As shoulder-padded, helmet-laden titans of Yale and Harvard clash on the field this Saturday, few will be worrying about who’s laying down tracks at the evening’s festivities. Fewer will be wondering which independent, student-musician supporting venue to hit up for the after-party. Music, it seems, will merely offer a backdrop for Yale-Harvard carousing; the competitive spirit and excitement of The Game takes precedence over Yale Precision Marching Band cacophony and Lady Gaga dance hits alike.

On Saturday night a handful of New Haven musicians took the stage at Firehouse 12 on 45 Crown St. with little knowledge of where the night would take them. For most people, this would mean chaos. But for the New Haven Improvisers Collective, or NHIC, this is how they perform.

Afrika Bambaataa said, “How you act, walk, look and talk is all part of hip-hop culture. And the music is colorless.” But did Dick Van Dyke fit in too?

Ever wonder what you’re going to hear at Toad’s on a Saturday night? Probably not. In any case here are four songs that you should expect to hear in the coming weeks, based on the number of radio stations that have picked them up over the past week.

This week Julian Casablancas dropped “Phrazes for the Young,” Casablancas’s first solo album and one of the best debuts I’ve heard.

The spring of my junior year of high school was the time when my musical sensibilities began to take shape. I started attending noise shows, downloading album upon album of math rock and ambient drone and exhibiting a condescending lack of interest anytime my friends tried to talk to me about music.

It all started with Trash. And by Trash, think nightclub night. No really, it was a night started by Turkish electro DJ Erol Alkan in 1997 at The End, a club in London.

Andrew McMahon lived the rock & roll dream. His high school band, Something Corporate, landed a major record deal with Geffen and sold out venues as they headlined a world tour. In August 2005, his first solo album with his side project, Jack’s Mannequin, was poised to be released, kicking off a U.S. tour.

PARIS — “Didier–Wampas–est–le –roi” (Didier Wampas is the king) echoes throughout L’Alhambra Music Hall.

You may have heard about Lil’ Wayne. He has a new mixtape out, “No Ceilings,” an album that is basically Weezy’s walking tour through post-Weezy candy rap.

The String Cheese Incident, a group of five musicians from Colorado, has proven the old adage true: the band that jams together, stays together.

With heart-wrenching (bordering on soul-baring) song lyrics, an authentic bluegrass twang, and fraternal love front and center, the Avett Brothers never apologize for their earnestness and enthusiasm. The idea wouldn’t occur to them. And their certainty makes one wonder when those qualities lost their luster.

When I heard early last year that “Where the Wild Things Are” was being adapted into a film, I didn’t really care. When I saw the first few clips in the preview, I still didn’t really care. When “Wake Up” by the Arcade Fire started to play, though, I cared.

Bruce Springsteen utterly demolished Giant’s Stadium last Friday night —­ the final event before the venue is actually torn down.

“True Grime.” Printed in 2005, this was the title of the first Sasha Frere-Jones article I ever read.

At one point over “Ally McBeal’s” five seasons, the title character exclaims, “There is no sin in loving men. Only pain!”

If you know me, you know I’m virtually senile.
Yes, I wear white cotton socks pulled midway up my shins. Yes, I spend my Sunday afternoons bird watching on my favorite bench in the Branford courtyard. Yes, I’m balding.

“Put your fucking hands in the air!” At a raging block party in the Bronx, one man stands out amidst smoke and flashing lights. That man is the notorious DJ Grandmaster Flash. Donning a large pair of headphones, he jumps from one vinyl record to another, scratching, cutting, manipulating and mixing never-before-heard beats, causing the crowd to go wild. Every so often, he reaches behind him to an overbearing stack of vinyl, frantically searching for the next record to throw on his turntable.
If only he had an iPod.

Tristan Wraight sounds passionate — over the phone. He addresses his fractured band and sick father in expectedly somber tones. Yet his stated devotion to making “gorgeous, poignant music” comes off livelier than anything on his band Headlights’ latest release.

What do drunken Yale girls want on Saturday at 1 a.m. nearly as much as Yorkside pizza and/or cock? To dance, of course! What do their plastered male counterparts desire? In many cases, sloppy chicks/other men rubbing up on their genitals — to a beat! Sadly, too many weekend dance parties, particularly those of the dorm variety, feature flaccid sound tracks. This sub-music, from such luminaries as Drake and Jay Sean, could make sober ears bleed and sober minds seek lobotomies.