Here’s one of the weirdest memories I have of my formative years: I remember watching MTV and seeing the video for INXS’s “New Sensation,” in which frontman Michael Hutchence (in suit, tie and ponytail) vamps at the camera with animated neon squiggles radiating from his head and a repetitive two-chord guitar part jangling in the background. For whatever reason, this spectacle left me with an intense feeling along the lines of “Wow, 1987 is soooo futuristic, and I’m lucky to be here.”

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Sung by a tattooed and pierced sailor puppet, "Jolie Marie's Stocking" tells of the pleasure our intrepid sailor takes in wearing silk stockings while at sea.

The original recording is "Second Hand Rose," by the Broadway Dance Orchestra, recorded in 1921 for Edison Diamond Disc. Lyrics and singing are Sailor Martin originals, though.

Sailor Martin, a pierced and tattoed sailor puppet (read more about him at the Sailor Martin web page, sings a Christmas carol, apparently believing Yule to be a season of alcoholism and sin.

Whenever I start a new project I always wonder if this is the piece where I’ll get all H.P. Lovecraft on everyone's ass. Well, sadly for all the goths out there, this isn't the one. Why? Because there's nothing frightening or morose about St. Paul indie-rock outfit Hockey Night. No, they are only scary in a Lola Heatherton kind of way. The rank sickness of the moldering universe doesn’t seep through to cast its dead light upon a glowing world when I listen to Hockey Night's soon to be released sophomore effort, Keep Guessin', and the spirits of the night dance not to lumbering minor key malaise but rather to magical flutes, lyres and perhaps a zither or two for good measure. This is the summer where the lowly flip-flop stomps the mighty Doc Marten, where a fun and energetic local band kicks overly serious musical mopesters to the curb. There's nothing dark about Hockey Night's music, and this is precisely its operative virtue.

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For some strange reason I have yet to be able to explain, local electronica act Digitata's hypnotic new CD, Sexually Transmitted Emotion, is the disc I have consistently been falling asleep to this week. Not in the Good-God-this-new-REM-album-is-so-boring sense, more of a My-what-a-soothing-sound-oh-man-it's-already-3 A. M.-why-am-I-still-working type of vibe. The reason I mention this is that I have also duly noted that Digitata-fueled dreams are by far some of the most bizarre and intense dreams I have experienced in my 26 years on this here planet.

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So, here we are halfway through 2005, and the world has no shortage of problems. We should be worried, depending on who you ask, about environmental degradation, or military adventurism, or a housing bubble, or steroids in baseball, or the United Nations' bid to overthrow the United States and install some sort of godless One World Government wherein we all have to wear gray and drive tractors around.

What can the average person do in the face of all of this fear? We can chill out, that's what. And that's how the Minneapolis keyboard-pop band Seymore Saves the World manage to live up to their name; light and pleasant and fun, their self-titled debut EP is perfect for sitting back and getting lost in the easy melodies and excellently weird keyboard noises, and, in the process, forgetting your (and the world's) troubles for 20 minutes.

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Four years ago Divorcee appeared to be that rarest of all local music commodities, an instant-success-feel-good story. Their debut, Lovesick, was rubber-stamped with the approval of the local rock elites - partially recorded at Semisonic's rehearsal studio and mixed by ace veteran Bryan Hannah. The slick pop milkshake went down smooth wherever it was heard, with the insta-anthem title track finding strong college radio airplay and national press kudos at a level rarely seen for local self-released debuts.

There was every reason to believe Divorcee were going to be the great new local pop hope of the 2000's - that is, until the wheels fell off the project and the band imploded after just a few gigs around town.

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JoAnna James the voice: sultry, soulful, a lived-in conveyor of world-weary wisdom alternately seductively breathy or intimidatingly booming in scope. JoAnna James the person: bubbly, personable and - the big surprise - young. It would be hard to reconcile the cheerful 23-year-old woman sitting across from me with the person one envisions after listening to Desire, James' about-to-be-released second album, if I hadn't already witnessed James in concert. I would have had a hard time believing that this chipper, wide-eyed St. Paul native could really be the force behind the poignant ache of songs like "Don't Try" or the feral ferocity of "Desire" if I hadn't seen the proof with my own eyes.

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Musical talent can remain dormant for years. Sometimes it takes a perfectly timed, perfectly formulated catalyst to trigger the reaction that brings it forth. For many, that catalyst is the experience of hearing music so powerful and personally moving that it inspires a desire to create music in the same vein. For others, it can be the deliciously heady rush of a well-received performance experience. But for some, that catalyst comes in the form of another musician.

Such is the case for Adam and Kristin Marshall, the musical masterminds behind the Humbugs. Purveyors of an energetic, harmony-heavy breed of quality pop, this five-piece outfit regularly captivates Twin Cities audiences with its bright, clean sound and dynamic live performances. The group relies on the standby pop configuration of drums, bass, lead and rhythm, yet manages to weave surprisingly varied sounds.

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Bryan Barnett sells "large pieces of iron" (cars) far more easily than the small discs of plastic holding his songs. "I honestly live the songs, which makes it hard to detach," he explains. "It's not just playing songs for fun or a hobby. It's part of my life. I'm a pretty miserable guy (laughs). Actually, I hope someday I will write a record of all happy songs, but I want to do it when I feel that way."

At the Chatterbox Pub, he talks about living in South Minneapolis and the hopes, fears and inspirations for his music. Barnett's songs are filled with longing and regret, but gaze toward hopeful and resolved futures. Listening to Barnett’s emotive voice and guitar pulls me into his world, so much so that on first listen I had to take breaks every 20 minutes to go out in the sun.

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