability. Now that the album is being re-released on Sub Pop, former desoto red, Zach Rogue—armed with his killer singing and songwriting—is sure to be breaking and mending many hearts.

With just a taste of sweet, acoustic guitar nestling up to charming harmonies on tunes like “Be Kind & Remind” and “Kicking the Heart Out,” the grassy fields and green trees will come a-callin’. The album provides many upbeat melodies, going over like Belle & Sebastian and Yo La Tengo. “Endless Shovel” mixes up that bright hippie West Coast vibe, throwing in healthy dashes of poppy delight.

If you’re digging the Death Cab for Cutie sound, but don’t want to deal with the emotional baggage that comes with it, take this album out into the sun with a mojito, and simmer.

This month, Chapel Hill, N.C., label Yep Roc has seven scheduled releases to note. Former Flat Duo Jets frontman Dexter Romweber released Blues That Defy My Soul on the first of this month. Today, June 15, Grammy-winner Dave Alvin releases his Yep Roc debut Ashgrove, and Chris Stamey—dB’s co-founder and well-known producer (Whiskeytown, Yo La Tengo)—will release Travels in the South.

June 29 will herald the rest of the releases, with new albums from Philly’s Marah and Atlanta’s The Forty-Fives becoming available. Revival, the new record from Texas punkabilly staple The Reverend Horton Heat, will also hit stores. Tres Chicas—a side project from Whiskytown’s Caitlin Cary, Glory Fountain’s Lynn Blakey and Hazeldine’s Tonya Lamm—will also release its debut album Sweetwater on this date.

This weekend, in a post on the band's website, Leftover Salmon dispeled rumors of its impending breakup, but informed fans the band would be taking a hiatus. After 15 years on the road and after forging-on in the wake of banjo player Mark Vann's death from cancer in 2002, the band felt it was finally time for a vacation. Here's part of the band's message to fans (for more visit www.leftoversalmon.net):

"The band is indeed going to take a break at the end of this year. After years of touring everyone is ready for some time off to spend with their families and to pursue solo projects that Salmon's busy schedule has not permitted. As of right now the future of Leftover Salmon is uncertain but the band is not breaking up, just taking a break.

"Mark wanted us to continue after he left the band and that's what we did. We have toured just as hard, rebuilt the band and put out a new record. Now we feel that we can take a break without letting him down.

"We're all very proud of our latest release, Leftover Salmon, and after experiencing so many ups and downs, it feels right to step back while on this high. We want to thank the Salmon family, our friends and especially our fans as this dream would have never come true if it wasn't for you. We look forward to seeing your faces as we continue to perform in various projects and hope you will all support our decisions and future ventures. This band has created a lifetime of memories for us and that is something that can never go away."

The Pixies have written and recorded a brand new song, the band's first in 13 years.

"Bam Thwok" was penned by Kim Deal and produced and recorded by the band at Stagg Street Studios in Los Angeles this past March. The song's music had its genesis in a chord progression Deal had been toying with for a while, and the lyrics from an art book she found discarded on a city street a number of years ago, while on tour.

"From the handwriting, you could tell that this book must have belonged to a little kid," Deal said. "This kid had written a short story, a paragraph really, about a party that took place in another universe, about people and monsters that were partying together. That's what provided the inspiration for the lyrics."

The song's chorus goes, "Love. Bang. Crash. Wakka, wakka, Bam Thwok."

"It's a song about loving everyone," Deal added, "showing good will to everyone."

The Pixies arranged and rehearsed the song at guitarist Joey Santiago's home studio, which includes a 15-second carousel-esque organ solo performed and recorded many years ago by Santiago's father-in-law while he was doing missionary work in the Philippines.

Said Frank Black, "Recording ['Bam Thwok'] was a nice way for us to break the ice after twelve years. The recording process was very relaxed and it didn't feel like twelve years had passed."

As the Pixies are not currently affiliated with a record label, they had the luxury of making their first new song available to fans everyhwere quickly and at a low price. Starting today, you can purchase it for $.99 exclusively at Apple's iTunes Music Store.

