Like being called the Michael Jordan, Picasso, Michael Phelps, or Tiger Woods of anything, being the Beethoven of what-have-you is a rare honor. It is the highest praise. And—unlike taking on the name of Tiger—it’s unlikely anyone means to call you a philandering man-whore to boot.

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Steinman’s songs have some core values to which they adhere rigidly. There are the grandiose arrangements. There are the verbose lyrics, featuring metaphors so heavy-handed you could spot them from Pluto. Said lyrics usually feature some repetitive phrase that pounds into the listener with subtlety of a jack-hammer.

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It’s no revelation and it certainly ain’t no ancient Chinese secret. It is raw rock and roll with a modern twist. It’s smart garage rock that’s an angrier take on the classic Modern Lovers sound. It’s arty enough to appeal to the Velvet Underground fans and raw enough to reel in the punks.

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Keith Moon was so memorable that his name still resonates as a metaphor for insane energy, out-of-bounds exuberance, and Olympian talent. The words of this anonymous writer have gone totally unheeded: “You can’t call yourself ‘the Keith Moon’ of anything until you’ve driven a Rolls-Royce into a swimming pool.”

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Over the past ten years a plague has spread across this fine country. It is a sickness driven by blogs, websites, music magazines, listeners, fans, and musicians alike… It is the constant use of the “H-word” to describe music fans who enjoy bands such as Grizzly Bear, Vampire Weekend, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and their ilk.

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When Benjamin Orr, bassist and sometime lead singer for The Cars died in 2000 at the age of 53, it didn’t take long for DJ’s to find a song to pay him tribute. They chose “Drive,” Orr’s signature performance on the heartrending ballad that showed the Boston band hitting the peak of their career.

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