WHAT'S IN THE CD PLAYER

Oldies stations periodically cue up a curio from the '60s that kicks off with this pronouncement:

"I am the god of hellfire, and I bring you ..."

The Crazy World of Arthur Brown might seem like the typical one-hit wonder to folks who hear "Fire," a song that made it to No. 2 on the U.S. charts (No. 1 in Brown's native Britain) back in 1968. But there's more than meets the ear in this case.

Film clips from the era, for example, show how Brown went about performing the tune in what's been described as the first example of rock theater in action. Dressed in a cape and facial makeup, he culminated the song by ingiting his helmet, adding a literal touch to "Fire" (15 years before Michael Jackson inadvertently tried the same thing during a Pepsi commercial).

Beyond the histrionics, the driving force behind "Fire" as a musical piece is the organ playing of Vincent Crane, who co-wrote the song (Pete Townshend took a break from The Who to produce). Brown, in fact, had only two backing musicians on the Crazy World album, Crane and drummer Drachen Theaker, with the keyboardist carrying the major load.

The project collapsed after just the one album, with the resulting tour taking a toll on all three members: Brown's manic stage persona caused him some injuries; Crane suffered a nervous breakdown; and Theaker, with a fear of flying, was replaced by Carl Palmer (later of Emerson, Lake and ... fame).

Crane and Palmer went on to form Atomic Rooster, which experienced some British chart success with the gloomy-but-catchy "Tomorrow Night" and "Devil's Answer." Brown later resurfaced with some solo albums and a band called Kingdom Come (not Lenny Wolf's group of the '80s) that highlighted his rather strident vocal stylings.

As an album, "The Crazy World of Arthur Brown" plays like a stab at the dark side of psychedelia, with Brown emoting his visions of "yellow sky, orange faces" and such in a vocal range spanning several octaves. (Yes, it gets more extreme than what you hear in "Fire.") His also indulges us with a good bit of poetry; believe it or not, some of it sounds as if Eric Burdon lifted it for his 1970 hit with War, "Spill the Wine." Then there's Arthur's obligatory late '60s-type freak-out, "Spontaneous Apple Creation," which is just what you'd expect from something with a title like that.

But if that's the kind of music you enjoy - and there are plenty of us out there - "The Crazy World" is one entertaining listen, particularly for fans of the eminent talents of the late Mr. Crane. His work on the first three Atomic Rooster albums is particuarly worth seeking out and giving a try.

For more about Arthur Brown and company, read Richie Unterberger's highly informative "Urban Spacemen and Wayfaring Strangers: Overlooked Innovators and Eccentric Visionaries of '60s Rock and Roll."

During a game of Monopoly over the holiday weekend, I was reminded of a songwriting credit attributed to someone allegedly named "Marvin Gardens." And that made me think about rock 'n' roll pseudonyms.

Sure, some folks have been known by something other than their given name throughout their professional lives: Vince Furnier (Alice Cooper), James Osterberg (Iggy Pop) and Don Vliet (Captain Beefheart), to name a few.

But many artists come up with alter egos at some point during their careers, for various reasons and to various effects. Some, like Mr. Gardens, want to do something different with writing credits. Others have contractual obligations that preclude use of their real names. And occasionally, a new name simply represents an artistic change of pace.

Let's see if you can guess who these guys really are:

1) L'Angelo Mysterioso. Actually, he went under many names, and this one appeared in connection with a song he did with a man who later hooked up with "Mrs. Mysterioso." But the two guys still were friends decades later.

2) Bernard Shakey. This name has appeared in conjunction with several film projects involving a very well-known guitarist/singer/songwriter, as well as the artist's autobiography.

3) O. Rasputin. A legendary '60s group attached this pseudonym to songwriting credits, particularly some instrumental jams.

4) Arnold Korns. This guy already had one nom de guerre going, and decided to try another for a single that didn't go anywhere. Then he went back to his first pseudonym and became a superstar.

5) Buster Poindexter. The lead singer of a pioneering punk-rock band occasionally recorded under this handle in more of a lounge-crooner approach.

6) Dr. Winston O'Boogie. An absolute rock immortal came up with a pseudonym that reaffirmed his mastery of wordplay.

7) McGannahan Skjellyfetti. Another group-composition pseudonym, this tongue-twister came from a character in a novel, "Memoirs of a Shy Pornographer" by Kenneth Patchen.

8) Jesse Orris Farrow. Another pseudonym on top of a pseudonym, this was used by a songwriter who apparently was extremely bitter over what became of the royalties to his most famous composition. The Farrow name appears on several albums this artist made with a San Francisco-based band in the early '70s.

9) Hank Wilson. This legendary rock session player enjoyed some solo success (under a pseudonym) in the early '70s, then showed his country leanings with recordings under this name.

10) Richie Snare. Think about this fellow's real name and the instrument he plays.

11) Tom and Jerry. Teenagers when they recorded under this designation, they later became legends using their true surnames.

12) Blind Boy Grunt. Yet another pseudonym on top of a pseudonym. This guy, though, did keep his original first name in coming up with a handle that's now known the world over. "Blind Boy" appeared as a session man very early in the artist's career.

