Liz Phair doesn’t need your stinking “indie cred.” She’s not nostalgic for her bad-girl years. And she’s back with her best album yet.

The lost Beach Boy's favorite things—Phil Spector, Arthur Koestler, and Celine Dion's legs.

Lincoln Center’s latest attempt to rebrand the classics threatens to gum up the Mostly Mozart Festival.

Emmylou Harris is building her legacy. And when she returns to town this week, she’ll revisit her past as a New Yorker—when she sang for her supper and waitressed on Wall Street.

For blues-tinged chanteuse Lucinda Williams, even a two-week love affair can yield a new song. Or five.

Remember Michelle Shocked? (You know: the punk-bluegrass artist with the big mouth.) She’s back—sane, sober, and rueful after years in the wilderness.

If Flannery O’Connor had been 20 when I was 20, I probably would have proposed to her.

Nerdy found-sound duo the Books faces its biggest conceptual change: playing live.

He played “Pump It Up” hotter than I’ve seen in his whole career, which I’ve followed since 1978.

The folky songsmith discusses great artists and synchronicity. Just don’t call her a poet.