Or so one club would like to think.

One of Washington D.C.'s go-to music venues, the 9:30 Club, recently announced a ban on cell-phone photography before an M. Ward concert. NPR music blog All Songs Considered was none too pleased to be instructed:

When I walked in the front doors of the club to see an M. Ward show recently, I was surprised that I, along with everyone else getting their hand stamped, received the following marching orders: "Tonight, no photography or videos. Including cell phones." When the kind folks at the door told me that, I thought to myself, "Really? At the 9:30 Club?"

Really. Of course, said blogger took it to Twitter, and even singer-songwriter Neko Case weighed in on the debate ("Just put the phone away and watch the show. That IS why he is traveling THOUSANDS of miles to play"). But they were still peeved:

The idea of being at a club or a public event, standing around and not being able to silently share seems almost old fashioned to me.

Concert venues in New York don't have policies on this. But they should. In the same way you can't—or generally shouldn't, by unspoken rule—take photos or video at the theater, or at the opera, or at dance performances, you shouldn't be able to ruin great New York City concerts anymore with your absurd cameraphone pictures. This is, in no particular order, why:

• Your pictures aren't that great.
• You're impeding on somebody's sightline.
• You're inherently removing yourself from the experience of being a concertgoer by becoming a concert documenter, which will remove the people around you from their respective concertgoing experiences.
• Nobody on Facebook really cares all that much that you went to a concert.
• Nobody on Instagram really cares all that much that you went to a concert.
• Nobody on any social network really cares all that much that you went to a concert.
• Your bad photographs will not help you relieve the moment of the concert you missed, anyway, because you were taking a picture.
• Unless you are at a Coldplay concert, the band you are seeing probably doesn't appreciate it either, and if they see you documenting the good time you could be having, they may be less incentivized to show you a good time. Or I would be, if I played in a band that wasn't as happy to see your cameraphone as Coldplay probably is.

Put Down The Camera And Watch The Show ... Really? [NPR/All Songs Considered]

“And to think, it was by Grand Central Station I sat down and wept,” the British rock icon and former Smiths front man said to the several thousand screaming fans who had come to see him play at the stunning venue. The ornate setting was a stark contrast both to his intimate performance at the 550-capacity Bowery Ballroom less than a week earlier and his equally “downtown” Webster Hall concert the previous night.

As any fan would tell you, seeing Morrissey at a venue as small as the Bowery was something of a once in a lifetime experience, a sentiment that became immediately apparent at the onset of the show when the crowd—packed in as it was like sardines—exploded to the opening chords of “This Charming Man,” that most sacred of all Smiths songs, which Morrissey only recently incorporated into his live repertoire. Swoon! We presume this moment alone made it worthwhile for the handful of fans that had camped out overnight on Delancey Street in roughly 30-degree weather to secure a spot within arms reach of Morrissey’s shins. (Note to said fans: We get it. But people in New York City don’t show up to concerts early, so next time, it’s OK to get to the venue a little later. Trust us!)

Of course, the intense and ritualistic fandom that has surrounded this singer for the past three decades is what makes shows like his Bowery appearance so … amazing. Especially when the set list, as it does on this current tour, leaves something to be desired—partially because it includes so many of the same songs Morrissey played when he was last in New York back in the fall of 2007 for a five-night stint at Hammerstein Ballroom, save a few new additions, like the relatively obscure Smiths tune “I Keep Mine Hidden” and several tracks from his new album, Years of Refusal. (We fear, Moz, that we’ve seen you play “How Soon is Now?” ten too many times at this point. Sigh.)

As for his show Wednesday evening at the raver-esque Webster Hall—well, we’re not really sure what to say about that place, but the consensus among those in attendance seemed to be: Bad sound, bad vibes, and what was with that very pungent Nag Champa meets Christmas Tree meets B.O. smell permeating the bar area? Perhaps Morrissey said it best himself when, upon taking the stage, he wondered aloud, “Where the hell am I?” 

