You've heard of the one-hit wonder. That's the artist scoring big with a single song, then fading just as quickly from the scene. The list is long and grows by leaps and bounds every year.

One-hit-wonder status also can be applied to albums, extended works that showed flashes of brilliance before the various collaborators went off in different directions. Here are a dozen or so in my collection:

- "Safe At Home," International Submarine Band (1968). This is as good a place as any to find the roots of country rock, as developed by the innovative Gram Parsons. By the time the ISB's only LP was released, Parsons was a member of the Byrds, steering that band in a similar direction with the classic "Sweetheart of the Rodeo."

- "A Long Time Comin'," The Electric Flag (1968). The Flag did release a follow-up later the same year, but it was without guitarist Mike Bloomfield, the key cog in the machine. And Bloomfield returned for a reunion six years later, but that was nothing to write home about, either. The debut represents the best mix you'll find of rock with a horn section, paving the way for artists like Chicago. Speaking of which ...

- "Chicago Transit Authority," Chicago Transit Authority (1969). The band has made at least XXV more albums under a truncated version of the original name, but none of them measure up to the Authority. The late Terry Kath's guitar jam at the start of "Poem 58" shows this band could really smoke, believe it or not.

- "Projections," Blues Project (1966). The discography for this band shows numerous releases, but most of those waver between concert albums ("Live at the Cafe Au Go Go"), pseudo-concert albums ("Live at Town Hall") and works featuring just the original band's rhythm section ("Planned Obsolescence"). "Projections" is left as the only fully realized work by a band of many talents that really honed in on a number of rock genres in addition to the blues.

- "Hollywood Dream," Thunderclap Newman (1969). Pete Townshend produced the only offering from this unlikely trio, which featured a postal clerk (Andy Newman) on piano, a teenage whiz-kid (Jimmy McCullough) on guitar and a reedy-voiced singer and drummer (Speedy Keen). Their single "Something in the Air" used to be a staple of "classic rock" radio, and was given new life when covered in the '90s by Tom Petty. The rest of the album contains plenty of gems, particularly the celebratory "Wild Country" and the instrumental title track.

- "Blind Faith," Blind Faith (1969). The story of "rock's first supergroup" has been told and retold too often to give it one more time here. Suffice it to say, it never quite lived up to its billing. But this collaboration between Eric Clapton, Steve Winwood, Ginger Baker and Ric Grech makes for a great listen all the way until the fumbling around at the end of "Do What You Like." Clapton's guitar on the opening track, "Had to Cry Today," is a gem in his extensive catalog, which also includes ...

- "Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs," Derek & the Dominos (1970). Yes, a live album was released under this band's name, and it's also highly recommended. But this is the one that featured Duane Allman hooking up with Clapton for all those amazing guitar duos. Among all the songs that turn up on the radio, a radical reworking of Hendrix's "Little Wing" - recorded just days before Jimi died - might be a forgotten highlight.

- "Renaissance," Renaissance (1969). Here's a band with a bizarre history: Ex-Yardbirds Keith Relf and Jim McCarty led the band that recorded the debut, with Keith's sister Jane contributing vocals on a work that veered between folk and classic influences. This lineup recorded a follow-up that went unreleased for decades, and then all the original members went their separate ways. McCarty hung around long enough to welcome a new cast, including stunning lead singer Annie Haslam, that went on to record numerous albums under the Renaissance name, leaning more toward the classical end of the spectrum.

- "Septober Energy," Centipede (1971). Pianist and sometime King Crimson collaborator Keith Tippett had the idea of incorporating 50 musicians into a rock-based performance - hence the hundred-legged designation for his band. Centipede actually is a one-hit wonder with regard to song as well as album: "Septober Energy" actually is a single composition spread out over four album sides, or two compact discs. It has its moments, but it's tough to sustain momentum over 80-plus minutes.

- "Seconds of Pleasure," Rockpile (1980). The highly regarded live collaboration between guitarist Dave Edmunds and bassist Nick Lowe resulted in just this one LP for Columbia. It's a great rock 'n' roll record released at a time (I was a college freshman) when that type of music was difficult to find, to say the least.

- "Contents Dislodged During Shipment," Tin Huey (1979). I heard this album in college by way of a friend who went to Slippery Rock and was turned onto it by buddies there who hailed from Ohio. One of the hot bands around those parts at the time was Tin Huey, which comes across on its only release as a cross between Frank Zappa and Captain Beefheart (musically, that is - no way to replicate either of those guys' vocals). I hadn't thought about Tin Huey in more than two decades before I read about Collectors Choice Records resurrecting the band's only major-label release for CD reissue. Out of curiosity, I went ahead and bought it, and it's been frequently played since.

- "KBC," KBC Band (1987). Sure, this is almost 20 years old, but it's as contemporary as I'm going to get ... This was one of the many Jefferson Airplane/Jefferson Starship offshoots, featuring Paul Kantner, Marty Balin and Jack Casady. The music is a lot more solid than what was passing for Starship at the time, with the added bonus of featuring talented lead guitarist Mark "Slick" Aguilar. The highlight among the songs is Kantner's "America," which still is a showcase at Jefferson Starship concerts.