13) Blind Thomas Jefferson Airplane. This guitarist's jokey pseudonym led directly to the name of a certain band.

14) Nanker Phelge. Instead of listing the names of all five members, a very popular rock band in its early days came up with this bit of whimsy for its group credits. The name is derived from in-jokes about a certain facial expression and an acquaintance with questionable hygiene.

15) Apollo C. Vermouth. One of the world's most famous musicians listed this name on the credits for a song he produced for another band. And the leader of that band went on to become the musical voice for one of the world's most famous comedy troupes.

ANSWERS: 1) George Harrison - reference is to Eric Clapton (and also to Pattie Boyd Harrison); 2) Neil Young; 3) The Yardbirds; 4) David Bowie - real name David Jones; 5) David Johansen - played with the New York Dolls; 6) John Lennon; 7) The Grateful Dead; 8) Dino Valente - real name Chester Powers - played with Quicksilver Messenger Service; 9) Leon Russell - real name Claude Russell Bridges; 10) Ringo Starr - real name Richard Starkey; 11) Simon and Garfunkel; 12) Bob Dylan - real name Robert Zimmerman; 13) Jorma Kaukonen; 14) The Rolling Stones; 15) James Paul McCartney, producing the Bonzo Dog Band's "I'm the Urban Spaceman" - other references are to Neil Innes and Monty Python's Flying Circus.

EXTRA CREDIT: Jimmy Buffett's "Why Don't We Get Drunk" is credited to Marvin Gardens.

Years ago - it must have been a long stretch, because the Pirates were playoff-bound at the time - I took a visiting British journalist to a baseball game, as part of the American Experience.

After a while, I gave up trying to describe the intricacies of the sport, and we settled into criticizing what they tried to pass off as "beer" at Three Rivers Stadium. Then we started talking about music.

I don't remember my guest's name, but I do recall him raving about a concert he'd attended some two decades before featuring three bands that went on to diverse fortunes as far as their careers were concerned.

The show in question apparently was a package deal involving a trio of artists that were signed to the Famous Charisma Label. (You'll remember their LPs with the Mad Hatter's Tea Party pictured where they list the songs.)

The headliner, from what he mentioned, was Van der Graaf Generator, a band that has attained legendary status among fans of the genre loosely known as progressive rock. Van der Graaf's current album at the time of the tour, "Pawn Hearts," served as an ample display of the group's approach: lengthy, multi-passage compositions showcasing the apocalyptic lyrics and vocal styles of leader Peter Hammill. The band member attracting the most attention at the time, though, was reed player David Jackson, whose frenetic performing style had won him quite a following to see him in action live.

Despite its popularity, Van der Graaf Generator broke up a short while later, re-formed a couple of years after that and split for good in the late '70s. At least, that's what everyone thought. It took more than a quarter of a century, but the "classic lineup" of Hammill, Jackson, keyboardist Hugh Banton and drummer Guy Evans did the reunion thing just this year with an album called, appropriately enough, "Present."

Also on the bill that long-ago night was Lindisfarne, a folk-rock group that was supporting its second album, "Fog on the Tyne." Note the use of an English landmark in the title, one that's barely recognizable to most Americans. That's appropriate, as Lindisfarne never caught on over here in the slightest. In Britain, it was a different story, at least for a spell. A single called "Meet Me on the Corner" rose up the charts to No. 5, which in turn propelled "Fog On the Tyne" to the No. 1 spot. A follow-up album stiffed, and maybe that's why even in its homeland, Lindisfarne is hardly a household name.

Personally, I've never heard a note of Lindisfarne's music but am picturing a derivative of Fairport Convention. Now, there's the band to check out if you want to hear the British version of folk-rock.

The opening act of my companion's triple-header was what he described as "still in high school, and not very good." Actually, the members were out of high school by then, but were in their very early 20s at the oldest. The band had gone through a lineup shuffle of late, adding a new guitarist and drummer, and it had just released its second album for Charisma, one featuring a cover that seems to portray folks playing croquet with human heads as balls.

That album was "Nursery Cryme," and the band was Genesis, with Peter Gabriel singing and Phil Collins sticking to the drum kit. Guitarist Steve Hackett was aboard for a memorable run, along with stalwarts Tony Banks on keyboards and Michael Rutherford on bass.

Of course, you know the rest of the Genesis-Gabriel-Collins-Mike + the Mechanics-Bankstatement-GTR story. (You might not know all of it, but just picture lots and lots and lots of sales.)

You never know who's going to make it big.

Many artists have been accused of following a certain formula throughout their career - Album A sounds just like album B, which is remarkably similar to Album C.

Others have shifted gears periodically, coming up with fresh sounds that don't necessarily appeal to their fans, but show that they have no desire to get stuck in a rut. Neil Young and David Bowie immediately come to mind, although they've gone so far afield at certain points that certain works of theirs must be considered as anomalies.

Speaking of anomalies, here's a list of albums that represent radical departures, and as such should be considered as interesting (if not favorite) listening. Let's go in reverse chronological order on this one:

- The Flaming Lips, "Zaireeka" (1997). Yes, I do know of some music recorded after 1979. This aural experiment, the brainstorm of head Lip Wayne Coyne, involved recording different tracks of the same song spread out over four compact discs, with the intent of allowing groups of listeners to play each tune in an endless array of mixes, provided they have four separate CD players. Needless to say, that's a tall task. My solution to hearing the album as a whole was to use digital recording software to combine all four CDs' worth of each song onto single tracks. That's cheating, but it gives the listener a better idea of what the tunes actually should sound like.