Beverly Hills, Calif. — Music legend and 13-time Grammy winner Ray Charles died yesterday at 11:35 a.m. at the age of 73 from complications due to liver disease, announced his publicist Jerry Digney, of Solters & Digney.

When he passed, Charles was surrounded by family, friends and longtime business associates at his Beverly Hills home.

Charles' last public appearance was alongside Clint Eastwood on April 30, when the city of Los Angeles designated the singer's studios a historic landmark.

Last summer, it was initially reported that Charles—born in Albany, Ga., Sept. 30, 1930, as Ray Charles Robinson—was suffering from "acute hip discomfort."

But when doctors treated Charles in Los Angeles and performed a successful hip replacement procedure, other ailments were diagnosed, including liver disease.

Prior to his death, Charles finalized a duets album, Genius Loves Company for the Concord label, his first new album since 2001. Norah Jones, BB King, Willie Nelson, Michael McDonald, Bonnie Raitt, Gladys Knight, Johnny Mathis and James Taylor are just a few of the artists involved with the project, which is scheduled for release Aug. 31.

"The duets project has been a tremendous experience," Charles said, at the outset of recording. "I am working with some of the best artists in the business, as well as some of my dearest friends."

Said Jo Foster of Concord Records, "We are truly grateful that we were able to work with [Mr. Charles] on his last recording and, like the rest of the world, will always be thankful to have the gift of his music. We will miss him not only for his artistic genius, but also for his exceptional personal character. He was an extraordinarily generous individual, a man of honor and tremendous integrity with an incredible sense of humor."

One of the many examples of his generosity and integrity, Charles recently okayed plans for the building of the Ray Charles Performing Arts Center at Morehouse College in Atlanta. Charles was also awarded the prestigious "President's Merit Award" from the Grammy organization just prior to the 2004 Awards show, and was named a City of Los Angeles "Cultural Treasure" by Mayor James Hahn during an African American Heritage Month ceremony in February. Charles also received the NAACP Image Awards' "Hall of Fame Award" on March 6 this year.

An accomplished pianist and songwriter, Charles was considered the father of soul music, a unique R&B forerunner to rock 'n' roll and other musical offspring.

During a career that spanned some 58 years, Charles recorded over 250 albums, many of them top sellers in a variety of musical genres. A true musical pioneer, Charles became an American cultural icon decades ago. Among his most memorable hits are "What'd I Say," "I Got A Woman," "Georgia," "Born To Lose," "Hit the Road Jack" and "I Can't Stop Loving You."

Charles also covered such popular fare as The Beatles' "Eleanor Rugby" and "Yesterday." Among the singer's most moving and enduring musical recordings is his oft-played rendition of "America The Beautiful."

And he appeared in movies, like The Blues Brothers, and on television, starring in commercials for Pepsi and California Raisins, among numerous others.

After going blind from glaucoma at the age of seven, Charles was sent to the St. Augustine, Fla., School for the deaf and blind, where he developed his enormous musical gift. The young pianist eventually made his way to Seattle, Wash., performing as a solo act, first modeling himself after Nat "King" Cole. While in Seattle, he met a young Quincy Jones and they became lifelong friends.

In the late 1940s, Charles established a name for himself in clubs around the Northwest, evolving his music and singing style, which later included the famous back up singers, "The Raelettes."

While in Seattle, he dropped the "Robinson" from his name to avoid confusion with the legendary boxer. A recording career began in earnest in 1949 and Charles soon started a musical experiment, mixing genres like jazz, blues, R&B, country, pop and gospel. These experiments manifested themselves in 1955 with the successful release of "I Got a Woman."

It's reported that in devising the song, Charles reworded the tune, "Jesus is all the World to Me," adding deep church inflections to the secular rhythms of the nightclubs. "I Got A Woman" is popularly credited as the first true "soul" record.

Last August, Charles—who hadn't missed a tour in 53 consecutive years—cancelled the remaining dates of his 2003 tour due to illness.

"It breaks my heart to withdraw from these shows," he said at the time. "All my life, I've been touring and performing. It's what I do. But the doctors insist I stay put and mend for a while, so I'll heed their advice."

While remaining in Los Angeles, Charles continued a light work load at his studios and offices, overseeing production of new releases for his own label, Crossover Records, mixing a long-planned gospel CD and beginning work on the duets album.

