On his left, Mr. Young had erected a cardboard display case of his CDs with titles like Celestial Winds and The Inner Child. There was also a rack of gift cards bearing hopeful messages like: “Today I thought of you, as I always do, and the things we never could say …” If one were to open the card, one would read the conclusion of the message “We can start over today,” just as a recording of Mr. Young’s relaxing recorder music begins to play through a tiny speaker in the card.

Without quite knowing how or why, you hear Mr. Young’s music everywhere. It’s playing in elevators and malls; in the airplane as you taxi across the tarmac; at the massage parlor and the nail salon—its very mundanity belying its spirituality. “My music is just a channel for love,” Mr. Young said. “I just try to make my music as heavenly as it can be.”

He was sitting in his mother’s apartment in Edgewater, N.J., looking out across the Hudson River, wearing a light blue linen shirt unbuttoned halfway, white linen pants and laceless boat shoes.

Mr. Young, 48, grew up in Canarsie, Brooklyn, where during grade school he excelled at the recorder. However, upon hearing Jethro Tull’s classic “Aqualung,” he took up guitar. For the next 20 years, Mr. Young tried to make it as a heavy-metal guitarist, encountering near success and total failure. There was the band Medusa, formed with the future drummer and lead singer of Anthrax, Joey Belladonna. Then came Outakontrol. After that a popular AC/DC cover band known as Q.T. Hush. Along the way he married a groupie. She inspired a song called “Match Made in Hell.” They are no longer together.

“Basically, once I left Q.T. Hush, I couldn’t do anything right,” Mr. Young said. “I was a lost person.” He hitchhiked aimlessly across the country, winding up broke on Venice Beach.

There, he befriended Lisa Franco, a New Age harpist who had found a niche among middle-aged women and tourists. They started playing together: she on harp, he on his recorders. They played soothing, light music, wore all white and called themselves Celestial Winds. It was odd, but it worked.

“I realized the entertainment value of doing something that’s different,” Mr. Young said. “Playing two flutes at one time is different. The Beatles had a different haircut. Jimi Hendrix had a different haircut. Sorry to compare myself to these people, but if you want to stand out in this world, you have to have some musical entertainment value that’s different.”

The duo recorded a few albums and toured the country, playing art fairs, where their unobtrusive music was highly prized. They had a brief romantic relationship. “What can I say,” he said. “We make very romantic music.” Alas, it didn’t last.

Mr. Young became a solo act and hasn’t looked back. He’s been nominated for a Grammy, written a musical and recorded a collection of Bread covers. Even now, after more than 20 albums of serene New Age music, such as Butterfly Kisses and Oceans of Love, Mr. Young is loath to be pigeonholed.

“If you have an ability, you have an ability,” he said. “If you have a chef who makes hamburgers and then he learns how to make sushi, it doesn’t mean he loses his ability to make hamburgers. I’m a rocker. I’ll always be a rocker.”

editorial@observer.com

Ms. Khan (currently starring to “eh” reviews as Sofia, the sassy wife of Harpo, in Broadway’s The Color Purple) and her producers Terry Lewis and Jimmy Jam made Funk This in a way that has long gone out of style: going live to tape. “That’s how we used to do it,” she said. “We made mistakes and we kept on going. Beautiful mistakes … We didn’t have Pro Tools [recording software currently in use by about 90 percent of the recording industry] in the 70’s. You’ve got be able to do it live. And why shouldn’t you be able to do it? Hell, you’ve got to do it onstage? You better be able to do it in the studio.”

Ms. Khan, an ageless 54, made a further point about the digitization of the modern recording industry (which was looming right around the time she and former band Rufus recorded “Ain’t Nobody,” the classic 1983 party track that Quincy Jones almost got for Michael Jackson’s Thriller). “Computers bring people into the mix who don’t belong there,” she said, alluding to today’s Pro Tools engineers, who as often as not know nothing about music, but can make an out-of-time drummer sound like a machine. “They’re using knobs and buttons to polish a turd,” Ms. Khan said. “They’re trying to be someone they’re not. They missed their calling...People have gotten too anal with music, They’re used to perfection. Music is not that kind of thing. It’s wild honesty and beautiful self-expression. Sometimes you hit a bad note, you know. It’s all right.”

Is this a real band? Can they be serious? It is. They are.

The band is called Future 86, and the 1.800.OKCable commercial on which they sing has been driving New Yorkers batty for months.

Future 86’s road to local TV saturation began five years ago, when guitarist Larry Nimmo, from Queens, and drummer Armand Minassian, of New Jersey, put an ad out in The Village Voice. They wanted to start a rock band and they needed a singer. Spunky Courtney Samborsky, then a student at the musical theater program at New York University, answered the call.

The band didn’t want to change the world or reinvent rock music. They just wanted to play some shows and get the people dancing. So they plugged away at local nightspots, working up a handful of 80’s covers and a few originals that they’d try to squeeze in when the bar manager wasn’t looking. They changed band names a few times—first they were Eve’s Design, then Pretty Suicides—until they finally settled on Future 86 after seeing signs for the prospective interstate highway en route to gigs. They recorded two albums on small budgets and sold them online, in between sets and at some local record stores.

This spring, they got a call from Jennifer Brooke, cofounder of Forever Films, a Long Island–based production company. She was looking for a local band—nothin’ fancy—to sing on a commercial for 1.800.OKCable, a company that packages Internet, TV and phone service together. They weren’t selling out the Garden, but still…!

After trawling MySpace for talent, Ms. Brooke and her partner, Beatrice Alda, discovered Future 86 (among about a dozen other bands). They particularly liked the song “I Want It All,” which with a few minor tweaks could easily be transposed to the thematic needs of an 1.8OO.OKCable ad campaign. And the little-known group would probably work for cheap—or even free.

At first, Future 86 was apprehensive about using their songs to move product. But exposure is exposure. Ms. Alda and Ms. Brooke tried to make the process as gentle as possible. “We worked on it long and painstakingly,” Ms. Alda said. “It’s not natural for bands to say those words. We have to be respectful. We don’t want them to be shills; we want them to be a band.”

In due time, the lyrics Woke up this morning/No sunshine on my head became Woke up this morning/Cable’s Triple Play in my head. And Woke up this morning/Couldn’t wait to get out of bed became Craving TV and Internet and Phone/Is what I said. “You’re watching Future 86 but they happen to be talking about cable,” Ms. Brooke said.

Public response, however, has not been so enthusiastic. It seems some people resent getting a catchy song stuck in their heads after repeated, unsolicited airings, especially when that catchy song is about something as mundane as cable TV and Internet service.

On YouTube, where the commercial has taken on a life of its own, commenters are angry. InnocentNaughty writes, “I for one and SICK and tired from hearing this crap every time there’s a commercial break.” Videomusicgirl writes, “The horrific sounds of a nazzley high-pitched singer is invading t.v. Everytime this commercial comes on I mute it.” Then there’s houdinididiit, who writes somewhat ominously, “It’s not only stupid—it’s downright insidious. It’s the game plan whereby Corporate America has been trying to co-opt the usual rebellion of serious artists with garbage like this. It’s nullifying.” Thriftnlove delivers perhaps the most crushing blow: “The scarey thing is that this is apparently a real band. I hope they realize that they’ll now always be known as ‘the band with that annoying song in that horrible cable commercial’ forever.”

On Thursday, July 12, Future 86 played a gig at the Colorado Cafe, a country Western bar in Watchung, New Jersey. There were free mechanical bull rides, and in between sets, a bikini contest. The band, which now includes bassist Kevin Hummel, played three high-energy sets that included “White Wedding,” “I Love Rock ’N’ Roll,” “Jessie’s Girl,” and a few originals.

