After three years, a boatload of Press music awards and more than 100 local gigs, Houston's very own Marxist synth-pop sextet is no more. Their epitaph: "Let the record state, we kicked nature's ass." Front man Tex Kerschen is now hovering about in his new underground supergroup, Swarm of Angels, with various former or current members of Rusted Shut, the Vulgarians, Matty & Mossy and Culturcide (among others). Of that band's first EP, Splendid E-zine said the following: "Static and dense at best, this short EP is quasi-catchy on a brute, animalistic level" and meant it as a slam. Sounds pretty cool to us. Then again, maybe we're just quasi-smart brute animals.

Normally the words "rap rock" and "sounds like the Red Hot Chili Peppers" set off alarm bells. Uh-oh, we think, another bunch of loud, heavily tattooed white kids who can't rap or play guitar, jumping around on stage in their briefs bellowing about blunts and the porn starlet du jour. Fantastic. Houston and the world needs that like it needs another energy-trading scandal. Luckily, Houston has Simpleton instead. Like the Chili Peppers with their City of Angels, Simpleton revels in the ins and outs of their hometown -- and at its best, Simpleton is the sound of this overlarge, brawling city. Sly, hilarious front man B.C. is the rare rap-rocker with mad flow, and Marc Armaos is probably the only upright bassist in the rap-rock game. Simon Reynolds's guitar is another highlight -- every song on this disc has a riff you can sink your teeth into, and the scratches of DJ Sun are another big plus. "Milo," Simpleton's ode to the Lima-era Astros, is the best sports-related song to ever come out of this town, and the fact that Houston's nine don't take the field to this rip-roaring anthem is a crime.

Normally the words "rap rock" and "sounds like the Red Hot Chili Peppers" set off alarm bells. Uh-oh, we think, another bunch of loud, heavily tattooed white kids who can't rap or play guitar, jumping around on stage in their briefs bellowing about blunts and the porn starlet du jour. Fantastic. Houston and the world needs that like it needs another energy-trading scandal. Luckily, Houston has Simpleton instead. Like the Chili Peppers with their City of Angels, Simpleton revels in the ins and outs of their hometown -- and at its best, Simpleton is the sound of this overlarge, brawling city. Sly, hilarious front man B.C. is the rare rap-rocker with mad flow, and Marc Armaos is probably the only upright bassist in the rap-rock game. Simon Reynolds's guitar is another highlight -- every song on this disc has a riff you can sink your teeth into, and the scratches of DJ Sun are another big plus. "Milo," Simpleton's ode to the Lima-era Astros, is the best sports-related song to ever come out of this town, and the fact that Houston's nine don't take the field to this rip-roaring anthem is a crime.

For years, Dowling Street was Houston's home of the blues. Lightnin' Hopkins and company plied their trade at any number of bars along the strip, which was once the main artery of black Houston south of Buffalo Bayou. But by the '70s, Dowling was in the doldrums. Several years ago, Miss Ann's proprietor Bobby Lewis set out to change all that. Now Miss Ann's Playpen has brought the blues back to where it's always been, and Lewis sees to it that it is presented the way it should be. The Blue Monday jams have already become a fixture on the city's music map, and the star-studded affairs have been known to feature everyone from up-and-coming acts to legends like Joe Hughes, Sherman Robertson and I.J. Gosey. Lewis keeps the sound level low enough to allow conversation and occasional audience participation, the beer is cold and cheap, and the soul food buffet offers up comfort food de luxe. Hey, hey, the blues are back on Dowling Street, and it's all right!

For years, Dowling Street was Houston's home of the blues. Lightnin' Hopkins and company plied their trade at any number of bars along the strip, which was once the main artery of black Houston south of Buffalo Bayou. But by the '70s, Dowling was in the doldrums. Several years ago, Miss Ann's proprietor Bobby Lewis set out to change all that. Now Miss Ann's Playpen has brought the blues back to where it's always been, and Lewis sees to it that it is presented the way it should be. The Blue Monday jams have already become a fixture on the city's music map, and the star-studded affairs have been known to feature everyone from up-and-coming acts to legends like Joe Hughes, Sherman Robertson and I.J. Gosey. Lewis keeps the sound level low enough to allow conversation and occasional audience participation, the beer is cold and cheap, and the soul food buffet offers up comfort food de luxe. Hey, hey, the blues are back on Dowling Street, and it's all right!

