"We're rock against drugs," the late comedian Bill Hicks would burble gleefully and pause. "Boy we suck: ball-less, cockless, soulless, corporate little bitches... each and every one of us" and he would continue on, spewing obscenities and breathing fire. Now, it's absolutely fine if a group doesn't use substances. Hell, more power to 'em. Preaching about it, though, is just lame (as Soulfarm does on their song No Alcohol -- as is preaching about anything.

There are two kinds of message music out there: protest and polemic/didactic. Protest music paints a picture of a world gone afoul and points out that there's something drastically wrong with the present order of things. Polemic/didactic music points out that there is something wrong and then sketches out how, precisely, the listener should lead his life. The difference is neatly exemplified by two periods in Bob Dylan's checkered history: his protest days as nearly official balladeer for the Movement (with a capital M) in the early '60s and his gospel-inflected Christian period in the late '70s. The former survives mostly intact, with a large hint of naiveté -- the latter gets swallowed in its own self-righteousness.

While No Alcohol is the only song that gets snared directly in this trip on "Live at Wetlands", one gets the sense that New York's Soulfarm (until recently, Inasense) has a mission statement - stored in a neat leather case somewhere in the tour van's glove compartment - which says something about upholding a positive, uplifting message. Fuck it. Great music - most of the stuff between Dylan's protest and polemic periods - is such because there's something implacably mysterious about it.

Soulfarm presents a conundrum. While the musicians in the band clearly care deeply about what they do, their music comes off as contrived and often boring. From the way the band presents themselves - through song lyrics, packaging, and presentation - one understands that these guys are genuinely spiritual about their art. Why does the music utterly fail to have an impact? The answer is somewhat complicated.

Their cover of Joni Mitchell's Woodstock speaks volumes about who they seem to be. The delivery of the song itself is competent, if unoriginal. The point is that the band's approach seems to forget that the so-called spirit of the '60s was co-opted by the time Woodstock came around, where a bunch of people managed to make a last gasp at healthy anarchy. "By the time we got to Woodstock, we were half a million strong," Joni Mitchell wrote. That's one hell of a demographic, Bubba. Woodstock didn't launch a generation of peace and love, an Age of Aquarius -- fuck no, sailor, it launched an age where America realized that there was money to be made off this youth culture shit. I mean, "Hair", for cryin' out loud. These guys would fit right in. For Mitchell and CSNY, it's forgivable. For Soulfarm - who exist in full retrospect of 12 years of Ronald Reagan and George Bush (and eight years of freakishly conservative Bill Clinton) - it's curious that they perform the song with as straight a face as they do. To paraphrase Hunter S. Thompson: this is the band that the entire civilized world would be going to see on Saturday nights if everybody had paid full price to go to Woodstock.

But, dammit, I didn't wanna begin with all this negativity. No, the negativity I wanted to begin with has to do with the fact that Soulfarm managed to take both Hebrew melodies (Od Yishama and Dovid Melech by Hebrew songster Shlomo Carlebach) and the Gobi equivalent of holy music (Garcia and Hunter's Sugaree) and manage to make them both sound equally bland.

Some might argue that this is a sign of making a song their own, investing it with their own identity and whatnot. And, normally, I'd say that this is a good thing. In this case, though, their identity is so completely non-descript that Od Yishama and Sugaree sound like the same song. The music - on these covers, as well as the eight originals that fill out the rest of the disc - falls solidly into a generic faux-folk-funk groove that strives for authenticity in groove and motion but comes up lacking in both.

The Ride is symptomatic of the band's problems. The rapidly strummed and palm-muted acoustic rhythm guitar that creates a sonic bed, as it does for most of the tunes, is just too hyper to be funky. It lacks restraint and the casualness that allows a groove to get under the listener's skin and into his brain. Likewise, the carefully computed classic rock tone that colors the lead guitar is intended to make it soar with sustain and crunch. Instead, it pulls it earthward and leaves it there.

The band's improvisations are entirely coherent, though - at the same time - entirely predictable. Tight, I guess, would be a sufficient word for it. They move from point A in the verse, chug faster and faster until they, er, "explode" right back into the ending of the song. They almost seem in a hurry to get where they're going. But, if that's the case, I'm not sure what the point of these solos-cum-jams is. It seems designed to trigger an ecstatic experience - and maybe it does in some - bit it leaves me fully prepared to put on Sister Ray by the Velvet Underground at full volume until my hermit-like housemate emerges from his room clad in an army helmet and starts beating himself over the head with a golf club and shouting "KABONG!" at the top of his lungs. In fact, I think I'll go do just that...

