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On Saturday night, overcome by sheer boredom and a gnawing morbid curiosity, we slinked into the Bret Michaels set at the Meridian. This concert was part of a tour to promote the sometime Poison frontman's ongoing televised quest for romance, the VH1 masterpiece Rock Of Love.

Predictably the audience was a motley crew (bad pun intended) of pop culture gawkers and aged former hair metal battle horses: ladies who may have been backstage the first time Poison hit town, now making calls, in between Jager Bombs with the girls, to the sitter to make sure the kids were in bed; dudes with luxurious manes that rivaled those in the equine family, sitting at the bar holding vinyl copies of Look What The Cat Dragged In hoping to get them signed.

In Beatles lore, a woman named May Pang is forever linked to the phrase “Lost Weekend.” That 1973 “weekend,” which lasted 18 months, is when John Lennon left Yoko Ono and, according to legend, wandered drunkenly in a haze until she took him back. (He was thrown out of LA’s Troubador nightclub twice, once for heckling the Smothers Brothers and once for walking around with a Kotex on his forehead.)

But May Pang, the young personal assistant he was living with, remembers the time differently. Lennon, she says, was mostly happy and productive, working on Walls and Bridges and his oldies album.

I can't enough of watching this random Mexican Nu Metal Dude lose his shit over emo kids. I hear they are beating the white jeans off these kids south of the border. Anyway, this guy gets so worked up he slips into English to say "fucking bullshit" for added emphasis.

Ya gotta give it up to these guys. We've been dealing with this caca for years now and the minute it hits their cities, they get all the cholos and metal heads together for a beat down that the Who would have written a rock opera about. Social commentators are likening this to the Nazi persecution of the Jews in the late 1930s. Is that seriously the best metaphor they could dig up? Seriously, comparing the Nazi Party to a rag-tag group of Sepultura geeks and dudes in oversized Dickies beating up pansexual mall nymphs?

Dr. Pepper, that little old soda company from Waco, has jumped onboard the Chinese Democracy Hating Train that began sometime at the end of Bill Clinton's second term in office.

Everyone knows that Guns N' Roses frontman Howard Hughes (I mean Axl Rose) has been working on this Spruce Goose for the past 14 years. Recording has been the stuff of legend, with the sound said to change every few months to cotton to whatever is hot at the time. Be it trip-hop, rap-metal or that strain of nu-rock that's been permeating modern rock radio. You know, the Buck Seether stuff you only hear out here close to the coast. Cough Clear Lake Cough.

I’m about to tell you about two shows that are anything except garage rock, but due to their roots, spirit and aesthetic are precisely garage rock. But first, some history:

Early garage bands owe a massive debt to the Stones, primarily the early recordings, which were mired in R&B covers. It could be argued that the Stones brought “black music” into garage the way that Elvis did for the music of the Stones’ generation; there were garage bands kicking around America prior to the British Invasion, but the Stones and Beatles hitting U.S. soil blasted open the doors. As stated in the John Goodman narrated documentary “Tales of the Rat Fink” – about the 50s-60s era of custom cars and the cultural impact of Ed Roth’s vision – once American crowds caught an eyeful of those two bands, “the garage was no longer a place where kids tuned their cars; it became a place where kids tuned their guitars.”

It’s no wonder that the Beatles vs. Stones question remains a staple of asinine bar yammering: The two bands represent two looks, two sounds, two genealogies...two identities. Though their respective discographies were just budding at the time, young musicians were able to discern the tone and – even if vicariously – choose their forefathers, in the process strengthening a musical and cultural divide by forging disparate paths.

Hang in there, buddy.

-- Craig Hlavaty

Look, I know nothing about basketball. When the Rockets were in the middle of that winning streak a few weeks back, I asked where Hakeem was. I'm sorry, but my knowledge of the sport ends in 1996, when a little thing called puberty knocked on my door. I do know that right now is March Madness, because all my butch friends said so. As a much cooler alternative to all this "madness," I found this.

94WYSP, Philly's Number One Rock Station, is holding its own version of March Madness, pitting classic rock bands against newer and shittier bands. Some of the match-ups are even horrific, with Nickelback going lame to lame with Limp Bizkit. Some matches made me sob into my shirt. In what universe would you let Led Zeppelin duke it out with G.O.D rappers P.O.D? Seriously, everyone knows that nothing beats dreadlocked Christians rapping about someone named Jah. Sounds like a "Star Wars" character to me. (Oh, really? Apologies to my Rasta readers.)

For almost 20 years, she was the First Lady of Houston Rock Radio. On the air, across the stage and in the dressing rooms, KLOL’s Dayna Steele rubbed shoulders and interviewed plenty of rock icons. And her loyal legion of “Steeleworkers” made her one of the city’s most recognizable media personalities.

Since shutting off her mike, Steele has headed up a marketing and PR firm, ran and sold an online space-memorabilia Web site, and created Smart Girls Rock, an online community for young girls.

Steele has distilled much of her experiences in her new book, Rock to the Top: What I Learned About Success from the World’s Greatest Rock Stars (Brown Books, 192 pp., $17.95). It’s equal parts music memoir, self-help, business advice, and band primer book—and there were “hundreds” of rock and roll lifestyle and celebrity anecdotes that for reasons of space (or modesty) didn’t make it in. Houstoned Rocks spoke with Steele about business, pleasure, and why Lanny Griffith could have a second career as a wedding planner.

It’s probably safe to say that nobody’s South By Southwest experience this year was as comprehensive as that of Paul Ford, an editor at Harper’s and a blogger at the Themorningnews.org.

