The 300-Word Review: The Black Keys single 'Lonely Boy'

Expensive-looking haircuts. MTV Awards. Skinny jeans. These are the kinds of elements that seep into a band following a breakthrough album, and that’s what longtime fans have seen occur with The Black Keys ever since the blues-rock duo’s sixth (and best) record, 2010's “Brothers,” found its way to mainstream ears, production-heavy music videos and 1,032 TV commercial placements.

We’ve all know what happens to grass-roots-grown acts next. They try way too hard to be U2. They make music that avoids where their talents lie (and what drew fans to them in the first place). A majority of the band dates/marries Victoria's Secret models. Cue the inevitable onstage meltdowns and rehab.

If the band is lucky, they spend the rest of their career playing package tours each summer in the sheds. And if it takes a turn for the worse? The musicians end up rooming with Sly Stone in that white van of his and/or appearing as commentators on VH1’s “I Love The (insert decade).”

Which brings us to The Black Keys’ new single, “Lonely Boy,” released digitally Oct. 26 and from the forthcoming LP “El Camino,” due Dec. 6. The track begins with rising-cobra guitar and “96 Tears” organ spires. Singer/guitarist Dan Auerbach’s rich bellow remains in fine form, and drummer Patrick Carney pushes the meter noticeably faster than The Key’s normal mid-tempo wheelhouse.

The Keys probably credit this gearshift to “listening to more punk rock” or something like that, but I bet this song will sound awesome on decidedly non-punk dance floors. The chorus has a disco/soul feel. And the junkyard-lighting wah-guitar throughout the verses is pretty sexy.

“Lonely Boy” is the sound of The Black Keys continuing to ascend on their own terms. The boys may have outrun those breakthrough hellhounds. For now.

The 300-Word Review: 'The Visible Man' by Chuck Klosterman

Since Chuck Klosterman made his name as a music journalist, it’s tempting to describe his second novel, “The Visible Man,” using an analogy from that realm.

But I’m not going to compare this book to the Black Crowes’ sophomore album “The Southern Harmony and Musical Companion,” a disc whose charms are less immediate but ultimately more sophisticated than the retro-rockers' rowdy debut “Shake Your Money Maker.”

Or maybe I just did.

“Visible Man” focuses on an Austin, Texas therapist with a comic-book-girlfriend name, Victoria Vick, and her mysterious male patient, known to the reader only as Y____.

A rogue scientist, Y____ has developed technology allowing him to become invisible. Y____ uses this power to sneak into peoples' homes in order to indulge his fascination with how differently humans behave when alone. He enlists Vick for sessions to work out his complicated feelings about what transpires during these covert observations.

Klosterman constructs a viscous web in “Visible.” But he does so by restraining his comedic touch to serve the story. Klosterman’s first novel, “Downtown Owl,” explored small town quirkiness via the author’s dazzling pop-culture riffery. However, “Owl” built to a less than satisfying ending that - unlike the rest of the book - felt unnatural.

“Visible Man” is completely the opposite. The first two-thirds of the tome are a slow burn.

Waiting for Klosterman to fully unleash his wit, I kept thinking, “‘Wow, I liked ‘Downtown Own’ a lot better than this.” Some of Y____’s voyeuristic stories are, well, pretty lame. (Turns out, there’s a reason for this.) Klosterman really opens things up during the last third of “Visible Man,” when it becomes apparent life and death will be at stake.

Finishing the book’s last sentence on page 230, I found myself thinking, “Man, this completely smokes ‘Downtown Owl.’”

20 years gone: What if 'Use Your Illusion' would have been one disc?

At 11 a.m., an employee raised the metal gate in front of a record store – it may have been called Turtle’s – inside a Tuscaloosa, Ala. shopping mall to open for the day.

I’d been waiting outside the store for approximately nine minutes.

It was Sept. 17, 1991 and Guns N’ Roses, the reigning kings of hard rock, were finally releasing not one but two new albums, “Use Your Illusion I” and “Use Your Illusion II." This event was totally worthy of ditching a Biology 101 class, which was taught by a University of Alabama instructor so profoundly boring his last name should have been Ambien.

