That's the setup for writer-director David M. Rosenthal's "Janie Jones" -- "just like the Clash song!", as one of Ethan's bandmates says brightly -- which may bear a general resemblance to other indie dramas about screwed-up parenting or the rock 'n' roll lifestyle, but is very much its own sharp and funny creation. Maybe it won't hurt "Janie Jones" too much that it hits less than a year after Sofia Coppola's "Somewhere," in which Elle Fanning's deadbeat dad was Stephen Dorff's soulless movie star, given that nobody went to see that. If the emotional music of Rosenthal's film seems familiar, as Ethan's relationship with Janie moves from utter denial to grudging acceptance to a strange dependence, the movie works because it's essentially an old-fashioned two-hander for a couple of subtle and terrific actors.

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The Aretha Franklin tribute

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Here's what I wrote about "Nowhere Boy" last January after attending the film's Sundance premiere, with the celebrated couple in attendance. (I've made some edits for clarity and context.)

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Her new memoir, "Lips Unsealed," talks about drugs and rock 'n' roll, of course, but it also touches on more recent challenges -- the failure of her latest albums to crack the U.S. charts ("A Woman and a Man," "Voila"), as well as raising her son while digging through feelings of self-loathing and supporting him after he came out. Salon called Carlisle to talk about lying in the spotlight, being airbrushed by Playboy, and why music sucks today.

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But "Exile's" sonic polish is small potatoes compared to what awaits on the DVD available only with the album's "super deluxe" (and super expensive) edition. Sandwiched in between excerpts from Steven Kijak's making-of documentary, which screened at Cannes this week, and a pair of clips from Hal Ashby's concert doc, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Rolling Stones," is 11 minutes from Robert Frank's legendary and elusive "Cocksucker Blues," the quasi-documentary that the Stones have effectively suppressed for nearly four decades. Owing to ongoing legal difficulties, the rest of "Cocksucker Blues" is unlikely to see legitimate release, but many of those who've seen it regard it as one of the greatest rock movies ever made.

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I was up in the balcony, but the man onstage was unmistakably Mick Jagger, perhaps the only senior citizen in the world who can manage to look cool while wearing a gray suit with sneakers. He repeated his statement twice, the first time through in completely respectable French, while hundreds of cameraphones lit up the place like electronic candles. Then the mob scene settled enough for us to take in the Directors' Fortnight premiere of "Stones in Exile," Stephen Kijak's fascinating documentary about the creation of a legendary rock 'n' roll record whose basic tracks were laid down 38 years ago just a few miles from here. (The trailer is embedded below.)

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"This hasn't really been a problem for me. Cancer? I'll kick the hell out of you," declared Dio in March in an interview with KIAH-TV in Houston, where he was being treated for the disease. "I refuse to be beaten in any shape or form so I'm going to beat you, too."

But on Sunday, Dio -- whose famous wailing vocals gave Black Sabbath a second life -- succumbed to the disease, at age 67.

"Today my heart is broken," Wendy Dio, his wife and a manger, wrote on the singer's website. "Many, many friends and family were able to say their private goodbyes before he peacefully passed away.

"Ronnie knew how much he was loved by all," she continued. "We so appreciate the love and support that you have all given us ... Please know he loved you all and his music will live on forever."

His publicist Maureen O'Connor said he died in Los Angeles.

Later Sunday, Black Sabbath bandmate Geezer Butler posted a picture of Dio on his website, with the caption: "Goodbye My Dear Friend."

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It would be easy to conclude that the Lizard King was massively wasted on booze or hash or acid or some other drug cocktail of choice on that occasion, and that moreover he was kind of a self-important idiot. Both things are very likely true, but the intellectual thread that connects Jim Morrison's cock to the White House is not as flimsy as it appears. However you feel about the Doors and their music -- and DiCillo's generous and substantial film leaves room for varying interpretations -- the band had an outsize cultural impact, embodying the Dionysian macho-rebel spirit of late-'60s white (male) American youth with psilocybin intensity.

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Yet, there I was, shaking my head with relief and amusement as I flipped through "Swing Steen," the New York Post's ingeniously headlined tale of Springsteen's reported dalliance five years ago with a woman from his hometown. I grinned as I read the story, not just because of the ample Boss puns ("Springsteen's 'Human Touch' made her melt;" "[T]he Jersey girl got lost in a ‘Tunnel of Love'"), but because after a year of John Edwards, Tiger Woods and Jesse James, even after the none-of-our-business-but-nonetheless-dispiriting splits of Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins and Kate Winslet and Sam Mendes, the Springsteen infidelity feels like a clean mineral rain washing away months of grimy revelations.