Fortunately, the sheer classiness of the Carnegie gig made up for Webster’s shortcomings. And what a treat it was to meet Sebastian, the young son of Morrissey’s longtime tour manager, Charlie Browne. Yes, that’s the baby Morrissey is holding on the cover of his new album, and with whom he re-emerged following one of his notorious de-shirtings.

The concert ended as all Morrissey concerts do: with a massive rush to the front and hordes of fans—most of them grown men—attempting to get onstage. Tonight, only one such individual succeeded, planting a gentle kiss on Morrissey’s cheek. But if moments like that aren’t worth the $80 ticket price, we’re not sure what is!

- Max Abelson

May is the new April! Other lessons learned this week: Not every woman can pull off the blousy-tunic-over-jeans look; starlets continue to shrink; men don't like it when you chomp down on their nuts; and it's not a cold, it's allergies. O.K .! Tonight is a special one for those in catty media circles who have been rubbing their moist palms gleefully in anticipation for the relaunch (ker- plop!) of Radar magazine, a much-hyped bimonthly ( heh, heh) publication from editor in chief Maer Roshan, formerly of Talk and New York. "It's been a long time coming," said Mr. Roshan. "I think everyone is going to be in a celebrating mood." Tonight, the ravenous, the curious and the simply bored will hit André Balazs' latest flop shack, Hotel QT, in Times Square to celebrate the magazine's first issue, which hits the stands next Tuesday. "Hopefully, people will drink and have a good time," said Mr. R. We asked which fancy celebrity types would be attending. " Everyone is a celebrity at Radar." Here we go. Sigh. Moving on, People en Español (a magazine we find more compelling than the English version) holds its "50 Most Beautiful," or "50 Más Bellos" (see how much better it is?), party at Capitale this evening. Expected to show themselves, among others, are Queer Eye's Jai Rodriguez (who may or may not be the same person as Jay Manuel from America's Next Top Model), That 70's Show's Wilmer Valderrama (Lindsay Lohan's ex) and songstress Gloria Estefan. Try to refrain from wearing glittering halters and just put on a plain little black dress, ladies. Speaking of which, go mess with the penguins' heads over at the Central Park Zoo, where black tie is required at the Wildlife Conservation Safari bash. Tiffany and Co. is being honored for something, but most importantly, there's cocktails by the sea-lion pool and dinner and dancing with the penguins and polar bears! Don't feed 'em your toddlers! Why can't all benefits be like this?

[Radar magazine launch, Hotel QT, 125 West 45th Street, 7 to 10 p.m., by invitation only; 50 Más Bellos, Capitale, 130 Bowery, 6:30 p.m., by invitation only; Wildlife Conservation Safari, Central Park Zoo, Fifth Avenue at 64th Street, 6:30 p.m., 914-235-1272.]

Thursday 19th

Revenge of the Nerds  ell, the freak shows who have been camped out in front of the Ziegfeld are rewarded with the next installment in the Star Wars saga, The Revenge of the Sith. Try to blend in and wear your best Mark Hamill haircut. Meanwhile, Operation Smile, an organization that sends volunteers to repair facial deformities, appears to be a big hit among celebs and socialites, with members of the executive committee for tonight's gala including blueblood Amanda Hearst, hot-pants Elizabeth Kieselstein-Cord and Apprentice runner-up Kwame Jackson. In a somewhat unholy union, the co-hosts for the event are none other than Mafia princess Jamie-Lynn DiScala from The Sopranos and waxy Billy Bush of Access Hollywood. The evening will include a dinner, cocktails and a runway show. The invite calls for "Evening Spring Chic," so expect lots of metallic-hued strappy sandals and floaty dresses. More Sopranos cast members and benefits are to be found stumbling around Tribeca to support St. Vincent's Medical Center. Ms. Edie (Carmela) Falco co-hosts with succulent new mommy Liv Tyler. "I don't know how they got involved, " said the refreshingly honest rep, Michael Fagan. "The money raised will go to three of our most important programs, including the neonatal intensive-care unit. It's going to be a nice, dynamic event with people from all areas in life." Meantime, not helping humanity in any sort of way (but sure to have good-looking people) will be the Cosmopolitan celebration for H. and M. (that fantastic saving grace of a store in a crowded landscape of unaffordable clothes) on the roof of the fancy-schmancy Hotel Gansevoort by the pool. Somebody dunk Maer Roshan! Oops, wrong party!

