Generally when I watch The Veins I'm ringside by guitarist Jett's rig as it rumbles the stage's starboard bow. I dig his tone, and his playing is as spectacular to watch as it is to hear. Black clad while slinging his orange Les Paul, Jett kept his crown Saturday, December 22, as The Veins celebrated the release of "Blood and Gold." This album is a little darker for a band that was already fairly dark to begin with. It's more layered and complex too - both in its production and songwriting. It's really, really good.

But as I was saying, generally I'm on the Jett side, but this night I opted to hang down by the low end of the band. It's not that I ignored bassist Rob Kordish in the past, but his stoic nature had him literally and figuratively in the shadows. Earplugs will give the low end a little boost in your head by taking the high-end slaughter down a touch. Do this with The Veins and you'll hear how Kordish locks solidly into the kick drum as an anchor but still laces the downbeats together with flourishes, trills, and walking scales that stomp and kick. I love this band as a whole but this is what really stuck with me for this show. I'll gush and kiss the asses of the remaining members in the band the next time around.

Bars like Stooges in Irondequoit seem an odd setting for some of the big rock they have on stage, like Steel Kingdom this past Friday. This band, despite most of its members' casual attire, plays some really decent British metal. It was all kinds of thundering double-kick, guitars loud enough to crumble concrete, and multi-octave, post-operatic vocals bouncing off the walls of what was essentially a neighborhood bar. I liked it.

Syracuse goth rockers Zadoc and the Nightmare opened with a dose of dark pageantry, playing music that was mid-tempo and progressive. I dug the particularly dramatic vocals. And despite a somewhat gloomy front, the members band couldn't hide the thrill performers get on-stage, no matter how bleak their genre expects them to be.

I know, I know; it was a couple weeks ago, but the way the holidays landed I was in deadline hell. Still, I gotta say a few words about the Campbell Brothers show where close to 1,000 fans had a ball at the Harro East Ballroom. It was truly rally time with the Buddhahood providing the opening thunder and wringing everything out of itself ‘til there weren't no more. The Campbells hosted a number of cool guests, like Rochester's king of smooth, Jimmie Highsmith Jr.; Rochester's king of the blues, Joe Beard; and my man Paulie Rocco, who simply plugged in and peeled out with a howl, winding the whole room into an immediate frenzy - and that was only song two.

Made my way over to the Grille at Strathallan Saturday night for a little laid-back cool with the Bill Dobbins Quartet. Got to press the flesh with drummer Mike Melito before the second set. Hobnobbed with a Hi-Riser and cool chick who hipped me to Ellroy many years ago. Guitarist Bob Sneider has that sweet, round tone down. His notes toot sweet as he introduces them in thoughtful runs and dalliances. And this night was no different.

When drummers go off-time, syncopate, and explore fractions of the time signature, I see how long I can follow the down beat in my head. It's kinda like watching a movie where someone's trapped under water; I hold my breath until they surface. I'm proud to say I didn't get lost - or drown - during Melito's fabulous solo where he played call-and-response between his hands and feet. It felt familiar. I think this is how my heart beats.

Out of the cool and into the cold to catch Grime Time do it trio style at the Bug Jar, complete with a big orange guitar. Talk about some fat tone. The band plays quick, short songs in quick, short bursts that swing between anger and fun. Short answer: it's punk. Long answer: it's up to you. Either way the band is onto something, is highly entertaining, and a must-see if you're looking for kicks.

Joel Harrison's on-stage demeanor is like a boxer's telegraphed punch; you get a glimpse or hint of what's about to happen even if it's only for a split second. Harrison likes noise. But unlike those who wallow in it or allow it to dominate the proceedings until it descends into chaos, Harrison permits noise -rooted in an effects-laden guitar note or chord or pick slide -  to suggest where the music he plays on top might go. His interesting choice for a trio - guitar, bass, bassoon - jammed with the looped noise as if it were a fourth member. You'll rarely hear me refer to the addition of Steve Greene to anything as sanity. However in this case, Greene's substantial withdraws from his lush chord bank grounded Harrison's flights of fuzz a bit.

