by CHRIS BARRY

It was maybe a year ago that I accidentally tuned in to CHOM one Sunday night to hear the greatest rock 'n' roll radio show to grace the local dial since, sheesh, I dunno, Live Earl Jive? Big Star, the Hives, the Chocolate Watchband, the Shangri-Las and a whole bunch o' shit I'd never heard before but actually liked. I was blown away.

The radio show I'd stumbled across was Little Steven's Underground Garage, syndicated on 138 radio stations around North America and, amazingly, picked up here by a station that even in its ostensibly "cool" heyday in the early '70s was never really all that cool. Trust me, I was there. I remember.

You know Little Steven, right? Guitarist in Springsteen's band, producer of countless cool records, the guy who plays Silvio Dante on The Sopranos? Yeah, well, he's on a crusade to re-introduce "real" rock 'n' roll to the world. He's fashioned himself in to some sort of rock 'n' roll missionary, or better, revivalist, and he's so on the money taste-wise I don't even want to make fun of the indisputable naiveté that inspires one to attempt something so clearly impossible as re-popularizing rock 'n' roll. And that's not only because I want his radio show to do well, but because the guy just put together the most amazing rock bill I've ever borne witness to. Get this - the Stooges, the New York Dolls, Bo Diddley, the Raveonettes, the Pretty Things, the Creation, the Fleshtones, the Strokes, the list goes on and on, a full day of acts, not a truly bogus band among them, all for a measly 20 bucks.

All dolled up

Last Saturday, 16,000 likeminded rock 'n' roll fans, myself included, gathered outdoors on Randall's Island in an overcast New York City for the first-ever Little Steven's Underground Garage Festival. We were under constant threat that, God forbid, Hurricane Charlie might make its way up to NYC before the newly reformed Stooges hit the stage. A bit of a drag in that most of the minor acts - and on this bill, by minor we're talking 'bout bona fide icons like Bo fuckin' Diddley, who, by the way, has incorporated one hell of a wacky rap element into his act - were relegated to 10-minute sets in order to get headliners the Dolls, Strokes and Stooges on stage before the inevitable downpour.

But that's cool. Hey, I don't need much more than 10 minutes of the Raveonettes to get the idea anyway. I dig 'em, but I betcha I'd be digging them a lot less this week had I been subjected to a full hour of that vocal harmonizing gimmick they always do. Besides, back in the day you'd always have, like, 20,000 bands doing two or three songs each before a headliner like the Beatles, or, um, the Haunted came out. You've just gotta approach it like a promo CD sampler - you get an idea of what the band's about, and if you care, you go back and buy the album for more. And in the context of a live festival, hey, if something stinks, well, praise the Lord, you've only gotta suffer through three songs.

I'm standing around having already decided that there ain't no way "the Dolls," given that three-fifths of them are dead, can possibly be any good. I'm convinced the most anyone can hope for is a trip down memory lane à la Sha Na Na. But they get on stage and are amazing. My old bud Sam Yaffa from Hanoi Rocks is playing Arthur Kane and some other guy with big hair nobody recognizes is doing Johnny Thunders. They play a half-hour set of their "hits" - "Trash," "Personality Crisis," "Jet Boy" etc. David Johansen looks, sounds, is great. These new Dolls do the seemingly impossible and pull their set off with dignity. Sixteen thousand people who know every single note of every single song the Dolls ever played roar approvingly. "All hail rock and roll," we cry!

Still your dog

Less than five minutes after the Dolls leave the stage, the Strokes come on to play variations of their one song for half an hour. The audience, a healthy mixture of older East Village types and Strokes-loving teens, responds enthusiastically, but as the first spattering of rain starts falling, all I and anyone over 14 want them to do is get off the stage so the Stooges don't get rained out.

Finally the Stooges appear, Ron Asheton banging out the chords to "Loose," it's almost like seeing the Stooges for real, not some cynical reunion deal done strictly with money in mind. Iggy is singing like a kid again, faithful to his blues roots, none of that Sinatra please-gimme-an-MTV-hit kinda baritone voice he's employed the past 25 years. There's actual passion in his voice. He screams, he barks, he really sings, man, like you figured he couldn't do anymore. And the Asheton brothers, along with Mike Watt on bass, well, come on, man, they're the Stooges - possibly the greatest band ever. They do a half hour set of material culled from their first two albums, and the title track from Iggy's Skull Ring, closing off with "I Wanna Be Your Dog." Sure, it isn't 1970 at the Electric Circus, but the Stooges are brilliant in any cultural context. Besides, who cares? Who better to do a tribute act to the Stooges than the Stooges? I leave exhilarated, thrilled.

So I say this: God bless you, Little Steven Van Zandt, you may only be preaching to the faithful with all this rock 'n' roll as religion stuff, but we faithful are plenty glad you've decided to take on the challenge. I gave up long ago.

Little Steven's Underground Garage airs every Sunday, 10 p.m. to midnight, on CHOM 97.7 FM

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