- Dire Straits, "Love Over Gold" (1982). Not a stylistic departure from the band's first three albums, "Love Over Gold" is an anomaly for the era in which it was recorded. The album contains only five songs, most in stretched-out jams that hearken back to the late '60s and early '70s. And they work, particularly the original Side One tracks, the majestic "Telegraph Road" and the tension-filled "Private Investigations." (Dire Straits' previous album, "Making Movies," had only six songs, so that sort of qualifies here, as well.)

- Neil Young, "Trans" (1982). It's tough to single out one Neil album as being out of the ordinary. The rarely heard "Journey Through the Past" could have done just as well, or the sound collage "Arc." But "Trans" has a pretty good story behind it: Neil jumped labels from Reprise to Geffen, and for his debut with the latter delivered an album full of synthesizers instead of guitars, including him singing much of the album through something called a Vocoder. This is about as far removed as the No. 1 sound of "Heart of Gold" as he could get. Or Buffalo Springfield, for that matter - he redoes the '60s anthem "Mr. Soul" in futuristic glory. Reportedly, David Geffen was not amused.

- Richard Thompson, "Strict Tempo!" (1981). This guitarist's guitarist, who initially made his mark with U.K. folk-rock legend Fairport Convention, sounds as if he had a lot of fun recording this collection of mostly native jigs and reels, with longtime cohort Dave Mattacks providing percussion. He also does a cover of Duke Ellington's "Rockin' in Rhythm" and closes with his own "The Knife Edge," with a tone that's more in line with the doom-and-gloom theme he often explores.

- Lou Reed, "Metal Machine Music" (1975). The quirky former leader of the Velvet Underground outdid himself on this two-record release, with a title that sums up the sound to a "T." For more than an hour, you get squeals, squeaks and drones, ad infinitum. Proceed with caution, and don't ever expect to get to Side Four without reaching for the ibuprofen.

- The Band, "Moondog Matinee," and David Bowie, "Pin Ups" (1973). Two major artists decided in the same year to release albums of cover versions. In The Band's case, this represented the group's only studio album between 1971 and 1975; Bowie, on the other hand, was in the midst of a fairly prolific stretch. Both albums pay homage to certain periods: "Moondog Matinee," the '50s, with covers of artists like Chuck Berry, the Platters and Clarence "Frogman" Henry; "Pin Ups," Swinging' London of the '60s, doing the Yardbirds, Who, Kinks, Pretty Things and Syd Barrett's Pink Floyd. Both are great listens - "Moondog," in particular, qualifies as my favorite Band album, up there with its contributions with Dylan to "The Basement Tapes."

- The Grateful Dead, "Bear's Choice" (1973). After the Grateful Dead bolted Warner Bros. to form its own record label, the boys from Burbank issued this curiosity, subtitled "History of the Grateful Dead: Vol. 1," but it just as well could have been called "The Pigpen Memorial" after founding member Ron McKernan, who had passed away previously in the year. More than half the album features Pigpen's inimitable vocals, including his solo acoustic guitar showcase, "Katie Mae," and rabble-rousin' cover of Otis Redding's "Hard to Handle." The rest of "Bear's Choice" ("Bear" was the nickname of Owsley Stanley, who recorded these shows at the Fillmore East in February 1970) features Jerry Garcia and Bob Weir playing acoustic guitars, which always was a real treat for Deadheads. The sole Dead original on the album is a lengthy "Black Peter," predating its release on the immortal "Workingman's Dead" later in '70.

- Creedence Clearwater Revival, "Mardi Gras" (1972). After one of the most incredible three-year runs in rock music history, CCR experienced its first lineup change when John Fogerty's brother Tom bailed out, claiming a lack of creative input into the band. The remaining trio, with bassist Stu Cook and Doug Clifford, agreed to divide the songwriting duties on the next album. The result was the brief, bizarre "Mardi Gras": three tunes penned by each, plus a cover of the Everly Brothers' "Hello, Mary Lou." John's songs were of his usual high quality, particulary the haunting "Someday Never Comes." The contributions by Stu and Doug showed why John thought it best to maintain creative control. Not surprisingly, this marked the end of the road for one of America's greatest bands.

- Spooky Tooth, "Ceremony" (1970). This British band (with token Yankee Gary Wright) got a decent reception and sales over here with its sophomore effort, "Spooky Two." For its third album, the band decided to combine forces with a French composer of experimental music named Pierre Henry. The title apparently refers to some type of religious "Ceremony," as titles like "Confession," "Prayer" and "Hosanna" would indicate. Although the Tooth went on to have some cult-favorite success - I particulary like their 1973 release "You Broke My Heart So I Busted Your Jaw" - the left-field sojourn of "Ceremony" wasn't exactly a canny career move. Speaking of careers, Wright had a brief time in the limelight as a solo artist with his spacey 1975 offering "The Dream Weaver."

