Pink Floyd, "Ummagumma" (Harvest, 1969)

For two decades, the only legitimately released live recordings by Pink Floyd constituted half of the two-LP (later two-CD) set "Ummagumma." That material, culled from performances in England in the summer of '69, captures the band at a certain spot in its development, but bears very little relation to the juggernaut that would dominate the charts throughout the latter part of the '70s and beyond.

In some ways, that's a good thing.

For hardcore Pink Floyd fans, the period between roughly 1968 and 1972 is of great interest. The band is in transition, from learning how to soldier on without original frontman Syd Barrett to developing the material that would stay on the charts for 14 years with "The Dark Side of the Moon."

By the time Pink Floyd starting playing large arenas, then stadiums, its concerts had become thoroughly planned events, with timings down to the split second. Of course, when you're launching inflatable pigs or building walls during shows, it helps to have everything coordinated.

The late '60s-early '70s version was unfettered by such matters, making that era on of heavy experimentation and improvisation, endearing it to fans who enjoy that type of musical approach. Actually, that's how Pink Floyd built its reputation in the first place; back when it started in earnest around '66, no one else was playing 20-minute, feedback-driven freakouts with titles like "Interstellar Overdrive."

The first disc of "Ummagumma" is a good representation of what Pink Floyd was giving audiences by the end of the decade: lengthy, loosely structured "songs" filled with sonic explorations designed for expanded consciounesses. If you give a listen, it's a good idea to turn out the lights and fire up an incense stick.

Among the four live tracks, "Astronomy Domine" is the closest to a standard song structure, as the remaining members of the band do an extended take of the Barrett composition that opens Pink Floyd's debut album, "The Piper at the Gates of Dawn." The in-concert version repeats the litany of heavenly bodies a second time before taking the sound down a notch for Rick Wright to play practically solo on an atmospheric organ run. The momentum builds up slowly until guitarist David Gilmour (Barrett's replacement) carries the proceedings at full throttle into the final verse and the song's climax. Quite an opening.

"Careful With That Axe, Eugene," which first appeared as a single's B-side the previous year, is as ominous as its title implies. Bassit Roger Waters plays a single note, alternating octaves, and drummer Nick Mason plays a steady beat while Gilmour and Wright make some otherworldly sounds. The song lurches ahead in a restrained manner for a few minutes, before Waters utters the words to the title. Then he screams, summoning vocal power from who knows where, while the band kicks up the volume exponentially in a wave of fury that informs the listener in no uncertain terms what Eugue is doing with that ax. No wonder the track remained a concert favorite through well into the post-"Dark Side" period.

"Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun" follows, with Waters softly reciting his lyrics throughout a lengthy, relatively quiet jam. Besides the extended time, this version stays relatively close to the one that appeared on the band's second album, "A Saucerful of Secrets."

Speaking of which, the "Saucerful" title closes the live disc in grand fashion. A short opening section, driven by another ominous Waters bass line, melts down into a formless exploration of instruments. Then Mason starts flailing away at a furious tribal beat while the others make noises that, until a few years prior, hadn't really been associated with music before. Finally, Wright starts playing some recognizable organ notes, Mason fades away, and the album's highlight is ready to go.

The closing section of "A Saucerful of Secrets," subtitled "Celestial Voices," is presented on the studio album as a piece for choir. In concert, the band transforms it into something they could play themselves: Wright's organ starts the intriguing chord sequence, and the three others join in along the way, picking up the volume as they go. Finally, Gilmour sings the wordless melody along to the power chords, building up to a rousing finale that leaves the crowd in a frenzy (at least, that's what it sound like before the needle lifts from the record).

Oh, yeah. There's a whole second disc to "Ummagumma." The idea was to give each of the four Floyds half a side to do his thing. The results are underwhelming, although the whole idea (not to mention the title) behind Waters' "Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving With a Pict" is rather innovative.

In the opinion of many fans, the band should have dedicated the second disc to more in-concert tracks. A listen to unauthorized recordings of the time reveals a wealth of material that sounds much different from what the band was doing in the studio at the time, and having it commercially available would be a real treat. (Don't hold your breath waiting for Pink Floyd archival recordings, though.)

If you happen to come across it somewhere, the bootleg of the band's show at the Fillmore West in April 1970 gives a much more thorough picture of what a Pink Floyd concert was like before the guys were selling records by the millions. Twenty-minute versions of "Interstellar Overdrive" didn't end with Barrett's departure.

Pink Floyd finally released another live album following its "comeback" tour that seems to have lasted from late 1987 through early '89. But by that time, Waters was long gone, and the other three were routinely joined by what seemed like dozens of other musicians onstage.

And it sounded absolutely nothing like the wonderful sounds the band was making circa 1969.

Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band, "Trout Mask
Replica" (Reprise, 1969)

Back in college, we'd often have situations where a large group of people would be present, and we'd want to trim the crowd in a hurry.

My former roommate, Mike, lived on the top floor of the fraternity house, in the place's plum room, which along the way got the nickname of Cloud 9. Due to its large size and remote location, Cloud 9 was a fairly popular hangout, even on nights when the guys who lived in there wanted to get some shut-eye.

On one such evening (or quite possibly early morning), Mike surveyed the gathering in his room and decided he prefer fewer bodies present. To achieve the objective, he pulled a record from the shelf and put it in the turntable. I smiled, knowing that would do the trick.

A few seconds later, the people in the room were greeted by the cacophony of fuzzy, dissonant guitars
playing over a halting beat. Then came the vocals, growling along in their own peculiar cadence, going on
about something called "Frownland."

Welcome to "Trout Mask Replica" by Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band, an hour and 20 minutes of music, the
likes of which never had been heard before, and probably never will again.

For the past three-and-a-half decades, rock 'n' roll scribes have attempted to describe the sounds produced by the Captain (Don Van Vliet) and his crew, boiling them down to something along these lines: a free-form cross between New Thing jazz and delta blues.

I guess you hear some of those elements along the way. But it's certainly difficult to put a label on something that truly lives up to the designation of unique.

Early publicity about the double-LP set put forth that Vliet had sat down at his piano (which he didn't even know how to play) and composed all 28 songs in the span of eight-and-a-half hours. That notion seemed plausible, given the seemingly random and chaotic nature of the music. But studio outtakes and live performances from the period show that the tunes were
meticulously scripted, with alternative versions sounding very much like the finished products. That would seem to indicate a whole lot more went into it than spending an afternoon at the keyboard.

At any rate, "Trout Mask Replica" long has served as a badge of honor for music enthusiasts who claim they "get it." If you're looking for something beyond what you're likely to hear on the radio or through the supermarket PA, here's a place to go. It's anti-easy listening.

It's also unpredictable, which makes it interesting. A song might simply be the Captain singing a cappella into a cheap tape recorder, as with "The Dust Blows Forward." He might convey a message of social relevance ("Dachau Blues") or of utter nonsense ("Neon Meate Dream of a Octafish"). He might launch into a saxophone solo by blowing through two of the instruments at once ("Ant Man Bee"). Or he might just let the Magic Band loose on a sublime jam, like in "Hair Pie: Bake 1."

Of the many intriguing twists and turns on the album, one really worth noting is "The Blimp (Mousetrapreplica)," on the fourth side of the original LP. If the vocal recitation sounds like it was recorded over a telephone line, that's exactly what happened.

The story is that the Captain had slide guitarist Jeff Cotton (listed on the album sleeve by his pseudonym, Antennae Jimmy Semens) call Frank Zappa to recite some lyrics Vliet had written. Zappa, Beefheart's old buddy, was in the process of producing the album, and he decided the recording of the phone conversation would be a cool addition. He added a backing track from a performance by his own band, the Mothers of Invention, and "The Blimp" was completed.

With material along those lines, it's understandable that many listeners don't last very long with "Trout Mask Replica." One exception, according to my old roomie Mike, was his 5-year-old niece or cousin (can't remember exactly), who couldn't get enough of it when he introduced it to her back in the early '80s. I wonder if she still likes it today.

As far as that night in Cloud 9, "Trout Mask Replica" did its trick, leaving only a few of us left in the room to enjoy what the Captain had to offer.

