Live Shots

Live Shots: WATERS is stormier than expected at Brick & Mortar

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Live shows are an opportunity for musicians and music lovers to share an experience together. After all, you’re standing in the same room. Brick & Mortar Music Hall is a treasure trove for musicians. The small space offers an intimate setting that gives musicians the chance to embrace their audience.

I stood five feet away from WATERS’ lead singer and frontman Van Pierszalowski Monday night and not once did I feel embraced.

Skip the foreplay. WATERS jumped right into a distinctly scruffier and rowdier sound, playing brand-new music from its upcoming album set to be released in April. When two beardy, flannel-sporting men in the audience started running into each other within the first minute of WATERS’ set, I was afraid that this wasn’t my scene. But the two human pinballs quickly stopped before the end of the first song, after fellow audience members ignored the unwelcome cavorting.

“Thank you everybody. The name is WATERS and we’re from San Francisco,” Van said apathetically. After the dissolution of indie rock-folk band Port O’Brien, Van created WATERS. But similarities between the two start and end with the vague nautical allusion. Where Port O’Brien sailed toward hazy folk, WATERS capsized into rowdy rock.

The first half of the rambunctious set consisted of unheard songs off the band’s noisy sophomore LP while the second half was dedicated to the slightly less loud songs from Out In The Light, the band’s debut album; all of it was heavy guitar riffs and booming drums. A somewhat out-of-place female keyboardist played quietly in a dark corner, offering sweet harmonies that added a much-needed contrast to the harshness in Van’s voice.

Bangs calculatingly side-swept over his right eye, Van lightly rocked onto his toes when he sang. It was in those moments that I felt the disconnect melt away. But rather than building on that passion, Van would often sever the mood by rocking out alone on stage— creating an awkward feeling of detachment between the band and the crowd. Seemingly unaware of his relatively mellow audience, Van built up on boisterous vocals and turbulent beats as girls wearing black lipstick and acid-wash jeans swayed in the front row and cute boys with beards and suede jackets bobbed their heads up and down.

“I’m in love with every single one of you people,” Van admitted mid-set. The false grab at intimacy made me feel like a high school girl cornered at her locker by a boy professing his unrequited love. The singer asked if anyone would be coming to the next shows during his month-long Brick & Mortar residency. A few hands flew up, several pathetic howls echoed in the room. He asked again (“Just put your hands up to make me feel better.”) Several additional hands shot into the air.
 
The best part of the WATERS set was the last song, not only because it indicated the end of a generally lackluster show, but also because the acoustic version of “Mickey Mantle” was Van’s first demonstration of genuine emotion. The final song on Out In The Light is a soft, acoustic guitar-driven tune.

Van attempted to quiet the audience and urged us to huddle close to the stage so that he could play without amplification. Welcome to the Van Pierszalowski Show. The other band members sunk into the background as Van balanced on the edge of the stage.

Imploring the audience to shout rather than sing the chorus with him, Van commandeered the audience into enjoying the final song. The lovely female keyboardist chimed in at the chorus and the bassist occasionally strummed his unplugged instrument — two welcome breaks from the shouting. But even Van’s attempt at connecting with the audience was interrupted by accidental microphone feedback mid-song.

I promise I wasn’t in a bad mood before heading to Brick & Mortar. On the contrary, I was rather excited about WATERS. As a fan of Port O’Brien, I had a lot of hope for the local band. The story of how WATERS was born, in particular, intrigued me: Post-breakup and in search of inspiration, Van traveled the world to decidedly graceful landscapes — the ethereal Alaskan coast, the frigid Norwegian fjords, and his seaside hometown in California. With a beautiful name like WATERS, it’s difficult to grasp how such a harsh sound comes out of solitary travels to exquisite coastal settings. Unlike the graceful flow of rushing rivers and crashing waves, WATERS remained detached throughout its first show at Brick & Mortar. Despite the attempt to connect with nature and music, Van just seemed out of place.

Live Shots: Yuck finds its voice at The Independent

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“I remember the last time I was here the room was filled with the smell of weed,” said Yuck’s lead vocalist Max Bloom with his charming British accent, facing yet another thick fog looming over the audience. “I feel like I’m getting high out of proximity.” The herb-filled air wasn’t new to The Independent, and this wasn’t Yuck’s first time in San Francisco. But the band that showed up there Wednesday night [1/30] was a very different band than Yuck has been in the past.

Since April 2013, the London-based indie rock outfit has been forced to regroup and reinvent itself after frontman Daniel Blumberg’s departure. Yuck’s signature lazy ’90s grunge lo-fi sound from its eponymous debut LP has apprently departed with Blumberg; instead, the band has adopted a calmer tone that highlights strong instrumentation as opposed to their earlier focus on smooth vocals. 

