Compilation contains the best

If you're a punk fan and The Clash didn't change the way you hear music, hang your mohawk in shame. When there was nothing in the States, the band tore out of Britain with an infusion of substance or fury on the airwaves, taking a three-chord spitfire genre and making it complex, even more meaningful and incendiary. The Clash is to white revolutionaries and the world what Public Enemy is to the black population. But Joe Strummer, Topper Headon, Paul Simonon and Mick Jones didn't push for separation. Playing an anti-racism concert and screaming for someone to care about something, the band did more for race relations in one reggae-infused song than our current president will do with four years in office. In a genre of bass players picked out of a crowd that hung more on safety pins than structure, The Clash made it impossible to scoff unilaterally at punk ever again. Epic Records has taken the best of punk's best and put it into 40 tracks -- with the Brit boys themselves choosing songs from all of their albums, even both versions of their debut, The Clash. This is the best of The Clash's controlled mayhem.

Compilation contains the best

If you're a punk fan and The Clash didn't change the way you hear music, hang your mohawk in shame. When there was nothing in the States, the band tore out of Britain with an infusion of substance or fury on the airwaves, taking a three-chord spitfire genre and making it complex, even more meaningful and incendiary. The Clash is to white revolutionaries and the world what Public Enemy is to the black population. But Joe Strummer, Topper Headon, Paul Simonon and Mick Jones didn't push for separation. Playing an anti-racism concert and screaming for someone to care about something, the band did more for race relations in one reggae-infused song than our current president will do with four years in office. In a genre of bass players picked out of a crowd that hung more on safety pins than structure, The Clash made it impossible to scoff unilaterally at punk ever again. Epic Records has taken the best of punk's best and put it into 40 tracks -- with the Brit boys themselves choosing songs from all of their albums, even both versions of their debut, The Clash. This is the best of The Clash's controlled mayhem.

Junior Forest rider Kevin Simonelic prepares for Little 500 qualifying at Bill Armstrong Stadium on Saturday. Forest placed 24th out of 41 teams, earning a spot in the field of 33 teams to race on April 26 in the 53rd running of the Men's Little 500.

Waste not your paper towels

The Party of Helicopters is begging you to believe in nothing. A string of empty phrases backed by pretty noise, these male debutantes who fancy themselves punk purists only float their vocals on high-pitched waves that barely keep the moderately-tempoed distortion rock moving. I'm sure the Partiers are trying to move beyond the cuteness of adolescent party songs about mustaches and passing out on floors, but I also fear they all have those shaggy emo haircuts. When you can attach a haircut and beat up too-dark jean jacket to a sound, all hope is hopeless. This isn't even depressing in the it's-too-mediocre-I-have-higher-expectations-way -- it's just there, taking up space, for no reason. Then the Partiers string all the lyrics together in some crackpot stylish way through tiny fonts with a cover art of minimalist design and you'll just want to drop these kids off a dock somewhere in exasperation. If it were a crime to produce something that means nothing, let the Partiers rot in Rikers. Beyond that, there's nothing about this album to even get worked up about enough to really lay into them. Good luck with the groupies, boys.

Waste not your paper towels

The Party of Helicopters is begging you to believe in nothing. A string of empty phrases backed by pretty noise, these male debutantes who fancy themselves punk purists only float their vocals on high-pitched waves that barely keep the moderately-tempoed distortion rock moving. I'm sure the Partiers are trying to move beyond the cuteness of adolescent party songs about mustaches and passing out on floors, but I also fear they all have those shaggy emo haircuts. When you can attach a haircut and beat up too-dark jean jacket to a sound, all hope is hopeless. This isn't even depressing in the it's-too-mediocre-I-have-higher-expectations-way -- it's just there, taking up space, for no reason. Then the Partiers string all the lyrics together in some crackpot stylish way through tiny fonts with a cover art of minimalist design and you'll just want to drop these kids off a dock somewhere in exasperation. If it were a crime to produce something that means nothing, let the Partiers rot in Rikers. Beyond that, there's nothing about this album to even get worked up about enough to really lay into them. Good luck with the groupies, boys.