After the show the band, whose members declined to disclose their ages but seemed late-20’s–early-30’s-ish, took a break from packing up their gear to discuss their sudden rise to fame and lament the current state of the music industry. “All the original music clubs are starting to die, and you’re seeing more and more clubs more interested in whether you can bring a large crowd and not whether you’re good or not,” Ms. Samborsky said. “So there is a commercialism that’s necessary for developing yourself as a band. Going grass roots is a really hard way to go now.”

“Look at Jewel,” added Mr. Nimmo, the guitarist. “She had that album, Pieces of You. That record sold millions and millions of copies, but they won’t pick her up for another album.”

The band seemed slightly perplexed by the sometimes harsh reaction to their music. “Don’t these guys have anything better to do?” wondered Mr. Minassian, the drummer.

Ms. Samborsky specifically defended the artistic integrity of “I Want It All”—which, like most of the band’s original material, she wrote with Mr. Nimmo. “Everyone is searching for something that means something to them,” she said vaguely. “We’re all craving something more, better.”

Maybe it was all the old-time music publishers working the room and calling each other “babe” without any trace of irony. Maybe everyone there felt a debt of gratitude to the industry that has made them rich and sustained them over the years. Maybe it was just that a good melody can still bring people together—singers, songwriters, producers, music publishers—to try and make a buck and move the people. All legendary Caribbean composer Irving Burgie had to do during his acceptance speech was sing the first line of “Jamaica Farewell,” and the whole room joined in.

Singer Ron Dante was on hand to support publisher Don Kirshner, who received an award named for ragtime songwriter Abe Oleman. Mr. Dante was just another 16-year-old kid with a dream when he walked into Mr. Kirshner’s office in the Brill Building at 1619 Broadway almost 60 years ago with a song called “Hey, Baby.”

“Don supported me for three years while I got my feet wet,” Mr. Dante said. “I’ll never forget that.”

A few years later Mr. Kirshner, who had just been fired as the manager of the Monkees, made Mr. Dante the lead singer of his newly concocted group, the Archies. Their hit song “Sugar, Sugar” went on to sell six million records.

Since then, Mr. Dante has sung in thousands of commercials. Remember the McDonald’s jingle, “You Deserve a Break Today”? That’s Mr. Dante. Last summer’s ubiquitous Yoplait commercial with the reworked version of “Yellow Polka Dot Bikini”? That’s him, too. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Dante is not a fan of the latest McDonald’s number. “I hate to say it, but ‘I’m Lovin’ It’ is a pretty weak melody compared to the old melodies,” he said. “Those songs they used to write for the great Coca-Cola or Pepsi spots, they were great songs with great melodies.” All right, Mr. Dante, so where has the melody gone? “Melody went south to Nashville and it’s living and thriving in country music,” he said.

Mr. Dante was not alone in mourning the decline of melody. A wistful attitude was struck by many members of the older generation, who owed their careers to lyricism. In the current climate of pop songwriting, melody and harmony have lost out to rhythm. And the role of the songwriter has been diminished, supplanted by the producer and engineer.

Beneath the stage before the awards began, BMG Label Group chairman and C.E.O. Clive Davis held court. One by one, members of the songwriting establishment dropped by to pay their respects. Singer Tony Orlando gave Mr. Davis an enthusiastic hug and whispered something in his ear. What did he say? “I just thanked him for breathing a second life into me when I needed it most,” Mr. Orlando said with feeling.

A few tables over, Michael Masser waited to be received into the Hall of Fame. Mr. Masser is famous for writing the songs “Touch Me in the Morning,” “Theme from Mahogany (Do You Know Where You’re Going To)” and “Tonight I Celebrate My Love for You,” among others. He came of age in the 70’s, when unabashed, emotional pop songwriting was the order of the day. Like his songs, Mr. Masser gets straight to the point. “When you write a song you don’t ask if it’s good or not, or if it’s gonna sell,” he said. Mr. Masser was wearing large red-tinted sunglasses and his blond hair in a bowl cut. “When you write a song, you ask whether you’ve reached deep inside your heart and whether it’s honest,” he said. “And if you strike a good chord, you stop traffic on the highway, and everyone has a beautiful moment.” Mr. Masser paused for dramatic effect and looked his interlocutor directly in the eyes. “When you’re writing a song, you have to know two things,” he said. “You have to know who you are and you have to think about other people.”

The new generation was not so forthcoming. Born-again Christian rapper Kanye West, who was charged with introducing R&B singer John Legend, showed up an hour late, with a large entourage in tow, and left early to attend his 30th birthday party at the Louis Vuitton store. English soulstress Joss Stone flitted around the room, escorted by a menacing bouncer in a pinstripe suit.

There was an after-party, naturally, at a suite in the Marquis, with better wine and brighter lighting. The Observer arrived with a young songbird who calls herself simply Ledisi, the granddaughter of the late blues singer Johnny Ace, and her manager. Earlier in the evening, Ledisi had blown the audience away with a gorgeous version of “Unchained Melody.”

The party was slow, there was no music, and the piano in the suite, a recently tuned, shining 5-foot Baldwin, was open. The Observer sat down and played “9 to 5” in honor of Dolly Parton, who earlier had been inducted into the Hall of Fame and made a speech that consisted mostly of double-entendres about her breasts.

Before the second verse, however, Mr. Masser told us to scram. He took his place behind the piano and began banging out his classic Whitney Houston ballad, “The Greatest Love of All.” A group that included David Letterman’s music director, Paul Shaffer, formed around the piano and sang along. Alas, Mr. Masser, flush from receiving his award, was fumbling a bit to find the right chords. He was particularly flummoxed by the tricky bridge section. Mr. Shaffer, ever the studio perfectionist, was visibly uncomfortable and leaned over Mr. Masser’s shoulder in order to poke the correct notes on the keyboard.

Mr. Shaffer’s assistance did not add to the rendition, but it hardly mattered. The crowd sang along in spite of it all, buoyed by the soaring melody and its collective memory of a hit song. Mr. Masser just played harder and sang louder. Finally, Mr. Shaffer, who famously penned “It’s Raining Men,” but has yet to be honored by the Songwriters Hall of Fame, took over on the piano. He finished off “The Greatest Love of All” with a few overly fancy flourishes. But Mr. Masser’s faulty playing and Mr. Shaffer’s cheesy pianism didn’t ruin the moment. The crowd cheered. The music was over. Everyone was happy.

Created by J.D. Ryznar, 29, a hitherto-unknown writer from Michigan, Yacht Rock debuted in Los Angeles under the aegis of Channel 101, a clearinghouse for undiscovered talent that calls itself an “untelevised television network” (attendees of Channel 101 gatherings vote on submitted “shows” to decide if they will be “renewed”—sort of American Idol meets the Hollywood hipster crowd). YR was inexplicably “cancelled” by the fickle viewers after the 10th episode, then found a second life and an impassioned fan base on the Internet.

Mr. Ryznar, now represented by the United Talent Agency and penning jokes for Jack Black’s hosting gig at the V.M.A.’s at Radio City Music Hall on Aug. 31, aspires to write feature films. “I want to be a guy that people go to when they want a certain kind of movie, and then I want to retire back to Michigan, live on Lake Michigan and get away from all this L.A. stuff,” he said the other day in a Los Feliz café.

There are 10 installments of Yacht Rock in all, many viewable on YouTube or at Channel 101’s Web site--and with the exception of one, a period piece about the original Jethro Tull, they are very, very funny. Watch and snigger along as “Mr. McDonald,” played with pitch-perfect bearded melancholy by Mr. Ryznar, tries to maintain his commitment to “smooth music” even as Steve Perry of Journey urges his onetime collaborator, Mr. Loggins, to sell out to hard backbeats … as Vincent Price and Toto help “spook the smooth” back into Michael Jackson … as the Eagles, portrayed as truly schlocky frat-boy bullies, compete for a soundtrack assignment with the clever-but-wussy members of Steely Dan. “I saw Steve Perry on the street in Burbank the other day,” Mr. Ryznar said. “I didn’t want to approach him, because I just knew he would be a major prick.” But many of the musicians depicted--despite the fact that their catalog is being sampled (expertly and sometimes cruelly) without permission or payment--have publicly embraced Mr. Ryznar’s work and the new generation of fans it has summoned.