- The Electric Prunes, "Mass in F minor" (1968). Spooky Tooth's foray into quasi-religious territory actually was preceded a couple of years by this album, from a band that is best known for its inclusion on the various "Nuggets" anthologies. The "Mass" actually was a collaboration with composer David Axelrod, at the behest of band producer Dave Hassinger (who also produced the first Grateful Dead album). Apparently, the Prunes themselves only played on the first side of the album, and a band called the Collectors came in to finish it, with only Prune vocalist James Lowe playing throughout. Clocking in at well under half an hour, the "Mass" is a hodgepodge of Latin chants, orchestral blasts and fuzz-tone electric guitar. That being said, I really enjoy and highly recommend this album! (Although my tastes never have stuck to the conventional, obviously.) The Prunes actually followed this up with a similar concept, called "Release of An Oath" - another Axelrod project, based on a Hebrew prayer this time. The "Oath," though, is the Prunes in name only, as the original band split after the experience with the "Mass." The real Electric Prunes wouldn't record another album for more than three decades, when Lowe and original members Mark Tulin and Ken Williams got back together. They've put out a few worthwhile albums since then, called "Artifact" and "California."

- The Mothers of Invention, "Cruising With Ruben and the Jets" (1968). Frank Zappa was another artist who made plenty of twists and turns throughout his quarter-century career. "Ruben" might not even have been his most offbeat, but it was a real anomaly for the time: a collection of '50s-style doo-wop songs (all originals by Zappa or singer Ray Collins) 10 years after the fact, at a time when that type of music was generally considered as hopelessly obsolete among hip record-buyers. The big shame of "Ruben" is that it was tampered with for its CD release, with an '80s-type rhythm section beefing up the original tracks. That's a shame, as the lo-fi approach on the original (especially Jimmy Carl Black's minimalist drumming, which sounds kind of like banging on trash-can lids) help make the motif sound all the more that authentic. Oh, well. These ditties are enjoyable in any form, especially Frank's killer guitar solo to end it all, so to speak, on the album's closer, "Stuff Up the Cracks."

- Jefferson Airplane, "After Bathing at Baxter's" (1967). Airplane biographer Jeff Tamarkin calls this possibly the first album recorded with no thought whatsoever as to whether anyone actually was going to buy it. Band members, coming off huge hits with the "Surrealistic Pillow" album and "Somebody to Love" and "White Rabbit" singles, camped out in the studio for months on end, seeing what kind of weirdness would develop. The result is what you might expect. Grace Slick, for example, follows her top 10 showings with songs called "rejoice" (as in James Joyce) and "Two Heads." Drummer Spencer Dryden contributes a sound collage that sounds like a Mothers of Invention outtake (Zappa was his idol). Paul Kantner sings about stuff like "acid, incense and balloons." Lead guitarist Jorma Kaukonen and bassist Jack Casady join forces with Dryden for a 10-minute improvisation. And guiding voice Marty Balin is reduced to half a songwriting credit. Yet it all adds up to my favorite studio Airplane album, ranking just behind the live "Bless Its Pointed Little Head."

- The Rolling Stones, "Her Satanic Majesties Request" (1967). The mother of all anomalies, this effort is dismissed as the Stones trying to keep up with the Joneses (actually, the Beatles) by forsaking their blues roots to dabble in psychedelia. True, the lysergic direction wasn't exactly the Stones' forte - witness the incoherent ramblings of "Sing This All Together" (See What Happens)" - but there are plenty of memorable tunes here, including "Citadel," "She's a Rainbow," "2000 Light Years from Home" and Bill Wyman's "In Another Land," on which he actually was backed by members of the Small Faces. The poor reception for "Satanic" might have worked in the Stones' favor, as they worked hard to quiet the naysayers and came up with four absolute classic albums in the next five years: "Beggars Banquet," "Let It Bleed," "Sticky Fingers" and "Exile On Main Street."

That's how to keep up with the Joneses.

We take it for granted that some artists - Eric Clapton, Neil Young, Ozzy Osbourne, to name a few - were destined for successful solo careers once they moved away from the bands with which they came to prominence.

That's not always the case, of course. Performers often take a big gamble once they decide to start putting their own names on products. Sometimes they zoom to the top of the charts and sell out arenas. Sometimes they don't.

Here's a list of 10 worthwhile "solo debuts," many of which might not be very familiar to the average music fan. (Let's do it in reverse alphabetical order, just to be different.)

- Alexander Spence, "Oar" (1969). Your first question is, Who?!? Well, Alexander was better known as Skip Spence when he played drums for Jefferson Airplane and guitar for Moby Grape. OK ... still, who?!? Suffice it to say he was one of those "casualties" who could stand only so much of that '60s-type atmosphere. In late 1968, at age 22 and having been recently released from Bellevue, he rode his motorcycle from New York to Nashville, where he recorded an album's worth of material (plus) all by himself on guitar, bass and drums. The results is bizarre, even for the time period, with few of the compositions following traditional song structure, and even fewer featuring what could pass for intelligible vocals. Still, the album makes for fascinating listening ... for the very few people who heard it until its CD release. An edition with bonus tracks is available from Sundazed Records, released right around the time of Skip's death in 1999. (He chose to have his name listed as "Alexander" on the original Columbia Records release, which sold only a couple of hundred copies before quickly going out of print.)