Eric, Brian and Marilyn Behrman remember Jill at home Thursday night. They recounted their favorite memories of Jill and discussed their relief in bringing her home, as well as frustration with still not knowing what happened. They were joined by friends and family throughout the day.

Call me Gilligan, the sea's endless rhythm

The Coral is sun-drenched, scorching heat -- the kind that makes the sand waver in bad mock-western movies, the kind that sweats. Not dusty, or arid, but barren with the illusion of something just off to the right in the distance. It's brown leather boots and blue jeans and the city guy lost in the desert with a set jaw and strong brow, dark hair, pretending to be a cowboy. \nAnd that's just the guitar tone.\nThe Coral's bevy of young rock-driven malcontents has gone West, bringing xylophones, pieced-together layers with no feather on the blending, eerie whistles, hollers and a disco beat. The music is composed well enough to witness the whole and it's parts in one listening without crumbling. It reeks of spirit and style -- be it uncouth worn down teenage wear -- and shows how rock and roll's not so bad after all.\nThese Brit boys range in age from 18 to 20 and their creative process shows the age. Not in a fresh to the scene noticeable way, but in the method of teenagers who sleep less and play more. The music has an energy that will speed listeners to 80 mph, and have them running past roadblocks and avoiding the destination. This debut album was released last July in the UK, reaching official distribution in the States just last week. \nAt it's best, James Skelly's raspy vocals make a proclamation on their own. Back it with the plodding bassline of Paul Duffy's baritone sax and listeners will understand why this band is good. When any other band would make a lovelorn, basic rocker with bassline, drums and distortion, The Coral puts out the same idea with an organ intro and doo-wop backup vocals. \nIt's the piecemeal arrangement of an artist's collage with the rare trait of actually looking good. There's three-part vocal arrangements with the tone of old men singing sea chanteys, backed by one echoing harmonica note and the same desert-guitar and percussion that really moves. What makes it work is texturizing the single parts by throwing a bunch of them together. It's part sci-fi movie, part bad poetry, part wild west, part old man wisdom, part pop. The band covers themes of longing and need, and spins stories of the disenchanted and fallen spirits into imagery every other song or two. \nWhile The Coral's music pulls in so many directions, all meeting on the outskirts and thrust listeners back towards the center. Hymn-like three part vocals are backed against a distortion driven chorus. The Coral spins toward ethereal then rides back on punched snare beats and energetic rhythms. Melodies are fleshed out with horns, organ and auxiliary percussion. \nThe mixture is progressive -- whenever it seems the music is heading one way, 30 seconds later the musicians in The Coral spin off at a 45 degree angle. Then they'll revisit the main theme, leave it again and head for something else completely different. The Coral's uniqueness isn't only based in layering different sounds but also not knowing what comes next. \n"Time Travel," hidden on the end, is sincerity mixed with reggae beats, a Bob Marley dub cover, vibraphone and this spectacular muted, echoing trumpet. "If you had to prove to Jesus Christ is no more of a man than you or I, would you tell the people would you try to deceive, for fear of undermining their religious belief," Skelly sings. It eschews anything socially correct while telling people to believe in something real. In five minutes, it wraps up why The Coral will not be satisfied with making music that sounds normal and no one should ever want to hear it if they did.

