Melissa, Madonna, Wigstock—whew. Summer of 2001 is over and what a knees-up. Where else but Chicago could you get all that in one week? Especially in a summer that included Elton and Billy, Sade, U2, Roxy Music, Janet, a fabulous Market Days, the first Queer is Folk, Ladyfest and … Goose Island Fest.

Goose Island Fest was held behind Goose Island Brewery on Clybourn next to a railroad yard and tucked behind a yuppie-fied shopping mall. Low key as it might have been, it served as a fitting close for the summer not because of its size or flash, but because of the quality of its entertainment bookings.

First up was openly gay Bob Mould, ex of Husker Du and Sugar. Having not performed in the last year since the last Goose Island Fest, it was nice to see him, and particularly the energy he brought to the stage, in a solo performance. Dancing and skipping while he played guitar ferociously, it wasn’t merely music by a queer musician but probably the most intensely involved show I’ve seen all summer. The only thing that could slow this show was an act of God…which it did in the form of rain.

A rare street festival performance by THE Graham Parker made up for that on Aug. 26 though, and it was a revelation, an answer to the question of the problem of Graham Parker.

The problem with being G.P. of course has nothing to do with G.P. Though he’s been recording since 1975 he was lumped in with Joe Jackson and Elvis Costello as Brit new-wavers with cynicism on their breath and instantly recognizable fangs in their vocal timbre. Where Costello and Jackson have reached something close to public adoration (oddly they both finally got their first Grammys in the last two years, not for their usual work but for MOR departures), Parker has always skirted the edge.

His 1979 Squeezing Out Sparks, with his razor sharp band, the Rumour, set him up as the next big thing (it’s worth it to hear G.P. snap the line “It’s not the knife through the heart that tears you apart/it’s just the thought of someone sticking it in…” with furious bile), but it didn’t happen. The follow-up, The Up Escalator (despite a guest appearance by one B. Springsteen) sank, the critics barbecued the disc, and the Rumour caved under the pressure.

Two years later G.P. re-emerged with Another Gray Area, which though it didn’t have Sparks’ abrasive edge still had G.P.’s lyrical bite (“Big Fat Zero,” “Temporary Beauty,” the funky “You Hit the Spot”). Label changes, band changes (he performs solo just as often as he does with a band), limited airplay—G.P. still keeps chugging along. And you could accuse him of making the same record over and over (Acid Bubblegum, 12 Haunted Episodes, The Mona Lisa’s Sister) but therein lies the rub. Costello has an infuriating reputation for opaque lyrics (could somebody tell me what “Shot with his own Gun,” and “Brilliant Mistake” are ABOUT) and cleverness for cleverness sake (most of Punch the Clock) and Jackson’s cynicism can mar his best work (“Breaking Us in Two”), G.P. jumps right out and says it clearly. Costello (the all-country Almost Blue, the collaboration with Burt Bacharach) and Jackson (the Manhattan-tinged “Night and Day” and the orchestral side of the “Mike’s Murder” soundtrack) betray a certain desire to reach for higher art than mere pop/rock and roll (for better or worse) while G.P. embraces the opposite.

Seven years ago I was lucky to witness G.P. doing an acoustic solo version of the Supremes’ “Stop! In the Name of Love.” Instead of a pop treatment, G.P. went for the intent of the song with such aching tenderness that I have to say it was the most heartbreaking thing I’ve heard in my life (in answer to my opening question, the pleasure of G.P. is G.P. and therefore no problem with G.P. to begin with).

For his solo gig Aug. 26 at Goose Island he was particularly jovial despite having only an hour to perform. Sampling cuts from his new CD, Deep Cuts to Nowhere (such as “Tough on Clothes” and “Socks and Sandals”) he still displayed a remarkable finesse in turning an irony with subtlety. But the delight of his performance was his skill and joy as a performer. Flubbing THE important line on “Start a Fire” (that line about M. Monroe and JFK which shattered our notions of somber American legend into sordid reality) good naturedly, a late summer take on “Love gets You Twisted,” the sexy way he wrapped his voice around “White Hone (“git it frum yo’ kan-dee man…”).

Graham Parker and the Figgs will play the Double Door Oct. 5. Do yourself a favor …