With tax, a purchase of both “Illusion” CDs totaled over $30. This amounted to more than half the money I had to get by on for the week. These were acceptable terms. Like many fans, I’d been waiting for this day for over four years, which is how long it had been since Guns dropped their lone full-length, the scorching 1987 debut “Appetite For Destruction.”

Speeding back in a white Honda Accord, which boasted only a cassette player, to my green-carpeted apartment, I couldn’t wait to jam the “Illusion” CDs into the stereo system. The anticipation was at level of which I’d experienced years ago at a friends' party while stumbling to a bedroom with a girl to get laid for the first time. (Incidentally, that rite of passage occurred to the strains of the Sammy Hagar-period Van Halen album “5150.")

Having heard some of the “Illusion” songs via bootleg and also at a Guns concert in Birmingham a few months earlier, it wasn’t a shock that their new music was more complex and sprawling than “Appetite” (which while containing undeniably hot playing and arrangements was much more direct).

In 2011, the word “epic” is totally played out, but there’s no better word to describe many “Illusion” songs, such as “Coma,” “Estranged” and, of course, “November Rain.”

As any super-fan would, I spun the “Illusion” LPs constantly for a week. Poured over the cover art and liner notes. Memorized lyrics and riffs. The Rod Stewart-goes-metal ballad “Yesterdays” quickly became a favorite, as did “Civil War,” a whisper-to-a-scream number that remains one of the best Guns songs ever.

But unlike the cheetah-lean “Appetite,” there was definitely fat on the “Illusion” discs.

Did we really need two version of the lullaby “Don’t Cry,” which had the same backing track but different lyrics? There were some cliché-riddled rockers too, such as “Bad Apples” and “Dead Horse.” And the least said of “My World,” which sounded like psychotherapy fed through one of Trent Reznor’s synthesizers, the better.

The prominent addition of synths, sound effects and bloated studio tinkering (the most inexplicable: occasionally dousing Axl Rose's leonine vocals in electronic goo) on “Illusion” was the antithesis of the bullet-hard “Appetite.” (Yes, I know there’s some synth on “Paradise City,” but it’s just a taste and not a major sonic component of the track.) In Slash’s 2007 self-titled autobiography, the Guns guitarist wrote that at one time he possessed a rough mix of “Illusion” before those superfluous elements were added. Unfortunately, Slash also wrote he has long since lost said mix.

The Guns N’ Roses arc has been told many, many times. They were going to be my generation’s equivalent of Led Zeppelin (and Axl and Slash our Plant and Page), then, quite suddenly, it didn't pan out. I’m still a massive fan. Even though I wonder what might have been…What if Guns were together enough to follow "Appetite" with a full-length album of sharp acoustic songs, instead of the five that appeared on their 1988 EP “Lies.” (Clearly, this would be an unprecedented and dichotomous pair of records.) And then, the coup de grace - an ambitious yet airtight third LP. Yes, a single-disc version of “Use Your Illusion” would have completed a rock ‘n’ roll triptych for the ages. Below are the 15 songs and running order that should have been on there, paired down from the 30 tracks released on the “Illusions” discs. Oh well, there's always iTunes, right?

“You Could Be Mine”

“Bad Obsession”

“Dust N' Bones”

“Garden of Eden”

“Civil War”

“Pretty Tied Up”

“Back off Bitch”

“Don't Cry”

“Perfect Crime”

“Locomotive”

“Yesterdays”

“Knockin’ on Heaven's Door”

“Coma”

“You Ain't the First”

“November Rain”

Chris Robinson's psychedelic soul sabbatical

“It may seem like we take a lot of time between songs. That’s because there’s no time in our dimension…and we have the passports to prove it.”

And so a bearded and barefoot Chris Robinson addressed the crowd Thursday before the Black Crowes frontman’s solo band kicked into their fifth song of the night. The ensuing tune, a spirited cover of the Grateful Dead’s “Bertha,” ignited a roomful of noodle-dancing inside Birmingham, Ala.'s Workplay Theatre.

Robinson, 44, still has those soulful pipes. However, the bolt onto which they are woven in Chris Robinson Brotherhood, his newest side-project, is a different hue than The Crowes’ loud, Faces-meets-Allmans boogie. CRB is more akin to the sticky, blue-eyed R&B of Delanie & Bonnie. There’s a half-ounce of ’60s Marin County-style jamming in there, too.