In the beginning, rock 'n' roll was supposed to be fun. Take a listen to Bill Haley's "Rock Around the Clock," Chuck Berry's "Maybelline" or other standards of the opening salvo. They're all about partying, cruising around and trying to score with the women.

To some listeners, rock 'n' roll still is all about having a good time. And if that's your objective, the Mambo Sons deliver the goods with their new album, "Racket of Three" (Omnicide/Guitar Nine Records).

About these guys: They're from New York, there are three of them, and this is their third album. Actually, two of the members - guitarist Tom Guerra and bassist/lead singer "Scotty Mambo" Lawson - have been playing together since the early '80s. Their longtime collaboration has paid off in a collection of well-written, well-arranged and well-executed tunes.

The opener, "Play Some Rock & Roll (She's Coming Over)" sets the tone - although, as Tom points out in the liner notes, it may be a source of confusion, as the band's previous album is called "Play Some Rock & Roll." Whatever the case, that's exactly what they do here, in a song highly reminiscent of the upbeat style of NRBQ. (If you don't know those guys, check 'em out.) Guest Matt Zeiner's piano playing lends to the festive atmosphere, and Scott puts some oomph into his singing without sounding the least bit overblown.

Influences of half a century of rock 'n' roll abound throughout, although let it be said that the Mambo Sons (who take their name from a T. Rex tune) put their own stamp on everything, creating a distinctive style and voice courtesy of Tom, Scott and drummer Joe "The Cat" Lemieux.

A highlight is "Be On Time," which sounds as if it would be right at home on a '60s garage-rock compilation (one that gathers the better tune of the genre, of course). Between the Leslie-speaker effect on Tom's guitar, the layered harmony vocals and the occasional minor chord in a strategic spot, the song sounds very Beatlesque, with a hint of The Move - you might know that band as the precursor to Electric Light Orchestra - if the bass were a bit heavier.

The Beatles also seem to be an influence on "Delta Slide," which shows Tom to be very proficient on the bottleneck. The arrangement and instrumentation have a Harrison leaning, which shouldn't be surprising, considering the Mambo Sons do a song called "Our Time Is Getting Closer (for George Harrison)" on "Play Some Rock & Roll."

Another song on the earlier album is "Rockaway (for Koss)," as in Paul Kossoff, the late guitarist for Free, most recognizable as Paul Rodgers' pre-Bad Co. band. On "Racket of Three," the Free influence rears its head on "Sidewinder Walk," with fat guitar chords producing a heavier sound than much of the rest of the album. Tom wraps up his well-crafted solo with some really neat phase shifting, again hearkening back to previous decades.

Speaking of which, his guitar playing on "Mr. Rebound" sounds a lot like the twangy low notes made popular back in the '50s by Duane Eddy. This features some lyrics that neatly summarize the plight of many guys who try to figure out what's going through a lady's mind: "Am I Mr. Rebound, I know I ain't no catch/We like each other, but we're not a perfect match."

If this album is about having fun, "Rummy Hop" really captures the spirit, with a modified reggae beat that comes as no surprise given the opening words: "Way down in Jamaica ..." This song appears to have studio-added audience sounds, which are appropriate: This sounds like a real crowd-pleaser when played live.

Throughout the album, Tom flashes his chops in a variety of styles without overwhelming the proceedings, but guitar enthusiasts might be waiting for him to really open up as they make their way through the dozen tracks. He answers the call on "Been Out of Touch," playing a blistering solo over a Bo Diddley beat (speaking of an early rocker who's usually a good time).

If you're throwing a bash, or within range of the CD player at someone else's, you'd do well to cue up "Racket of Three." A party's supposed to be fun, after all.

Observer-Reporter entertainment columnist extraordinaire (and Canonsburg borough manager) Terry Hazlett wrote a fine analysis of Don McLean's 1972 hit. Our print edition being what it is as far as space considerations, the entire text won't be included on Monday. But through the magic of cyberspace, here's the whole enchilada:

(By Terry Hazlett)

A long, long time ago, I can still remember how "American Pie" used to make me smile. The consummate song about rock 'n' roll's history, "American Pie" was perhaps the most analyzed and dissected Top 40 song up to that time. Everyone, it seemed, had an opinion on composer/singer Don McLean's hidden meanings.

As all songs do, "Pie" faded from the airwaves eventually. When it returned over the past few years as a major player in the '70s format, "Pie" was a totally different confection.

It no longer represented music, artists or even a generation. It was just another song about nothing. As one (much) younger acquaintance said, "It's just one of those 'druggie' songs where the lyrics aren't supposed to make any sense." While I certainly understand how "Pie" can be perceived as another "Mellow Yellow" or "Incense and Peppermints," its words had - and have - deep meaning to a certain generation. Mine.

So, on the 34th anniversary of its No. 1 status, here are one person's thoughts on "American Pie."

- "A long, long time ago"

McLean begins the song by referencing a carefree youth, up to the point where he notes that "I can't remember if I cried when I read about his widowed bride." Initially, some thought the author was talking about John F. Kennedy's assassination, but an earlier line, "February made me shiver," as well as the music-oriented subject of the song, makes it clear he's talking about Feb. 3, 1959, the day Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens died in a plane crash. When it occurred, disc jockeys often called it "the day the music died," a much-repeated part of McLean's chorus.