Gonzo country singer-songwriter Greg Wood couldn't exactly be said to have been riding high, but he certainly was percolating along. His critically acclaimed band Horseshoe was gigging all over the city, their third album in the can. Justice Records agreed to nationally distribute King of the World, their second album, and it seemed for a time that the literate and hilarious barroom bard's fame just might radiate beyond Houston. That was when he collapsed. Doctors diagnosed a potentially fatal case of infectious heart disease. Wood spent a month in Ben Taub recovering from heart surgery, and then another recovering from a secondary infection that eventually destroyed his right eye. Wood's travails weren't over yet -- the powerful regimen of antibiotics destroyed his inner ear, and Wood had to spend another year relearning to walk. Meanwhile, Horseshoe disbanded, and Wood thought his musical career was over. Jesse Dayton's bass player, Charlie Sanders, had other plans. Sanders coaxed Wood from retirement and into the studio, and now Wood's Dayton-produced solo debut, Ash Wednesday, is in stores, and Wood is gigging again.

Gonzo country singer-songwriter Greg Wood couldn't exactly be said to have been riding high, but he certainly was percolating along. His critically acclaimed band Horseshoe was gigging all over the city, their third album in the can. Justice Records agreed to nationally distribute King of the World, their second album, and it seemed for a time that the literate and hilarious barroom bard's fame just might radiate beyond Houston. That was when he collapsed. Doctors diagnosed a potentially fatal case of infectious heart disease. Wood spent a month in Ben Taub recovering from heart surgery, and then another recovering from a secondary infection that eventually destroyed his right eye. Wood's travails weren't over yet -- the powerful regimen of antibiotics destroyed his inner ear, and Wood had to spend another year relearning to walk. Meanwhile, Horseshoe disbanded, and Wood thought his musical career was over. Jesse Dayton's bass player, Charlie Sanders, had other plans. Sanders coaxed Wood from retirement and into the studio, and now Wood's Dayton-produced solo debut, Ash Wednesday, is in stores, and Wood is gigging again.

With a little imagination, concertgoers might have transported themselves back to the '60s, when the Astrodome was the brand-new wonder of the sports world and the young Dylan was a messianic folksinger with a global following. The Dome may be ready for scrap, but Dylan proved he's still got plenty of artistic life left in him. After a shaky start, he latched on to a country-rock groove so strong that not even the venue's awful acoustics could stop him from winning over the rodeo audience. Forever young, indeed.

With a little imagination, concertgoers might have transported themselves back to the '60s, when the Astrodome was the brand-new wonder of the sports world and the young Dylan was a messianic folksinger with a global following. The Dome may be ready for scrap, but Dylan proved he's still got plenty of artistic life left in him. After a shaky start, he latched on to a country-rock groove so strong that not even the venue's awful acoustics could stop him from winning over the rodeo audience. Forever young, indeed.

What if we got that Adam-and-Eve-in-the-Garden thing all wrong? What if it was actually Adam and Steve who named the animals, along with some help from Jane and Mabel, who lived just down the Garden path? That's the premise behind Paul Rudnick's hysterical The Most Fabulous Story Ever Told, brought to charming life last Christmas by director Joe Watts at his Theatre New West. In Rudnick's wild gay Eden, Adam falls for Steve, Jane adores Mabel, and straight people (who don't appear for centuries) are kind of, well, icky. The story is of course fabulous. But a lot of what made Watts's production so terrific was his energetic cast of beautiful people, which included a hunky Adam Clarke as the original man and Jenny Yau as Mabel, the airy earth-girl who explained her female anatomy to Adam and Steve this way: "We have vaginas. They are our friends." The show also covered political ground, touching on everything from gay parenthood to AIDS, but none of it came off as bombastic or redundant. Watts and company handled Rudnick's lacerating observations about gay life with dead-on comic timing and a truthful sweetness that made this yummy show one of the best of the season, gay or not.