I first saw The Police in 1981 during the "Ghost In The Machine" tour at the Carrier Dome in Syracuse. At this point the band was transitioning from the post-punk-textured reggae pop of its first three albums and getting more technical, more orchestral, more arena. It was my first big concert, and though I've grown to enjoy things more on the sweatier, in-your-face, up-your-butt level that smaller clubs deliver, it was an amazing show.

Flash forward 27 years to Saturday night and I was back in front of The Police at HSBC Arena in Buffalo. On a simple stage with no backing musicians, no pyrotechnics, or assorted bullshit older bands use to spackle the cracks, The Police delivered a magnificent set. Opening with a quasi-acoustic rendition of "Bring On The Night," it was the music that did the talking while the packed house did the screaming - though it was seated for the most part, well behaved, and a little khaki. I guess charging upward of $250 a ticket weeds my kind of element out.

Known more for his sonic wash, atmospheric chording, and reggae vamps, guitarist Andy Summers opted to wail on the guitar with aggressive glee. Sting seems to have misplaced his razor for at least a week, but still looked amazing. His voice still occupies that upper register unchallenged. And Stewart Copeland? Simply put, he is one of the best drummers of all time. This trio's synchronicity is still magic.

And by breaking up while on top of its game, The Police have nothing to live down (some of Sting's solo stuff may be another story). So the band picked up where it left off. And I hope it doesn't stop here.

Yeah, opener Elvis Costello doesn't have the hits that The Police do. But for a music fan who grew up in the 80's, having this cat on the bill was amazing. If they'd added The Jam I would've come in my pants. Costello and his band were rough and raw, delivering a stack of tunes off his new vinyl-only release "Momofuku" and classics like "I Don't Want To Go To Chelsea" and "Allison" as the Arena slowly filled. It didn't seem to faze Elvis; all these years later and his aim is still true.

With a lot of the technology pimping music to epic heights, there is a danger of the organic, off-the-cuff, spur-of-the-moment immediacy getting trampled. Artists today often make sure everything is in place before taking a stab. And though this pre-flight check may be wise, it isn't always good for the soul. Then you have the two nameless buskers I heard at the Public Market Saturday morning. Sipping coffee and digging the parade with my old lady and the hoi poloi under umbrella'd shade, the duo's rapidly picked country blues plinked and plunked exuberantly. When pressed for their name, they looked at each other and simply said, "Raed and Tony." They had met only recently and this - aside from a recent open jam - was their first gig. No rehearsal, no CD, no marketing strategy, no name. By the time I saw them again Sunday night they had come up with a name and made their debut playing as The Old Market Ramblers. The band was a mere 31 hours old.

The summer concert season is heating up: Foo Fighters with guests Supergrass have announced a show Monday, July 28, at Blue Cross Arena, 1 War Memorial Square, 232-1900. Show starts at 7 p.m., tix $40-$46.50. For more information visit Ticketmaster.

The Syracuse Dinosaur's second Naughty Lil' Pig show was a perfect blend of sleaze, cheese, tease, and please. Post-modern vaudevillians juggled, jiggled, wiggled, and giggled to a packed house. It got steamy, lemme tell ya, and you could smell the lust wafting about the room with the BBQ smoke, especially when three young ladies did a bloodthirsty striptease with scissors. The betwee- set music was great, featuring the dyn-o-mite Dino-man who gets things done, son -- Scott Sterling -- beating the hell out of his black beauty over the funky drummer's beat. It reminded me of a lot of that wicked lo-fi Sir Jeffery Evans raunch that inevitably led me to prophets like RL, and their disciples, like The Blues Explosion and, well, me. And you should ask Sterling to whip out some JJ Cale licks for you sometime. It sounds gooooooooood.

Collective Soul collectively sold out Water Street Music Hall last Monday night, and I liked it. Rochester ex-pat Ron Mesh tour manages the whole affair, so what the hell? I figured I'd pop in. The band may be used to strutting on slightly larger turf, but it expertly made its big 90's rock fit. This band is king of the guitar hook; riffs that are melodic and instantly recognizable. I was surprised by how many tunes I recognized and liked... really liked. I guess I've always been a fan and just didn't know it. You gotta give it a chance. I mean, who knows? I might even be a Hanson fan

Back to Water Street Tuesday night to watch Louisiana slide sensation Sonny Landreth do his voodoo backwards. That is, his best song was his first -he sat in and raised a little hell on the final tune of The Campbell Brothers' incendiary opening set. Landreth and the Campbells traded licks and wound the scene up tight for a good 10 minutes. It was sanctified and feverish. On his own Landreth was a little more animated than last time through town, and a whole lot louder. His tone is large, and extremely picturesque. His playing is exquisitely raw, and in some cases literal. The upper register cried out and the bottom end moaned. Landreth has wings.

