It’s hard to believe Carly Simon is 62 and is releasing her 24th album. In the dark recesses of what’s left of my mind, she’s still that provocative, carefree hippy chick who released a series of clever, semi-autobiographical hits in the early 70s, including “That’s The Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be,” “Anticipation,” “The Right Thing To Do,” and “You’re So Vain.” Simon’s album covers remained great eye candy for years afterward, but she lost me in the 80s when her career was revitalized by “Coming Around Again.” “This Kind of Love” is her first album of new material in eight years. (Her last album, 2007’s “Into White” mixed standards with covers by Simon and Garfunkle, former husband James Taylor, and Cat Stevens, who penned the title track.) For her latest, Simon collaborated with composer Jimmy Webb, one of most celebrated composers in pop music, whose luxurious string arrangements for Glen Campbell’s “Wichita Lineman” and Richard Harris’ “MacArthur Park” made them orchestrated eargasms.

It’s a shame the Lemonheads chose to release their fifth album, 1992’s “It’s A Shame About Ray” in its pugnacious and persistently migraine-inducing electric form. The half-speed acoustic demos outdo the final throat-burning versions visited on the public with such ease you can only hope the person making the group’s career decisions also doesn’t control their money -- ‘cause they’re gonna go broke. The acoustic versions are sung with more passion, have distinctive influences, and, minus drummer David Ryan’s primordial pounding, won’t make your ears bleed. Of course an acoustic album from a group known for its fuzzed-out clamor would have tanked. The alternative crowd wasn’t ready for beautiful music from the Lemons. But now you can have it all on the Deluxe Edition of “It’s A Shame About Ray”… the sweet acoustic sounds in their infancy and the sour power punk it morphed into, plus a DVD of the band bouncing around the outback performing many of the album’s song’s for a third time. Very few albums can stand up to the scrutiny of three different versions of the same song, even if it shows the progression from demos to completed work to live renditions. In the Lemon’s case they didn’t even get that right – the deluxe edition goes from the final versions back in time to the demos, then to the live torture tunes. No matter. Less is more. It’s a shame… but too much Ray causes scurvy.

Van Morrison’s craggy image on the cover of “Keep It Simple” makes him look like he should be the fifth face on Mount Rushmore. The eleven songs on the album are far less coarse. Now 62, Morrison has eased into his Medicare years as a fatherly R & B/rock guru. His new album doesn’t have instant classic burned into its grooves like 1971’s “Tupelo Honey,” or the bump a minute funk of 1977’s “Period Of Transition,” but each subdued track locks in place with the next as if it were a patch in a quilt, and together the songs form a beautiful musical tapestry. Van the man keeps it simple, and the result is his best effort since 1978’s “Wavelength.”

Morrison has a habit of recruiting name musicians, many of whom are mid-range legends in their own right. (For example, he tabbed New Orleans voodoo man Dr John to helm “A Period of Transition,” and during his 90’s comeback worked with keyboardist Georgie Fame, who had solo hits in the 60s with “Yeh, Yeh” and “The Ballad Of Bonnie and Clyde.” In a surprise move, he recruited the Jeff Beck Group’s powerhouse vocalist Bobby Tench as his lead guitarist for “Wavelength.”) For “Keep It Simple” Morrison has drafted guitarist Mick Green, the former strummer for Johnny Kidd and The Pirates, who were best known for “Shakin’ All Over,” (which Mick missed out playing on). Mick is also the less famous brother of 60s blues legend/acid casualty Peter Green, founder of Fleetwood Mac. It was Mick who engineered Peter’s credible 80s comeback, writing four albums worth of material for his medicated brother. Unfortunately, few noticed it was Mick, not Peter writing the songs. It was also rumored that Mick played the captivating chords on well received albums such as “White Sky” and “The Dreamer.” That might be giving Mick a bit too much credit. You only have to hear a few notes to be able to name that Green. Peter’s a head-turning lead guitarist, a virtual sweet spot machine, while Mick’s a master of subtle fills. Playing alongside veteran Morrison band member and fellow guitarist Johnny Platania, Green keeps it simple.