On the strength of the series, “yacht rock” is now a legitimate subgenre of music criticism—it already has its own Wikipedia entry--and a bona fide fad among twentysomethings who show up in captains’ hats at “yacht rock” parties and at the artists’ concerts (though none were, thankfully, visible at the recent Steely Dan date in Jones Beach, which featured mostly Long Island boomer couples quietly getting stoned and the odd high-school-age progressive-rock fanatic enjoying Walter Becker’s many meandering guitar solos).

Why has the show touched such a nerve? “I have no idea,” Mr. Ryznar said. “It’s weird. It’s so weird. The best theory is that people dismiss the music that we talk about. Even if they like it, it’s been dismissed and not thought about too much. I think what Yacht Rock does is that it doesn’t really make fun of it, but it has fun with it, and it gives people an excuse to enjoy the music or give it a second chance. People remember their parents listening to it, and somebody from their generation says, ‘Hey, look, this is how you guys can like the music, too. We give you permission.’”

In other words, thanks to Yacht Rock’s gentle and affectionate mockery, our hipster elite finally has an excuse to groove to Hall & Oates and Michael McDonald without having to say they’re sorry. And therein lies the problem.

For a while now, well-crafted pop music has been relegated to the status of guilty pleasure—those with real taste are supposed to like difficult, obscure and “authentic” music. It’s not easy having to constantly apologize for one’s taste, so, for the most part, soft rock has stayed in the background. “It’s one of those guilty pleasures that a lot more people have,” said Steve Huey, a character actor and former rock critic who plays the show’s host, “Hollywood Steve.” “It’s not something people talk about. It’s the kind of music that’s never gotten much critical respect because it’s not edgy, not aiming to change the world, not fitting the conventional rock-critic notion of wild abandon and raw energy. It’s never gotten the respect for being good, well-crafted music; it doesn’t help somebody to project that sort of image. But it touched a nerve with people who do like this music and never had an avenue to express it.”

But now, thanks to the success of the series, a sense of arch irony has enveloped, overwhelmed and, yes, ruined Michael McDonald and Hall & Oates and the rest of the 1970’s pop crew some of us love so well—without any guilt whatsoever!

Watch and chortle as this wonderful soft-rock music, so square, so melodic, gets gobbled up by the hipster elite, our cultural scavengers who search the globe for any sign of “authentic,” unmediated experience (especially white-trash culture, because those poor white folk are so stupid and unironic and sincere), mocking it until we all understand how super-superior they are.

What makes soft rock so eminently mockable, so ripe for the smack-down? Soft rock makes the cardinal mistake of trying too hard. “It’s not just like ‘yacht rock,’ like music you would enjoy on a yacht--which it is, partially,” Mr. Ryznar said. “It’s also sort of the yacht of music. This is high-quality stuff. It’s just like a dinghy versus a yacht. Some people just want to go rowing and fishing, and others want to be in something a little nicer.”

But musicianship and craft and polish are dirty words to our generation’s tastemakers. We want our music edgy and difficult.

What will now be known as “yacht rock” represents the last gasp of a musical age when the artist wasn’t asked to be so real. In the music business, there used to be someone known as a professional songwriter, whose job it was to write the catchiest, most memorable songs possible, in complete anonymity. The performers of soft rock were for the most part songwriters and musicians first, performers second.

Now the opposite is true. Today’s bands, like their heroes David Bowie and David Byrne before them, are more likely to get their start in art school than music school. From the art-school-rock perspective, the concept and the look come first, then the music. In the soft-rock world, the song comes first, then the band and the music. This is why so many of the soft-rock bands appear so uncomfortable as performers. Acts like Steely Dan and Michael McDonald commit the ultimate offense by not only being dorky and musician-y, but by not apologizing for it.

This deep fear of appearing inauthentic is what happens when you don’t serve in a war or tackle social ills and grow up weaned on images of excessive consumption and celebrity. We have to make up our disaffection and create our own grit. Lacking any defining challenge or purpose as a generation, we look to popular entertainment to provide our danger, our real life. Popular music--once a respite and diversion from the real world, a place you go to get away from life--must take the place of real life.

Mr. Ryznar, at least, professes genuine enthusiasm for the genre he so lovingly lampoons. “When I was a kid, I didn’t like it at all,” he said. “I remember at our cabin we had an old eight-track player, and one of the eight-tracks was Minute by Minute. I would look at it, put it in and be like, ‘ Aaaugh! Thank God I have my Walkman with my Weird Al tape.’ I was a D.J. at an oldies station when I was 16, and I used to love really old Doobie Brothers stuff without Michael McDonald. I hated the Michael McDonald stuff--it just seemed so bland and ordinary to me. ‘Long Train Runnin’’ and ‘Black Water’ have that hippie Southern mystique, and then Michael McDonald comes in with his sappy Motown style. I just wasn’t into it. I just gave it a chance, and it’s amazing--I can’t stop listening to it now.”

But recently, this conversation between technology and music has become more like a shouting match-less polite and more aggressive.

Over the last 60 years, the majority of music we have heard has been delivered to us not live, but in prerecorded form. And the evolution of those prerecorded formats, as much as any musical genius, has determined what music actually sounds like.

The standard pop-song length of three minutes was famously molded and bound by the 78, a distribution format which allowed for three-minute songs and not much more. With the advent of 331¼3 r.p.m. records in the late 40's, we got longer songs.

But as the means of distributing and using music have multiplied, our attention to music-and our appreciation of it-have shrunk.

Nothing puts the stamp on our shrinking musical attention span as much as Apple's new online song catalog, iTunes Music Store. The store is essentially Napster, with the minor caveat that you have to pay 99 cents for each song you download. But my sources in the preteen world have uncovered an interesting development: The kids aren't actually paying for the songs. After all, how many kids have a credit card? And even if they did, a buck a song is steep, especially when you can get them for free on LimeWire and Kazaa.

No, instead of buying, they're listening to the free 30-second previews that are available on the Web site. And they're listening to them over and over again.

These previews get right to the essence of the songs. They're usually cut from somewhere in the middle and contain a bit of the verse and a bit of the chorus, or the hook, which is the part that everyone recognizes.

You might ask how anyone could possibly find enjoyment in just 30 seconds of a song? But there's a lot to suggest that 30 seconds of a song is just about all we need these days. In fact, everything from TV commercials to children's toys, from radio jingles to cell-phone ringers, from song-form changes to the rise of sampling, has been subtly training us to read and receive our music in increasingly smaller chunks.

For instance, have you noticed how few new pop songs contain bridges? Historically, the bridge is the section where a song goes somewhere new-sometimes to a different key and maybe to a new theme lyrically-and it has pretty much disappeared from the Top 40 (though not the country charts), which makes your 30 seconds even more representative.

Dance music, more than any other genre, has also changed the nature of pop music. Dance tracks tend to be longer and more repetitive than conventional songs. The dance-track composer relies on texture and production-adding found sounds, sampling, dropping instruments in and out of the mix and, of course, that old standby, turning up the volume-to move things along.

The rise of sampling, first in rap music, then in R&B and now virtually everywhere, has placed further emphasis on the hook-which is like heading straight to the climax without foreplay.

Musical A.D.D.