- Gram Parsons, "G.P." (1972). The man born as Cecil Ingraham Connor probably has had more words per album written about him than anyone else in rock; this was his only solo release in his lifetime. Was he a genius ahead of his time, the father of "country-rock," or a rich kid just havin' a good ol' time? Take a listen to his one and only album with the Byrds, "Sweetheart of the Rodeo" (1968), and answer in the affirmative to the first two points. Read "Hickory Wind," Ben Fong-Torres' excellent biography of Gram, and you'll get a good idea of the latter. At any rate, both his solo albums - including the posthumous "Grievous Angel" (1973) - show he was in a league with Henley-Frey, etc., and might have been as successful had he lived past age 27.

- Gene Parsons, "Kindling" (1973). Another ex-Byrd, the drummer during the band's latter stages, cut this brief album for Warner Brothers and saw it pretty much disappear without a trace. This rather laid-back affair features some excellent playing by the ill-fated Clarence White, the legendary guitarist (also a Byrds alumnus) who was killed by a drunken driver while loading equipment into his vehicle after a gig. A highlight is one of the many and assorted covers of Lowell George's "Willin'" being recorded around that time. (Good luck finding this one.)

- Paul Kossoff, "Back Street Crawler" (1973). The more I hear of the guitarist for Free, the more I understand why he was held in such high regard for a brief period in the late '60s and early '70s. His band was no more by the time "Back Street Crawler" was recorded, having morphed into the radio-friendly Bad Company, but Kossoff showed he still could play with a fury on two extended instrumental tracks, "Tuesday Morning" and "Time Away." Plus "Molton Gold," featuring a haunting chorus and Paul Rodgers on lead vocal, is held in such high regard that it serves as the title to Free's double-disc Rhino Records anthology. Kossoff fronted a band that took his solo album's name until his death in 1976.

- David Gilmour, "David Gilmour" (1978). As Roger Waters steered Pink Floyd in more of a doom-and-gloom direction ("The Wall," "The Final Cut"), guitarist Gilmour cut an album of highly listenable compositions, including some cool instrumentals, the opener "Mihalis" and "It's Deafintely," and the classic "There's No Way Out of Here," which sounds more like Floyd than, say, "Another Brick." Gilmour's debut didn't fare well on release, perhaps reflecting how little-known the individual Floyds were at the time.

- Robert Fripp, "Exposure" (1979). As a big-time King Crimson fan, I was excited when that group's leader released his solo debut, following some highly experimental collaborative work with Brian Eno. While I enjoyed most of "Exposure" - especially the bizarre effects applied to Terre Roche's vocals on the title track - I couldn't interest any of my high-school classmates in sharing my enthusiasm. The album features plenty of high-profile guests, including Peter Gabriel, Van der Graaf Generator vocalst Peter Hammill, jazz fusionist Narada Michael Walden and, believe it or not, Daryl Hall (of ... and Oates).

- John Entwistle, "Smash Your Head Against the Wall" (1971). Pete Townshend received the lion's share of songwriting glory - deservedly so - in the Who, but plenty of fans always had a soft spot for John's compositions like "Whiskey Man," "Boris the Spider" and "Heaven and Hell." The latter song appears on John's debut, although in a much less bombastic fashion than the way the Who was performing it at the time. The rest of the album is highly listenable as well, containing some remarkable catchy songs: "My Size," "What Are We Doing Here?" and the anthemic "I Believe In Everything." Along with being one of the two fathers of modern rock bass playing (along with Jack Casady), Thunderfingers also could come up with one heck of a tune. We miss him.

- Robert Calvert, "Captain Lockheed and the Starfighters" (1974). So, you might have heard of Skip Spence. But I'll bet you have no clue about this guy. The late Mr. Calvert was the lyricist, sometimes vocalist, poet-in-residence for a British band called Hawkwind that would be almost totally unkown in these here parts, had not its bass player once been Lemmy of Motorhead fame. Well, Lemmy played bass on this one, too, and it was produced by Roy Thomas Baker, the mastermind behind Queen's wall of sound. "Captain Lockheed" mixes amusing narrative with the types of two-chord, heavily processed songs that characterized Hawkwind's repertoire at the time. You might look long and hard for this one, but you'll never hear anything else quite like it.

- Richard Betts, "Highway Call" (1974). His fans know his as Dickey, as in the longtime Allman Brothers' guitarist and composer of their sole top 10 hit, "Ramblin' Man." The following year, he released his solo debut, with one side of songs featuring vocals and the other a pair of instrumentals. I'm partial to the latter, especially the 15-minute jam "Hand Picked." The other instrumental is "Kissimmee Kid," the Vassar Clements (1928-2005) fiddle workout that Grateful Dead fans will recognize from its appearance on the "Old & In the Way" album. Considering the Allman' output the rest of the '70s and into the early '80s, "Highway Call" was as good as it got from that point forward for one of America's great rock bands.

