I love the guys in our band, but that doesn't mean I don't occasionally see another musician play and get a sudden, almost instinctive idea that we'd click together.

It's not necessarily about technical prowess or even out-and-out talent. There's just something about some players' styles that inspires more than just respect; it triggers a desire to get in on some of that. Maybe it's so close to your own that you just know you'd mesh. Maybe it's so different you just want to find out what the collision would sound like.

I've been fortunate enough to play with some extremely gifted peers over the years. What follows is a brief list of other local folks that give me "that feeling" every time I catch their sets. I'm not saying they're the best of the best (I might be thinking it very loudly, but I'm not saying it), only that I've always wondered if we could make beautiful music together.   

Shawn Watkins. The drummer for ideal cheap-beer soundtrack The Tim Version has a crazy and absolutely infectious energy, and a great sense of humor to boot. Plus, the guy holds his snare stick underhand/jazz style, and still manages to beat the shit out of everything. I bet I'd screw up my parts constantly, just watching him play.

Jason Schultz. He sings and plays guitar for Military Junior. J's guitar style is pretty much the opposite of mine - he uses a lot of effects and intricate, layered melody lines - and whenever I catch his band's set I wonder if something we worked on together would be interesting, or just a totally incoherent freakin' mess.
 
Rebekah Pulley. Well, derf. Who doesn't want to play with Rebekah? Insanely evocative voice, great melodic guitar skills. She's been on my collaborative wish list for most of the '00s.

Steve Connelly. An ace engineer and proprietor of Pinellas County's Zen Studios as well as a masterful multi-instrumentalist, the former Headlights member has worked and/or played on virtually every great Americana, roots, and pop-rock CD the Bay area has produced over the last decade. I covet his pedal steel skills.

Danny Burke and J.P. Beaubien. The rhythm section behind both posthardcore scene fave The Chase Theory and currently white-hot insurgent Americana outfit Have Gun, Will Travel. They're dynamic, inventive and super-tight. It would be great to jam with them on some off-kilter time signatures and hypnotic math-y grooves, a la Turing Machine or Battles.

Ed Wotil. Ed's a gifted singer-songwriter. Right now he and Barely Pink principal Brian Merrill have a great classic-pop thing going on in the form of The Ditchflowers. Playing with either of those guys, I'd be content just to strum some obscure chords and write and sing a few harmonies.

Inkwell. I've always been a big fan of both My Hotel Year and Believe in Toledo, and when MHY's Travis Adams and BiT's Davey Pierce got together as Inkwell, the material exceeded my sky-high expectations. It's a very cool mix of indie-pop, alt-rock, DIY values, sarcasm and honest emotion, and I would love to hang out in their home studio and help crank some of it out.  

Tina Louise. This Knowing Stu singer has got pipes to match her formidable physical presence. There's something in her delivery that reminds me of '80s rock vocalists like Joan Jett, Pat Benatar and Rindy Ross of Quarterflash. It would be fun to write some catchy, retro hard-rock tunes in that vein specifically with her in mind.

Jeremy Gloff. Gloffy's currently known for mining a dance-y '80s/club style, but everybody who's familiar with his catalog knows he's capable of just about anything, and always puts his own, alternately earnest and tongue-in-cheek stamp on it. I'd be down for anything, as long as I could get him behind the keyboard.

Jimmy Reese. Jimmy is the guitarist/vocalist who fronted two of Tampa's best posthardcore bands, Everglade and Tomorrow. He's got a reputation as an extremely discerning/opinionated listener; working with him might be both a challenge and a valuable learning experience.

Melissa Castellano. A talented cellist whose work with the lauded Candy Bars showcases only one of her many stylistic facets. The cello's evocative sound makes it possibly my all-time favorite instrument, and I always wonder why more quote-unquote rock bands don't incorporate it, until I remember there aren't a hell of a lot of good cellists around.

(We'd love to hear some of your ideas for interesting combinations of local musicians. Maybe we could even put together a few of 'em for a show sometime.)

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Reason Number 947 why I still love rock 'n' roll:

No thoroughbreds.

Nobody's spending millions of dollars on sci-tech research and development in the name of building a better rock musician. There's not a team of men and women in white coats somewhere trying to figure out how to fit nutrients and an attention-focusing enzyme into a can of Sparks, or designing a cool-looking black wristband that features weights for increased muscle tone and ergonomic support to combat downpicking fatigue.

Yes, there are labels out there spending time and money "developing" what they think are rock acts; generally, however, that means getting them to sit in a room with a songwriter, and watch the songwriter write a song that sucks slightly less than theirs do while somebody goes to get them new clothes. Yes, there are the pop Svengalis who steal kids from church choirs and county-fair singing contests, like dingoes with quality dental work and an aura of Drakkar Noir. Yes, there are the contemporary-country star mills, and the Show Moms and Dads with their crushing Idol expectations.

But none of that really has anything at all to do with the world of rock 'n' roll.