Modern composition, as composition professors often lament, has become a vertical exercise rather than a horizontal one. A lot of this can be traced to the way music, particularly modern pop music, is composed today, which is increasingly on a computer using music software. Composing on a computer does have some advantages. It allows writers access to an infinite number of sounds and tracks playing at the same time. A composer can pile sound upon sound with almost unlimited potential to create texture (or fix a flat voice). Listen to any current hit on the Top 40 and you'll find probably 50 or more different tracks playing at the same time. The typical pop song from the 50's probably had less than 2 tracks.

But this technological advancement has changed the priorities of composition. The emphasis, which was once on development and theme, on modulations that took place over the course of a song or a musical piece, has shifted to sound design and texture-variables that can be piled up and reduced in a manner of seconds. It's the difference between developing a musical idea (recasting it, changing keys and repeating it) and putting a sound through different filters, or playing a beat four bars with a bassline, four bars without.

If our musical attention span could be diagnosed, we would all get treated for musical Attention Deficit Disorder. Think of all the places you hear music-in stores, on TV, on the radio, in elevators, on cell phones, at the gym-and think about how you hear this music. Is it a complete experience, or is just background noise?

Not only are we becoming desensitized to music by our environment, we are also making choices-actually training ourselves to hear music differently. The thousands of small radio audience-research firms across the country go to two major production houses, Hooks Unlimited in Atlanta and Autohook in Woodbury, Conn., to get CD's containing 10-second snippets of hundreds of songs. Radio stations evaluate a song's life span by playing these excerpts from songs-the 10-seconds are always the hook or the most recognizable part-to test audiences. Just 10 seconds!

And don't think the labels-and, to a lesser extent, the artists-are unaware of this.

Hit Clip's a Hit

If you want to see what the future sounds like, listen to a Hit Clip. For anyone who doesn't have an 11-year-old daughter, the Hit Clip is a small MP3 player made by Hasbro for kids and young teenagers. Hasbro has sold over 25 million of them, and McDonald's and Oscar Mayer have given them away for promotions.

The attraction of the Hit Clip was that it played 50-second samples from hit songs. Songs-'N Sync, Britney Spears, etc.-that are already simplified in the way described above.

Commercials are another story. Have you noticed how many old hits are cut up and edited for commercial use? Have you noticed how "Getting Better," the Beatles song used in the Philips electronics commercial, goes suddenly from verse to chorus without the break that you hear in the original recording? The same surgery was performed on Sly and the Family Stone's "Everyday People" for a Toyota commercial. That's editing, baby.

This kind of editing is more than just obnoxious. Whether we recognize it or not, we're being robbed of the song's original design. As a result, our expectations of what music can do are degraded.

All of which makes those 30-second previews on the iTunes store the perfect (if slightly twisted) way to listen to modern music.

The iTune preview doesn't need to be downloaded. You can play it right on the site, which makes it particularly speedy and convenient. Say, for instance, there's some song that's been bugging you and you need to hear it. You can quickly find it, play it and scratch that itch.

'Give It To Me … ' Free!

This happened to me the other day, in fact, with Rick James' "Give It to Me Baby," which I had heard at the gym and really needed to hear again. I clicked on a button at the iTunes site, and there it was: "You say I'm so crazy / Coming home intoxicated…. " Great bassline, tight drum groove-the whole deal.

But after 30 seconds, I really didn't need much more. I played the clip a few times and got the groove in my head. The song doesn't actually go anywhere. The same two chords show up in both the verse and the chorus, and the drums and bass don't change at all. The elemental thing about the song is the feel, which you get in those 30 seconds.

On the other hand, some songs and genres aren't nearly as fulfilling in this truncated format. High-concept rock bands fare particularly poorly: Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb," for example, barely gets going before petering out.

Yet strangely, such ostensibly complex bands as the Smiths (sadly, only two songs available right now) and R.E.M. sound great in 30 seconds. Then again, when you think of their compositional style-which, in both cases, is based on a distinctive guitar player's grooves-it makes sense. R.E.M.'s "Catapult," off of Murmur , was just right.

With Jackson 5 songs, 30 seconds is more than enough, but with Michael Jackson's solo work, the tunes sound horribly incomplete. That must be the Quincy Jones difference right there, making each section of those songs on Off the Wall and Thriller distinct and necessary. Simon & Garfunkel, with their short, catchy and sometimes annoying folk ditties, sound all right, but Paul Simon's solo stuff is too episodic to be excerpted.

Likewise, New Edition's "Popcorn Love" and "Mr. Telephone Man" are well served in 30 seconds, but Bobby Brown's glorious "Roni" is just too much song: The pre-chorus alone is that long.

Surprisingly, most of Nirvana in 30 seconds is an exercise in frustration. The music is so frenetic you'd think that small bites would be sufficient, but it turns out that there are just too many sections to the songs. Furthermore, Kurt Cobain's lyrics frequently follow a narrative that you want to follow, too. So when the songs are cut off, you're left wanting more.

Annoyingly, Journey's "Any Way You Want It" doesn't even make it to the chorus before fading out, giving you a severe case of musical blue balls.

But then it's Liz Phair to the rescue. A few seconds of her cooing "I want a boyfriend" on "Fuck and Run," and you're rocking out again.

Speaking of frustration, the only good part to the Doobie Brothers' "Minute By Minute" is that tasty gospel-keyboard introduction, but the hook-centric iTunes preview serves up the lame chorus. Yet, when I needed-for some inexplicable reason-to hear the Dixie Chicks' "Wide Open Spaces," I got enough without getting annoyed.

Unfortunately, the iTunes library is far from complete, even when it comes to the basics. There's some Elvis Costello, for instance, but only late, "arty" Elvis. There's no Beatles except an album of outtakes. No Led Zeppelin, either, except for a piss-poor cover band that may or may not be a goof.

Worse still, no The Stylistics. For shame, iTunes, for shame. Then again, how could anyone set the mood with the Isleys in just 30 seconds? But along those lines, thankfully, there's 93 selections of Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes.

Double stuff me, Sidney.

When Marvin Hamlisch was 16, he wrote a Top Ten hit song, "Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows," for Lesley Gore. Thirteen years later, in his first attempt at a Broadway show, he wrote A Chorus Line and won a Pulitzer Prize and a Tony Award. That was two years after he won three Oscars for The Sting and The Way We Were .

Like most prodigies, Mr. Hamlisch is conditioned to show off. He's not embarrassed by big, extravagant, virtuosic melodies. And like Mr. Hamlisch's nicely cushioned physical appearance, his music feels easy and comfortable. You feel that if you sat on his lap, you'd have a happy seat; the same with his tunes.

It's a refreshing trait for a composer to have in this era of new musicals that try to conceal the very showiness that makes theater.

It also makes Mr. Hamlisch an interesting composer for the dark, jagged story of J.J. Hunsecker's seedy gossip underworld in Sweet Smell of Success , the adaptation of the Ernest Lehman– Clifford Odets–Alexander Mackendrick film that starred its producer, Burt Lancaster, and flopped in 1957, but developed a second life as a classic noir ode to "21" and reference point to the life and career of Walter Winchell, whom it effectively buried.

The musical, with music by Mr. Hamlisch and lyrics by Craig Carnelia, opens, March 14, at the Martin Beck Theatre on West 45th Street.

Like his best music, Mr. Hamlisch is unapologetically broad and open. He tells old theater stories that start, "And then Liza told me, 'Marvin …. '" He makes puns. Liz Smith called Mr. Hamlisch "Seinfeld with a baton." His speech is theatrical, like the way he says "thrilling"-a word he seems to like particularly-as a three-syllable utterance, " tha-rill-ing ."