[Operation Smile benefit and fashion show, Waterfront N.Y., 224 12th Avenue, 7 p.m., 212-604-9236; St. Vincent's Medical Center benefit, Thalassa Restaurant, 179 Franklin Street, 6 to 10 p.m., 212-941-7661; H. and M. and Cosmopolitan poolside campaign, Hotel Gansevoort pool, 18th Ninth Avenue, 7 to 11 p.m., by invitation only.]

Friday 20th

Kushner ? I barely knew her! alented Angels in America playwright Tony Kushner is honored this evening for his "inspirational work and tireless commitment to the understanding and acceptance of the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender community" (frankly, that "transgender" always throws us, but it's one of those things we've decided to just let drop for this lifetime) by the Trevor Project, a nonprofit established to help gay youths and help suicide prevention. The party is at the ever-creepy Crobar, billed as a night of "comedy and revelry" with performances from Broadway's Jackie Hoffman and Sarah Jones, plus a live auction hosted by Queer Eye Carson Kressley (smells delicious) and sassy Rosie Perez. Meanwhile … is that Hillary we hear guffawing in the dark? Yes: Monica! The Musical opens tonight for a limited engagement. We can't wait to see the razzamatazz dance number entitled "Blue Dress." And if you passed on the Sith movie, take your thith-ter to see Bobcat Goldthwait's 1992 film, Shakes the Clown, the standard by which all movies about drunk clowns are measured.

[The Trevor Project's "A Totally Funny … Whatever" Charity Event, Crobar, 530 West 28th Street, 6:30 p.m., www.thetrevorproject.org; Monica! The Musical, Theatre Three, 311 West 43rd Street, www.monicathemusical.com; Shakes the Clown, Anthology Film Archives, 32 Second Avenue, www.theonion.com.]

Saturday 21st

As if New York women don't feel cowed enough by the city's army of smug mommies and mommies-to-be, who act as though they were the first generation ever to conceive today marks the start of Mamapalooza 2005 ( sigh), subtitled " A Festival for Moms Who Rock," in Riverside Park-watch out for bears!-with music from bands named Housewives on Prozac, Motherlode Trio and Momsense, as well as art and food. Speaking of which, Tribeca fires up its grills for the 11th Annual Taste of Tribeca (tastes high-priced!) with nibblies from Megu, the Odeon, Walker's, Chanterelle, Danube, Bouley and 66, among others. If you prefer latex to latkes, lurk by the New York Burlesque Festival, sponsored by the Museum of Sex (a place only German tourists and pirates frequent). Tonight at Hiro in the Maritime Hotel, there will be 40 of burlesque's "most accomplished performers from around the globe," with someone named Murray Hill hosting. Think tassels, black lipstick and redheaded guys with piquant body odor who want to talk to you about Henry Miller.

[Mamapalooza, Riverside Park South, noon to 4 p.m., www.mamapalooza.com; Taste of Tribeca, Duane Street between Greenwich and Hudson, 11:30 a.m. to 3 p.m., www.tasteoftribeca.com; Saturday Spectacular, Hiro Ballroom, Maritime Hotel, 363 West 16th Street, www.themaritimehotel.com.]

