For the Blockbuster-night afficionado, one of last year’s finest films has finally come out on video: Mulholland Drive.

A woman about to be murdered, a car crash that ironically is her saving grace, the headlights of the oncoming car illuminating her face…just perfect, fun, a rush – and then…the rest of the movie discounts that wonderful beginning and pretends like it didn’t happen.

The characters are always walking up garden pathways into secluded little bungalows that are reminiscent of fairy tales. The camera work during these scenes was nothing less than brilliant – somehow fluidly following the walkers through their garden and making these scenes come breathtakingly alive. David Lynch is saying we (as the audience) are being led down a garden path, and, as the old adage goes – he’s not going to let us in the garden (we’re never going to know what the movie’s about).

But then again, there is this strange idea that there is a plotline, an actual theme, some idea about doubling and reality versus non-reality and the hope for stardom in the glamorous yet frightening world of Hollywood.

Our actress Betty is as fake as can be, except when she’s acting, and her wide-eyed, girl-next-door charm is countered by her bleak, final act schizophrenic meltdown. Is Betty part I some idealized version of life in Los Angeles for a hopeful actress, and Betty part II some sort of reality of what actually happens to a would-be-actress? And if so how does the lesbianism/other woman doubling fit into all of this mess?

And then there’s all those little mini-plots, scenes in which characters we don’t know deal with nightmares or shoot up a whole apartment complex. These scenes, as riveting as they are, don’t fit into the puzzle. But is that part of the puzzle? Is this whole movie a post-modern joke?

The oddest thing about sitting through Lynch’s megalomaniacal id-fest was being awe of every scene, every emotion, every strange, quirky character. How brilliant, how incredible, how imaginatively strange – yet how confusing. You want to open up Lynch’s head with a razor blade, take out the brain, shake it and hope some sort of blue box comes out with a key, turn the key, and all of a sudden the last act of the movie comes out, and it’s a whole lot different than the confusing jumble we are privy too.

You’ve gotta love Coconut Grove on Thursday nights. Gallons of cheap beer, impressionable college girls and scores of fake IDs- South Florida college debauchery at its best. The problem is, I can’t help but feel the like I’m getting kinda tired of seeing the same drunken frat boys guzzling their Bud Lights, the giggly blondes stumbling around, and I swear to God, although I love the song, you can only hear Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird so many times in one night.

Whilst sipping a Guinness at Mr. Moe’s the other night, I surveyed my surroundings and realized that the repetition is killing me. Some of us welcome change.

Enter Oyxgen. Billed as a South Beach club in the Grove, Oxygen welcomes more of an older, more sophisticated crowd. Located in the Streets of Mayfair, where the Chili Pepper once was, Oxygen follows in the footsteps of the late Kiss Caf

Tonight

Concrete Blonde performs live at Billboardlive, 15th Street and Ocean Drive, Miami Beach. Show starts at 8 p.m. and tickets are $22. For more info, call 305-358-5885.

April 23

String Cheese Incident performs at Pompano Beach Amphitheater, rain or shine. Show starts at 7 p.m. and tickets are $28.50. For more info, call 954-523-3309.

April 26

Face to Face performing live at Ovation, 3637 S. Federal Highway. Show starts at 6 p.m. and tickets are $15. For more info, call 561-966-3309.

94.9 ZETA FM’s Bonzai Festival featuring Gravity Kills, Kid Rock, Puddle of Mudd, Sevendust, Rob Zombie, and Fu Manchu at Bicentennial Park, 1075 Biscayne Blvd. Show starts at 2 p.m. and tickets are $25. For more info, call 305-358-5885.

A Tribute to the Cure hosted by Corey Feldman, with Nasty Shahoulian and the Gimmix and seven other local bands at Hard Rock Caf

By the last day of the Beyond 2002 Super Festival, the musical fete that tried to blend together extreme sports and eclectic music genres, was almost surely in the red and looked to see zero profit.

It was a three-day experiment that would flame out with its dignity intact as it ended with a large Sunday helping of major hip-hop acts on the Main Stage and a midnight set by Fatboy Slim.

“I’m happy I’m not performing on the main stage,” said Slim in a conversation one hour before his performance. “We [disc jockeys] need to be enclosed, the music needs to be inside…we like it sweaty and moist with no fresh air.”

Artists and attendees alike seemed satisfied with the festival’s vast array of performances.

The single recurring complaint was the overall turnout. This left a question of whether the blame should be placed on South Florida’s music fans or on Shutdown Productions, which organized the event.

“I’m not sure why this happened,” said Todd Ross, a Shutdown producer. “But I got feedback from a lot of people who didn’t know what exactly this festival was and some, surprisingly enough, didn’t even believe it was real.”

Sports headliner Trevor Vines, one of the world’s top five motor cross athletes, acknowledged that people received “a good view of extreme sports here since Miami isn’t a hotspot for these type of events.” Vines said he was impressed by the artists’ performances throughout the three days.

“You’d think people would be really attracted to the main lineups of artists,” he said, “but I was disappointed by the amount of people that came.”