Wishbone Ash, "Nouveau Calls" (IRS No Speak, 1988)

In the mid-'80s, Miles Copeland, chairman of International Record Syndicate Inc. (aka IRS), came up with what seems in retrospect like a pretty cool idea. In his words:

"Forget about having to come up with a single (three minutes of music aimed at 16-year-olds), don't worry about your "image" (no need to invent a new hairdo), don't be concerned with lyrics (you won't be singing). Just play your instruments unencumbered by restraints."

The upshoot of the concept was IRS No Speak, a label for rock-oriented, purely instrumental music. Three of the four initial No Speak releases were by solo artists: Pete Haycock, founder of and guitarist for the Climax Blues Band; William Orbit, who had scored some recent dance-oriented hits; and Stewart Copeland, Miles' brother and drummer for the Police.

The fourth release was by a band that was particularly near and dear to Miles Copeland's heart.

Wishbone Ash carved a reputation in the early '70s for its use of twin lead guitars, a rarity at a time when most successful bands featured a single dominant axman. Andy Powell and Ted Turner had joined the band by happenstance, answering an ad in Melody Maker; the original members, bassist Martin Turner and drummer Steve Upton, apparently couldn't decide between the two and decided to hire them both.

The resulting "classic quartet" of Wishbone Ash released four studio albums and a live set between 1970 and '73, reaching No. 3 in Britian with its third LP, "Argus," long regarded as one of the finer progressive rock efforts. "Wishbone Four" represented the band's apex in the United States, cracking the Top 50. But personnel shifts and changes in musical tastes had led to declining fortunes for the band by the middle of the next decade.

Enter Copeland, who had served as Wishbone Ash's manager in its formative years, dating back to when the band was known as Tanglewood. Now that he was running a record company that was launching a new concept, he wanted his old pals on board. And not just any group of guys calling themselves Wishbone Ash; he persuaded the Turners to rejoin Powell and Upton for the first time in nearly 15 years.

The result is "Nouveau Calls," targeted as everything fans enjoyed about the Ash, except the vocals. Or, as Copeland puts it in the liner notes, "the great dual lead guitars of Wishbone Ash together again but as never before."

That's true, but probably not in quite he way Copeland intended.

"Nouveau Calls" certainly serves as a showcase for the band's instrumental abilities. But today, it sounds very much like a relic of its time: overly polished sound, processed drums, synthesizer beats and everything else in the '80s studio kitchen sink. In that regard, the album contrasts sharply with Wishbone Ash's best work of the early '70s, which grew organically from what appears to be simply a love of jamming. (For a good example, check out the 11-minute "Handy" on the debut album, "Wishbone Ash." After hearing Martin Turner's bass workout, you'll wonder why you've never heard much about him.)

A lot of the difference can be explained by Orbit's role as the album's producer. He was working within the style he knew best, and one that had worked for him as an artist. That's not to say it was all his doing; Martin Turner produced two of the tracks, and they sound pretty much along the same lines, although a song called "Something's Happening in Room 602" recalls the band's early days more than anything else on the album.

All that being said, "Nouveau Calls" contains plenty of good music, especially if the listener can get past his or her anti-'80s bias. (I'm trying!) The high point is "In the Skin," a song on which the inspired guitar playing rises above the dance-floor beat, especially Powell's turn on the slide. The tune showed up as an instrumental highlight of Wishbone Ash shows in the '90s.

By that time, the experiment that was IRS No Speak was long over. Despite its stated intention of being "an instrumental rock label for the '90s," No Speak didn't go far beyond those first few releases. And the parent label ended up folding in 1996.

So much for what should have been a good idea.

The Edgar Winter Group, "They Only Come Out at Night" (Epic, 1972)

On the pop charts, 1972 was a big year for instrumental hits, including Gary Glitter's "Rock and Roll, Part 2," Apollo 100's "Joy" and Gershon Kingsley's "Popcorn." The latter two prominently featured the relatively novel sounds of the Moog sythesizer, which had appeared on the scene a few years before to produce what appeared to be the musical wave of the future.

In late '72 a band fronted by Texas multi-instrumentalist Edgar Winter released an album called "They Only Come Out at Night," which closed with a tune he'd been performing for years. It started as a setup for a percussive workout, hence its original title, "The Double Drum Song." By the time of its appearance on the new LP, Edgar had settled on the name "Frankenstein" because it had been cut up and edited in the studio so many times.

After two conventionally structured singles (words and music) from the album failed to click, someone at Epic decided it might be a good idea to slap the all-instrumental "Frankenstein" on a 45. Along with an extremely catchy guitar riff, the song also featured plenty of Moog. And if it worked for Gershon Kingsley, why not Edgar Winter?

The first pressing of the single went nowhere, but the record company decided to try again in March '73. And the result must have exceeded everyone's expectations by a country mile, as "Frankenstein" raced up the charts, eventually hitting the proverbial No. 1. It even cracked the Top 20 in Britain, which had paid no attention to Edgar before (and, as it turned out, wouldn't again).

The monster hit - literally, in this case - took "They Only Come Out at Night" up to No. 3 with it, and a subsequent single, "Free Ride," cracked the Top 15.

All that, of course, marked the commercial pinnacle of Edgar's career, although he continues to record and perform regularly today. And the main theme of "Frankenstein" remains one of the classic riffs of classic rock. ("Free Ride" also continues to get airplay and recently appeared on a TV commercial, always a trigger for nostalgia.)

Along with the two hit singles, "They Only Come Out at Night" has plenty to offer, not the least of which was the lineup of the Edgar Winter Group.

From late '70 through early '72, the younger of the famed Winter brothers (with guitarist Johnny) had worked with a band called Edgar Winter's White Trash, releasing a pair of albums that were well-received critically. That aggregation, which featured a decidedly R&B sound, came to a halt when drummer Bobby Ramirez was killed in a bar fight in Chicago.

To soldier on, Edgar retained one White Trasher, guitarist Rick Derringer, and plucked bassist Dan Hartman from a Harrisburg band called the Legends. He also hired Ronnie Montrose, a guitarist who recently had been doing session work for Van Morrison. All three went on to solo fame, and with drummer Chuck Ruff, they made for quite a formidable team.

The results are evident on their sole collaboration, "They Only Come Out at Night," which features about as many effective pop hooks per song as your likely to find on any album. It starts right off the bat with "Hangin' Around," which had relatively modest success as the third single from the LP. From the double-guitar theme lick to the anthemic chorus - "And I don't see the world goin' by, and I don't even have to try" - the song seems like it should have made it as big as the two hits.

Actually, several of the tracks sound like they could have cut it as 45s: "Alta Mira," with its Island rhythms, sing-along chorus and Edgar's marimba playing; "Undercover Man," sounding like the type of material Lynyrd Skynyrd would make popular a year or two later; "Autumn," a quality power ballad long before the term had been invented; and "We All Had a Real Good Time," with those unforgettable harmonies on the chorus.

Of course, the album's high sales totals were attributable to the hits, both of which were worthy of the mass consumption.

"Free Ride" is Hartman's magnum opus, a highly charged number that has everything going for it: great guitar riff, catchy lyrics and another of those choruses that never grow old, all compacted into just over three minutes. Hartman went on to score some disco-oriented solo hits and carve a niche as a producer before his death at age 44.

As for "Frankenstein," that's an example of a once-in-a-lifetime compositions where everything works, even those weird synth noises in the middle. Its success certainly proved once in a lifetime for Edgar Winter, who caught lightning in a bottle when the record-buying public went crazy for his instrumental.

The timing obviously was right.

Johnny Winter, "Second Winter" (Columbia, 1969)

Bass player Tommy Shannon is revered among blues fans as half (along with drummer Chris Layton) of Double Trouble, the rhythm section for the late Stevie Ray Vaughan.

Stevie Ray, though, actually was the second Texas guitar great with whom Shannon worked. In the late '60s and early '70s, he teamed with drummer "Uncle" John Turner in a band led by fretboard wizard Johnny Winter.

These day, Johnny probably is best known as the (older) brother of Edgar Winter, who is best known himself for his monster (pun intended) 1973 hit "Frankenstein." That, and the albino siblings always have cut a striking figure onstage.