Of the three or so configurations of Robinson’s solo bands, this one seems the most in-tune with the music he’s gravitated toward as he’s gotten older.

That said, the Workplay show was slow out of the gate. “Tomorrow Blues” is pretty woozy for an opening song, although the spaceship-like noise Adam MacDougall conjured from his bunker of vintage keyboards did not go unappreciated.

A strolling “Roll On Jeremiah,” a bluegrass-y track from the Crowes 2009 double-LP “Before the Frost...Until the Freeze,” followed.

By the third number, “Tough Mama,” CRB settled into its wheelhouse. A tight, stoned amalgamation, punctuated by hirsute guitarist Neal Casal’s spidery Jerry Garcia licks, plucked on a crimson Gibson SG. MacDougall’s wah-wah blurts greased the wheel.

Later in the first set, CRB delivered a new, standout gospel-tinged ballad, “Star or Stone.” Yes, the first set. After an hour-plus run through eight songs, the California-based quintet took a 30-minute or so break – How many bong hits do you need, bros? - returning to play for another 90 minutes or so.

The second set belonged to drummer George Sluppick and bassist Mark Dutton. The duo’s trance-y yet rootsy groove was unrelenting, with Sluppick working his blue kit from underneath a 10-gallon cowboy hat while the afro-ed Dutton laid down thick lines on a vintage cheapo bass. The rhythm section’s acumen was particularly evident on “Ride,” an absolute booty shaker.

In addition to belting out his trademark vocals, Robinson, clad in faded tie-dye and jeans, played crystalline-toned, chicken-scratch rhythm guitar on every song. He even pulled off a few solid-if-simple blues solos on his orange Vox guitars.

The striding “Sunday Sound,” which like “Ride” is from Robinson’s otherwise mellow 2002 solo debut “New Earth Mud,” drifted on a mid-tempo river. “Girl on the Mountain,” from the singer’s underrated 2004 “This Magnificent Distance” LP, was a druggy mist.

The band’s encore, a roll through Willie Dixon’s “Seventh Son,” was more chill than thrill.

But Robinson is clearly in his own skin playing psychedelic soul music. It’s an age-appropriate vocation. I can't imagine Robinson in his 40s crawling around the stage with his shirt half-unbuttoned and pretending to be Mick Jagger, like he was the first time I saw the Crowes live, at a 1990 show opening for Robert Plant in a Birmingham arena.

Chris Robinson looks a lot happier now.

Why 'That Metal Show' rules music TV

None of the three “That Metal Show” hosts - longtime deejay Eddie Trunk and comedians Jim Florentine and Don Jamieson - looks remotely “metal.”

Yes, Jamieson has dagger-sized sideburns. And on-air all three hosts usually wear T-shirts championing their favorite artists (Judas Priest, UFO, Randy Rhodes, etc.). But otherwise, these New Jersey bros look and act like Joe Six-Packs you’d meet in the beer line at a Van Halen concert. There’s no eyeliner, Sebastian Bach-length hair, hoop earrings or visible tattoos.

These characteristics are important because there’s nothing to distract “TMS” viewers from the VHI-Classic program’s two most compelling aspects: 1.) You would actually want to hang out with Trunk, Florentine and Jamieson, and 2.) These three guys know a ridiculous amount about metal.

Airing Saturdays at 11 p.m. EST, “TMS” focuses on, as Trunk describes it, “MTV-era rock and heavy metal.” This fits in with VH1-Classic's target audience, a demographic that’s super appealing to advertisers. Early this year I wrote a feature on Greenville, S.C. classic rock station WROQ 101’s 20th anniversary, and their station manager told me WROQ’s two most popular artists aren't The Beatles and Stones but AC/DC and Guns N’ Roses. Hello, coveted 25-54 age group!

Whatever your thoughts on metal – particularly its ’80s heyday – the music and songs have proved more durable than some might expect. Yes, the production can get a little glossy. (Although this same criticism can be leveled at the LP that supposedly killed “hair-metal,” Nirvana’s 1991 release “Nevermind.”)

