Tuba Christmas was big and brassy, with more than 200 tubas decking Midtown Plaza's halls Saturday afternoon. But it wasn't nearly as loud as I'd hoped. I guess because the instrument occupies such a low register it came off more as a warm hum than a bombastic blast. Memories of dates with grandma and riding the monorail with my sister assailed me despite the place looking gutted and dingy like a skid row bus station. Still, it was festive and fun.

It was a fistful of rock 'n' roll with the Chesterfield Kings/UV Rays/New York Vaults triple bill at das German House Saturday night. This joint actually sounds good with loud music blasting from its stage. And it was loud. The Vaults got things rolling minus a guitar player, which would've gone unnoticed if they hadn't said anything. However, the band's killer studio work has created a pretty high standard. It sounds good stripped down, but man, I'd like to hear - and see - those powerhouse female vocals live every time. The UV Rays played raw and loud as always; a truly beautiful rock 'n' roll band in spite of itself. And don't let singer Kevin Wilcox's stupid-is-as-stupid-does persona fool ya. He's one smart motherf**ker.

The Kings careened and kerranged loud and loose. From the Mose Allison start to the Stones finish, the band rocked relentlessly. I've been diggin' the Kings since 1983 and have kinda taken for granted that it's always gonna be a great show. And it was. Old hits, new hits, honkin' harp, screamin' guitars, and the freight train thunder of a rhythm section in love with the big beat.

Dug the Gore Gore Girls even later that night as they rocked the Bug Jar like the Shangri-Las with some mean Motown muscle and a triple Gretsch attack. You can't hear 'em, but music swings a whole lot sexier whenever go-go boots stomp the stage. But these boots and mini-dresses are a trap, man; those gorgeous Gore Gore girls rock like a bunch of nasty boys.

I'm not one to shout out songs to the band. I'm more of the monosyllabic "yeah!" or "woo hoo!" variety than one that sets forth demands. Yet I was a little worried; Los Lobos has a big repertoire at this point, and I wasn't sure if the greasier, more obscure numbers would show up in the band's warm-up set for John Mellencamp at the Auditorium Theatre last night. Mellencmp's followers are a tad more mainstream, and I was ready to holler out for "Don't Worry Baby" if I didn't hear it. That song changed my life, man. Well, I heard it along with a pile of other Mexican-infused ravers and rockers. Los Lobos, despite an epic catalogue and history, still sounds as fresh and exciting as the roots rock bar band that barnstormed Southern California punk clubs in the early 80's. And the sound at the Auditorium was excellent: big and loud yet discernable.

Mellencamp worked through an excellent set of hits and newer numbers that truly galvanized his sound. Big slices of country, blues, folk, and old time rock 'n' roll -- all sung with his mid-west American pride -- had the crowd on its feet the entire time, singing loud and proud. Mellencamp's abbreviated band sounded outtasight and the man played as if he were still a cougar.

Dear Amy,

Last night I fell in love. I knew I liked you the minute I laid eyes on you; those switchblade stilettos, that skyscraping beehive, that Tura Satana makeup and trashy swagger. But it's when I heard you sing that I came all unglued. Simultaneously confused and elated, I knew we were meant to be.

The ragged soul in your voice goes through me, leaving me flushed with a low-grade fever and high-grade lust. Your music is a soundtrack to daydreams where I'm better looking, better dressed, and a girl like you actually laughs at my jokes.

I avoided taking the plunge into your music because, well, I've been hurt before. A red hot mama would croon a tune, pique my interest, and ultimately let me down, the majority of her material dumbed-down and tarted-up for the gringos. The same gringos that feast on your flesh as you go through the downside associated with living a high life.

Amy, I never bought into pop or tabloid culture. It all makes my trigger finger itchy. I can see who you are without the paparazzi peeking up your skirt, or those that delight in your agony. I've listened to your music and your voice and assure you none of these self-righteous assholes are worthy to walk an inch in your fuck-me pumps.

I can't really offer you much, darling. Hell, I'm married. But I'm a good listener.

Love,

Frank

Country bigshots Carrie Underwood and Keith Urban are coming to town Saturday, February 2, with their "Love, Pain & the Whole Crazy Carnival" Tour. The show will take place at Blue Cross Arena. Tickets run $55-$75 and will go on sale at 10 a.m. Saturday, December 15. Call 232-1900 or visit ticketmaster.com.

Dear Ike,

I'm gonna miss you, man. You were one righteous cat. We only met twice, but the impression you left on me remains. Rock 'n' roll is so important to me and you were so important to rock 'n' roll. Along with the late 40's rhythm and blues artists like Tiny Bradshaw, Wynonie Harris, Roy Brown, Hank Ballard, Louis Jordan, Clyde McPhatter, Bull Moose Jackson, and Big Joe Turner, you ushered in rock 'n' roll with what is arguably its first single. The tremors you set off with 1951's "Rocket 88" by Jackie Brenston still shake the earth and my soul. And I know it was actually you and your band on that record. Hell, you even wrote the damn thing. But like most of your life, you remained in the shadows, with a plan and an expert understanding of what needed to be out front. Artists like Howlin' Wolf, Elmore James, Sonny Boy Williamson, Buddy Guy, and Robert Nighthawk were all backed by you and your Kings Of Rhythm. You discovered countless stars for Sun and Modern Records. But you know all this; I just wanted you to know that I know, and am grateful. These are the things folks need to remember.