John Kruth is a hard man to pin down. He is a poet, a short story writer, and a film maker. He has collaborated with the likes of Ginsberg, the Meat Puppets, John Prine, the Violent Femmes, and Camper van Beethoven. He authored Bright Moments, a biography of barrier-bursting saxophonist Rashaan Roland Kirk. Luka Bloom claims, "Kruth is the Pete Townsend of the mandolin." I feel sure he meant that as a compliment. Add appreciable skills on nearly a dozen instruments, stir, and you have one helluva interesting cat.

A George Young quote inside the jacket reads, "Different enough to make a difference." Kruth is certainly that. He paints his musical landscapes with a wide brush -- deep blues, charcoal grays, musty greens and vibrant hues. The songs swim in weighty morass of moods that settle disturbingly and ascend unexpectedly around the lyrics as he bends both gravity and levity to his will.

The instrumentation varies wildly as he sculpts the sounds to suit his words with the help of fourteen friends and a dog. The instrumental opener reflects Kruth's extensive travels in Morroco in its world rhythms as the hand drums, flute, penny whistle and saxophone explore the theme in what may be the album's only true jam, despite clocking in just over two minutes. Sqwonking brass scores the story of a man who successfully though ill-advisably kicked the caffeine monkey on Since I Quit Drinkin' Coffee. A heavy and repetitive bass clarinet underscores the nocturnal meanderings of the Beatnik Vampire in the brassy loneliness of what can only be New Orleans. Secret Place is far from your run of the mill escapist fare. It is laced with enough ambiguous implication that I frankly don't want to know what he does back in the woods.

Mrs. Chagall is a surrealist day in the life of Mark's wife as she floats above the farms, then traipses over to Mrs. Magritte's house for tea, where everything is in its place but the hostess' face, which is replaced by a cloud. A child's voice intones, "The clouds float by like catfish," and tells of peanut brittle sidewalks.

Despite his often heavy-handed brush strokes, strands of light whimsy dot the canvass. Big Old Gothic House is dark as its iron gates and dense as a starless, foggy night, but the curveball drops as host curls up on the zebra rug with his invitee to watch the neighborhood kids, "draw pictures on the sidewalk" across the street in Sunset Park.

Throughout it all, Kruth's and voice seems to slide out of the shadows with the slightest of echo effects. His voice to the ear is unspectacular and very human, as is his voice on the page. Each of these songs stands alone as a fully realized piece. Everywhere You've Never Been won't knock you off your feet, but it will settle you into a tenuous, dream-like state on your couch if you let it.

Imagine the early Charlie Hunter Trio, a bit of Greyboy Allstars boogaloo combined with more fierce guitar pyrotechnics, and the result would be Tree O Frogs' "Butter Your Lips." Never straying too far from the current jazz/funk trends, "Butter Your Lips" becomes an auditory-pleasing head-nodding experience.

The albums opening track, Urchin reveals the bands synthesis of jazz/funk with a more guitar oriented sound. Starting out with a boogaloo feel reminiscent of Karl Denson's Tiny Universe, Urchin then hits a bridge which allows Scott Royals aggressive guitar playing to surface. Eventually Urchin adds some latin percussion, some Hendrix-esque guitar playing and even a drippy psychedelic section before returning to the booty shaking rump. In a brief six minutes, Tree O Frogs exhibits all of their influences and most of the jazz/funk based sounds the band traverses on the fifty-minute album.

Following Urchin, Certified may be the slickest, most black-exploitation film sounding track on the album. Beginning with flute, drums, pulsating bass and drums flying through funk territories, the song settles down into the more familiar sax-based, jazz/funk sounds, which Gary Bartz, Maceo Parker and Karl Denson have all outlined. Half way through the track, Certified settles down, with some slow and elegant playing from Scott Royals guitar and Michael Myers saxophone. Relaxing and smooth, the song then slows more and then dissipates entirely.

While most of the tracks on "Butter Your Lips" have a similar, undulating funk groove, the more swinging Happy Brian absolutely moves, quite possibly eclipsing the music of Robert Walter's 20th Congress or Galactic. Conceivably named after Brian Shira, in large part because of the grandiose basslines he continually flies through, the track breaks up the monotony of "Butter Your Lips" and gives the album a more eclectic feel.