The entire first stanza of the song is about McLean?Äôs high school days in the 1950s, and includes borrowed lines from '50s songs such as "book of love" and "if the Bible tells you so." It ends with his simultaneous graduation and the end of his beloved doo-wop era - "But I knew I was out of luck, the day the music died."

- Into the '60s

"For 10 years we've been on our own and moss grows fat on a rolling stone" sets both the time frame (late '60s) and the mode of music. The moss reference most likely is McLean's way of lamenting how his favorite artists were eclipsed by the Beatles, Stones and other elements of the British invasion. Bob Dylan is "the jester (who) sang for the king and queen in a coat he borrowed from James Dean." The next line is unmistakably Elvis. "While the king was looking down (Elvis in the Army), the Jester (Dylan) stole his thorny crown." Later (John) "Lennon read a book on Marx, the quartet (the Beatles) practiced in the park" and - finally a reference to the JFK and other '60s assassinations - "we sang dirges in the dark."

- You say you want a revolution?

The next stanza is the summer of 1967 - with helter-skelter, fallout shelters, sweet perfume (marijuana) and clear dominance by the Beatles. "The players" (other rock bands) tried to take the field but the (Sgt. Pepper's) marching band refused to yield."

Once again, there's a reference to "Jester" Dylan, who's on the sideline in a cast (Dylan's motorcycle accident.) McLean's frustration is obvious: "We all got up to dance, but we never got the chance." No twist, no pony, no mashed potato ... just mammoth rock concerts, two of which are mentioned in the next stanza. "In there we were all in one place" is Woodstock, "Jack Flash sat on a candle stick" is the Rolling Stones ("Jumpin' Jack Flash") at Altamont.

It appears that McLean believes Mick Jagger had a satanic effect on music - "No angel born in Hell (Hell's Angels, who were bodyguards at Altamont) could break that Satan's spell." It follows, then, that "the sacrificial right" are the fans who died at the concert.

- Farewell to Janis

McLean slams on the brakes for his teary conclusion. The girl who sang the blues and turned away is Janis Joplin; the sacred store where the music wouldn't play is probably the record store that no longer carried songs of interest to McLean. "In the streets the children screamed" refers to college student protests and "Not a word was spoken, the church bells all were broken" is most likely McLean's take on that generation's dissatisfaction with organized religion, replaced by musicals such as "Godspell" and "Jesus Christ Superstar."

Then there's the conclusion: "The three men I admire most, the father, son and holy ghost" who "Caught the last train for the coast." The needle hit the record in that spot hundreds of time as fans at the time wanted to be certain McLean was singing "train" instead of "plane." He was. Plane could have referred, again, to the fatal ride of the three men, Buddy Holly and company even if it wasn't headed to a coast. But train made no sense. It still doesn't. And although McLean surely knows the significance of that phrase, he isn't telling.

So entrenched is that rock 'n' roll mystery that it spun into its own hit "Train in Vain" by the Clash. OK. I made that part up - I think.


HARRY'S NOTE: The "Three men I admire most ... last train for the coast" sequence could refer to 'Trane, as in John Coltrane. His 1966 album "Meditations" opens with a rather abrasive (as was his practice at the time) composition called "The Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost," which apparently refers to three jazz saxophonists: himself (father), Pharaoh Sanders (son) and Albert Ayler (holy ghost). Coltrane died in 1967, and although he had no direct connection to rock 'n' roll, he was very well-respected among rock-oriented listeners of the day. Still is.

I'm trying.

In an attempt to get to know some of the today's tunes (as opposed to staying locked in a time warp of 30 or 40 years ago), I flipped around the music channels available through digital cable. Hey, if I'm paying for them, I might as well watch them.

It might take a few more visits before I start to get it, so to speak. But I don't want to lock myself into a "all new music stinks" kind of mentality. This isn't the '80s anymore, after all.

Speaking of the '80s, one of the channels is called Arena Rock, which by definition wouldn't exactly seem to suit my tastes. Sure enough, a venture there summoned up the bombast of Europe's "The Final Countdown," which has seen new life in recent years as the theme song for the supremely inept magician Gob Bluth as he makes a fool of himself on "Arrested Development." Having satisfied my suppositon, I declined to visit Arena Rock again.

The Rap channel had me befuddled, probably feeling like those old-timers who saw Elvis performing on "Ed Sullivan." They didn't get it, and neither do I. Rap lyrics qualify as some kind of urban art form, which is all well and good in that context. But if you're listening for musicianship, perhaps this isn't the best place to start. And the artists would have to admit that, themselves.

One of the Metal channels (there apparently are several subgenres) featured something that sounded moderately interesting: a band from California called Horse the Band, which employs keyboards amid the sea of thrashing guitars and strangled vocals. In this case, the keyboards sound just like what you'd hear while playing a Super Mario Bros. video game, that high-pitched melodic beeping. Sure enough, I looked up some information on Horse the Band, and they're at the forefront of a musical styling dubbed Nintendocore. That makes sense, as the band members look like they were born in the mid- to late '80s, and they probably have been playing video games since they could hold a controller.