But at the time of "Second Winter," Johnny's sophomore release for Columbia Records, he was in the category of rising superstar guitarists, as his ferocious style of playing started to draw a considerable fan base, buoyed in part by the publicity surrounding Columbia signing him earlier in the year for a then-record advance.

He actually had been plying his trade since the late '50s, often working with Edgar, and recorded a significant amount of material that was locally released around their native Austin. A 1968 article in the fledgling Rolling Stone magazine drew him national attention, and soon he had a contract with a big-time label. Prior to his Columbia tenure, though, he recorded an album called "The Progressive Blues Experiment" on Imperial Records, a combination of standards and originals that served notice of a major talent on the scene.

The notice got as far as England, where Brian Jones, the guitarist who had recently left the Rolling Stones, apparently got ahold of Johnny's Columbia debut, "Johnny Winter," as soon as it made it across the Atlantic in June 1969. He particularly enjoyed the opening track, "I'm Yours and I'm Hers," and when Brian died shortly afterward, the Stones played that song to open the memorial show for him in London's Hyde Park.

Johnny gained further attention when he had the opportunity to perform "Mean Town Blues," a track from "The Progressive Blues Experiment," at Woodstock in August.

"Second Winter" appeared in November as a curiosity: although it was a double LP, only three sides were playable.

The music on those three sides, though, more than makes up for the lack of a fourth. Johnny, Tommy, Uncle John and Brother Edgar don't let up at all throughout; the result is 50 or so minutes of some very intense music.

Although the band stays close to its blues roots, the guys really make their mark blowing through some old rock 'n' roll standards, including Little Richard's "Slippin' and Slidin'" and "Miss Ann." Two others would become highlights of his energetic live shows: Chuck Berry's quintessential "Johnny B. Goode" and Bob Dylan's "Highway 61 Revisited," which Johnny reinvents as a supercharged slide-guitar workout.

Among the originals is "I'm Not Sure," a heavy blues containing an intense duet between Johnny's guitar and Edgar's harpsichord. Another notable is "Hustled Down in Texas," in which the basic rhythm section backs Johnny on some lightning runs. Then there's the closer, "Fast Life Rider," which features some interesting panning in the stereo mix (this was released in 1969, so there had to be something that appealed to the psychedelic crowd).

Columbia saw fit to reissue "Second Winter" in 2004 as a two-disc set, with the second CD containing a complete concert from April 17, 1970, at the Royal Albert Hall in London. ("Second Winter" had cracked the Top 60 on both the American and British charts.)

While the liner notes for the concert disc at first seem like hyperbole - "if it would have been released in 1970, it would be revered today as one of the greatest rock live albums of all time" - a listen to the music might confirm that suspicion. From the opening notes of Sonny Boy Williamson's ominous "Help Me" through the lengthy jam to close Lowman Pauling's "Tell the Truth," the set is a true adrenaline rush, buyoed considerably toward the end by Edgar's vocal prowess.

Speaking of which, the performance features two songs that would become staples of Edgar's own bands in the coming decades: a slow-burn rendition of the John D. Loudermilk classic "Tobacco Road" and an embryonic "Frankenstein."

Here, Edgar's future No. 1 smash sounds more like a descendant of Cream's "Toad" or Led Zeppelin's "Moby Dick"; that is, some catchy guitar riffs serving as preludes to an extended drum solo. In this case, it's a duet, with Uncle John and Brother Edgar trading off percussive licks. (According to the liner notes, it was called "The Double Drum Song" at the time.) Missing are the synthesizer sounds that drive the hit version, and some listeners might prefer their absence.

Following some more successful recordings in 1970 and '71, Johnny Winter took some time off before re-emerging a few years later. His last charting album was a collaboration with Edgar, "Together," in 1976. After that, he went all the way back to his roots to produce and play on Muddy Waters' last few albums. And since then, Johnny has continued to record sporadically, more or less as a strict bluesman.

Tommy Shannon left Johnny's band after "Second Winter" and bounced around back in Texas for a while before hitting it big with Stevie Ray. If you're a fan of that Texas guitarist, Johnny Winter is another who is well worth giving a listen.

King Crimson, "Red" (Atlantic, 1974)

The covers of the original pressings of King Crimson's "Red" - like the one I bought decades ago in the cutout bin at Sears for $2.88 - contained the message "R.I.P."

By the release of "Red" in late 1974, King Crimson had ceased to exist, by decree of lead guitarist Robert Fripp, long the sole surviving original member of the band that delivered the classic debut "In the Court of the Crimson King" in 1969. The '74 incarnation, despite some movement around the fringes, had been the most stable Crimson lineup by far, lasting the better part of two years.

But as cited in articles of the time, Fripp decided he "wants to do something positive in a completely new direction," which apparently didn't include his bandmates, bassist John Wetton and drummer Bill Bruford.

The decree couldn't have sat well with Bruford, who in 1972 had come to King Crimson from Yes, just as the latter band was starting to ascend to international superstardom.

"It's sad for me because I felt emotionally committed to the band, but I've been very proud of my association with the band and I've performed some of my best work with them," the talented percussionist was quoted as saying in Melody Maker.

Coming out in the wake of the split was "Red," King Crimson's seventh studio-oriented release and, in the minds of some fans, quite possibly its best. It certainly is the band's most accessible since its debut effort, forging the sound on most of the tracks as a power trio - albeit one that still played in unconventional time signatures. To the discerning listener, of course, that made the music all the more interesting.

"Red" kicks off with the title track, a ferocious instrumental that apparently got its name from the VU meters surging into the danger zone during its recording. (At least, that's what the back cover photo of a meter with the needle squarely in the red would have you believe.) The song is constructed along lines similar to previous KC instrumentals that worked to great effect: "Larks' Tongues in Aspic, Part Two" from the "Larks' Tongues" album and "Fracture" from "Starless and Bible Black."

"Fallen Angel" follows, starting as a lighter, more melodic composition that suddenly turns as stark as Richard Palmer-James' lyrics about the stabbing death of a teenager. Fripp's heavy, droning guitar chords and Marc Charig's cornet carry the song to its conclusion.

Bruford's high-energy percussion fills help usher in the third track, "One More Red Nightmare," Palmer-James' tale of a plane crash narrowly averted. Or was it? The lengthy closing jam, driven by a horn section featuring former Crimson members Ian McDonald and Mel Collins, comes to a very abrupt halt, implying that the protagonist might not really have been "Really safe and sound, asleep on the Greyhound" after all that.

From the closing cacophony of "One More Red Nightmare," the album shifts to a soft violin solo to open "Providence." The player is David Cross, who was a member of King Crimson until the end of the band's 1974 tour, when he apparently was asked to leave. This improvisational piece comes a show in Rhode Island's capital toward the end of that tour, which wrapped up with a concert in New York's Central Park. "Providence" creates an interesting soundscape, particularly Wetton's deep bass notes fed back through his amplifier. (Hearing this song in digital splendor back in 1986 helped convince me it was time to invest in one of those newfangled compact disc players.)

"Red" concludes with 12-plus minutes of "Starless" (not to be confused with the instrumental song "... and Bible Black"), which the band debuted to favorable response during the '74 tour. The mellotron-driven song starts with a section that ranks among King Crimson's most enduring melodic efforts, fitting Palmer-James' words about loneliness and/or love gone bad.

On an early '90s retrospective called "Frame By Frame," Fripp chose to whittle "Starless" down to the three verses of the main section, ending it at just over 4 minutes. That didn't sit well at all with longtime fans who consider the jam that follows as one of the high points in the King Crimson catalog. It builds up slowly, with Wetton's halting bass line underlying Fripp's sinister-sounding picking. Bruford enters with a sundry percussive noisy at strategic places in the stereo mix, as Fripp's playing picks up in intensity. Finally, the whole thing boils over into a raucous horn-driven section, which carries on for a couple of minutes before quieting briefly. Then it's time for some of Fripp to flail away with his trademark buzzsaw sound, before everything comes to a dramatic end with a brief, grand restating of the song's main theme.

And then, it was R.I.P. for King Crimson - until Fripp and Bruford resurrected the band seven years later, joined by Adrian Belew and Tony Levin for a sound that was nothing like listeners heard on "Red."

