"Nobody Does It Better," Carly Simon, from The Spy Who Loved Me

A perfectly saccharine 1970s Marvin Hamlisch that has next to nothing to do with spying, but for a shoehorned-in reference to the movie's title in the first verse. It could have been awful--but why'd it have to be so good?

"Goldfinger," Shirley Bassey, from Goldfinger

The haughty pronounciation of "Gold-fing-ah" and the shrieking of "Gold" at the end make this the most manic, and best, of Ms. Bassey's singles.

"The World is Not Enough," Garbage, from The World is Not Enough

Both operatic and weirdly icy, as fit the high-baroque, technology-obsessed Pierce Brosnan era.

"A View to a Kill," Duran Duran, from A View to a Kill

The very opposite of Shirley Bassey's timeless diva-belting, this is about as 1980s as it gets. It also makes the most gleefully nonsensical use of the movie's title out of any of these songs: "All we see is a view to a kill" is a lyric wallowing in how little it's trying.

"Die Another Day," Madonna, from Die Another Day

Sorry, it's true (or at least arguable): this is the best or at least most crazily committed thing that Madonna has done this century, and it gets special dispensation for that alone (most artists' Bond tunes, Paul McCartney, are tossed-off).

DISHONORABLE MENTION:

"Another Way to Die," Jack White and Alicia Keys, from Quantum of Solace

Speaking of just tossing off a subpar single: you can practically hear Alicia Keys counting her money as she sings.

A few years ago, I was at a kicking Grammy Awards party in a Los Angeles mansion hosted by music company EMI, which was then in the midst of a ditched merger dance with Warner Music. As a journalist covering the merger, I was on the List, and my privileged status granted me access to the cordoned-off VVIP level, which featured better drinks, bigger shrimp and prettier people. Then, to my consternation, I discovered that there was somewhere even better--a VVVIP third level so rarified that even the top execs of EMI and Warner had trouble talking their way in. It was accessible only via a staircase guarded by burly dudes with earpieces.

As the suits disappeared up that stairway and I was left behind, all the free drinks and Hollywood dazzle in the room seemed subpar and desolate. I made it my mission to get past that velvet rope to see what was happening upstairs. Eventually, there was some kind of random distraction and I climbed over a banister and made my way up. Once there, I grabbed a drink, tried to blend in and found ... not much of anything. About 30 famous people were sitting around--Courtney Love, Lenny Kravitz and billionaire Paul Allen among them. But beyond its specialness, there was really nothing special about it. I went up to Simon Le Bon from Duran Duran and said hello. He smiled wanly.

The lesson, of course, was that the real thrill was in the act of getting in somewhere that I wasn't allowed and didn't belong. The risk was that I would be tapped on the shoulder and denied or, worse, tossed to the curb.

Now a proposed law is making its way to the California Senate that threatens to take all the fun out of  party crashing by making it illegal, punishable by a $1,000 fine or six months in jail. The state law, introduced by an assemblyman whose district includes the Rose Bowl and who used to work in the entertainment industry, has been greeted outside of California with the usual hoots--is this what those West Coast looneybirds are wasting their time on while their economy is teetering on collapse, their school system is in ruin and their health care is a disaster? My first instinct on hearing of this was to think of a whole new category of Hollywood-party-related legislation, covering everything from annoying cell phone banter to bad outfits to overpriced valet parking. And yet the proposal is not as ludicrous as it might sound. Unlike New York, where people have a grudging respect for personal space (because there is so little of it), the Los Angeles events-and-party industrial complex has a long history of people who don't understand boundaries, from paparazzi and TMZ camera crews to celebrity-crazed fans. This has been a boon for private security forces, but apparently this new law stems from an incident at the Screen Actors Guild Awards last year, where some unruly people snuck in and were arrested but there was no form of trespass as defined by California law that they could be easily charged with. Apparently, these laws predate Brangelina and date to an age when disputes about rural land were at issue. For example, there are forms of trespass defined under the law for cutting down wood, leaving gates open or carrying away oysters (presumably not off of a buffet table).

I spoke with Assemblyman Anthony Portantino (Democrat from Pasadena), and he made a reasoned argument for the change, calling it "a flaw in the law that needed to be corrected." But I asked him if he'd ever known the shivery thrill of sneaking into a party where he didn't belong--the equivalent of asking if he'd ever inhaled. "I've never broken into an awards show," Mr. Portantino said. Ah, that explains it.

Feeling a bit hungry? "Hungry Like the Wolf," that is, (couldn't resist!) for some Duran Duran? Satisfy your appetite on May 30 and 31 when the iconic new wave quartet plays Rumsey Playfield in Central Park. [On Sale: Friday, March 21 at 10 a.m.]