Opening the show with the upbeat rock number “Middle Sea,” from its sophomore record Glow & Behold, Yuck started out the show with genuine enthusiasm, matching the stoner crowd’s mood. Like I was, many people seemed anxious to see how well the band would fare sans Blumberg’s Elliott Smith-like voice. If you’ve listened to Glow & Behold, you’ve already noticed the pleasant SoCal intonation in Bloom’s voice. Whether intentional or not, the inconsistency in Bloom’s vocals was amplified during the show, casting an uneven, melancholic tone to both Glow & Behold and Yuck songs. 

Bloom’s promotion to lead vocalist also made room for guitarist Ed Hayes, Yuck’s newest member. Wearing a washed out Pac Man T-shirt, the sprightly guitarist offered backup vocals to Bloom’s deep yet delicate voice and rocked out during “Lose My Breath” — an energetic tune with a soft melody. Bassist Mariko Doi joined in occasionally with backup vocals, offering a contrasting strain to the guitarists’ deep voices.

Throughout the night, Yuck’s vocals remained uneven, with Bloom relying heavily on the backup vocals from Doi and Hayes, despite Doi’s soft — at times inaudible — murmur. Although her instrumentals were perfectly on point, Doi’s solo rendition of “The Wall” seemed lacking in passion and vibrato. Things picked up when drummer Jonny Rogoff began singing along in the back, bringing excitement when it was needed.

While it’s rare for young bands such as Yuck to carry on without one of its founding pillars, the indie rockers don’t seem fazed by the change. Bloom, Hayes, Doi, and Rogoff played in unison with lots of noise and energy, working together rather than as separates. Sure, they’re still working out the kinks with vocals, but overall, the change seems for the better. Even though Bloom has stepped up to the plate as frontman, Doi and Hayes carried their own, shining in the spotlight at various times during the night. Even Rogoff had his moment when fans cheering for the encore began chanting his name. “Jonny, Jonny, Jonny…” The band came back on stage, but only after Rogoff asked to hear the chant again. “You just made his day,” said Bloom before jumping into “Memorial Fields” from Glow & Behold, the closest thing to the band’s old lo-fi.

One major disappointment: Yuck didn’t play one of its most beautiful songs, “Shook Down.” The mellow lyrics and soft beat are a highlight from the band’s debut LP and a major crowd-pleaser. I know I wasn’t the only one who felt like there was something missing at the end of the show. Maybe it was “Shook Down,” maybe it was Blumberg…either way, Yuck’s reinvention is worth appraisal. Despite the band’s recent reformation, Yuck is not lacking in passion. They might still be struggling to find right voice, but the foursome’s trademark ’90s grunge vibe was ever so present, and their future seems promising — as evidenced, especially, by a brilliant cover of New Order’s “Age of Consent.” Blumberg who?

Live Shots: !!! lead a sweaty Saturday at the Chapel

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“San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco,” chants !!!’s Nic Offer as he struts onto the Chapel’s glowing red stage, facing a screaming sold-out crowd.  The practicality of Offer’s typical performance outfit — tonight he is wearing beat-up, bone-white monk strap loafers, short white shorts emblazoned with the Rolling Stones’ Some Girls cover art, and a black crewneck tee — quickly becomes apparent as he races back and forth across the stage, light brown curls flying, wrapping the mic cord around his neck.  Before the first song is over he leaps on the center monitor, thrusts his pelvis forward, and generously pulls his very short pant leg open so a fan can get his money shot.  Now that’s showmanship. 


The Sacramento natives, whose careers have spanned 18 years at this point, initially earned a spot in the hearts of heathens across the country for drug-jam favorites like “Hello? Is This Thing On?” and “Me and Guiliani Down By The Schoolyard — A True Story,” both tracks off of 2004’s Louden Up Now.  The band quickly became synonymous with the ambiguous genre “dance-punk” — a classification they shared with other saxophone aficionados, The Rapture, as well as fellow Californians, Moving Units — but with their more recent efforts !!! has made a departure from their christened moniker and has adopted a warmer, less anxious sound.  Crisp disco beats and a smooth sax mark this transition on their newest album, 2013’s Thr!!!er, a record that encourages slinky grooving as opposed to unruly slamming on the dance floor. 

Saturday’s second song of the evening, “Californiyeah,” had Offer jumping into the crowd (as he does) and gyrating with, and at, fans who were apparently already drunk enough to not protest the lyrics that went, “Now I miss California almost as much as I miss you/But why would I live somewhere/Where the bars close at 2?/That ain’t right, that ain’t right.”  The set consisted of mostly new material, with performances of the spiraling, clap-fest “Slyd” being among the favorites. 

The rest of the band let their musicianship take the front seat throughout the evening and appeared reserved, even stoic, though perhaps it only seemed that way in contrast with vocalist Offer’s tireless presence (his dancing can best be described as traffic cop-meets-cheerleader).  Other highlights included “One Girl/One Boy,” a poppy, bass-heavy number that’s reminiscent of last summer’s inescapable hit “Get Lucky” — in fact, it could be said !!!’s track acted as an aperitif of sorts for the Daft Punk onslaught we were going to experience, being released only two weeks prior to the disco-doused behemoth). 