The brand new Record Archive celebrated its grand opening with a host of bands. Local surf nerds The Isotopes took the stage at high noon and knocked me out with a jumpin' take of "Sing, Sing, Sing" - one that rivaled Dexter Romweber's Silvertone'd version from way back, if you ask me. Other hits followed, along with the band's low-brow hi-jinx and dancing girls. Ahh, dancing girls...

And then it was back to the Record Archive Monday for Hanson's 8 a.m. acoustic in-store appearance. The boys are all growed up, donchyaknow, but the post-pubescent harmonies were great. The kids went wild. The trio was approachable and way cool, signing anything the kids thrust in front of them, including pages ripped from a phone book. Doesn't anyone sign boobs anymore?

Last night’s Hanson show at Water Street was a culmination of two years worth of in-jokes at City. Ever since I started, music editor Frank De Blase has been posing rhetorical questions about new concert announcements. “Guess who’s coming to town?” he’d say. And I’d always reply, apropos of nothing, “Hanson?!” And then, one magical day a few months ago, it happened. Frank excitedly broke the news that Hanson was, in fact, coming to town. And by god, I was going to have to cover it.

I arrived to the show to find up-and-comer Kate Voegele in the middle of her opening set. I actually wish I’d missed her whole act. Don’t get me wrong, I actually like what I’ve heard of her radio-friendly pop/rock. But she was amped to death at this show. It’s a problem when your bass line is so loud that it shakes layers of dead skin cells right off me, and her vocals were largely unintelligible. Frank’s been writing for months now about the scourge of overly loud concerts, and I fear poor Kate was another victim last night.

Second openers Stephen Kellogg & The Sixers faired better on the sound end, and immediately grabbed my attention with an initial instrument line-up of guitar, mandolin, banjo, and tuba. Sadly, that lasted for one song, and then Kellogg and I became locked in an intense love/hate relationship for the rest of his 40-minute set. He had me with his driving alt-rock anthems, but lost me with some indulgent, blasé autobiographical numbers. He won me back with his jangly rhythms but alienated me with his shameless self-promotion and lame one-liners cribbed from “Superbad.” But then he forever captured my heart by paying homage to the late, great Jerry Orbach, uttering those six magic words from “Dirty Dancing”: “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.” I mean, how do you resist a good Jennifer Grey reference? I’m not made of stone. (BTW: He’s way better live than he is on disc.)

And then there was Hanson. Once the band finally took the stage – a full 40 minutes after Kellogg and his crew had wrapped their set, an unforgivably long wait in my book – the boys put on a heck of a show. During the interminable break I surveyed the sizable crowd, trying to figure out who exactly was turning out for a Hanson show on a Monday night in Rochester, NY. It was an odd group; mostly women, almost totally white, some of them in their teens, some of them college-aged, some of them in their early 30s. The latter contingent I understood, since they probably tooled around in their best friend’s Aerostar (or approximation thereof) and blasted “Middle of Nowhere” on hot summer joyrides during high school like my crowd did. But the younger ones? It’s been 10 years since “MMMBop”; anyone in high school was practically a fetus when these boys used to get mistaken for girls. How would they even know what a Hanson looks like?

But the crowd knew perfectly well what a Hanson looks like (the answer: all grown up and totally foxy), and what one sounds like. This group knew the words to most of the songs the band played, everything from the early stuff (“Where’s the Love,” “If Only”) to stuff off Hanson’s current indie release, “The Walk.” And they sang along enthusiastically to almost every number. It was kind of an eye-opening experience: this is a band that’s often dismissed—unfairly--as a teeny-pop novelty, but which has fans that remember every lyric from even minor hits a decade later.

And yes, they played “MMMBop.” The City crew wondered how the boys would handle the song now that their testicles have dropped. The brothers wisely turned it into an acoustic jam, and what’s arguably the most popular nonsense song since “Louie Louie” has never sounded better. In fact, the band sounded amazing all night. The boys all have fantastic voices—Isaac and Zack particularly impressed me— those harmonies still sound great, and their ability on their respective instruments has only increased over the years. Eldest brother Isaac has also matured into a confident, charming presence on stage, even though lead singer Taylor still probably gets the majority of the attention. Wee Zack got plenty of love from the screaming girls on the balcony, which was a good thing since he finally cracked into a smile toward the end of their set’s first hour. Prior to that he looked totally bored behind his drum kit. I wondered if perhaps his perfect librarian bun was too tight, or if his one luxurious, chunky bang was distracting him by flopping all over his face. (All of them have amazing hair; they should be doing Pantene commercials or something.)

