There's a particularly inventive panhandler on the New York subways, one you see mostly around Christmas time, when the cars are crowded and people are burdened with gifts and anxiety. He wears a helmet that has been spray-painted silver, and he sports an unruly Dr. John-style beard that is spattered with silver itself. He carries a rather damaged-looking alto sax and his pitch does not begin with a plea but rather ends with an observation. Instead of speaking, he begins to squawk through his horn, making the most god-awful racket. Imagine a cat caught in a garbage disposal or a set of bagpipes tumbling in a dryer and you begin to get the idea. Those around him try to cover their ears, some cry out in protest -- "Can't anyone make him stop?" -- but he plays without listening until he has made his point. Pulling the reed from his lips, he finally announces, "Money makes me go away!" Dollar bills are produced and held aloft; it looks like the encore of a King Sunny Ade concert.

Money makes me go away. Would that it were so with rock's elder statesmen. But as the return of Fleetwood Mac, Hall and Oates, Billy Joel et al makes clear, money does anything but make them go away. If it did, we could take my editor's suggestion and start a collection to buy them each a golden parachute. (How much would you pay not to hear Jethro Tull again?) But the sad fact is that each time a once-great band like the Who reunites, it claims it's the end: You won't have Roger Daltrey to kick around anymore. But then John Entwhistle finds himself up against it again, ex-wives and such still giving him hell, and soon he's calling his old mates. Then we're treated to the unwelcome spectacle of Pete Townshend on stage encased like a mummy behind a glass wall to protect his broken ear drums, giving the old windmill a half-hearted turn as across town some Broadway showman turns his old music into fodder for the tourists who were too out of it to go see the Who when they mattered, when Keith Moon was still alive. ("Oklahoma? OK.")

Everyone is still reeling from the discovery that Bob Dylan didn't just have another good album in him -- he had a great album, one as heartfelt and original as "Blonde or Blonde" or "Blood on the Tracks" -- choose your decade (actually some of "Time Out of Mind" sounds like it was recorded in another century). And Patti Smith, God bless her, has kept the faith on "Peace and Noise": These are songs forged of necessity and passion. No A&R man had to coax this one out of her. ("This chick thing is big, Pats; the way I see it, those Lilith dames owe you a piece of the gate.")

But the Rolling Stones: Why? You trying to tell me they didn't have enough money? I guess it's comforting to know that they can still crank out rock riffs and boozy ballads in their sleep. Too bad they have to take that judgment literally. "I've seen it all a thousand times," Mick sings on "Too Tight." "I sang that song, I wrote that fucking book." He could be talking about every band -- every move, every pout -- that's come down the pike since "Sticky Fingers." So why does the band sound so pale, as if they were covering Aerosmith B-sides? Yeah, Keith's got a few good songs, Charlie Watts still drives the bus -- but come on. This is one band that could skip the trends. The Stones need the Dust Brothers like Green Day needs strings.

Then there's Elton John, who's been in a bit of a pissing match of late with Keith Richards, who accused him of making a living off of "dead blondes." Having the biggest selling single in the world is not enough for Ellie, it seems. He wants respect, too. Forget about it. His new album, "The Big Picture," will doubtless ship platinum and is probably playing at your dentist's office right now. Continuing his triumphant reunion with wordsmith Bernie Taupin (who bills himself simply as "Taupin"), Elton (who, strangely, has never billed himself simply as "John") gives us 52 minutes of inspirational drivel, filled with rhetorical questions such as "Is loneliness the same as being free?" (answer: no) and titles like "Recover Your Soul" and "Live Like Horses." The latter is an exhortation. Eat green apples, the singer/songwriter seems to be saying. Crap in the street.

Genesis is back, too. Well, sort of. Phil Collins is not with the band. Ray Wilson has taken over vocal chores on "Calling All Stations," sounding a lot like someone doing Phil Collins at a karaoke lounge. Songs are written by Genesis veterans Tony Banks and Mike Rutherford and, "Congo" -- a song that has nothing to do with the Congo, where Belgians once enslaved and butchered the natives -- gets the sensitivity award for the opening lines: "You say that I put the chains on you/But that's not really true." "Calling All Stations" features songs about aliens, alienation and really mean girlfriends, and it all sounds like it's been filtered through Cream of Wheat.

Of course, you can't blame these bands for making music; what else are they gonna do, practice law? Even a once-great group like the Stones can't relax, knowing that a totally washed-up wanker like Bowie is worth $919 million (according to BusinessAge). The Thin White Puke came up with a novel scheme earlier this year, marketing interest-bearing bonds from his old song royalties. Buying a piece of that action means that every time you hear, say, "Space Oddity" on the radio it means ch-ch-ch-change in your pocket. Just wait until Billy Joel goes public: People won't let him stop performing, ever; he'll be singing that bloody "We Didn't Start the Fire" until the flesh falls from his bones. Can't stop the music, Billy: Your investors won't let you.