In Flight Radio’s 2006 self-title debut built a name for the Indie rockers. (What kind of name is better left unsaid.) Their second effort, “The Sound Inside,” is a baby step in the right direction, but this chile is a bit colicky. Inspired ideas are undone by uninspired playing and attempts to mix incongruous styles with wrongheaded influences. I got a fervent whiff of the Cranberries in a few too many songs that was stronger than the stench of wet dog and urine coming out of The Bowery at four a.m. Throw in hints of The Pixies, galling imitations of U2, and 1,000 of the 10,000 Maniacs, and you’ve got a mix as potentially deadly as sarin gas.

“Day & Night Driving” is Seven Mary Three’s sixth full length release, and I have to admit I purposely dodged the group’s previous efforts. Mary has yet to top the platinum success of their debut, “American Standard,” and has only one successful single to their credit (“Chum.” With my luck it’s a reference to rotting bait rather than a dear friend.) Several songs from “Day & Night Driving,” such as “Laughing Out Loud,” “Hammer & Stone” and “Things I Stole” could propel Ross and his Mary men up the charts. The rest of the album’s uneven balance between acoustic and up-tempo Indie noise will drive you away.

Formed in 1992, Seven Mary Three was originally an acoustic duo comprised of singer Jason Ross and guitarist Jason Pollock. They’re down to one Jason (Ross), otherwise I’d suggest they call the act Jason Mary Two. Ross composed six of “Day & Night Driving”’s 12 tracks solo and collaborated with guitarist Thomas Juliano on an additional half dozen selections. Tellingly, the group is at its best when Ross writes by his lonesome. The Mary band is rounded out by mostly non-descript bassist Casey Daniel and occasionally alert drummer Giti Khalsa, who displays a pulse rate slightly below consciousness.

Then there was “The Band,” comprised of four scruffy Canadians (Richard Manuel, Rick Danko, Robbie Robertson and Garth Hudson) and the son of a dirt poor Arkansas farmer (Levon Helm). They were multi instrumentalists: Manuel played piano, drums, organ, and sax; Helm drums, mandolin, guitar, and bass; Danko bass, guitar, trombone and fiddle; Robertson, guitar and piano, and Hudson was adept at organ, piano, sax, synthesizer, and accordion. They looked like their music – rustic and grizzled, like some faded sepia photo taken by Matthew Brady. They may have been 4/5 Canadian, but their music embraced the roots of the American South – folk, country, blues, rock and R& B. They sang songs about the Depression, the Civil War, and sitting on the back porch with the kinfolk. In an age when songs were drenched with seven minute guitar solos and overt drug references, these guys told stories. There was nothing like them on the airwaves; their closet contemporary was storyteller Gordon Lightfoot – another Canadian. How ironic that Americans were learning about their country from musicians born north of the border.

The Band had the pedigree too. They’d started out in the early 60s in Toronto as the back up group for rockabilly singer Ronnie Hawkins, who’d charted with a raucous cover of Bo Diddley’s “Who Do You Love.” Hudson, the oldest and most experienced performer, was reluctant to join the band of hellions because his parents wanted him to be a music teacher. The group solved its predicament by paying Hudson ten bucks a week to serve as their music teacher. By 1963 the group had tired of backing Hawkins, a tough task master who disdained marijuana (it was after all, illegal), but seemed to have no problem with excessive alcohol and speed. Striking out on their own as Levon and The Hawks, they happened upon Bob Dylan, who was itching to give his folk act a harder edge. The Band electrified the stage, but many of Dylan’s fans revolted, booing their joint performances and calling the nasal one “Judas” for forsaking his roots. Levon was so bummed by the experience he temporarily quit the group, giving the drum seat up to Mickey Jones, who later became the time keeper for Kenny Rogers and The First Edition. Levon eventually returned to the fold, and The Band played on…