All told, Hanson’s set lasted more than two hours. The guys played tracks off of each of their four albums, and some covers from The Police, U2, and a surprisingly smooth and funky “Let Love Rule” by Lenny Kravitz. They seemed legitimately impressed by the crowd’s enthusiasm and milked it with countless audience-participation bits, some of which fell slightly flat. Steady clapping is one thing, but tasking the crowd to shout out the chorus on the off-beats or only clap on certain measures of a refrain is probably too much to ask the hive mind. The one poor girl next to me was like Homer during the “Monorail” song on “The Simpsons,” blurting out “Hey” after everyone else had stopped. (I loved it.)

Confidential to my Amazonian nemesis, the woman who stood in front of me for most of the show: 1) It is not cool to elbow your way through the crowd multiple times during the night so you can go back and forth and back and forth and back and forth to your equally towering boyfriend, and then cling to him like a lichen while shooting out death glares to anyone in your general vicinity; 2) I am not your messenger, so if you have something to say to your aforementioned boyfriend, please don't poke me in the back and try to have me relay some garbled instructions to some dude I've never met; 3) If you don't want to go to a concert, don't go. Your constant fidgeting and restlessness distracted everybody else around you from what was otherwise a totally satisfying show.

Frank's in Vegas this week (something about girls and cars), so, after taking advice from friends on how to handle the column (say "cats" and "swagger" a lot, apparently), I'm gonna fill you in on some music action.

Caught 40 Rod Lightning's small-screen debut when the band played a taping at the WXXI studios last Tuesday night. I've seen this band plenty of times at the Dino and the Bug Jar, and usually get so caught up in dancing, drinks, and company, that I listen, but almost forget to watch the band in action. Throw 40 Rod into a television studio and seat the audience, and suddenly the dynamics demand full attention. From Brian Killigrew's precise playing of the lap steel (which he'll later claim not to actually know how to play) to Tom Jones's eye-crossing and perfectly executed yells, it all reads, both from the seats and onscreen. And the band's heavy metal-turned-country take on Metallica's "For Whom the Bell Tolls" was nothing short of beautiful. I mean, I don't even like that song.

Rob Filardo's drumming always makes me move, and it was no different when The Quitters opened for the Fleshtones at the Bug Jar Sunday. When I wasn't admiring John Chaijka's big red shirt, I was caught by the nonchalance with which Dan Snyder pulled off his guitar solos while Keith Von Suhr and Chaijka danced around each other. When Snyder introduced the last song ("This one's about getting fucked up!"), Sunday night felt like Saturday all over again.

And then the Fleshtones started playing - not from the stage, but from the bar. The crowd followed, pied-piper style, into the adjoining room, and it was pure rock & roll from then on. The garage rock grooves inspired one girl to whip her top off, and another to storm the stage (looked like she thought the drummer wanted some help; security carried her off). At other points during the show, the band formed a human pyramid; my man and I were singled out as swingers; audience members were pulled onstage to flesh out the Fleshtones, while the band did pushups on the floor; there was some synchronized twirling; and finally, what felt like several sweaty hours later, the band ended by parading back out to the bar, while Liz of the Cheetah Whores belted out impromptu harmonies to the band's vocals. The crowd was left staring, half-stunned, as the band members sidled up to get a drink.

Badass, right? This is why I go to shows on school nights.

The last claps of Blue Spark and Flame's thunder were fading into the evening cool as I crossed Monroe into The Bug Jar Wednesday night. The double bill's star attraction, Monotonix, was setting up in the middle of the floor. Except for a few stray road cases, and some Blue Spark and Flame shrapnel, the stage was empty. The hype around this band was so immense - just from fans I'd run into days before - that it was beginning to resemble a threat.

Now, I've seen a lot of shows - a lot. I've watched people on and off stage completely lose their minds. And I've seen some pretty heavy duty energy over the years. Hell, The U.S. Bombs just came through town, and The UV Rays live here. Punk is usually a start-off point when describing bands that throw a saddle on the chaos and ride. You see bodies flying through the air, hear a primal scream over primitive drums and crude guitar, and you think punk, right?

