Robin Gibb, left, with his brothers in the Bee Gees.

It doesn't happen very often, but now and then a song or album comes along that perfectly captures the mood of a historical moment and embeds itself into the consciousness of a generation. It happened with for the Beatles with Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band in 1967, and it happened for the Bee Gees in 1977 when they appeared on the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack.

The amazing success of Saturday Night Fever created an almost immediate backlash in some quarters, but in the late-'70s, the life affirming exuberance of "Stayin' Alive" and "Night Fever" created a rush that was more powerful, and longer lasting, than a line of cocaine. Money was plentiful. Everybody seemed to have plenty of leisure time (not to mention leisure suits), and middle class white men and women all across America were dancing to the Bee Gees. Guys were grooming themselves and preening, the women looked as good as always, and the hippie ethos had seeped into the consciousness of Middle America. Dancing wasn't just for gays and black people anymore. White folks were having fun and dancing the night away -- even dancing down the streets in broad daylight -- and the Bee Gees were always there, inescapable, pumping up the party with their anthemic songs and heavenly vocals.

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There's a glorious sense of mystery, a rightfully rarefied air, reserved for the masters of American soul. It's not just that the genre is called "soul," although that's got to be part of it. The greats of the music are held in special regard because playing soul well is something akin to magic, a little more so than other genres. Soul musicians get the same notes as everyone else, of course, but the best practitioners shade them differently, imbue them with a raw humanity that comes through disarmingly clear, probably because the music is purpose-built to exhibit it.

The power of the music is expressed most clearly through soul singers, like Otis Redding, or Sam Cooke, or Stevie Wonder. But soul instrumentalists deserve to occupy this realm, too. As the longtime bass player for the house band of Stax Records, Donald "Duck" Dunn -- who died Sunday in Japan at age 70 -- lent low notes to the songs of Redding, Sam and Dave, Wilson Pickett, Carla Thomas, and others. An instrumentalist for some the genre's greatest moments, it's no surprise that Dunn's recordings, at least, will be remembered. But what's notable about Dunn's playing wasn't how well it stood out -- his bass rarely announced itself -- but the superlative job it did of blending in, of holding together the rhythms and melodies that made those songs so powerful.

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In all likelihood, you've spent the weekend doing exactly the same thing we did -- trying to come to terms with the loss of Adam "MCA" Yauch and getting together with friends for Beastie Boys parties in his memory, trying to imagine the musical landscape without the trio.

Truthfully, it's hard to think of another group so consistently cutting edge and, well, so damn cool. No one sounded like the Beastie Boys before they existed, and it is highly unlikely that anyone will sound like them ever again. Trying to imagine a Beastie Boys without MCA is like trying to imagine the Beatles without Paul McCartney -- it just wouldn't work.

The loss of any young family man is always going to be tragic, but the loss of Adam Yauch is somehow a little more heartbreaking, because he clearly had so much more to give the world. In his honor, and for your enjoyment then, we'd like to present our take on the Beastie Boys' finest musical moments. Thank you MCA. And thank you Mike D and Ad-Rock -- our hearts go out to you at this devastating time.

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Dick Clark in 1961

If you were a teenager in the 1950s, you hated TV. Your parents watched TV. Anything your parents liked, you despised. Springsteen's song "57 Channels (And Nothing On)" talked about the video wasteland in 1992, but in 1956, even in a big city like New York, there were fewer than 10 channels on the air. There really was nothing on TV worth watching. Teenagers listened to the radio to get their rock 'n' roll fix. That changed when American Bandstand debuted in 1957.

Dick Clark, who didn't look much older than the kids on the show, hosted the program. Off camera, someone played the latest records -- hits or newly released sides by known and unknown singers. On camera, an audience of teenagers, about 200 of them, danced. Bandstand came on at 3:30 in the afternoon, and suddenly the streets in my neighborhood were deserted. We all rushed home to hear the latest sounds and see Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, Freddie Cannon, Little Richard, and others lip synch their hits. The kids looked just like the kids I knew and, on every show, they got to rate new records on a scale of 35 to 98. The typical critique was, "Its got a good beat and you can dance to it," which quickly became a popular catch phrase. There was no pop music journalism in the '50s, so hearing your peers rate a record had an enormous impact. It created hit songs overnight.

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Courtney Love and Francis Bean.

​So, after two years and one month of speculation, and thanks to Maer Roshan's new e-book, Courtney Comes Clean, we just got a few steps closer to finding out why Frances Bean Cobain filed a temporary restraining order against her own mother, Courtney Love.