- Jeff Beck, "Truth" (1968). The guitarist, all of 22 at the time, had come off a successful year-and-a-half stint with the Yardbirds and his own solo success with a big U.K. single, "Hi-Ho Silver Lining." Fans who were familiar with Jeff's sort of off-key singing on that tune might have been surprised by the raspy, assured vocals featured throughout "Truth," by a relatively unknown ex-footballer (as in soccer player) named Rod Stewart. And on bass was a relatively unkown kid who could play some guitar, too, a young fellow named Ronnie Wood. Anyway, the group as assembled absolutely smokes through a set of mostly blues standards and a few originals, including the unforgettable "Beck's Bolero," attributed to "J. Page." That particular track was a remnant from the short-lived Beck-Jimmy Page collaboration in the Yardbirds, and as Jeff points out in the liner notes to "Truth," he felt he couldn't improve on the original take.

Speaking of Jimmy, he went ahead and recorded his own album a few months after "Truth," released under the name of his fledgling band. Maybe it's just coincidence that much of the material on "Led Zeppelin" sounds very close to "Truth," including covers on both of Willie Dixon's "You Shook Me." And it could be happenstance that Robert Plant's singing on the Zeppelin debut is phrased in a manner very similar to that of the future crooner of "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy." At any rate, if you like Led Zeppelin and haven't done so before ... seek the "Truth."

(Pun intended.)

WHAT'S IN THE CD PLAYER ...

Most fans in the know remember the Yardbirds for the band's succession of lead guitarists who went on to bigger and better things. But the music still stacks up well four decades down the road.

(A very enjoyable CD, "Birdland," was released two years ago under the Yarbirds' moniker. It features rhythm guitarist Chris Dreja and drummer Jim McCarty from the original band, and Jeff Beck makes a cameo. But the album is more of a footnote than part of the actual Yardbirds canon.)

As the story goes, the Yardbirds originated (with guitarist Anthony "Top" Topham predating Eric "Slowhand" Clapton - there's your trivia answer for the day) as a blues-based band in a similar vein to what the Rolling Stones were performing circa 1963. The teenage Clapton signed on because he really enjoyed the blues motif.

When the Yardbirds (named for Charlie Parker, of course) opted for hit-single territory by recording "For Your Love" (1965), the indignant Mr. Clapton played only on the song's bridge, then bolted for the nothin'-but-the-blues refuge of John Mayall's band. In came Beck, the 20-year-old guitarist for a band called the Tridents, to continue the string of hits with "Heart Full of Soul," "Evil Hearted You," "Shapes of Things" and "Over Under Sideways Down," all of which made the top 10 in the band's native England.

Jeff left around the time the next single, "Happenings Ten Years Time Ago" (1966), failed to crack the U.K. top 40. (It did a bit better over here, and its flip side, "The Nazz Are Blue," lent its name to a Philadelphia band with a guitarist named Todd Rundgren. But that's another story.)

Beck's replacement was already in the band. Jimmy Page had joined to take the spot vacated Paul Samwell-Smith, who moved to record production. But once aboard, Page quickly switched places with Dreja, and for a spell the Yardbirds featured a dual axe attack that has had few parallels. (Just a small number of recordings with that configuration exist: "Happenings" and its B-side, "Psycho Daisies"; a rewrite of "Train Kept a-Rollin'" called "Stroll On," as featured in Michelangelo Antonioni's film "Blow Up"; and "Beck's Bolero," which appeared on Jeff's solo debut album, the top-of-the-shelf "Truth.")

From there, it was all downhill commercially for the Yardbirds. Which is a shame, because that was when the band really started to get interesting.

The way for the "Psychedelic Yardbirds" (at least, that's what I wrote on my mix disc) was paved with the Gregorian chant-like backing vocals that serve as the hook for "Still I'm Sad" (the B-side of "Evil Hearted You," 1965). The band repeated the formula in higher fidelity on "Turn Into Earth," a quality track from its first long-player, alternately titled "The Yardbirds" or "Roger the Engineer" (1966). Another song on the album showed off the band's willingness to experiment: "Hot House of Omagarashid," featuring a catchy "ya-ya" chant over a peppy rhythm that you can kind of dance to. (It was a must-play at parties we hosted in the mid-'80s.)

Page's only full-fledged Yardbirds album was "Little Games" (1967), and some ill-chosen material makes it a difficult overall listen. But there definitely are some keepers, including the acoustic-based "Only the Black Rose" and "White Summer" (Led Zeppelin fans certainly will recognize the latter). And midway through the album is the Yardbirds' full-throttle plunge into psychedelia, the lysergic dirge known as "Glimpses," complete with incomprehensible chatter presented at various speeds and tones. And while it was not included on the LP, the B-side of the title track, "Puzzles," featured some sizzling Page guitar.

The Yardbirds ground to a halt in 1968 following some best-forgotten attempts at singles ("Ha Ha Said the Clown," "Ten Little Indians," "Goodnight Sweet Josephine") and the dreaded "creative differences" within the band. Apparently, Page wanted to pursue the heavier, spacier sounds of the past few years (including "Think About It," the amazing B-side to the pedestrian "Josephine"), and singer Keith Relf preferred a folkier direction. History shows who made the right choice, commercially, at least.

Anyway, before the Yardbirds morphed into the New Yardbirds and then into Led Zeppelin, some tracks were recorded that surfaced years or decades later, showing the band still was capable of producing gems in its waning days.