We have a motorcycle to thank for the emergence of The Band in July 1966. Bob Dylan was badly injured in a motorcycle accident, and spent his convalescence in Woodstock, New York, fooling around with The Hawks in the basement of his home. (The tapes from their sessions would be released as the overrated “Basement Tapes.”) Rehearsing without Dylan, his employees quickly realized they were better off without their vocally challenged leader. They entered the studio to record their own material but still didn’t have a name. Feeling they’d outgrown the Levon and The Hawks moniker they considered names they felt reflected their democratic brotherhood. They toyed with “The Honkies” and “The Crackers,” but Capitol, their record label, wisely rejected the names. Memories are foggy now as to how the group picked its name. It may have been the suits at Capitol or it may have been Richard Manuel, who when asked what his group was called replied in jest, “The Band…Just The Band.”

Released in 1968, The Band’s first album, “Music From Big Pink,” (named in honor of the house they rehearsed and lived in), was a critically acclaimed success, containing staples such as “The Weight,” “I Shall Be Released,” and “This Wheel’s On Fire.” It was influential enough to put a stake in the heart of psychedelia and convinced Eric Clapton to quit Cream and go on tour with roots rockers Delaney and Bonnie. Clapton was so enamored of The Band’s rural sound he wanted to join the group. With the release of their self-titled second album in 1969, The Band went from curiosities to bona fide backwoods stars.

The Band (Self-titled 2nd Album) (4 ½ out of 5 stars)

Nearly every cut on the “brown” album is a Band classic. Sure, there’s a much better version of “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” on the “Rock of Ages” album, but at this point no one even knew there was going to be a live Band album. Levon sings “Dixie” with a bit too much nose and throat, resembling an Arkansas Dylan, which ain’t that pleasing to the ear. Bless his drumsticks it’s a tone he seldom used.

The album is as rich with images of flim flam men, carnies, droughts, floods, grifters, drifters, loose women and the hard drinking men that love them. “The Band” is a forty minute history lesson -- America set to music.

As with the first album, Richard Manuel is the first and last voice you hear. He opens with “Across the Great Divide,” a tale of no nonsense, pistol packin’ Molly and her man, who remains optimistic their luck will change (“Try and understand your man the best you can.”) Typical of the band’s most memorable songs, it features Manuel’s pounding Fats Domino piano as part of its underpinnings, robust horns from Garth Hudson and producer John Simon, and a descriptive, easy-to-sing-along chorus: “Across the great divide, just grab your hat and take that ride. Get yourself a bride, and bring your children down to the riverside.”

The most astonishing performance comes from the already troubled Manuel, who nearly cries his way through “Whispering Pines.” A deceptively talented pianist, early in the band’s career Manuel was every bit the composer Robbie Robertson was. He just wasn’t as prolific and that seemed to gnaw at him, as did his inability to express himself in words. By the second album, he was already relying on Robertson to help him draft his lyrics. His frustrations as a songwriter would lead him to shut down completely by the time “Cahoots,” their fourth album, came out.

Dawg! Randy Jackson, the nice (and coherent) “American Idol” judge has gathered together semi-successful alumni from the show along with established artists and produced “Music Club Vol. 1,” the debut collection in what promises to be a series of eclectic showcases to come.

Paula Abdul, Randy’s often confused cohort on the show, is electrifying in “Dance Like There’s No Tomorrow.” Paula’s voice has been processed -- no problem, she’s been accused of this her entire career. She’s less chipmunky than in her million-selling heyday, which makes for a refreshing listen. Her vocal is mechanical, staccato, and the heavy footed bass drum dominates, but it’s all a calculated fit. Welcome back to the hit factory, Paula. “All I wanna do is stay right here on the floor get lost in the night and dance like there’s no tomorrow.”

Michael says: I like it Paula, I like it a lot.