One of my sons happens to have a video compilation that includes a contribution by Horse the Band. Terms like "strange" and "bizarre" just scratch the surface when it comes to describing "A Million Exploding Suns." The central plot seems to be a couple of guys combining a mannequin with raw meat to make something that comes to life, then wastes them. (Mary Shelley came up with that idea 200 years ago, but who's quibbling.) Then other stuff happens. The Nintendo sounds aren't as pronounced as on "The Black Hole," the song I heard on digital cable.

I'll give the tunes of today another try, though, and soon. I frequently joke that I don't know much about any music past, say, 1979. But the more I think about it, the joke's on me.

My wife usually complains when I receive books as Christmas presents, because I immediately bury my nose in them and don't emerge for a long while.

Nevertheless, she was kind enough to bestow upon me this year a coffee table book about coffee tables ... oops, I've been watching too many "Seinfeld" DVDs. The coffee table book actually is called "Grateful Dead: The Illustrated Trip," and it pretty much lives up to its billing, minus the trip.

The tome, which weighs in at about 15 pounds, follows the adventures of "America's favorite band" (their words, and who can argue) in the form of a timeline from March 1940, at the birth of bassist Phil Lesh, all the way up to ... well, I've made it as far as '94 to this point.

Throughout the book, the authors single out certain Dead songs, both originals and covers, for brief essays about their origins and relevance to the band and its fans. That got me thinking about my favorites from the long, strange canon, and I've come up with these standouts, which are listed sort of in order:

- "Dark Star." OK, this is a little obvious for the top, but so be it. What distinguished the Grateful Dead from the thousands of other rock 'n' roll bands that emerged in the mid- to late '60s was its willingness to expand the musical form to new horizons, and for several glorious years, "Dark Star" usually served as the launching pad for such excursions. They varied in length, from the two-plus minute, breakneck-speed studio version the band cut in late '67 to a 47-minute marathon in Rotterdam during the Europe '72 tour. The most popular version appears on the band's breakthrough 1969 album "Live/Dead," recorded during the first date of a legendary four-night run at San Francisco's Fillmore West that February. Many enthusiasts consider the 29-minute rendition at New York's Fillmore East the following February as the definitive take. (It appears on "Dick's Picks Vol. 4.") The band pretty much retired "Dark Star," at least in its epic form, after 1974, but to many fans, the song represents what the Grateful Dead was all about, with its lyrics that evoke another level of consciousness: "Shall we go, you and I while we can? Through the transitive nightfall of diamonds."

- "Easy Wind." Ron "Pigpen" McKernan has been dead for nearly 33 years, so it's unlikely that too many folks under 50 ever saw him perform in the flesh. And for younger Dead fans, he was kind of a band footnote for many years, with just a small scattering of his live and studio performances available on albums. But in the formative years of the Grateful Dead, Pigpen was the star, grabbing the microphone at key moments to signal an instant transition from the psychedelic to the primal blues and R&B that really got the crowds going. He could rap, long before the term meant something else musically, coming up with lengthy, always entertaining admonitions for members of the audience to, say, "Get your hands out of your pockets!" Getting to the essence of his being was "Easy Wind," a song written for Pigpen by Dead lyricist Robert Hunter and appearing on the classic "Workingman's Dead (1970)." This number picks up so much steam that Wake the Dead is more like it.

- "Ramble On Rose" and "Tennessee Jed." The Grateful Dead album "Europe '72" was somewhat of an anomaly in its time and place. Back then, not too many artists were releasing three-record sets, and those that chose to often received barbs for being long-winded. (Chicago put out a four-record set around the same time and still is being pilloried for it.) Most albums of the time that were recorded live had covers prominently featuring photos of the musicians in concert; "Europe '72" presents an amusing, if somewhat puzzling, illustration of a goofy-looking fellow shoving an ice cream cone into his face. And while most live albums feature versions of songs that already appeared in studio form, "Europe '72" includes several songs making their recorded debuts, and most of those stayed in the Dead's rotation up 'til the end. "Ramble On Rose" and "Tennessee Jed" are my favorites among those. Both sound like stories within songs, and although Robert Hunter's lyrics are rather obtuse, they're a lot of fun: "My dog, he turned to me, and he said, 'You'd better head back to Tennessee, Jed." And "Ramble On Rose" has the added bonus of a litany of colorful characters courtesy of Mr. Hunter, from Jack the Ripper to Wolfman Jack to Jack and Jill. (But not "Jack Straw," who has his own song.) And even though "Ramble On Rose" has a ton of chord changes - or maybe because of it - that's my favorite Dead song to perform.

- "Touch of Grey." By 1983, the thought of the Grateful Dead recording another album was beginning to seem absurd. It had been three years since the band cut "Go to Heaven" in the studio, and a couple of live albums released the following year had the flavor of being what they were: contractual obligation items for Arista Records (although the first of those, the acoustic-based "Reckoning," still serves as a treat for Dead fans, and in fact was the very first compact disc I ever purchased; it's still part of my collection 20 years later). The Dead always had an aversion to visiting the studio, and with some of the members passing age 40, it seemed as if the band might focus all its efforts on touring from then on in. That year, a bunch of friends and I went to see the Grateful Dead at the WVU Coliseum, and the band played a song none of us had yet heard. After the show, my good friend and former roommate (Mr. John Michael O'Neil, now of Wilmington, N.C.), said something along the lines of: "If they released that as a single, it could be a hit!" We laughed at the notion, as the Dead had been around nearly 20 years with nothing approaching a hit single. But by 1987, the Grateful Dead not only had recorded another album, the invigorating "In the Dark," but the song we'd predicted as a hit single actually reached the Top 10. "Touch of Grey" probably was helped along quite a bit by its video being in heavy MTV rotation, but what the heck. We saw it coming.

