Edgar Winter. Johnny Winter's only slightly more together brother. I saw his entourage at the Garden last year, and I don't think I've ever seen a more debauched crowd of groupies and hangers-on as ran with White Trash. Edgar and Trash have since parted company and the new Edgar Winter Group includes Van Morrison's ex-guitarist and an album. They Only Come Out at Night, a sly dig at faggotry with a cover shot of Edgar looking like a ship's prow in drag. The band is much more straight ahead rock than heavy metal funk, and this oughta be a rave-up.

Poco. Richie Furay genuinely loves this town and Boston genuinely loves Poco. I know a guy with tickets in the second row, and he's on cloud nine. And with good reason. Poco makes about the finest countrified rock around, and does it with such effervescent good humor that it's contagious. Furay and his band ooze the same good vibes that you get from the likes of Rod Stewart.

Grand Funk. There is nothing I can say about GFR that hasn't been said to excess already, except that I personally regret the fact that they come away with the best group name in all of rock. I saw them. They were wretched. I was standing in front of a massive bank of PA system speakers. I couldn't hear anything but high-pitched buzzing for two days. However, Funk is out from under Terry Knight, and that, at least, is a beginning.

James Cotton. This man taught Paul Butterfield every single thing he knows about playing harp: Cotton learned from Sonny Boy Williamson, and he was the best. James Cotton runs the best South Side Chicago blues band operating, hard drinking, stingy-brimmed, bad whiskey and worse women city blues. It's cleansing