I spent a good bit of Saturday (morning through early evening!) checking out the bands at the Rock Off during Peters Township Community Day. I had the camera going a good bit of the time and picked out some shots that don't look to bad. I didn't shoot all the bands that played that day, but I got most of 'em.

More photos from Saturday's jam at Peterswood Park.

Among the acts at this year's Pittsburgh Blues Festival is one of the legendary rock bands: the Yardbirds. The band's roots go all the way back to 1963, when a handful of youngsters across the Atlantic - John Mayall, who's closing the festival, was another - started to introduce the American music form of the blues to their country. The rest, as they say, was history.

Granted, the three guitarists for which the Yardbirds are best known - Clapton, Beck and Page - will be nowhere near Hartwood Acres on July 23. But original members Chris Dreja and Jim McCarty will be ably complemented by some younger musicians who show on the band's latest release, "Birdland," that they can handle the duties of playing in a legendary act.

I'm looking forward to seeing and hearing what the 21st-century version of the Yardbirds has to offer.

Now I've done it.

Tickets are on the way for Ozzfest 2006, the annual heavy-metal extravaganza that's bulldozing its way to Star Lake on July 18. I've made arrangements to take the day off work and spend 12 hours or so adding to the permanent damage to my eardrums. (They never did recover from Ted Nugent in '79). I'm not particularly confident that the industrial-strength earplugs I plan to buy will help stave off impending deafness.

Let's see ... whose presence will I be treated to that day? Well, I recognize Ozzy Osbourne. He sang with a band called Earth in the late '60s. (Look it up.) As far as the rest of these acts ... System of a Down. Avenged Sevenfold. Hatebreed. Disturbed.

Not exactly the Sunshine Daydream festival.

So, what malady has prompted this act of masochism?

I've been under the weather lately, I'll admit, but the answer is simply that I'm fulfilling a birthday request. A dad has to do what he has to do sometimes. So I'll make the best of it and enjoy ... well, maybe Ozzy'll bite head off something.

Actually, the son I'm taking to the festival is a big fan of one of the acts, Lacuna Coil. He often pops a Lacuna Coil CD into the car player when I'm giving him a ride, and to tell the truth, it's very listenable, not nearly as heavy as what you'd expect with Ozzfest.

Plus, judging from the CD cover, the female lead singer is good-looking. So I'll enjoy Lacuna Coil, even if no one bites the head off anything.

Various artists, "The Monterey International Pop Festival" (Rhino, 1992)

Watching the video depiction of 1967's Monterey International Pop Festival, now available in expanded three-DVD form, is an experience of mixed emotions.

It's great to see so many of the performers who form the nucleus of "classic rock" gathered in one place, playing for an audience of young people who seem to truly appreciate what's transpiring before them.

But it's depressing to think about how many of those musicians, then in their prime, no longer are with us. Likewise, it's a bit unnerving to look at the folks in the audience, the archeyptal "hippies," and realize the ones who still are around either are past 60 or are nearing it quickly.

Let's dwell on the positives and go back 39 years today, when the festival opened with The Association playing its hit "Along Comes Mary."

Following an introduction by chief festival organizer John Phillips, that song also kicks off the four-disc "Monterey International Pop Festival" boxed set that Rhino Records released in 1992, the 25th anniversary of the event.

Prior to that, recorded material from the festival was sparse, limited primarily to an LP of the performance by Phillips' band, the Mamas and the Paps, and another record that featured the Jimi Hendrix Experience on one side and Otis Redding on the other. The Rhino collection offers performances by 20 out of the 32 acts at Monterey, providing a tremendous overview of what the festival had to offer.

Some of the performances quickly turned into legend: Pete Townshend smashing his guitar, Jimi Hendrix torching his, Janis Joplin belting out the blues like no one since Bessie Smith. Others belonged firmly in their time and place, like Eric Burdon's "San Fransciscan Nights" and Scott McKenzie's "San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Some Flowers in Your Hair)."

And some didn't even made it to CD or DVD. The Grateful Dead opened it set with "Viola Lee Blues," which reportedly went on so long that the crews ran out of film during the song.

One of the more interesting portions of the CD collection is the set by the Byrds, with David Crosby rambling somewhat incoherently between songs, most notably about his conspiracy theories involving President Kennedy. Fellow Byrd Roger McGuinn apparently didn't take too kindly to the remarks, and Crosby was out of the band a short time later.

No mention of Monterey would be complete without mention of Otis Redding, who stole the show on sheer vocal power during a set that lasted less than half an hour. His performance brought him to the attention of the rock mainstream, and he was in position to make it to the top, as he did when his song "Dock of the Bay" reached No. 1 the following year.