- "The Other One." This song has kind of a strange history, starting with its appearance as "That's It for the Other One," a suite of songs that kicks off the Grateful Dead's second album, "Anthem of the Sun" (1968). That version starts as a lament sung by Jerry Garcia, subtitled "Cryptical Envelopment," focusing on the key phrase "he had to die" (this marked Jerry's final foray into writing lyrics). Then follows a fast-paced jam in E, featuring the immortal words of Bob Weir: "The heat came 'round and busted me for smiling on a cloudy day." The suite segues back into a reprise of "Cryptical," then devolves into a surreal sound collage with Tom Constanten's prepared piano featured very prominently. (T.C., while never a formal member of the Dead, was highly influential on the early sound of the band, particularly the experimentation, as he in turn was highly influenced by the likes of avant-garde composers John Cage and Karlheinz Stockhausen.) Live performances followed more or less the same pattern for a while, but eventually began to concentrate more on Weir's middle section. By the early '70s, Jerry dispensed with his portions, and the composition's name was shortened to "The Other One," as it appeared on the 1971 live album "Grateful Dead" (also known as "Skull and Roses"). That version clocked in at just over 18 minutes. During the Europe '72 tour, the band alternated nights for extended jams on either "The Other One" or "Dark Star." A '72 version later released on "Hundred Year Hall" (1995) clocks in at 36-plus minutes, although on that album it's called "Cryptical Envelopment" and credited to Jerry (who died only about five weeks before its release). Whatever it's called, it's one of those songs that sounded different every time the Grateful Dead played it. And in tribute to its importance, after the surviving members regrouped following Jerry's death, they christened themselves the Other Ones.

- "Uncle John's Band." As the '70s dawned, the Grateful Dead had somewhat of a reputation as an idiosyncratic act prone to long, meandering jams that in no way resembled anything that might show up on the radio. The band's meager album sales reflected that image, as albums like "Aoxomoxoa" (1969) might have made for some interesting listening for the more adventurous, but no doubt prompted less open-minded folks to take the needle off the record in mid-song. When the needle dropped on the opening track of "Workingman's Dead," though, a completely different sound greeted the listener: leisurely strummed acoustic guitars leading into three-part vocal harmony reminiscent of Crosby, Stills and Nash (who coached Jerry Garcia, Bob Weir and Phil Lesh in preparation for the fresh approach). This was roots music before it had a name, and "Uncle John's Band" helped open the Grateful Dead to a much wider audience. Jerry's catchy melody meshes perfectly with Robert Hunter's calling-on lyrics ("Come hear Uncle John's band, playing to the tide/Come on along or go alone, he's come to take his children home"). And his musical question "Are you kind?" continues to be a catchphrase among Dead fans to this day. By the way, "Uncle John's Band" was the first song I learned to play on guitar in its entirety.

- "Althea." In the spring of 1980, I was working in a bar/sandwich shop with a couple (Ed and Suzanne, who lived together although they weren't married, which wasn't nearly as common in those days) who helped take me to the next level in appreciating the Grateful Dead. I had to work the night they went to the Merriwether Post Pavilion in Maryland to catch a show. They brought me back a T-shirt, and also brought back a particular fondness for a new tune they'd heard that night. The song was on the band's new album, "Go to Heaven," and Suzanne kept playing that same track over and over through the shop's sound system. Usually when someone does that, I never want to hear it again (as a co-worker did with U2's "The Unforgettable Fire" album in 1985), but I didn't mind what Suzanne was doing. In fact, the leisurely paced ditty about a guy who's hesitant to commit still is one of my favorites.

- "Cream Puff War." The Grateful Dead's first album, recorded in early 1967, sounds very little like what the band would become. This tune, in particuarly, features a speeded-up tempo that contrasts greatly with Jerry Garcia's compositions in later years. He wrote the lyrics, as well, and reportedly stopped playing "Cream Puff War" because he was too embarrassed to sing them. Nevertheless, in the surviving live versions, he plays a lightning-fast guitar on the extended out-jams of the live versions, indicating that he liked the song at one point. And it's been given new life in recent years as a staple of Widespread Panic concerts.

- "Hard to Handle." Pigpen was at his most rabble-rousing on this cover on what was then a relatively obscure Otis Redding (1941-67) song. The Dead's version made its first appearance on "Bear's Choice," which came out after Ron's death at age 27 in 1973. It rocks as hard as anything that band, or most others, was doing at the time.

- "Playing in the Band." This song with an unusual time signature (thanks to percussionist Mickey Hart) is best heard on "Ace" (1972) which is Bob Weir's first solo album, in name only - it actually qualifies as a full-fledged Grateful Dead project, with involvement by all the band members of the time.

