Prepare for the (really) big screen

I'm not quite sure what "due diligence" means here. It's a wonderfully veiled bit of corporate speak. According to a representative from the Regal Entertainment Group, that's what is currently going on as it applies to bringing an IMAX facility to Augusta. I've taken a close look at the tea leaves and my guess is "due diligence" means that yes, an IMAX screen will soon be part of the Regal Exchange 20 -- often referred to as the Mothership in my house -- and that the folks at Regal just aren't ready to announce quite yet. What tea leaves, do you ask? Well, both the Regal and IMAX web sites list an IMAX as coming soon. Actually, only Regal lists it as coming soon. IMAX actually says it is due in Fall 2008. More ambiguity from Regal, but I guess that's all a part of due diligence. Fair enough. It it their house.

According to Regal, the plan undergoing "due diligence" would see an existing theater at the 20 retrofitted to house an IMAX Digital system. Having hit a couple of IMAX rooms in my time, I'm curious to see how that would work. The IMAX theaters usually conform to a very specific geometry which includes, most notably, a really big screen. I'm not quite sure how that sort of size might be shoehorned into one of the the Regal auditoriums.

The good folk at Regal seem to believe this period of "due diligence" should wrap up some time in the next 30 days. Hopefully, before summer is out we'll have some concrete IMAX news to report.

Stay tuned.

The Saga of Peter Frampton continues (I hope)...

Below is this week's installment in the continuing tale of Peter Frampton and myself. It is, for the most part, a review of his instrumental album but also serves as a more detailed explanation of my comments a couple of weeks ago, when I deemed Mr. Frampton's solo stuff suspect. On that occasion, my writing prompted a couple of responses from the man himself. As of right now, I haven't heard from him again, but it is a holiday weekend. Check out the column and I'll keep you posted on any Frampton sightings.

A couple of weeks ago, in complimenting the music of Humble Pie, I was somewhat dismissive of guitarist Peter Frampton's solo career. Little did I know I was opening a big can of worms. 

A slew of Mr. Frampton's fans pummeled me with e-mails -- my favorite made fun of my last name -- and Mr. Frampton himself dropped me a line expressing his disappointment and urging me to listen to his latest release, the all-instrumental Fingerprints . I promised I would. I have been and will be the first to admit that I might have been wrong and still stand by my assertions.

Let me explain.

I stand firm in my opinion that Mr. Frampton's post-Pie work, the Camel material and, most notably Frampton Comes Alive , leave something to be desired. I believe that his increased interest in song structure and melody softened some of the rough edges that made him an interesting guitar player. Sorry, fans. Sorry, Peter.

That being said, I did listen to Fingerprints and was pleasantly surprised to discover that I enjoyed much more of it than not. Instead of a traditional review, I'd like to offer a track-by-track rundown of the release.

BOOT IT UP: Funky, jazzy and unexpected, it's a sort of soul song that sets the eclectic tone for the record.

IDA Y VUELTA (OUT AND BACK): An acoustic jazz tune that deftly avoids the sleepy trap, thanks in large part to a great melody.

BLACK HOLE SUN: This by-the-numbers Soundgarden cover distinguishes itself only by the addition of Mr. Frampton's famous talking guitar trick, a technique that is starting to feel a bit over-exposed. Not the strongest of tracks.

FLOAT: Ethereal, but perhaps not in a good way. This is zone-out music and while fans of Pink Floyd obscurities might approve, it never engaged me.

MY CUP OF TEA: An almost seamless transition from Float , it also streams past without leaving much of an impression.

SHEWANGO WAY: Propulsive and infectious, this is a pretty amazing track that earned more than a few repeat listens.

BLOOZE: There's a smoothness to this traditional-sounding electric blues that steals some of the done-me-wrong passion from the playing. A nice arrangement that might have benefited from just a little more edge.

CORNERSTONES: More talking guitar, but it's not bad. Perhaps pleasant is the right word. Still, it doesn't rock the way a track with two Stones (Rolling) involved should.

GRAB A CHICKEN (PUT IT BACK): Although there is some evidence of the famous aforementioned effect here, this songs turns out to be something of a creeper. A great little laid back jam that grows more appealing with repeated listens.

DOUBLE NICKELS: Sporting a vaguely Americana vibe, this track is loaded with tasteful licks, a great groove and just enough rock to really roll.

SMOKY: One of the more interesting tracks on Fingerprints , it is, on the surface, a lovely little swing. Investment in the track, however, yields rewards as this plays out to be one of the more accomplished, imaginative and courageous tracks on the record.