Call me Gilligan, the sea's endless rhythm

The Coral is sun-drenched, scorching heat -- the kind that makes the sand waver in bad mock-western movies, the kind that sweats. Not dusty, or arid, but barren with the illusion of something just off to the right in the distance. It's brown leather boots and blue jeans and the city guy lost in the desert with a set jaw and strong brow, dark hair, pretending to be a cowboy. \nAnd that's just the guitar tone.\nThe Coral's bevy of young rock-driven malcontents has gone West, bringing xylophones, pieced-together layers with no feather on the blending, eerie whistles, hollers and a disco beat. The music is composed well enough to witness the whole and it's parts in one listening without crumbling. It reeks of spirit and style -- be it uncouth worn down teenage wear -- and shows how rock and roll's not so bad after all.\nThese Brit boys range in age from 18 to 20 and their creative process shows the age. Not in a fresh to the scene noticeable way, but in the method of teenagers who sleep less and play more. The music has an energy that will speed listeners to 80 mph, and have them running past roadblocks and avoiding the destination. This debut album was released last July in the UK, reaching official distribution in the States just last week. \nAt it's best, James Skelly's raspy vocals make a proclamation on their own. Back it with the plodding bassline of Paul Duffy's baritone sax and listeners will understand why this band is good. When any other band would make a lovelorn, basic rocker with bassline, drums and distortion, The Coral puts out the same idea with an organ intro and doo-wop backup vocals. \nIt's the piecemeal arrangement of an artist's collage with the rare trait of actually looking good. There's three-part vocal arrangements with the tone of old men singing sea chanteys, backed by one echoing harmonica note and the same desert-guitar and percussion that really moves. What makes it work is texturizing the single parts by throwing a bunch of them together. It's part sci-fi movie, part bad poetry, part wild west, part old man wisdom, part pop. The band covers themes of longing and need, and spins stories of the disenchanted and fallen spirits into imagery every other song or two. \nWhile The Coral's music pulls in so many directions, all meeting on the outskirts and thrust listeners back towards the center. Hymn-like three part vocals are backed against a distortion driven chorus. The Coral spins toward ethereal then rides back on punched snare beats and energetic rhythms. Melodies are fleshed out with horns, organ and auxiliary percussion. \nThe mixture is progressive -- whenever it seems the music is heading one way, 30 seconds later the musicians in The Coral spin off at a 45 degree angle. Then they'll revisit the main theme, leave it again and head for something else completely different. The Coral's uniqueness isn't only based in layering different sounds but also not knowing what comes next. \n"Time Travel," hidden on the end, is sincerity mixed with reggae beats, a Bob Marley dub cover, vibraphone and this spectacular muted, echoing trumpet. "If you had to prove to Jesus Christ is no more of a man than you or I, would you tell the people would you try to deceive, for fear of undermining their religious belief," Skelly sings. It eschews anything socially correct while telling people to believe in something real. In five minutes, it wraps up why The Coral will not be satisfied with making music that sounds normal and no one should ever want to hear it if they did.

Chancellor Sharon Brehm speaks at the first annual "State of Diversity" address at Woodburn Hall Tuesday. The controversial Benton mural is behind her.

Walk-out is the beginning

To all the naysayers protesting the anti-war walk-out and all the protesters feeling proud: \nProtesting an impending war should disrupt your day. It should screw up your schedule. War protest is not something to fit in during your free time. Shake it up. Do something real. \nRallying when you can fit it in your schedule will change nothing. A walk-out shows that we know that protesting this war is more important than our current life purpose. President Bush has already said publicly that protesters, while it's great that they can express their opinions, will not affect his decision to go to war with Iraq. So do something new that will catch his attention. \n Don't just let the teach-in and Wednesday rally be a way for you to expel your guilt for a week. Don't use it to hang out with like-minded people who already believe war is bad. Use it to educate yourself and to teach others.\n Head for the ambivalent. Make them think. Share the facts you learned Wednesday with the kids who don't care about the coming war or don't know why they should. That's where the power is -- combine the current protesters with the ambivalent and you'll have a majority. Use your education and make yourself a tool to fight.\nDon't feel foolish for seeming like a throwback to the protests of the '60s. Do something new; do something different. Anger is not something to be afraid of. Get angry. Don't giggle and feel proud of yourself for waving a sign or skipping class. Find the solution that will make Bush change his mind. Write letters, make phone calls, propose more resolutions and cause a ruckus. Stir up the routine. Don't be violent, but do something that will get you noticed. \nAmericans already hold the responsibility for not changing U.S. foreign policy that has killed thousands over the years. Here is your opportunity. You're young. You have energy. Fight with it. \nIf we don't stop this war, we will have blood on our hands. Not just of Iraqi children and civilians but of American soldiers too. You can't wash it off. This war will hurt you. It will hurt the economy, and it will hurt your enlisted friends. \nPassivity is different from non-violence. It's time to quit being passive.