A feature film based on his life story, Unchain My Heart, The Ray Charles Story, starring Jamie Foxx as Charles, completed principal filming early last summer and is scheduled for release this fall. Also appearing in the film are Larenz Tate as Quincy Jones and Usher Raymond as Jackie Wilson.

Charles' final public performance was July 20, 2003, in Alexandria, Va.

"Ray Charles was a true original, a musical genius and a friend and brother to me," said Joe Adams, the entertainer's longtime manager and business partner. "He pioneered a new style and opened the door for many young performers to follow. Some of his biggest fans were the young music stars of today, who loved and admired his talent and independent spirit."

In addition to his multiple Grammy Awards (including one for Lifetime Achievement) Charles is also one of the original inductees into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and a recipient of the Presidential Medal for the Arts, France's Legion of Honor and the Kennedy Center Honors.

He was also inducted into numerous other music Halls of Fame, including those for Jazz and Rhythm and Blues, a testament to his enormous influence.

"You can't run away from yourself," Charles once said. "I was raised in the church and was around blues and would hear all these musicians on the jukeboxes and then I would go to revival meetings on Sunday morning. So I would get both sides of music. A lot of people at the time thought it was sacrilegious, but all I was doing was singing the way I felt."

Sixteen years ago, Charles established the Ray Charles Robinson Foundation for the hearing impaired. Since its creation, the foundation—with Charles' encouragement and generous, on-going funding, has blazed a trail of discovery in auditory physiology and hearing implantation. Each such implant procedure costs upwards of $40,000, which the Foundation pays to have done. And of some 145-celebrity charities, the Ray Charles Foundation is rated by non-profit experts as one of the top five most efficient with zero administrative overhead.

Early last summer, Charles performed his 10,000th career concert at the Greek Theater in Los Angeles and in 2002 also starred in a concert at the Colosseum in Rome, the first musical performance there in 2,000 years.

"Music to me is just like breathing," Charles once told an interviewer from USA Today. "I have to have it. It's part of me."

Despite recent health challenges, Charles was planning to again start touring in mid-June and the sudden setback in his recovery was a shock to all. Eleven children, 20 grandchildren and five great grandchildren survive Charles, who will be remembered late next week in a memorial service at the Fame Church in central Los Angeles with interment at Inglewood Cemetery in Inglewood, Calif.

Of all the articles written about Dios thus far, three specific things about the band members are always mentioned: They hail from Hawthorne, once home to The Beach Boys; they’ve been named NME’s band to watch in 2004 after only having been a band for a year-and-a-half; and their fanatical admiration for the Brothers Wilson is rumored to have driven them to sign their record contract in the exact same diner the Beach Boys used to sign theirs with Capitol.

Brothers and songwriters Joel and Kevin Morales attended nearby El Camino college with keyboardist Jimmy Cabeza de Vaca, bassist J.P. Caballero and drummer Jackie Monzon. And for these five musicians, there’s no place like home. On the way to a Denny’s in San Diego, just down the street from The Casbah where they were to play later that night, Jimmy stops to snap a photo of the Hawthorn Street sign with his point-and-shoot. “I gotta get a picture of this,” he says.

The story of Dios actually goes back six years to when Kevin and Joel started writing songs at home. (“50 Cents,” from the band’s self-titled debut actually has its roots in this period.) Jimmy, J.P. and Jackie joined a couple years later to round out the band’s sunny psychedelic-folk sound and start playing some gigs.

Since then, the band has shared bills with Grandaddy and Beulah, and played major festivals like Coachella, but their earliest gigs were in the most unlikely places.

“We’d play anywhere that would let us,” says Joel. “We played at coffeehouses, bars, an arcade in Fullerton—anywhere, basically. The thing is, four years ago, we weren’t really trying to play shows. We’d play shows maybe, once every six months.”

Back then, Dios was known simply as God. But, says J.P., they decided to change their almighty moniker after seeing a CD by another band called, “God” when they played a session at underground L.A. radio station KXLU. Joel replies, “I just thought it was because it was a stupid name. Dios is a little less stupid.”