The Chapel was packed (this was a sold-out show) and the band had the crowd sweating it up before long, exuding impressive control over the room even on songs that teetered at the edge of chaos.  One would think that things would mellow out somewhat as they started to play “AM/FM,” a considerably more reserved track off their fourth album, Strange Weather, Isn’t It?, but the fans’ enthusiasm was relentless and unavoidable, as hands jutted into the air and girls in the front danced like battling robots.  Right before the obligatory encore, the overwhelming feeling could best be described as clammy.  Anyone with hair past their shoulders unfortunate enough to not have a rubber band was sporting the Cher Horowitz side-flip hair in efforts to cool off — as if.  Meanwhile, Offer resembled a ’70s gym teacher/porn star with his once-white-now-grey-sweat-stained shorts and a white gym towel draped around his neck.  He laughed into the audience, his lyrics from earlier — “I miss Sac and I miss the bay (Ain’t that right)” — resonating into the night.

Live Shots: Wanda Jackson at the Chapel

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“Well hello, San Fran!” shouted Wanda Jackson to an almost-full Chapel on Thursday night. “You already know I love you. You should know that by now.”

Jackson, still touring at age 76, looks to be about five feet tall — if you include her carefully teased hair. She needs help getting on and off the stage. She talks openly about her “senior moments.” And she’s an absolute rock star. Her age and petite stature seem merely to add to her massive stage presence. After finishing her rollicking first song, “Riot in Cell Block Number 9,” she beamed at the crowd, asking, “Isn’t it wonderful, the energy?”

Wonderful is exactly the word I would use to describe it. The audience responded to Jackson’s razor-sharp wit, fascinating anecdotes, and serious vocal chops (she can yodel!) with fever-pitch enthusiasm. After a 60-year career, Jackson has an incredible body of work under her belt, and the set list, which bounced around from era to era of her career, didn’t have a single low point. But people weren’t really there for the songs.

We were there for Wanda. The Queen of Rockabilly truly is royalty — just being in her presence is a joyful experience. Though she can’t hit all the high notes anymore, Jackson’s talent hasn’t faded a bit since her heyday in the 1950s and ‘60s. Her voice is still incredible, her stamina is inspiring, and her humbleness is astonishing. Few people could name-drop Elvis Presley and Jack White in the same sentence and seem all the more charming for it.

Jackson, who is inevitably paired with Elvis in any description of her life or music, didn’t shy away from the topic on stage as she often does in interviews. In what felt like a very intimate moment, the crowd was enraptured as they watched her reminisce about her old friend. “Elvis was a true gentleman,” she told us. “He truly was.” She spoke about how her father would only let her go out with Elvis, “nobody else.” He would take her out for lunches and matinees — whatever he could afford. “He was a poor boy then.” After waxing about her short-lived romance, Jackson transitioned into one of the night’s highlights — a soulful rendition of “Heartbreak Hotel.”

Most of the songs Jackson played were preceded by a mini history lesson — the year they were recorded, what she was up to at the time, who was involved. Speaking about her evolution from a country singer touring with her father to a rockabilly singer touring with Elvis (who encouraged her to play this “new music”) Jackson paused for clarity — “We call it rockabilly now, but it was actually rock and roll.”

Jackson is still rock and roll. She playfully threw water on her fans, splashing the monitors (“I could have been electrocuted…you too!”) and played through a setlist of almost 20 songs without stopping for breath. “Whatever!” she shouted in response to her jet lag. “Isn’t that what they say today? Whatever?” By the time the night ended with “Let’s Have a Party,” no song could have been more appropriate.

Live Shots: Street Joy, the She’s, the Tambo Rays at Milk Bar

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Wednesday night, three young, up-and-coming bands gathered at the Milk Bar, an intimate venue on the western edge of Haight Street, to lay down fun, unseasonably warm beats – a welcome contrast to the decidedly autumnal weather.
 
Street Joy, a LA-based rock trio comprised of Jason DeMayo (vocals, guitar), Scott Zimmerman (drums), and Mike Coleman (bass), kicked off the show with upbeat pop and punkish tunes. These musicians, who organized into a formal band in 2012, describe their songwriting as “that of the cassettes a dad would show his son on car rides to baseball practice.” Sigh, nostalgia.
 
The highlight was their spirited cover of “Hold Me Tight” — a Beatles release circa 1963 — and the dynamic on-stage rapport between Zimmerman and DeMayo kept me enthralled throughout their set.
 
The She’s — a teenage girl group whose crooning, feminine, summery sound is inspired by ‘60s girl groups and pop acts like the Beach Boys — followed. While many of their songs sound very similar (at times their set felt like a contagious throw-back daze), their multipart harmonies, which are the crux of their songwriting, felt expert. In addition to playing catchy tracks off of their 2011 release (Then It Starts To Feel Like Summer) such as “Jimmy” and “Fabian,” they played some newer songs, including “Anywhere But Here,” which is somewhat dark and subdued – at least in the She’s universe.
 