Austin albums just plain mediocre

Edwin McCain has set out to recreate the feel-good nature of a string of "Wonder Years" reruns -- except void of any wit, creativity or feeling. He's collected the husks of American themes, sucked free of any life, dumbed down and served from a stage. \nLuckily for listeners who need their music cradled in pink plastic saran wrap, McCain isn't confusing with changes in tempo or structure, nor is he shocking with more than three lines that are not some variation of a cliche. He even provides just enough mildly interesting saxophone (via Craig Shields) to make listeners feel like they're listening to something a little more cultural than normal, adult contemporary. \nMcCain is also fond of songs he sees as narratives, the tunes that convey some sort of basic life story about an easily recognizable stereotype -- here involving old people, winos and interracial partners. He tries to bring issues to light but gets lost in singing pretty and trite concepts that have been said better before. The worst thing is that even the songs McCain didn't write are like this too, proving that he is not just a mediocre musician, but he has awful taste.

New generation needs a flashlight

Canada's Flashlight Brown is here to prove nothing new. The band's album My Degeneration is the same old pop punk glory of power chords and simple harmonies. For what it is, the album is solid and Flashlight Brown doesn't reek with the insincerity. \nThe lyrics are all about parties, loserdom and teenage frustration that carries over to 20-somethings. \nThis is what Green Day got off on when we were still in middle school. Flashlight Brown's energy is more contrived, hanging on the driving snare beat instead of the meaning of what Matt Hughes and Fil Bucchino are singing. Instead of anthems to being 17 and angry, the songs sound like they're coming from bored kids filling up their time. At the least, Hughes and Bucchino mean what they say even if what they say has no meaning. Sometimes the lyrics' void is what makes My Degeneration fun. The album is structured, with Dookie's Rob Cavallo taking the production chair. With guitar solos, perfect levels and the cute little harmonies, the major label intrusion takes away all of the possibilities of the joy of young punks, even from the wannabes.

New generation needs a flashlight

Canada's Flashlight Brown is here to prove nothing new. The band's album My Degeneration is the same old pop punk glory of power chords and simple harmonies. For what it is, the album is solid and Flashlight Brown doesn't reek with the insincerity. \nThe lyrics are all about parties, loserdom and teenage frustration that carries over to 20-somethings. \nThis is what Green Day got off on when we were still in middle school. Flashlight Brown's energy is more contrived, hanging on the driving snare beat instead of the meaning of what Matt Hughes and Fil Bucchino are singing. Instead of anthems to being 17 and angry, the songs sound like they're coming from bored kids filling up their time. At the least, Hughes and Bucchino mean what they say even if what they say has no meaning. Sometimes the lyrics' void is what makes My Degeneration fun. The album is structured, with Dookie's Rob Cavallo taking the production chair. With guitar solos, perfect levels and the cute little harmonies, the major label intrusion takes away all of the possibilities of the joy of young punks, even from the wannabes.

Austin albums just plain mediocre

Edwin McCain has set out to recreate the feel-good nature of a string of "Wonder Years" reruns -- except void of any wit, creativity or feeling. He's collected the husks of American themes, sucked free of any life, dumbed down and served from a stage. \nLuckily for listeners who need their music cradled in pink plastic saran wrap, McCain isn't confusing with changes in tempo or structure, nor is he shocking with more than three lines that are not some variation of a cliche. He even provides just enough mildly interesting saxophone (via Craig Shields) to make listeners feel like they're listening to something a little more cultural than normal, adult contemporary. \nMcCain is also fond of songs he sees as narratives, the tunes that convey some sort of basic life story about an easily recognizable stereotype -- here involving old people, winos and interracial partners. He tries to bring issues to light but gets lost in singing pretty and trite concepts that have been said better before. The worst thing is that even the songs McCain didn't write are like this too, proving that he is not just a mediocre musician, but he has awful taste.