By that time, though, Otis was gone, in a plane crash in December 1967, along with several members of the Mar-Keys, who also performed at Monterey. They were the first of a long list of festival performers who have passed on, but thanks to projects like the Rhino CD and DVD collections, they'll stay with us for as long as we want them.

RIP (partial list):

Michael Bloomfield (1943-81), Paul Butterfield (1942-87), John Cipollina (1943-89), Michael Clarke (1946-93), Brian Cole (1942-72), Spencer Dryden (1938-2005), Cass Elliott (1941-74), John Entwistle (1944-2002), Jerry Garcia (1942-95), Jimi Hendrix (1942-70), Bob Hite (1945-81), Al Jackson Jr. (1935-75), Janis Joplin (1943-70), Ron "Pigpen" McKernan (1945-73), Keith Moon (1946-78), Laura Nyro (1947-97), John Phillips (1935-2001), Lou Rawls (1933-2006), Noel Redding (1945-2003), Otis Redding (1941-67), Alexander "Skip" Spence (1947-99), Henry Vestine (1944-98), Alan Wilson (1943-70).

Jefferson Airplane, "Long John Silver" (Grunt, 1972)

Grace Slick always provided much of the star power for Jefferson Airplane, and for good reason. Take a look at photographs of her circa 1967, and you'll know why she was popular among young male listeners in particular.

Musically, Grace always shared the spotlight with her bandmates. Yes, she was the lead vocalist for the Airplane's two megahits, "Somebody to Love" and "White Rabbit." But she usually wrote about two songs per album in the band's heyday, giving Paul Kantner, Marty Balin and Jorma Kaukonen an opportunity to feature their contributions as well.

It wasn't until Jefferson Airplane's final studio album, "Long John Silver," that Grace stepped to the forefront, writing or co-writing five of the nine songs. That should have been good news for fans who enjoyed hearing her voice.

For the most part, it wasn't.

When co-founder Balin left the band abruptly following his friend Janis Joplin's death in 1970, his departure left a creative void that the remaining members had a difficult time filling. The following year's effort, "Bark," appeared to be less of a cohesive work than product to help launch the Airplane's own record label, Grunt. Then came "Long John Silver," recorded at a time when band members, as they'll admit, were pretty much going through the motions.

Slick always dealt in abstract lyrics - her most direct song, "Somebody to Love," actually was written by her brother-in-law, Darby Slick - and her compositions on "Long John Silver" for the most part follow the pattern. Perhaps the title track, apparently about the "Treasure Island" pirate, comes close to telling a coherent story: "Does the same thing that his father did, sailing around the Caribbean/Robbing king with his talking parrot, this time I think he's on the high side." Well, part of that seems coherent.

Then there's "Eat Starch Mom," a heavy-metal romp with music (and nonsensical title) by Kaukonen, that seems to be about a gearhead who doesn't like vegetarians. And "Aerie (Gang of Eagles)" just might address the plight of the then-endangered species against those who "can't fly ... without a rifle on your shelf."

One of the liveliest tunes on the album is "Milk Train," with the melody by way of Papa John Creach's spirited violin playing; by this time, the elderly gentleman was a full-fledged member of the psychedelic hippie band. A bringdown, on the other hand, is Grace's "Easter?", in which she attacks Pope Paul VI by name, causing great anxiety for executives at RCA Victor, the distributor for Grunt.

The execs really objected, though, to Kantner's "Son of Jesus," a song that was bound to be a source of controversy by its title alone. Paul was pressured to change one line, a conjecture about Jesus that seemed particularly blasphemous in its original form. (At least it made sense. The edited version does not.)

Kaukonen contributed just one solo composition, "Trial By Fire," that sounds like it would fit right in with "Burgers," the album he, Creach and Airplane bassist Jack Casady recorded as Hot Tuna at around the same time. Although it's a superior recording to "Long John Silver," "Burgers" climbed only to No. 68 on the charts.

The Jefferson Airplane offering hit the Top 20 and earned the band a gold record, proving that consumers tend to go for a name brand.

Or maybe they went for the gimmicky packaging of "Long John Silver": The cover of the original LP folds into the shape of a cigar box - although the substance to be smoked might not necessarily be tobacco, if the inside photograph of cannabis buds is any indicator.

Because of a combination of factors - the cover, the controversial subject matter and/or the generally lackluster quality of the album - "Long John Silver" went out of print shortly after its initial release. RCA has committed it to CD as part of an overall Jefferson Airplane reissue series in the mid-'90s, but fans would be better off sticking with the band's late-'60s output than listening to what it had to offer as it stumbled toward the finish line.