BLOWIN' SMOKE: A righteous rock song filled with guitar indignation. Could this have been written after the off-handed dismissal of an anonymous music writer?

OH WHEN ... : So low-key it's easy to dismiss. That would be a mistake. There's a sense of sweetness, melancholia and true emotion on this track that runs deep.

SOUVENIRS DE NOS PERES (MEMORIES OF OUR FATHERS): Part Parisian cabaret tune and part Gypsy hoedown, this is the perfect finale for this record. I would love to hear an entire album of Mr. Frampton's interpretations of this kind of music.

Frampton comes alive...

Evidently I've raised the ire of rock legend Peter Frampton. My column this week, which praises his work with Humble Pie but is, admittedly, dismissive of his solo work, prompted a response from the guitar guy. It should be noted that, because of the opaque nature of email, I can't confirm that the following missive came from Mr. Frampton.

But I hope so.

Below is the text of his email, which was also sent to his management company, followed by the column that prompted his response.

Have you listened to my Grammy Award Winning, instrumental cd, "Fingerprints" ?

Dream a little dream

Recently, The Augusta Chronicle's City Ink columnist Sylvia Cooper showed some real restraint and called a moratorium on writing about the Augusta-Richmond County Coliseum Authority and its continuing shenanigans.

I don't have that kind of restraint. Instead, I'm going to indulge in a little speculation, a little, to paraphrase The Monkees, daydream believing.

Let us imagine that, by hook, crook or congressional action, we have been able to divest ourselves of the current board. Yay. The problem now is replacing the Fabulous Feuders with a group that might get something done and perhaps even elevate the stature of both Bell Auditorium and James Brown Arena. Here are a few of my picks:

JOE STEVENSON AND EMILY CARDER: The duo behind Gluestick, the promotion company responsible to varying degrees for Rock Fore! Dough, Payback and the 12 Bands of Christmas, is adept at booking entertainment and at dealing with complex infrastructure and finance issues.

TYRONE BUTLER: Given the 30 years the venues in question have spent hemorrhaging funds, there's little question that a new board will have to run things on a pretty taut shoestring. Mr. Butler knows about shoestrings. His Augusta Mini Theatre is one of the area's great success stories, and he has managed to run it with little, and often no, money coming in.

DONNIE THOMPSON: I know Mr. Thompson is already on the board, but in all fairness, he did just get there. It seems unlikely that he could have become tainted by ill will and anxiety just yet. Besides, I'm great admirer of the way he has built and developed the Windsor Jewelry brand and business. That sort of business acumen could certainly come in handy.

DEANNA BROWN THOMAS: The Godfather of Soul's daughter would bring a family connection to the facility named for her famous dad, and she would also bring a wealth of radio, television, business and, most important, Augusta experience to the job. She's one of the sharpest women you're ever likely to meet.

LARA PLOCHA: Although she left her post as executive director for the Imperial Theatre under something of a black cloud -- which never, ever happens at James Brown Arena -- Ms. Plocha did a great deal to improve the theater, its performances and profile in the community. Since leaving, she has focused that same enthusiasm into downtown development. I say snap her up.

Those are my picks. Whom would you ask to be part of a new and improved Coliseum Authority? E-mail your suggestions to steven.uhles@augustachronicle.com.

In reference to last week's query about the architects of rock 'n' roll, here are some of the submissions I received: Red Foley, Bill Haley and the Comets (that one came up a couple of times), Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis Presley (of course), Johnny and Dorsey Burnette, Louis Jordan, and Glenn Miller, although I still don't buy the assertion there that In the Mood is a rock song.

Who are the founding mothers and fathers?

With the death of guitar legend Bo Diddley on Monday, much is once again being made of the roots of rock.

Here's the tough but honest truth: While many early rock artists were important and perhaps influential, few can be considered founding fathers of the musical style.

Most were merely hopping on a bandwagon, cashing in on a rising trend. So while Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis and the near-beatified Elvis are often cited as the wellspring from which all rock flows, they were merely talented musicians who recognized a good thing.

This raises a contentious question -- my very favorite kind. If not Elvis or Chuck or Jerry Lee, then who?

Who in fact are the pioneers of rock?

Below you'll find my picks, but please, feel free to chime in. I'll include the results of this informal poll in an upcoming column.

MUDDY WATERS: While an argument likely will be made for Robert Johnson as the blues artist who most influenced rock, I went with Muddy because of his early adoption of the electric guitar. If rock has a voice, it's probably an electric guitar plugged in, amped up and ready to rumble. We have Muddy to thank for that.