Now, however—thanks to the arrogance of a well-known metal icon—the band has been threatened to change its name, again.

“We got a letter from Ronnie James Dio’s lawyer that said ‘Ronnie James Dio is a legendary heavy-metal vocalist,’” says J.P. “‘Over twenty multi-platinum records sold worldwide.’”

“Now we’re going to change our name to Malmsteens,” Jimmy jests, taking a jab at ’80s neoclassical guitar-shredder Yngwie Malmsteen.

“I guess it’s cool, though,” says Joel. “[Dio]’s heard of us. But we can argue that we’re Mexican and its Spanish.”

So with a name decided on, and a plentiful supply of songs (the band reportedly has three albums worth of material backlogged), it came time for Dios to record an album. The band’s debut—an epic amalgam of Neil Young folk-rock, Beatles-style harmonies, Wilco-esque grit, Flaming Lips head trips and Floydian psych-epics—was finished by the beginning of last year. Not yet inked to Star Time International, who currently signs their advances, the fivesome recorded the bulk of the music in J.P.’s garage, his own home studio. And how did he finance this studio? Sales of highly sought-after bootlegs on eBay.

Gesturing to J.P., Joel says, “He likes to wheel and deal and undercut everybody.”

“He’s an eBay pirate,” Jimmy adds.

“You made a killing didn’t you?” Joel asks his subdued chum.

“I’m not gonna say how much I made, but it’s in the ballpark of one dollar to ten grand,” J.P. says between bites of his club sandwich. “It skews high, though.”

Caballero’s investment must have been a wise one, because the quintet has done all its recording up to this point on his equipment. It was good enough to sell their debut to Star Time and, according to the band members, it’s their chosen method of recording in the future.

“We’ve done everything on our own,” says Joel. “We just don’t have that kind of money. And we don’t have the patience to deal with people who don’t know what we want. We know we’re limited by what we have. And we don’t need super hi-fi equipment.”

The inside cover art of the band’s heady self-titled pop masterpiece of a debut, depicts the Foster’s Freeze where The Beach Boys reportedly penned “Fun, Fun, Fun.” This fact may have been the source of the rumors surrounding their supposed quest to be signed in the same diner that Capitol signed the Beach Boys in. But Joel contends this is merely a myth.

“We went to the diner,” he says. “They probably ate there, but it was across the street from the Foster’s Freeze, where they used to hang out and either wrote a song there or heard their song on the radio for the first time or something.”

Joel pauses to dip a french fry in a glob of ranch dressing.

“I don’t know who made that one up.”

While on tour this April in Fairfax, Va., Amy Dykes— vocalist for electropop duo I Am The World Trade Center—fell ill and had to be rushed to the hospital by bandmate Dan Geller.

After a series of tests, Dykes was diganosed with Hodgkins Lymphoma (cancer of the Lympahtic System). The tour was immediatley canceled, and Dykes is now undergoing chemotherapy.

To help raise money for the ailing singer's medical expenses, there will be a benefit in her hometown of Athens, Ga., this Friday, June 11, at 9 p.m. at dance club Boneshakers.

The benefit will feature like-minded local dance-party acts like the Krush Girls and the Baxterstreet Boyz.

There is also a benefit scheduled for July 4 in Phoenix, Ariz. So far, the group Mighty Six Ninety is on the bill. Further info on bands and a venue will be forthcoming.

For more detailed information on Amy's bout with cancer, and for updates on her condition please visit the I Am The World Trade Center website.

Also, to learn more about Hodgkins Lymphoma, visit the Lymphoma Information Network website.

Brit-pop band the Trashcan Sinatras will release Weightlifting, their first album in eight years on spinART records (Camper Van Beethoven, The Church). The new record will hit stores in the U.S. and Canada on Aug. 31, followed by a tour this fall. The Scottish group expects to play 15 to 25 dates to reintroduce themselves to major markets.

Considered the musical forefathers to Radiohead, Travis and Coldplay, the peaceful sounds of the Trashcans may have been ahead of their time when the group released Cake in 1990. Though it was a well-received debut, by the time the Scottish band released its sophomore effort I’ve Seen Everything in 1993, grunge had taken hold of the industry, and listeners were more apt to smell like teen spirit than the Trashcans. Angst-ridden chords quelled the group’s calmer melodies, and their 1996 album Happy Pocket was never even released in the U.S.