Jimi Hendrix, "Crash Landing" (Reprise, 1975)

No artist's musical legacy has been mined and contorted quite as much as James Marshall Hendrix, who left so much material in the can when he died that it continues to emerge 36 years later.

Recent releases from Experience Hendrix LLC, the family-run entity that holds the rights to his music, have been presented in basically their raw form. "Live at the Isle of Fehmarn," for example, is a document of Jimi's final concert, and it's far removed from what you'd considered a polished sound.

That suits most Hendrix enthusiasts just fine, as they'd much rather hear a low-fidelity recording than some of the stuff that's been perpetrated in Jimi's name over the years.

In 1975, Alan Douglas - Hendrix's producer at the time at his death - committed what many still consider the ultimate sacrilege when he put together an album for Reprise Records called "Crash Landing." Douglas took Jimi's unfinished tracks and embellished them with over-the-top sound effects and/or new accompaniment by studio musicians whom Hendrix never had met.

The result, according to the liner notes on Reprise's CD reissue, "was a seamless blend of original and updated material ... an enduring testament to the genius of Jimi Hendrix."

Either that, or it was a good way to cash in on his legacy.

At least two songs on "Crash Landing" are somewhat legitimate. "Message to Love" and "With the Power" are better known for their appearances on the live album "Band of Gypsys," and the same rhythm section, Billy Cox on bass and Buddy Miles on drums, plays on these recordings. But for some reason, Douglas chose to embellish the opening of the former with a percussionist playing a loud wooden block; on the latter, he has a field day with studio effects, panning guitars and voices all over the stereo mix.

Those two tracks at least maintain their integrity to a degree. The rest of the album pretty much grafts Jimi's vocal and guitar tracks onto playing by studio pros who do a competent enough job but seem to lack the spirit of musicians who actually interacted with a living, breathing Jimi.

The liner notes' reference to a "seamless blend" is ludicrous, as listening to the CD through a pair of cheap headphones clearly reveals the sonic differences between the actual Hendrix tracks and the parts recorded half a decade later. Douglas did his best to compensate by employing whatever trickery he could think of, but his efforts weren't quite enough to qualify as "seamless."

The most egregious example is a song titled "Stone Free Again," which appears to be Jimi's vocal from the original "Stone Free" accompanied by a slickly polished backing track. Granted, the sound quality of the 1966 version - Jimi's first solo songwriting composition, and the B-side to his first single, "Hey Joe" - is decidedly primitive, as the vocal track shows. But it's a lot more listenable than the Douglas update.

Other songs suffer along similar lines. The title track features a higher-quality Hendrix vocal, but it's marred by other voices - namely, three ladies who attempt to add a touch of ersatz soul. "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," an alternate version of "Earth Blues," is drenched in so much echo and reverb to render it almost unlistenable despite the worthiness of the composition.

The most interesting song on "Crash Landing" is the set closer. "Captain Coconut" appears to have started life as nothing more than Jimi messing around with his Stratocaster and some effects pedals, playing some Spanish-style riffs before Cox breaks in with a bass riff as Hendrix continues his experimentation. Douglas embellished this only by adding percussion.

Despite its questionable pedigree, "Crash Landing" hit No. 5 on the charts and led to a similar project, "Midnight Lightning," the following year. The record-buying public must have wised up by then, the follow-up stalled at No. 43.

These days, copies of "Crash Landing," are not that easy to find, as the album looks to stay perpetually out of print now that Experience Hendrix has control of Jimi's catalog. To many of his fans, that's just as well.

Talking Heads, "Fear of Music" (Sire, 1979)

Folks who grew up on the sounds of the '60s sometimes had a bit of trouble warming up to the music of the following decade.

In the '70s, many people seemed to be more interested in hearing something they could dance to, without any regard for the relative merit of the songs. The result, to the chagrin of many, was the proliferation of disco.

On the other side of the musical spectrum was the "new wave," as it came to be known, featuring peformers who looked and sounded absolutely nothing like the shaggy-maned types who had come to personify rock music.

During the latter part of the '70s, David Byrne was a prime example of a rock star who looked nothing like a rock star: With his closely cropped hair, he could've passed for one of those guys who sat around formatting computer punchcards all day.

His band also took a much different approach from the blues-boogie-bombast that had electrified everyone in the '60s. Talking Heads featured a very spare instrumental sound, with the focal point being Byrne's quirky vocal delivery of his even quirkier lyrics.