IKE TURNER: Although much-maligned because of his tempestuous relationship with Tina Turner, the first real rock record, Rocket 88 , is in fact an Ike Turner product. Sure, researchers might find it credited to the imaginary Jackie Brenston and his Delta Cats, but it was actually recorded by Mr. Turner and his band, the Kings of Rhythm, at the legendary Sun Studios in 1951.

BUDDY HOLLY AND THE CRICKETS: Though much is made of Holly, the early sides he recorded with the Crickets were actually the product of a cohesive band, a single unit of musicians. While that doesn't seem like much today, the idea of recording as a band rather than a solo artist with a loose assemblage of studio players was a revolution. Every band that plays today can trace elements of style, substance and musical democracy to the Crickets.

BO DIDDLEY: It just so happens that this week, those crowning the late and great happened to get it right. Mr. Diddley didn't invent the electric guitar or big back beat, but his innovative and original style of playing and writing gave rock the bump-de-bump bump-bump shuffle that continues to serve as the rhythmic foundation. Besides, he sang about making a cobra into a necktie. How cool is that?

CARL PERKINS: Others established the standards of rock music, but Carl Perkins can lay claim to establishing rock performance. Understanding that this new music was dark and just a little dangerous, he, under the auspices of rockabilly, developed a persona to match. Elvis, Johnny Cash and Eddie Cochran all co-opted elements of the Perkins act. So did anyone else who has approached rock with a sneer and a wiggle.

Movies, music and more interaction

I do love it when people agree to play my reindeer games.

In response to my query for great underrated records, I discovered that there were a lot of fans of Dylan's New Morning album, which was on my list, and quite a few folk who believe Wilco hasn't gotten the righteous props deserved.

Among the albums submitted -- Prince's Sign O' the Times , the first New York Dolls album, Cheap Trick's Next Position Please , the Led Zep epic Presence , the Byrd's country-rock classic Sweetheart of the Rodeo , Gil Scott Heron's influential The Revolution Will Not Be Televised and After the Snow by Modern English.

The most popular -- and surprising -- pick was A.M. by college rock faves Wilco. It's hard to argue with, because that's a record I love as well.

That was two weeks ago. On Sunday, I ran a list of Essential movies. These were not necessarily my favorites, but movies I feel every film fan should see to properly understand the art, history and entertainment joy that is cinema. As with the underrated bands, I asked readers to let me know what I might have left off. Among the popular choices -- Psycho , Young Frankenstein , The Graduate , Unforgiven , Taxi Driver , Showboat , Stagecoach , Forrest Gump and Blade Runner .

Three of the more popular picks were Saving Private Ryan , Gone With the Wind and The Shawshank Redemption .

At the risk of inciting a mini movie melee, I'll let you in on a little secret. I don't think any of those movies are particularly good.

After the first 20 minutes (which are fantastic) Ryan becomes a fairly standard and sadly mundane war movie, nothing new under the Normandy sun. Shawshank continuously overplays its hand, bludgeoning the audience with life lessons when a more subtle approach would have been more effective. Gone With the Wind is a spectacle that never quite masks the so-so melodrama at its core.

Now here's the thing. I have this spot, once a week where I'm allowed to spout. It has been great. But I really want to do more than merely offer my ideas.

I'd like Pop Rocks to be a forum for discussion, a spot where one list can spawn many, where my opinions are just a starting point.

I'm not exactly the lovey-dovey touchy-feely type, but I feel like the 10 minutes we spend together -- figuratively speaking -- might be more interesting if the conversation became a little less one-sided.

Stay tuned.

It makes me proud to have a daughter...

Check out PBS on April 1. The network's long-running documentary series Independent Lens is showing a new film by Augusta's own Matthew Buzzell. Mr. Buzzell, who also directed Tell Me Do You Miss Me about the rock band Luna and Jimmy Scott: If You Only Knew, about the under-apprecitaed jazz singer Little Jimmy Scott.

His new movie is Companeras, about an all-female mariachi band that defied traditional gender and made the traditional Mexican music co-ed. It's a beautiful film, filled with incredible music and portraits of women making music not for money or fame, but for the love of making music. It's an amazing movie that I plan on screening for my own daughter in the hopes that she'll be enthused and moved to create. This one gets my highest recommendation. Check it out.