But consider this: Motley Crue’s scrappy 1982 debut album “Too Fast For Love” contains the exact same sonic elements as garage rock darlings The White Stripes’ 1999 self-titled first disc. Treble-knife vocals. Heavy yet tuneful riffs. Powerful and song-minded drumming. (I know, as a percussionist Tommy Lee can play circles around Meg White. But hey, they’re both sexually well-endowed.)

Both “Too Fast” and “The White Stripes” possess a charmingly gritty audio quality. And stylized lyrics. That said, Nikki Sixx’s stylized lyrics primarily deal with strippers and drugs, while Jack White’s are a hybrid of bluesman couplets and art-school abstraction.

Another thing MTV-era metal and “TMS” have going for it right now is it’s been a while since a new loud-as-hell, catchy-as-hell, popular-as-hell rock band emerged. The aforementioned Stripes are the last that come to mind.

And some major contributors to the next decade’s flagship rock genre, grunge, have disappeared forever. Kurt Cobain’s dead. Layne Staley, too. And let’s be honest, outside of Scott Weiland and Perry Farrell, a lot of the surviving ’90s greats are short on rock-star wattage.

However, the guests on “TMS” are colorful, and often larger-than-life.

On the Aug. 20 premiere of the program’s eighth season, the guest was Black Sabbath guitarist Tony Iommi. For fans of the genre, this is a booking coup. (Ozzy Osbourne or Axl Rose would be rad, too.) Because of his horror-film/wasted-teenager-soundtrack riffs, Iommi is correctly regarded as the founder of heavy metal.

But for a guy responsible for some of the most beautifully brutal music ever, Iommi is surprisingly soft-spoken and humble. His ember-toned voice sounds more like that of a British novelist than the guy behind “Symptom of the Universe” and “Paranoid.”

Trunk, Florentine and Jamieson asked Iommi some questions metal dabblers and hardcore experts alike would love to hear answered: Iommi’s opinion of the deceased early-Osbourne guitar-whiz Randy Rhodes; details on the factory accident that severed the ends of Iommi’s right fingers off prior to joining Sabbath; etc.

But the hosts also queried Iommi on more-obscure shit like his recent recordings with Deep Purple singer Ian Gillan, and the risky 1980 move firing Osbourne as Sabbath’s frontman and replacing him with operatic-voiced vocalist Ronnie James Dio. (As Trunk noted in the premiere, this reconfiguration ignited a scorching second act for Sabbath and Osbourne's excellent first two solo discs.)

It would be extremely interesting to know the album, MP3 singles and concert attendance bump artists appearing on “That Metal Show” receive after their episode airs. Yes, some guests are still commercially viable on a large scale – Slash and Rush’s Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson come to mind. But the star-power of many guests (dudes from Winger, Ratt, etc.) has long since faded.

The latter variety are actually some of the most interesting shows, such as season five’s episode featuring Dokken singer Don Dokken and guitarist George Lynch (who have a vitriolic history) and the season six appearance of Tesla (who seem to be such down-to-earth guys, you’re compelled to revisit their classic-rock-meets-metal material, such as “Love Song” and “Modern Day Cowboy.”)

The production values on “TMS” aren’t exactly at an HBO mini-series level. It looks like they’re hanging out in Trunk’s basement. The modest set is basically a few chairs, and in the background there’s a reel-to-reel tape player, retro wallpaper, a pointy guitar or two, and some random bookshelf relics. “That Metal Show” is filmed in Los Angeles, where a lion’s share of their guests lives. This presents a dichotomous subtext, considering the hosts' meat-and-potatoes East Coast roots and personas.

“TMS” also features a “guest shredder” for each show. Past guitar-slingers have included Tracii Guns and Gilby Clarke, both former Guns N’ Roses members, coincidentally. Although the guitarists’ skills are impressive, in general I can take or leave this facet of the show, but Trunk, Florentine and Jamieson are obviously jazzed about it.

The Iommi episode was missing a crucial component that’s often a “That Metal Show” highlight, “The Vault.” This is when video footage involving the guest is played on a modest-sized TV behind Trunk. It’s typically a clip of the highlighted musician mega-sloshed 25 or so years ago. (The best one was probably original Guns bassist Duff McKagan giving a “Cribs”-like tour of his Los Angeles home in a hilariously coked-out state. McKagan, now sober, appeared horrified at the sight of the footage. He also didn’t appear to remember it being filmed.)