More than anything, "Butter Your Lips" proves Tree O Frog consists of four astute, apparently schooled musicians who will definitely receive notoriety in the future. Which direction the band takes in the coming years, whether they follow the more jazz oriented side of their music the more standard funk remains uncertain. Despite such issues of artistic direction, with "Butter Your Lips," the band has made a statement and stand hollering amongst the logjam of current jazz/funk bands; people should/will hear them.

As a drummer who jammed with Hendrix, had long associations with early jazz-rock experimenters Gary Burton, Larry Coryell and Pat Metheny and played a part in the formation of Medeski Martin & Wood (Chris Wood takes part in this CD), Bob Moses has his credentials in order as an avatar of the jazz wing of the jambands scene. All that aside, his thoughtful musicianship and artistry is as much in evidence as ever on this disc, a program of music dedicated to his recently deceased mother.

On most cuts, Moses uses a six-piece ensemble with trumpet, tenor sax and bass clarinet as the front line. Moses describes the disc as a meditation on love as well as a eulogy to his mother, and, as such, the music is largely introspective, though rarely somber. The samba-tinged opener Lagrimas de Alegria and the moderately funky African Violet are the most accessible cuts. The others may take a few listens to figure out, and the lack of upbeat contrast may make this a tedious ride for some listeners. However, the music provides many rewards for one's patience.

Moses's drums keep a smooth, ever-changing flow of ideas coming from beginning to end. Brazilian vocalist Luciana Souza stands out with her ethereal contributions to three tracks, as does longtime master pianist Steve Kuhn. Chris Wood seldom jumps into the foreground, but he demonstrates superb taste and a command of the complex material. Vocalist Abbey Lincoln steps in to close the disc with a nearly tear-jerking How Deep Is The Ocean. Aside from Wood's presence, this is a straight jazz project rather than an attempt to demonstrate Moses's connection with the current jam scene. (For evidence of that, look for Larry Coryell's titles on Vanguard or Metheny's Bright Size Life.) However, it's nice to have another substantial installment in his lifelong musical quest.

A great parachute of light unfolds in front of my eyes, ears - or, given what I'm seeing, hearing, perhaps behind them. Reflecting light, refracting light: retreating and retreating. Rethreading and rethinking, retaliation in the webbing. Tangled and twisting, through a neon vastness, investing energy and regretting, retarding, forgetting. A neon mass, a mess, nothing more, nothing... more than some kind of misconstrued reconstruction system through I'm flipping and dropping.

Electronic music solves this problem by removing it entirely from the realm of human construct. And while it's a concept that dates back at least to "Sgt. Pepper" in the field of popular music, the idea that music doesn't have to even sound like it was produced by an ensemble of humans can still be a liberating one. "Tala Matrix" - the debut disc from electronic wizard Bill Laswell and master percussionist Zakir Hussain's new outfit, Tabla Beat Science - takes this a step further by providing a bed of analog beats drawn from the world of Indian music.

Marking a bearing and coming up, calming up, claiming up, a maiming of the senses. Sensually savoring sensory information, annotated and footnoted. The great parachute beckons, and the source of light is again unbroken, unheeding, untelling, and really quite unsettling. Truths unfurl in the underbelly, noble truths, noble octagonal truths, mathematical and whimsical, eight-folded and refracting, reflecting, retreating and breathing. Seething together.

The music cannot be broken down into individual elements. Yes, I suppose, one could describe the beat or the timbre or the rhythmic significance; but, on the whole, it's unbroken. A lot of what I could say about this record probably applies to electronic music as a genre. But, since I'm moderately unfamiliar with a lot of it, that doesn't matter. Laswell and company create dreamscapes. They feel like field recordings from another universe, produced originally not so much by musicians, but by artisans. I guess that's where the idea that this is Indian music falls into play.

Seething and seeing, seers and sayers believing, living and disagreeing. Fleeing the scene with something holy tucked away, stealing away, another day, another path, folded like a lotus, doting like a mota-head, blissed and blithering, tranced and in training. Entrained in a way unprotected by law.

This music is holy and commonplace at once. It is occupational. That is, it is somebody's job to create it. That's the source of it, anyway. We don't really have the equivalent of it over here, I don't think. I mean, there are professional musicians who deal in trance-states and the production of ecstatic experience - as Mickey Hart put it, "the transportation business" - but it doesn't feel as integrated into our society as it does in the descriptions I've read of Indian music.

Tricked and tracking, tracked and tricking, through a sand-blasted path under a Banyan tree and through the hot rain, tracing. Racing along, dunking my face, cool and in the shade now, I've slunk, I shrink. Around me, the tree maintains a thinking pose. An unmovable posture, an unbending thought. Branches droop and collapse, synapses wired directly, the network dastardly and devious and dead-ended in an infinite space.