But, at last, musical tastes have shifted, and North American soil may finally be primed for the Trashcan Sinatras to take hold.

Pedro The Lion is currently posting a new live MP3 everyday from the band's summer tour—new songs, old songs, sound checks, record store and radio station performances and more—available for free if you've purchased the band's latest, Achilles Heel.

Each mp3 will be posted at 2 p.m. (Central Time) and will be available for 24 hours. Think of it as a audio documentary of the tour, the band told fans in an email. To download the songs, you'll need a username and password that can be found in the liner notes of copies of the Achilles Heel CD and LP.

If you've already got your password, here's the link: www.pedrothelion.com/downloads.

Finally, something to fill the void left behind when HBO’s fantastically bizarre Mr. Show left us all too soon. Though this live comedy record is a far cry from the program’s out-there Bob-and-David sketches, Cross and his stand-up comedy are the epitome of the underdog. Always looking the part of the nerd—with his shiny head and thick-rimmed glasses, forever in khaki shorts and a faded T-shirt—Cross’ humor skips back and forth from quirky political satire to cleverly observant people-watching.

Recorded earlier this year, the material focuses heavily on Iraq and the War on Terrorism. Spitting forth hysterical diatribes on the idiocy of the terror alerts, Strom Thurmond’s “color-blind johnson,” George W. Bush’s baby-eating habits, and racism in his hometown of Atlanta, Cross sounds fiercely intelligent without crossing over into the overbearing snobbery of some social commentary. Pulling off the “guy at the bar” mentality with seasoned comedy class, he’s a speaker you can relate to, yet look to for insight and answers in today’s slightly mad world.

Jonny Greenwood's Bodysong is the first full-length extracurricular project released by a member of Radiohead. We now have audible proof that supposed control freak Thom Yorke hasn't been entirely responsible for the anti-pop tendencies that followed the band's 1997 breakthrough OK Computer. But anyone who's seen Greenwood put his guitar down at a show and hunch over his effect pedals while simultaneously manipulating a transistor radio and a wall of Moog modules could have told you that.

It's important to distinguish Bodysong as a film score as opposed to a "Jonny Greenwood solo album." Simon Pummell's Brit Award-winning film analyzes human life experience in purely visual terms, and this score provides the only "narration." The fact that Greenwood's signature guitar playing appears on only two of the album's thirteen tracks reinforces this project's role of servitude.

Regardless, there are plenty of markers to help recognize Bodysong as a Radiohead-related project. The lumbering piano chords of the opening "Moon Trills" reflect back to Amnesiac's "Pyramid Song," the keyboard serving as a relaxing element, even as fluttering violins create mounting tension. Greenwood's considerable use of live strings and horns traces back to Kid A's "The National Anthem," while tracks like "Trench" feature the sonic manipulation and sound masking in the rhythm section that has characterized Radiohead's last three albums.

The band’s recent avant-garde flourishes mark the starting point rather than the extreme for this Greenwood project, however. And it's in his use of acoustic instruments, not electronics, where his boundaries are pushed furthest. Jazz-based tracks like the furious "Splitter" compare to David Byrne's recent Lead Us Not Into Temptation (the soundtrack to the Scottish film Young Adam). The gizmos are pushed aside (or at least into the back seat, as in "Milky Drops from Heaven") in favor of several minutes of bebop sax and trumpet scatting over skittering jazz drumming. And the string bass and trumpet give these tracks a seedy nightclub feel.

"Convergence" begins with the cacophony of seemingly random beats played on different percussion instruments. After minutes of clatter, the patterns coalesce into a rhythmic whole. The piece then pulses forward like a heartbeat, with all the random systems working toward one common thrust.

"Iron Swallow" feels like a step backward in time, with its soothing violin melody courtesy of The Emperor Quartet. The quartet also appears on "Glass Light/Broken Hearts," though during this track, the strings share space with electronic instruments. The song offers a melancholy twist on "Rites of Spring" with its fluttering violin refrain.