Well, Monotonix is not a punk band. Monotonix is intense beyond words. Monotonix is a magnificent tantrum. The current state of affairs in the band's native Tel Aviv is no doubt volatile, restrictive, and scary. And the art that's inspired by that is just so intense, it's useless to try to contain it. The band's rage was only matched by a big troublemaking streak. Stomping about and flailing his arms as if imitating a chicken, the lead singer wailed in a non-stop freak-out. The drummer set his kit on fire, and the guitar player covered all the sonics, top to bottom. Best show I've seen in a long, long time.

Buddy Guy brought the blues to Water Street Music Hall deep-dish Chicago style Monday night. This cat swaggers with so much class, that he even looked elegant in a track suit. Guy played every notch on the volume dial from a whimper to a roar, while singing as if he could barely contain himself. He dug into the dirty blues, some Muddy Waters, some John Lee Hooker, and was working his way into the crowd as I split. I would've stayed longer, but his soulful take on Otis Redding's "Dreams To Remember" put a fire in my girl's pants, and I had to go home and put it out.

The free organ concerts that the Memorial Art Gallery hosts every Sunday aren't your typical display of boogaloo grooves pumping out of a Hammond B-3 in some smoke-filled juke joint.  Not even the instrument is the same. The organ in one of the rooms on the MAG's second floor is massive, yet curiously small  - the pipes stretch 15 feet or more into the air, and a small keyboard, like those handheld Casios, is built waist high into the wall. In an adjacent room a girl worked the bellows, pushing the air through the organ's pipes by stepping back and forth on two wooden plates attached to pulleys and levers. It's as if she were on a wooden Stairmaster, methodically moving to keep the gates of sound open and pouring Baroque sounds into the museum.

On Sunday, April 6, organist David Bellows sat in front of about 20 listeners to perform his second show of the day at the MAG. He worked through two Frescobaldi pieces - "Toccata Quinta" and "Tocata per le leuatione, Messa Della Domenica" - setting the musical mood for viewing the paintings of Christ, angels, and other typical Catholic themes that dotted the walls.  He danced his way around the foot pedals that triggered deep bass notes and hit chords that used to call parishioners to mass on Sundays.  Frescobaldi, after all, was the organist at St. Peter's in Rome in the early 1600's.

Bellows finished out the hour with Zipoli's "Pastorale" and Gherardeschi's "Sonata per Organo a guisa di Banda Militare"; both written about 100 years after the first two selections. The afternoon was Baroque in every way - Baroque art on the walls, Baroque sounds swirling around the air, and a manually run instrument.

Now more than ever, a band's future is on its own shoulders. With a great deal of the fat cats squeezed out of the equation, the power and control and responsibility is returning to the musicians. And it's also returning to the fans - especially young fans. And bands: you gotta listen to the kids; they'll make you, they'll break you.

My niece is at that wonderful early-teen age where digging on something without mass appeal is cool, discovering new bands is cool, and sharing that band with friends is cool. A lot of this flies below grown-up radar, so we gotta listen to the kids as well. And if I hadn't, I wouldn't have known about The High Court, a fairly decent rock band out of Philadelphia that played a multi-band bill at the heatless (we're talking meat locker here) Penny Arcade last Thursday. This four-piece outfit is a work in progress, its framework and wires still peeking out as it seeks to blend all the avenues that brought it together. No doubt some of the ingredients - emo, pop, rock, hard rock, and a keenly disjointed approach to songwriting - will eventually dominate and The High Court will settle into a sound it'll be known for. Meanwhile, teenage girls will scream, the band will take note, and the whole process will roll on.

The Buddhahood rolled on later that night to a joyous Dinosaur crowd for the first time since it lost its leader. And whereas some people will seek to comfort themselves, imagining the deceased "looking down in approval," the reality is that the person is all the good they left behind. Tony Cavagnaro was his music. This is the immortality he has earned as a musician. Yes, his big frame has gone back to the earth, but he was there, and will be everywhere always. Wanna live forever? Pick up an instrument. It's like dancing on a grave you'll never occupy.

Mr. Spacetrucker, Tommy Brunette played a fantastic set at The Club @ Water Street Saturday, as we all celebrated another year of Dick The Dancing Record. Brunette and his trio leaned heavily on the Cash and blew me away with a nod to chimney sweeps a la "Mary Poppins." Uh huh, "Mary Poppins."