Don't believe the hype - it's not all sex and drugs with me.  Rock 'n' roll looms ever-large, and I've seen that vibrant beast in a cadre of cute boys known collectively as Tely.  Read this and weep, kiddies, because I was at their Oct. 5 show at The Dragonfly and I bet you weren't.

Tely is Tommy on bass and vocals, Mike on guitar, Pete on drums and Scott on keys.  They join forces to lick your funky emotions with a distinctive, sometimes oddball blend of happy-poppy-dark-moody-balls- out-introspective rawwwwwk.

The cadre of cute boys known collectively as Tely

Tommy's voice is heart-meltingly vulnerable - can we please just put our arms (and legs) around this one and take away his pain?  (His parting with eels has perhaps created a major revenue stream for some lucky mental health professional).  And though I certainly wouldn't throw the Tommer out of my bed, it's really Mike who makes me want to toss panties at the stage.  He is what's called a "feel" player - always sacrificing his ego (I'm sure the dude can shred, but he's obviously got nothing to prove) for the song.  His entrancing tone insinuated itself, chameleon-like but still magically Mike, throughout the set.  And he has those dark, lanky, turn-of-the-'70s British rock-star looks that make me INSANE (and he saw me and J. naked and wet in Malibu once, so that counts for something, dontcha think?).

Scott gets much of the credit for sculpting the band's sound that evening, his keyboards crafting some mightily affecting sonicscapes and reminding me that it's truly, happily, a post-Radiohead world.  For his part, poor Pete suffered the classic drummer's conundrum - providing leadership dynamics and in-the-pocket beats to a lot of people who just couldn't see him back there behind Tommy.  His chops did not go unnoticed by these grateful ears, however.

I suppose I could have procured a better view of the skinsman if I'd just relocated my booty (swathed as it was in a short, black, big-ole-loop-at-the- top-of-the-all-the-way-down-zipper, red-racing-striped skirt, topped off by a little black shorty workout-styled top with black-and-white racing-striped-
straps and of course, my towering white trainers - look out, Sporty Spice!).  But, the thing of it is, I was too busy frottaging my dear friend D.

I'd gone to the gig with the aforementioned J. - there's

really no better person to see a show with - and we'd hooked up with the incandescent, flaxen-haired and always dryly hilarious A., the girl who discovered Tely (back when they were known as Metromax).  Still, it was the semi-surprise appearance of D. that got me the most worked up.  Ya see, I love this boy and after a few beers (one courtesy of Mike, who gave us drink tickets, effectively making us Tely groupies - could white slavery be next?), I just couldn't help but rub up against him in a very suggestive manner.  Needless to say, I remained glued to my spot (while D. whispered very welcome compliments about my reasonably-toned-but-in-no-way- ripped "midriff").

Not that I wasn't paying attention to the show.  Au contraire!  The band ran through standout tracks "Evil Eye" (oh, that swoon-inducing falsetto on Tommy); "Start Over" (talk about your sticky hooks); "Never" (lilting, resigned, sublime - "TV time's over, father's orders"); and "Monster" (intenso, man).  They also assayed "Seize Me, Please Me," "Tighter Noose," "Supergirl" and "Spare Me" to excellent effect.  But don't trust me - check these cats out for yourself.  They have a killer record, which you can purchase for a paltry sum at their website, www.tely.net.  The site also lists upcoming shows, among other tasty tidbits of info.

Consider yourself warned:  It's only a matter of time before these guys outgrow the smaller clubs - there were at least two A&R scouts at this gig (K.W., M.R.), one of whom Tommy made fun of from the stage for trying to steal A.'s parking space - so get 'em while they're hot-but-not-too-hot.

One A&R dude, by the way, was accompanied by the spectacular B., who is apparently dating a Jewish magician she met at The Magic Castle (there's a joke there, but I haven't figured it out yet).  Having witnessed my D. display, she actually accused me of being a - cringe - swinger.  Can you imagine?!  I guess that's how rumors get started.

Also in attendance were R., the amazing guitarist who gave Ricky Martin, among many others, their hot licks (wouldn't mind a hot lick from him myself) and K., one of the club's promoters.  She seems like a dynamite dolly, with good taste in men (she was actually with R.).

And all this on a Tuesday night!

Yes, indeed, rock 'n' roll will keep us young, my girls, so open that alternative weekly and see who's playing.  Or start patronizing your local club - for a few dollars spent on cover and cocktails, you'll discover baby superstars and maybe even make a special friend or two.

Until next time, this is Carla Ridge exhorting you to rock on with your frock on!