"24 Hour Charleston" features Greenwood's bluesy, acoustic guitar, reminiscent of recent Radiohead b-side "I am a Wicked Child." Also on hand are plunky banjo, angular electric guitar skronk (pushed well into the background), and Matmos-flavored ambient/rhythmic textures. Brother and bandmate Colin Greenwood provides bass guitar for the track.

After the introduction provided by "Moon Trills," "Moon Mall" launches the journey through Bodysong by simultaneously projecting serenity, chaos and clinical detachment. Without having seen the film, one can imagine this piece acting as an audible metaphor for the maternity ward and childbirth. The set closes with "Tehellet," evoking a somber and mournful funeral procession. These two pieces bookend the growth, order, chaos and range of activities and emotions that fall in between. Experience the sound of a life as imagined by Jonny Greenwood, all in the span of 45 minutes.

Last night I climbed into my beater ’89 Honda Accord and drove across Atlanta to see Harry Connick, Jr.’s performance at Chastain Park Amphitheatre. The dark underbelly of the Chastain experience involves getting within a mile or so of the park, at which point you begrudgingly join the crawling single-file motorcade of luxury cars in search of parking. Bad traffic, the great equalizer, a pox blighting the moods of Lexus- and Honda-owners alike. A mere 45 minutes later, once the idea of parking proved more than just a hypothetical, I finally tramped the final stretch toward the amphitheatre, in a foul mood, determined to hate all things Harry. The party had started without me, but I could already catch the distant brassy squall of Connick’s accompanying big band, which sounded downright elephantine, even from 100 yards outside the amphitheatre.

“He’s on his fifth song,” the gate attendant volunteered as she held out the remaining portion of my freshly ripped ticket stub. “Thanks,” I replied, my mind clouding up with profanity. A few moments later, after shuffling down the spacious aisle to seat #35—apologizing every few seconds for obstructing the view of posh silver-haired gentlemen and their pink-shirted, Ann Taylor-clad spouses, many of whom were refilling wine glasses with Cabernet Sauvignon and picking at spinach salads spread out on small candle-lit, cloth-covered tables (or the odd Igloo cooler)—I slumped down and turned my attention toward the stage. Off in the distance, a speck I took on faith to be Harry Connick, Jr. hunched reverently over a grand piano, bobbing his head like a pious man praying (perhaps he was, in his own fashion), fingers dancing feverishly up and down the ivory keys.

My dour mood sufficiently bathed in song and now glistening faintly around the edges, I settled into my seat while the darkening sky, having apparently soaked up my previous frustration, sent scattered drops onto the heads of the enormous crowd packed into the sloping amphitheatre. But this man on stage, this 36-year-old jazz crooner, consummate entertainer and quintessential fantasy partner of bored American housewives, seemed unfazed by the inclement weather, leading his band charismatically through one swinging big-band chart after another. Every so often, a saxophone or trumpet or trombone soloist would amble toward the stage apron and launch into a wild, inspired, blistering run of notes that left the crowd screaming like Holy Spirit-filled Beatlemaniacs. My personal favorite was the tenor sax soloist who, while honking and squealing in bouts of improvisational ecstasy, strutted across the stage alternately hunched over like some demented musical Quasimodo and reared straight-backed and stiff like rigor mortis had settled in prematurely.

Connick would not be upstaged, however, working the 7,000-person crowd as effortlessly as one of the much smaller New York hotspots at which he performed regularly in the late ‘80s after relocating from New Orleans to the Big Apple. When he wasn’t pimping his newest CD, Only You, a collection of standards from the ’50s and ’60s (“The president of my record label asked me to record an album of songs from his generation. What could I do? Say no?”) he was busy sending the crowd into paroxysms of laughter, riffing with mildly affected lisp—an obvious self-parody—on the metrosexual leanings of a nearby Atlanta mall where he’d purchased a $400 Gucci shirt the previous afternoon for tonight’s concert.

