Math rock got its feet wet in Louisville, Ky., and its main oracle is Slint’s jaw-dropping 1991 record, “Spiderland,” an album some still listen to with the same awed reverence with which penitents gape weeping at icons of the Virgin Mary. Breaking up a week before the album’s release, Slint became an instant indie rock legend. What happened next created a scene more inbred than the Kentucky Derby: Not many people bought “Spiderland” when it came out, but everyone who did started a band, drawing mainly on musicians from Chicago and Louisville — each, apparently, with a former member of Slint. June of 44 features drummer John Scharin, who played in Codeine, members of which played in, er, Bitch Magnet, which featured members of Slint, which in turn played with … oh, forget it.

The point is this: One of the finest bands to spin off from the Louisville-Chicago math rock axis, June of 44 is moving the math rock sound forward in new ways that are both intense and eloquent. “Four Great Points,” the band’s third full-length album, is a consistently inventive record, and one that carries a level of emotion that’s rare in a genre often plagued with detached, highly textured noodling. Firmly grounded in Fred Erskine’s supple bass lines and Scharin’s at times ferocious drumming, songs like “Doomsday” and “Of Information and Belief” wander but retain their emotional focus. Guitarists Sean Meadows and Jeff Mueller do the quietude-to-raw noise thing better than most, shifting volumes and styles on a dime without making the songs sound like the sum of disparate, stapled-together parts. The tightness of the quartet’s playing is revealed during the pure funk-based lockgroove of “The Dexterity of Luck”: The music increasingly intensifies and sustains itself for six minutes, without one second of self-indulgence.

Random instruments fly into the mix: violins, Moog keyboards, the sleigh bells on the dub-happy “Lifted Bells,” even a typewriter on the closing “Air #17.” All of it with the goal of deconstructing rock styles in order to rebuild them: “Take down your art, take down your art,” Meadows chants repeatedly on “Does Your Heart Beat Slower,” which substitutes as a motto for the entire proceeding. What pervades all of “Four Great Points” is a limber, intelligent approach to the math rock style that ignores the genre’s shortcomings and even some of its common themes, with an accessibility that the purest of pure-pop fans can appreciate. If the obsessions and discographical schematics of lanky, wallet-chained indie rockers come off as foreign or even distasteful, June of 44 sounds thrilled to draw you a thrilling and highly articulate diagram.

When the Rolling Stones came to the States for the first time in 1964, they headed directly to the Chicago recording studios of the Chess brothers, Leonard and Phil, founders of the legendary blues label Chess Records. There, in sloppy and largely forgotten 12-bar increments, the Stones paid homage to their American blues heroes. As Francis Davis noted in “The History of the Blues,” the Stones’ early Chess covers basically “amounted to love letters to that label’s performers.”

But mere love letters and the innocent dreams of youth would never wholly contain the Stones. Soon, Mick and Keith would begin toying with the blues, like Elvis Presley had a decade earlier, stretching and twisting it in feverish, creative bursts into something the white kids might proudly and defiantly call their own. In the process, they dragged the blues into the super-heated social and political climate of mid- and late-1960s America, much as their wildly inventive progenitors at Chess had packed and hauled a completely retooled version of the old acoustic Delta blues up from the Deep South and into the industrialized, electrified urban atmosphere of postwar Chicago.

The liner notes for the new House of Blues release “Paint It, Blue: Songs of the Rolling Stones,” say that this compilation “is a celebration of the Rolling Stones’ early passion.” That seems a fair enough general assessment of this nicely packaged, exceedingly well-produced CD that includes 13 Stones nuggets, several of them well-known classics, performed by 12 fine and steady blues and soul acts, several of them classics as well.

