So I'm at one of these parties, the kind the marketing people put together every once in a while with a voluminous dance soundtrack, a just-opened soon-to-expire Center City locale and a lot of people, however loosely, associated with the paper. It's the kind of thing for which you dig out a shirt with buttons, but nobody makes a big deal.

Despite the low server-to-attendee ratio and the fact that the "open" bar is really only slightly ajar at best, I am somehow cornered by a guy who has managed to get very, very tipsy. He wants to talk "shop."

He's giving me some line about his friends' band being the next hot thing. Fine. I hadn't yet heard of them but I'm usually up for talking about music. He tells me Band X -- a supposed hybrid of Floyd, the Stones and, oh, let's say Devo -- plays New York a lot. It's supposed to impress me, but I've learned to recognize this, the most common warning shot for ignorance. I count 3-2-1 in my head before he starts going off on Philadelphia.

The music scene's dead, he slurs declaratively. When was the last time anything good came out of Philly?

My first instinct, as you might imagine, should be to pull the guy's IZOD over his head and rain punches upon his drunken face, Dave Schultz-style, perhaps yelling, "Exactly how big do The Roots have to get?!"

But I don't do this. No, where I expect to find fire and anger in my hearth, there is only pity. I feel sorry for this inebriated, soulless creature who scurries in the shadow of the Big Apple by day and prays to Delaware Avenue at night. This pathetic Gollum's only exposure to local music is that Betty White Trash song in the Delilah's Den commercial. It is a dank, dark existence.

He doesn't know what we know, that some of the best music on the planet is coming out of this city. That there is a side of Philly you cannot see from the windows of Regional Rail, and you'll only find it in old Old City if you know which windows to peek into.

If you, too, share an affinity for the scene -- and yes, there is a scene here -- and the sounds that echo out of the Delaware Valley, stay tuned to this, the reborn Hear Here column. (Years ago, I actually gave the thing its Phantom Tollbooth-inspired name, back when I was listings editor and Neil Gladstone was in charge of music. When Neil left, Brian Howard took it over. When he departed it was willed to me, but then things that should not have been forgotten were lost. History became myth, myth became legend.)

The City Paper's music section will still do reviews, interviews and picks on local artists; I believe this city is capable of matching anything the rest of the world sends our way, so why separate the two? But this forum will serve as a place to discuss events and people, issues and ongoing stories that concern local music and its fans, to keep good things from falling through the cracks. At best, Hear Here will shine light on the darkest shelves of Philadelphia music. At worst, it'll be the black-stamp stain we can't seem to wash off the backs of our hands the next morning.

So tell me what you're up to, people. Plug your shows, keep me up to date on projects, tours and lineup changes. Send me your discs, your tapes, your zines, your muddled CD-Rs yearning to be heard. I will listen.

Items!

1. As I write this, The Burning Brides are playing Conan O'Brien and the camera is threatening to zoom down Dimitri Coats' throat as he screams. The thunderous chord changes are making my little TV hop around like R2D2.

It's a powerful, affirming experience, an unguilty pleasure, seeing those guys play "Arctic Snow" on television. Never mind that the song and Fall of the Plastic Empire are, to our ears, quite old -- recently re-released, the disc first came out in 2001. That's OK; there's bound to be some jet lag on the way to fame and fortune.

2. Hoping to pull some of this city's honey-voiced singer/songwriters out of smoky bars, Philadelphia Songwriters Project is starting an every-second-Sunday showcase at the 125-seat Adrienne Theater. The series debuts this weekend with the likes of Amber deLaurentis, David Newman, James Wade, Julia Othmer and PSP's co-artistic director, Stu Shames. (Sun., Jan. 12, 7 p.m., $8, The Playground at The Adrienne, 2030 Sansom St., 215-563-4330 ext. 7.)

Shames' partner, Dena Marchiony, says the Project's mission goes beyond putting local talent in a relaxed setting "without the distractions of bars and cash registers and blenders." The group, which teamed up with Theater Catalyst to get the series going, also plans to put on educational programs for artists, including business and legal workshops.

The future of PSP includes performances by Christine Havrilla, Adrian Mowry, Erik Balkey and Emily Bush, and themed nights (all female, under-18, more).

3. Sad to report that Dotdash (630 N. Second St.), the cozy little No-Libs record shop known for its frequent in-store performances, is shutting down. Co-owner Rich Fravel says the store is in "fair financial shape," but he and business partner Tracy Stanton are both recently engaged and want hang out more with their respective fiancees and cats. "We also would like to spend more time making music and less time selling it," he adds.

They promise to stay open Thursdays to Sundays until the inventory is gone, with the sales getting a little more ridiculous each week. (Jan. 9-12, everything's 20 percent off; Jan. 16-19, it's 30 percent; etc.)

4. Forget anything you ever heard about The Snow Fairies being wimps. The seven-piece pop outfit rocked The Balcony at last Saturday's Ladyfest benefit. I'm not saying they wouldn't get pummeled by Stinking Lizaveta in a hockey fight, but there is unseen strength in these hobbits.