Now Marvin Hamlisch is 57 and living with his wife, Terre, in Manhattan. He's spent most of his professional life in Hollywood scoring films or conducting pops orchestras in Pittsburgh and Washington, D.C. It's been nine years since Mr. Hamlisch wrote a Broadway show, the adaptation of another film, Neil Simon's The Goodbye Girl .

"I would have loved to have written something serious," Mr. Hamlisch said recently in his Park Avenue apartment, dressed in a blue gingham shirt and khakis, and wearing a watch with a bright red wristband. Next to him was a small table covered in glass-menagerie pianos. He was not wrapped in thought like some neurotic artiste, but like the showman he is, pitching his latest work.

"But the only things coming on my desk were funny things," he continued. "I really wanted to do something gritty. In the last 20 years, you get the sense that by 'musical,' we mean musical comedy. But there's musical comedy, and there are musicals. Musicals can be serious, too."

"I was intrigued and thrilled about working with John Guare," he said. "And then I was thrilled, absolutely thrilled to be working with Nick Hytner. And though I didn't know Craig Carnelia, it was wonderful working with him. So it's been a wonderful process."

Wonderful! And thrilling. And strangely not banal.

Sweet Smell of Success has two musical languages, the lush romantic language of the love story between a piano player named Dallas and J.J. Hunsecker's sister Susan-a plot line that playwright John Guare has modified slightly from the original movie script-and the gritty vaudevillian language of Hunsecker's gossip empire.

As he has in most of his career, Mr. Hamlisch seems coziest in the romantic language, typified by numbers like "I Cannot Hear the City," Dallas' jazzy torch song, and the show's big love ballad, "Don't Know Where You Leave Off," sung by Dallas and Susan. This is the number that reminds the audience of Mr. Hamlisch's real strength as a composer, which is what you might call the neurotic love ballad (as in "What I Did For Love" from A Chorus Line --or even, if you really think about it, "The Way We Were"). On the other hand, when Mr. Hamlisch turns to the darker themes in the score, like the frantic "I Could Get You in J.J.", a Kurt Weill–ish number sung by a desperate chorus of press agents, he becomes somewhat more off-the-rack.

Like A Chorus Line , Sweet Smell of Success explores the underbelly of the grit beneath the glamour, though unlike A Chorus Line , Sweet Smell provides the audience with no redemption. There is no show-stopper, no big Broadway number of the kind that every songwriter wants to write. (As in "BUM , They're playing OUR SONG / Bah-bah-bah-BUM , They're playing OUR SONG" from his 1980 hit show with Carole Bayer Sager, They're Playing Our Song .) But like any good Broadway composer, Mr. Hamlisch has humbled himself for the sake of the book.

"You have to be true to the material," he said. "If a story suggests a show-topper, then you write one. But this is all one piece. Sometimes a great ending can be in the cumulative effect. The cumulative effect of West Side Story is beautiful, and they're all dead."

Mr. Hamlisch grew up on West 81st Street, the son of an accordion-playing father. At Juilliard, which he entered at age 6, he was gunning to be the next Horowitz. But then, at age 13, it happened: Mr. Hamlisch attended his very first Judy Garland concert. "That was it ," Mr. Hamlisch said. "I heard her sing 'San Francisco' and I went, 'I gotta get into this business.'"

He attended the Professional Children's School on West 60th Street. Surrounded by precocious showbiz talent, Mr. Hamlisch thrived. He wrote hit songs; his best friend dated Liza Minnelli. "We were all a troupe together," he said. "We had all these child stars, and I would write school shows for them."

It hardly mattered that rock 'n' roll was just taking off; Mr. Hamlisch was tuned into something different. "There were two rock stations in those days, but there was another station that played just shows," he said. "I listened to that. Damn Yankees , Pajama Game --they had a tremendous effect on me." He saw Gypsy eight times. "I couldn't get enough of it," he said. "Wow! I just loved shows. I loved the anticipation of an audience. When you see 'Whatever Lola Wants, Lola Gets' and all the sudden this dance would come, and all the sudden you go 'Oh, my God!'-and the next thing you know, you'd be clapping like a crazy person. You just can't get that on a three-minute record, and you don't really stand up and cheer in a movie. Well, you do in your soul; when you see Singin' in the Rain , you go 'clap-clap-clap' inside."

Mr. Hamlisch graduated Juilliard and got a job as assistant vocal arranger for composer Jule Styne's Funny Girl , starring Barbra Streisand. Playing piano at a party, he caught the attention of producer Sam Spiegel and got his first assignment: to score a film, The Swimmer , Frank Perry's adaptation of the John Cheever short story. From there he wrote the music for two of Woody Allen's early movies, Take the Money and Run and Bananas . Then came The Way We Were and the inevitable "The Way We Were" ("Memmm-ries … "), sung by Barbra Streisand. Then The Sting , for which he rearranged Scott Joplin's rags despite the film's anachronistic time period (1936) and helped to restore the ragtime composer's popularity. Both films won him Oscars.

Called back to New York by choreographer Michael Bennett, Mr. Hamlisch wrote the music for A Chorus Line , a paradigmatic show about aspiring dancers waiting for that one big chance. A Chorus Line started at the Public Theater and, with its pared-down aesthetics, seemed to draw strength from its rejection of showy sets and costumes. It was held together by Mr. Hamlisch's deceptively simple score. And when the show needed a show-stopper, Mr. Hamlisch produced one, the Musical Hall of Fame number "One." ("One! Singular sensation, every little step that you take / One…. ")

But Mr. Hamlisch seemed more beguiled by Hollywood than Broadway. After A Chorus Line , he scored 30 more films. He was hot. He made appearances on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson .

In 1975, while living in Los Angeles, Mr. Hamlisch was paid a visit by Groucho Marx's secretary. "She taps on the window, and she says she thinks it's good for him that maybe he should have someone come and play some of his songs," Mr. Hamlisch recalled. "You know, he was really going into his old age. So I went over, and there he was. Very funny with the cigar, the whole thing, whatever. They had the sheet music, and I played his songs and he sang."

Groucho Marx liked the exchange so much that he kept Mr. Hamlisch on to play at his parties. Then he seemed to enjoy himself so much that it was decided there should be a tour. "They were doing this to, quote, 'keep him young, keep him going,'" Mr. Hamlisch said. "Because basically he was just in a big house and falling away by himself."

Groucho and Mr. Hamlisch toured the country, appearing at colleges-"He came alive. All the girls wanted to touch him," Mr. Hamlisch said-and finally Carnegie Hall. "He would say to me, 'I just bought an anklet for my girlfriend.' And I would go, 'What did it say?' and he would say, 'Heaven's above.' Like that. Ba- dum -bum. But he would remember every lyric. He would do 'Lydia'-and you know 'Lydia,' that's like a seven-page song-and he never forgot the lyrics."

Sweet Smell of Success is Mr. Hamlisch's first musical since The Goodbye Girl in 1993. He said he'd sifted through a lot of material before becoming entranced by the motif of New York noir. "What attracted me was the language, the musical language of the 1950's," he said. "The jazz, the bands-and New York at that time is so gritty."

Now he's writing music for Nora Ephron's first play ("a show with songs"), Imaginary Friends , about a fictional meeting between Lillian Hellman and Mary McCarthy. And he's negotiating a possible deal to compose a musical version of Woody Allen's Bullets Over Broadway with his Sweet Smell lyricist, Mr. Carnelia. "I love it," Mr. Hamlisch said. "It's a bug, and I've got it. When I see a really good musical or a really great show, I am just tha-rilled ."

After the old man lifted a limp backhand to the pro's forehand corner, the pro took a few steps and stabbed weakly at the ball, missing it completely. The old man puffed out his chest, pounding it with his fist. The pro smiled lamely, hung his head and clapped his racket with his hand. "Look at that guy," Mr. Taslimant said with a shudder. "That's my idea of hell."