So, bring back The Vault, guys. But definitely keep Ms. Box of Junk, aka Jennifer Leah Gottlieb, the blonde hottie who in the season eight premiere strutted on camera in a scantily-altered “Girls, Girls, Girls” T and black leather pants that are probably the tightest I’ve ever seen on a person. This is obviously, in Gottlieb’s case, a positive aesthetic.

Besides providing eye-candy, Gottlieb has two chief responsibilities on “TMS.” The first occurs after the hosts deliver their opening monologue. She oversees an oversized blackboard, which is used during the TMS Top 5, a segment in which the hosts debate a metal-centric topic. On the season eight premiere, the topic was “covers,” as in the best cover songs recorded by metal artists.

The seriousness to which Trunk, Florentine and Jamieson take Top 5 is pretty awesome. You’d think they were debating the solution to America’s economic crisis or creationism versus evolution, not whether Metallica’s version of “Am I Evil?” is more bitching than Iron Maiden’s re-do of “Cross Eyed Mary.”

Herein lies the most endearing quality of “TMS”: authenticity. There is no doubt the hosts live and breathe metal. In a mainstream context, it has not been “cool” to like metal since “Cheers” was America’s top-rated TV show. In other words, 21 years. If this was “That Indie Show” and the guests included Bon Iver, Radiohead or whoever, it would be difficult not to write it off as trend exploitation.

There’s also onscreen chemistry on “TMS” that can’t be faked.

The hosts are friends off-camera, too – meeting up for drinks and Whitesnake concerts. On the season eight premiere, Florentine and Jamieson, who’ve cut separate comedy LPs for legendary thrash label Metal Blade, teased Trunk unmercifully (this is a recurring theme on the show) because one of his Top 5 nominated cover songs, Anthrax’s recording of “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath” was misspelled “Sabby Bloody Sabbath.” (In reality, Trunk, who recently published his first book, "Eddie Trunk's Essential Hard Rock and Heavy Metal," had nothing to do with the bungle. Top 5 nominations are printed on magnetized strips, an aspect of production that obviously the hosts would leave to their presumably skeleton staff.)

Trunk caught more hell during another fantastic regular “TMS” segment, “Stump The Trunk.” This is when Florentine, who has a gruff accent and a haircut straight from 1987, hands his microphone over to audience members who get to quiz Trunk on metal trivia. Those who succeed in stumping the host receive a metal-oriented prize, which the audience member obtains via a blind grab into the "Box of Junk" Gottlieb totes in a manner similar to those cigarette-sales girls of yore.

Stump The Trunk questions can range from the legitimate (name every album Sabbath made with Dio) to the preposterous (who wore the “Eddie” mascot costume in a certain Iron Maiden video).

Trunk has been a major player in metal for decades as a marquee radio deejay. In the mid-80s, he even signed former Kiss guitarist Ace Frehley to a record deal with Megaforce Records. In 2006, Trunk conducted a rare interview with Axl Rose when the then-reclusive Guns singer made a surprise visit to New York classic rock station Q104.3.

So Trunk knows his shit. The frumpy host, who admittedly purchases his clothes at Walmart and Target, bats about .500 on Stump The Trunk questions.

But in the Iommi episode, he whiffs on, what should be for him, a softball. A backwards-cap-wearing kid asks Trunk to name three Sabbath tunes Iommi, famous for his electric guitar acumen, played acoustic or keyboards on. Trunk can’t name one. (“Changes,” Eddie, “Changes”!) Trunk takes the ribbing in stride and, like anyone secure in their prowess, laughs it off.

The final segment of each “TMS” is the “Throwdown.” It’s basically a roundtable discussion in which the hosts and guests weigh in on such issues as Rush fans versus the Kiss Army, “Led Zeppelin II” versus “Led Zeppelin IV,” and the Guns acoustic ballad “Patience” versus Tesla’s “Signs.” Like the TMS Top 5, it’s the hosts’ passion and insight that makes the segment. The guests too often answer diplomatically or bow out of the argument altogether. (Although Iommi checked in with a definite opinion for the Throwdown topic of “Best Sabbath Replacement Singer” by touting Ian Gillan.)