In that regard, it's a shame that Fripp decided not to keep things going in '74.

Lee Rocker, "Racin' the Devil" (Alligator, 2006)

I can't admit to being much of a Stray Cats fan during the band's heyday. That's not their fault. During the '80s, I summarily rejected just about any "new" music. (I'll avoid getting myself into trouble with '80s-music fans by stopping right there.)

But upon further review, the trio's rockabilly revival sounds pretty darned good, especially the signature "Stray Cat Strut." After all, it's built on one of my favorite chord progressions. And Brian Setzer plays a mean Gretsch.

The guitarist since has gone on to acclaim with his Brian Setzer Orchestra, leaving the other two Cats, bassist Lee Rocker and drummer Slim Jim Phantom, to embark on a series of their own projects.

The latest by Rocker (aka Leon Drucker) is an album called "Racin' With the Devil," released on the well-regarded blues-roots label Alligator. His quartet also includes guitarists Brophy Dale and Buzz Campbell, and drummer Jimmy Sage.

The disc seems to pick up right where the Stray Cats left off with regard to style, sound and attitude. Vince Ray's illustration on the album cover evokes the "bad boy" image rockabilly had in the '50s. (The art includes such dainty images as a burning plane about to wreck, bottles of whiskey and pills, a hot rod into a tree with a cigarette-smoking "Girl from Hell" perched on the fender, and a skeletal Lee jamming on a double bass emblazoned with a "Route 666" sticker!)

"Girl from Hell" is the name of the opening track, which blazes out of the box with a very heavy bottom driving some heavy minor-chord guitar riffs. The lead playing is fluid without being flashy, helping to convey the foreboding atmosphere of the song's subject matter.

Lee's band covers the Stray Cats hit "Rock This Town," recasting it in a minor key. Fans of the old version might not particularly go for the new take, but it works quite effectively in a dark, menacing mode, with lines like "rock this town, rip this place apart" seeming to take on quite a literal meaning compared with the upbeat original.

Many of the album's other tracks lean toward the country side of rockabilly, at times sounding much like the best of what Sun Records had to offer in its heyday (Elvis included). Or perhaps Chess Records; "Rockin' Harder," for example, features a tremendous Chuck Berry-type guitar break in the midst of a jam that fully suits the song's title.

"Funny Car Graveyard" returns to the heavy, minor-key sound of the album's first two tracks, before the proceedings close with "Swing This," an instrumental in which each of the musicians has ample opportunity to show off his prowess.

I wouldn't say that "Racin' the Devil" contains much of what you'd call innovative, save perhaps the re-engineering of "Rock That Town." But these guys know how to play, and they sound like they're having a great time doing it.

Colonel Claypool's Bucket of Bernie Brains, "The Big Eyeball in the Sky" (Prawn Song, 2004)

If only for curiosity's sake, one of the highlights of the 2002 Bonnaroo Festival was the seemingly odd grouping of Primus bass player Les Claypool, P-Funk keyboardist Bernie Worrell, virtuoso guitarist Buckethead and a drummer named Brain (actually, Brian Mantia).

The quartet, billed as Colonel Claypool's Bucket of Bernie Brains, also proved a musical highlight during its nearly two-hour set of improvisational jamming. An excerpt that appears on the DVD collection from the festival, called "Number Two," gives a brief picture of the performance: Les, dressed kind of like Alex in "A Clockwork Orange," flails away in his inimitable style, while the masked Buckethead - KFC-style bucket perched atop his cranium - stares straight ahead while playing some unbelievable riffs.

Viewers and listeners who thought the Bonnaroo gig represented a one-off deal were pleasantly surprised two years later when the four musicians recorded a studio album, "The Big Eyeball in the Sky," released on the specialty label for Claypool/Primus.

The song-oriented approach to the album is a marked departure from the free-form playing at Bonnaroo. (My kids, having seen the DVD, were kind of disappointed that "The Big Eyeball in the Sky" didn't continue in that vein.) The result is an amalgam of what makes each of the musicians distinctive: Worrell's otherworldly synthesizer playing, which he helped pioneer with Funkadelic/Parliament in the '70s; Buckethead's rapid-fire, heavily distored guitar playing; and Claypool's utterly quirky rhythmic approach, bass slapping and singing style. Not to mention Les' lyrics; check out these lines in the biographical ditty "Buckethead": "He stood like great Ulysses with guitar in his hand/Pledging to deflate the cynical that plague the glory land." Brain has played with Claypool in Primus and Buckethead during their stint together in Guns N' Roses, so he knows how to fit right in with their styles.

The lyrics take on a political bent at thimes, most notably on the title track and the set closer, "Ignorance Is Bliss." The former presents an Orwellian theme, by way of the current state of television: "But to formulate opinions, from what I see, is a joke/Because American TV's owned by Pepsi and by Coke." The latter takes issue with the current administration: "Well, the market's on the boil, we're down a couple quarts of oil/The president is reacting like an old near-sighted mohel."

The music isn't that far of a departure from Claypool's work with Primus and his other projects, including Oysterhead, Sausage and Colonel Claypool's Flying Frog Brigade: It's busy and noisy, but very engaging, particularly with Worrell and Brian Carroll (as Buckethead's parents named him) trading expertly played solos.

Whether this particular quartet will do anymore work together remains to be seen, but "The Big Eyeball in the Sky" represents a junction of musical styles and skills that fans of any of the players involved should find interesting.

Sorry about the several days' delay in posting. Blame technology! To return to action:

David Gilmour, "On An Island" (Columbia, 2006)

The last new Pink Floyd album, "The Division Bell," came out a dozen years ago to big sales but critical indifference: supposedly, just another dinosaur that didn't know it was supposed to be extinct.

I enjoyed the album, though, and was disappointed when nothing followed and Pink Floyd seemed to have gone the way of the mastodon (the brief Live 8 reunion notwithstanding).

So I was pleased to hear that David Gilmour was releasing a solo album, just his third in nearly 30 years. Seeing as how his voice and guitar playing represent some of Pink Floyd's most distinguishable features, I looked forward to hearing "On An Island" as a followup of sorts to "The Division Bell."

It didn't disappoint, making for an enjoyable listen that brought back memories of the old Pink Floyd, especially the period before "The Dark Side of the Moon" launched the band into superstar status.

As I listened to the new album, I couldn't help but draw comparisons to previous material. After all, I've been listening to Gilmour most of my life. And the way I figure it, with his stellar track record, measuring what he's doing today against his past is meant as a compliment.

"Castellorizon," for example, kicks off the album with an atmospheric instrumental, in much the same vein as the openers to "The Division Bell" and "A Momentary Lapse of Reason." And in places it sounds like the monumental beginning section to "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" on the classic "Wish You Were Here."

The title track follows, with the added bonus of David Crosby and Graham Nash on vocals and Pink Floyd alumnus Rick Wright on Hammond organ. The song evokes a Floyd's lighter side of the late '60s and early '70s; some of it is reminiscent of Wright's "See Saw," from "A Saucerful of Secrets." Gilmour wraps up proceedings with the type of smoking solo that only he can play.

Most of the rest of the album follows along the same lines, a more mellow sound than, say, fans of "The Wall" might recognize. It sounds as if Gilmour, who's nearing 60, is reaching for an audience that has matured with him, as several songs feature pristine orchestral arrangements by Zbigniew Preisner.

Gilmour still can take it up a notch, though. "Take a Breath" is a harder-edged, faster-paced song that he closes with a heavy, minor-scale solo that shows he hasn't lost his touch for dramatic playing.

"This Heaven" has a distinctive jazz-blues feel that's rare in the Floyd/Gilmour catalog; perhaps its closest comparison is the obscure "Biding My Time," which appears on the Pink Floyd anthology "Relics." The most notable feature of "This Heaven" is the walking line of the bass, which Gilmour plays himself.

He also does a surprising turn on the saxophone for a brief instrumental called "Red Sky." While sax playing is no stranger on Pink Floyd albums since "The Dark Side of the Moon," it usually has been handled by veteran Dick Parry. Gilmour acquits himself quite well on the reed instrument here.