The group's first two albums, "Talking Heads '77" and "More Songs About Buildings and Food," followed that general template. Along the way, the band started to gain a bit more recognition than many of its "new wave" brethren, with a minor hit from the first album, "Psycho Killer," followed by a Top 30 placing from the second, a cover of soul crooner Al Green's "Take Me to the River."

Talking Heads meanwhile had crossed paths with the similarly idiosyncratic Brian Eno, the ambient music pioneer who had forsaken a spot as Roxy Music's keyboard player for more esoteric pursuits. Fresh off a collaboration with David Bowie that now is regarded as the some of the latter's most adventurous material, Eno crossed the Atlantic to work with Byrne and his New York-based group.

The partnership reached its zenith, by most accounts, with the 1980 album "Remain In Light," which combines Talking Heads' original vision with Eno's electronic textures and the band's explorations of World Music, a venture many others were quick to follow.

Before "Remain In Light" came the album that laid the groundwork.

For some fans, "Fear of Music" is every bit the classic as its more celebrated successor, combining Byrne's skillfully crafted songs with all kinds of bold sonic maneuvering, adding up to a thoroughly engaging listening experience throughout.

The '60s music acolytes may have been put off by the tracks on the album that received airplay, especially "Life During Wartime," which made the lower reaches of the charts. The tune moves along to disco-like beat; then again, as the chorus mentions, "this ain't no disco." You may have been able to dance to the song, but lyrically, it was far removed from "We Are Familly": Byrne paints an extremely bleak picture about survival when the insurgency hits ... where? How about, as he mentions in the song, "Pittsburgh, PA."

Two other tracks showed up as British singles:

* "I Zimbra" is the band's full-throttle dive into World Music, with the band taking a polyrhythmic approach that had rarely been heard in rock music previously. Chris Frantz's drums drive the song, aided by Gene Wilder (hey, that's what the album credits say) on congas. And if the instrumental undercurrent sounds a lot like the sound King Crimson developed in the '80s, that's because Crimson guitarist Robert Fripp plays on the track.

* "Cities" is another danceable track, featuring Byrne's rather warped travelogue: "Did I forget to mention, forget to mention Memphis/Home of Elvis and the ancient Greeks." The abrupt shift to a minor key makes the song's chorus one to remember.

The other songs on "Fear of Music" explore several different textures, from the lighter "Mind" and "Heaven" to the heavier "Memories Can't Wait" and electric guitar to the ethereal "Air," with guest Julie Last's backing vocals setting the mood for a cautionary tale about our atmosphere: "What is happening to my skin? Where's the protection that I needed?"

The album reaches a stunning conclusion with "Drugs," a dark, lurching number carried by Eno's suitably spooky keyboards. This cautionary tale should have been adopted by anti-drug zealots, as it paints a harrowing picture of substance abuse: "And all I see is little dots/Some are smeared and some are spots/Feels like murder but that's all right/Somebody said there's too much light/Pull down the shade and it's all right/It'll be over in a minute or two."

Just say no ...

"Fear of Music" nearly hit the Top 20, a plateau Talking Heads would cross on their final five studio albums before parting ways after 1988's "Naked." Byrne's three bandmates - Frantz, bassist Tina Weymouth and multi-instrumentalist Jerry Harrison - reunited in 1996 under the name Heads, but fans still are waiting for a full-fledged reunion of one of the most important bands of the 1970s and '80s.

And that includes some people who usually swear by '60s music.

The Small Faces, "Ogden's Nut Gone Flake" (Immediate, 1968)

The folks who stocked record shelves found themselves in a bit of a pickle with the new Small Faces record in 1968. The cover of the "Ogden's Nut Gone Flake" LP is a blast of creativity, made to resemble a tobacco tin - right down to the round shape of the cardboard. As a result, the album tended to roll around quite a bit more than the standard square design.

While the cover served as either a headache or conversation piece, depending on your point of view, the real story was the music within. The Small Faces did a tremendous job in capturing the spirit of their time and place, London of the late '60s, while developing one of the first rock operas, a spirited tale that takes up the original LP's second side.

The Small Faces had been among the top bands in England since scoring some hit singles in 1965. Stylistically, the band bore a strong resemblance to what The Who was playing at the time, a version of American R&B inflused with the "mod" posturings that were popular in London at the time. Some say that the Small Faces had a leg up on The Who at the beginning, with Steve Marriott's raw-throated vocals more suited to the style than Roger Daltrey's.

Despite the success in their home country, the Small Faces were practically unknown on this side of the Atlantic until 1967, when the single "Itchycoo Park" hit the Top 20. The song, with its care-free lyrics and phase-shifted studio effects, was perfectly suited to the prevailing atmosphere of the time, but it represented a major stylistic departure from the band's roots.