Bassist Sami Perez, guitarists Hannah Valente, and Eva Treadway, and drummer Sinclair Riley (they all sing) have been best friends since kindergarten, and it shows. On stage, they are incredibly in-sync; they even managed to all crouch down and grab their plastic water cups at once point in a synchronized sweep. Yes, their water cups — no booze yet.
 
By the time the Tambo Rays took the stage at 11:15pm, I was starting to feel pretty exhausted, but Sara DaMert’s spirit and spunk picked me right back up. The group’s alternative percussionist extraordinare, Sara, who at any given moment was either playing keys, drums, cymbals, tambo, or a combination of the four, was the heart of the “chill pop” foursome’s performance. Sara’s brother, Brian DaMert, perhaps the slightly subtler member of the family, laid down entrancing guitar riffs, engulfing the waning audience in a beautiful wall of sound.
 
The Tambo Rays showcased a surfy rock’n’roll (occasionally hippie-laced) sound onstage; their set was fluid and kept my attention. The highlight of their performance was “Take That,” whose enthused delivery, distinctly summery feel, and sardonic lyrics about Georgia the chicken instantly made me smile.

Live Shots: Treasure Island Music Festival 2013

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Maybe people just don’t know how to party anymore, but I didn’t come across vomit once at the Treasure Island Music Festival. The crowd’s vibe was more or less well-behaved all weekend — pretty chill considering how many people were clustered on the island for the fests’ seventh successful installment.

The organizers rely on big names, the unique setting, a variety of vendors, and plenty of distracting flash (including the nearly iconic 60-foot Ferris wheel you can ride at $5 a pop) in order to keep this thing a destination. 

It was my first TIMF experience and I’ll admit the lineup wasn’t exactly the selling point for me. I thought at least I could get nostalgic over Beck, while Detroit-duo ADULT. still holds a degree of allure. I figured I’d spend most of my time milling around (highly recommended for optimal people watching; plenty of fur) and hoped to stuff my face with tons of good food (the mac and cheese hit the spot, the fish and chips got too cold too fast, but the chicken and shrimp paella was a winner).

Kudos to the show’s producers, Another Planet Entertainment and Noise Pop Industries, in their efforts at keeping this ship running tight on many levels. It’s often noted that concertgoers won’t experience any scheduling conflicts between the two stages at this event (Outside Lands, you’ve been one-upped in this category). Plus the purchase of your ticket, which could have cost up to $150 for two-day general admission or $275 for VIP (depending on how you roll) entitled you to a free ride on their massive fleet of shuttle buses that ran back and forth from the island to the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium drop off/pick-up point.

Even the Porta-Potty situation wasn’t anything near the bladder-punishing clusterfuck I’ve experienced at the free Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival in Golden Gate Park (that’s free vs. a couple hundred bucks for ya). Entire sections of what resembled fairgrounds were dedicated to ample, underused, and very clean johns. So clean I didn’t think twice about picking up a wadded $20 bill that had another inside of it!

That may sound questionable, but I was too busy enjoying the warmth of my makeshift shelter since the temperature seemed to drop by more than 20 degrees on the island during Night One. Thom Yorke complained during his Atoms for Peace headlining set when he mentioned how he came to the Cali sun to get away from the British cold and gloom. No such luck for the rock star. The winds were relentless. Sunday seemed to grow even colder, and the winds whipped up even earlier than the day before. 

From a curator’s standpoint, the musical difference between days one and two were notable. Saturday was much heavier on the electronic and hip-hop side. That day’s lineup included a ridiculous hype-filled set by duo Major Lazer, which passed out party whistles as soon as it hit the stage, shot t-shirts from a handheld air cannon, and at one point, a member (maybe Diplo?) ran on top of the crowd inside a giant-inflatable ball that resembled a hamster’s toy. It all seemed like an over-budgeted high-school pep rally, but the crowd ate it up. Indeed, it was an impressive spectacle.

Sunday seemed less druggy (the day before, the same man somehow managed to ask me twice at different locations of the largely anonymous-feeling fest, where he could get some “MDMA”) less attended, and more laid back in tone. Children and adults alike ran through a trippy bubble display put on by a carnie-type vendor. Acts like Japandroids, Sleigh Bells, and Animal Collective provided respective returns to rock, power pop, and instrumental intensive sets with a global flare.

Beck’s set relied heavily on post-Midnite Vultures material, but I was happy to hear him sing about those old “hotwax residues.” He brought Sleigh Bells’ Alexis Krauss on stage with him just as I was heading back to the shuttle busses. Apparently I missed the cover of MJ’s “Billie Jean.”  Instead, I rode in luxury through a thick wall of fog to the mainland where a treasure of a local music scene lies waiting, markedly untapped this year. 