Of most interest is a song initially called "I'm Confused" when it appeared on a live album released by Epic Records at the height of Zeppelin's popularity, and which Page subsequently had pulled from the shelves. The tune, of course, already was widely known as "Dazed and Confused" from Zeppelin's first album and probably every live show during the band's life span. Interestingly, the Yardbirds' arrangement is very close to Zep's template, complete with Page's bowed solo.

The live album, recorded at New York City's Anderson Theater on March 30, 1968, also features an extended version of Bo Diddley's "I'm a Man" (a big American hit for the Yardbirds a few years previously), with Relf moaning and chanting over some very strange Page-produced sounds. Quite trippy for the blues.

Just before band members went their separate ways in the summer of '68, they recorded some demos that came out a few years ago on a compilation called "Cumular Limit." Among them are they mysteriously titled "Avron Knows," featuring some smoking fretwork by Page, and "Spanish Blood," where he again puts his nimble fingers to the acoustic guitar, with someone (I don't know if it's the late Mr. Relf) quoting a mystical-sounding narrative.

It's doubtful whether such fare would have rescued the Yardbirds with commercial success. But it sure makes for some fascinating listening.

Frank Vincent Zappa would have been 65 today (Dec. 21), had he not fallen victim to prostate cancer a dozen years ago.

Here was a man who wrote and performed practically every type of music: orchestral, jazz, doo-wop, electronic, experimental, parody, rhythm and blues, country and western, and good old rock 'n' roll. He even dabbled in rap with a tune called "Promiscuous," a hilarious sendup of Dr. C. Everett Coop (remember him?), during Zappa's last tour in 1988.

He apparently liked to think of himself primarily as a composer, but he also was one of the most esteemed guitarists who ever lived. Two compilations, one called "Shut Up and Play Yer Guitar" and the other simply "Guitar," provide hours of solid evidence of his capabilities.

I've heard a story I'll pass on (no evidence whether it's true, but I like it): A reporter once asked Jimi Hendrix what it felt like to be the world's greatest guitar player. Jimi replied, "I don't know. Ask Frank Zappa."

He's primarily remembered for stuff that makes you laugh, fluke hits like "Don't Eat Yellow Snow" and his collaboration with daughter Moon, "Valley Girl." And a lot of his material isn't exactly fit for family consumption. (One of his posthumous compilations is called "Have I Offended Anyone?")

In that vein, he was a relentless champion of freedom of speech when a group of D.C. housewives started frothing at the mouth in the mid-'80s about labeling records. Frank's testimony at some of the congressional/legislative hearings show examples of his wit and intelligence even outside of the musical realm.

If you'd like to hear for yourself, here are a few recommendations from the vast catalog of Frank Zappa:

"We're Only In It for the Money" (1968) - by the Mothers of Invention, Frank's original band. This satire of the Flower Power scene has aged remarkably well, considering the subject matter. Perhaps that's because the editing techniques still sound fresh. The frequent cuts and splices, the varying speeds of vocals and instruments, and the backward-tracking all are easy to do today on the computer, but they were a royal pain to execute back then.

"Hot Rats" (1969). This served as the first real showcase for Frank's guitar playing and features perhaps his most enduring instrumental, "Peaches En Regalia."

"The Grand Wazoo" (1972) - by the Mothers. While recuperating from injuries sustained when a crazed Londoner pushed him off the stage, Frank worked with a large ensemble on extended jazz pieces for some of his most melodic and engaging music.

"Apostrophe (')" (1974). Frank Zappa actually cracked the top 10 with this album, thanks to the airplay of "Don't Eat Yellow Snow." The story goes that a Pittsburgh disc jockey came up with his own edited version of the song, started spinning it, and it caught on nationally. The rest of the album also leans toward the humor side without being scatalogical.

"Sleep Dirt" (1979). I recommend this because the title track features a rare acoustic guitar performance by Frank, along with some other catchy tunes. Look for the original LP version, which is all-instrumental. Rykodisc's CD release features vocals that were overdubbed for reasons that are too involved to get into here.

"Jazz from Hell" (1986). Most of the compositions on this album were realized on an early computer-based instrument called the Synclavier. Nothing else sounds quite like it.

"Broadway the Hard Way" (1989). Excerpts from the final tour highlight Frank's penchant for political satire, taking aim at the foibles of the Reagan administration and of various "TV preacher" types. If only he could see what's going on now ...

I'm becoming more familiar with the concept of a "blog" - which this is supposed to be - compared with the "traditional newspaper fodder" I've been producing for 20 years.

I found this Merriam-Webster definition of "blog": "a Web site that contains an online personal journal with reflections, comments and often hyperlinks provided by the writer."

That makes me wonder: Who wants to read someone else's "online personal journal"? Lots of folks, apparently, juding by the number of hits some blogs reportedly receive. Kind of like pulling your sister's diary out from under the bed and sneaking a peek, I'd imagine.

Anyway ... I've been slacking off a bit in the "Funk Speaks" section here, so I'm going to try to follow the "blog" template more closely and regale you, the reader, with reflections, comments and hyperlinks!

