Eleven or 12 years ago, my best friend blasted a mix-tape in his Civic that included the Descendents' "Sour Grapes" and several other tunes he'd taped off one of WMNF's late-weeknight alternative shows. The station's been a preset on every car and home stereo I've owned since. For half of those intervening years, however, I listened to 88.5 only rarely. As my curiosity and taste for sounds other than those made by an overdriven electric guitar grew, I began to tune in more regularly. But up until, say, 1997 or so, I felt weirdly outsider-esque about it. I didn't consider myself a "WMNF listener" because I wasn't a boomer, an affluent ex-hippie, a sociology professor, a political activist or a voracious consumer of obscure bluegrass and reggae records.And I attended only one Tropical Heatwave, for basically the same reasons, until my band was invited to play at last year's event.

For more than two decades, Heatwave has trundled happily and successfully enough along, in the face of a belief among younger live-music fans that it's really not for them. That's not actually the case -- even a cursory look at the festival's past and present lineups reveals the consistent inclusion of, if not the latest Warped Tour casualties, at least a representative smattering of comparatively trendy styles. But, for a lot of people, that's the perception. Many members of my peer group and age bracket don't consider it worthwhile, and most of the underage kids that pack State Theatre shows, skatepark gigs and mainstream radio festivals don't consider it at all.

Which isn't to say that the event doesn't draw its share of twentysomethings and 30-year-olds, and even a surprising number of all-ages pundits. It is to say, however, that Tropical Heatwave, like WMNF, suffers from certain long-standing presumptions. It's not "cool," in the edgy, latest, now sense of the word. The festival has been happening for 22 years, like clockwork, and most of whatever hip cachet it had has dissipated in its evolution from event to institution. No 22-year-old shindig can command a cutting-edge reputation. Heatwave is by no means a caricature, a Fat Elvis. In fact, it's gotten a damn sight better in recent years in terms of diversity and the number of local bands that get to participate. Any festival that includes Bay area talent as diverse as Dumbwaiters, River Cove Ramblers and Mr. Bella deserves a thumbs-up.

But it is an institution, and what does every ensuing generation need to deride, to dismiss as irrelevant, to rail against?

Exactly.

Why?

Because it doesn't cater to them. It doesn't expend all its energy wooing them. It doesn't wave a metaphorical vermilion baboon's ass in their faces, begging for their favors. It doesn't go to endless, detailed lengths to align itself with the average American 20-year-old's mindset, to assure them that it feels them, that it knows where they're coming from, that they've got so much in common. As a guy who was nine the day MTV hit cable, and who came of age on an arc roughly corresponding to that of today's youth marketing, I'm both acutely aware of generational pandering and a bit miffed when I'm not singled out for a little cleverly crafted advertising attention.

And WMNF won't do it. They take their populist tenets and alternative-programming credos very seriously. As a result, what's ideally meant to be something for everyone is snubbed by those acclimated to a bombardment of specialized affections. WMNF never went out of its way to engender a reputation as a haven for World Beat snobs, leftist demagogues and roots-rock misanthropes, but neither does it seem willing to disown its more eclectic elements in an effort to hand-job potential new listeners. Likewise, while Tropical Heatwave steadily increases the diversity and youth appeal of its lineup (this year's installment boasts both the return of the New World Brewery local stage and an underground hip-hop showcase), it isn't about to stop featuring Zydeco and Afro-Cuban bands in favor of sets from Sister Hazel and a reunited Outfield. And in a musical climate where listeners en masse seem more and more content to be told what to like, that's both an admirable methodology, and a precarious one.

So ... fuck 'em.

The masses, I mean, not WMNF and Tropical Heatwave. I'm of the opinion that the festival is something that either eventually intrigues you or doesn't. The best Heatwave stories inevitably concern somebody that got dragged there by one of his or her "weird" friends, and ended up having the time of their lives. Ten years ago, I didn't go to Heatwave because I'd heard of maybe three of the bands. Not coincidentally, 10 years ago I was playing (not to mention listening to) music I wouldn't be interested in today if Rachel Weisz came around with a recording contract stenciled on her pelvis and I could sign with my tongue. I can still do without a lot of jazz or newgrass, whatever the hell that is, but words like "funk" and "pedal steel-driven gospel" now inspire an undeniable curiosity.