Live Shots: The Dodos at Great American Music Hall

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All photos by Charles Russo

Fans of the Dodos flocked to the Great American Music Hall on Wednesday night, to catch the band’s final performance of its latest tour. It was a glorious homecoming played out before an adoring Bay Area crowd as Meric Long and company turned out a dynamic set that seamlessly alternated between quietly beautiful and downright fierce.

The band leaned heavily on material from its fifth album, Carrier, to deliver a dozen songs of its distinctive sound, and re-assert its status as one of San Francisco’s finest exports.

Live Shots: Har Mar Superstar at Bottom of the Hill

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Have you ever heard of a snowball? (Not the frozen thing, the sugary treat, or some kind of sex act). I’m talking about the totally wholesome retro swing dance thing in which eager dancers surround a couple or two on the floor. The band yells out “snowball!” and the dancers separate and grab someone else from the outer circle. “Snowball!” again and the circle widens, leading eventually to concentric circles of revelers swishing and swirling to live music.

Last night at Bottom of the Hill, Har Mar Superstar — the Minnesota-bred soulful R&B and pop singer — led the eager Tuesday night crowd in a rapidly devolving snowball. On first mention he yelled out, “It’s called a snowball! Go roller skating once 25 years ago!” And then continued to nudge the audience to keep finding new partners: “snowball!” “Snowball again!”

If you’ve ever been to a rock’n’roll show in San Francisco, particularly on a lazy Tuesday night, you’ll note the lack of expression and movement from the crowd. It can be jarring. At Har Mar’s headlining show, there were smiles plastered on faces, loud guffawing laughs, and actual group dancing. Plus on the stage, Har Mar and his backing crew — guitarist Jeff “Catfish” Quinn, a drummer who I believe was Will Scott, and bassist Denver Dalley (Desaparecidos) — performed synchornized dancing themselves in the style of James Brown.  (Har Mar saves his R. Kelly moves for solo poses.)

A longstanding performer, known both for his powerful pipes — a cross between Sam Cooke, King Khan, and Joey McIntyre — and affinity for getting naked on stage, Har Mar displayed some of that noted maturity last night at his show, the stuff he talked with me about in the paper last week, which grew from his excellent new record, Bye Bye 17 (Cult Records).

He was still Har Mar. He shook, shimmied, posed provocatively, ordered five shots of Patron from the bar, and yes, removed layers of clothing eventually, but there was a heightened front person glitz to his stage show, and he commanded attention and respect in a way I’ve never seen. And the crowd ate it up, hooting and hollering back to him, chanting “Har Mar, Har Mar!” He’s witty, and joked back, “oh, you want more Har Mar? Lucky for you I’m here.”

He first walked out on stage in a fringed white leather jacket and his traditional tight red jeans, eventually shedding that layer for a graphic sweater and a glittery cape, and then finally showed off his greased Buddha belly by the near-end of the night. With the full band, not just his usual sampler (which also was present, and provided beats and backup vocals) his songs came alive, rooted in deep soul, ‘90s R&B, and sometimes, boy band pop. The group opened with “Girls Only,” and played Bye Bye 17’s swelling first single “Lady You Shot Me” pretty early on. The audience response to “Lady, You Shot Me” was heartening — people there like the new record!

Through the hour-long set Har Mar treated new fans and old to a range of tracks from his back catalogue including clubby “DUI,” (off 2004’s The Handler, Record Collection), Bye Bye 17’s funky “Restless Leg,” and crush-worthy popper “Almond Joy,” off 2009’s Dark Touches (MRI).

He toed the line between sensual showman and early raunchmaster well, treating audience members to tender moments like the snowball spin, and nasty little tidbits sprinkled throughout with a knowing wink.

Of “Almond Joy,” Har Mar explained  “this song’s about candy and fucking.” Too sweet!

All photos by Charles Russo.

Thee Oh Sees, OBN III’s, and more shake up the Chapel

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Once (three years ago) I broke my wrist at a Thee Oh Sees show, and despite the gnawing pain from my misshapen wrist, I stayed to watch the rest of the set.

You see, you just don’t leave a Thee Oh Sees show early. It is a band you experience, because it’s not that often that you get the chance to see a band that enjoys what it’s doing quite so much, and may just want to pull you into the hectic fun.

My most recent encounter with Thee Oh Sees was last Thursday at the Chapel; the band was kicking off its sold-out, three-night residency with spooky electronic act Fryborg, proto-punk worshippers OBN III‘s and precise psych-rock band the Blind Shake.

Fryborg started as people began to file in to the Mission venue. A one-man act, Fryborg tinkered away on various sound boards with his back turned to the audience. Haunting, Halloween-like imagery was projected on to a screen behind the stage while he did his best to conjure up beats for the better part of 30 minutes. It was either hit-or-miss with the audience (as is with most acts of Fryborg’s ilk), with people either nodding along to the music or hitting the bar.

