Last week, mega-labels in Britain announced they would permit the broadcasting of a weekly chart of the top legally downloaded songs. Over here the Recording Industry Association of America, which represents stateside interests, said it would award gold and platinum status based on download sales. Both events mark quite a breakthrough. The labels have continually refused to publicly acknowledge downloading as a viable distribution tool. Like bootlegs and mixed tapes, downloading -- in all of its illicit grandeur -- was beneath dignifying. Why the about-face? We paranoids think that mega-labels are preparing to take over cyberspace. Keeping track of hot songs is the first step. Whatever's happening, it's chilling. As with the audio cassette, the c.d., and the DVD, the digital file will soon become just another medium dominated by Big Business. Rip and burn while you still can.

Now, the past.

While waiting for "I Wanna Sex You Up" to download, check out the national news. There's a storm around Elvis that's as heated as it is sorta frivolous. The fuss is over his first single, recorded at Memphis' Sun Studios 50 years ago this month. Some say "That's All Right" birthed rock 'n' roll. Others say it inaugurated the trend of white artists ripping off poor black ones. We say, lighten up. Give credit to Elvis' rockish forefathers, like Big Joe Turner, Roy Brown, and, most importantly, Ike Turner, whose "Rocket 88" is often cited as the first "real" rock record. But also tip your wig to Big E, for fine-tuning and popularizing the form -- and drawing attention to the originals. Then bygones can be bygones.

The moral of the story: It's great that thoughtful people still care about the shit that we here at the Weekly take so semi-seriously.

And now, on to the here and now.

Reach for the Starbucks

Local quintet Bastet recently won "Song of the Day" from Garageband.com, a DYI web site on which unsigned musicians post tunes for mass consumption. (The band hasn't made the U.K. test charts. Yet, at least.) The triumphant track, "Gotta Be On My Way," is the kind of Triple-A "rock" your latte-downing parents like. It's catchy, frisky, downy, and lorded over by a disaffected hippie chick. Listening to it makes ma and pa feel "hip." Fleetwood Mac? That just dates 'em. (Shiver.) Bastet, coincidentally, draws little from the 1970s, the era in which Baby Boomers watched certain artists forge crŹme bržlée from the musical sap of previous decades. No, the band feeds off 10,000 Maniacs, Sarah McLachlan, Rob Thomas' hair, and just about every other tv-jingle monger who hides the leather beneath the skin cream now to appear au courant, chic, with-it ... young. A shame, 'cause Bastet's eponymous three-song e.p. could have gone from above-average to superior with a smidgen of Bread's metropolitan yee-haw, Seals and Crofts' rococo glee, and, yes, Fleetwood Mac's coy rhythms.

Co-songwriters Adrienne Singletary (vocals) and John Skeels (guitar, vocals) coulda been contendahs. They do a lot of things well. They expertly wrap poignant, steely guitar lines around lofty vocal drama and craft arrangements that demand confident musicianship. (Can you say "The Cure"? I knew ya could.) They also manage inspirational lyricism without evoking either fields of corn or the pulpit. But they -- and the rest of the band -- sometimes screw up time signatures, a minor problem but one that you'd think these folks would've worked out before entering Killer or Filler's regal court. Grade: Solid Gold But One Mick Fleetwood Beat Away From Platinumdom

That Other, Tropicalia-Free Tahiti

Now here's a guy whose idea of selling music "online" probably has less to do with computers and more with standing in an orderly fashion with some fellow citizens at the DMV. (Underground rappers typically prefer selling c.d.'s person by person, sometimes right out the car trunk.)

With urban mysticism in his heart, local rhyme-maker Tahiti has possibly created Fort Worth's first East Coast rap record. It certainly ain't crunked. No asinine shouting and senseless insensitivity here. And it definitely ain't screwed. Nary a "pink soda" reference or sub-aqueous tempo to be found. These eight songs are plain ol' graffiti-laden NYC-ish hip-hop. The tiny, mellow tracks -- with backdrops all a-twinkle in synth chimes -- mesmerize like luminous chandeliers hanging from the Chrysler Building. The uptempo material rolls and snaps subway-style, motored by sashaying beats and gentle rock-a-bye bass lines. Most numbers highlight wah-wah guitar, female back-up vocals, majestic and comical horn riffs, assorted bleeps and bloops, and the faint echo of a glockenspiel tumbling down a flight of stairs in slo-mo. The main man's flow always scat-a-tat-tats; his lyrics consistently resonate in flavors socially conscious and gritty yet never pedantic or proselytizing. Rooted in urbane melodicism, intelligence, and party-friendliness (especially the multi-cultural, avant-garde kind), Tahiti's words prove that having fun isn't the same as acting stupid. Take note, crunkheads and ballers. Grade: Top-Shelf Hyper-Retro Modern Whimsy

Crummy

Big Joe Turner's a-howlin' and a-moanin' in his grave. He's heard what North Texas bar-blues band Big Cookie and the Crumbs has done with the style's rocking side -- and he's not happy. Fraudulent, pedestrian, and derivative all aptly describe Heartbreak Hideaway, the outfit's late-2003 full-length vanity project. Heavy production gimmickry and fancy instrumentation only heighten the sensation that musicmaking is a mere hobby for these guys. There isn't a single original idea among the six of 'em. To James Hinkle, Johnny Mack, Holland K. Smith, Robert Ely's ghost, and every other fantastic local blues musician, this c.d. offers up -- instead of myrrh and mirth -- mud and muck. Grade: Retrograde-D Pork