A Concert for Danny

I lost count, years ago, of how many live acts I've seen perform in my life. It's a number that, quite realistically, is in the four figures. I've seen legends (Springsteen, Dylan, the Godfather) and bands barely out of the garage. I've seen historic sets (Nirvana at the Reading Festival in 1993) and sets better forgotten.

But I've never seen anything quite as powerful, as transcendent, as the event that took place in the cramped back room of the 209 Music Lounge last night.

Certain the caliber of talent was part of the reason. Anytime you get the sort of talent James Brown surrounded himself with, including the famously funky JB horn players Maceo Parker and Fred Wesley, in front of an audience you are going to get something special. But the mood and music last night was powered by something more, something harder to describe but easier to identify.

At one point, Mr. Parker stepped up to the microphone and, addressing a crowd that in all honesty wasn't really listening, reminded us all that the greatest gift we can give is love. While the concert was arranged as a benefit for Danny Ray, James Brown's financially beleaguered "cape man", it really was more a tribute to the iconic figure that, in standing by his employers side for nearly 50 years, had become an essential piece of the Godfather mythology. Clearly beloved and important to the men and women who regularly took to the road with Mr. Brown, Danny Ray was feted and fawned over and reminded, time and time again, that he was indeed loved.

Of course, the good news is that in addition to the love offered up, there was also some money raised. Everyone in attendance put up at least $20 for the privledge of hearing a rare gathering of musicians giving it up and cutting it loose for Mr. Ray. The gift they received in return was worth so much more. Vobrant, emotional, touching and, of course, unspeakably funky, it's a set that I, for one, will be talking about for years.

Hopefully, the Danny Ray bankroll will grow. An account has been set up in trust for Mr. Ray by long time Brown (and Danny Ray) associate Frank Christian. Parties interested in offering up a little love and money can donate through the Danny Ray account at First Bank. 

Mission-ary man?

Beasties will live to Fight (For their right) another day...

Earlier this week, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame announced the five acts to be honored this year. They were surf-guitar combo the Ventures, '60s hitmakers the Dave Clark Five, roots rocker John Mellencamp, poet/singer/songwriter Leonard Cohen and pop culture icon Madonna. While each act is certainly notable and deserving of this honor, more interesting is the act omitted -- the Beastie Boys.

The New York trio, known for exploding and exploiting the barriers between rap and rock, had made the short list of possible inductees and, from my cheap seat, seemed like the easiest of inductees. Not only have the Beasties spent 25 years producing infectious hits, but they have also understood and embraced the role of real artists, expanding what they do and how they do it with a sense of sonic experimentation.

But clearly this was not their year.

Here's the thing about the Rock Hall. Similar to the professional sports Hall of Fames, it works off a fairly simple system. Each act selected must have been in the business for 25 years, measured from the time of their first release. A short list is developed every year, usually comprised of previously spurned vets and first time nominees, and from that five inductees are chosen. It's rare for an act to make it from initial list to inductee the first year, and this time there were two strong possibilities -- the Beasties and Madonna. While it might be argued that Madonna isn't exactly rock, her place within the pantheon of popular music is secure. Although I don't rock much Lady M during my daily commute, given the opportunity I probably would have voted the same way.

The good news is that the Beastie Boys remain eligible for induction. Sure, it won't happen this year, but both the Dave Clark Five and the Ventures (a personal fave) sat out for a long time before they got the call. Much longer, in all probability, than the Beasties will. In fact, if I were a betting man, I would wager that this time next year we'll be talking about some other act that was eschewed in favor of the the Beastie Boys.

Echo Project - Not over, but out

I had a teacher, well, a golf teacher actually, tell me once to always leave on a high note. And while I still am something of a golf menace, I think there's some sage advice there. That's why I'm leaving having made Thievery Corporation my last act. A DJ collaboration out of Washington DC, Thievery usually plays as a duo. An exception was made for Echo. For the show, Thievery played its anthropological dance music as a full band, bringing in Latin percussion, a sitar, a rotating cast of international singers and a bass so heavy that after a couple of minute, my kidneys began to hurt. As I type this farewell missive, the sun, is quite literally, setting in the West. The always conspicuously shuttle permitting, I hope to be riding into that sunset, or actually with that sunset at my back very soon.

Hi Ho Silver...

Echo Project - Homies and Houseguests

Started my musical day with a band called Louis XVI. I had actually seen Louis once before, at one (perhaps the final) Music Midtown. At the time, I didn't really dig 'em. I thought the band was too affected, trying too hard at a rock persona. Today was differnt. The band has clearly grown up and, in a way, grown into the image. The histrionic are tones down some and finally the music and performance lives up to the self-hype.