The psychedelic overtones of "Itchycoo" and the album on which it appears, released in the United States as "There Are But Four Small Faces," reached fruition on the followup, that record in the weird round sleeve.

"Ogden's Nut Gone Flake" is divided into neat halves, with conventional-length songs on the first side and the suite on the second. The more concise tunes run the gamut from the title track, an intricately arranged instrumental that opens the album, to the pure whimsy of "Lazy Sunday": "I've got no mind to worry, close my eyes and drift away."

Along the way are some real gems, including keyboardist Ian McLagan's surreal "Long Agos and Worlds Apart" and the proto-metal "Song of a Baker," written by Marriott and bass player Ronnie Lane. Then there's "Rene," the bawdy tale of a dockside prostitute that evolves into a harmonica-driven blues jam.

For an even more involved tale, flip the record to the second side, which features six songs that tell the story of Happiness Stan and his quest to find the other half of the moon, riding a giant fly and meeting a wise old madman along the way. A guest narrator, Stanley Unwin, ties the proceedings together in a suitably bizarre cockney dialect, while the songs themselves represent another variety of influences. Some musical highlights within include "Rollin' Over," a driving jam that opened many Small Faces concerts of the period; "The Journey," a cerebral adventure that predates the Moody Blues' better-known "The Voyage" by a year; and the haunting folk-rock of "Mad John."

The album concludes on a decidedly upbeat note with "Happy Days Toy Town," a sing-along that offers this sage commentary: "Life is just a bowl of All Bran/You wake up every morning, and it's there."

The "Happiness Stan" portion of "Odgen's Nut Gone Flake" represents one of three rock operas that appeared in 1968 and '69, along with the Pretty Things' "S.F. Sorrow" and, of course, The Who's "Tommy." The Small Facess' effort is the most fun to listen to, by far.

But that was about it from the band. Marriott departed not long after "Ogden's" release, forming Humble Pie with a teenager named Peter Frampton. The other three Small Faces - Lane, McLagan and drummer Kenney Jones - hooked up with a pair of refugees from the Jeff Beck Group, Rod Stewart and Ron Wood, and dropped the "Small" from the group name.

And the record label that released "Ogden's," Immediate, went belly-up, leading to the album's reissue countless times by various companies, some of questionable quality.

In the age of compact disc, the album has been restored to its sonic fullness, giving listeners an opportunity to hear all the subtle nuances present, especially within the "Happiness Stan" saga.

But the CD packaging is rectangular, just like all the others. It's not 1968 anymore, after all.

RIP: Steve Marriott (1947-91), Ronnie Lane (1946-97)

The Flying Burrito Bros., "The Gilded Palace of Sin" (A&M, 1969)

Fans of the Byrds who had enjoyed the band's harmony-driven mixture of folk and rock were thrown a curve with the 1968 release of "Sweetheart of the Rodeo."

From the opening notes of the lively cover of Bob Dylan's "You Ain't Goin' Nowhere," the album plunges straight into territory that sounded more at home on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry than the band's regular stomping grounds of Southern California. In fact, the Byrds took a turn (albeit a rather ill-received one) at the fabled country music venue shortly after the album's release.

The stylistic shift can best be explained by the departure of David Crosby and the musical interests of his replacement. Gram Parsons came to the Byrds from a group called the International Submarine Band, which had fallen apart after recording one album, the barely noticed "Safe At Home." What the recording lacked in sales, it made up for with innovation: It's generally regarded as the start of country rock, the genre that later proliferated with top acts like the Eagles.

Even though he was brand-new to the Byrds, Gram managed to steer the rest of the band (by that time, Roger McGuinn and Chris Hillman were the only remaining original members from three years previously) into testing the country-rock waters, and the result is what many consider to be the band's finest moment. That didn't translate to the charts, though, as "Sweetheart" stalled at No. 77.

Parsons didn't last much longer in the Byrds, parting ways after a British tour. Various sources have him either refusing to play scheduled concerts in South Africa or wanting to stick around in England and hang out with the Rolling Stones, or a combination of the two. What is certain is that Gram didn't need the money; he could always tap the trust fund set up for him as a member of the well-to-do Snively family, citrus-growing kingpins of Winter Haven, Fla.

His financial resources helped him launch his next project, the Flying Burrito Bros. He drafted Hillman, who'd bailed out of the birds, along with former bandmate Chris Ethridge and a well-regarded pedal steel guitar player (and award-winning animator) known as "Sneeky" Pete Kleinow. The result was a more fully realized version of the style of music Parsons had pioneered with the International Submarine Band, and the Burritos' debut album serves as a stellar document of his vision.