Mr. Taslimant doesn't wear sunglasses or take off his Polo shirt while he's teaching. He's only ranked 1,300th in the world–in doubles– and he refuses to sleep with clients. But over the past two summers, he has become the most sought-after tennis coach in the Hamptons, where a quality backhand can get you into the Meadow Club–even if it can't get you in the Meadow Club. With his rumpled charm, Mr. Taslimant has managed to navigate a world where one pissed-off client can mean the difference between getting $25 an hour to teach Junior the Continental grip at the public playground and $100 to trade forehands with machers on Daniels Lane.

In his former life as a Florida tennis bum, Mr. Taslimant lobbed balls at the Williams sisters for free pizza. Now he counts among his clients Peggy Siegal, Adam Lindemann, Spencer Segura (son of tennis great Pancho Segura), Nina Griscom, New York Times writer Rick Marin and countless others along the Palm Beach-Southampton axis who consider themselves too important to be mentioned in an article about their tennis pro.

"The clients I've been able to teach have generally stayed with me," Mr. Taslimant said as he waited for his next student at Town Tennis, where he works part-time. "I think I give them something that they don't normally get. I work on them as if I was working with a pro."

Mr. Taslimant identifies his student's weaknesses early on and then drills them relentlessly. In return, he is briefly allowed into an influential circle–not an insignificant thing for someone who has aspirations beyond the court.

"I'm done pretty soon with teaching tennis," Mr. Taslimant said. "My goal right now is to be an analyst. A dream would be to work at Morgan Stanley or Goldman Sachs. And then my clients will hook me up. I've put out hints all over the place, and no one will take them.

"Even before I was playing tennis, I wanted to be an office tycoon," he continued. "Nine to five. No, not even–I wanted to be Richard Branson. That's my dream. Why not? When you see guys in that position, there's always something that they did before. If I have my way, I'd rather pay $100 or $200 for a lesson than give the lesson. Because if I'm in the position where I can pay $200 for a lesson, then I'm in good shape."

So far, those who pay him $100 a lesson think he's worth it. "He simplified my stroke and made it significantly better," said Wall Street securities manager Mike Marchassalla. "He really does try to focus on your weaknesses versus just hitting with you." Asked if he knew that Mr. Taslimant wants to be a banker, he–like other clients asked–was surprised, but said, "I think he'd be great on Wall Street. He's got great contacts and great people skills. He's intense yet detailed at what he does."

Philmore Anderson, vice president of marketing at Columbia Records, said, "He's bringing my game back to where it was back in my high-school days."

By the time 10-year-old student Will Bancroft, son of the socially active Bill and Debbie Bancroft, gets to high school, he should be beating the crap out of his peers. After six months with Mr. Taslimant, he's noticed a dramatic improvement. "He's funny and he's a good teacher," young Mr. Bancroft said. "He's much harder than the other coaches: He gives me tough shots and I have to run to get them."

And though he may spend an inordinate amount of time with bored women in white skirts, Mr. Taslimant draws the service line at the court. "My rule is no extracurricular activity at all," he said, his jaw flexing. "None. I've had plenty of opportunities, but I've wussed out every time. On purpose. Because, in my view, once you hook up with your client, the whole relationship becomes different."

Courting Favor

With no permanent club affiliation, Mr. Taslimant has to think on his feet, either taking on students who have their own court or a club membership, arranging doubles games on other people's courts, or leading them on outer-borough field trips to public courts in such exotic locales as Sunnyside, Queens. Mr. Taslimant spends his winters in Palm Beach, crashing with friends and playing with the same bunch he'll teach again in the Hamptons come summer, when he lives in Elmhurst, Queens, with his parents. For two to three months each spring, he plays the International Tennis Federation Tour in Morocco.

Weekends, Mr. Taslimant can be found tooling around the Hamptons in his brother's battered 1996 BMW with a basket of balls, a cell phone and a big black Filofax with clients' numbers scribbled throughout the pages as he scrambles to hook up courts for his clients. (He's currently looking for a personal assistant to help him with his "disorganized" state.) He stays at the home of nightclub owner Noah Tepperberg, where, if he's lucky, he sometimes gets a bed to sleep in.

One recent Friday, Mr. Taslimant found himself in a pinch particular to the life of a freelance tennis pro: He had a lesson scheduled with a big-shot financier named Bill, but no court to give it on. So Mr. Taslimant had to hustle. He enlisted the help of a student, Shing Tao, a hedge-fund manager who was in the Hamptons for the weekend and who'd mentioned that he had a friend with a court. Completing the next day's foursome would be Mr. Segura.

To cement the transaction, Mr. Taslimant showed Mr. Tao a night on the Hamptons. Through Mr. Tepperberg, Mr. Taslimant–clad in black jeans and a blue striped Oxford shirt–got private tables at his clubs, Conscience Point and Jet East, where the managers all know him. Although Mr. Taslimant didn't get Mr. Tao laid, he did get the court. (It should be noted that Mr. Taslimant parlayed his bed at Mr. Tepperberg's into some action with a bleary-eyed party girl who showed up at 5 in the morning, whose name he couldn't quite remember, but who was really, really psyched to have somewhere to sleep.)

On the morning of the lesson, Mr. Taslimant was late. And lost.

"I think I should have made a right on Main Street," he said as he guided the BMW around a sand dune. "I think it's the first right. Actually, you know what? I think it's supposed to be off of Daniels Lane." He glanced at the dashboard clock. "I'm 15 minutes late," he said. "We should be all right. I told them I was going to be late to get balls."

A bald man in a silver BMW convertible sped down Daniels Lane in the opposite direction.

"Is that Bill? Is that Bill?" Mr. Taslimant fretted.

Venus, Serena … and Nabile

The son of Moroccan immigrants, Mr. Taslimant grew up in Queens and attended the Dwight School in Manhattan. He realized his talent for tennis early. During high school, he was sponsored by a Kuwaiti businessman, a friend of his parents. He played on the International Tennis Federation junior circuit for three years, taking a year off in 1992 before enrolling at Michigan State University to attend the Rick Macy tennis camp in Florida. It was there that he got his first big break, when he was chosen to be the hitting partner for Venus and Serena Williams, then just two bratty unknown tennis prodigies with a crazy father.

Under Mr. Macy's and Richard Williams' tutelage, Mr. Taslimant learned how well hard work and discipline can pay off. The grizzled tennis gurus offered Mr. Taslimant a free dinner at Pizza Hut if he could beat Venus 0-0. Another activity consisted of standing Serena at the net while Mr. Taslimant nailed forehands at her. "If I hit her, I got a T-shirt," he said–a reward system that apparently still drives him today.

Meanwhile, Mr. Taslimant's own tennis career was on hold. "I could have had better coaching and I could have had a little more attention," he said. "Things didn't work out the way I hoped. But there's a lot of intangibles. Parents, coaching–everything has to be in its right place to be successful." He didn't find success as a professional, but he soon found it as a pro.

"I heard that you could do it–that you could teach at people's houses in the Hamptons," Mr. Taslimant said. "I thought that sounded cool. You see lots of houses and you meet a lot of people." Beginning in 1997, he spent his first few summers knocking on strangers' doors and going to tennis shops, even teaching children.

His first entrée was through Westhampton tennis-shop owner Matt Levy, who recommended Mr. Taslimant to a local couple. Then he landed Randy Schindler, founder of Hamptons magazine. Soon after, publicist Peggy Siegal was on board. Then Nina Griscom. And suddenly, Mr. Taslimant was the hottest thing on the beach–even without playing the Williams-sisters card.

"He's turned his tennis into a business," said Mr. Tepperberg. "He's traveled the world and met a lot of interesting people. I've been really impressed with people I've met through Nabile."