One huge difference between primordial Pink Floyd and "On An Island" is the sound quality of the new album, reflecting a great production job by Gilmour, Chris Thomas and former Roxy Music member Phil Manzanera. Put on a quality pair of headphones, and drift off to that island.

In honor of St. Patrick's Day:

Thin Lizzy, "Jailbreak" (Vertigo/Mercury, 1976)

Top 40 radio was far more miss than hit in the Bicentennial year. The monster called disco was starting to take over the airwaves, which was fine if you wanted to, uh, shake your booty to mindless lyrics warbled over a mechanical beat. And if it wasn't disco, it just might have been affronts to the ear like the Starland Vocal Band's "Afternoon Delight" or the song that made me stop listening to the radio and investing heavily in LPs, Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody."

There were a few bright spots. I often cite Blue Oyster Cult's "(Don't Fear) The Reaper" as my favorite of the year, and perhaps of the decade. Hearing those shimmering minor chords coming out of the speakers always was (and still is) a treat.

Not too far behind was the sole American hit by the Irish band Thin Lizzy, "The Boys Are Back in Town." Just a simple chord progression played by two guitars, but what a riff! And Phil Lynott's assured, street-smart vocal (the Dublin equivalent of Lou Reed, I guess, though I had no idea who Lou Reed was back then). And that call-and-response chorus. Here was an island of rock 'n' roll for anyone drowning in a sea of disco!

The song's parent album, "Jailbreak," represented Thin Lizzy's breakthrough in the United States, climbing to No. 18 on the hit parade. While the success of "The Boys Are Back in Town" (No. 12) certainly fueled sales, the album is full of memorable tunes. If anything, the opening title track features an even better riff than "Boys," and the bravado of its lyrics sets a tone that carries throughout the set. And "Cowboy Song," the second single taken from the album (it quickly died on the vine) features some tremendous guitar playing that intersperses Lynott's vision of the American West.

The guitars are courtesy of Scott Gorham and Brian Robertson, who ended up playing with Thin Lizzy for three years to give some rare stability to a band that often juggled its lienup beyond the rhythm section of Lynott on bass and Brian Downey on drums. They're the pair who got things started back in '69, starting in their native Ireland before moving to the more music-savvy environment of London.

Unknown to many new fans who bought copies of "Jailbreak," it actually was the band's sixth album, and Thin Lizzy actually cracked the British Top 10 in 1973 with a reworking of the Irish folk song "Whiskey in the Jar."

Long-term success eluded the band in the United States, though. The followup to "Jailbreak" appeared later in '76, but "Johnny the Fox" failed to crack the Top 50. The next three albums also scraped the minor reaches of the charts, and by the end of the '70s, Thin Lizzy was just a memory as far as folks on this side of the Atlantic were concerned.

In Britain, it was a different story, with a string of top-selling albums carrying through the rest of Thin Lizzy's career.

By 1983, band members had parted ways. Around that time, it was reported that Lynott, who bore a strong resemblance to Jimi Hendrix, was to portray the late guitarist in a film version of his life. But nothing came of that, and in early 1986, Lynott went Jimi's way. He was just 34.

Today, Thin Lizzy is revered among fans of '70s hard rock. And many listeners who know nothing about the rest of the band's work still crack a smile when they hear the opening chords to "The Boys Are Back in Town."

The Butterfield Blues Band, "East-West" (Elektra, 1966)

Two albums that were released in 1966 really set the course for rock guitar playing. We addressed one yesterday with Eric Clapton's work on John Mayall's "Blues Breakers."

On the other side of the Atlantic, the Butterfield Blues Band had become a top club attraction with its distinctive brand of Chicago-influenced blues. The six-piece band was chock full of good musicians: Paul Butterfield on harp, Elvin Bishop on guitar, Mark Naftalin on keyboards, Jerome Arnold on bass and Billy Davenport on drums.

But what really set this band apart from its contemporaries was the other guitarist, Mike Bloomfield. In fact, a photo on the album's back cover is symbolic of the group dynamic: It shows five of the guys grouped together, seemingly running in one direction, while Bloomfield is on the other side of the picture, appearing to be headed off the other way.

See, no one had played the guitar quite like him before. Some of the blues players had displayed a rapid-fire attack - Eddie "Guitar Slim" Jones and Johnny "Guitar" Watson come to mind - but Bloomfield was exploring new sonic directions that quickly came to influence a whole new generation of axmen.

That's not to give Bishop short shrift. He's a strong player in his own right, and acquitted himself quite admirably when Bloomfield staked out on his own a few months after "East-West" hit the charts. But he never was quite as distinctive as his bandmate.

As for the album's content, it opens with Robert Johnson's "Walkin' Blues," an arrangement that sounds like an extension of the band's excellent debut, which mixed strong originals with blues standards. The Butterfield band helped cement Johnson's reputation, as the long-deceased bluesmen became one of the most popular sources of cover material in the late '60s.

Several other songs are in a similar vein, including Allen Touissant's "Get Out of My Life, Woman"; "Two Trains Running," a Muddy Waters-influence song recorded the same year by the Blues Project on its exceptional "Projections" album; and three traditional songs, one of which is sung by Bishop.

The band departs from straight blues with "Mary, Mary," a composition by a young guitarist named Michael Nesmith who became an overnight TV star later in '66. And it veers into jazz territory with a rousing version of Cannonball Adderley's "Work Song," on which Bishop verifies that he certainly can play.

But the highlight of "East-West" - and indeed, one of the highlights of '60s rock records in general - is the title track, 13-plus minutes of guitar-playing wizardry, the likes of which hadn't been heard before.

Bloomfield - who co-wrote the song with Nick Gravenites, later his collaborator in the Electric Flag - wanted to meld musical influences from different sides of the globe, thus the title. He particularly succeeds with the "East" part of the equation: His frenzied soloing against the rhythm section's modal drone formed a template for any number of bands that decided to explore "raga" elements later in the '60s. None of them came close to matching Bloomfield.

He settles down a bit for the "West" section, an easygoing, major-key jam that evokes images of the American past, alluding to such good-time numbers as "Alexander's Ragtime Band." He picks up the tempo, though, for a rousingly strident conclusion that leaves the listener saying, "Whoa!"

That certainly was the reaction when "East-West" hit the market, making Bloomfield a major star and prompting him to leave Butterfield for his own endeavors. His appearance at the Monterey Pop Festival with the band that would become the Electric Flag was one of the true highlights of the three-day extravaganza - and that's saying something, considering the legendary performances by Jimi Hendrix, Otis Redding, Janis Joplin and The Who, among others.

Unfortunately, the Bloomfield story takes a wrong turn from there, with a series of sad chapters before the guitarist's death before age 40.

He's largely forgotten today, but Mike Bloomfield was a giant in his time. A listen to "East-West" shows why.

John Mayall, "Blues Breakers With Eric Clapton" (Decca/London, 1966)

In early 1965, the Yardbirds released a single called "For Your Love" that propelled the band from a top club act to the wave of rock superstars emerging in Britain at the time.

The song reached No. 3 on the UK charts and No. 6 in the United States, the band's best showing here. And despite its rather primitive production and editing, it still stands up as an all-time classic.

The downside to "For Your Love" is that it apparently led to the departure of lead guitarist Eric "Slowhand" Clapton, still a teenager at the time. Rock 'n' roll lore has him leaving because the pop orientation of the song betrayed the band's roots in the blues.

The record's flip side, and instrumental called "Got to Hurry," was more up Clapton's alley, and he took full advantage of it, ripping an audacious lead over a simple and repetitive riff. The sounds he made caught the attention of a London bandleader who emphasized the blues above all else, and he quickly enlisted the services of the young guitarist.

The John Mayall-Eric Clapton collaboration didn't last all that long - by the following year, the guitarist had jumped ship (with then-Mayall bass player Jack Bruce) to form Cream. But their work together is considered a groundbreaking venture in merging blues with rock, and Clapton's playing served as a template for much of the rock guitar that followed.

Their one full-length album together, billed as Mayall's "Blues Breakers With Eric Clapton," paved the way for the British blues boom that dominated the late '60s. While the band members - also John McVie, later of Fleetwood Mac, on bass and Hughie Flint on drums - tried to stay relatively faithful to the artists they covered, they also put their own stamp on the album's dozen tunes, creating a hard-driving sound that has wowed audiences on both sides of the Atlantic ever since.