- "Deal." Just before Bob embarked on "Ace," Jerry released his first solo outing, "Garcia," and this track starts the proceedings. It made for a great first-set closer at future concerts with its A-based outro offering plenty of room for stretching out. I remember dancing to "Deal" at a show on City Island in Harrisburg with such enthusiasm that my fellow concert-goers moved far away from me, for fear of getting knocked over.

- "All Along the Watchtower." My all-time favorite song, as performed by the Jimi Hendrix Experience, I was glad to hear the Dead add it to the repertoire in the late '80s. I first head the band play the Dylan-penned song in July 1988 on a raceway in Oxford, Maine, still the farthest north I've been on the North American continent.

I'd go into honorable mentions, but there probably are hundreds of those ...

What are your favorites?

Wow, it's been 30 years already.

The Bicentennial represented one big bash for America, a badly needed pick-me-up following the dreary one-two punch of Watergate and the first Energy Crisis. You get to celebrate your 200th birthday only once, and we did it in style.

The year in music wasn't so kind, as I recall. It marked kind of a transition for me as an impressionable teenager, from listening to Top 40 bubblegum in '75 (I actually bought a 45 of K.C. & the Sunshine Band's "That's the Way [I Like It]") to buying my first Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead and Frank Zappa albums in '77.

As such, I started listening with a more discerning ear to what was coming over the radio airwaves. Some of it was really, really good. Much of it was just plain awful, even to a kid. And that's without considering the disco invasion that was about to overcome the landscape.

In the Spirit of '76, here are some musical memories from that long-ago year:

- "(Don't Fear) The Reaper," Blue Oyster Cult. The last vestige of the psychedelic '60s (stylistically speaking) to make the Top 20, this tune certainly has displayed staying power, perhaps as a result of its presence in that greatest of all slasher films, the original "Halloween." I remember getting a big smile on my face (still do) every time I'd hear that shimmering minor chord that opens the song, as it usually followed something I didn't want to hear in the first place. I ran out and bought the album it appears on, "Agents of Fortune," and was amazed to hear an intense mid-tune guitar solo that had been lopped off the single.

- "Frampton Comes Alive," Peter Frampton. At the time, this set a new sales record for a live album. Why? Historians still are asking that question 30 years later. My guess is a combination of: 1) cover shot that appealed to the ladies; 2) saturation airplay for three singles from the album; 3) interest in concert-recorded LPs fueled by "Kiss Alive"; 4) novelty of the "talk box" guitar sound, especially on "Do You Feel Like We Do" (that's what hooked me). Peter didn't sell all that much before or after, but for a while, he made Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss (the bosses at A&M Records) very, very happy.

- "Couldn't Get It Right," Climax Blues Band. This song rang in with a catchy bass line as another break in a seemingly endless series of mediocre "hits" on the radio. I later learned this sounded nothing like the rest of the Climax Blues Band's material, which usually lived up to the "blues" billing. Check out its 1971 album "Tightly Knit" if you get a chance.

- "Boston," Boston. When the album's opening track, "More Than a Feeling," hit the airwaves, it sounded very fresh and enlightening. Then I discovered every other song on the album sounded almost exactly like it. That made the whole thing extremely radio-friendly, to the point where you wanted to turn off the radio. I later saw Boston live, in support of "Third Stage" in 1986, and the band put on one heck of a show, with Tom Scholz demonstrating he could take that great guitar sound to the arenas. But while I still enjoy hearing "More Than a Feeling" every decade or so, that's about all I want of Boston.

- "Golden Years," David Bowie. I was familiar with his rather bizarre '75 hit "Fame" (co-written by John Lennon, incidentally), but really got exposed to the erstwhile Ziggy Stardust with this upbeat ditty, which for a while seemed to be the theme song for radio station Starview 92 from Lancaster. Unless it was ...

- "Bohemian Rhapsody," Queen. To this day, I cite this pastiche as the main reason I turned off the radio and started buying albums in massive quantities. I simply did not want to hear "I see a little silhouette-o of a man/Scaramouche, Scaramouch, can you do the fandango?" ever again, if I could help it. Oh, no. It's going through my head. Turn it off!

- "Presence," Led Zeppelin. Zep purists usually list this album down at the bottom of their list of preferences, particularly with it coming on the heels of the classic "Physical Graffiti." I'm partial to presence, though, because it's the first Zeppelin album I listened to at length.

- "Dream On," Aerosmith. We didn't know it at the time, but this song actually was three years old when Columbia decided to release it as a single in early '76. It drew me in, and for a while this set of boys from Boston was my favorite band, displacing my sort-of namesake, Grand Funk Railroad. And when Aerosmith came to the Farm Show Arena in Harrisburg that year, I attended my first rock concert. I remember a lot of smoke and a strange smell in the air.

- "Let 'Em In," Wings. Another tune on "Wings at the Speed of Sound," the here's-why-we-pick-on-Paul "Silly Love Songs," was actually the top-selling single of the year. We preferred its simple, languidly paced follow-up, which seemed to suit the style of our leisurely summer, back when we were still too young to get jobs.