The beats and sounds aren't particularly American beyond that, aren't particularly anything else. Call it anything, just not fusion. It ain't that. Everything is too entwined. Is it good? Hell's bells... maybe. Dunno, really. Can a field recording be good? Yes, I suppose so. It's certainly entrancing: a trip to listen to, to move through these soundscapes. Unreal, in that sense. Literally: not realist. This is spiritual, transportational music. None of this transcendence bullshit: cut right to the heart of the matter, man, and just shoot for another plane of existence. Who cares about your petty songs and jamming? (Well, me...) Here's something driven by the same heart as anything you ever imagined.

Composer Kayhan Kalhor's "Night Silence Desert" is a meeting of musical worlds. He blends the traditions of Persian art music with the folk traditions of Northern Khorasan, the cultural center of the Persian empire. He pairs traditional classical instruments with traditional folk instruments. He enlists the poetic talents of contemporary Houshang Ebtehaj and incorporates the nearly 1000 year old verses of Baba Taher. He pits the contemporary against the antiquated, the East against the West, and the elevated against the common. The result is an evocative cycle that stirs the imagination and challenges the ears and mind.

He further enlists the talents of Iran's, "undisputed master of Persian traditional (classical) singing," Mohammad Reza Shajarian, whose voice is so captivating that interpretation and understanding of the words themselves prove inconsequential. Shajarian's voice resonates at the deepest of levels with a power and strength that quite simply must rank among the finest in the world.

Kalhor ranks in his own right. He was a child prodigy on the kamanchen, a four-stringed classical instrument. The kamanchen has a small belly and a ground spike for support. It is played with a horizontal bow, and the instrument itself is rotated to accommodate the bow and alternate strings. Kalhor forms experimental kamanchen choruses yet remains rooted in the traditional fundamentals of the instrument.

Kalhor states the opening theme in Silence of the Night and develops it slowly, with spare additions and variations. Desert introduces a similar but distinct theme, and the two meet as one in Desert Night. The instrumental and vocal interlude before Desert Night introduces Shajarian singing Taher's poem. The base themes are rhythmic and repetitive, and Shajarian's rolling ululations above them induce a contemplative, near trance-like state in the listener. The instrumental and vocal duo section near the close of the cycle which pairs the two men as they trade verses highlights their ability to mimic and extend each other's thoughts.

The album features sections devoted to the dotar, a long-necked, two-string lute with a tinny, metallic sound and the setar, a similar long-necked lute with 25-27 adjustable frets which produces a more rounded sound. The finger-picked, metal-stringed setar is the preferred instrument of Sufi mystics, and the Setar instrumental is particularly dizzying as it flutters and reverberates in a whirlwind.

The final piece offers a plucked restatement of the theme that is soon echoed by a cascading drum line and a plucked and bowed instrumental pairing that reshapes the theme and guides Shajarian through the closing section with its unexpected release.

This is a highly accomplished work that I could not feign to criticize in earnest. After at least a dozen listenings, I still uncover new threads and even occasionally new instruments. I have literally no context or frame of reference for this work beyond the personal. I can tell you that it is captivating. I can tell you that these themes follow me all day long. I can tell you that I will be listening to this ten years from now with glazed eyes that suddenly snap as I uncover another hidden wrinkle.

I can also tell you that I never would have listened to it in its entirety unless I had to review it, and now I can tell you that I feel lucky to have found it. To learn more about Persian art music, the players, and the instruments, visit Kereshmeh Records' extensive site.

From its opening notes this, Martin Tillman's first solo album, doesn't sound much like 'typical' jamband fare; which is a good tone to set, since it isn't. Tillman is a cellist, and along with producer/co-writer Tem Vedvik (keyboards and programming throughout), he has created a coherent, flowing soundscape that eschews flash for feeling and explores the place where programmed beats (pop/trance-hop tempo, not techno) meet cello playing. That place turns out to produce mellow, moody grooves that swing from tender and thoughtful to brooding and melodramatic without ever getting lost or bogged down.

Tillman was trained as a classical cellist and was apparently considered very promising by fans of classical music before he decided to start playing with the likes of Beck and B.B. King, performing in scores for TV and film (Armageddon, Ally McBeal, and The Sopranos, among others), and studying the music of the Middle East and trying to synthesize it with, well, synthesizers (and other parts of western music). His claim toward jamband status seems to arise from his improvisational work on Vedvick's albums "Slowdiver" and "Sutra Spin," while "Eastern Twin" seems to be far afield from the jamband world and based heavily on composition (Interestingly, Amazon.com reports that people buying Vedvick's albums also bought the newest one from - you guessed it - Steely Dan). Don't take my saying that the album is different to mean that it's bad, because it's quite the opposite.

