"Mission control," I'm whispering into my lapel mic, "ABORT, ABORT!"

He's babbling: "Hey man, when you gonna cover my band, man?" "Did they tell you not to do anything on us?" "I believe they got it out for us." The beer has soaked through his paranoia buffer. I spend the next five minutes explaining that, despite conspiracy theories to the contrary, the C-Ville Weekly doesn't "have it out" for anyone. It's not journalistically proper. And it wouldn't be cool. Besides, it's easy enough to generate animosity just by telling the truth.

"And by the way..." I state, in closing, "...its criPSy, not criSPy." That always gets 'em.

I crawl to Rapture on Tuesday night to hear what Alexandra Scott has going on. She's headed out for an opening spot on the Goo Goo Dolls tour, and frankly, I'm suprised. It's not that she's terrible or anything. But there are a lot of really good artists in this town, people who have been ready to "take the next step" for a long time, which makes me think she must know someone in the music industry. Her stuff is slowly clearing the room, which can happen to any band around here, but tonight is clearly not a high mark for Charlottesville's musical pantheon. As I listen to her, I keep thinking that this is what the Velvet Underground might have become if Nico had been their leader. Thank god for Lou Reed. The Goo Goo Dolls must be really hard up.

I'm sorry, that was harsh, and I don't want to take away from anyone with a shot at "the title," so let's focus on the positive. She has written a few good tunes. I haven't heard her new record yet, but it has to be better than the sounds coming out of Rapture, because people are mouthing the words to some of the songs. She seems destined to be the darling of the downtown euro-chic/alternative lifestyle set. (You know: the people who open all those upscale restaurants with the froo-froo names. Can't they think of anything cool in English?) Anyone can have a down night, so I make a mental note to check out the band after they return from tour to see if they just need some proper aging.

(Note from the Duck: This last bit recieved a response in the letter section of the following week's C-Ville.)

At Michael's Bistro I catch the last few tunes of Aaron Binder, for the second time this month. Every time I go to this show, Aaron's got a different set of guys playing a different take on jazz. Tonight it's the Red Hot Smoothies, another group for which he keeps time. They are doing a very laid-back swing thing, like Benny Goodman in blue jeans, all cool and low-key. The Bistro is a nice room for jazz and acoustic music, with its wood floors and open ambience, but I know the management has endured me ranting at the bar (after a few milks) that they have a raised platform, why not make it a stage, for chrissakes? It's one of the best music venues on the Corner, I just wish the band was up where everyone in the room could see and hear them. The tragic fact is that they don't make much money off of music. It's an expensive (but wonderful) accessory. They hire bands as a public service, and for that, I'll be forever grateful.

On Wednesday night I rolled out to Trax to sniff around the Galactic concert. The place was packed (almost to discomfort) with hipster kids and weekend warriors who traveled from faraway places like Blacksburg and Lexington to hear the new groovers from New Orleans lay down their jazzy jambalaya.

Galactic are somewhere between the Meters and Medeski, Martin and Wood (the world's funkiest law firm, to quote my old chum Tubesock). They play old school funk with a "high-brow" jazz vocabulary - that white boy thing. There are killer soloists - tenor sax, organ and guitar, primarily - and a guy who comes out in a suit and sings about the perils of drug abuse (a little scary). They're really good, though I couldn't help thinking that our own the Secret is writing far more engaging stuff. Then again, the Secret might be a little too "in-your-face-cool" for the new world hippies at the Galactic show, who were having a very good time. I, on the other hand, was having trouble breathing, so I rolled up to Michael's Bistro where Walker's Run was doing their dirty bluegrass thing.

I imagine that if Gordon Gano (of the Violent Femmes) started a bluegrass band, it might sound something like Walker's Run. A little dark and punkish, and somewhat cynically silly, they are doing originals and requests and reggae songs, pulling off some impressive bluegrass soloing and singing. There are few sounds a European-American male can make that are as haunting as that "high lonesome" bluegrass harmony, and the Walker's crew has got it down. Hats off to the new bluegrass revivalists who have found their way to our pond in the last few years.

- Cripsy Duck

I like to party. Having one? E-mail cripsyduck@mindspring.com.