Clapton steps right into the spotlight at the start of the opening track, Otish Rush's "All Your Love," playing with an intonation that evokes the passion of the subject matter. The tempo picks up and he rips into a searing lead that announces his presence in no uncertain terms.

Listeners have hardly any time to catch their breath before Clapton blazes away on Freddie King's "Hideaway," doing the seemingly impossible feat of matching the playing on the original. The track is essential in any compilation that attempts to reflect Clapton's mastery of the guitar.

The band's rock 'n' roll leanings come to the forefront in a Mayall original, "Little Girl," which features a hard-edged riffs and lyrics that, fortunately, cast the song's subject as having "been through 18 years of pain."

Clapton takes a couple of breaks on the album, letting Mayall and his harmonica take over on two tracks, the traditional "Another Man" (other artists have titled it "Another Man Done Gone") and Mose Allison's "Parchman Farm."

Three other originals make appearances: the standard 12-bar exercises "Double Crossing Time" and "Have You Heard," and the horn-driven "Key to Love," a fast-tempo number in which Clapton steals the show with frenzied playing on the break. The album closes with Walter Jacobs' "It Ain't Right," another harmonica showcase.

Clapton would take two songs with him to perform for years to come. The instrumental "Steppin' Out" served as a vehicle for extending jamming, particularly some of the marathon versions he did with Cream. And Robert Johnson's "Ramblin' On My Mind" always was a highlight of his '70s live shows; it also helped introduce the semi-mythological blues giant to a vast audience. (Clapton released an entire album of Johnson songs, "Me and Mr. Johnson," in 2004.)

The only potential weak link of "Blues Breakers," if you want to call it that, is Ray Charles' "What'd I Say," which starts off hot enough but is interrupted by a lengthy Flint drum solo. Shades of what Clapton would face with Ginger Baker in Cream, apparently.

Mayall went on to make many fine albums afterward, including work with Peter Green, who went on to form Fleetwood Mac, and Mick Taylor, later of the Rolling Stones.

But "Blues Breakers" always will stand as his record that matters, thanks in no small part to the incendiary playing of young Mr. Clapton.

Herbie Hancock, "Head Hunters" (Columbia, 1973)

The worlds of jazz and rock converged in the late 1960s as a musical form called fusion, its origins usually attributed to Miles Davis and his groundbreaking "In a Silent Way" and "Bitches Brew" albums.

Shortly afterward, Davis' sidemen became the vanguard for the new sound: Tony Williams with his band, Lifetime; Joe Zawinul and Wayne Shorter with Weather Report; John McLaughlin with the Mahavishnu Orchestra (by way of Lifetime); and Chick Corea with Return to Forever.

Another of Miles' collaborators, keyboardist Herbie Hancock, already had attained a large degree of popularity as a solo artist by the time jazz musicians started exploring fusion. He was in his very early 20s when Mongo Santamaria scored a hit with a version of Herbie's song "Watermelon Man," and he continued to draw fan support on his own and with Miles throughout the '60s.

His recordings for Blue Note during that period evolved progressively to straddle the thin line between straight jazz and rock, and he finally crossed with his three albums with Warner Brothers from 1969 through 1971. His band cooked up a funky stew full of electronic sounds that seemed to herald a new direction for popular music.

Those efforts came to fruition with "Head Hunters," his second recording for Columbia, which pushed it to the upper reaches of the charts and made it the all-time top-selling jazz album for a spell. Actually, classifying it as "jazz" is a little misleading; it sounds more like what R&B should have evolved into as musicians became more aware of the sonic possibilities of their instruments. (For another fine example of music in a similar vein, check out George Clinton/Parliament/Funkadelic/P-Funk/etc.)

The centerpiece of "Head Hunters" is the 15-minute opener, "Chameleon," which is carried by an infection bass line and a melody consisting of just a few very well-placed notes, courtesy of Herbie and reed player Bennie Maupin. Following an extended jam featuring a host of otherworldly sounds, the tune careens into a bridge that serves as a showcase for Herbie's Fender Rhodes electric piano, buttressed by Paul Jackson's fluid bass playing. And then it's back to the main theme, featuring Maupin's sax soloing, before wrapping up proceedings.

A remake of "Watermelon Man" opens and closes with what Hancock refers to in the liner notes as "pygmy music," an idea of percussionist Bill Summers, featuring rhythmic souncs from reed-type instruments - a whole litany appears under Summers' name in the album's credits.

The other two songs on "Head Hunters," making up side two of the original LP, contrast one another. "Sly" - paying homage to one of Herbie's influences, Sly Stone - opens with an easygoing jam that melds into a frenzied percussive effort, with Maupin wailing away on soprano sax. After a short break, Hancock comes in with an extended display of Fender Rhodes virtuosity before the track returns briefly to its opening theme.

"Vein Melter" closes the album with a relaxed tempo throughout, with the mood enhanced by Hancock's work on the ARP synthesizers, evoking the aura of a string section.

Hancock and his band followed "Head Hunters" with the similar-in-concept "Thrust," another album that was well-received by critics and the record-buying public.

But fusion pretty much was reaching its peak at that time. By the late '70s, its often danceable rhythms had been supplanted by the mindless repetition of disco, and on the jazz side, a crew of newer musicians decided it would be best to stick with what worked back in the '50s. Even the top fusion practicioners eventually returned to a more traditional sound, Herbie Hancock (and Miles Davis) included.

That's a shame, but at least they left plenty of aural evidence from the late '60s and early '70s of the heights that could be reached by fusing jazz with rock.

Roy Buchanan, "That's What I Am Here For" (Polydor, 1974)

As a college freshman way back when, I thought I knew about all the hot-shot rock guitarists.

"Oh, yeah?" my friend Sonny told me. "Well, listen to this!"

He cued up a record by a guitarist I'd never heard of, pictured on the album cover as an older-looking guy with a goatee. The song he cued up was Billy Roberts' "Hey Joe," based on the familiar Hendrix arrangement, with the tempo slowed down from Jimi's version. The sound of the guitar rang through: a shriek, a wail, a fleet-fingered arpeggio. The familiar tale followed of the man who shot his woman down, sung with a world-weariness that totally suited the subject matter.

Then the dynamics picked up in intensity, with the backing band wailing away ... until it faded down and out of the mix, leaving only the lead guitarist. And he proceeded to display some fretboard gymnastics that caused my young jaw to drop, before the band faded back in to wrap up the song.

That was my introduction to the late Roy Buchanan, known in his lifetime as one of the world's great guitarists, but one who managed to escape the attention of the public at large. That's a shame, and it's a point of interest considering the lyrics to the title track of his third album for Polydor: "I'm really not looking for fame/That's not what I am here for."

"That's What I Am Here For" long has been regarded at Roy's stab at mainstream fame, mixing his background in straight blues with some R&B and material that could be considered almost pop. As such, his blues-oriented fans weren't very happy with the release. But today, it stands as one of his most well-balanced efforts.

The lead singer for most of the tracks is Pittsburgher Billy Price, best known around here for his later work with the Keystone Rhythm Band. His soul-tinged voice serves as a good vehicle for the more R&B-based numbers, although it sometimes seems to be a bit buried in the mix. (Hint: This album is due for a remastering and a reissue, as it currently seems to be available nowhere.)

The backing band ably supports Roy, especially keyboardist Dick Heintze (a veteran of Buchanan's earlier band the Snakestretchers), whose piano features prominently in many of the album's key spots. He also wrote the upbeat "Voices," a brief but rollicking number of social commentary: "A lot of talking, but nothing's being said."

All that being said, the primary focus of the album, understandably, is Buchanan setting his vintage Fender Telecaster ablaze. He makes a pronouncement early: After ripping through the album's opener, "My Baby Says She's Gonna Leave Me," Roy tacks on a solo coda in which he's all over the strings in a remarkable display.

He sings lead on "Hey Joe" and on the album's one straight blues number, "Roy's Bluz." He punctuates his tale of a bad woman with a two-and-a-half minute guitar burst that has to be heard to be believed.