That's what the festival is for, I think. If you want it, it's there -- different music and unassuming, unpretentious, uncool fun. If you don't, that's cool, too. It's not going to overextend itself trying to convince you that it feels your pain or is the perfect accessory to your extreme lifestyle. And that may eventually be Heatwave's undoing. But for now, the idea of a music festival that doesn't need you should be, if anything, an attraction in itself. That way, you can both relax and enjoy yourselves.

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When Sun Ra and the 20-or-so members of his Arkestra snaked a conga line through the crowd at the Cuban Club courtyard in '87, I was there. I danced like a dervish, pounded on the stage and hollered along to their impromptu chant, a catchy descending riff that still sticks in my head 16 years later. I was also there in the late '90s, when Joe Popp played the Cuban Club basement. Good and drunk, I furtively passed out marshmallows to the crowd and we pelted the band during their first song.Ever since I started attending in the mid '80s, WMNF's Tropical Heatwave has meant a lot to me. And it has meant a lot to the cultural landscape of Tampa Bay. Heatwave is one of our few annual music events that has maintained quality and integrity over the long haul. I used to feel that way about Clearwater Jazz Holiday, but then the dreaded "smooth jazz" wormed its way in. Livestock? I've NEVER been to Livestock, even when I was a full-time rock critic, and never will. Call me a conscientious objector.

In a sense, Heatwave has become a victim of its own success. The event broke so many barriers and introduced so many genres in its first dozen years, that's it's been hard for the bash to blow minds. Some of you may remember the dark ages of the '80s when Tampa Bay rarely got any groundbreaking shows. Heatwave played a pivotal role in expanding our horizons. When Tabu Ley Rochereau and Loketo played Heatwave, they were the first African soukous sets hereabouts. Cajun and zydeco, pretty much concert staples nowadays, were introduced to the Bay area at Heatwave. Would Dick Dale, the father of surf rock, have played several local concerts without first gracing the Heatwave stage? Not likely.

But enough about legacy. It's simple, really: I get up for Heatwave. Always have. Year after year, WMNF produces an event that juggles dozens of acts, runs pretty much like a Swiss watch, and still manages to pulsate with that extra intangible -- that sense of reckless possibility that makes it a true party.

Is Heatwave as wild as it used to be? It doesn't seem so. But that might say more about me than the event. Maybe these creaky bones just aren't as limber as they used to be. I'm a little less prone to get wasted and run around like a sweaty, drooling maniac. One development of the last few years: The Weeky Planet balcony overlooks El Pasaje Plaza. We tap a keg up there and invite guests. This has made me gabby, and it's made me lazy. This year, I vow to really make the rounds, to use the balcony only for refills. So if you see me and I'm a sweat-soaked, drooling maniac -- go 'head and offer congratulations.

Maybe you've heard the murmurings that Heatwave has lost some of its relevance, that the aging hippies who run WMNF have turned it into a reflection of on-air programming that skews too old.

Sorry, this argument just doesn't hold up. If such were the case, Heatwave would be dominated by folkies and roots acts. This year's schedule has hip-hop and Latin and sacred steel and future-jazz and jam-rock and power-pop and soukous and something called "modern Pan-American dance music." And, again, it has set aside an entire venue (New World Brewery) for the best acts on the local rock scene. That's only fitting. For its first four years, Heatwave was an all-local showcase.

In the late '80s, as word about the throw-down in Ybor City got out to more than bohos, freaks and music fiends, we used to sneer at the interlopers. Why did these lawyers in polo shirts and their soccer-mom wives come in clusters and make our groovy to-do so ... bourgeois?

Nowadays, I'm middle-aged and I guess I'm bourgeois, but at least I do Heatwave in shorts and a tank top. In an ideal cultural landscape, WMNF would've kept its flagship party so cutting edge that the likes of me would now be the object of derision by young hipsters. I'd stand in one section with the other boomers and bravely endure the disapproving stares. That has not happened, because we oldsters, we keep a-coming back.

Does this inhibit a younger crowd from adopting Heatwave as its own? Perhaps. I can imagine twentysomethings saying, "Why in the hell would I want to go there and hang out with old farts?"

Well, there are old farts who drive Beamers and will be dining at Armani's on May 3, and there are old farts who mark their calendars for WMNF's annual blowout. Believe me, young'uns, as old farts go, we're much better to hang with. So show up, already. Feel the heat. I don't mind trading sweat with you if you don't mind trading sweat with me.