I'm trying to understand the kids, you know. And the easiest way is through their music. The band a kid digs now is like a tell; a window into his future. The child who gravitates to music for its intricacies, beauty, and soul --- as opposed to being told what to like --- is gonna be a cool grown-up. The child who thinks Paris Hilton can sing or P Diddy is talented... there's no hope.

The kids who packed Water Street Music Hall last Tuesday were no doubt enamored with Senses Fail. And because the band is flexing past the typical emo drone and whine, there was hope. I dug 'em too. The mondo-cool tattoo of a Sailor Jerry Indian maiden twitching on the singer's forearm might have helped seal the deal for me.

Openers Saosin and Bleeding Through brought it a little heavier in what I hope is an example of what is to come from this youth wave. Bleeding Through added some heavy to the speed. They were almost metal. Saosin sounded a little prettier, but the guitar player positively floored me when he spun the guitar around his neck ala Ywingie at least nine times before windmilling the final chord. It was a good show despite the mosh pit being borderline stupid with muscle-headed overcompensation. Donavon Frankenreiter is keeping the California hippie vibe alive like his recent producer, Jack Johnson. Frankenreiter opened for Gov't Mule on Saturday at the Harro East Ballroom, with some funky twang in a laid-back groove. The guitar threatened to break free occasionally but Frankenreiter kept it corralled nicely in the pocket.The Mule hit the stage sounding a helluva lot better then when I saw them last time. Better mix, I suppose. I only stuck around for three songs but in that time was treated to guitarist Warren Haynes' big, big tone. Haynes takes the Southern rock aesthetic (he's with the Allmans, donchaknow) and swings it like a hammer. Got to the Bug Jar in time to catch 40 Rod Lightning bring the country. Nothing this week sounded like it came from here. But then again, what does here sound like anyway?

One of the few remaining Delta blues masters is gone. Robert Lockwood, Jr. passed away Monday, November 20, in Cleveland. He was 91.

Born in Turkey Scratch, Arkansas (just outside Helena) in 1915, Lockwood grew up in an area that yielded other Delta greats. At age 11 Lockwood learned guitar from the legendary, enigmatic Robert Johnson, who was living with Lockwood's mother at the time. Lockwood played with Johnson and others at juke joints, fish fries, and street corners learning his stepfather's style. Johnson's live fast, die young lifestyle caught up with him in 1937 and Lockwood headed north. He became an in-demand session player for Chess Records in the 1950s playing on recordings by Sonny Boy Williamson, Roosevelt Sykes, Eddie Boyd, and Sunnyland Slim to name a few. He also cut several sides for Mercury.

Lockwood moved to Cleveland in the 1960, and that's where he raised his family. Lockwood continued to play the blues up until his death last week. 

So I'm telling you all this because Lockwood is here in spirit, through mighty influence. Lockwood came through Rochester from time to time. His music spoke in particular to bluesman Steve Grills, who caught Lockwood at The Red Creek in 1978. It left a lasting impression. The two became friends.

As most know, Grills is an extremely articulate and reverent blues musician who knows and loves all styles and nuances within the genre. But over the years, whenever he spoke of Lockwood, his eyes would light up. Lockwood's style seemed to excite more than most. Grills traveled to Cleveland frequently to catch the man at his weekly gigs. He even got the chance to record with him on a Shakin' Smith project. Among the countless guitarists that influence Grills' style, Lockwood's floats undeniably on top. 

"He was one of my all-time favorite guitar players," Grills says. "And just a great guy. He was as dedicated to the tradition he came from as he was in being a progressive artist. He was always evolving."

So when you hear Grills, you'll be hearing Lockwood too. And though he's gone, the most important part of his life --- and American music history --- remains bristling at Grills' fingertips.

The Cheetah Whores singer Liz O'Brian oozes the kind of lust I like. She cruised a coupla gears over sultry as the band rolled beneath her at the Bug Jar Saturday night. It was definitely her party, if you know what I mean. There's just something about a woman losing her voice that sends me. The band is obviously a little new, still waiting for the music to tell it what to do. The various aspects of the group that dominate, however, are incredible. Joey Pitts is one of the most maniacal, unconventional, fascinating drummers I know. She doesn't play the drums, she pounds them. She loves and believes every beat. El Destructo's fingerprints are all over this band and he brings in an understated cool that bridges the gap between the swagger and the power. His cheap guitar feedback fed the chaos; a chaos the rest of the band will enjoy as it matures, I'm sure. The Cheetah Whores is a big band for such a primitive strain --- like The Brian Jonestown Massacre, for instance. Once the nuance sprouts, The Cheetah Whores will become one big wall of shake.

The Whores opened for Boston's The Demon Seeds, who despite a squeaky-clean personae (it takes balls to play rock 'n' roll in a letterman sweater) played a fantastic and tight set of Woggles-style garage rock tunes mostly about zombies. The band even dedicated one to the Late Hasil Adkins, who I'm surprised hasn't returned yet as a zombie himself. Or has he?

Watkins and the Rapiers decked the airways on the Shakedown Sunday with a perfect blend of plugged acousticity, holiday cheer, and sarcasm. Gypsy-jazz outfit Lumiere followed and was just magnificent. El Destructo even popped in and read a hipster version of "The Night Before Christmas" over Lumiere's casual swing as visions of sugar plums danced in my head.

"Twas the night before Christmas and all through the pad,
Not a hip cat was swinging, and that's nowhere, Dad.
The stove was hung up on that stocking routine,
In hopes that the fat man would soon make the scene."