Today marks the sixth anniversary of Elliott Smith’s death.

For me, it marks the fifth anniversary of not listening to his music. This isn’t because I don’t like it. I actually share the view that Smith was one of the best two or three singer-songwriters of his generation.

It was a weekend of wild things, particularly of the lupine variety: unfit parents in Colorado cried wolf, SNL guest Shakira howled like a wolf, and a movie about a boy dressed as a wolf opened in theaters nationwide. Had it not been for that balloon rumpus, the latter would have easily been the most captivating spectacle.

SPIN has made no secret of its reverence for a certain iconic film currently celebrating its 25th anniversary. Yet for all the accolades, Purple Rain may not even have been the most impactful rock movie released in 1984.

Yesterday afternoon, a full 19 minutes after the Associated Press confirmed Michael Jackson's death, a former publicist for the singer sent an e-mail blast to media outlets offering to spill firsthand details of Jackson's "impossibly difficult and often self-destructive journey." And really, who better to sit in judgment of the man's scruples and morals?

In the days to come, you will hear a lot of negative stories -- some true, some not -- about Michael Jackson. His squandered fortune. His strange health history. His failed marriages. But I can remember a time when "Michael Jackson" only meant good things.

Surf, sun, and babes -- it's the California Dream. But its soundtrack was born in a much uglier place: a used car lot in rainy Tacoma, WA.

On the scale of Rockingness, Broadway's Tony Awards generally register somewhere between Golden Girls and Hannah Montana. But at Sunday night's show (which I had the privilege -- yes, privilege! -- to attend) devil horns outnumbered jazz hands.

Always unpredictable and never less than interesting, Jack White has cut a unique swath through modern rock. Here’s how:

In case you missed the MTV Movie Awards last night -- or only half-watched it, like I did -- here's our verdict on the night's hot topics:

A few Sundays ago I hosted a Wilco listening session in my apartment.

The only guest was my husband, a casual listener more conversant in Jeff Tweedy's migraines and squabbles with sidemen than the band's actual musical catalogue. As a longtime Wilco fan -- who first heard A.M. on a dorm boombox freshman year at college in Chicago -- I took it upon myself to school him.