Like the Christians with their Jesus, the rock 'n' faithful gather around tweed amps and chatterbox mics in early January to celebrate Elvis Presley's birthday. I've argued before that Jerry Lee Lewis is the king of rock 'n' roll, if'n you don't count the busload of black r&b artists that were considered too much of a salacious threat to white America in the early 50's to count. Say what you will, but that Presley boy had some pipes and the music he, Scotty Moore, and Bill Black introduced is still as intoxicating and relevant today. Wednesday night at The Dinosaur, Albany's The Lustre Kings proved it as they hosted the b-day festivities. Folks like Bobby Henrie and the Goners, and Krypton 88 (Jim Via's digs into crooning's lower octaves were cool) got up to pay tribute. And in proving that rock 'n' roll is a-swingin' persuasion for a lower invasion, my take on "That's When Your Heartaches Begin" got the wife so hot 'n' bothered, she dragged me outta the joint before I could finish my root beer.

Andre Foxxe has got his re-upped mothership ticket burning a hole in his pocket and his bags are packed, but the man isn't just gonna sit and wait at the airport. No, he's got rock 'n' roll burning a hole in his soul and it has gotta get out, man. Much like his music, Foxxe is a perfect amalgamation of class and danger, as if sprung from the pages of an Iceberg Slim novel. At his Friday night Montage Live Music Hall shindig, he prowled the stage like a panther in a bright yellow zoot suit with delicate wings that spread when he raised his arms. Foxxe has a new crew who, though they brought years of experience to the project, seemed willing to leave most of it behind to become extensions of Foxxe's arms, urges, and grooves. Though they came off a little faded sharing the stage with Foxxe in his day-glo duds, these cats laid it down heavy. And let's talk about that guitar for a minute; Foxxe cradled, caressed, and thumped on a six-string electric beauty carved in the likeness of a naked woman's torso. Foxxe made her roar and scream (almost as loudly as I did when the band broke into the opening riff for "Summer Girls"). Busty and armless, I guess you could call her Guitarnus De Milo.

The Hi-Risers have officially outgrown the Dinosaur - from a dancer's perspective, anyway. Now, I ain't no gold medal hoofer, but this roots rock trio shoehorns 'em in nut to butt, leaving hardly any room to do-si-do. When the chocolate milk-fueled urge to cut some rug hit me, I had to do it on the side of the stage. Anyway, these guys are hit-makers in the classic sense, cranking out beautiful three-minute ditties with which to boogie, twist, swing, and step on your wife's feet to. But I was very light on her feet.

Santa came down the chimney and dragged me into the 21^st century when he stuck an iPod in my stocking this past Christmas. I'd wanted one for a while but felt it would mean the end of my record collection as I know it. I figured once things got loaded onto this little black gadget the size of a deck of cards, I'd no longer need to dust off the vinyl and drop the needle --- an exercise I find as exhilarating or soothing as actually listening to the music.

On the other hand, the possibility of having it all right there (wherever there was) was awesome. And these two perspectives now have me re-evaluating my collection.

What albums will make the cut? Will I load every tune off an album? If it ain't iPod-worthy, does that mean it's no good?

I think the random shuffle feature is ultimately what sold me. It puts songs in the context of those preceding and following them instead of the chronology they've marched to for so long. I can go from The Replacements to Miles Davis to The Blasters to The Stooges to Tom Waits to Etta James to Cheap Trick to Black Sabbath to The White Stripes, as if suffering from chronic DJ ADD.

Some albums, some songs aren't gonna make the cut, but that doesn't mean they're going in the trash. That thrill of sitting with my portable record player, a cup of coffee, a bowl of Cocoa Crispies, and a lapful of wife on a Saturday afternoon will never be replaced.

COMING UP NEXT: Frank dissects what songs make the digital leap, or not.