Next up was OBN III’s. The Austin, Texas based band is Stooges worship in the best way possible. The five-person outfit created a wall of sound that enveloped the audience. It was loud, dirty, and leaning on the edge of proto-punk. The frontperson and namesake of the band, Orville Bateman Neeley III, took notes from Iggy Pop with a confrontational stage manner, and straight-up pissy demeanor. The band shredded through its set with great voracity, and the audience ate it up.

Then a trio of bald men graced the stage. One person from the audience thought it was a crew setting up for Thee Oh Sees. But alas, it was not! It was the Blind Shake, a Minneapolis-based group that serves up intricate psych rock for all ages. Though the Blind Shake airs on the noisy side, that doesn’t stop it from cranking out songs with intense, military-like precision. Also of note: the band released a full-length on Castle Face Records this fall, dubbed Key To a False Door, which is worth checking out.

Finally San Francisco locals, Thee Oh Sees graced the stage. If one gazed upon the crowd-goers surrounding the stage, he or she would find that the people in attendance were nothing short of starry-eyed as the band dutifully prepared for its performance.

Now, accurately describing what a Thee Oh Sees show is like describing colors to a person who has never seen before. (Though I digress.) While I have seen the group numerous times by this point, there is something that always brings me back. It’s likely the effort that the band puts into its sets, and the kinetic energy it exudes that’s nothing less than infectious.

While the Thee Oh Sees played a combination of old songs and new tracks off newest release, Floating Coffin (Castle Face Records, 2013), a good portion of the audience danced and pogoed with the best of them.

Hardly Strictly Bluegrass: A rookie recap

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By Kaylen Baker

“This,” said a friend, turning and surveying a backlit crowd, bopping and blazing under an unlikely October sun, “is the real San Francisco.”

I’m new to this city, and its croaking cables, faddish food trends, steep hills, all-aboard attitude, and free bluegrass festival have captivated me.
   
I was stuck in the largest forested mob I’d ever seen, between the nubby hills that form Hellman’s Hollow. To my left a drunk woman shouted into her cell on the shoulders of a drunk man, to my right a bare-chested beer-bellied man flapped his arms above his head,  and ahead, the String Cheese Incident spread a bluesy beach jam over this valley of ears.

Back up to day one of Hardly Strictly Bluegrass.

The air smelled rich, sweet; Napa was burning, wafting blue oak and pine smoke into the ripe pungency of weed and optimism and sunscreen. I joined friends at the Banjo stage, where they had set up beach chairs and a folding cooler-come-table. Plastic wine glasses were drained and refilled.

Seldom Scene stood 15 feet away. Dudley Connell rounded off “Muddy Waters” with a long sustained “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” just as a skein of geese zigzagged overhead.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nk9vhhGyRyo

“This is really good bluegrass,” someone near me said, as the 42-year-old band began “Darling Corey.” Melding guitar, mandolin, banjo, bass, and dobro, the musicians read each others’ minds. “It’s like soul music from the mountains,” someone else said. “It’s very spiritual.”

Lou Reid had a voice slipperier than a slide on a string. “Pretty woman have gone to my head,” he sang. I could hear a river in the strings, and I felt a vastness, a simple kind of longing. There’s something curiously curing about hearing lovesick, lonely bluegrass — strictly bluegrass — in an open field.

Hardly came later, at the Arrow stage. Father John Misty’s soulful, sexy voice sprawled out over a younger crowd. The artist (formerly known as Fleet Foxes’ J.Tillman) sat alone with his guitar, legs crossed, sandal-footed, behind a giant cut-out iPhone. Words from a new song — “policy and families, the golden era of TV”— made the crowd laugh.

As Tillman sang, a kid ran onstage, tackled shortly by security. “Yeah!” Tillman said, “I support your freedom.” Let loose, the kid made yet another ill-fated run. Still playing, Tillman called, “Let’s all settle down, it’s just acoustic guitar.”

Despite the laughs, something cutting emerged below Tillman’s smooth, ironic voice. He was a dark joker, righteously pissed when the crowd missed jokes, too busy snapping Instagram photos on real iPhones. 

The most ironic part about Tillman wasn’t his commentary on our disengaged generation, but that by not singing about his broken heart or yellow bird (see Conor Oberst over at the Rooster stage), he became even more of an emotional presence onstage.

Finishing a song with absolutely no ado, Tillman added, “Thank you, good night,” and walked away.

By late afternoon the heat rolled away and the smell of caramel corn drifted through the moist grass. I grabbed an under-spiced falafel and people-watched — bearded, feathered, tattooed, uninhibited, high, dripping youth, as well as T-shirted, dancing, drinking, laid-back old timers. They drifted towards stages where hidden musicians tuned up for the night’s last show.