For the album's closer, he draws on a gospel theme to back the melancholy tones of his guitar on a composition called "Nephesh." (In the Kabbalah, the nephesh is one of the three parts of the human soul.)

Roy Buchanan long has been a revered figure among guitar enthusiasts, but he hadn't achieved his deserved measure of fame as of his death in 1988.

I'm just glad that Sonny set me straight about one of the top players I've ever heard.

UFO, "Flying: The Early Years 1970-73" (Castle, 2004)

A Pittsburgh radio sports-talk host professes to be the world's biggest fan of the Anglo-(sometimes) Deutsch UFO. During his "ask anything" segments, I've called in to talk about the band and what it's up to, as was the case a few years ago, when I learned that veteran drummer Aynsley Dunbar had joined the fold.

We chatted a bit about Dunbar, and the conversation went well enough. But the next time I rang in, I asked the host what he thought about the original incarantion of UFO, which featured a guy named Mick Bolton - long before the better-known Michael Schenker joined - on guitar.

The host questioned my taste in music and told me never to call his show again.

I haven't.

My comments were hardly meant to place Bolton in the same league with the German-born Schenker, whose hard-hitting riffs are what propelled UFO to some measure of fame among heavy-metal fans. Rather, I simply wanted to point out that the band got its start deep in the heart of psychedelia. In fact, the group's name comes from London's famed psychedelic nightclub, the place where Pink Floyd first made a name for itself.

The Castle Music two-CD release compiles the three albums UFO made with Bolton, plus a little-heard single, between 1970 and '72. (Why the title says "'73" is anyone's guess.) Fans of the "classic" UFO lineup might disdain these early efforts, and with some modicum of reason: This was hardly the best that British rock had to offer. But it's often interesting to hear.

The band's first album, "UFO 1," sounds like it was made on a tight budget. The production leaves a lot to be desired, even when spiffed up for CD release. The mix is very inconsistent: for example, Pete Way's bass comes thundering up through the anti-war ballad "(Come Away) Melinda," while it's buried under the surface of a rather odd version of Bo Diddley's "Who Do You Love." On that song, which was covered by just about everyone in the late '60s, Bolton attempts a different approach with his guitar leads, veering off in an Eastern-influenced direction. It doesn't really work.

On an apparent attempt at social commentary called "Treacle People," Bolton's only solo composition in the entire proceedings, the song abruptly goes from stereo to mono, probably to accommodate a phase-shifting effect to give it a psychedelic conclusion. And throughout the first album, Phil Mogg's strident vocals appear to receive hardly any treatment or processing to take the edge off their relative harshness.

Drummer Andy Parker (who has returned to the fold in the 2006 version of UFO) seems to be the glue that holds the debut together, the highlights of which probably are a cover of Eddie Cochran's "C'Mon Everybody" and the original "Shake It About," which features Bolton's most competent guitar playing.

The second UFO album "Flying," is subtitled "One Hour Space Rock," and that's pretty much what the listener gets, give or take a few minutes. The sky/space theme shows up throughout the four elongated tracks represented, two of which are near or over the 20-minute mark.

The opener, "Silver Bird," is the best (and most concise) of the bunch, with a well-constructed riff - Bolton seems to have a much better grasp of what he's doing this time around - supporting Mogg's vocals, which are made much more palatable with an echo effect.

Another catchy riff propels "Star Storm," which veers off in a direction that makes the "space rock" label fit. As Way and Parker provide a steady rhythm, Bolton lays down an assortment of guitar effects, most prominently an echo device, that can sound fairly intense, considering that at times he seems to be doing nothing more than scratching the strings with his pick. Fans of Jimmy Page will note a similarity to that guitarist's freakouts on "Dazed and Confused" with the Yardbirds and Led Zeppelin.

Bolton's playing is at its most confident in the opening to "Price Kajuku," a song that's broken up to start on one side and finish on the other on the original LP. The second half, "The Coming of Prince Kajuku," is reminiscent of Pete Townshend's "Sparks" from the "Tommy" album.

The title track of "Flying" is 26 minutes long. That ought to be enough of an explanation.

The Castle set also includes a live album recorded in Japan. (The early UFO hit it big there when no one was paying attention in either Britain or the United States.) It offers little to distinguish itself from the studio versions of the five songs included.

Wrapping up the collection is a single, "Galactic Love" - apparently one last attempt at the "space rock" theme - and an intriguing cover of Paul Butterfield's bluesy "Lovin' Cup."

And that was it for the original UFO.

Even its long-standing members have expressed disdain for the early version of the band. The men responsible for such work as the classic hard-rockin' live album "Strangers in the Night" have good reason to feel that way.

But students of British rock will enjoy a interesting look at UFO as a bridge between '60s psychedelic music and '70s heavy metal.

The Moody Blues, "On the Threshold of a Dream" (Deram, 1969)

Back in the day, the Moody Blues represented something of a cross between really cool music and something that your parents might not object to hearing. The Moodys never seemed to get heavy enough to bother anyone of the other generation, but somehow it still sounded good to a listener who had just finished with, say, Led Zeppelin.

"On the Threshold of a Dream" represented the third album of the Moodys' "classic" lineup, the one that put the orchestra on "Days of Future Passed" and launched what we know as progressive rock. By the time of "Dream," the five members were playing their own instruments, Mike Pinder's mellotron work providing all the symphonic sounds needed.

My own introduction to the album came as a youngster at an older friend's house. He had an upscale sound system. The opening track, "In the Beginning," is one of the Moody's poetic forays, and this one makes full use of stereo, shifting between speakers as a poor soul ponders his reason for being, and a supernatural-sounding type gives him an answer, more or less. Heady stuff.

From there, the album launches into a series of Moody Blues-type atmospheric pieces, including the popular "Lovely to See You" and "Never Comes the Day." My favorite is the minor-key but upbeat "Dear Diary," featuring hazily processed vocals and some catchy Ray Thomas woodwinds.

The main reason for the album's being is the epic suite that closes it. "Are You Sitting Comfortably?" asks the musical question for what's to follow: the aptly named poem "The Dream" and two parts of the song "Have You Heard" sandwiching "The Voyage," an instrumental showcasing Pinder on the piano this time around. (Mike left the Moodys in the '70s, and they haven't been the same since.)

So relax, fire up some incense, and enjoy this particular voyage for 45 minutes or so. Now that you're as old as your parents were then, maybe you'll like it twice as much.

The Who, "Live at Leeds" (MCA, 1970)

The Who's fall from grace has been sad to see. Here's a band that once was spoken in the same breath with the really, really big boys: The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin These days, revisionists have seemed to have turned their backs on the creators of "Tommy," "Quadrophenia" and some of the most enduring material of the "classic rock" era.

The change in attitude apparently has come about because the surviving members have failed to put The Who to rest. That hardly seems fair, considering that the Stones, an even older band, continue to soldier on despite the loss of some original members. Then again, Mick & Keith never embarked on a heavily publicized "farewell tour," as The Who did in 1982. Critics scoffed when Pete Townshend, Roger Daltrey and John Entwistle came out of "retirement" to tour again seven years later. And they've been scoffing ever since, especially with John now gone and the surviving duo still billing themselves as The Who.

Another reason for the diminished stature is the supposition that the band should have folded after the death of drummer Keith Moon at age 32 in September 1978. True, replacing the world's greatest drummer was an impossible task, although former Small Faces/Faces stickman Kenney Jones filled in admirably, in the opinion of many fans. He wasn't Keith, though. And The Who's post-Moon albums, "Face Dances" and "It's Hard," are generally regarded as the weakest in the band's catalog.

Infinitely far more revered are the four albums released from 1969 through '73: "Tommy," "Live at Leeds," "Who's Next" and "Quadrophenia." The two rock operas on either end are fan favorites for different reasons: "Tommy" because of its groundbreaking presentation and overall popularity, "Quadrophenia" because of its overall stronger set of tunes. And "Who's Next" shows up on many a list as the greatest rock album ever. With it boasting songs like "Baba O'Riley," "Bargain," "My Wife," "Behind Blue Eyes" and especially "Won't Get Fooled Again," you'll get no argument here.