According to legal statements uncovered in the book, Frances -- during the court case that ultimately granted Kurt Cobain's mother and sister custody of the then-17-year-old -- claimed her mother had a prescription drug problem, exhibited threatening behavior in front of her (including threatening to burn someone's house down) and, oh god, was responsible for the deaths of two of Frances' pets. Sounds like it's Mommie Dearest on crack prescription medications: "She basically exists now on... Xanax, Adderall, Sonata and Abilify, sugar and cigarettes," Frances told the court, according to the book. More >>

You may have heard over the last few days that Berkeley's Lookout! Records -- one of the world's most treasured punk rock labels, and the place that Green Day got its start -- is closing for good, back catalog and all. If you were a punk rocker in the '90s, this news feels a little bit like losing an old treasured friend -- possibly an old, treasured friend you've not really hung out with much lately, but one who'll always have a special place in your heart nonetheless. To mourn the end of this hugely important label, we wanted to pay tribute with a selection of our favorite Lookout! Records songs (in no particular order).

"I Wanna Be A Homosexual," Screeching Weasel



We're pretty sure this is one of the greatest punk rock songs ever written. This snotty, melodic slice of absurdist aggression called out every closet homophobe in the scene ("Why don't you admit you don't have the balls to be a queer?"), laughed at them, then loudly declared punk rock a gay-friendly zone. Screeching Weasel didn't just say homosexuality was to be accepted, they said it was to be aspired to -- and they put a smile on everyone's faces while they were at it. Absolutely brilliant.More >>

Earlier this week, At The Drive-In posted a not-so cryptic message on its not-very-old Twitter page, announcing: "¡ATTENTION! To whom it may concern: AT THE DRIVE-IN will be breaking their 11 year silence THIS STATION IS ...NOW...OPERATIONAL." To say we leaped out of our chairs, did a happy dance, high-fived everyone in our vicinity, and screamed the news out the window would be an understatement (because we also messaged all of our friends immediately as well). We never thought we'd see this day (things in that band did not end well last decade), so we wanted to publicly celebrate the news. Here, then, are the five reasons we're thrilled about the return of At The Drive-In.

5. No One Sounds Like ATD-I



There is no At The Drive-In substitute and there never will be -- no one else can do what At The Drive-In does. La Dispute had a crack recently, but trying to imitate (or emulate, if you'd rather) At The Drive-In is a futile task that is going to kick you in the ass every single time. If you're going to try and be viscerally thrilling, terrifying, raw, cerebral, and sensitive all at the same time, you'd better be At The Drive-In, or you're probably just going to be a giant clusterfuck.
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This week, the world oohed and aahed as news of the birth of Beyonce and Jay-Z's baby girl emerged (we bet Ms. Knowles managed to look radiant even during that heinous labor process). Then stories started emerging that the couple were calling their new offspring Blue Ivy. Hmpf. Blue and Ivy on their own seem like perfectly lovely names to us, but in combination, it's a little bit... comic-book supervillain. Don't you think? But B and J aren't the first musical couple to give their kid a silly name. Here are six other weird ones that we actually do like.

6. Pirate Houseman, son of Korn's Jonathan Davis
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Jennifer 'Miro' Anderson, 1957-2011.

By JACK BOULWARE

[Editor's note: Jack Boulware is the co-author, with Silke Tudor, of Gimme Something Better: The Profound, Progressive, and Occasionally Pointless History of Bay Area Punk from Dead Kennedys to Green Day.]

If we're talking the birth of Bay Area punk, there are as many points of view as there were people in the clubs. This timeline is the one generally agreed upon: The city's first true punk club show -- The Ramones, Savoy Tivoli upstairs, August 1976. The first local punk act -- Former stripper Mary Monday, with her band the Bitches. The first punk single -- "Hot Wire My Heart" by Crime, 1976. The first band to play Mabuhay Gardens -- The Nuns, December 1976.

Punks don't necessarily have a long lifespan. Nearly all the Ramones are gone. Mary Monday moved to Alaska and died. Three members of Crime are dead. And last month, one of the scene's founding females, Nuns keyboardist Jennifer "Miro" Anderson, passed away from cancer in New York. She had been playing in a version of The Nuns more or less continuously since the age of 18.

Despite devoting her entire adult life to making music, Jennifer never achieved much success or notoriety. Few from the Bay Area punk scene had any idea of her whereabouts. She had no steady boyfriend, no children, no connection with her family back in California. But enigmatic and mysterious, and still gorgeous, to the end? Absolutely.

When Silke Tudor and I were assembling our Gimme Something Better oral history, we set out to interview the first wave of Bay Area punk. Members of Crime, The Avengers, Negative Trend, Flipper, The Mutants, Dead Kennedys, and many others agreed to speak with us. But The Nuns were another story.

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Earlier this week, you may have seen the online rumor -- clearly started by some evil, ungrateful little trolls -- that Jon Bon Jovi was dead. Before we knew it, the news had spread all over Twitter, and Bon Jovi fans the world over had commenced crying into their puffed up, acid-washed denim jackets. That was, of course, until the lovable frontman posted a festive photo of himself to prove he had not, in fact, been shot down in a blaze of glory. We have to say, we breathed a rather hefty sigh of relief. We're really glad Jon Bon Jovi is alive (and taking each day and night at a time... ahem.) Here are six reasons why:More >>