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But you can't tell someone his or her ears are wrong. You can't rescind the pleasure they derive from a particular piece of music. You can certainly deride that pleasure. If we were to meet and you were to break into the refrain of "Renegade," for instance, or "Come Sail Away," I would feel embarrassed. I might even, for the sake of camaraderie, go along with the gag. Ha-ha-ha. Yeah, Styx: what was I thinking? But that is quite different from what my body experiences when I listen to Styx. And in particular, when I listen to what I will now call -- with no alcoholic intervention -- the Styx masterpiece, "Paradise Theater."

"PT" was released in the winter of 1981, my freshman year in high school. It documents the demise of Chicago's Paradise Theater, which is a metaphor for the demise of America's civic culture, which is deep, man. So it's a concept album, or half a concept album, because only Dennis DeYoung was committed to the concept and he was the pianist. The rest of the band almost certainly thought DeYoung was a fag.

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Chatroulette, as you may already know from the constant hype, is a Web site that allows users to access random webcam for the purposes of talking, playing and showing off their pensises. Chief among its breakout stars is a hoodie-wearing pianist named Merton, whose witty, improvised songs about fellow chatters have led to speculation that he's really a thinly disguised Ben Folds. 

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Interviewer: What would you like written on your grave?

Alex Chilton: "A Self-Made Man" sounds best to me.

-- from a 1977 interview in Big Star fanzine

To me the definition of a great record is simple -- when you finish playing it, you want to play it again. And again. And again. It's really not more complicated than that.

Big Star made three great records during their four-year lifespan in the early 1970s: "#1 Record" (Memphis kids capturing the lightning of their English idols), "Radio City" (perhaps the greatest power pop album recorded outside the walls of Abbey Road Studios) and "Third," aka "Sister Lovers" (a dark, turbulent, mysterious masterpiece). Big Star went three for three out of the gate like no other band in history -- each one a record that has worn out the repeat button on countless stereos -- and then vanished before they were barely even known. At the center of their recorded legacy is Alex Chilton, whose heart unexpectedly stopped beating on Wednesday night. But thanks to the music of Big Star and the thousands of artists that Big Star influenced -- R.E.M., The Replacements (whose song "Alex Chilton" stands out among tributes), Jeff Buckley, the Bangles, Teenage Fan Club, Matthew Sweet and Primal Scream among them -- his heart will never stop being heard.

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But I'm ever the trooper, and for what?  To watch Lilly Scott go home and doe-eyed Katie Stevens stay? To see talented Todrick get booted so Tim Urban, a cute but talentless kid, can remain?

Tuesday night's theme was the music of the Rolling Stones, and I could envision Mick Jagger pouting already. 

Michael Lynche: Michael's mom died a couple of years ago, so she couldn't be at the show to watch him. He had already captured the hearts of America when he missed the birth of his first child because of the auditions (it clearly doesn't take much to capture the hearts of Americans). Michael sang, "Miss You," and I didn't. Lynche's rendition did nothing for me. He closed his eyes too much. It's hard for me to trust a guy who closes his eyes while he sings.

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That's the spirit in which Darnell Martin's "Cadillac Records," the extremely fictionalized story of the founding and flowering of Chicago's legendary Chess Records, needs to be approached. Chess was founded in 1950 by a Polish immigrant named Leonard Chess, who'd brought his brother, Phil, into the business as well. The Chess brothers sought out and recorded artists who would become some of the greatest names in blues and R&B, among them Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Chuck Berry and Etta James. Martin, who also wrote the script, takes liberties with the Chess story, most notably dispensing altogether with Phil Chess. But "Cadillac Records" is such an exhilarating, spirited piece of work that its embellishments and omissions cease to matter. Martin, who made her directing debut with the 1994 film "I Like It Like That" and has since worked frequently in television, isn't just telling the story of a record company; she and her actors are outlining the history of a vibe.

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In most cases our impressionable hero grows up, loses his acne, discovers the Rolling Stones, has sex, entertains more active passions than pop music obsession, and though he'll always dig the Beatles -- who doesn't? -- the band will never again be the deity it was in his youth. But there are the exceptions: the eternal 14-year-olds who grow up to write biographies of rock bands, devoting their adult lives to addressing those juvenile basement quandaries with scholarly gloss. Who are these guys? And, dude, how'd they do that?

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The Rock 'n' Roll Camp for Girls was supposed to be a one-off. Now, as a result of the camp's insane popularity, it's still going strong, and has even inspired a spinoff, Brooklyn, N.Y.'s Willie Mae Rock 'n' Roll Camp for Girls. Girls from all over the country -- even the world -- apply to these camps, hoping to secure one of the limited, coveted opportunities to learn how to play an instrument, to bond over music with other girls and to jam in a supportive environment. In an effort to keep the weeklong camp affordable -- and open to as many girls as possible -- organizers keep tuition fees low (Portland's camp is $300, while Brooklyn's works on a sliding scale); both camps also offer a limited number of scholarships.

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