Bonnie Raitt’s voice magnetized the dense crowd, and I only managed to jot “soft, lovely, and worn, like an old velvet dress,” before I was pulled in myself. Listening to “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” I had to assume there would be something seriously wrong with the world if someone didn’t love this graceful, wise redhead.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qpnZCcRafkc

I missed Saturday’s concert due to work; Sunday was madness. I descended the hills into a writhing mass of bodies. Somewhere east, a deep twang grew out of the Devil Makes Three, who made a hell of a lot of moody noise playing “Graveyard.”

Giant noodles, flags, pineapples, aliens, and a unicorn bobbed above a crowd so thick that people climbed trees to see above a dirty breeze. Along the way I lost my friends and met up with new ones. By the time Pete Bernhard belted “Black Irish,” I couldn’t agree more: “I don’t want this night to ever turn into day.”

By evening, every band become a mush of wailing fiddles.

Last up, the String Cheese Incident (SCI). The psychedelic, peppy mood swings didn’t really do enough for me, when suddenly, a song started up unlike anything I’d ever heard, tribal and springy and sobbing. It was “BollyMunster.” Michael Kang’s western violin swerved and ducked between epic eastern Bollywood electronics. It sounded like it was coming from our own primeval selves.

As the sunset turned majestic, SCI pronounced Hardly Strictly “one of the most beautiful places we’ve ever played.” I agreed, and then I was dancing, because “Rosie” had a beat that made me jump and holler.

 

Live Shots: Prepping for the Dirtbag Challenge!

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A look behind the scenes of the recently released Dirtbag by Vargas Films, and a sneak peak at the bikes being built for this year’s Dirtbag Challenge. Check out the full article on the Challenge, coming up Sun/13, here.

UPDATE: Check out Sam Devine’s report back and photos from Dirtbag 2013 here!

Live Shots: Superhero Street Fair

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Batman, super dog Rowdi, Supergirl, and Green Man were among the costumed characters photographer Amanda Rhoades caught at the Fourth Annual Superhero Street Fair last weekend in San Francisco.

All photos by Amanda Rhoades

Live Shots: Savages at the Independent

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Walking into the Independent on Friday night, the first thing audience members saw were signs titled “A Note From Savages.” These postings read, “Our goal is to discover better ways of living and experiencing music. We believe that the use of phones to film and take pictures during a gig prevents all of us from totally immersing ourselves. Let’s make this evening special. Silence your phones.” It was just the first indication that this was going to be an exceptional night.

Just before Savages took the stage for the first of two sold-out shows, the energy in the room vibrated with a palpable hum, resonating above the droning ambient music pulsing from the speakers.

In nearly complete darkness, Savages quietly took their places on stage before launching into “I Am Here,” the killer second track off of their debut record Silence Yourself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FuIB8HEmnoY

Dressed in all black and barely lit by dim white lights, the four women of the London post-punk outfit bobbed and thrashed with a spectral intensity through the first three songs (also the first three songs off Silence Yourself) without saying a word or pausing for breath. Singer Jehnny Beth, howling like a deliciously demonic cross-pollination of Patti Smith and Nick Cave, dominated the stage in gold slingback stilettos, looking fiercely feminine bouncing around in a power stance.

The band’s performance style was stark and understated, but with a searing intensity that was breathtaking in its relentlessness. Beth spoke fewer than five times throughout the entire show, but the lack of filler just added to the force of the band’s immense presence. Savages have no weak links. Each woman is an incredible musician and performer. Even drummer Fay Milton, at the rear of the stage, demanded attention through her focused talent and tangible joy.

The audience stood in quiet reverence through the first half of the set, standing stationary and gaping with open mouths at the tour de force on stage. Finally, around the time that Savages played a cover of Suicide’s “Dream Baby Dream” people began to move around toward the front of the crowd, bouncing off of each other to the scorching rendition. Beth looked down upon the opening pit with glee, speaking for the first time in her thick French accent, “Here we are! I was waiting for you! Fucking awesome.”

Savages are a welcome reminder of the importance and potency of female bands. Just by virtue of their kicking-ass-and-taking-names existence, they stand for so much more. Rock and roll is still a boys’ club. There is a huge difference between bands that have a female singer or a female guitarist and bands that are fully female. Savages offer an empowering and much-needed message that women can rock, and not just in supporting roles.

Of course they are not the only women in rock, but seeing them dominating the stage and selling out performances is truly exciting. Just by being silently and consistently amazing at what they do, these four women are bringing a feminist lens to post-punk, and for that, my female-identifying compatriots and I are extremely grateful. Nothing is more affirming than seeing your own identity reflected in a sphere that it is usually shut out of.

“San Francisco, you deserve more” Beth wailed before bringing out an extra guitarist and a saxophone player. “We’re gonna play a song called ‘Fuckers.’ We’re gonna use it as a mantra. Some words do heal.” As the band began to churn out the opening chords, Beth continued, “these were words given to me by a friend. I’m gonna give it back to you and you’re gonna give it to a friend. Don’t let the fuckers get you down!”