There is very little on “Paint It, Blue” that doesn’t merit a close and appreciative listening. It is a potent, often inspired mix of artists and songs. Taj Mahal, singing like an old scaly lizard and playing a spare, greasily plucked rhythm on dobro, delivers an even sleazier take of “Honky Tonk Woman” than the Stones did on their original version in 1969; Junior Wells reduces the anthemic “Satisfaction” to a sly, harp-driven tale of personal lamentation in what may well be his last recording; the recently deceased Johnny Copeland, fueled by a meaty power-chord progression and a muscular, chugging rhythm section, burns his way through an absolutely jubilant “Tumblin’ Dice”; and Alvin “Youngblood” Hart’s plaintive recitation of “Moonlight Mile” is so lonesome and starkly beautiful it ought to be outlawed.

Mick and Keith must be smitten. After all this time and all the silly bullshit they’ve put themselves through, it must be a pleasure to sit back on the tour jet with “Paint It, Blue” on the headphones, listening in wonder as their peers and old heroes chase their coattails for a change. How amusing that must seem at 30,000 feet. Almost as amusing as that ridiculous notion they once had of being great, weary bluesmen with a weather-beaten shack down along the Delta. That was a good one, eh, Mick?

The pre-show hype was as incessant and inescapable as an ad
campaign for a new triple-layer burrito at Taco Bell. DJ’s prattled on,
promising front row seats for the five thousandth caller and there were
endless newspaper articles touting Mick’s pre-show workout regimen, the
band’s roots in Chicago Blues and their new “genius” collaboration with
the Dust Brothers. Then the Stones sightings began: a secret show at a
local club sent fans scurrying to their cars; rumors of a sound check at
Soldier Field had boats circling Lake Michigan along the shores near the
arena. Stones Web sites began to download slower and slower as fans
surfed into the wee hours trying to guess where the Stones might pop up
next — sitting in at a local blues club or sweater shopping at Henri Bendel?

Nobody seemed to care if the new CD was any good. The Stones were in town! The Stones! Even the mayor cashed in on the hype with a news brief reassuring the public that
hazardous, fire-propelling propane tanks had been nixed from the show.
Local news teased us with footage of Jagger stepping out of limos all over
town. “Up next, another drive-by shooting and (tasteful pause) find out why
the Stones can’t get no satisfaction with city officials.” Channel 7′s
jovial weatherman, standing in front of his five-day
forecast, proclaimed, “Hey you, get offa my cloud. It looks like clear
skies for the Stones!”

By show day, I was so queasy with Stones hype I felt like I’d
eaten a three-pound bag of mini-Snickers bars. But the crowd pouring into
Soldier Field was anything but jaded. The parking lot was a sea of
screaming fans: “The greatest band on earth!” “Yeah, Stones rock!”

Still, we were a long way from Altamont. Long-haired freaks and
bikers were the clear minority. We could have been queuing up for a Bears
game or a Wisconsin craft show. Forty-something couples milled about in
football sweatshirts buying nachos and light beer. Vendors hawked roses and
Subway sandwiches. Even the women’s bathroom line felt more like Marshall Fields than
a rock show. Middle-aged women sporting Farrah flips whispered, “Pardon me”
as they squeezed through to the stalls. One woman in neatly-faded jeans and
rose lipstick addressed the line, “Does anyone have any … feminine
protection?” In unison, the ladies fumbled for their purses.

The show’s start was electric. With a giant explosion, the
band roared into “Satisfaction.” Keith Richards came stumbling out in
sunglasses and a long leopard-print coat. Ron Wood followed in bright red, and
finally Jagger came strutting down a staircase in his standard clown/ TV
pimp stage garb — black tux and blue scarf with gold fringe fluttering in the
wind. The video screen exploded with fast cuts — Keith’s skull ring as his
fingers flayed into power chords, Mick’s leathery face glistening with
sweat, Charlie Watts stony and dignified, looking très Urban Outfitters in
a collarless zip-up jacket, holding his drumsticks like a 19th century country gentleman loosely grasping the reins of his horse and buggy.

The band tore through the first half hour with a stream of
dependable hits. The crowd roared along to familiar choruses: “Let’s spend
the night together … It’s only rock ‘n’ roll but I like it, like it, yes I
do!”