At the Throwdown’s conclusion, a host - usually Jamieson - asks the crowd to cheer for the opinion they support. Jamieson, who in addition to those sideburns usually wears a can-you-believe-how-awesome-my-gig-is grin, gooses the crowd into supporting his vote by announcing that one last.

When describing “TMS” to friends or fellow journalists, I’ve used the old MTV show “Headbangers Ball” as a reference point. But that's a lazy comparison. “Headbangers” was primarily a music video program inter-spaced with limited interview segments and a single host who seemed more like a “personality” than someone with a deep knowledge of the music. “TMS” is actually closer to a real-life "Wayne’s World," albeit one with a lot more brains.

It would be cool if “TMS” added a live music aspect. Have the guest artist’s band perform a song, much like the musical guests do on network late-night shows. However, this is probably cost-prohibitive.

The bleacher-style seating at “That Metal Show” looks like it holds 50 people, tops. But I’d much rather be at a “That Metal Show” taping than one for Leno, Conan or Letterman because the guests, even when I’m not into their work, and the commentary are always entertaining. You can tell the black-T-shirt-wearing “That Metal Show” audience, which contains a decent amount of females, feels like they’re in Shangri-La. And in a way, they are.

A brief history of headbands

In popular music, headbands are the sartorial equivalent of the harmonica. Both are portable, affordable and capable of exuding an appealing aesthetic that can be roughly classified as "raw" and/or "street."

There's a hitch, though. Unless an artist is skilled and savvy in their deployment of either object, the results can be disastrous.

For every scorching harmonica lick, like those in ZZ Top’s 1973 jam “Waitin’ for the Bus,” there are 17 squeak-fests, such as Alanis Morissette’s 1995 hit “Hand in My Pocket,” that sound like the artist just learned how to play the instrument or they’re repeatedly stepping on a children’s inflatable toy.

(The most recent entrant into harmonica infamy is The Who singer Roger Daltrey, who’s woeful honking during the band’s 2010 Super Bowl halftime performance was saved from being the musical nadir of all Super Bowls by the Black Eyed Peas’ cartoon-like performance the following year.)

Headbands entail a similar risk. It’s an accessory that can lift a musician’s “look” to icon status or doom them to being a perpetual pincushion for pop-culture snark - and the line between those two destinies can be a gossamer’s thread.

Jimi Hendrix

Unsatisfied with simply revolutionizing electric guitar, Jimi Hendrix also pioneered the use of headbands in rock. Of course, legend has it Hendrix would place a hit (or seven) of acid in between his forehead and gypsy-like headbands, thereby avoiding the labor-intensive common method of ingesting LSD - placing a tiny strip of paper in one’s mouth and swallowing. Or maybe the headband method of acid-taking allowed for a more gradual, less overwhelming consumption. Sort of the hippie-narcotic equivalent of those time-release, over-the-counter medications. Whatever his reasoning, if Hendrix did actually consume acid in this manner, then headbands should receive credit for playing a significant role in the most mind-blowing guitar solos ever.

See also: Andre 3000, MGMT’s Andrew VanWyngarden and various members of Jefferson Airplane.

Keith Richards

The seafaring, swashbuckling, rum-guzzling pirates of the 18^th century are known to have worn some form of headbands. And if there’s ever been a pirate in rock ‘n’ roll, it’s Keith Richards. Even at age 67, the Rolling Stones guitarist is as likely to be packing a knife and bottle as he is a Telecaster. Decades before actor Johnny Depp channeled Richards for his “Pirates of the Caribbean” role of Capt. Jack Sparrow, Keef was sporting headbands – he was definitely wearing them by the early-70s, as depicted in the harrowing bootleg Stones documentary “Cocksucker’s Blues.” Richards is also probably rock’s all-time leader in headband usage and remains loyal to the accessory to this very day, wearing them at everything from Rock And Roll Hall of Fame ceremonies to red-carpet film premieres to lunches with former president Bill Clinton.

See also: Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler and Joe Perry.