I left Louis XVI early because I wanted to catch the set by Augusta boys Dead Confederate. Despite the fact Dead Confederate isn't much of a daylight band, the band's dark Southern boogie, dangerous and brooding, seemed to go over well. Perhaps next year they can campaign for a better slot.

Next I wandered over to catch Avett Brothers, an act with an increasingly impressive career scheduled to play the Imperial Theatr Nov. 9. It seems the band has recently added a cello player, with real success. Sounds good.

What continues to impress me about the Avett's is the band's seeming efforless but cleary careful arranged style. It encourages listeners to fill in gaps, to imagine and believe that the sound they are hearing is much more complicated and complex than a four-piece string band should be able to produce.

I also caught small bits and pieces by both Son Volt and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. The nice thing about Echo's expansive size is that walking from one stage to the next often grants you a couple songs easy listening.

I plan to catch some of the Thievery Corporation before heading back to Augusta this evening. I'll try and offer an impression of the set before I hit the road.

Echo Project - Loose Lips and Sinking Ships

After relatively peaceful beginnings, things got a little crazy at Echo. That's not to say that there was widepread panic (that band isn't even booked) but there did seem to be a real wave of chaos usurping the quiet control that marked the early hours of the event. I mean, when the batik-and-Birkenstock crowd eagerly enters in a shotgun homicide singalong with the infamous hip-hop act Cypress Hill, you know that strange things are afoot.

Of course, it's possible that the oddball vibe was just right for some of the marquee acts that followed. Both former Primus frontman Les Claypool and psyche-rock kingpins The Flaming Lips seemed to feed off the mostly-natural fog shrouded crowd, turning in magnetic sets. The Lips, in particular, seemed charged. Of course, it should be noted that rock revivals, resplendent in confetti, balloons and oddball antics are a Flaming lips specialty.

Theoretically, I planned to end my evening with a little bit of minimalist magic with Album Leaf and this filing. Check the time stamp. Clearly that didn't happen. Instead, I spent several minutes fruitlessly struggling with the wireless connection and then trudging to find a shuttle that would take me to my car. Instead of a shuttle I found surly staff who had clearly been exposed to too much sun, bass and drum and a seat on a van that dropped me miles from my car. Put the shuttle and badges with bad attitudes on the list of issues to be shorn up before next year's event.

I've also decided to make today my final Echo day. Without going into too much detail (believe me it's better that way) I find myself running at about half-speed today, the after affects of a delicious, but clearly semi-toxic, falafel dinner. Still, expect a few more dispatches from the trenches before I finally give in a call it a day.

Retro Active

For such a forward-thinking fest, there sure are a lot of acts roaming the stages with a distinctly vintage vibe. Over the past few hours I've caught portions of sets that unapologetically reference musical movements and moments long since expired.

 Although Stephen Marley's original music fully embraces the amalgamatory spirit if reggae, incorporating slices and samples of R&B, hip-hop and rock into the traditional Jamaican sound, he clearly understands that when an audience sees a Marley, they want some sort of direct reference to the legendary father. Stephen Marley, Bob's second son, seemed happy to oblige. Not only is the producer/performer a dead ringer for his father, both visually and vocally, he's more than happy to spike his set with some of daddy's hits.

Later, on the outlying lunar stage, the vaguely cultish Polyphonic Spree channeled the ghost of Sgt. Pepper and Pet sounds, with no less than 23 musicians, including two drummers, a string section and small choir, vamping through a set of orchestral pop. Somewhere, Phil Spector is smiling. Well he would be, were those legal issues not hanging over his head.

On the small Solar stage, which, in keeping with the green theme of the fest (more on that later), Col. Bruce Hampton led his latest band, the Quark Alliance, through a set of the sort of jammy prog-rock that has been his calling card for years. Good stuff, but it probably isn't going to get him promoted to general.

Echo Project -- In like Flynn...sort of

Make no mistake, the South Fulton County farm playing host to the inaugural Echo Project music festival is an Atlanta locale in name only. I've been here less than an hour, but it took me a good 45 minutes to get from I-85 to the media area that thumps and bumps with the backbeat from a couple of nearby stages. Among my misadventures, finding the proper place to park (still not sure I did that right), finding a lift from the parking lot to the festival site (thanks catering guy) and a stealth run through the backstage areas to the rather non-descript media tent. Still, I've managed to make it and have a couple of first impressions to share.