"Live at Leeds" is the anomaly in the band's streak of concept albums ("Who's Next" originally was going to be a rock opera called "Lifehouse") during that period. The Who was one of those split-personality groups that had distinctively different studio and live sounds. The performing side was loud, raucous and incendiary (sometimes literally) - with its power-trio basis and ear-splitting volume, The Who is considered one of the early practitioners of what became heavy metal.

In its original six-song incarnation, "Live at Leeds" paints a picture of The Who that's at odds with the finely crafted approach of its immediate LP predecessors, "Tommy" and the singles collection "Meaty, Beaty, Big and Bouncy." Townshend, Entwistle and Moon positively roar their way through the Leeds University set, even on an ostensibly easier-listening track like "Substitute" (a superior, though shorter, version compared with the 1966 single). Daltrey, too, shows why he's regarded as one of rock's most powerful vocalists, his bellowing on Mose Allison's "Young Man Blues" rivaling his legendary scream toward the end of "Won't Get Fooled Again."

The cover version of Eddie Cochran's "Summertime Blues" is a masterpiece, and shows how far the band has progressed in just a few years; listen to it side-by-side with the tentative versions on the "Monterey Pop" boxed set or the studio version on the updated "Odds and Sods." And the interpretation of Johnny Kidd & the Pirates' "Shakin' All Over" features some playing by Townshend that shows why he's still regarded as one of rock's top guitarists.

The second side of the original LP contains elongated versions of the two of the band's most popular singles, "My Generation" and "Magic Bus." The former actually is a medley that contains some snippets from "Tommy," as well as plenty of improvisation. It sets the table for the album's highlight.

The live "Magic Bus" transforms a rather lightweight song into a monster, especially when Moon's drums kick in with a truly ferocious display of what he was all about: When talk turns to power drumming, you need to listen no further. With Daltrey wailing away on harmonica, the quartet jells in a way that can be appreciated fully with the volume turned up as far as it will go.

Latter-day releases of "Live at Leeds" on CD have added a wealth of material to the original, beefing up to a pair of discs for the latest iteration. The real treat comes right off the bat with the set opener, John's "Heaven and Hell," a gem that was buried on a Who B-side for decades before emerging fully in the days of boxed sets and expanded reissues. (A darker-toned, slower-tempo version also appears on John's debut solo album, the exceptional "Smash Your Head Against the Wall.")

If you want to hear three of rock's greatest musicians - they don't come any better than Entwistle on bass, either - and one of its greatest singers together at their peak, this is the place to listen.

Keller & the Keels, "Grass" (KW Enterprises, 2006)

Interpreting other artists' work is a tricky proposition. Play it straight, and the listener might wonder why you bothered copying the original. Stray too far off the known path and risk the question: What were they thinking?

Keller & the Keels - that's guitarist Keller Williams with couple Jenny and Larry Keel, on standup bass and acoustic guitar, respectively - tackle the work of some "classic rock" titans, giving it a decidedly bluegrass slant, for roughly half the content of their collaboration, "Grass." And the results are quite interesting.

Grateful Dead fans will recognize two of the band's songs. Bluegrass interpretations of the Dead are nothing new; several albums have been recorded purely in that vein. Plus, Jerry Garcia dabbled in the genre, heavily at times, throughout his whole professional career.

But Keller & the Keels add some interesting twists. The minor-key "Loser," for example, begins and ends with excerpts from a completely different song that happens to share the same title, by Beck: "I'm a loser, baby, so why don'tcha kill me?" Hearing one "Loser" segue into the other gives the listener a chuckle, but it also works effectively.

The Dead's "Dupree's Diamond Blues" is more true to the original, which adapts itself well to a bluegrass motif, considering that lyricist Robert Hunter borrowed much of the content from earlier folk songs.

Keller & the Keels also cover two of Tom Petty's most enduring tunes in a medley called "Mary Jane's Last Breakdown." The result is somewhat of a mixed bag. While the playing and singing are superb, and the transitional element works fine, the trio takes the minor-key "Mary Jane's Last Dance" at a rapid pace, which sort of diminishes the dramatic impact of the stop-start cadence of Petty's original. Perhaps it takes a few listens to get used to the change.

The disc's real ear-opener is a rendition of Roger Waters' "Another Brick in the Wall." Bluegrass Pink Floyd? You have to love it, especially the way it's executed here: Jenny's steady bass manages to evoke the bombastic elements of the original in a much more subued manner, allowing the guitarists to create interesting acoustic textures throughout. And the lyrics seem just as relevant without all the sound effects and disco beats, even though Keller sings them out of sequence, with Part 3 coming in between Parts 1 and 2. No quibbling, though: "How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?" seems like an appropriate way to wrap up the proceedings.

Along with the better-known songs, the trio also covers compositions by Tim Bluhm and Jeff Austin, and Keller contributes three rather irreverent originals. Those include the album's opener, "Goof Balls," a nod to the substances truckers are said to put in their bodies when they hit the open road. Lines like "Hepped up on goof balls, hauling the motherlode" are indicative of the theme.

"Grass" continues Keller's tradition of one-word titles for his albums, and he has another one planned called "Youth," targeted for this fall. Among his collaborators: Bob Weir (Grateful Dead, Ratdog), Victor Wooten (Bela Fleck & the Flecktones), guitar virtuosos Steve Kimock and Charlie Hunter, John Molo (Phil Lesh & Friends), Martin Sexton and members of the String Cheese Incident.

Now, that sounds interesting.

PS - Catch Keller & the Keels March 29 at Mr. Smalls in Millvale.

Shawn Mullins, "9th Ward Pickin' Parlor" (Vanguard, 2006)

The folks at Vanguard Records seems to be excited about the venerable label's first release by singer/songwriter/guitarist Shawn Mullins. And a listen to "9th Ward Pickin' Parlor" gives good reasons why.

The album showcases Mullins' ability to draw on his roots in folk and country while integrating other musical influences. The result is a stylistic mixture, from the laid-back opener "Blue As You" to the anthemic "Faith" to the stark, unadorned "Kelly's Song" - all pulled together by Mullins' consistently strong arrangements, not to mention his vocal abilities.

For fans of the "newgrass" group Nickel Creek, mandolinst Chris Thile plays on a cut, "Homemade Wine," a very atmospheric, minor-key piece serving as an appropriate vehicle for lyrics like: "And she might think that I'm coming back to hold her close and stop her cryin'/But this freight train's traveling down a southbound track full of broken dreams and homemade wine."

"Beautiful Wreck," the album's single, is co-written with Toad the Wet Sprocket alumnus Glen Phillips, who's carved out a well-regarded solo career. The country-flavored tune includes a chorus with which many listeners can identify: "At the dark end of the bar, what a beautiful wreck you are."

One of my favorite songs on the album is "Cold Black Heart," which combines the traditional "Shady Grove" theme (musically and lyrically) with a driving percussive beat, producing sort of a world-music version of folk - especially with Mullins playing the charango, a 10-stringed Bolivian instrument I've never heard of before. Also featured on the song is Shawn's primary collaborator on the album, Mike West, on banjo.

West had played on a previous Mullins release, "Soul's Core," and this time around Shawn decided to record at Mike's studio: the 9th Ward Pickin' Parlor, in the heart of New Orleans.

"The Pickin' Parlor stood about one block from the Industrial Canal in a 100-year-old shotgun house," Mullins says in his press release accompanying the new disc. "I tracked about half the album there, mostly the acoustic cuts. And like the rest of the record, I aimed for that 'old school' vibe. No loops or samples, live instruments only. If a note isn't perfect but the overall performance is there, that's what we kept."

Midway through work on the album, Hurricane Katrina put an end to the 9th Ward Pickin' Parlor, while West was on the road with his band, Truckstop Honeymoon. The studio since has relocated to the higher elevation of Lawrence, Kan.

Along with his solo work, Mullins has collaborated with Matthew Sweet and Peter Droge (who co-wrote "Blue As You" with him) in a project called the Thorns, which released an album on Columbia, "The Sunset Sessions."


Enthusiasts of acoustic music will enjoy Shawn Mullins' latest offering, which is in keeping with Vanguard's tradition of exploring the rootsier side of the American soundscape.