Sunday 22nd

Break out your madras and Lacoste, there's a Harvard-versus Yale polo match in-where else?- Greenwich, Conn. (Don't fret, there's a "Polo Express" straight from Grand Central … sigh.) The afternoon includes a silent auction, some no doubt tasteful-yet-tasteless food, and musical entertainment (we're guessing Whiffenpoofs, but who knows?). More city-centric is the panel discussion " The Season Dissected," about the 2004-5 theatrical season, with The Village Voice's Michael Musto, Time Out New York's David Cote and Newsday's Linda Winer, among others. Make it a drinking game and take a Rumplemints shot every time someone mentions Spamalot! Probably no spam to be found at the American Institute of Wine and Food's Champagne Gala at the pretty-ceiling'd Guastavino's, where five-course meals are paired with champagnes and fine wines. Gluttony will be followed by a silent auction, and proceeds will go to scholarships (including one called, intriguingly, the Michael Jackson Beer Education Scholarship).

[Harvard-versus-Yale polo game, Polo Express leaves Grand Central at 2:07 p.m., www.hypolo.com; "The Season Dissected," Ars Nova, 511 West 54th Street, 12:30 p.m., www.arsnovanyc.com; Champagne Gala, Guastavino's, 409 East 59th Street, 6:30 to 9:30 p.m., www.aiwf.org.]

Monday 23rd

Legend of the Paw: Chelsea art gallery and dogs-what could be better? Art for Animals, a nonprofit that supports the rescue and adoption of the furry homeless, holds a Canine Cocktail Party. "It's one of those parties you have to have fun with," enthused board member Barrie Olsen. "We're at the Gagosian Gallery, which has great pieces of art, and we have rescuers come with the dogs that are up for adoption." According to Ms. Olsen, every time they've held an event like this one, every dog finds a home. "It is the heart and soul of who we are and what we are," she said. A drink made for this event is nightclub proprietress Serena Bass' "Pink Bitch," which we don't think is named after Paris Hilton. Next! The 27th Annual American Image Awards are held at the Hyatt ballroom, hosted by none other than the uptown girl herself, Christie Brinkley. Isaac Mizrahi is being honored as "Designer of the Year" (doesn't he design only exclusively for Target these days?). Much further downtown, you got your "Tulips and Pansies: The Headdress Affair" at Bridgewaters (the restaurant, not the Jersey mall). The benefit, which raises funds for Village Care of New York (a nonprofit that organizes health-care programs for people living with H.I.V./AIDS), throws celebrities, designers, models and flowers into the mix, with a runway show of flower headdresses by various designers. "This is a very busy social season, so we have to try and make it special," said Village Care president and C.E.O. Arthur Webb. "People really get into it and make wonderful outfits and floral designs. We have judges, and it really gets competitive." Participating this year is Project Runway darling Austin Scarlett, Trump wedding planner Preston Bailey, downtowner favorite designer Alice Roi and Observer pal Simon Doonan. But, as Mr. Webb reminded us, the message is serious: "We're still fighting this godawful virus. AIDS is still vicious and will kill you if you're not smart about it."   Meep.

[Art for Animals, Gagosian Gallery, 555 West 24th Street, 6 to 8 p.m., www.artforanimals.org; the 27th Annual American Image Awards, Grand Hyatt Hotel, Park Avenue at Grand Central Terminal, 7 p.m., 845-758-5749; Tulips and Pansies: The Headdress Affair, Bridgewaters, 11 Fulton Street, 7 p.m., www.vcny.org.]

Tuesday 24th

Folk tale: For A Mighty Wind, Michael McKean(also known as Lenny from Laverne and Shirle y or David St. Hubbins from This Is Spinal Tap) and Annette O' Toole (sadly, she's not related to our would-be husband, Peter O'Toole, but she's the mom on Smallville) garnered themselves an Oscar nomination for writing the  ultra-sincere song, "A Kiss at the End of the Rainbow." Turns out the husband and wife team have been working on their act and heading to Feinstein's for a couple of weeks to entertain with songs such as "Potato's in the Paddy Wagon" and "Bingo Daddy." (Is that like a baby daddy?) Or if you're one of the handful of very smart people who have been breathlessly following The Contender (and why you people aren't watching this show, we don't understand), the final boxing match happens tonight, live from Vegas. Go, Peter Manfredo, go! Meanwhile, NBC's not renewing the show- what are you thinking, Zucker?!

