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In all of its potential for presenting flawed and misleading information, Wikipedia pretty much hits the mark when it comes to math rock. The oft-vilified source for universal information calls the genre "a rhythmically complex, guitar-based style of experimental rock music ... characterized by complex, atypical rhythmic structures (including irregular stopping and starting), angular melodies, and dissonant chords."

That sounds about right. And it's pretty much the same string of adjectives that most respectable journalists have been rearranging for years when trying to describe the sound. But the legitimate media harbors a somewhat skewed perception of North Carolina's accidental math rock foursome Polvo.

Throughout the '90s, the Chapel Hill-based group seemed like just another math rock band. Their albums were good, earnest and distinctive; but not the stuff of legend. At least they didn't seem so at the time. They were akin to the musical legacy kicked off by Slint in Louisville, Kentucky in the late '80s, which came to a head with Chicago's Thrill Jockey Records scene that dominated indie rock real estate during the Clinton years.

To say that Poison Arrows vocalist Tuk Smith has matured since his days spent jamming on plasticine punk chords with his former band the Heart Attacks isn't quite accurate, but he is more focused these days. The same can be said for the rest of the fashionable young lads who make up Poison Arrows; Mikey Portwood (bass), Joey O'Brien (drums) and Josh Hitson (guitar).

The budding glam punk crew finds former Heart Attacks cohorts Smith and Portwood exhibiting the benefits of digesting a broad swath of rock 'n' roll history that began in the 1950s and comes to a screeching halt somewhere in Britain circa 1975. Trace elements of Nick Lowe, Cheap Trick, the Boys, and Slade bare a distinct mark on the group's strutting guitars and sneering pop songwriting. Portwood decrees that he doesn't want to be thought of as a record collector band, but Smith chimes in to the contrary. "I don't want to make the same mistakes the Heart Attacks made," he says. "I don't want to be thought of as a little kid band. I would like to take it to another level where we actually write good songs and play good songs. To me the Heart Attacks were a gimmick band. I was 19 and we were crazy."

 Long-distance duo SUN CIRCLE--former Chicagoan and "laptronica" artist Greg Davis, who's now in Vermont, and Montana-based Zach Wallace, who also plays bass in Memorize the Sky with another former Chicagoan, reedist Matt Bauder--stick to sustained drones on every track of theirs I've heard so far. One piece on their self-titled debut CD-R is built around intersecting vocal chants--low, guttural notes, drawn out Tibetan-monk style and amplified till they're strident and grainy, a la Tony Conrad--but most of their material is purely instrumental, combining organ, bowed strings, and gongs in slowly shifting epics that sometimes hover and sometimes pulsate vigorously. Beneath its surface each drone swarms with microscopic activity--tiny changes in texture, density, and pitch that keep your ears busy once you surrender to the sumptuous sound.

Britney Spears, who has totally regained her hottie status, is back, and playing the St. Pete Times Forum on March 8. Here's the info:

(TAMPA, FL) - Britney Spears will bring her highly anticipated The Circus Starring Britney Spears 2009 Tour to the St. Pete Times Forum in Tampa, FL on Sunday, March 8.  The 27-city North American trek, her first arena tour in five years, follows hot on the heels of Spears' long-awaited sixth studio album, Circus. Emmy Award-winning choreographer and director, Wade Robson, is helming the incredible tour production, which also features special guests The Pussycat Dolls.

Tickets will go on sale Monday, December 8^th at 10:00am and can be purchased at the McDonald's Box Office at the St. Pete Times Forum box office and all Ticketmaster locations, via Ticketmaster charge-by-phone at 1-800-745-3000, Ticketmaster Express at 866-448-7849 (automated only self service line) or online at Ticketmaster.com. Tickets are subject to applicable service charges and event time and date are subject to change.

James McMurtry might not be a name on par with, say, fellow Texans Lyle Lovett or Steve Earle, but the singer/songwriter and bad-ass guitarist is still a revered act in the Americana world. McCurtry's latest album, the outstandingly incendiary, darkly humorous, wonderfully emotive and rustically rocking Just Us Kids, has garnered glowing write-ups in glossies such as Blender, Mojo and Entertainment Weekly, the latter of which showered the disc with superlatives like "brilliant," "hilarious" and "poignant" in giving it an A- grade. Just Us Kids is selling, too. It has reached a very respectable No. 18 on Billboard's Top Independent Albums chart.

So it's surprising when I'm given McMurtry's mobile phone number and instructed to ring him in the afternoon. Any afternoon. Easy as that, the PR person says. But I'm skeptical. Usually when dealing with an artist of McMurtry's status there's a set time, date and minute count to which, you, the interviewer, are supposed to stick. Twenty minutes is the norm.

I dial the digits and hear a gruff "hello" that could only be James McMurtry's. "Give me a moment to pull over," he says. "I've got a manual transmission." He steers his automobile into a nearby parking lot to grant an interview on a recent Tuesday afternoon. McMurtry has been driving around his hometown of Austin, running the same mundane errands you or I might conduct on an off day. He good-naturedly refers to the interview as just another duty after I apologize for interrupting his daily routine.

The Americana music icon speaks slowly. His voice is deep. His answers are straightforward and marked by an economy of words - and a drawl that reflects both his native Virginia and decades spent in the Lone Star State. You get the sense he's incapable of feeding you bullshit, and it's the same way with his music. Whether recounting the machinations of a crystal meth cooker in the fan favorite "Choctaw Bingo," or telling me how his world-famous father Larry McMurtry's one shortcoming as a novelist/screenwriter is that "he always gets firearms wrong," the younger McMurtry's words smack of integrity.

Nashville singer Raul Malo, who first made his name as front man for Music City outcats the Mavericks, rolls into town Wednesday for a gig at Joe's. On his solo records Malo has consistently nailed a retro feel, and unlike many artists treading similar turf, he doesn't come off as a creatively bankrupt hack exploiting other people's nostalgia to make a buck. With a voice like his--a gorgeous blend of keening Roy Orbison pathos and cool Frank Sinatra swagger--"retro" is the only path it'd make any sense for him to follow. It's not his fault he was born in the wrong decade.