Sunday kicked off with a set by Mouse as the crowd walked around aimlessly. Most awaited the arrival of Wu-tang Clan member Method Man, whose performance was rescheduled after he canceled on Saturday for unspecified reasons. Rumors were rampant that the rapper was hanging out backstage, but after a few hours it was apparent that he would not perform. He was the only artist on the bill to do so.

“The artists have been really good, but I feel a little lost walking around,” said Jared Sorkin from West Palm Beach, who came for the full three days. “I don’t feel like there’s unity among the people and within the festival.”

Ice-T appeared later in the afternoon with his crew, SMG (Sex, Money and Guns), and attracted a larger crowd at the main stage, shoving a gust of oomph throughout the audience as he fiercely performed Get Your Dough Up.

Rocking a Philadelphia 76ers jersey, a black player’s hat tucked sideways and holding his trophy for “Pimp of the Year Award,” Ice-T came through to demonstrate a solid hardcore and gangster hip-hop show. Shouting out old-school hip hop acts such as Whodini, Beastie Boys and Run-DMC, he let loose with hits like Bang-Bang, Original Gangsta and Get It Going, stimulating the crowd with his conscious recital of insurgence rap.

“Things here are a little confusing ,though,” said Marvin Blunte, a local music fan. “Right now, Ice-T is performing, but there’s also a break-dancing competition going on at the other end at the same time, which leaves people who are into hip hop a little disoriented.”

As the sun slowly started sinking, many assembled to the main stage. Women sitting on top of men’s shoulders, exposed their chests for the cameras, warming themselves up for Snoop Dogg’s performance. In the outskirts, the crowd began its migration to the main stage as Murder Was The Case blasted from the speakers. Accompanied by laser lights, numerous associates and his uncle, who often tours with him and dances on stage, Snoop’s performance was powerful and lively. Like Busta Rhymes’ showing on Friday, he seemed unconcerned about the turnout and simply made the most of it.

Forever dedicating his songs “to the ladies,” he maintained a dynamic atmosphere, performing such Dr.Dre hits as Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ thang and The Next Episode. Pyrotechnic chronic leaves flashed on the speakers as Snoop, sporting dark sunglasses, swayed slickly with the music. An odd character named Bishop Magic Wand, dressed in a clown-like, yellow, green, red outfit and sparkling glasses, swirled around on stage.

Snoop paused at one point, and asked everyone to take a “chronic break” as his disc jockey played Ludacris’ Area Codes, allowing his crew to dance and enjoy the green fumes. Balloons were issued over the audience and Snoop made a dedication to his late friend and fellow emcee, 2PAC, before he went into the duo’s 2 of Amerikaz Most Wanted.

He followed with Gin and Juice, as Ice-T emerged, giving pounds and bobbing his head to the classic DoggyStyle. Before issuing a peace sign, he dropped some extra old-school flavor with a version of Slick Rick’s La-Di-Da-Di rhymed over Hi-Tek and Talib Kweli’s, The Blast. After Snoop came Outkast.

A white-haired Andre 3000 flew in on his mothership equipped with a space age backpack and a matching puffy white suit, while Big Boi drove down from Atlanta in his Cadillac wearing a simple plaid shirt and jeans. Their contrasting styles combined for a thunderclap of live hits like Rosa Parks, So Fresh, So Clean, Elevators (Me and You) and a sonic The Whole World, joined by Killer Mic.

They plugged their future double-compact disc release and mellowed out the crowd with smooth performances of Da Art of Storytellin’ (Part 1) and Ms. Jackson.

The spirited, lustful concert illustrated Outkast’s shrewd capacities to spit knowledge under the realm of danceable entertainment. They ended their southern lyrical barbecue with B.O.B., and detonated a war chest of lights that left white trails zooming under the eyelids.

At around the same time, Fatboy Slim started to enrapture people with his musical fantasy at the Hallucination Stage.

Fog steamed throughout the large tent while supernatural images flickered on two big screens. Judging from the ecstatic smile on his face as songs reached a climax, he really does love to operate indoors.

Walking through the field of dirt in Bicentennial Park at the Beyond 2002 Super Festival at 1 p.m. on Friday gave off the unusual aura of being at a low budget state fair. The first 100 people in attendance resembled extras from the Harmony Korine faux documentary Gummo. There were lots of mullets, hot dogs, seemingly motherless children and overweight white people rocking cornrows and extra large tie dye T-shirts.

Would Stone Temple Pilots, Busta Rhymes, Less Than Jake, Rabbit in the Moon and Outkast all have played here over in the course of 72 hours? You could have gotten high from the sketchiness in the air, but then again you probably failed to show up.

Three stages that catered to hip hop, local rock acts and electronica remained almost entirely empty throughout the first day. A “SoBe Bus Stage,” constructed beside the half-pipe to entertain vert skaters, BMXers, and observers, continuously played a mixture of Marilyn Manson and abrasive disc jockey mixes. When professional skaterboarders Tony Hawk and Andy Macdonald actually dropped in on the half-pipe and landed some tricks, it was a sigh of relief and credibility.

