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Some bands take time to find their niche, continually building upon their sound and trying to improve any way they can. For other bands, however, it's the audience that is slow to catch on. Such is the case with Boynton Beach's Die Stinkin'. Formed nearly two decades ago by the lifeguard-punker duo of John Silvernail and Brian McManus, Die Stinkin' has witnessed the ebb and flow of music trends without succumbing to the urge to go with the flow that unfortunately consumes most other bands. Patience does have its rewards, and after the 2000 release of its CD The Smell Is in the Air, Die Stinkin' found a whole new generation of kids who dig its high-humored brand of punk rock. Not to be confused with the MTV variety of bland, sappy "pop-punk," Die Stinkin' is punk in the classic sense: irreverent and fun. Oh, and it's not just hardcore; Die Stinkin' serves up plenty of sweet '60s pop and surf tunes as well. At any given show, you'll hear Del Shannon's "Runaway" sandwiched between originals like "Piss Bomb" and "Liposuction." Whether you're 15 or 55, are into the Big Boys or the Beach Boys, Die Stinkin' is definitely one band you should sniff out.

Some bands take time to find their niche, continually building upon their sound and trying to improve any way they can. For other bands, however, it's the audience that is slow to catch on. Such is the case with Boynton Beach's Die Stinkin'. Formed nearly two decades ago by the lifeguard-punker duo of John Silvernail and Brian McManus, Die Stinkin' has witnessed the ebb and flow of music trends without succumbing to the urge to go with the flow that unfortunately consumes most other bands. Patience does have its rewards, and after the 2000 release of its CD The Smell Is in the Air, Die Stinkin' found a whole new generation of kids who dig its high-humored brand of punk rock. Not to be confused with the MTV variety of bland, sappy "pop-punk," Die Stinkin' is punk in the classic sense: irreverent and fun. Oh, and it's not just hardcore; Die Stinkin' serves up plenty of sweet '60s pop and surf tunes as well. At any given show, you'll hear Del Shannon's "Runaway" sandwiched between originals like "Piss Bomb" and "Liposuction." Whether you're 15 or 55, are into the Big Boys or the Beach Boys, Die Stinkin' is definitely one band you should sniff out.

No doubt about it: A good jazz guy is hard to find. The music of Diz and Bird and Miles and Mingus doesn't play as well in the subtropics as it does in some other parts of America. Jimmy Buffett is, unfortunately, more our speed. But Paul LeGrande, Rich Caruso, and Jim Chapek, who perform Friday and Saturday each week at Luce restaurant in downtown Hollywood (954-920-2500), riff in a style reminiscent of the giants of the genre. Caruso, who lives in Fort Lauderdale, has played with everyone from Luciano Pavarotti to Lionel Hampton. Chapek, of North Miami-Dade, has beat the skins with Chet Baker and Wynton Marsalis. Of course, the 2-year-old trio, which has a jones for the music, doesn't do covers. It comes up with a lot of original music and won't play anything else, says LeGrande, who lives in Hollywood and wields the bass violin and electric bass. "When someone comes in and asks, 'Will you do something by Miles Davis?' we say, no, but we'll do something with the same notes," he explains.

No doubt about it: A good jazz guy is hard to find. The music of Diz and Bird and Miles and Mingus doesn't play as well in the subtropics as it does in some other parts of America. Jimmy Buffett is, unfortunately, more our speed. But Paul LeGrande, Rich Caruso, and Jim Chapek, who perform Friday and Saturday each week at Luce restaurant in downtown Hollywood (954-920-2500), riff in a style reminiscent of the giants of the genre. Caruso, who lives in Fort Lauderdale, has played with everyone from Luciano Pavarotti to Lionel Hampton. Chapek, of North Miami-Dade, has beat the skins with Chet Baker and Wynton Marsalis. Of course, the 2-year-old trio, which has a jones for the music, doesn't do covers. It comes up with a lot of original music and won't play anything else, says LeGrande, who lives in Hollywood and wields the bass violin and electric bass. "When someone comes in and asks, 'Will you do something by Miles Davis?' we say, no, but we'll do something with the same notes," he explains.