Everyone's favorite British electro-pop band, Hot Chip, plays the Music Hall of Williamsburg on April 8. Sounds to us like it's going to sellout, so be sure to hit up Friday's Ticketmaster pre-sale (password=madeinbrooklyn). [On Sale: Friday, March 21 and noon]

For ye of the Northwest indie rock persuasion, Portland's Laura Veirs plays the Bowery Ballroom on May 22. [On Sale: Friday, March 21 at noon]

And experimental noisemakers Black Dice play the Music Hall of Williamsburg on April 25. [On Sale Today]

THEATER

Michael Murphy's The Conscientious Objector just opened at The Clurman at Theater Row. Directed by Carl Forsman, the play tells "the troubling story of dissent in America during a time of war," focusing on Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s role in the anti-Vietnam War movement. [On Sale Now]

Playbill reports:

But that’s the beauty of hitting Amy Winehouse (as opposed to, say, Anna Nicole) rock-bottom: There’s no shame more promising for the fall season than being publicly laughed at by Rihanna, 2007’s ungodly New Wave–R&B C-3PO who would indeed short-circuit beyond all repair if spritzed by the tiniest drop of rainwater. As those fraught Stoli vodka ads admonish, choose authenticity: Ms. Spears’ long-awaited fifth studio album—it of the really quite excellent “Gimme More,” produced by prolific Timbaland apprentice Danja—is still scheduled for a Nov. 13 release, though one can’t help but point out that’s just around the date Guns N’ Roses’ Chinese Democracy was supposed to come out last year.

Speaking of Timbaland, and b(f)f Justin Timberlake—it’s unclear who’s whose wingman, but I’m pretty sure the two have contributed more to the G.D.P. than International Paper has the past few quarters—both are said to have lent a hand and/or falsetto on Duran Duran’s Red Carpet Massacre (also Nov. 13). The New Order resurgence was entirely warranted, and the Blondie revival totally overdue, but Le Bon & Co. is truly a synth line too far. If Gen Y sincerely wants to groove to the tunesmiths that accompanied its conception (pretending, for the moment, that our parents were cool), much better to stick to Siouxsie Sioux’s first (!) solo album Mantaray (Oct. 2). Here’s predicting Siouxsie’s time has come: the former proto-goth Banshee provided a major plot point in last year’s Notes on a Scandal—you know, the Oscar nominee about a boy who seduces Cate Blanchett’s irresistible, brittle MILF.

Still, fear not, history hasn’t entirely ended. Now that the interminable Kanye West–50 Cent Sept. 11 pissing contest is out of the way, radio-friendly hip-hop can reassert its rightful place against the barricades. For sure, it’s questionable that an album audaciously titled Voice of the Young People (Oct. 22) is coming from an artist noted for a Dadaesque novelty hit about lip gloss and a nom de guerre that promises maternalism in miniature. But what a Dadaesque novelty hit about lip gloss! Seventeen-year-old Brooklyn M.C. Lil Mama obviated the need for High School Musical 2: Here was the youth in all its mundane glory—postfeminism, post–hookup culture, smart girls will still genitalize their mouths for attention, but only if the S.P.F. is up there and the taste is kind of pleasant too. Lupe Fiasco mined similar, if more outwardly sophisticated, territory on last year’s lovely, languid Food and Liquor. If there’s any justice, sophomore LP The Cool (Nov. 20) will deliver his clever, unassuming raps about age-old petit bourgeois anxieties from the shadows of high-profile patrons Kanye and Pharrell Williams—certainly, Lupe’s the only member of the trio who still seems more fit to roll by on a skateboard than a Segway. To pair The Cool with something decidedly uncool, try In Our Bedroom After the War (Sept. 25) by the Montreal indie pop quintet Stars; in its own way, it’s just as dreamily perceptive regarding the entanglements of being somewhat young and vaguely oppositional in our new urban gilded age.

Now, back to the past. There was, after all, little more emblematic of the utterly preposterous 1990’s than vocal pop’s octave-range arms race. Four octaves! Five! Six! Up and up the numbers went, like so many Pentium megahertz counts. In these more sober times, two of the prime belligerents warble back onstage. Pick your anachronism: Celine Dion’s The Woman in Me (Nov. 13) or Mariah Carey’s as-yet-unnamed 11th album (Nov. 20). Either way, expect more melisma than melodies. Less willfully oblivious alternatives (that’s a good thing) include the actually human-sounding balladeer Keyshia Coles (Just Like You, Sept. 25) and the cooing former chart-topper Ashanti (The Declaration, Dec. 4), still licking her wounds from foolishly betting on Ja Rule during the last 50 Cent gauntlet-throw.

Meanwhile, the brother–sister act the Fiery Furnaces are set to release their sixth full-length, Widow City, on Oct. 9. Once a promising duo, the Furnaces have, on recent releases, devolved into something of a hipster Donny and Marie (that’s not a good thing). At least some things are consistent: Expect the Weakerthans’ Reunion Tour (Sept. 28) to be beautiful, literate, wispily-knowing guitar rock—and to be immediately overshadowed by higher-concept bands with less utilitarian haircuts.

Also, to put Britney’s recent travails in a little perspective, bet you didn’t know there was a Backstreet Boys record coming out soon (Unbreakable, Oct. 30).