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It's fun to imagine that My Morning Jacket's Jim James composes his songs by wailing into an abandoned railroad tunnel, his beard moist with sweat, his corduroy sport coat flapping rakishly in the updraft. Sadly, it's more likely that he and his band just sit around with a guitar and a tape recorder. But a group with such an epic sound begs for a myth of its own.

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Ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for the Owen Wilsons of rock, the guys who look like they'd be hanging out at our houses eating chips and salsa and laughing at terrible local TV commercials if they weren't, you know, incredibly successful.

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No man should have to scream forever. Except maybe Charles "Frank Black" Thompson, who could make a comfortable living doing nothing but spazzing out with his reconstituted Pixies on the nostalgia circuit. Admirably, though, he keeps trying to redefine his solo work.

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Aren't you sick of hearing about how Seattle's liberal latte-lickers don't understand Cheyenne's conservative lager-lifters?