[Michael McKean and Annette O'Toole, Feinstein's at the Regency, 540 Park Avenue, www.ticketweb.com; The Contender, NBC, 8 p.m.] 

Wednesday 25th

Do you own he widescreen DVD of Lost in Translation? The Boredoms, who were founded in Osaka, Japan, and have been called the "Andy Kaufman of rock" (whatever that means), play a sold-out show tonight at the Bowery Ballroom. Find a Hello Kitty shirt and some knee-high socks with turtles on them and try your luck!

[The Boredoms, Bowery Ballroom, 6 Delancey Street, www.boweryballroom.com.]

It was an hour before the night's hot-pants-wearing headliner, Peaches, was due to go on to rap about sex. But it was clear that a good portion of the hipsters and music geeks gathered around the stage were there to see the goofy kids in the costumes, because they had been shouting for the manatee song all night, clapping every time Ms. Dawson sang, "And besides, you're probably holding hands / With some skinny, pretty girl that likes to talk about bands." When they switched gears to their catchiest song, "Who's Got the Crack," almost everyone started grinning and sing-ing along: "I like it when my hair is poufy / I like it when you slip me a roofie / … Who-ooo-oooooo's got the crack?"

While it hasn't yet produced enough bands to fill a compilation CD, the downtown New York music scene is having something of a renaissance. The Strokes are the darlings of the scene, having spent the summer conquering the U.K., but there has also been considerable interest in groups like Clem Snide, the Walkmen and A.R.E. Weapons. The Moldy Peaches are the least sexy and sellable of the lot. They wear costumes inspired by their favorite video games. They aren't very good singers. They have lyrics about turds. But they remain favorites of local artists, venue bookers and music lovers in the know, who find their sheer goofiness and honesty refreshing. Last year, they opened for Cibo Matto, Girls Against Boys and Matthew Sweet, and they've opened for the Strokes in England and Japan. This fall, they'll tour the U.S. with the Strokes, stunning the poseurs in the audience with loose, semi-acoustic songs about cartoons, sailing and Little Bunny Foo Foo.

"They are not sort of amateur, lo-fi indie," said Geoff Travis, the founder and president of Rough Trade, an English independent label that once signed the Smiths and the Violent Femmes, and has recently signed both the Strokes and the Moldy Peaches. "If Lou Reed was writing these songs at this age, he would be absolutely jealous. This is really serious, world-class songwriting ... and the performance is so unusual, and it is so naked emotionally. It is very, very brave."

Stupid Taboos

On a rainy Friday two weeks after the Bowery Ballroom show, Ms. Dawson and Mr. Green were sitting at a corner table at one of their hangouts, the Sidewalk Cafe on Avenue A and Sixth Street. They had just finished a photo shoot for Paper magazine and were both eating omelets.

Mr. Green, dressed in a red shirt, brown corduroys and a shell necklace, was talking about a recent shoot they did for Gear, which ended in his defecating in front of the photographer. The photographer had wanted to shoot the band doing something "ironic," like sitting on toilets. "I just had to squeeze a turd out," said Mr. Green. "And it occurred to me at that moment that somebody was taking a picture of me shitting and, like, wanting to publish it."

Ms. Dawson, dressed in a ratty gray T-shirt, baggy shorts and platform sneakers, was not impressed. "I think that people freak out a lot about stuff that is natural."

"Me and Kimya are both really into breaking taboos that we think are stupid, and keeping taboos we think are bad," said Mr. Green. "We're both pretty moralistic."

"I can stand in front of a group of people and pee my pants and go home and take a shower, and it is not a big deal, but I also try really hard not to be a mean person," said Ms. Dawson, her massive puff of hair making her look like a particularly nice clown.