Sure, there are a few rock 'n' roll Show Moms and Dads, but we never have to worry about them, because their kids' bands never go far. (Listen, I have known some pretty cool "little 's'" show moms and dads who were supportive and not the least overbearing. If a kid shows an interest in music, of course it's important to nurture it. But I've said it before and I will say it again: If your dad or mom is managing your rock band, no matter what his or her intentions, you're already fucked.)

And yeah, I'm pretty positive there are at least a couple of bitter guys out there in their late 30s or early 40s, who never "hit the big time" with Dead Reckoning or Modelfinger or Earl Watts & The Juke Joint Jukers and are totally taking it out on their kids. They shelled out for a vocal coach and bought a little mic stand with tiny bandanas tied to it, and the kid just can't sing. So they put some drumsticks in those little hands, and it turns out the kid's got all the rhythmic sense of a car crash. Now, there's a little bass guitar and a metronome on order for Christmas, when all the poor tyke really wants are a book about dinosaurs and the big box of Crayolas.

We won't ever hear any good, real rock 'n' roll from those kids. Hell, the celebrity-spawn of Rock The Cradle couldn't even fake it; some of 'em had a hard time just looking happy to be there.       

They took over tennis. They (well, Tiger) took over golf. They're even taking over skateboarding, the one quote-unquote sport that once seemed impervious to the more sinister sides of athletics and competition.

And the thoroughbreds have certainly come to music. A voice with potential can be trained. A body's muscles can be sculpted to give it stamina and attractiveness, and plastic surgery can correct anything that's wrong with its exterior. Moves can be studied, trends can be forecast, stylists and songwriters and producers can be brought on board.

But again, none of that has anything to do with rock 'n' roll. You can't breed or build or perfect a winner for something so invested in its own image as an asylum for losers. You can't sing about heartbreak if everybody's always loved you. You can't sing about hope if you've never feared its absence. You can't sing about making your own way in the world if the way has always been paved for you.

Well, you can, I guess. People often do. But it's hollow and it's awful and it's obviously not rock 'n' roll, which is - and, I hope, will always be - about being mutts, about being mutants, about being jackasses rather than thoroughbreds, and finding the joy in that.

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When you can wake up Monday morning and find the results of Amy Winehouse's Friday afternoon court-mandated urinalysis, it's pretty much official: that gulf of mystery that once existed between superhuman pop icon and just-regular-human pop fan is either completely gone, or has been so successfully bridged by emerging technology that it might as well be. And that's where we're at. You might have to wait out the bullshit, or dig a little deeper than the initial posts on your favorite Project Celebrity Watch sites and blogs, but if you really want to, you can know more about somebody whose song you like than you know about your parents, your sister, or your lover.

Once upon a time, rock stars could be anything they wanted. Perfectly adjusted womanizers, or stylish, intellectual drug addicts who worshipped a devil that always had ample supplies of hot bodies and blow. Even – if you can believe it – a Starman, a Bat Devil, another Starman Who Was Also A Playing Card, and a Curiously Incurious Cat-Man. And fans ate up the fantasy as easily as they devoured the attendant music.

As a musician and writer, I was let behind the curtain before the computer-literate masses. Not too long before, mind you. But just early enough to be granted a rude awakening with regard to the differences between the ideas and realities of the musicians that so heavily influenced me. I opened for bands I'd waited years to meet, only to find out they were dicks. I interviewed people to whom I couldn't wait to speak, only to find out they were dicks too.

And I began to wonder exactly how much my personal knowledge of the artist influenced my opinion of that artist's work.

One of my old bands played with Seaweed. They booted us out of the backstage area and didn't remember us when we drove to Orlando to see them the next night! But it didn't really affect my love for their music. I did a horrible phone interview with The Melvins' Buzz Osborne, one I swear he timed so he could mutter garbled quotes through the gristle of his dinner, and I never listened to the band the same way again – maybe he made the cagey distinction between “press” and “fan,” but I didn't.  I can't hear Stoner Witch without thinking, “God, Buzz Osborne is a tub of cocks.”

Now every fan knows everything about every artist he or she might be considering for the soundtrack of his or her life. Not only that, but they've got to sift through all manner of half-truths and outright lies – none of which are exactly endearing – on their way to forming a picture of said artist that isn't – um – roughly as accurate as a blind Argentinean’s charcoal sketch of a polar bear in a snowstorm.

So how much does this onslaught of “information” about the human beings who create this music influence our opinion of the music itself?

I'm not sure, but I'd wager it's too much. I've loved The Frames for years, and I'm perfectly willing to admit that the attention attracted by Glen Hansard's recent Oscar win makes me nervous. It might not affect his songwriting at all – it probably won't – but the idea of paparazzi suddenly taking interest in a brilliant and heretofore obscure artist curdles my stool. Not because one of my favorite unknown acts has suddenly been shoved into the spotlight, but because of the ripple effect notoriety has in the pop culture pond.

Twenty years ago, I just thought Tommy Lee was the skinniest, craziest guy in Mötley Crüe. Now I know he's aggressive, pathetic and almost clinically retarded. None of that has much to do with the soundtrack of my life. So let me ask you, was I better off not knowing?

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