Both the title and cover art of "The Gilded Palace of Sin" suggest a bunch of guys who are determined to bring down civilization as we know it. Check out the cannabis sativa design on Gram's custom-tailored suit, or the two lady-of-the-night types who appear to be ready for who knows what with the band.

But much of the music sounds surprisingly mellow, as Parsons capitalizes on his strongest asset: his heart-melting voice. Exhibit No. 1 is "Hot Burrito #1," a song he co-wrote with Ethridge about seeing a first love with someone else. "He may feel all your charms, he may hold you in his arms/But I'm the one who let you in, I was right beside you then" - listen to that, and see if it doesn't bring back memories of that girl who got away.

"Hot Burrito #2" (gotta love those song titles) is a bit peppier, with Pete's virtuoso playing helping drive another love song that seems to be a bit more optimistic, but still carries some ominous undertones: "And you won't be home all night, and you don't want another fight/But you'd better love me."

The title of the album is drawn from what probably is the best-known Burritos song, "Sin City," a warning about the dangers of an unnamed metropolis (which really was Los Angeles). The lyrics just might have served as inspiration for the original "Walking Tall": "A friend came around, tried to clean up this town/His ideas made some people mad." Watch the movie and see for yourself.

The opening track, "Christine's Tune," is of some historical significance: Parsons and Hillman wrote it about the late Christine Frka, a member of the GTOs, the all-female band (using that term loosely) recorded by Frank Zappa around 1969. The song is better known today by the alternative title "Devil in Disguise," the operative phrase of the catchy chorus.

A couple of covers, "Do Right Woman" and "Dark End of the Street," serve as showcases for Parsons' vocals. Three other originals - "Wheels," "Juanita" and "Do You Know How It Feels" - further the band's cause of melding country and rock.

"The Gilded Palace of Sin" also include a couple of late-'60s period pieces. The humorous "My Uncle" tells of what happens when the singer receives a letter from his draft board, causing him to muse that "Vancouver might be just my kind of town." And the closing number, "Hippie Boy," is mostly an oratory about an incident at the 1968 Democratic convention, with a whole bevy of folks joining in for the final chorus in a suitable display of anarchy.

Like "Safe at Home" and "Sweetheart of the Rodeo," the Burritos' debut failed to set the charts on fire, and the band managed to squander lots of A&M Records' cash during a less-than-successful followup tour. The band's highest-profile gig was at the Altamont racetrack in December 1969; fortunately, the Burritos played before the free concert deteriorated into violence and murder, as documented in the Maysles Brothers' harrowing "Gimme Shelter."

Parsons split from the Burritos the following year, around the release of "Burrito Deluxe," an album that has its moments - including a gorgeous version of the Stones' "Wild Horses" - but as a whole, doesn't stack up to "Gilded Palace." The rest of the band stuck together for a while, split up, re-formed and continued that pattern for decades, probably to this day.

As for Gram Parsons, a brief solo career and early death awaited. But that deserves its own story.

Stalk-Forrest Group, "St. Cecilia: The Elektra Recordings" (Rhino Handmade, 2001)

For the casual music fan, the story of Blue Oyster Cult begins in 1976, the year the oddly named band hit the Top 15 with "(Don't Fear) The Reaper," a throwback to '60s psychedelia that nevertheless managed to climb charts that were becoming overrun with disco.

The real story starts a decade before that, when a couple of aspiring musicians named Donald Roeser and Albert Bouchard formed a band to play the hits of the day. Their music took a sharp left turn after they started collaborating with a pair of writers for a fledgling magazine called Crawdaddy. Sandy Pearlman and Richard Meltzer also liked to write lyrics - obtuse, seemingly randomly selected patterns of words - that lent itself to the more experimental attitude of the late '60s.

Eventually, a lineup solidified around Roeser, Bouchard, keyboardist Allen Lanier and bass player Andrew Winters, with the band taking the name Soft White Underbelly, Meltzer and Pearlman supplying the lyrics. Who was singing the words was somewhat of a crapshoot; a Jim Morrison somewhat-alike named Mark Braunstein filled the bill long enough for the Underbelly to draw the attention of Elektra Records, which also happened to be the label of Morrison's Doors.

The rest of the band didn't quite see eye-to-eye with Braunstein, and when he departed, the Soft White boys decided to give road manager Eric Bloom a try at the microphone. Then came a name change, to Oaxaca (maybe they also considered Michouacan?), and a recording session in New York City. Things didn't go well there, and another session took place in Los Angeles in early 1970, followed by yet another name change, to Stalk-Forrest Group.

