Jam This

A sign notes that tonight's Jammy Awards is being "taped for archives." God forbid the hippies should tape it for anything as vulgar as profit. Still, I'm not here to make snide remarks. Say what you will about the jam-band scene, but the Jammys at Madison Square Garden go unappreciated as an annual mix of soul legends and reedy soulless douchebags (and the latter shut up and become sidemen for the evening).

The show even starts with a stellar mix of the North Mississippi All-Stars backing Mavis Staples and Buddy Guy. Sadly, that's followed by Bruce Hornsby and the Yonder Mountain String Band with songs about how Uncle Joe is moving kind of slow at the Junction. This is why I never invite people along to this thing.

But who am I to judge? I don't fit in at this kind of thing. For example, I can't tell if host Phil Lesh-formerly bassist for that lost singles band the Grateful Dead-is goofing on himself when he promises an evening of "hot licks and good vibes."

I certainly can't pass judgment on Buddy Guy, whom Lesh will eventually get around to awarding a Lifetime Achievement Award. It's tempting, though, as Guy follows his short and humble speech by knocking out a few songs with noted bluesman John Mayer. I'm doubting Guy knows who Mayer is until the legend announces, "I invited this young man to come out because I don't want the blues to die." Maybe Guy means that he wants to give Mayer guitar lessons.

I'll show more respect for Huey Lewis, who returns with Staples and is ably backed by the men of Umprehys McGee. Sinead O'Connor even shows up during a great rendition of "I'll Take U There." She doesn't get a chance to speak, either, which reminds me of something else I really like about the Jammys. The show typically defies stereotypes by being apolitical. This is probably because Blues Traveler fans are packing heat.

And yet I'm looking for a chance to get out. Patti Smith is slated to eventually appear with some guaranteed blownbrain ramblings. Nellie McKay finally has a bad night with an organ-driven tune that's more Dr. Phibes than Dr. John. That's a good cue to leave.

I don't mind missing the rest of the show. I've lost interest in the actual awards after Chris Robinson got a nomination for Song of the Year instead of Rich Robinson. At least I've learned something when My Morning Jacket shows up as a nominee in another category. Broaden the definition of jam band, and it becomes a lot easier to sum up why you hate an act. And that goes double for REM.