Director John Sayles’ latest film, “Honeydripper,” is set in an imaginary Alabama roadhouse in the early 50s, when rock n’ roll was taking root and the electric guitar became a dominating instrument. The songs in “Honeydripper” are Hollywood blues — Instead of Charlie Patton or Big Bill Broozy, most of the music is made by actors playing musicians (Danny Glover) or musicians pretending to be actors (Mabel John). But Sayles didn’t get to be a successful director by cutting corners, so he also wisely enlisted current artists who can exist in the moment (Keb Mo, the New Beginnings Ministry), while mixing in legends who recorded in or around that period (Memphis Slim, Hank Williams). The result is another winner in the Rhino Records catalogue.

“Honeydripper” comes out swingin’ with “Honeydripper Lounge” by the Aces of Spade. It’s barely over a minute long, but sets a high standard for what follows. It borrows the jump blues energy of Big Joe Turner’s “Honey Hush” with low-lying, guttural sax, tinkling piano, and has a punchy sax duel between Billy Novick and Gordon Beadle. A second instrumental, “Tall Cotton,” dwells in the realm of down home southern roots music. Mike Turk’s mournful blues harp blows slow and easy, like a sharecropper laboring on a hundred degree day. Turk picks up the pace, and the bare feet start stompin’ on the porch. Turk’s playing takes on shades of harpists yet to come — Magic Dick, Paul Butterfield, Brownie McGee and Little Walter. And how about Tim Jackson on jug for percussion?

The music and legacy of Yes spans forty creative, tumultuous and triumphant years. Now there’s a 2-DVD artist profile that’s as grandiose, entertaining and exhilarating as their music. You want to know which member of the group came up with the name Yes? The answer’s here, as is a detailed account of Jon Anderson’s first meeting with Chris Squire, how Tony Kaye and Steve Howe got along as roommates, and which album the band shuns like a leper in a Speedo.

The first disc alone is 204 minutes, but thanks to Chris Squire and Rick Wakeman’s glib tales and Yes historian Chris Welch’s informative comments, the interviews take less time to get through than all four sides of “Tales From Topographic Oceans.” Narrator Russ Williams, who sounds like Robin Leach’s younger brother, provides the element of upper crusty class one associates with the band’s music.

Angie (no relation to Sly and the Family) Stone has the Stax Record label, one of the bedrocks of soul music, behind her. These are the guys who came up with Sam and Dave, Booker T. & The M.G.s, Otis Redding and Isaac Hayes, to name a few. The execs at Stax are usually pretty good judges of talent. They should be able to pay a few bills with Angie Stone’s fourth album of fresh material, “The Art Of Love And War.”

Stone started out as a gospel singer, and she has the low register and control in her voice found in performers who started out in the pulpit. She began her mainstream career as a member of Sequence, a hip hop female trio, and was then a part of Verticle Hold, which had a hit with “Seems You’re Much Too Busy.” She’s worked with D’angelo, providing background vocals as part of his touring band (and producing a son with him as well). Stone’s been in demand as a back up singer for a wide range of acts such as Lenny Kravitz, Terry Ellis and Buckwheat Zydeco, and worked with Stevie Wonder on a remake of “Signed, Sealed and Delivered” for his tribute album. A sampler, (okay, a borderline plagiarist), Stone’s has nicked the O’Jay’s “Back Stabbers” and Gladys Knight and the Pips “Neither One Of Us (Wants To Be The First To Say Goodbye)” for her backing tracks. But her most visible claim to fame may be her 2006 appearance on VH 1’s “Celebrity Fat Club.” Stone’s recognition factor may change if “Baby,” he Grammy nominated single, snags an award.

Now that Bobby Short has gone to that great piano bar in the sky and Johnny Mathis is content to live out his life on the golf course, we need an easy listening jazz/pop replacement.