Most of the music on those two sessions didn't see the light of day until three decades later, when the speciality label Rhino Handmade issued them under the Stalk-Forest name for an album called "St. Cecilia: The Elektra Recordings." The limited-edition CD offers a fascinating listen to a band in transition, more in line with the free-form music of the '60s than they heavier material it would record the following year after changing the name one more time, to Blue Oyster Cult.

Only one of the Oaxaca/Stalk-Forrest songs, "I'm On the Lamb," would surface with BOC, on its debut album and later as a reworked version called "The Red and the Black." The rest of the songs faded into obscurity, which might not be that surprising: Lyrically, they're far from accessible, even considering the era in which they were recorded. Consider these words in the "St. Cecilia" opener, "What Is Quickand?":

"Right back in Tokyo/ With a tough encircled hand/Thousand vultures smokio/Cigareet with a seegar band."

Guess you had to be there ...

The overall sound isn't far removed from the early Blue Oyster Cult recordings, though not quite as heavy and leaning more toward the improvisational bands on which Soft White Underbelly had built somewhat of a reputation. The best of those are on the compilation's two longest songs, "A Fact About Sneakers" and the title track. Both feature the usual nonsensical lyrics - "Sneakers" at one point references the British band Spooky Tooth - before careening into instrumental breaks that are based on a single chord. The SFG (I hate acronyms, but what the heck) manages to make the jams interesting, though, with Roeser's guitar weaving around Lanier's keyboard fills and Winters' fluid bass.

In the next incarnation of the band, Roeser (aka Buck Dharma) would become known as one of the early guitar heroes of the burgeoning heavy metal scene, but he always has displayed the ability to play very melodic runs. The improvisations of "St. Cecilia" show he already had developed the touch that places his sound among the more distinctive of rock guitarists.

Because "St. Cecilia" is culled from two sessions, most of the songs appear in two different versions. The exception is "Bonomo's Turkish Taffy" (the titles are obscure, too), which the band didn't bother to record in L.A. It's a rather peppy organ-driven number with a lead vocal by Buck (at least, it sounds like him), singing lyrics along the lines of "Chicken necks, what the heck, why should I get out of bed for that?" Why, indeed?

According to the CD's liner notes, Elektra pressed a single of "What Is Quicksand?" backed with a song called "Arthur Comics," which "may have been sent out to radio stations across the country, even as the band received an official telegram from Elektra announcing that they'd been dropped from the label's roster."

But the band pressed on, with Albert's brother Joe Bouchard taking over for the fired Winters, and the following year Columbia Records took a chance on the newly christened Blue Oyster Cult, the name taken from - naturally enough - a Pearlman poem.

Half a decade later came "(Don't Fear) The Reaper" and immortality. But the story had to start somewhere.

Richard Thompson, "Guitar, Vocal" (Island, 1976)

For almost four decades, Richard Thompson has pretty much flown under the radar as one of the great guitarists plying his trade. For awhile, it looked as if he might have a commercial breakthrough in the late '80s, with some major record labels giving him a major push. But despite some stellar albums, particularly "Amnesia" (1988), he never quite enjoyed the sales that should have accompanied his talent.

He already was highly regarded when Island Records issued "Guitar, Vocal," a rarities collection featuring his early solo work along with his stint with the groundbreaking British folk-rock group Fairport Convention. The anthology originally was released as a two-record set, with the second slab of vinyl touted as a bonus EP featuring two instrumentals and two live tracks.

Let's start there. Thompson has always been just as comfortable playing acoustic-based folk as harder-edged rock, and these four songs represent the best of both worlds. The traditional jig "Flee As a Bird" simply features Richard finger-picking his Martin 00018 in a manner that suggests a second guitarist must've been present. Along with the Martin, he overdubs himself on mandolin and Appalachian dulcimer for the medley "The Pitfall/The Excursion," which sounds like it could have been picked from the American and/or British folk songbook, but is in fact an original compositions.

The live tracks make for a stark contrast. "Night Comes In" and "Calvary Cross" (both of which clock in at 12-plus minutes) long have been Thompson concert favorites, extended pieces that lend themselves to Thompson's virtuoso guitar improvisations, as he'd done previously with the Fairport staple "Sloth." These early versions show that he already had a firm grasp of the songs' power onstage, here ably assisted by John Kirkpatrick on accordion and the Fairport rhythm section of Dave Pegg, bass, and Dave Mattacks, drums.

Then there's Linda Thompson, his wife and musical partner at the time, lending her considerable vocal talents to "Night Comes In." Linda makes a couple of appearances on the album as lead singer, providing must-hear versions of Richard's aching "A Heart Needs a Home" and the country-flavored standard "The Dark End of the Street."