Jagger marched across the vast stage with wild thrusting hips and
flailing arms, his lips and chin jutting huge across the video monitor. He tore
off coats and pulled on hats, stripping off his tuxedo jacket to a bright
yellow overshirt then down to a blue rhinestone muscle shirt then whipping
on black leather jackets, a red velvet long coat, a pullover sweater, a
silver windbreaker and sundry scarves.

Richards played the rock ‘n’ roll fool. He strutted center stage for
his sloppy, three-note solos, face pained and puzzled as his fingers bent
strings. He wandered back and forth between Ron Wood and bassist Darryl
Jones, facing them while he played as if begging help in figuring out the chords.

Wood kept to the side stage, trying to keep out of Jagger’s way as
he frantically whirled like 100 Stevie Nickses, playing the almighty
rock dervish — somewhere between a drag queen kick boxer and a first-grade
music teacher, wildly hand-clapping to entice the crowd into singing along.
Watts remained expressionless, refusing to crack a grin even when the video
monitor splashed him in close-up.

The Stones definitely had their moments. There was the gritty “Honky
Tonk Women,” roaring with Richards’ off-kilter guitar and his howling
out-of-tune back-up on “Ruby Tuesday.” And there were more poignant moments as well,
like when the soft trombone glided into, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.”

There was also an unfortunately high cheese factor. The horn section swelled up to
cover many of Richards’ charmingly simplistic guitar riffs and the trio of
backup singers quickly roared in whenever Jagger’s voice faltered. The
videos exploding over the giant monitor descended into shots of women
gyrating in corsets during the few new songs played as if in some desperate
attempt to help the audience focus on the new material. During “Miss You,”
the videos flitted between dirty cartoons and shots of dead rock stars as if
to keep the audience awake while eulogizing Lennon, Garcia, et al.
When the band paused to call up their Web site on the giant monitor, choosing a song from a list voted on by fans on the Internet ( the winner, with a grand total of five tongues: “Under My Thumb”), it seemed more like a chance for Jagger to catch his breath than any real attempt at cyberspace excitement.

But, overall, it was hard not to love the Stones. They were clearly
aiming to please — which in itself is remarkable given their unshakable
status as rock icons. There was an air of inclusiveness about the night.
All of us, even the gray-haired man next to me in baseball cap and Dockers
felt cool enough to join in when Jagger sang, “Brown sugar, how come you
dance so good?”

There’s a sense of genuineness to the Stones’ hugeness, as if they
refuse to feel the irony of stardom — of being at once gray-haired and larger-than-life.
They seem comfortable with the simple truth that many a rock star grapples with unsuccessfully: that their job title is not social commentator or dark prophet, but simply entertainer.
“It’s good to be back,” Richards told the crowd. “It’s good to be.“

As far as I can tell, “The Servant of the Bones” is being devoured. “Memnoch the Devil” is mentioned the most by people I meet, and it seems a countless number of young people enjoyed “The Mummy.” That’s what I hear out here. It’s thrilling more than exhausting. On the bus, I can wallow in Antonio Banderas movies — males are my muses, no doubt about it.

I can’t answer the questions people ask me about why my novels sell. I only feel the delicious heat of approval, and am always “writing” new novels in my head. My stuff’s weird, unpredictable, full of career sabotage in a way, in that I keep experimenting, shifting direction, mixing menstrual blood with Holy Communion. The readers say “Go, Anne.” And that’s my ticket to a new departure, a new investigation into the erotic.

I don’t give a damn about gender. Surely President Clinton will come around on same-sex marriages. Gender today is entirely a legal choice. Regarding the Democratic Convention, which is adding tremendous excitement to Chicago, naturally, isn’t it a mystery how the press heats up on Bill and Hillary? And they take it with such grace. Perhaps, unlike other First Families, the Clintons really do care more about us than they care about the press. Maybe that’s their most potent gift — they respect the press but are never manipulated or demoralized by it. Bill and Hillary care about what must surely be the most creative challenge of their lifetime. It’s breathtaking to watch them stride calmly through the brickbats and lies.

Love you,

August 26, 1996, 3:15 a.m.
Chicago