Jamie Barnes

"Honey from the Ribcage"
(Silber Records)

When Jamie Barnes appeared on this year's "Louisville Is for Lovers" compilation, some local music fans were surprised. The disc featured Valentine's Day-themed songs by many familiar local acts, but Barnes wasn't one of the better known. Many feel that he stole the show.

Turns out he already had one disc out, "The Fallen Acrobat." There's nothing new about his approach — the whispered, intimate, confessional sounds of Iron and Wine and Simon & Garfunkel, Elliott Smith and Nick Drake; it's the sound of a teenager placing a midnight phone call to the girl he likes, hoping not to get caught by a strict parent.



At times, Barnes purposely toughens up his sound by layering junkyard percussion, toy keyboards and Muppet banjo. The effect answers the previously unasked question, "What would John Denver have sounded like if he had followed Tom Waits' career path?" (I should probably clarify that, unlike some music critics, I like John Denver, though not as much as I like Tom Waits.)

Barnes is still finding his way; his experimental urges might be an attempt to cover self-consciousness about how pretty and dreamy his songs actually are. While such tendencies are to be commended, he might benefit from letting some songs go naked. Lyrically, he goes the easy way too often. An original lyric like "Pearly Gate & Son Pest Control" stands out in contrast to the pained metaphors found in "Snow Angel" and "Oil Rig."

Barnes is maintaining a prolific performance schedule locally while he works on his next record. Further experience and maturity can only deepen and expand on his lovely, necessary music.

The Flaming Lips

The Fearless Freaks
(Shout! Factory)

This is the last new pop/rock story left to tell on film: 1) band works hard, 2) band members get weirder, better and more beloved 20 years after their humble beginnings, and 3) everyone in the band lives happily ever after.

The Flaming Lips' story is not completely free of clichés, but you won't see them on "Behind the Music" or "Hit Me Baby One More Time."

The Fearless Freaks, a movie assembled over 15 years by friend and collaborator Bradley Beesley, is closer in spirit to Crumb, the documentary about artist R. Crumb and his tortured brothers.

Charismatic leader Wayne Coyne and charisma-free bassist Michael Ivins started the band with a rotating cast in Oklahoma in 1983.

Initially too-inspired by the Southwestern acid-fried country punk of the Meat Puppets and the Butthole Surfers, by 1991 the Flaming Lips' art project turned into something bigger and better.

While Nirvana and Lollapalooza were redefining the potential of goofy, freaky pop music, Coyne and Ivins recruited percussionist Steven Drozd, a multitalented multi-instrumentalist.

Butthole Surfer Gibby Haynes, who shows up mostly to accuse Coyne of stealing his act, is asked what Coyne's greatest asset is. He laughs and replies, "Steven."



Despite the common perception of the band members as druggies, Coyne is revealed to be a sober workaholic, able to live up to the Butthole Surfers' early potential in part by not succumbing to the drugs that hobbled the latter band.

While Coyne is the voice, persona and ringmaster, Drozd is shown as the truly inspired music maker.

For several years, however, Drozd was addicted to drugs. Filmmaker Beesley's intimate relationship with the band allowed him a trust no one else could've achieved, culminating in a frank discussion with Drozd about his sickness as he prepares to inject heroin.

In addition, we meet the families of Coyne and Drozd. Both were raised in poor families in which drugs were prevalent, a setting that led brothers of both men to addiction and jail time.

Despite the sometimes bleak problems, the band continues to revitalize itself and evolve into the happiest show on Earth.

Ninety minutes goes by without even mentioning their appearance on Beverly Hills, 90210, but there's enough gripping material even without it.

Frankfort Avenue Beer Depot

Address: Frankfort Ave. Beer Depot, 3204 Frankfort Ave.

Small print: Open 10 a.m. until 1, 2, 4 a.m. … depends on the night and how busy it is.

Why you should go: Beerhalla!

I'm not sure if this is a legally binding term, but this is what anyone who knows anything will say if you mention this place.

How does one review a bar when the subject in question is hardly a bar? The question isn't posed as an insult; I'd recommend the Beer Depot to pretty much everybody, but I often forget that it's a bar.

They have beer, yes, fear not. Situated as they are in a moderately well-off residential neighborhood that's more St. Matthews than Crescent Hill, the owners of the Frankfort Avenue Beer Depot made their best decision when they installed a nine-hole miniature golf course and pingpong table in the back. Where else can you go for such activities late at night?




PHOTOS BY DURELL HALL JR.

The pingpong table dominates the back, where it becomes a focal point for all who wish to play or observe. Unlike some bars, where one pool table can turn a big room into a claustrophobic traffic jam, here the pingpong table is a benevolent king. It allows for enough room to sit and enjoy, but that is all.

You can play miniature golf, but prepare to feel like a red-headed stepchild. No one cares about your silly little game, even if there's no table tennis to watch.

Why you should think twice: Walking into the front room, the bar room, always reminds me of walking into a South Florida tourist trap, especially during the summer. Men older than you and I (and even less in touch with current fashion developments) hold court, loudly discussing those topics that are discussed only by men of a certain age, including but not limited to politics, football and "gitting-R-done".

As much as I enjoy a cold beer, sometimes I want something else. Sometimes I need something that will dull the pain of everyday life in a Red State just a little bit. The Beer Depot offers only beer. This, to me, is an offense similar to listening only to the Beatles' early records. Sure, they're pretty good, but there's even greater greatness out there.

Bottom line: You like to play sports, but you're hanging out at a bar in Louisville so you're probably not quite as good as Babe Ruth or Magic Johnson. At least you can play some pingpong while you suck down that reasonably priced beer.