Ken Peplowski was right: you hear the clarinet and you think of Benny Goodman. Peplowski peplowed through some beautiful tunes associated with Goodman's classic era Saturday night at the Harro East. The clarinet shined a little more in this set up that, though lush, was stripped down in comparison to the big brass Kahuna Goodman rode.

Peplowski was in one of Goodman's last bands, and he regaled the audience with tales of what turns out was a tough bandleader --- Peplowski was the only one who wasn't fired. His band  --- including six-string homeboy Bob Sneider on guitar --- had the whole room swingin', including several sets of dancers that made sure everyone saw them cut some floor in front of the bandstand.

Erin Bode looks and sounds delicate. Not fragile, not breakable, but delicate... and beaut-i-ful. It's amazing how the quiet ones can still leave you winded. She sang sweet to the max at Max of Eastman Place, and was a little reminiscent of Norah Jones. Perhaps a little less laconic, but no less riveting.

Chicago bluesman Eddy "The Chief" Clearwater strode out onto the East Avenue Stage underneath an Indian headdress the size of a Mardi Gras float. The Chief was rockin,' the Chief was righteous, playing the blues and sending out love to the recently passed Coco Taylor. (Remember the chick with the gold tooth singing the line "Your love hit me like a bomb" in "Wild At Heart"? That was Coco.) Clearwater also dug into some West Side soul with another nod, this time to one of my favorites, Magic Sam. (Remember the final concert scene in "The Blues Brothers"? They dedicate "Sweet Home Chicago" to "The late, great Magic Sam.") I don't know what it is with me and movies today...

And let me just say the new Big Tent is a goddamned airplane hanger. Jon Cleary's boogie-woogie piano playing had the place boppin' like popcorn. This guy's playing was solid as hell; it had Longhair and the Fat Man all over it. The audience was literally howling and jumping up and down. See? Music can move a body every now and then.

SMV was a show I thought I'd casually take in for a few as I sucked down a frou-frou coffee drink in the Eastman Theatre. Instead I was knocked out and handed my head. The combined percussive thunder of Stanley Clarke, Marcus Miller, and Victor Wooten was monstrous. It sounded like a herd of tap-dancing elephants. SMV is the new trinity; the father, the son, and the holy shit.