I grew up in a house where every Sunday morning my father would spin Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane albums, so I spent my adolescence shying away from classical music, which seemed too stiff and square for my tastes. The closest I ever came to orchestras and recital halls were the albums Miles Davis put out with classical arranger Gil Evans and the occasional school band concert. But, it seems like every day there's a classical concert happening in Rochester, and most are tied somehow to the Eastman School of Music. So when it was time to explore the world of classical music, Kilbourn Hall seemed the logical place to start.

With the auditorium half-filled with other Eastman students, I couldn't resist talking to the single girl in front of me, jamming out with headphones in her ears. Oddly enough, it was pianist Naz Pourmulek, who would accompany Robert Miller in the second half of the guitarist's Master of Music degree recital.

Pourmulek talked about how developed classical music is compared to pop, but also how connected they are. So when the first tune started, I listened for the melody lines that Pourmulek said would develop over time and build to a climax. That was the key; not to be disappointed by the lack of danceable rhythms, but rather to enjoy the beauty of well crafted themes.

Right from the start, I was impressed by the emotion that Miller could pour out of his six strings on "Barden Klange, Op. 13" by Johann Kaspar. He was playing with intensity, and at times with a subtle plucking of notes that reverberated throughout Kilbourn. He bobbed his head back and forth as he strummed chords, then tilted his head back and closed his eyes while his fingers gracefully danced across the strings.

Sure, he missed some notes here and there, but as he jokingly told me afterward, he was stretching and trying to give a show. Those are to be expected. And as he worked through a varied set of Mertz, Takemitsu, and Rodrigo, he managed to captivate and entertain. The second set was a classical version of call and response; an intense 25 minutes of back and forth between two chordal instruments, Pourmulek and Miller taking turns accompanying each other on Manuel Ponce's "Concierto del Sur."

As I often do when I hear someone play that impresses me, I made my way back stage to spend a few minutes talking shop. Everyone has that one album that, as a kid, made him love music. I should have expected nothing less from this talented, but seemingly untraditional, classical guitarist than to find out that for him, it was Wes Montgomery's "Boss Guitar." Of course, with many classical musicians falling into the trap of playing reserved so as not to botch an audition or competition, perhaps it's the visible emotion that came through in his playing that made it so accessible to me.

Friday night the High Fidelity crowd was a salt-and-pepper mix jacked to the max on Raul Midon's one-man funk and groove. A little rotation on BET certainly hasn't hurt. Folks howled and applauded to the tunes they recognized, and even the cuts that weren't as familiar got hung onto nonetheless. Midon's guitar playing was precise and infectious, with plenty of pop and chime, the lower register's boom dialed in at booty level. His invisible trumpet was there as well, and traded off several solos with his guitar in good natured, harmonic duels. The percussive attack, the trumpet of pursed lips - it's all intriguing, and definitely reeled in the curious. But even when the man cruised through the more rudimentary portions of his set, the magic was still there, especially when he pulled off a chilling version of "Round Midnight."

Neko Case's show at The State Theatre in Ithaca was spectacular - spectacular in that it presented no spectacle, except perhaps for Case's fire-red tresses. She was absolutely riveting. Her crystal voice soared and rang with genuine emotion and urgency. I was riveted.

The subtle noir that serves as a subtext in all her music was masterfully laid out by her simple band. The band's reverb and its penchant for minor keys and a quasi-narcotic swing were incredible; yet nobody really ever took a solo. The songs were the stars along with Case's gorgeous pipes. This woman could sing the Meow Mix commercial and it would sound beautiful.

And speaking of pipes, accompanying vocalist Kelly Hogan's harmonies helped add that minor angelic quality that comes through on all of Case's recordings. This roots rock queen is an equally amazing singer and I can't imagine the music without her contribution. A few detours with some Tom Petty, Harry Nilsson, and Sparks covers were cool as well, not only because of Case's interpretation, but because they occurred to her in the first place. And the State Theatre is a beautiful relic that complemented the majesty of Case's music as it took wing. I'm still reeling...