IUSA

Guitars shine on hair-themed compilation

Having a mullet doesn't make you square. Maybe a redneck, but the guys at Legacy Records are out to prove that mulletheads know the value of guitar heroes and arena rock.\nFor a two-disc compilation based on a bad hairstyle, Mullets Rock! is a surpsingly fun listen. The rock/ power-pop favorites, including Cheap Trick, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Foghat and The Allman Brothers Band. Ram Jam's testament to blow is included also with the wicked strut of "Black Betty."\nThe flow of Mullets Rock! is decent, with hard-hitters for the first five or so tracks of each disc. Both discs taper at points, but overall you'll not have to wait more than two tracks for something better. There's enough gritty growls and electric guitar to keep rock and rollers decently happy. \nThere are a few major faults, like choosing Stevie Ray Vaughan's cover of Hendrix's "Voodoo Child" instead of Hendrix's better version or a Vaughan original. The tracks are mostly radio favorites, rather than songs pulled from the vaults. For what it is, it's a compilation to turn louder as you roll down the windows and drive. Sometimes the simplest ideas work better than the most complex. So get ready to cut those sideburns, baby.

Guitars shine on hair-themed compilation

Having a mullet doesn't make you square. Maybe a redneck, but the guys at Legacy Records are out to prove that mulletheads know the value of guitar heroes and arena rock.\nFor a two-disc compilation based on a bad hairstyle, Mullets Rock! is a surpsingly fun listen. The rock/ power-pop favorites, including Cheap Trick, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Foghat and The Allman Brothers Band. Ram Jam's testament to blow is included also with the wicked strut of "Black Betty."\nThe flow of Mullets Rock! is decent, with hard-hitters for the first five or so tracks of each disc. Both discs taper at points, but overall you'll not have to wait more than two tracks for something better. There's enough gritty growls and electric guitar to keep rock and rollers decently happy. \nThere are a few major faults, like choosing Stevie Ray Vaughan's cover of Hendrix's "Voodoo Child" instead of Hendrix's better version or a Vaughan original. The tracks are mostly radio favorites, rather than songs pulled from the vaults. For what it is, it's a compilation to turn louder as you roll down the windows and drive. Sometimes the simplest ideas work better than the most complex. So get ready to cut those sideburns, baby.

Bleu cries for the real world

Morning breaks over Bleu's Creek. There sits dejected Bleu on the deck, gazing at the sunrise. Last night his girlfriend dumped him. Read the lines of depression and frustration in his face. Then from nature's quiet, an acoustic guitar crescendos. In comes a melodic, slightly lost voice, singing words that rhyme. Welcome to Bleu's Redhead. With just enough distortion so as not to scare all the little girls away, Bleu has penned ballads that are more prone to the "Real World"/"Road Rules" episodes (four tracks have been used for those shows already) than to playing on anyone's CD player. Hearing about how much Bleu misses his ex, wants her back, loves her or how she doesn't understand gets old quick. With basic song structures and boringly sappy lyrics, Redhead will leave listeners dosing without enough energy to run to the store to pick up some tissues. The only thing that makes this album remotely amusing is his occasional out of place lyrics/ chords in an album that's trying to fit in to the well-crafted pop world. But Bleu says it best himself in "Trust Me," he's not afraid of playing overdone love songs. Maybe he was just trying to make a concept album for post-breakup, melodically mediocre depression.

Bleu cries for the real world

Morning breaks over Bleu's Creek. There sits dejected Bleu on the deck, gazing at the sunrise. Last night his girlfriend dumped him. Read the lines of depression and frustration in his face. Then from nature's quiet, an acoustic guitar crescendos. In comes a melodic, slightly lost voice, singing words that rhyme. Welcome to Bleu's Redhead. With just enough distortion so as not to scare all the little girls away, Bleu has penned ballads that are more prone to the "Real World"/"Road Rules" episodes (four tracks have been used for those shows already) than to playing on anyone's CD player. Hearing about how much Bleu misses his ex, wants her back, loves her or how she doesn't understand gets old quick. With basic song structures and boringly sappy lyrics, Redhead will leave listeners dosing without enough energy to run to the store to pick up some tissues. The only thing that makes this album remotely amusing is his occasional out of place lyrics/ chords in an album that's trying to fit in to the well-crafted pop world. But Bleu says it best himself in "Trust Me," he's not afraid of playing overdone love songs. Maybe he was just trying to make a concept album for post-breakup, melodically mediocre depression.

Woodlawn Field was closed in December for renovations. Saftey concerns caused the closer.