[A] Good choices all, obviously, although I wouldn't be so quick to grab the Velvets (who I did see several-plus times during their justifiably legendary Danny Fields-conceived Max's stay in 1970). But to be truthful the only rock act—putting JB in a category of his own (and yes, I did see him at the Apollo early on)—I couldn't give up would be an early Beatles show, preferably in the UK '63 or '64 though I'd settle for Shea Stadium. That's because I'd go for jazz: something like the Coltrane-Dolphy gig I describe briefly in my memoir plus pre-Charlie Rouse Monk (not that there was anything wrong with the Rouse gigs, some dozen of which I attended, just to catch Sonny Rollins or someone comparable), and, hell, Charlie Parker with Dizzy Gillespie anywhere.

[A] FWIW, which is not much, none of those choices yells A plus at me, although any of them might plausibly qualify. But really, the only way to tell is to catch yourself raving when you put it on, whether because for some reason you're essaying a career lookback at the artist in question or because the album in question migrated into your hand for no better reason than impulse.

[A] Fact is, there's not a lot of country on my radar—didn't even know who Billy Strings was. And in general I'm not a bluegrass guy, which is not a judgment just a matter of taste—sounds too folkie. While for sure what I value most in country music is such singular vocalists as Jones, Williams, Parton, Cash, Lynn and the colloquial, connubial, humane, hard-edged songwriting they imprint on musical history. So out of respect and curiosity I Spotified Billy Strings's Live at the Legion as I went down for a nap and as I figured found it enjoyable but not remarkable when I was conscious. Excellent "Tom Dooley" and "Don't Think Twice," give you that.

[A] Can't be sure but I doubt it, because while Hayes's professional skills have long been a matter of bizwise critical consensus, it's more the pro in me than the fan in me who's signed off on his rep. Also, I don't exactly know what that "pop faith" remark means exactly. But on the other hand, my personal loyalty to Swamp Dogg, real name Jerry Williams, has never flagged—pretty sure I was the first reviewer to note his existence on his 1969 debut. And the documentary, one of whose producers is the now Austin-based Paul Lovelace, an old friend who did a student documentary on me when he was at NYU circa 2000, is both a hoot—it really is about his swimming pool—and a revealing look at the world of r&b studio musicians.

[A] The simple fact is that I quickly came to prefer CDs. For decades I used a changer all the time, often but by no means always stacking LPs and listening half-album by half-album, though for sure I carefully and pretty much punctually I stacked the B sides of anything with an A side that caught my fancy (while never again hearing many albums that failed to grab me). For a long time I thought a 20/25-minute running time was more "natural" than 45-60, and for sure one's attention does flag over the near-hour or more so many CDs last. But I've learned to adjust in various ways. And I'm not the kind of audiophile who claims vinyl still sounds "warmer" or however that cavil is worded.

[A] Unfortunately, the details of this project, which involved a trip to LA when Nina was so young my fondest memory of the entire enterprise is walking her to sleep on the plane, and then rather later a trip to Minneapolis with different principals, has faded from my memory. There was always something screwy about the whole deal. Expect that some sort of physical pilot survives on a shelf somewhere. The producer didn't really seem to know what he was doing. I liked meeting Pond though.