Back in Southampton, Mr. Taslimant finally found the house where Bill and Mr. Tao were impatiently waiting. Five women in gray uniforms made preparations for lunch.

On the court, Bill stretched against the net and complained about a groin injury he'd sustained playing golf the day before. The three warmed up as they waited for Mr. Segura, who showed up 45 minutes later.

"Where the hell were you? You're an hour and a half late!" Bill barked as Mr. Segura ambled across the lawn.

"Don't tell me Nabile didn't tell you I would be late!" he said, looking incredulously at Mr. Taslimant.

"What do you mean? You never said you would be this late," Mr. Taslimant replied.

"You don't know what kind of morning I've had," Mr. Segura said.

On the court, it was Mr. Tao and Mr. Segura against Bill and Mr. Taslimant. Mr. Segura wildly practiced his serve.

"These are good," he said.

"Get one in at least," Bill said.

Mr. Segura won his serve when it counted and was feeling cocky. After a scandalous miss at the net by Bill, Mr. Segura won his serve at love.

"Your serve," Mr. Segura said, tossing a ball to Mr. Taslimant. "These guys are so bad, they're lucky to be in from the hospital. Let the Moroccan serve. The guy from Morocco is nervous."

Mr. Taslimant glared at Mr. Segura and, abandoning his professional obligation to play to the level of the competition, nailed a ferocious ace down the service line.

It began to rain and the match was over. Bill got on his cell phone and handed Mr. Taslimant two $50 bills. "It should all be in there," he said distractedly.

While driving back to Mr. Tepperberg's house, Mr. Taslimant reflected on his future.

"Coming out to the Hamptons, I get inspired," he said against the slap of the windshield wipers. "Weaning out of tennis is tough, but I think I'm almost there. I never wanted to become a tennis bum. A tennis pro has limited appeal. It's not like I'm saying I'm a matador. If you say you're a matador from Seville, you're going home with the girls nine out 10 times. A matador always gets the girls.

"I'd say a tennis pro ranks above a fencer and below race-car drivers and matadors," he continued. "In Europe, they're above a hockey player, but in the north of the U.S., definitely below hockey players. But being a tennis pro … there are worse things to be."

That's a shame, because as the investigation of her ex-husband's pardon intensifies–and Ms. Rich opts to exercise her Fifth Amendment privilege–Ms. Rich's songwriting career speaks eloquently for her, offering a revealing window into this woman of the moment's soul. Let's open that window and see what's inside.

Ms. Rich, who is 57 years old, is one of a handful of songwriters who rose to prominence in the early to mid-1990's, a prodigious, pre-Puffy era flush with power-ballad maestros like Babyface and Diane Warren. In addition to her songs for Ms. Cole and Ms. Dion, Ms. Rich penned hits for some of pop's biggest acts, including Patti LaBelle and the hip-hop priestess Mary J. Blige.

"When I was a little girl, I always thought, 'What am I doing on this planet,' 'What's my meaning to life?'" Ms. Rich said in a 1993 interview with music writer Gordon Pogoda. "I needed to speak the truth for myself and everyone else about the joy and pain of life. So much of music today dances around that. I think people aren't honest enough."

Denise Rich is, in pop-music parlance, a hit maker. Contrary to some people's impressions, she is not a dabbling dilettante: During her nearly two decades of work, Ms. Rich has written the lyrics (other people have composed the music) to more than 1,400 songs, and her compositions have appeared on albums that have collectively sold almost 40 million copies.

"When you put together a new CD and you're looking for material and songs, there are several songwriters that you call, and Denise Rich is definitely on the A-list," said Frankie Blue, the influential program director at 103.5 WKTU, a popular dance-music station in New York City. "She's passionate and versatile. She knows how to write an up-tempo Top 10 hit as well as a moving love song."

Ms. Rich began writing songs in the early 1980's, when she was stuck in an unhappy marriage to Mr. Rich, a billionaire stock trader. In those days, Ms. Rich would strum her guitar and compose songs in her bathroom.

As her marriage crumbled, Ms. Rich found that her songwriting improved, and she began to enter songwriting competitions and to send her songs to publishers. "There were things in my heart that I had to say, but I couldn't say to people–messages that maybe I was afraid to say or didn't know how to say," Ms. Rich told Mr. Pogoda. "I realized that maybe in my own small way I could make a difference [with songwriting]. I started getting more into the spirituality and into positive messages."

The first big break in Ms. Rich's songwriting career occurred in 1985, when Sister Sledge–the R&B group famous for the disco and Pittsburgh Pirates anthem "We Are Family"–decided to record Ms. Rich's song "Frankie" on their album When the Boys Meet the Girls. "Frankie" eventually went gold.

"Frankie" is the story of a onetime teenage couple running into each other later in life. In the song, we find some of the primal elements in Ms. Rich's technique–direct narration, unabashed emotion, conversational style–as well as the reliable musical themes of memories and love gone wrong:

You looked at me and then I blushed

Because I remembered when I loved you so much

Way back when we were friends

Going together but then you left me

Frankie, do you remember?

Ms. Rich followed "Frankie" with a bit of a musical detour. She was hired to compose a theme song for the sailing races at the Summer Olympics. That song, for the 1988 Summer Olympiad in Seoul, Korea, was entitled "The Next American Hero" and was sung by Richie Havens:

You traveled miles across the sea

To turn your dreams into reality

Braving your destiny alone

Leaving friends, family, your home …

If you've been a dreamer all through your life

And you're a believer within your heart

Hold onto your dreams 'til they all come true

Have faith, never give in, then you'll find

That the next American hero will be you.

"Hero" was an early example of Ms. Rich's flexibility, her ability to sculpt material for any artist for any occasion. It also established her as something of a hired gun for big, patriotic events. Later, in 1993, Ms. Rich would write "All I Wanna Be Is Understood," which became the theme song for the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis, Tenn. Ms. Rich's affinity for prideful occasional music recalls other songwriters like Irving Berlin, the composer of "God Bless America" and "This Is the Army, Mr. Jones."

By then Ms. Rich had teamed up with songwriter Michael O'Hara, who would become her most frequent partner, collaborating on songs for artists like Donna Summer and Engelbert Humperdinck. Two of Ms. Rich's and Mr. O'Hara's earliest compositions, "Lifeline" and "Crazy Love," appeared on R&B artist Ce Ce Peniston's gold album Finally –though the pair did not compose the album's signature hit, "Finally (It Has Happened to Me…)."

Like "The Next American Hero," "Lifeline" cannily employed nautical imagery to convey the sensation of being alone:

Baby, throw out your lifeline

I'm sinking, baby, rescue me

I'm beggin' you, throw out your lifeline

Shipwrecked with emotion

When you rock the ocean in me.

By contrast, "Crazy Love" explored the theme of sexual obsession, which would prove to be one of Ms. Rich's favorite subjects:

Touch me and my knees start to shiver

Can't help but lose control

Kiss me and my lips start to quiver

What are you trying to do to my soul

Crazy love

The way we're making love

I can't get enough.

As it turns out, no one felt a stronger, more emotional connection to these lyrics than Ms. Rich and Mr. O'Hara themselves. "We always cry when we write," Mr. O'Hara told The Observer via telephone from his studio in St. Louis. "You'd be surprised how spent you are when your heart is solid into something you write. It's very emotional. It's wonderfully draining, especially when you write about love and become emotionally involved. We cry. We laugh. We use up the tissues."

In 1996, Ms. Rich–who has written lyrics to songs for numerous film soundtracks, including Runaway Bride, Meteor Man and To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar –wrote a ballad called "Love Is on the Way," which made it onto the soundtrack of the Goldie Hawn comedy The First Wives Club. That song–a hopeful plea to keep up the search for true love–was originally sung by Billy Porter.