Al Jarreau has won seven Grammy’s, and is the only vocalist to win the coveted award in three separate categories: jazz, pop and R & B. If that Al Jarreau, the who sings in the first half of the album was still performing I’d recommend him for another statue; but I’d like to slam the piano lid down on the vocal chords of the Al Jarreau who bee-bops, scats and gurgles his way through the second half of this set. Luckily, the theme song from “Moonlighting” is missing, but so are most of the Grammy award winning songs. It may be a blessing. I haven’t heard a lot of the award winners (“Look to the Rainbow,” Fly Home,” etc…) so they’re probably some insidious form of jazz. No love lost there. I certainly will stay waaaaay clear of Al’s version of “God Bless The Child,” a song I’ve permanently banned from my play list under penalty of human sacrifice. I don’t care if John Lennon, Jim Capaldi, Richard Manuel, Rick Grech, and Jim Morrison all rise from the dead and offer to play it in my living room with Chris Wood flying in on gossamer wings to share the horn section with Marilyn Monroe – I ain’t havin’ it.

When is a super group not a super group? A) When there’s only two notable guys in it and more importantly, B) when they’ve played together before.

Axe god Robin Trower has made good on his initial Hendrixian influence, taking Jimi’s sound the next level, first as the underutilized guitarist for Procol Harum (they were, after all, a keyboard orientated band) then as a successful solo artist with a career spanning more than 20 albums. Anyone who still thinks Trower sounds like Jimi Hendrix never got beyond his second album, “Bridge of Sighs.”

In her liner notes for her “greatest hits” CD, Linda Eder says she’s been accused of being a Barbara Streisand wannabe. In “Don’t Rain On My Parade” she’s more like a Lorna Luft wannabe. Her pipes aren’t as husky as Streisand’s but she’s got a powder keg for a voice (which often blows up). Eder can hold a note for longer than Atlas has held up the world, as exemplified by the window-breaker she lets loose at the end of the parade, but she defeats the effect by charging through the verses. Eder displays a girlish voice for “Parade,” kind of like Rachel Sweet, but Rachel was 16 in her heyday, so for a teenager, Elder’s a helluva singer. Too bad she’s an adult. Hard to believe she was on “Star Search” for twelve straight weeks and didn’t get the hook. She must be better at manipulating (or is it mutilating?) an audience than she is at altering her voice. After Eder’s vocal detonations you’ll cancel the parade.

Many weekends ago, when I slummed with the children of the night in Katonah, New York (I was, in fact, their King), I would often run into Kimya Dawson, a young artiste with more piercings than Moby Dick. She seemed sweet, innocent and entirely clueless to life’s harsh realities. She seldom said more than a word at a time, and when she did it was to ask if I’d buy her a drink. So I was floored when I was told she was an aspiring singer/songwriter who was the driving force behind a group called Moldy Peaches. When I finally got hold of a CD of their music I found it to be raw, unpolished and well…rotten. I was sure Kimya Dawson had as much chance of being a successful recording artist as the Boston Red Sox had of winning the World Series.

Well, we all know how the Red Sox have faired of late…Now Kimya Dawson is getting her chance to step up to the plate as featured artist for the movie soundtrack for “Juno,” which, was the #1 digital album and #1 album on itunes for two weeks in a row.

It was right there in front of me. A straight line as easy to mock as Jaime Lynn Spears selling birth control. “Atonement.” I was sure after one listen I could open with the line, “Composer Dario Marianelli and pianist Jean-Yves Thibaudet need to atone for their sins...”

The only problem with a ready-made gag is sometimes the joke’s on you. You may not see God while listening to “Atonement” (or even see Jerry Garcia), but the music will touch your heart and soul.

I’m sure you’re familiar with two of my most rigid rules of music from the Singer’s Handbook: 1) No medleys, and 2) With the exception of Jeff Beck and Deodato, no instrumental albums. Somebody has to step up to the mike and warble a few notes. “Atonement” is so well constructed and orchestrated that I’m considering a third amendment – 3) Select movie soundtracks are okay.