Taboos and niceness drive their work. Some of the lyrics on their eponymous debut album, due out on Sept. 11, is gross-out for gross-out's sake–which has something to do with the fact that some of the songs were recorded six years ago, when a 14-year-old Mr. Green was given a four-track recorder for his birthday. (He and Ms. Dawson met when he was working at Pizza Pizzazz in Mt. Kisco and she was working at the record store down the street.) On "Downloading Porn With Davo," they sing in their deadpan style: "Sleepin' in a van between A & B / Suckin' dick for Ecstasy / Paid a 70-year-old hooker to make out with me." Et cetera. But on the preceding song, Ms. Dawson sings in her flat, husky voice, "All I want to do is ride bikes with you / And stay up late and maybe spoon," offering an original alternative to that other Peaches.

This is the kind of music that New York needs right now, septuagenarian hookers and all. There's nothing really cool about the Moldy Peaches. If you put this music on at a party, it might lower your hipness quotient. It's catchy and funny and the recorder solos are a nice touch, but the beat can get messy and you definitely can't dance to it. The songs are honest, but honest about things most people don't want to admit to. ("I smell myself to make sure I'm still there," Mr. Green sings on "Goodbye Song." "I don't want to talk when my thoughts are true.") In the end, the Moldy Peaches sound like what they are: two kind of shy, kind of weird kids fucking around with a four-track. The beautiful people can turn their ears elsewhere–as they did when the Moldy Peaches opened for Matthew Sweet in March. Matt Hickey, who booked them for the slot, recalled: "That went terribly. Half the room was for them, half the room was confused and the other half wanted to throw things at them."

'We're Really Real'

"I think we sing the way people think," said Ms. Dawson. "We don't censor ourselves, and the songs are just like this real youthful innocence clashing with dirty fantasy." (On "Steak for Chicken," Mr. Green sings, "Who mistook the steak for chicken?" To which Ms. Dawson responds, "Who'm I gonna stick my dick in?")

"I think a lot of people really like the music because it is imaginative," said Mr. Green. "I think that they like going on a little head trip. I think that most songwriters don't really do that to you unless they spend their time writing really clever lyrics. And unfortunately–but maybe fortunately for us, but unfortunately for the rest of the world right now–there just isn't that many people that go up onstage and do that for you."

When talking about their social set in New York–a group of singer-songwriters who hang out at the Sidewalk Cafe in the East Village on Monday nights for the "anti-folk" open-mike night that launched Beck over a decade ago–Ms. Dawson raved about how supportive the scene is, with its cozy "chamomile campfire" chats, while Mr. Green noted that it isn't the epicenter of hipness. "A lot of people feel like it isn't James Dean enough," he said. "Like because it isn't mean, it isn't cool."

Standing apart from the hip crowd seems to come a little more naturally to Ms. Dawson than Mr. Green. On "D.2. Boyfriend," a hyper song about a lonely middle-school girl who doesn't have a boyfriend in Duran Duran, she sings, "If you are a kid and no one will play with you / Stick it out, stay tough and you'll turn out super-cool."

When not flying around the world with the Strokes ("We're really big into hugging and so are they," said Ms. Dawson), Mr. Green, who dropped out of film school after one semester, lives in a parent-subsidized apartment on West 58th Street and occasionally sells T-shirts at the Bowery Ballroom for $50 a night. Ms. Dawson lives in Bedford Hills with her parents, who run a day-care center out of their house (which explains her collection of costumes). "I love living in a place where I wake up at 7 o'clock in the morning and there are 12 little kids in my house who want to play," said Ms. Dawson. "Yesterday, for 30 bucks, I drove this 8-year-old to his play-therapy group out in Croton, and he had, like, an amazing imagination: He and I would make up stories and songs in the car and stuff."

Which is basically how the Moldy Peaches were formed. "I wanted to go see shows when I was 13, and I was too young to go to the city by myself," said Mr. Green. "And Kimya was the only person in town who was interested in the same kind of music. The first show we saw was the Make Up and Dub Narcotic [Sound System]. So Kimya kind of started off more like baby-sitting me, and when she was baby-sitting me we would come up with ideas for songs and jingles that we would sing to each other …. There was a middle period when we wrote 'Steak for Chicken,' 'Who's Got the Crack,' 'Lazy Confessions' and 'Lucky Charms …. "

And that's the Moldy Peaches: two kids who vacillate between sweetness and crudeness, singing songs more for each other than for anyone else. Their fan base relates to both sides of the band. "Of course, we get people who are like, 'Yeah dude, sucking dick! Woo-hoo!'" said Ms. Dawson. "And then we also get a lot of people who have been really isolated in their lives and left out. A lot of people really relate to being a misfit. I think we're really real."