The first track (Odessa) attempts to "place a Classical cello in a Pop context by approaching the instrument like a lead vocal," which the track does with a nod toward the guitar fills of Dire Straits or Santana and a nice, emotion-filled tune. Tillman's playing on the track seems to set the pace for most of the album, in which he avoids flourishes and flashy solos, opting instead to concentrate on playing the melody to its fullest.

Among my favorites are the second and fifth tracks (Nothing on My Mind and Close to Water, respectively), which feature smooth, breathy vocals (in English) by a Lisbeth Scott that lay over nice grooves that almost feel like 'lounge meets synth-pop and takes acid'. The programmed beats in some of the tracks and the use of synthesized sounds almost make me expect a vocal entrance by Neil Tennant (check out the opening to my favorite track, 7 Saris), but the album never reaches for that kind of disco or straight synth-pop sound - instead using those elements as a framework to explore the interaction Middle Eastern and classical music. One nice touch is that just when you think you've figured the album out, the sixth track (Ceremony) denies itself the kind of beats that the previous tracks had in favor of using the bass drum in a more orchestral fashion. The final tune (Rue Sibelius) features only cello in its languid movement through a haunting, but at times hopeful, song.

I don't think the album is breaking ground that has never before been tread, but the melding of world-beat with classical and electronica is probably something that a lot of folks (including myself, up till now) haven't heard, and Tillman does it compellingly. My only complaint is that with the album clocking in at just under 45 minutes, I wish there was more of it.

After a 25-year career that landed him in Winter with Steve Vai and Jeff Sipe, on tour with Clarence "Gatemouth" Brown, and side by side with the Colonel in the Fiji Mariners, keyboardist Dr. Dan Matrazzo is finally fronting his own outfit. El Doctor certainly has the chops, as he proves on the solo and acoustic Mia's Tears, but the album too often plunges down the Velveeta slip'n'slide to land in a steaming bowl of queso.

Rollin' which finds the good Doctor, "Rollin' all night long," treads dangerously close to the magical land of the Average White Band, and the faux guitar sounds of Snap prove that he may have learned a little too much from Steve Vai. Even the gritty and muscular trademark sound of Warren Haynes, who joins the band on two cuts, is tempered by a lick-swapping second guitar whose tone jumped straight of appropriately forgotten musical wasteland of the mid-eighties. Perhaps that is what you get when you enlist Mariah's bassist, Janet Jackson's drummer, and Jody Watley's producer.

This would not be such a disappointment if the flashes weren't so promising. Uncle Hank finds Dr. Dan laying it down, comping himself on the moogbass over a looped drum track, and the solid if static funky underbelly of Karma Logic invites a sax along for a ride that finally gives the rhythm section a little rope. Both tracks are a bit too solo heavy to register as justified jams, but both create and establish a weighty groove that bobs the head, jiggles the knees, and make the unrealized prospects all the more painful.

The title of the Electric Fuzz Band's recent effort "Get Out Of Norfolk" in essence speaks for itself. This is a band that wants to move out of local scene and begin touring the country. The album's opening up with a bar crowd chattering is an interesting take on this concept.

One can hear smatterings of influences all across the board. One can't help but hear vocals that emanate Chris Cornell, with a twinge of Gregg Allman. Not something I was expecting after the lead off track 20th and Debree which evokes images of Blues Traveler as bassist Cory Potrafka takes a turn on the harp this track. (I'm sure some of you are thinking "what the hell does this guy know? Just because there's a harmonica doesn't mean it sounds like Blues Traveler." My response to that is, you can hear Popper's influence and style in almost every note he plays, in fact I'll bet he uses a Hohner :). The additional keys and percussion on this track give the jam at the end a nice full sound covering the rhythm very well. Each member gets a chance to show off their chops and when they shift gears, they remain tight with the rhythm as the song slowly fades out.