Fans of Fairport Convention will be pleased with the half dozen tunes recorded during Thompson's tenure with the band, 1967-70. "Time Will Show the Wiser" is a track from Fairport's then-hard-to-find debut LP, displaying the instrumental proficiency Thompson already had developed by age 19. The song features original Convention vocalist Judy Dyble, who later participated in a nascent version of King Crimson.

Judy's replacement, the late Sandy Denny, is featured on the next three tracks: "Throwaway Street Puzzle," the Dylanesque B-side to Thompson's immortal "Meet on the Ledge," which somehow flopped as a single; a BBC broadcast of the bluesy "Mr. Lacey"; and an absolutely gorgeous version of Roger McGuinn's "The Ballad of Easy Rider," an outtake from the sessions for Fairport's fourth (and best-selling) album, "Liege and Lief."

Denny left the band after that album for a solo career and a guest spot on the Led Zeppelin song "The Battle of Evermore." (Pegg once played in a band with Robert Plant, but that's a whole other issue.) Thompson assumed duties as one of Fairport's lead vocals and on "Guitar, Vocal" sings "Poor Will and the Jolly Hangman," which was left off the exceptional "Full House" album, and a live rendition of Chuck Berry's "Sweet Little Rock 'n' Roller," proving these British folkies could rock.

The Richard Thompson catalog contains an assortment of very worthwhile recordings: "Henry the Human Fly," "Hand of Kindness," "Strict Tempo!" and his masterpiece with Linda, the haunting "Shoot Out the Lights." But if you're looking for a quick overview of his early career, "Guitar, Vocal" provides some gems for your listening pleasure.

J. Geils Band, "Love Stinks" (EMI America, 1980)

Throughout the '70s, the Boston-based J. Geils Band built a loyal following through its uncompromising brand blues and R&B, coupled with the stage presence of frontman Peter Wolf, a former DJ whose onstage raps became the stuff of legend.

The band scored some minor hits along the way, such as "Give It to Me" and "Must of Got Lost," but remained more of a cult favorite than a breakout act. By the time of its final album for Atlantic Records, 1977's "Monkey Island" (with the artist credited only as Geils), the band wasn't selling much at all, its musical approach apparently lost in the shuffle of disco.

A shift of record labels didn't help much, with the stellar "Sanctuary" album spawning a minor hit single in the moody "One Last Kiss," but barely cracking the Top 50 after its release it late 1978.

For its second EMI effort, the J. Geils Band came up with a solid anchor that helped ensure a hit album. The title track to "Love Stinks" might be dipping a toe into novelty territory, but it has the undeniable hooks of a catchy, "Wild Thing"-derived riff and well-worded lyrics that lead to the singer's succinct conclusion about romance.

"Love Stinks" the song actually was one of two Top 40 singles from "Love Stinks" the album. The other was the disco-infused "Come Back," issued right at the start of 1980 but sounding like a product of the decade that preceded it. That being said, it was one of the better tunes you could dance to at the time.

Other selections on "Love Stinks" run the gamut from the power pop of the opening "Just Can't Wait, which is awash with Seth Justman's synthesizer, to the hard rock of "Tryin' Not to Think About it," which probably comes closest on the album to sounding like vintage Geils: Wolf sings menacingly over J. Geils' fat guitar chords, and this is one of the few songs on the album to give blues harp player Magic Dick an opportunity to stretch out and put his inimitable stamp on the recording.

But overall, Justman's production on the album steers it away from the rawer approach of the band's early years toward a direction apparently seeking sales and airplay. Stephen Jo Bladd's percussion sounds especially processed and artificial, a detail that many artists unfortunately followed as the decade progressed (witness ZZ Top).

Still, "Love Stinks" remains a listenable album, with tracks like the cover of the Strangeloves' "Night Time" occasionally appearing on party compilations. And the rousing chord progression of "Till the Walls Come Tumblin' Down" could have served as a template for the rockabilly of "Stray Cat Strut" a few years later. Then there's the short diversion of "No Anchovies, Please," the bizarre narrative recounting the fate of a young woman who decides to open a can of those stinky little fish.

Longtime fans of the J. Geils Band may have been put off by the band's slick approach to "Love Stinks," but they really objected when they heard its followup, "Freeze-Frame." Of course, that album's sappy sing-along "Centerfold" went to No. 1 and still can be heard more often than anyone should like; the LP rode the song to the top spot, and the title track hit No. 4 as a single.

Then Wolf departed and the band broke up a few years afterward, showing that it just might have been better off sticking with playing the blues and staying out of the Top Five.