Sound Check: Columnist says hello with a big Bangs theory

"Ninety percent of the rock critics in the world have some grand theory they're trying to lay on each other and everybody else, which they insist explains everything in musical history and ties up all the loose ends. Every last one of 'em has a different theory and every last one of the theories is total (bull excrement)."

So said Lester Bangs, the patron saint of music scribes everywhere, in a 1974 piece titled "How to be a Rock Critic." Nothing has changed since then -- the music critic is still reviled by peers, has virtually no career arc and gets every flavor of hate mail, from stinging rebukes to poorly composed death threats. Must be all that Mountain Dew the kids are drinking.

Sure, there are perks. There's new music in the mail almost every day (even Bangs loved the graft), tickets to see every touring act that blows through our Entertainment Capital and access to the nefarious Backstage Area, where the Famous Musicians are lurking. All that aside, the job is candy for trained apes.

So why get into the fresh hell of this weekly music column? I don't think even the enduring spirit of Bangs could answer for me. I don't have a "grand theory" to "lay on you." I don't enjoy slamming your favorite musicians; it hurt like hell to denigrate Van Halen and Sugar Ray in reviews in these pages because I grew up with the former and the latter seem like nice guys.

And I just don't feel like a music critic, you know? Those who have done it have invested something in the trade that I don't believe I can muster. I have very little in common with the names that defined the trade, save this: like Bangs, I was raised a Jehovah's Witness, bailing out in my teens; like the Los Angeles Times' Robert Hilburn, I dig Neil Diamond's early material, in private.

Pressed for a reason, I'd have to say that it's all about sharing the wealth. I've been an audiophile for more than a decade now, despite more than a few interventions arranged by close friends ("Give us the headphones, Geoff -- it's all for the best"). As such, I've learned to love every form of musical expression unconditionally.

My tastes run the gamut from Camille Saint-Saens to Astrud Gilberto, from Django Reinhardt to Sevendust. If any of those names are unfamiliar, well, it's my job to tell you why they matter, if you care to know -- in this essay space, and in the CD reviews and local performance notes that follow.

"The first thing to understand and bear in mind at all times is that the whole thing is just a big ruse from the word go," Bangs said of the trade. "It don't mean (anything) except exploitatively and in the zealotic terms of wanting to inflict your tastes on other people."

Welcome to my thing, boys and girls. Every Friday, we're going to have a little hootenanny. Lester, if you're out there somewhere -- tell me what to do next.

Stereo dynamics

Every week, this section will deliver recommended listening fresh to your door!

"Maybe You've Been Brainwashed Too," New Radicals (MCA).

Gregg Alexander is New Radicals, in the same way Utopia was Todd Rundgren. Alexander's a smart fellow, perhaps too smart for his own good: His debut single, the summer-with-the-lid-off anthem "You Get What You Give," is such a blatant Rundgren appropriation that royalties may be due. It's the kind of record that makes one-hit wonders; fortunately for New Radicals, there's more where that came from.

"Maybe You've Been Brainwashed Too" is a real pleasure. Alexander's Rundgren-isms have company -- he pays homage to every FM radio hit of the 1970s, and those who made them. "Jehovah Made This Whole Joint For You" recalls everyone from Paul McCartney to 10CC, while "I Hope I Didn't Just Give Away The Ending" could have easily sat on the Rolling Stones' "Some Girls."

It's good fun, with just one major failing: a lyric sheet that's trying too hard to be continental. Alexander is from Michigan, not Manchester; there's no doubt in my mind that these words were scribbled in the back of a Starbucks -- watching his barista Lolita steam a cafe au lait -- and not on the back of a Vespa cruising into a street riot. Relax, kid. We're trying to get a tan here.

Get out, act up

Don't spend another Friday night watching "X-Files" repeats. Check this space every Friday, and get thee to the gig!

The Bomboras lay down their wild garage/surf sounds at 9 tonight at Fat Daddy's, supported by Vegas' own beloved Vermin. Call 464-3118 for details.

Amazingly versatile local instrumental rock outfit Native Tongue plays at 9 p.m. Saturday at Money Plays; call 368-1828.

Classic punk outfit G.B.H. levels the Huntridge on Sunday night; call 477-7703 and get ready to pogo.

Budding folksinger Bob Zimmerman -- nee Dylan -- opens the House of Blues on Tuesday. Calling 632-7777 may or may not get you a shot at this hot ticket. The following night, the Blues Brothers (Dan Aykroyd, John Goodman and Jim Belushi) take the same stage with Buddy Guy in tow.

And on Thursday, happy punks Lagwagon roll into the Huntridge, a good bet if you miss out on seats for Michael Bolton's gig the same night at House of Blues. Knock yourself out. No, really.

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