Unfortunately for the Electric Fuzz Band, despite unique vocals and pretty good songwriting that blends many changes in tempos and sections that are instrumentally challenging, they don't seem to have yet found something that will distance them from the pack. This is not meant to be an insult by any means. They are all excellent players, the dueling guitarists each have a unique style and blend very well together in a cohesive fashion. Derek Givans is an able drummer who holds down the rhythm effectively throwing in hints of flair every so often. They cover much ground in their playing on this album, from the soulful and slower heartfelt songs such as All My Pain and Tears and Psalm Bird, to the splendid Sister Sunday which features a danceable guitar groove, highlighted by colorful organ work, a funky bass line in the bridge that is seemingly borrowed from At the Car Wash, and an excellent drums section in the middle. This is the highlight of the album. The closing track of Virgin Jewel is an interesting semi-psychedelic Doors tribute with a Jim Morrison-like poem over a slow, very open type groove. This then fades out into a session of kind of space, kind of feedback, kind of the band playing with their toys for five minutes (including a Snapple cap). Conjures images of Endless Nameless (Nirvana) to me, a hidden track of the band using the studio for whatever they desire.

I would recommend this album to fans of more upbeat straightforward rocking jambands, as their playing is excellent and guitar edge gives a more rock twinge. I simply did not find, on this selection of 13 tracks, a defining point to really separate them from the crowd, so that they might truly be able to "Get Out Of Norfolk" and make a name for themselves on the national scene. They have the potential, but it simply was not evident here.

As any species grows more prolific - any species, really, but here we're talking about the effusive, sometimes elusive, Jazzus Wonkus - maintaining uniqueness and distinguishing oneself can be a difficult thing indeed. Conveying that uniqueness to someone whose like me, whose jazz exposure and knowledge are admittedly toward the novice end of the spectrum - and making it stick in the musical memory - can be an even greater challenge.

Enter the Dragon. The Fat Dragon. A quintet from the Boston area, aligned in a decidedly jazzy configuration - keys, bass, sax, drums, percussion - and spilling pleasantness and rich tones galore from their handsome disc with the intriguing title, "Dream After A Large Lunch".

I'm an eater, I can relate to the title concept. I've succumbed, or wanted to succumb, to many an afternoon siesta after a hearty meal. On the right weather day, it can be a dreamy reverie, a time to relax and contemplate the universe, and a perfect time of course for soothing music. Ah, music. My friend and companion and reverie soundtrack!

Thus Fat Dragon brings their thing: pleasant sounds in generous helpings. Ambient musings in the classic Rhodes and Univox key voices (Greg Burk); sax (Eric Erhardt) running nimbly back and forth, up and down, lilting or bopping expertly; tender basslines (Jonathan Robinson), grooving or filling or parrying the disciplined drums (Jon Babu), rounded out by artfully understated percussion (Mathias Kunzli).

This music is ideal for the coffeeshop (regular or Amsterdam, take your pick), and reminds me rainy days. It also reminds me of a lot of other music -- but little that I can name. (And I won't bore you with endless dropped names.) Bop and bluenote musings, brush drums and spare arrangements that drift easily apart and come easily together, this music speaks to me of ease - leisure - unhurried musings, and afternoons whiled away immersed in a book and a steaming mug, or sunk into a fine sofa.

But herein lies rub -- the issue of distinguishing oneself amid the throngs of other songs. As with such afternoons, when the music fades and night falls and life moves on to other things, the day is often indistinct in the memory. A pleasant day spent, but it doesn't stand out even by dark, and will it ever? Fat Dragon weaves a sweet sound, but why should I remember this?

Not to overly damn a good effort with faint praise, but these guys are painfully polite in their musings -- there is virtually no darkness or edge to this music to provide heady contrast to all the pleasant pastel tones and gliding gilded progressions. I thought I felt a nearly ominous exploration of deep space at the beginning of Drisdi, but after two minutes the band coalesced nicely and revived their supple swing; lulling me again with their copasetic soundscapes, returning me to that glazed stare at the coffeeshop.

Fat Dragon goes well with coffee or tea, and seems to suggest it if you donít have any in front of you when you listen. Numbers like the opener Italian Scallion with its slippy sax runs over the Rhodes and dissolves that come around to swift recombination, and Bottomless Box with some omnidirectional jogging moments, suggest the brisk step or toe-tapping energy of caffeination. Inchworm plays like a meditation on methodology, with its applied pacing and construction/deconstruction cycles balanced gracefully at a catchy canter.

But always - on into the title track, and up through A Better Fate Than Wisdom, where Erhardt's sax seems to phrase reaching questions for the band to answer, and to the end, the quirky sweetness of Pow-Wow Now - these capable instrumentalists keep their poise, to a fault. The drums shuffle with the subtle precision of a grandfather clock, the bass prods or hints a groove, the sax trills here and there and squonks only tastefully now and again. There is nothing to rile, or suggest higher powers, or speak to deep emotions.