Loverboy

Things really started to go wrong for headbands in the early-80s. Bohemian looks of the previous two decades began to give way to an aerobics-instructor vibe, a regrettable turn best illustrated by vocalist Mike Reno of Loverboy, the pop-rock band who’s sterile-sounding hits, like “Working for the Weekend” and “Lovin’ Every Minute of It,” made Foreigner sound like the Sex Pistols by comparison. This might be partially explained by the fact Loverboy was from Canada. Or maybe it’s just that era has a lot to own up to, fashion- and music-wise. But seriously, if I type another sentence about Loverboy, it will be seconds I wish I had back when I’m on my deathbed.

See also: Mark Knopfler and “Born in the U.S.A.”-period Bruce Springsteen.

Dez Dickerson

You probably know him as the cool-looking black dude wearing a Rising Sun headband and playing guitar in the music video for Prince’s 1982 hit “1999.” His name is Dez Dickerson. Without a doubt, the primary reason for Dickerson’s perceived coolness is that headband, although it didn’t hurt he got to sing a line in "1999" before Prince does : “When I woke up this morning I could have sworn it was Judgment Day.” (Wendy & Lisa, the sexy female keyboard duo in Prince’s then-band The Revolution, sung the tune's opening couplet.) But as intriguing as Dickerson’s Rising Sun headband was, the location of his audition for Prince was even more so: inside Del’s TireMart in Minneapolis after answering an ad in a local alt-weekly, the Twin Cities Reader, in January 1979.

See also: Motley Crue guitarist Mick Mars, circa “Shout At The Devil” (with an inverted pentagram substituted for Japanese imagery.)

Bret Michaels

Although Poison frontman Bret Michaels undoubtedly aped his trademark bandana from an infinitely superior singer (Axl Rose) from an infinitely superior mid-80s Los Angeles rock band (Guns N’ Roses), Michaels has pretty much become synonymous with this style. A dedicated performer who was back playing gigs weeks after suffering a 2010 brain hemorrhage, Michaels’ show-must-go-on mentality extends to his headband. During an interview with Oprah Winfrey, the always-affable Michaels was asked why (as photos that surfaced online revealed) he continued to wear his bandana throughout his medical crisis. Michaels’ response: “It’s like Superman without the cape.”

See also: Approximately 47 percent of the dudes who've played in Warrant, Cinderella, Ratt, L.A. Guns, Great White, etc.

Donnie Wahlberg

Headbands and boy-bands seem like a marriage made in pop music heaven. But for the most part, they're severely underused within the idiom. It wasn’t always that way. Perhaps as a nod to his hardscrabble Boston roots, New Kids On The Block’s resident bad-boy Donnie Wahlberg made headbands a central aspect of his visual image. Wahlberg kept it real with a bandana, typically tied in a doo-rag configuration. While I’m reluctant to denote a boy-band singer as to having done anything remotely “rock ‘n’ roll” (besides bopping scads of teenage chicks), Wahlberg must be acknowledged for getting arrested in 1991 for pouring vodka on a Louisville, Ky. hotel’s carpet and setting it on fire.

See also: The doughy, less-famous members of Jonas Brothers and Nsync.

2Pac

To ’90s white suburban youth, it might have appeared that rapper Tupac Shakur had appropriated his headband style from Aunt Gemima, the fictional female character used to promote a brand of pancake mix and syrup of the same name. This assumption would have been incorrect. Shakur’s tied-in-the-front bandana look was “popular with street gangs,” according to Urban Dictionary, which also notes bandanas “can be used as a weapon (strangle holding and whipping).” So in other words, don’t fuck with Bret Michaels! Although Shakur died tragically, after a 1996 Las Vegas drive-by shooting, his music continues to influence hip-hop. And so does his headband. MCs including Snoop Dogg, The Game and even couture-minded Jay-Z have been known to kick-it bandana-style.

See also: Nate Dogg and Eminem.

Taylor Swift

As musicians have become more environmentally conscious, so have their headbands. Surely this explains crossover-country star Taylor Swift’s minimalist number, which appears to have a much smaller carbon footprint than traditional headbands. Whatever you think of Swift as a vocalist, she writes many of her own songs and casts a positive influence on today’s tweens through her ecologically-sound approach to headbands. In Touch Weekly even held a contest to giveaway a copy of the circlet Swift wore onstage during an American Country Music Awards performance. A cleaner environment doesn’t always come cheap, though: according to In Touch, Swift's headband is valued at $165.