WHAT'S IN MY CD PLAYER

I used to make mix tapes, which were kind of a pain, timing them out and manually cross-fading and all. Mix discs are a lot more efficient. That might help explain the hundred or so I have on one of those big spindles in my van.

One of the latest is labeled "Blue Cheer: 1968-69." (Sorry, I'll make it to the 21st century sooner or later. Or at least to the '70s.) If you're not familiar with Blue Cheer, the San Francisco-based power trio usually is credited among the forefathers of heavy metal. The one-hit wonder band's one hit was an overamplified, sloppy version of Eddie Cochran's "Summertime Blues," which for many listeners represented a welcome change of pace from the usual hippie-flower-power fare of the day.

The song appeared on Blue Cheer's debut album, "Vincebus Eruptum" (which I think means something like
"controlled chaos"), a recording that can simultaneously be lauded for its groundbreaking sound - remember, there was no such thing as heavy metal at the time - and derided for the general quality of the singing and playing, which often seems to feature the three musicians playing three different songs at once.

That being said, I wore out a cassette tape of "Vincebus Eruptum" as a kid, and I still enjoy it as I slide toward senility.

The rest of my mix disc is excerpted from the band's second album, "Outside Inside" - on which the musicianship and production are more competent, but I still don't like it quite as much - and third offering, "New! Improved!" Critics always have contended that "improved" is a misnomer, but that album might be my favorite of the three. Two extended compositions feature the rarely heard guitar playing of Randy Holden, and one of those, "Fruit and Iceburgs," stacks up against the heaviest sounds you'd hear circa '69.

Of course, if you put something like that on your Christmas wish list, you're probably going to be out of luck.

We've heard the term "dinosaur rock" bandied about for at least a quarter of a century. In fact, a bunch of '60s San Francisco types christened their band The Dinosaurs as a nod to their supposed obsolescence (which is why Dinosaur Jr. had to tack on the "Jr.") And that was back in the '80s.

I guess that by now, you could refer to what went on in the '60s as "trilobite rock." But does that mean survivors of the era should pack it in and head for the old folks' home?

This newspaper ran a two-part story over the weekend, "Boomer backlash," in which twenty- and thirtysomethings made observations about the generation that preceded them. One paragraph in the second installment really grabbed my attention:

"Young adults also are ready to wrestle away their piece of the pie from boomer politicans, from 'helicopter parents' who hover over their adult kids, and even from aging rockers who have yet to give up the stage."

I think the first part of that equation is a really good idea, and I'd tend to agree with the second. But why should "aging rockers" have to "give up the stage"?

Let's turn back the clock a bit. Say it's the early '70s, and Edward Ellington Kennedy is hitting the road with his jazz band. Is anyone begrudging the Duke, calling him an "aging jazzman," telling him to go away and make room for Weather Report?

When legendary vibes player Lionel Hampton was still playing concert in his 90s, where were the cries that he should have hung up his mallets decades ago?

Would you rather see 80-year-old B.B. King on tour or on the shuffleboard court?

Now, I know jazz and blues aren't quite the same as rock 'n' roll, and I'll admit that some '60s-70s "classic rock" fare gets way too much exposure nowadays. Hearing The Band's "The Weight" help peddle cell phones, or Led Zeppelin's "Rock and Roll" convincing folks to buy Cadillacs, is kind of distressing. And I'd personally rather hear Vince Lascheid play the organ throughout Pirates' games instead of loud rock music (although I did enjoy listening to the Grateful Dead's "One More Saturday Night" booming through the PA toward the end of last season).

The Rolling Stones at Super Bowl halftime? Now, that's just getting ridiculous. What if there's a Keith Richards "wardrobe malfunction"?

But to the casual observer, it would seem that today's artists du jour get the lion's share of attention. Nelly, Shakira, Gwen Stefani, Kelly Clarkson, the Black Eyed Peas - don't tell me no one is paying them any mind.

In the not-too-distant future, the inevitable will cause "aging rockers" to finally "give up the stage." In the meantime, let's try to enjoy those trilobites while we can, without worrying about "my generation vs. your generation." (Yeah, Pete Townshend's probably had second thoughts about writing that one ...)

We should be listening to some new music from John Lennon, instead of observing the anniversary of his murder.

Twenty-five years ago, I was a freshman in college, and like most Beatles fans, I was hopeful that one day we'd see them all together again. After all, John had just ended half a decade of seclusion with a new album, "Double Fantasy" (half of it's Yoko). Maybe he'd take his re-emergence to its next logical step and patch things up with the other guys.

I remember sitting at the table in the kitchen of our fraternity house, playing some type of "wholesome, family-type" game, when word came from the guys who were sitting in the living room watching Monday Night Football. Howard Cosell made the announcement around 11 p.m.: "John Lennon has been shot."

Of course, some people survive bullet wounds, and there was that small window of opportunity where it was possible that he'd just been clipped, that he'd be back playing his guitar in no time.

But that didn't last long. Mark David Chapman knew what he was doing, and word soon came that John was gone.

I was just about to turn 18 at the time, and in retrospect, his murder seems symbolic of my passing from the relative securities of childhood to that cold, hard "real world."

For some reason, the lyrics to John's "Working Class Hero" seem appropriate here. Listen, and you'll know what I mean.