Where is the mojo, where is the thrill? You may tell me this is not music for thrilling the mojo, and you may be right. But even the most elegant of musics can suggest something bigger or more potent than itself, something of yearning or awe or loss or pure exuberant joy, and I strained to find it here. At times, I had to check the readout on the CD player to see which track we were enjoying, because the sparse themes didn't stick from song to song, friendly as they were.

In listening, I was never put off, and the warmth is inviting, but when I reach back for a highlight, I find none to grab me -- and I mean that sort of indescribable grab that can come from truly compelling music of any stripe or style, from Coltrane to Bach to Megadeth. Dharma From the Metropolis may have come closest, another uptempo piece with some more diverse colorings and perhaps the most ambitious sax exclamations on the disc.

But in the end I'm left with furrowed brow, vaguely hungry. It's like a blind date that ends in the hoped-for kiss on the front porch and a genuine smiling goodnight -- but on the ride home, you realize that the conversations never ran deep, the person was pleasant but there was little remarkable about them that leaps to mind, and the kiss was firm but brief and cool, leaving you wondering if you want to come back for more. Is this love?

Being a stripped down jazz quartet composed of a guitar, bass, sax, and drums, with little to no variation in tones, it is very difficult to avoid sounding like muzak. And Everything Bagels' "the Misadventures of Dr. Buddy Sudds", is at times an example of this. Guitarist Brian Swain and bass player George Shew retain a very laid back tone on each of their instruments for most of the album. This provides for an album that has very little depth, except for the occasional tempo change. Each track seems to follow a similar style in songwriting, resulting in a similar feel for almost every track. In passive listening, it may provide very difficult to distinguish one song from the next.

Songwriting aside, the band did use the studio in an interesting fashion seemingly choosing to capture the improvisation in the studio, instead of planning out changes through the course of the track. This allows the listener to get more of a feel of how they might approach a certain track in a live setting.

One of the highlights of the album is South 16, which features inspired playing for the duration of the entire track. Swain's jazz guitar chops show through on this track and Shew's bass holds down a steady rhythm with an intriguing bassline, while Michael Beresh lets loose from behind his kit. The interestingly titled I'll Think of Something is probably the best representation of the band. A song that distinguishes itself from the rest of the album as a song of quality improvisation and a style unique to the rest of the album. Sax player James Ignozzi is allowed to let loose, and Swain is with him the entire way. The backbone rhythm section complement each other very well, and are locked together while switching tempos and grooves. If this is a glimpse of Everything Bagels live, consider me interested. Hopefully EB will be able to incorporate more tracks such as this one into future recordings.

"Thumbs up, little buddy!" I shouted in my apartment, imitating the Skipper on Gilligan's Island. I stood half-undressed, caressed by the cool drafts coming from my window, outlined in the yellow streetlight glow. Goosebumps and high beams, in that good way. All lights were off except a glow from under the bathroom door, where my lover was washing up before bed. A faint green glow came from the stereo. I clicked the cover closed and hit PLAY.

I already like the minimalist cover. I'm in the mood. Take me, darling: move me, Porterhouse Quintet.

I'm guessing "thumbs up" in this case refers to whamma-jamma thumb-poppin' BASS. Aw yes, you know the kind: the meaty slabs of bumpin' POPazoid bass that hop on the rails and make like a locomotive. It's actually the infectiously jiggly clavinet (I'm guessing at the instrument here) of Joey Porter that kicks off this disc in finely feathered and feverishly funky fashion, squiggling in a few good licks to let us know what to expect, but then that BASS -- oh man, it just pops right up and starts making like a jazzy bronco might, thrusting and snorting around the keys and off the drums and dragging you by the ears through the nightclub floor, never a beat missed. Only gleeful fingers makes such a noise, and by the time the horns step in and blow, there's nothing left to know -- it's ON!

Music this groovy takes on a life of its own once its underway. It doesn't begin or end with the Play button, it just enters the space like a channel suddenly tuned in jusssst right -- and voom, the sound is alive and in the room. I was caught in the beam: my baby came out of the bathroom, smiling fresh of face, and found me gyrating, arms up and whirling, to the grabbing grind of "Thumbs Up Little Buddy" -- the lead track, and title song, of this disc by Porterhouse Quintet.

She had to smile, she'd seen this before. And you know what came next, oh yes, she joined me then and there. And we moved!