- "The Boys Are Back in Town," Thin Lizzy. The tough sound of the Irish band's only sizable American hit was such a change of pace from some of the other stuff that was popular at the time (think "Don't Go Breaking My Heart" by Elton John & Kiki Dee) that we'd often phone into WKBO requesting it. I still hear it quite a bit, too. Unfortunately, there never was a follow-up of similar proportions, and Lizzy leader Phil Lynott died a decade later.

- "Afternoon Delight," Starland Vocal Band. My most vivid memory of this song (besides hating it) was during civics class, when our teacher let us listen to the radio and we were treated to the foursome's caterwauling. As they put forth their double-entendres, which were rather risque in '76, the teacher kept glancing over in disbelief. I guess that made suffering through hearing it sort of worth it. Incidentally, the SVB landed its own summer fill-in TV series a while later, and while I never would've dreamed of watching it, the series did feature the talents of a young David Letterman.

- "Love Hurts," Nazareth. I had no idea this was a much-covered classic originally done by the Everly Brothers and taken to unmatched heights by Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris. The Scottish quartet (who took the group's name from the opening line of The Band's "The Weight") used the song to develop a template for what would become the ever-popular Power Ballad of the '80s & '90s. I still enjoy Nazareth's version, as well as the album it appears on, "Hair of the Dog." A great version of Nils Lofgren's "Beggars Day" can be found on that.

And of course:

- "Play That Funky Music," Wild Cherry. I remember sitting in a friend's bedroom listening to the radio, and WKBO played this song three times within one hour, with us shouting the lyrics at the top of our lungs each time. Perhaps the greatest one-hit wonder of 'em all, and I've met the guy (Ron Beitel) who played drums on it.

The release last year of the exceptional boxed set called "Five Guys Walked Into a Bar ..." served as a reminder that international superstar Rod Stewart once sang with a group called Faces. The only other hint of the band's existence seems to come only when an oldies station decides to cue up "Stay With Me," Faces' only American Top 40 hit.

Rod, of course, went on to sell trillions of records in his solo guise, which actuallly ran concurrent to the Faces' tenure in the late '60s and early '70s. And while he could be brilliant - many sources list his "Every Picture Tells a Story" as one of the best rock albums of all time - his output during the past few decades has been a mixed bag, and we'll leave it at that.

But the man always could sing, with that unmistakable gravel voice seemingly made for rock & roll. Jeff Beck's first two albums, "Truth" and "Beck-Ola," make for great listening, but without Rod's voice, they wouldn't quite qualify as the classics they are. (Just check out Jeff's follow-ups with other singers, before he went the strictly instrumental route.)

When the Jeff Beck Group imploded in mid-1969, Rod headed for a job opening. Steve Marriott, leader of the Small Faces, had bolted that band to team up with a kid named Peter Frampton for a project called Humble Pie, which was in the process of hitting the British Top 10 with "Natural Born Bugie." The transition from Steve to Rod wasn't seen as that drastic, as they both sang in a similar style. The only problem was that Steve served as the band's guitarist, while Rod was strictly a singer.

That wasn't a problem, though. Another man displaced by the Beck dissolution was Ron Wood, who had been playing bass in that group. He also was adept on the six-string, and the three remaining Small Faces (Ronnie Lane, Kenney Jones and Ian McLagan) welcomed the pair aboard. And, the story goes, because Stewart and Wood were much taller than the other guys, they decided to drop the "Small" from the band's name.

Thus ended the story, more or less, for one of the more successful British bands of the mid-'60s. At least in their home country, that is. The Small Faces had exactly one song make any impact over here, a phase-shifted bit of psychedelia called "Itchycoo Park," which had the right sound for the right time in late 1967.

In the U.K., though, the Small Faces hit the Top 40 with a dozen singles, topping the charts with a tune called "All or Nothing" and repeating the feat with their 1968 LP "Ogden's Nut Gone Flake." A huge favorite of fans of '60s rock, "Ogden's" was distinctive for its cover, a round design made to emulate a tin of pipe tobacco. It also is credited as among the early rock operas, predating The Who's "Tommy" by a year: the entire second side is a suite of songs documenting the travels of one Happiness Stan, complete with a cockney narration that sounds like the intonations of a leprechaun.

Marriott supposedly left the group after its label, Immediate Records, released a single he didn't particularly care for (the anthemic "Lazy Sunday," which hit No. 2), while the song he really enjoyed, "The Universal," didn't have nearly as much success when it hit the shelves later. He teamed up with Frampton, who had been playing with a band called The Herd, and bassist Greg Ridley of Spooky Tooth, to form a new band to record on Immediate.

Unfortunately, Immediate folded shortly after that, leaving historians decades to sort through the welath of material recorded for the label in a relatively brief time. Humble Pie later signed with A&M Records (at least, that was their American label) and hit the big time in 1972 with "Smokin'," a harder blues-boogie outing featuring the drug-referencing "30 Days in the Hole." The big time didn't last long, though; three subsequent Humble Pie outings sold in increasingly smaller numbers, and that was that.

Frampton, meanwhile, had departed for a solo career by the time of "Smokin'" (Colosseum guitarist Dave Clempson took his place), and he doubtlessly regretted the decision until his long-haired visage hit the stores in 1976 on the cover of "Frampton Comes Alive," which had sales rocket up to the stratosphere for reasons that still aren't clear to this day.