He frequently approached the foot of the stage, schmoozing good-naturedly and mugging for pictures with people who held ticket stubs so expensive they might as well have had Gucci tags hanging from them. At one point, he asked a group of pre-pubescent girls in the front row mock-defensively, “Do you even know who I am?” and then responded for them (with a slightly more exaggerated lisp), “Hmm… he’s not JC Chasez and he doesn’t have the guns to be Nick Lachey.” But Connick didn’t come off all winks and nudges and sport. Toward the end of the show, before easing into a powerful, inspired rendition of “The Old Rugged Cross,” he dedicated the song to Bob, a favorite professor who’d taught theology at his former Jesuit high school and “answered a lot of questions for me.”

Harry Connick, Jr. While his name may not be as instantly recognizable to younger listeners as, say, Incubus (which is how the aforementioned cluster of girls responded when asked by Connick to name their favorite band), he re-planted the holy fear of jazz in this occasionally-more-mature audiophile. And by mixing studied professionalism, off-the-cuff swagger and a true entertainer’s heart, he helped thousands of us huddled together in the midst of a drizzly Atlanta night realize that, while one pair of old blue eyes may have closed six years ago, a new pair are alive and bright.

The reunited hip-hop group Goodie Mob will release its new studio album One Monkey Don’t Stop No Show on June 29. Considered to be one of the most influential hip-hop acts to come out of the South, the Atlanta-based group is known for its pioneering production (provided by Organized Noise) and lyrical content that focuses on serious themes. Along with close friends OutKast, Goodie Mob helped prove hip-hop was more than a strictly East Coast/West Coast phenomenon.

One Monkey Don’t Stop No Show is the group’s first album since it downsized from four members to three, following the departure of Cee-Lo. The remaining members (Khujo Goodie, Big Gipp and T-Mo Goodie) released this statement about the split: "We wish Cee-Lo much success, but...one monkey don't stop no show. The Goodie Mob is a movement—comprised of thousands of fans, in the streets. This is real thrill music; it's down south southern cookin'.”

The new album’s first single “Play Your Flutes” features Sleepy Brown, with a cameo in the video by Big Boi of OutKast. For a limited time, Goodie Mob’s new CD will be packaged with a 40-minute DVD documentary The History of Goodie Mob, featuring interviews with group members as well as Big Boi, Sleepy Brown and Organized Noise.

Since releasing a self-titled solo album last week, Melissa Auf der Maur has a string of upcoming performances. The former Hole and Smashing Pumpkins bassist will appear on Late Night with Conan O’Brien on June 17 and then on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno on July 6. Auf der Maur will also join The Cure’s summer Curiosa tour.

AUF DER MAUR ON THE CURE'S CURIOSA TOUR

• 7/24 - West Palm, Fla., Sound Advice Amphitheater

• 7/25 - Tampa, Fla., Tampa Amphitheater

• 7/28 - Nashville, Tenn., Starwood Amphitheater

• 7/29 - Atlanta, Ga., HiFi Buys Amphitheater

• 7/31 - New York, N.Y., Randall's Island

• 8/1 - Camden, N.J., Tweeter Center

• 8/3 - Cincinnati, Ohio, Riverbend Music Center

• 8/4 - Cleveland, Ohio, Blossom Music Center

• 8/6 - Washington, D.C., Merriweather Post Pavilion

• 8/7 - Boston, Mass., Tweeter Center

• 8/9 - Toronto, Canada, Molson Amphitheater

• 8/11 - Detroit, Mich., DTE Energy Music Theater

• 8/12 - Chicago, Ill., Tweeter Center

• 8/14 - Dallas, Texas, Smirnoff Music Center

• 8/15 - Houston, Texas, Cynthia Woods Mitchell Pavilion

• 8/17 - Denver, Colo., Coors Amphitheatre

Spearhead frontman Michael Franti is currently in the Middle East with a delegation of artists, peace workers, musicians and filmmakers. The group will travel to Israel and Iraq from June 2 through June 15, making a documentary film about its experiences. Though no concerts are planned, Franti and others would like to meet with as many Iraqi musicians and artists as possible.

Regarding the trip, Franti said he intends "to go there with an open mind, an open heart and a guitar, to experience as much as I can in our limited time. I hope that upon our return all of us on the trip will become more effective communicators for those whose voices are going unheard."