The next track, Blanket Party, took the mood to mellow. Sliding back to the lounge mode, we slid together and took up an easy bumping, close and smiling. Then the bass (Sean Foote) goes fuzzed out and a sax tries to make like an electric guitar.. are they running that through pedals? Far out, man. Bordering on a moodswing or a soundclash -- but barely. Sax (Josh Cliburne) warps back around our heads while the bassist makes believe its metal time for a moment. Tastefully spare drums (Micah Kassell) hold it together. Confused, we pause and make for the bedroom - turn it up honey, so we can hear, dear - and it slides back to the lounge mood again. A trumpet (Derek Sims) flirts with a variation of the timeless notes of Take Five and eases us back to the satin. Oh, the satin. Lover's swing, the low lights, velvet and ice cubes, smoke to curl for ambiance.

Marination delves and delves and delivers, announcing its arrival on the dance floor with a peppery drum snap and that slick synth that turns on the inner disco ball. You know the one. You can almost hear the players thinking, smiling, nodding as their fingers strut and romp this one ñ giving space to their brethren but bringing out their voices and turning the groove gently over for a workout on other sides, warm turns like a savory roast on the high-life fires of a summer eve. And so it goes, this is sweet stuff -- love music, to be sure. No vocals to intrude, only jazzy interludes.

Juicy is track four, and really there isn't much else to say -- the juice is in the groove, the lush sound, a rich (but not overpowering) arrangement for the five sounds together. "No guitars were used in the making of this album" sayeth the liner notes. Guitars! Singers! I'd almost forgotten them. Well some parties just aren't for everyone, you know?

And my goodness gracious, check the sass on Bring On the Sauce -- these gents are cooking on the hot wok now, stirring and frying and spreading that spice.

And on we grooved on, yes we did, and things got.groovy. I suspect the Porterhouse Quintet KNOWS this. Like good mood-mastering musicians, they planned it. Those suave cats! How do I just know they like their stuff to be dished out by candlelight in my brickwall Brooklyn flat? And I suspect they might knowingly enjoy being the soundtrack to what followed.

I wonder if the neighbors heard!

Yes yes, fellow listeners, it's good stuff, heady like red wine, and just as flowing. I give it a thumbs up -- hey wait a minute ñ I bet they thought of that, too. Too smooth!

Until next time: let the music play.

"Rising", the promising first release from Virginia jamband the Ordinary Way, blends funk and bluesy rock with a soulful southern twist. The six tracks on this self-produced, thirty seven minute EP showcase the lyrics and expression of vocalist/guitarist Gordon Sterling-which manages to touch primarily on themes of love, religion and social commentary with energy and without becoming trite. The song selection and influences are varied enough to show versatility, yet maintain a pleasantly dark groove that flows throughout.

Song one, Rise, features a short spoken word within a seven minute funk rock jam that draws the closest comparison to recent Panic. A drum/percussion breakdown is not over-extended, and the jam is good, save for a couple of minor thin spots in the guitar solo. Stone Woman incorporates Austin Mendenhall's mandolin into a walkdown feel which is effective. Where Love Lies is about finding God' without being preachy, using the mandolin in opposition to the funky guitar. Millionaire is familiar social commentary about the haves and have-nots, but the acoustic feel keeps the subject matter from dragging this into a power ballad or a restatement of the obvious. The separation of Alison Krayer's percussion starts off Heaven, a light uplifting reggae groove with a Take It Easy hook line that should be a fan favorite. Addiction Affliction ends the disc on a funkier blues note. While I tended to enjoy the last two songs the most, it's hard for me to pick a favorite track, as they all stand on their own merits. This is an example of a CD that shows the ability of the band to jam, giving us a good look and keeping interest with structure, but not overindulging and saving the best for the live show.

Overall, the energy of the band transmits well through the studio mix and production of Paul Story (Solo Studios, Fairfax, VA), which is often a rarity on debut discs from jambands. Capturing the breathing feel of a live band in that setting is a difficult task, and one that is done admirably in this case. This positive largely offsets a few points of criticism. I found the kick drum a bit too compressed, which forces the bass into the lower end of my ear. At times the lead guitar doesn't necessarily project through the lower frequencies and minor voices in the mix during solos and fills, as in Stone Woman, and Addiction Affliction, which I feel is more likely due to the guitar's chorus effect. Nevertheless, this disc left me wanting to hear more, and that is a very desirable outcome.

A few minor flaws aside, the Ordinary Way has their stock "Rising" with their first release. Solid musicianship and songwriting, with a groove, make this a preview of very good things to come from TOW, who will undoubtedly find fans among those who like Widespread Panic or even Galactic.