Linda Ray

Jeffrey Foucault is the bard of small-town anywhere, his poetry rich with the details of the claustrophobic yet oddly comforting centrifuge of the "five bar street in a one church town." His worn-in voice is like an old down jacket, frayed from field labor and gritted with sawdust

Photos in the liner notes of Chore Of Enchantment present Howe Gelb's home, a spare, organically random assemblage of gear and everyday objects, within graceful, discreetly painted and inviting rooms, dated only by the lintels, which as much as stamp "genuine hardwood" on the door and

Building the Arizona Inn in Tucson kept Isabella Greenway busy for a while after she left Congress. She filled it with furniture bought from an organization she founded to provide work for disabled war veterans. Although she had hundreds of staff in several states, she personally attended to resolving issues

Say you're sick to death of blues -- same songs, same riffs, same endless, flavorless imitations by big white bands, same cynical pandering to tourists from exurbia. You need this box. Don't take my word for it. Hook up to a listening post somewhere. Forswear for