"I think people really connect with the sheer emotional honesty of it," said Mr. Travis. "The fact that they are talking about stuff that doesn't get talked about, and they do it in such a good way. And the musicianship–it looks pretty artless but it's actually not, in a way that people do a painting that sometimes looks just like a few squiggles, but they can really paint if they want to."

Now 48, Mr. Richman has a Dorian Gray-like stage persona-boyish, ebullient, passionate. (He did sport a rumpled suit with his T-shirt, instead of his trademark jeans; maybe they were in the wash). Accompanied by drummer Tommy Larkins (who stood behind a tom-tom, snare and cymbals-it would be a stretch to call it a drum kit), Mr. Richman gyrated spiritedly, like an earnest teenager trying out for a funky cheerleading squad.

When the crowd clapped along, he encouraged them: "If you're not going to dance, at least clap. It warms up the atmosphere."

According to conventional wisdom, Mr. Richman threw away a promising punk career-having recorded the classic "Modern Lovers" album at age 21, in 1972-and withdrew into a strange childlike world, trading in searing garage-rock about obsessions and psychoses to mindless piffle about the Ice Cream Man.

But in fact, Mr. Richman had precociously perceived that, in the long run, it was punk music that would seem like greasy kid stuff, and that his homespun homilies would prove more enduring. (He stated as much on a monologue delivered on the 1991 live album "Having a Party With Jonathan Richman," disparaging his earlier snottiness.)

Of course, he still admires the Velvet Underground; in his musical paean to them, performed on March 4, he commends their "sound as stark as black-and-white stripes." And for every tossed-off ditty extolling parties or the corner store, Mr. Richman is still capable of going deep and dark. Performing songs like "Affection" and "Let Her Go Into the Darkness," he tossed off perceptive, mature philosophy disguised by deceptively singsongy riffs.

After years of rejecting his roots, Mr. Richman now dips into his punk catalogue in his live act. (On March 4, he played "Girlfriend.") The songs seem neither like artifacts nor towering achievements that dwarf his later work, just part of the same heartfelt oeuvre

Mr. Richman doesn't grant many interviews or get personal on stage, but fans know his marriage broke up several years ago, and that jolt seems to have reinvigorated his songwriting. He's penning lyrics from present-day uncertainty; his last album was called I'm So Confused . And "You Must Ask the Heart," whose conceit is that it's being sung by the listener's brain, counsels: "Don't ask me about love, 'cause I'm just the wrong guy. I don't know how love happens, and I don't know why."

New numbers introduced on March 4 included "Couples Must Argue," "My Heart Needed Repair When I Met Her," and "I'm Not Obsessed With Her" ("It's strange, if you know me," he sang. "Is something wrong?"). On the lighter side, he also uncorked a brilliant two-minute rocking summation of the attitude of his hometown, Boston: "It's great/ it's cold/ it's hostile/ you asshole!"

Sometimes Mr. Richman's songs backtrack from their initial promise; instead of following a great idea through to its conclusion, he'll just repeat verses, or sing them again in Spanish. But-as with "Couples Must Argue"-the ideas are so great, you cut him some slack.

There was a bootlegger taping show, which seemed odd. Jonathan's appeal is so much about being in his presence, watching him. Despite noble attempts to bring him to a wider audience-by Conan O'Brien, the Farrelly brothers, even Mr. Richman himself, who has re-recorded neglected classics from deleted albums-he remains too quirky for mass consumption.

Like those of the Grateful Dead or Bruce Springsteen, his infrequent records don't do him justice; he needs to be seen to be believed in.