When I saw Aly perform in one of the last PopCanon shows at the Porpoise, I knew the vocal rock goddess crown had passed. Or at least that we should share it during the week. Aly and I have commiserated over bandmates, toured Europe, and I even borrowed a friend's mini-van to drive her to Chicago (from Gainesville) to pick up her tuba (good times), but nothing really prepared me for how powerful and free she's become as a musician. She definitely follows her own muse, writes kick-ass lyrics, and now she's a rock chick vocalist. Plus, she's an awesome Jesus Christ Superstar baddie, trumpets and all. Gotta love that.

Her fans are going to be jealous, but those fine, tuba-toned lips of Aly's were the first I ever kissed. The scene: Her bedroom, Glen Ellyn, Ill. c. 1988, sometime after school in the eighth grade. I recall looking over her shoulder and spying the sousaphone in the corner, thinking to myself "That's going to be a weird thing to remember in 30 years." And it is. She dumped me a couple months later, so it was a pretty long-term relationship for junior high. Aly kissed a lot of boys in junior high. Also, she was a shot putter before going whole-hog into brass.