But the following year, "Love Is on the Way" was covered by Ms. Dion, the swan-necked Canadian who was well on her way to becoming one of the decade's biggest musical stars. Ms. Dion's version of "Love Is on the Way" was a smash success, appearing on an album, Let's Talk About Love , which sold more than 25 million copies worldwide.

At long last, Ms. Rich was recognized as a songwriting superstar.

"Anyone who has been recorded by Celine Dion is talented and sought-after," said Danny Goldberg, chairman and chief executive of Artemis Records and the former chairman of Mercury Records Group. "There are hundreds of people writing songs for a handful of top artists. When the producer, the record company and the artist get together to find someone to write a song, she's definitely one of the writers considered. She's obviously talented."

Indeed, Ms. Rich started getting very big jobs. When Arista Records heavyweight Clive Davis brought the legendary Aretha Franklin and Mary J. Blige together for a duet in 1999, Ms. Rich was enlisted, along with songwriter Gen Rubin.

"They didn't say what they wanted," Mr. Rubin said. "We both thought the song should be a conversational type of song, Aretha giving Mary J. Blige advice about something. Within five minutes we had the chorus, and we basically made it a song about Mary going through a rough relationship and Aretha saying, 'Look, this guy is a waste of time.'"

Mr. Rubin described Ms. Rich's songwriting style as impulsive yet tireless. "All the songs we write, they just kind of happened," he said. "We brainstorm and the ideas just come pouring out. We seem to be able to write songs in a couple of hours. We both throw out so many ideas off each other, and we make sure the song has a strong point of view and the right vibe for the artist. She comes up with the song concept. She's got the titles in her head already."

Mr. O'Hara agreed. "She [Denise] is so adaptable to any situation," he said. "She can come into any room with any person who has an open heart … [and] give of herself as a writer."

Ms. Rich showed that adaptability in 1999 when she wrote the song "Candy" for So Real, an album by the 15-year-old bubble-gum ingénue Mandy Moore. A three-chord paean to teenage desire, "Candy" was reminiscent of Ms. Rich's breakthrough song of 15 years ago, "Frankie":

I'm so addicted to the lovin' that you're feedin' me

Can't do without this feeling's got me weak at the knees

Body's in withdrawal every time you take it away

Can't you hear me callin', beggin' you to come out and play.

"Candy" both references and subverts the traditional teen sweet song. While that last image recalls the bonds of childhood, ironically it is the eating of the candy–itself an ornament of childhood–that becomes the symbol of maturity.

Most recently, Ms. Rich penned "Livin' for Love" for Natalie Cole. A tribute to the human need for love, "Livin' for Love" reached No. 1 on WKTU. It, too, has all the hallmarks of a Denise Rich lyrical composition–simple words, pained emotions, but at its emotional core a relentless optimism.

When she wasn't writing songs, of course, Ms. Rich was making a name for herself raising money for causes. In addition to her fund-raising work for cancer care and research, Ms. Rich was donating money to the Democratic Party. It is estimated that she contributed $1 million to various Democratic efforts, and it has also been reported that she made a $450,000 gift to Bill Clinton's Presidential library in Little Rock, Ark.

One might wonder how a songwriter–even one with Ms. Rich's success–could afford those kind of gifts. Typically, the writer of a song earns money from three sources: first, a cut of the album sales, known as the mechanical; second, a fee based on the number of times a song is played on the radio, known as a performance royalty; and third, a flat fee paid when a song is used for a movie soundtrack.

The bulk of any songwriter's income comes from the mechanicals from record sales. Ordinarily, the mechanical royalty for a writer ranges anywhere from five to seven cents for every album sold for each song on the album. According to SoundScan, albums containing Ms. Rich's songs have sold approximately 38 million copies over the past 15 years. On most songs Ms. Rich is listed as a collaborator, meaning she probably receives, on average, about a three-cent fee per album, placing her total earnings from album sales at around $1.14 million.

Ms. Rich has undoubtedly made more from performance and soundtrack fees, but it's pretty evident that her philanthropic streak isn't subsidized by her songwriting, said one prominent music-business lawyer.

"Her music money is not buying the Clinton pardons, that's quite clear," said William Krasilovsky, who co-wrote the book This Business of Music. "At her level of reputation and achievement, it isn't in the ballpark for her … at the numbers they are giving."

Still, Ms. Rich's involvement with the pardon chaos may prove to be profitable somewhere down the road. Many songwriters complain that, as success brings them fame and riches, they simultaneously travel further and further from the source of inspiration that impelled them to write songs in the first place. In her early days, Ms. Rich wrote songs in response to a deteriorating marriage. Now, a new crisis may become her next creative muse.

Judging from the avalanche of Stephen Sondheim collections released in recent years, you might think that Mr. Sondheim was no longer with us. He is, of course, still around, and still writing poignant, difficult music.

It will always be the young Mr. Sondheim the revolutionary who gave voice to the intricacies of urban relationships in such classic shows as Company and Follies to whom audiences most respond. And the good news is that the latest bundle of Mr. Sondheim's work, Sondheim: The Stephen Sondheim Album (Fynsworth Alley), focuses on that period of his career. The disappointing news is that it's just another well-rendered collection of Sondheim songs that doesn't really distinguish itself from any of the 40-odd Sondheim tributes already out there.

It's not surprising, really. Given the integrity of Mr. Sondheim's music and lyrics, it's often nearly impossible to disassociate the songs from the shows for which they were written. A successful interpretation of a Sondheim song pretty much has to sound like theater music, with big voices booming dramatic lyrics over lush harmonies provided by a full orchestra.

Over the years, the sporadic attempts to interpret Mr. Sondheim outside the theatrical idiom for instance, Company in Jazz, a version of Company done up jazz-style have sounded hollow. The only Sondheim tune that escaped its theatrical bonds in part because of Barbra Streisand, who had a radio hit with it was "Send in the Clowns" from A Little Night Music. Perhaps it's a sign of Mr. Sondheim's intense devotion to theater music, as opposed to just popular song, that it's the one song he has publicly denounced.

Then again, Sondheim is produced by Bruce Kimmel, who, amazingly, has put together nine previous Sondheim tribute albums. You would think that if anybody were ready to try some funky things with Mr. Sondheim's music, it would be Mr. Kimmel.

As it stands, Sondheim won't spark any debate on the pages of The Sondheim Review (a quarterly magazine for Sondheim junkies with too much time on their hands), but it will certainly please anyone looking to throw on a bit of sophisticated music before popping open a bottle of Chardonnay before dinner.

David Siegel's arrangements are sung by a slew of Broadway and cabaret stars, including Liz Callaway, who performs "Everybody Says Don't" from Anyone Can Whistle, and Dorothy Loudon (the original Ms. Hannigan in Annie), who tackles that great ode to perseverance, "I'm Still Here" from Follies. They don't stray very far from the original-cast album versions, with one annoying exception: a saxophone that crops up every so often to echo the melody and provide, I suppose, a "jazzy" flavor.

Actress Ruthie Henshall's rendition of "Children Will Listen" from Into the Woods is certainly heartfelt. And on the pairing of "You're Gonna Love Tomorrow/Not a Day Goes By," from Follies and Merrily We Roll Along, Christiane Noll's thin, willowy voice perfectly articulates both songs' messages of hope and despair. Less successful, I think, was Dame Edna's version of "Losing My Mind" (or, as she sings it, "Loo-oo-sing My Mind"). Ms. Edna's routine already seems dated. Like it or not, though, she's still here.

Mr. Sondheim is theater's greatest living composer, which is why I suspect the people at Fynsworth Alley wanted to mark the debut of their label with an album of his work. It's an obvious and good choice, and Mr. Kimmel, the producer, has promised more Sondheim collections to come. Let's hope he takes a few more chances on those.

William Berlind