The delegation is looking for donations to cover some of the costs of the trip, as well as the production of the film. Anyone interested can go to www.spearheadvibrations.com to contribute to the Power to the Peaceful fund, as well as view Franti’s Middle East diary.

Franti and Spearhead will spend the rest of the summer touring, with stops at the U.K.’s Glastonbury Festival and the U.S.’s Lollapalooza Festival. On July 13, an acoustic collection from Franti, Songs from the Front Porch, will be released.

The Betweeners are aptly named, describing themselves as “blues, bluegrass … and everything in between.” The indie trio’s first CD, Matador Karma, creates a rootsy blend, infusing bluegrass and blues with folk and straight-up country. The result is a hum-worthy Americana mix that's been likened to the Flatlanders and The Band.

The first two songs “No New Tales” and “360 Degrees” immediately induce toe-tapping as the Kentucky musicians combine swing and soul with plenty of pickin’. Frontman Stephen Couch’s classic-country baritone has a warm, thick resonance, and the melodies he sings rise smoothly to the top like cream in a butter churn. But rural stereotypes be damned—this band isn’t just comprised of tea-sipping crooners ‘down in the holler.’

The Betweeners take old forms and tackle the issues—everything from the Grateful Dead to environmentalism and religion. They keep things surprisingly light, delivering solid punch lines and clever word play. In “Beanstalk in My Bed,” the band recalls a Deadhead’s wild past using nursery rhymes, singing, “was it the parties or the stories / that destroyed my mind / they both had a lot of lines.”

The group calls attention to athletic teams’ exploitation of Native Americans in “Chief Seattle’s Blues,” noting, “It’s the land of the free, where the mascots can be red in the home of the blues.” The Betweeners’ lyrics—while playful at times—have depth and, like the band’s sound, are layered and satisfying.

If you’re looking for progressive subject matter from traditional musical genres, your craving will be satisfied somewhere amidst Matador Karma's 13 tracks. The Betweeners would fit right in at a local bluegrass festival or even at other festivals… where grass of another sort is preferred.

To purchase a copy of Matador Karma, visit The Betweeners' website.

Long-running Vancouver-based punk rockers The Smugglers might be releasing their eighth studio album, but they still sound fresh. On first listen, the fast-paced garage-tinged flavor of “The Get Up Syndrome” or the Americana groove of “Mach 1” will have you thinking The Smugglers are a new gem from California’s Lookout! Records. But the band’s been together since 1988.

Occasionally straying from Stones-meets-Clash, dirty garage-punk rock, the group wanders into more melodic territory—the closing track, “That Sound,” soaking you with the sweet and whimsical sound of indie rockers like Belle & Sebastian and Death Cab For Cutie.

But don’t expect any absence of ballsy rocking out on this record. The group takes a speedy ride through AC/DC country on “Shock the Shanker,” and sounds like The Ramones partying with the Beach Boys on “Pirate Ship,” its tribute to UK pirate radio stations. As singer Grant Lawrence belts out, “Turn up the Pirate Ships / and we’ll rock ’n’ roll back and forth with you,” the rest of group chimes in with ironic backup “la-la-las,” invoking images of a mock ’60s female doo-wop group.

For the most part, The Smugglers’ Mutiny In Stereo is more good-and-dirty fun. Whether fast-and-furious, loud-and-obnoxious or soft-and-melodic, the group will win you over with its ear-catching punk rock. If it hasn’t already.

Since returning home from Mule Train MMIV— the tour I embarked upon with my band, The Commonwealth, in early 2004 aboard the Amtrak Crescent—trains both here and abroad have taken a serious beating.

First the commuter-train bombings in Madrid, which (a) killed 191 passengers, and (b) offered a superfluous reminder of the strange and threatening world in which we live. And more recently, an Amtrak train heading from New Orleans to Chicago derailed in Mississippi, critically injuring 15 and killing one. But don’t give up on trains. They played an integral part in the building of our nation and wait patiently in iron stables to carry you wherever you feel like going.

My own journey proved long and difficult and altogether worthwhile. Amtrak was fantastic. The porters, conductors, engineers—the entire crew of the Crescent—were supportive of our trek. My label, Sugar Hill, embraced the id