Sixty year old Bob Dylan takes you on a tour of American music and you donít even have to leave your house or put on pants. Donít call it a comeback because he never really left, but the past few years have been a return to form for Dylan, who has won a Grammy, an OscarÆ and judging from the photo on the cover of the CD, he just got himself a Toni. This one may not be quite in the same league as Highway 61 Revisited or Blonde On Blonde, but it doesnít have to feel embarrassed to hang out with them and shoot the breeze. And what makes Love and Theft even better than the Grammy honored Time Out Of Mind is itís return to basics. Unlike a lot of the "product" youíll find cramming the CD bins, this release contains no superstar guest musicians or vocalists and no hot shot producers fighting over control of the reverb switch. Itís just Bob and his touring band with good pal Augie Meyers sitting in on keyboards and the accordion. Even producer Daniel Lanois, who worked on Oh Mercy and Time Out Mind, has been jettisoned in favor of a self made approach as Dylan takes over command under the pseudonym of Jack Frost. And the song writing? Twelve tunes, all good and so varied that none of them stick out like a sore thumb because they all stick out like sore thumbs. Yes, folks, this is the proper way for a 60ís rock icon to conduct himself in his old age. For the improper way, see Santanaís Supernatural.

RATING: a half shoes.

Whenever the pop music scene becomes sterile and void of passion, someone has to come along and break up the monotony by pissing hard at the center of the urinal cake until it breaks apart at the center and dissolves into nothingness. The Beatles whipped theirs out and did the job in the 60ís, washing away the Teen Idols that infested radio air play and making way for the British Invasion. Then in the 70ís when disco was hot and crap acts like Journey and Kansas became mainstays on Album Oriented Rock, punk and new wave answered the call by tossing out all the unnecessary chords and replacing the void with an urgency that Art Rock bands like Emerson, Lake and Palmer couldnít distinguish from a hole in the ground. Okay, so The Strokes probably wonít change the pop world as we know it, but they certainly provide a breath of fresh air amongst the stench of the MTV play list and their album is a must for anyone who wants to remember what it felt like to have a record hit you hard in the stomach instead of the pocket book. Oh, and they sound a lot like The Velvet Underground at times, but in a nice way, I mean.

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Critics are calling this the best Elton John album in years, but thatís not really saying much, is it? I mean, thatís like recommending a dish at a restaurant because it tastes better than the shit sandwich. Yeah, the only thing more pathetic than Mr. Johnís output as a recording artist in the past decade has been his performance as a public figure. The drugs, the lawsuits and the occasional rolling out of the chubby poofter to display his grief over the passing of another close friend.  Thatís pretty much been Eltonís greatest hits of the 90ís. But now heís cleaned up his act and come out with an album that may not be a return to his glory days, but at least it sounds like it was recorded by the same guy. The music is strong, the vocals are strong and the only thing standing in the way of this being a great record are some of Bernie Taupinís lyrics, which still run the gamut from great, good, competent and embarrassing - sometimes all within the same song. Not that Iím a Bernie basher, but get real. "Every inch of us growing like Pinocchioís nose"??? Whatís up with that? Fortunately the low points are few and when this album works it really works. In a nutshell, this is a good album getting great album status from some critics because itís a Big Mac being served up to customers who were expecting yet another shit sandwich.

RATING: a half shoes

Itís been quite awhile since the Jesus of Cool stopped recording pure pop for now people and started making music for life tested grownups. This is the third straight album that heís taken on the role of a heart worn geezer looking back at life through smoke rings and half empty glasses of warm beer. Itís a role that suits him and his muse quite well. Always one to come up with clever lines in the past, Lowe now writes lyrics that hit close to home and heís quietly become a songwriter whose skills match and sometimes surpass those of the trumpeted misfits he took under his wing in the late seventies. (In other words, what have Elvis Costello and Graham Parker done for us lately?) This is a good album to play late at night when you think you might wanna feel sorry for yourself but deep down inside you really donít. Yes, love has been a bitch to The Convincer, but heís at that point where heís accepted his fate, so now he can enjoy blowing those smoke rings and the half empty glasses of beer are now half full.

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Hot damn, another covers album! You know, one artist doing songs previously recorded by someone else. Itís usually an act of desperation or, at the very least, a bad idea, but in Miss Toriís case, her attempt has a concept behind it. (Pause.) Hot damn, another covers album with a concept behind it!! And what a mighty concept it is, I said with sarcasm usually reserved for curvy pop princess of the teenage variety who think their music has a serious message worth sharing with the masses. But I digress. The theme to this album is simple. Toriís a woman singing songs written by men. This gives the songs a unique female perspective we totally missed while listening to the original penis driven versions. And thus 10ccís "Iím Not In Love" becomes a song about lesbian urges and "I Donít Like Mondays" by the Boomtown Rats is about a bad period. (And I donít mean gym glass.) Okay, maybe Iím reading too much into them, but thatís what happens when someone decides to reinterpret the classics and give them a new spin. So letís try and keep this simple. Itís a covers album. Like most covers albums, some of the remakes work and some donít. The trick is to have more of the former and less of the latter. Strange Little Girls does that, but I wouldn't say by a landslide. Some are really good, some okay and what the hell was she thinking when she decided to cover an Eminem "song"? Like the saying goes, you canít make jelly from toe jam, so why even try? And I think Toriís seductive whispering approach to Emís ditty could have been put to better use reading aloud the Letters to Penthouse. In short, this is a somewhat enjoyable little offering that will soon find its way to the bottom of the "to be filedí pile. But at least the photo shoot for the CD booklet gave Tori a chance to play dress up.

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