By then, Faces was long gone, as well. For a while, it was a true group effort, especially with Ronnie Lane contributing plenty of songwriting and singing. (He had done so in the Small Faces, too, only not quite as much.) When he departed, the band morphed into Stewart's backing group - in fact, some singles and a live album appeared under the moniker Rod Stewart and Faces. Eventually, Stewart figured the "and Faces" part wasn't worth the effort, and by '76 his album "A Night on the Town" was selling right up there with "Frampton Comes Alive."

And it was just about that time that a Mr. Keith Richards talked with Wood about possibly joining Richards' band, which had lost guitarist Mick Taylor. (I've read where Keith and Ron developed a friendship after Keith had a fling with Ron's wife - that's rock 'n' roll, I guess.) And Ron Wood still is a Rolling Stone, 30 years down the road.

Meanwhile, Marriott wasn't exactly lighting the world on fire with his solo career, and with some of his former bandmates looking for work, the Small Faces reunion took place. (Lane opted out, and Rick Wills - who previously had played with Frampton, as well as Pink Floyd's David Gilmour - filled in on bass.) An LP from the revamped group, "Playmates," was almost universally reviled, and a second album, "78 in the Shade," didn't do much better. And that was that.

Frampton saw his fortunes decline precipitously with "I'm In You," his "Comes Alive" follow-up (Frank Zappa did a tremendous parody called "I Have Been In You") and the disaster that was the film version of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band." I've heard Peter's a great guy personally, but repeat success has eluded him for decades now.

Perhaps that wouldn't have been the case had a reunion with Marriott in 1991 come to full fruition. They'd recorded some music together for the first time in 20 years, and the tracks have recently appeared on an interesting-looking Marriott collection called "Rainy Changes." But on April 20 of that year, Steve died in a fire at his home in Essex, England. He was 44.

Ronnie Lane no longer is with us, either. He recorded some quality albums throughout the '70s, culminating with his collaboration with Pete Townshend, "Rough Mix." Toward the end of the decade, he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, and the disease finally claimed his life in 1997, when he was 51.

Kenney Jones also had a connection with The Who, of course, as the man who replaced the man who couldn't be replaced: He took over on drums after Keith Moon's untimely death. Unfortunately, Jones' tenure with the rock giants is considered by many as best forgotten, although I thoroughly enjoyed seeing The Who in Pittsburgh during its, ahem "Farewell Tour" in 1982.

Ian McLagan followed Ron Wood into the Rolling Stones, although as a much-lower-profile keyboardist on some of the band's gargantuan tours.

As for Rod Stewart ... when you hear his name, please, please don't think about "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy," or whatever that song/video was that he did with Sting and Bryan Adams, the one that had Beavis and Butt-Head screaming on their series. Cue up some early Jeff Beck, some Faces or "Every Picture Tells a Story," and enjoy

Since midyear, the Grateful Dead Store has been providing new entries in its "Download Series" on the first Tuesday of each month.

This month's offering, four discs' worth of material, covers the two shows at Pittsburgh's Civic Arena (pre-Mellon) in April 1989.

If you'll recall, the two-night stand, on a Sunday and Monday, touched off plenty of controversy when the police got involved because of what they termed unruly fans. I remember seeing a news report after the Sunday show featuring scenes that somewhat resembled the '68 Democratic convention in Chicago. I hadn't seen any of that personally and hoped it didn't recur the following evening.

It did, according to hopping mad city officials, who vowed that the Grateful Dead would join Run-DMC as bands that would never play in Pittsburgh again. (The proto-rappers had allegedly prompted folks to riot during their appearance the previous year.)

The city's public safety director at the time was Glenn Cannon, who happens to be a fraternity brother of yours truly. I remember seeing him a short time afterward and imploring, "Come on, Glenn, you gotta let the Dead back into town!"

The Dead returned the following summer, and the legend still goes around our circles that my plea to Glenn opened the door. (That show, on July 8, 1990, at Three Rivers Stadium, is chronicled on the DVD "View from the Vault." I couldn't make it that day. I was at Magee-Womens Hospital, waiting for a new arrival to the family.)

Back to April 1989, my companions and I saw no violence on Monday, either, but it sure was crowded. This was the period following the success of "Touch of Grey," when a band known by a relative few suddenly had turned into a national phenomenon. But the overcrowding ended up working to our advantage.

It seems our friend Steve had obtained a "ticket" from another guy by going to his apartment in midday and retrieving it. Turns out the ticket was a stub from the night before, and the debate still rages as to whether the other guy intentionally misled Steve and pocketed Monday's ticket for himself. As we assured Steve that there was no way he was going to get into Monday's show, the crowd started pushing forward, and the ushers apparently said the heck with it and started letting everyone through. Or else we would have had to abandon poor Steve.

Some highlights I remember from the shows, off the top of my head, were the performance of the late Brent Mydland's "Blow Away," which had yet to be released and sounded pretty cool (especially for a Brent Song), and the medley of "Dear Mr. Fantasy" into the "Hey Jude" chorus - wow, Brent was pretty much responsible for those, too. RIP, man.

Anyway, although my preference for Grateful Dead archival recordings usually veers back toward the '60s, it's cool to see the Pittsburgh shows get a legitimate release, and I'll plan to check 'em out 'round payday.