God bless America. I mean it. God bless this place. Where else can you come into the world bald, naked and unassuming and in under thirty years transform into an ego with legs that can barely tolerate human contact? It takes a really special kind of country to make that happen.

The preceding paragraph would be classically defined as an " opener." As it turns out, it could be an opener for just about any whiny little rant that you can think of -- politics, movies, kick boxing...

It just so happens, as you might have guessed, that this opener regards the culture of popular music, more specifically -- rock n' roll.

I'm fascinated by the parade of ids, egos and superegos generated by the music industry. Ranging from the positively colossal to the calculatedly demure, the rock n' roll attitude is a constant source of wonder to me.

I write this column fresh from a couple of experiences that have drastically influenced this opinion. One good, one not so good. In accordance with my nature, I'll start with the not so good.

Picture the scene: a smoky bar, chockfull of perky youngish types yammering about early 80s television trivia and the inevitable threat of world domination by electronica. Everyone was standing in line to see a performance by The Midwest's favorite excuse for heavy drinking, The Waco Brothers. In the background was the happy plinking of a pinball game in progress and the high-pitched kvetching of fans learning of the show's sold-out status.

I was calmly chatting about nothing to a group of friends, enjoying the fact that my tickets were secured and that a friendly cocktail waitress was en route with a cold drink. Suddenly -- well, maybe not so suddenly, but eventually -- I recognized a semi-famous rock personage whom I greatly admired standing nearby. I was terribly excited because, not only did I respect the man's vision; I shared a lot in common with him. We both grew up in the same hometown and even went to the same grade school (he was several grades older and, of course, infinitely cooler). Anyway, despite the numerous awkward and halting interviews with him that I had read in major publications, coupled with his notoriety as a world class prick, I decided to approach him. I mean, we shared so much in common! Right?

In hindsight, it was one of those famously bad choices for which the word hindsight was invented. His press was kind compared to the truth. I dunno, maybe I had a booger hanging off of my nose or something. Maybe I appeared to be hosting a highly contagious virus. Whatever the case, he regarded me as if I was some foot-licker on leave from the thorny backside of hell. If it was even remotely socially acceptable, he would have blown his nose on my shirttails.

The meeting went something like this:

I gamely offered, "Hey, man. My name is Brandon. I just wanted to introduce myself. I went to (enter grade school here) and, well, I'm a great big fan."

The response was a fathomless blank stare. He quickly looked over my shoulder for someone cooler to save him from impending death by boredom.

Before the last words left my mouth, it hit me like a black panic - he's going to be an asshole! I can't believe that he's going to do this.

I tried to save some face, "Um, I just thought I'd say 'hi' and, well, you just keep up the good work."

A look came over his face akin to the kindly smile one reserves for the a senile relative or maybe a stranger with an incontinent Chihuahua. There was a painfully long silence in which I considered my options: a) I could flee screaming for the nearest exit, or b) grab him by the lapels of his carefully chosen vintage bowling shirt and shake his teeth out of his skull.

I chose a variation of the first option and meekly whispered in full defeat, "O.K., then. Carry on...sorry about the intrusion."

As I slunk back my pack of now cackling friends, I realized my mistake. I had trusted that the guy would regard me as an equal worthy of conversation and not some slimy and undesirable subset of humanity. I blame this blunder on my parents, but we'll cover that later.

On with the good experience.

During one of our JAMTV webcasts over the past few months, I had the opportunity to catch a glimpse of a particularly rare beast in the music industry (or any industry for that matter)...sincerity! As ridiculous as it may sound, it's true. Before you are beset by cynical fits of laughter, let me explain.

The setting was virtually the same as before: smoky venue, the thrum of idle chitchat, etc. A band of little renown and no buzz was opening for a much larger, recording giant-type band. This band consisted of several young men from London on their first stateside tour. Still stinging from my previous experience, I approached them for an interview. Something miraculous happened -- These guys exploded with charm and personality! They chirped. They giggled. They pawed at each other like happy little puppies - they even dropped the "h" in their words like Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady. In short, they seemed completely untouched by the flattening hand of reality!

After our interview they went out played a smokin' set to a vaguely appreciative crowd that was one of the finest I've seen. They flat out rocked the house.

Afterwards they bounded back upstairs for a post show interview infused with the same vim and vigor that we had admired before the show. Our entire crew was drawn into the band's happy slice of life, if only for a moment. As the band related the details of their tour, I regarded my mates with warmth and fondness. We wiped the tears of joy from our eyes, clapped each other on the back and danced in a circle with unfettered glee. Other more jaded onlookers scowled and shook their heads in disapproval. We shouted a collective "Damn the torpedoes!" and continued our glad merry-making.

Well, I guess that's a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the picture. Those guys were swell. And even if they were onstage banging on stew pots with tree limbs, I would have loved it.

It takes so little to make an impact in the music business, simply because a good attitude is so rare. A smile, some good-natured dialogue and Bam! "Gee, he's a great guy! Book him, write about him, buy his damn album." That's all it takes. But, somewhere along the long and twisted road to Madison Square Gardens, some are lead astray. They pop a flat in the ditch of smug, or run head long into the guardrail of jerk. Either way the car is screwed.

This is why my parents are to blame for this whole mess. The episode with the affected bastard before the Waco Brothers show never would have happened if it weren't for their incessant brainwashing. As a child, they hammered into me the golden purpose of man, the incorruptibility of the spirit and the innate goodness of the soul. It's claptrap. All of it!

It takes a special effort to achieve that sort of purity. And when you find someone who has it, you're liable to faint.

Mom and Dad must've skipped the chapter on rock stars in Dr. Spock's Baby and Childcare.

BRANDON BARBER