When the limelight shined down on you, it tended to be negative. There's that whole Ike-and-Tina thing, and face it ike, you blew through a mountain of cocaine. You probably single-handedly put Pablo Escobar's kids through college. I remember you telling me at one point in the mid-'70s you spent $11 million on coke.

Ike, I think you were vilified to certain extent. I'm not condoning what went down, but Tina's moved on, you moved on, so why can't everybody else?

Rock 'n' roll and all those that live and die to it, by it, and with it owe you everything, brother. Perhaps now in death, people can see through the bullshit and drama, pop a 45 on the turntable, and thank you for the rock 'n' roll.

The last time we talked, being the smartass I am, I asked you, "What's love got to do with it?" Do you remember that, Ike? And do you remember what you said back? "Everything, baby. Everything." You're goddam right. Thank you, brother.

Love,

Frank

Bringing a hired gun like multi-instrumentalist Kevin Breit into your crew will no doubt sharpen your sound. But if you're smart you'll view those lethal chops as an invitation, or a challenge to match the heat. When I first saw guitarist Dawn Thompson, she played rudimentarily slick and precise. It was pretty, but relatively close to the ground. Thompson's warm honey tone - on her guitar and voice - makes her music perfect for a memorable tete-a-tete over cocktails. At The Rochester International Jazz Fest holiday soiree at Max Of Eastman Place Thursday night, Thompson and her band swung top notch. Breit (better known perhaps as the devil in Miss Jones' band) was scary brilliant, like an understated Sonny Landreth switching from Tele to mandolin. He created a sonic wash in waves that spoke of big skies and trips demarked by well-worn frets. Thompson expertly chorded beneath him, and when it came for her time to shine, she jumped to the upper register with guts. Maybe Breit brought it out. Maybe it's been there all along. I suspect the latter. Anyhow, it was cool. I dig this chick.

The wind chill had completely pantsed the thermometer Saturday night, but a few folks still managed to make it down to Montage Live Music Hall to trip to Trip Throttle as the duo celebrated the release of its new disc, "Wild Kingdom." I gotta tell ya, that crunchy guitar is that spoonful of sugar to get the techno to go down for all you analogue luddites out there. I don't pretend to be super-enlightened or anything, but though I naturally gravitate to the guitar, Trip Throttle's electro throb and thrill will make you move, baby. The music, though structured and fairly precise, still swaggers like rock 'n' roll. And honestly, that's all rock 'n' roll needs to be rock 'n' roll... a little heavy guitar never hurts neither. Oh, and some lasers. And a mohawk.

The sold-out crowd (lots of leather and lots of stripper heels) at Water Street Music Hall got righteously zombified Friday night at the feet of head-banging cinema auteur Rob Zombie. It was a first-rate rock spectacle with video monitors, projections, and a fairly intense light show -- Rob's favorite colors are apparently red and blue.

It was at least 10 times better than I thought it was gonna be. The band was tight. Show highlights included a cool half-take on Metallica's "Enter Sandman" and of course the White Zombie rocker "Thunder Kiss 65," which grooved deep despite the band playing it entirely too fast.

Assorted Rob Zombie movie clips accompanied the show and really drew together where Zombie comes from, what it sounds like, and what it looks like. The guy rocked his ass off, bounding around the stage like a pinball. He strikes me as genuinely into what he does and I found it a kinda funny to see the tour buses outside shrink-wrapped with ads for his upcoming DVD release. A real Zombie in Hollywood... cool.

In the whole retro-rooted world I come from, wallow in, gravitate to, and preach about, there are degrees of ragged energy that grab me before a band's talent or music does. I've always admired moxie and out-and-out-balls over proficiency. You can learn to be good - to a certain extent - but you can't study up on wild 'n' loose; either you is or you ain't. That's not to say that a thumbs-up from me means you're no good, you're no good, you're no good, baby you're no good... It's just that I love a big splash of wrong and raw along with the right and well done.

And just when I think I'll never see a band rock a stage with a classic nod and a contemporary irreverence - oh, say for example like The Supersuckers, New Bomb Turks, Nashville Pussy, Jack Black, Tenderloin, or The Hellacopters - a band like Buffalo's Handsome Jack comes into my life. Tuesday night on the Bug Jar stage, this band was cocky, arrogant, and brash, twisting the blues with gritty guitar and howling vocals. Handsome Jack is young, and weren't even an impure thought in their daddies' minds when long-haired rock initially took its white monkey wrench to black blues. The guitar shook me (yup, had to put a Zeppelin reference in here after sneaking in the Ronstadt). You could cut the bravado with a knife as one chica next to me lustfully eyeballed the stage, pointing directly at the bass player as he played in mid-gunfighter stance.

"I want him," she said.

There wasn't a dry seat in the house... or an un-ringing ear.

The sold-out crowd (lots of leather and lots of stripper heels) at Water Street Music Hall got righteously zombified Friday night at the feet of head-banging cinema auteur Rob Zombie. It was a first-rate rock spectacle with video monitors, projections, and a fairly intense light show - Zombie's favorite colors are apparently red and blue. It was at least 10 times better than I thought it was gonna be. The band was tight. Show highlights included a cool half-take on Metallica's "Enter Sandman" and of course the White Zombie rocker "Thunder Kiss 65," which grooved deep despite the band playing it entirely too fast. Assorted Rob Zombie movie clips accompanied the show and really drew together where Zombie comes from, what it sounds like, and what it looks like. The guy rocked his ass off, bounding around the stage like a pinball. He strikes me as genuinely into what he does and I found it a kinda funny to see the tour buses outside shrink-wrapped with adds for his upcoming DVD release. A real Zombie in Hollywood... cool.