The Echo Project footprint is large, far larger that required for the few early adopters here for the initial set. I feel certain things will fill up some as the day progresses, but my thinking is this layout has been developed with further growth in mind. It will be interesting to see what sort of elbow room there is once the event is in full swing, but so far there is none of the toe-crushing clausterphobia often associated with a mega-fest.

Clearly, this is an event marketed toward the neo-hippy patchouli set. If it had an official flag, the colors would be tie-dye. If it had an anthem, it would include a 20 minute guitar break. Halfway across the midway (I dig the carnival allusion) and I had already noted a couple of heated-if-mellow hacky sack matches, an enthusiastic, if unskilled, hula-hoop girl and the occasion scent of mysteriously acrid smoke riding the breeze.

Still, there are worse places to be. The weather is beautiful in the way only autumn in the South can be, the setting is spectacular and the music I can pick out from my folding chair sounds sweet. It's a good, if somewhat disorganized start. I'm off to check out some tunes. More later.

The good, bad and ugly of the Summer of Love

In today's Pop Rocks column, I offered my personal picks for musical hits and misses from 1967, one of the more interesting years in music. I'm curious to hear other people's take on this watershed moment in popular music and the songs from 40 years ago that still resonate with them. Check out the column here...

http://chronicle.augusta.com/stories/080307/uhl_138125.shtml

Who's your pick for the Great American Band?

The debate raised its sonic head a few weeks ago, quickly escalating into one of those barroom epics that can confound music fans for hours at a time. Though nobody seems ready to anoint the Beach Boy sound as the American equivalent of The Beatles' Merseybeat mastery, it's tough to make the argument for another act. The Velvet Underground, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The E Street Band and the JBs, for instance, were all suggested and dismissed.

I'm putting the question out to you. Are the Beach Boys the American equivalent of The Beatles; if not, who is, and why?

Share your suggestions here or by e-mail to steven.uhles@augustachronicle.com. A selection of responses will run in an upcoming Pop Rocks column.

No Son or Sonic for me

I went to Bonnaroo fully expecting to catch sets by Son Volt and Sonic Youth, two personal favorites. But after the spectacular, sprawling set by Radiohead, and taking my aching bones into consideration, I decided I would be much happier strolling through my front door as Son Volt hit the stage. I was correct. The truth is that as much as I would have enjoyed seeing those two acts, for me and, if I were to venture a guess, most festival atendees, the 2006 Bonnaroo climaxed with the Radiohead performance.

Now the unconfirmed rumor I heard was that Radiohead's price tag was $800,000 and $2 for every ticket sold. I don't know if that's true, but even if it is, it was money well-spent. It's the sort of act, and performance that elevates an event like Bonnaroo. Three days ago I hit the road not knowing what to expect. Today I hit the road wondering how organizers could possibly top this year's super-sized party.
I can hardly wait to find out.

But first, I need a nap.

Radiohead

As I type this Radiohead, arguably the biggest band in the world -- though only U2 and the Stones have the right to make that arguement -- is playing its much ballyhooed set on Bonnaroo's main stage. I can hear it but not see. So why am I not out there, mingling with what surely must be all 80,000 Bonnaroosters? Well, there's a couple reasons.

First, I wanted to give any early reader that might stumble across this entry a sneak peak at what the new model Radiohead sounds like. For openers, it's a return to guitar. Although some of the blips and bleeps that have marked much of the band's more recent output haven't been abolished, the distinctive sound of guitar/bass/drum that originally brought the band into the public eye has returned. The sound is more subtle than the the big electric bang of albums like The Bends, but it sure sounds like Radiohead. Nice.

The other reason I'm not out there catching the set is that I've discovered, as a guy in my late mid-30s, I don't have the stamina and patience I once did. My back hurts and I'm tired of getting jostled and bumped. I'm not saying I won't go out there. I'm a soldier in the army of rock. I belong in the trenches. However, there's also a pretty good chance that once Radiohead flees the stage and hits the highway, I will follow. I've got some Fathers Day action to hit tomorrow so, in all probability, my Bonnaroo adventure is drawing to a close.

I went to a rock concert and caught...

...a puppet show. Beck's stage extravaganza included puppet clones of Beck and his band, fighting bears, a giant boombox and an onstage dinner break. No kidding. My favorite moment, a pre-encore documentary featuring said puppet's impressions of Bonnaroo.

OVERHEARD:
Beck puppet: "Which Stage, What Stage, That Stage. I smell hippies."

SUPER SET: Beck and Cypress Hill