As the hot sun turned necks redder, Dubcat, consisting of various members from the Long Beach Dub Allstars and the ska band Hepcat, played a refreshing set of West Coast party music complete with loyal Sublime covers like Scarlet Begonias and the fitting April 29, 1992 (Miami). As their toothless, tattooed lead singer downed Heinekens, and the six other members wailed out on saxophone, drums, guitars and turntables (well incorporated scratching for once), the peaceful outdoor vibe was hard to enjoy as seven security guards stood silently in front of the stage. They wore ridiculous, instructional frowns on their faces and held their muscular arms tightly crossed; it was laughable considering that there were more dust tornadoes near the stage than people.

At 6 p.m., ska’s eternal tour horse pranksters Less Than Jake took the stage. The band’s spiky-haired lead singer, Chris, held back a giant smirk as he scanned the crowd. “I sure as hell hope Busta Rhymes brings some people out here, ’cause it looks like Miami’s going to lose their ass on this one,” he said, before the band launched instinctively into Automatic from their 1996 album Losing Streak.

A few kids skanked and got their DC Shoes dirty as the band thrashed through surprisingly energetic renditions of old material like My Very Own Flag, and two unreleased songs from an upcoming album. Originally from Gainesville, Fla., the band seemed at home regardless of who was watching and tried desperately to get the “wall” of security guards to join them on stage for beers and dancing. “You guys haven’t done sh** all day,” Chris plead. His comment received uncomfortable jeers and cold stares from men who exemplified the total opposite demographic that prefers their suburban flavored candy core music.

By the conclusion of their set, confetti was in the air and enough people had gathered in front of the stage for Roger, the band’s dread locked bassist, to risk crowd diving. As Less Than Jake closed with All My Best Friends are Metal Heads, and a toddler working for the “Gettin’ Busy” sex education campaign handed out condoms, the festival had unleashed some indefinite potential.

“Somebody say blunt, say blunt, blunt,” an intelligent member of a group called the Blunt City Crew said into a mike underneath a lonely tent at the Hip Hop Elements stage. The festival’s potential had declined, and concertgoers could only hope that the spirit of rap music’s future had taken the day off to pay nostalgic respect to one of its electric godfathers, Soul Sonic Force.

Noted for being an indirect influence on Miami Bass, the group started out with some rather suspect Dirty South booty calls. Things didn’t get interesting until they brought out their flamboyant Indian chief, monk, Zulu and Egyptian-themed costumes. Covered in orange lights and green lasers, the group passed out tons of plastic Zulu necklaces and waved giant golden Ankhs in the air. They were freaking 12 on stage before they laid rhymes over Afrika Bambaataa’s timeless 1982 anthem Planet Rock. It was a colorfully odd hip- hop performance that would’ve have made George Clinton proud.

During soundchecks, the beer vendors were doing their best business of the day, and by the time Busta Rhymes took the stage, hundreds of drunken revelers had brewed some much needed energy inside the park.

When Busta and fellow Flipmode Squad member Spliff Star ran on stage and ripped into M.O.P.’s Ante Up, Budweisers’ happy customers promptly returned Busta’s adrenaline. The dreadlocked rapper’s bellowing growl on As I Come Back, easily seduced the crowd down a path of hysterics before he calmed them with an educational lesson in melody with the Genesis hook, As we welcome you after the future…

As a Goodyear blimp went by with an American flag lit in red, white and blue, Busta had the need to stretch his rights as a citizen and smoke some weed. “Yo, can we smoke in here? Yo, police, security we can smoke weed in here?” he asked. Apparently the answer was “yes,” because Spliff Star lit up a blunt and they shared numerous tokes. Security brought out their flash lights as a puffing epidemic went air born off stage.

Busta took off his shirt, revealing a beer belly, and a girl with long red dyed hair followed his lead, revealing some Kodak worthy plastic surgery. Spliff Star doused her with Aqua Fina as Busta gave everyone a fiery round of Scenario.

He opened up a bottle of Courvoisier and started chugging as Spliff helped out with the lyrics to Pass the Courvoisier. Spliff took over from there and boasted about his Cowboy style exploits with one of last night’s groupies. Their set practically made the day worthy of a $45 ticket and Rabbit in the Moon was still to come…along with two more days of music.

Orlando’s notorious Rabbit in the Moon unveiled some entertainment that was the electronica equivalent of a big budget Gwar show. A pulley carried Bunny, the group’s frontman, over the stage in a straight jacket as he pretended to have a seizure and attempted to escape into the audience. Before their set was over, he had used a giant gun to shoot sparks over the crowd, passed out 3-D glasses and oriental flags, worn a suit of mirrors that reflected light, slain a dragon with a sword, played a theremin, had half-naked girls dance in Kabuki makeup spinning fireballs, and flexed in a muscle suit. The music consisted of a long irrelevant trance afterthought.

Walking out of the Beyond 2002 Super Festival at 1 a.m. left a recollection of arrival that was as thin as the day’s unfortunate turnout.