See also: Miley Cyrus.

Mick Jagger's fourth act begins

There is exactly one 68-year-old white dude alive who can look cool in a pink suit, and fortunately for SuperHeavy he’s in their band. His name is, of course, Mick Jagger.

As a massive Stones fan, I was prepared to cringe when the debut single and video from Jagger’s new project - which also features Joss Stone, Dave Stewart, Damian Marley and Indian film composer A. R. Rahman - dropped last week.

But “Miracle Worker” is actually a pretty cool pop song with legit reggae lilt. A&M Records obviously believes in SuperHeavy’s commercial viability, because it looks like the video for “Miracle Worker” had a budget on line with a “Twilight” film.

Once the song begins - after an extended, getting-ready-to-jam-in-the-streets intro that looks like it’s been lifted from one of those expensive Pepsi commercials of yore - Stones freaks must take in 48 seconds of Stone’s R&B coos and Marley sounding like a cross between his pop Bob and that Shaggy guy who sung “Bombastic” before we get Mick.

When Jagger finally drops into the mix his voice sounds as strong and swaggering as ever. A couple years ago, this would not be a shock. Jagger is well known for taking meticulous care of his voice. Lenny Kravitz once told Rolling Stone of vacationing with Mick and hearing Jagger through the hotel wall every night practicing his singing to a CD of Stones tracks with vocals removed. (This was essentially the equivalent of hearing Mick sing “Honky Tonk Women” at a karaoke bar, minus the throng of intoxicated investment bankers with their neckties repurposed as headbands.)

But as thrilling as the previously unreleased tracks on the 2010 “Exile on Main St.” reissue were, Jagger’s newly recorded vocals for them sounded thin. This was an eyebrow-raiser because, in contrast to higher-octave singers like Robert Plant, age had (heretofore) taken less of a toll on Jagger, who operates mostly in a meaty mid-range. Mick’s pipes also appeared to be weakening in the 2008 Martin Scorsese concert film “Shine A Light.” (To be fair, Keith Richards’ guitar solos, which had never been sophisticated but had always been toothy, were conspicuously feeble in “Shine A Light.”)

Fast-forward back to 2011 and “Miracle Worker.” The second thing Stones fans should be psyched about Jagger’s contributions to the song are the lyrics he delivers. In bad Stones tracks (which appear mostly, with the notable exception of 1978’s “Some Girls,” in their LPs ranging from 1974’s “It’s Only Rock & Roll” to their last album, 2005’s “A Bigger Bang”) the songwriting could pass for Paul Stanley lyrics. That is not a compliment.

But on “Miracle Worker,” Jagger is just being Jagger – even if we wonder if the “bag of tricks” he touts contains ED meds – and we like it. Hell, in the song's video he even appears to be sashaying in front of the same stoop he and Richards commiserated on in the clip for the 1981 Stones classic “Waiting On A Friend.” In the “Miracle Worker” promo Jagger rocks his pink suit and fedora like a true pimp – or at least as good as David Bowie would. Wealth and taste, indeed.

Various folks are referring to SuperHeavy as a “supergroup.” Whereas that term once applied only to star-saturated combos like Blind Faith (Clapton and Winwood) or even Velvet Revolver (Slash and Weiland), these days “supergroup” is thrown around like confetti, similar to how “supermodel” now applies to anyone who’s appeared in a JC Penney underwear ad.

Make no mistake, Jagger is the only superstar in SuperHeavy. Still, this is one of the better singles Mick’s been associated with in a long time, and his band mates obviously had something to do with that. (Although I can’t tell you what Dave Stewart's talent is – no one is going to mistake him for Jimi Hendrix on guitar and I can’t remember ever hearing him sing - he’s been involved with some memorable songs, such as “Don't Come Around Here No More,” which Stewart co-wrote with Tom Petty.)

Face it, Stones faithful: this is going to be Mick’s fourth act. If you’ve read Keith Richards' excellent, yet not exactly Jagger-trumpeting 2010 autobiography “Life,” you probably realize the Stones will never regroup. Judging from SuperHeavy’s first single, at least Jagger is hip-shaking off into the sunset with a project that adds another color to his musical legacy without staining it.