To call Lumonics an art gallery is to do this one-of-a-kind place something of a disservice. Yes, there is plenty of art on hand, mainly in the form of "light sculptures" -- industrial plastic pieces that range from small to monumental, all illuminated either from within or from outside sources. Some of these date back to the days of co-founder Mel Tanner, who died in 1993; others were made by his wife, Dorothy, who has carried on the work she began with Mel when they first started creating their light-based art in the late 1960s. But these pieces, as extraordinary as many of them are, are just the tip of the iceberg at Lumonics. The Tanners have always called their space a "specialized sensory environment," and that environment stimulates all the senses: subtle incense to tickle the nose, fragrant teas to stimulate both nose and palate, gently pulsing lights to engage the eyes, softly glowing fountains to soothe eyes and ears, and cushiony furniture to encourage relaxation. Did we mention the light show? A visit to Lumonics isn't complete without Dorothy and creative partner Marc Billard's spectacular show, which pairs music (including original compositions) with multimedia and digital video projections and a dazzling array of light effects projected onto a huge wall in the gallery's big main room.

To call Lumonics an art gallery is to do this one-of-a-kind place something of a disservice. Yes, there is plenty of art on hand, mainly in the form of "light sculptures" -- industrial plastic pieces that range from small to monumental, all illuminated either from within or from outside sources. Some of these date back to the days of co-founder Mel Tanner, who died in 1993; others were made by his wife, Dorothy, who has carried on the work she began with Mel when they first started creating their light-based art in the late 1960s. But these pieces, as extraordinary as many of them are, are just the tip of the iceberg at Lumonics. The Tanners have always called their space a "specialized sensory environment," and that environment stimulates all the senses: subtle incense to tickle the nose, fragrant teas to stimulate both nose and palate, gently pulsing lights to engage the eyes, softly glowing fountains to soothe eyes and ears, and cushiony furniture to encourage relaxation. Did we mention the light show? A visit to Lumonics isn't complete without Dorothy and creative partner Marc Billard's spectacular show, which pairs music (including original compositions) with multimedia and digital video projections and a dazzling array of light effects projected onto a huge wall in the gallery's big main room.

Historically speaking, Monday night is clubland wasteland. After a weekend of partying, folks tend to use Monday for rest and recuperation. Most club owners and talent bookers hate to schedule bands on a Monday night, especially out-of-town acts without a proven track record in these parts. In fact, this inaugural visit from New York City's Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra could very well have ended up one of those embarrassments plagued by a pitiful turnout. Yet not only was the Culture Room filled with spectators this particular Monday evening, the pure Afro-funk energy turned them into bona-fide participants. Encapsulating the energy, spirit, and politicized venom of deceased Nigerian superstar Fela Anikulapo-Kuti, the 13-piece orchestra turned this bar at Oakland Park Boulevard and Federal Highway into a sweaty Lagos discothèque, with each and every soul compelled to dance in a most uninhibited fashion. Even after a year, just the memory of that punchy horn section and those sinuous polyrhythms is enough to make feet do a phantom tap for old times' sake.

Historically speaking, Monday night is clubland wasteland. After a weekend of partying, folks tend to use Monday for rest and recuperation. Most club owners and talent bookers hate to schedule bands on a Monday night, especially out-of-town acts without a proven track record in these parts. In fact, this inaugural visit from New York City's Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra could very well have ended up one of those embarrassments plagued by a pitiful turnout. Yet not only was the Culture Room filled with spectators this particular Monday evening, the pure Afro-funk energy turned them into bona-fide participants. Encapsulating the energy, spirit, and politicized venom of deceased Nigerian superstar Fela Anikulapo-Kuti, the 13-piece orchestra turned this bar at Oakland Park Boulevard and Federal Highway into a sweaty Lagos discothèque, with each and every soul compelled to dance in a most uninhibited fashion. Even after a year, just the memory of that punchy horn section and those sinuous polyrhythms is enough to make feet do a phantom tap for old times' sake.

Have you ever gotten a whiff of Nag Champa? It seeps into your clothes. It does strange things to you. It makes you want to turn on your black light, stare at your Pink Floyd poster, and just "be cool, man." It turns anxious Type A's into mellow love and peaceniks. Now, Afro-Cuban free-jazz groups aren't often known for a sense of humor, but this Fort Lauderdale band makes the dreaded dorm room incense (all right, now you know what we're talking about) sound clever, and that deserves a round of applause. Or, at least a "right on."

Have you ever gotten a whiff of Nag Champa? It seeps into your clothes. It does strange things to you. It makes you want to turn on your black light, stare at your Pink Floyd poster, and just "be cool, man." It turns anxious Type A's into mellow love and peaceniks. Now, Afro-Cuban free-jazz groups aren't often known for a sense of humor, but this Fort Lauderdale band makes the dreaded dorm room incense (all right, now you know what we're talking about) sound clever, and that deserves a round of applause. Or, at least a "right on."

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