But.... We all know Jack's a swinger and Luke likes to put things in holes. And therein lies what might be a resolution that falls just short of being on par with lasting peace in the Middle East. Campbell last week sent a fax to Thompson: "Right now, I am on tour promoting my solo album and my book. I will return to Miami on March 2. At this time, I would be happy to go a few rounds in a historical game of golf with you. Perhaps at that time, we can come to a mutual agreement." Thompson's response: "Sounds good. Call me and we'll set it up." Hey guys, maybe I could caddy? Earn a little green to help pay for law school? See ya.
The Thon is on, beginning this Friday. The night before, stop by Washington Square for some Rooster Head. Also, any local bands that would like to compete for a Budweiser sponsorship, call 460-3300.
Bald men ball better. Too crude for a bumper sticker, but that's the theme of the lead track on John Hiatt's new album. And Ry Cooder's new album. And Nick Lowe's and Jim Keltner's. The four vets, all of whom possess sterling and lengthy musical resumes, have formed a band called Little Village, and released an eponymous album. Now, this is the part where the critic is supposed to mention Traveling Wilburys or Hindu Love Gods or - God forbid, but you know how geezer crits are - Blind Faith and CSN&Y. Call it a supergroup or all-star line-up if you want, but I just call it a fine rock album full of groovy grooves, gorgeously loose playing, light-but-tastes-great songwriting, and four of the all-time cool guys who see through the pretension and sop of the industry they work in. Which brings us back to "Solar Sex Panel," which alludes to the notion that balding men absorb clean sun energy and are therefore more sexually proficient. I think. One complaint: Too much Hiatt lead vocals throughout. Lowe should have sung lead on "Sex Panel" because it sure sounds like one of his tunes. Picky, picky. That's a critic for ya. Check out the rec yourself - there's a ton of fun in this action.
Other incredible albums you should be listening to instead of reading this dumb column: Steve Forbert's The American in Me, Garland Jeffreys's Don't Call Me Buckwheat, Mary Karlzen's debut CD, and the Judy Bats' Down in the Shacks Where the Satellite Dishes Grow, which is not only engrossing, intelligent, confessional, warm, real rock and roll, but features the most primo cover art - a shot of a big black dog in the bed of a red pick-up truck parked on a dusty trail.
March 1 offers a couple of cool thangs: Up at Cheers, Fresh from Florida, by Kilmo and the Killers, celebrates its official release. And down at Uncle Sam's, there'll be a post-U2-concert party with giveaways and such, plus live sounds by YakMan.
Word on the streets is that Jimmy Page jammed with Harry Connick, Jr., during the latter's Saturday show at the James L. Knight Center. Weird enough to mention.
Butthorn of the week: Nature defender Maria Quintana wants to bestow this week's award - to the Academy Awards folks for neglecting to nominate Thelma & Louise for a Best Picture Oscar. "It's the best picture ever of life," she says emphatically. "How could they not nominate it for Best Picture? That's an insult to women everywhere."
The media circus: By the way, Quintana, a member of Earth First!, says she enjoyed our story about shrimping in Biscayne Bay, although, naturally, she had a few ideological qualms. She, like many, is baffled by the fact that I'm a devout animal lover - they have more right to live than most humans, I say - but I eat meat and such. She put it this way: "Me and you are not philosophically in the same boat."
Pet corner: For a list of companies that don't torture animals in the process of creating their products, write PETA, Box 42516, Washington, D.C. 20015. Happy now, Maria?