And here’s the thing – Ford never left New York City. Instead, he downloaded the SXSW 2008 Torrent File, which included single mp3s from 763 of the bands that went to Austin. (Just under half the total acts that appeared there.) And then he listened to every single one of them and wrote a six-word review of and assigned a rating to each one.

Here are a few Houston examples:

The JonBenet’s “Black Lion”: “One admires such remarkably vigorous stupidity.” (Two stars.)

Fatal Flying Guilloteens “Reveal the Rats”: “Should people from Houston sound British?” (One star.)

Chingo Bling’s “Do It”: “Chingo’s shit here is utterly ridiculous.” (Four stars.)

My mind boggled at this towering achievement, as did many others. I had to talk to this guy. – John Nova Lomax

Houstoned Rocks: So your piece is the talk of my little [rock critic] world.

Paul Ford: (Laughs) I, uh, you know, I guess that’s good.

HR: So you didn’t even go to South By?

Last week's Reverberations was eaten by the beast that was SXSW 2008. Which is a bummer, since I saw the Rippers play a fearsome set at the Mink on Saturday and very few of you were there. I know this because, until Uptown Bums – who played immediately before the Rippers – went on, it was me, my girlfriend, the bartender and the bands. Thereafter, we had a crowd of 14 to 20, depending on smoke breaks.

If you don’t know the Rippers, you need to. Seeing them live is like watching a derailed train slide toward you and your friends. That one will be a contender for Best Garage Show Of The Year, though it has some stiff competition coming up next week . . .

Jason Webley
Notsuoh
Wednesday, March 12

Better Than: Standing in line at SXSW

Download: Free mp3s on Jason Webley's Web site

"Tomatoes are nice... Actually, I don't eat a lot of tomatoes. I drive a tomato."

Or, more accurately, a red Corolla with the word "Toyota" broken and reshaped into "Tomato." The car has its own mythology (involving a stolen green stem), as do the many aspects of Jason Webley. He is a songwriter, a performer formerly of the busker tradition, and, above all, a storyteller.

Originally from Seattle, Webley has gained a sort of cult following, fueled in part by the yearly rituals he used to practice: publicly "dying" every Halloween, only to be born again sometime around May Day. While the events fostered a mystique around Webley, in person he is open and approachable -- normal, in the best sense of the word, like an offbeat college classmate who makes an interesting lunch partner.

His music is both folksy and bold. He accompanies himself on the accordion but with enough theatricality to draw a street crowd. The dark undertones of his songs sound like a Dia de los Muertos festival transplanted to the Czech Republic. In short, Webley is one-of-a-kind.

Downtown at Frank's, Jason is munching on a slice of veggie pizza. He is wearing a maroon collared shirt, brown slacks and a burgundy fedora, from which his hair extends past his shoulders. The hat is something of a trademark, it seems; its role during performances is to fall over Jason's eyes and migrate around his head without ever falling off. (Well, almost never.) This is no small feat in light of Webley's activity level as he sings and self-accompanies.

As everybody knows, South By Southwest has gotten huge. Overwhelmingly so, if you let it. Every hour, from about noon to two a.m., across a swath of Austin from Cicon in the East Side barrio through downtown and then way down South Congress, there are probably several hundred bands playing. It’s all too easy to get lost in the shuffle, to spend more time walking to and from shows and waiting in lines to actually have an amazing music experience.

I know, because it’s happened to me in the past. Not this year. Monotonix took care of that.

Monotonix is an Israeli trio, purveyors of balls-to-the-wall blues-derived MC-5 / Stooges punk-metal, tinged by occasional hints of Zeppelin. And yes, there are lots of band that fit that general description. But exactly none of them can bring it live the way Monotonix does.

As I set out Saturday night for the last of this year’s SXSW, little was set in stone. My assigned bands were at venues unlikely to be merciful to rock journo trash with only a wristband adorning his arm. Meaning that this night would be one of grazing the land, seeing what sustenance the wild and wooly capital city had to offer.

I declared to no one in particular that I would see as many bands as I could, in the least amount of time. Some shows would garner full stays, some would only warrant maybe one beer. The sighting of the Talking Heads’ Jerry Harrison in my hotel’s Starbucks gave me hope.

If I could only make it through the night in one piece, they swore they’d give me my papers and finally ship me home. So after refueling at an East Austin Mexican spot and something we’ll only refer to as the Taco Incident of 2008, I jumped into the back of a truck with only my trusty pen, paper and ear plugs. They were taking me back to the front line and I thought to myself, just one more night of this and I can go back home and see my girl.

The truck came to a screeching halt just west of I-35 and the driver yelled, “Koshkin! This is you!” So I attempted to jump out the back but before I could get one foot over the side, the truck started rolling. The driver hit the brakes and yelled at me to get out again, and this time I made it. Damn editors, I mumbled to myself as the truck sped away.

Entering The Habana Annex on 6th, I could have as well been traveling back to a cruise ship in the 70s thanks to White Shoes and The Couples Company. Clad in matching attire, the Indonesian outfit looked like it stepped straight out of a scene from The Love Boat and the music followed suit. White Shoes’ blend of retro pop and jazz makes for one of coolest takes on lounge since Esquivel.

The tunes are as polished as the band members’ style and it’s not surprising, seeing as the sextet (who were only five strong last night because of work visa woes – damn you, government!) met and formed at an Indonesian art school. A majority of the audience couldn’t sing along (the band sings in its native tongue), but lucky for us you don’t need to know the words to dance along.