After the final song, Silence Yourself sendoff “Marshal Dear,” the crowd was left speechless. The weight of the performance was a physical, tangible entity as people regrouped and began, reluctantly, to exit. Though starkly different than the crackling energy in the moments before the show, the moments after the show were just as dynamic, basking in the afterglow of an amazing performance and the discovery of an exceptional band.

Onstage proposal prompts group hug from Grouplove at the Indy

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The last thing I expected to hear at a Grouplove concert was Skrillex and ASAP Rocky’s “Wild for the Night” but for some reason it seemed to be the perfect soundtrack to the band’s entrance. Dancing wildly and hyping the crowd to the beats and bleats of the track, the five musicians had whipped the sold-out Independent crowd into a high-energy frenzy before they played a single note.
 
After touring more or less constantly since its inception in 2009, Grouplove is a well-oiled machine on stage. Every member bounces around with frenetic energy, never standing still for a moment. Vocalist and keyboardist Hannah Hooper was all hair, headbanging, whipping around, and running in place in a leopard print unitard as frontperson Christian Zucconi (clad in a bathrobe and Grateful Dead tee) furiously strummed, jumped, and bumped into everyone around him. By comparison, bassist Sean Gadd, guitarist Andrew Wessen, and drummer Ryan Rabin almost seemed demure, despite their own dancing and roaming around the stage.

Even at its most energetic, however, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Grouplove was phoning it in. Being this well-oiled touring machine has detracted from the raw electricity of its early performances. Even the new material, which the band played much of, fell flat. No amount of jumping screaming, and running could hide the fact that the group, frankly, seemed tired.

Though Grouplove has a handful of really great, catchy tunes (especially 2011 single “Tongue Tied”) its strength has always been in its live presence. It’s not that its Saturday show at the Independent was bad — Grouplove has just set the bar incredibly high with its previous tours. Even in this slightly watered down form, however, one thing reads clear — the amorous bond that Grouplove is named for. The group is constantly interacting with each other, lighting up with smiles, leaning into each other, and feeding off of each other’s presence.

Grouplove has a miraculous and fateful backstory, starting with the chance meeting of Hooper and Zucconi in New York. Hooper, feeling an immediate bond, invited Zucconi to drop everything and join her on an artists’ residency later that week in Crete, where the pair met the three musicians who would ultimately make up the rest of Grouplove. Since that serendipitous meeting, the five relocated to LA and have rarely left each other’s sides. It is this genuine group love that makes the band’s joyful noise so infectious and endearing. Despite the flat, forced feeling of their set, it was clear that the band was happy to be there, and happy to be with each other.

During the encore, a few little miracles happened to turn the night’s energy around. First, a man proposed to his girlfriend onstage, prompting screams from the audience and a few tears, high fives, and a group hug from Grouplove. Second, members of Morning Benders (now POP ETC) and Waters joined Grouplove to play the POP ETC’s “I Woke Up Today.”

By the time the band got to its last song, the slow-building, hyper-catchy “Colours” the entire room had exploded with dancing, signing, and the kind of energy that got Grouplove its reputation for being an unmissable live band.

As the show closed, the previously silent Wessen leaned into the microphone and said, with heartwarming earnestness, “San Francisco, we love you so, so much. You have no idea.”

The Moondoggies croon sweetly at Brick and Mortar Music Hall

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I’ve yet to be disappointed with a Brick and Mortar show, and the Moondoggies concert was no exception. When the Seattle rockers came on stage last Thursday night, they dove straightaway into bluesy rock songs.

Frontperson Kevin Murphy’s vocals were pleasant and warm, but they stood in contrast to his expression, which most of the time was apathetic.

The group’s seductive hooks, pulsing bass lines, and somewhat-ominous piano chords went over well with the crowd, people were swinging their hips, drinks in hand.

Bassist Bobby Terreberry, head bobbing, calmly plucked away, facing the side of the stage most of the set. And Jon Pontrello’s spastic, weaving dance moves with his guitar and tambourine proved a comic contrast next to Murphy’s uninvolved position behind the mic.

Drummer Carl Dahlen also brought some needed energy to the stage. Lost in the beats, Dahlen struck the set with an affable urgency, his fire-red hair swinging in his wake. And keyboardist Caleb Quick was anything but, taking his time to strike each chord with what looked to be a deep and somber intent.

No matter any critique you may have of the group, it’s impossible to say its lacking in fullness, in totality. When the vocals become hushed, the heedlessly playful guitar riffs meandered to new heights. When the percussion and bass toed the line of “background” music, the group’s harmonies became impressively bold.

The result was a striking sense of balance. The beauty was in their distinctions as performers: Murphy swaying and singing; impassively cool behind his caterpillar-like mustache, Terreberry zoning out to resilient bass lines, Pontrello a feisty hot mess.

Dahlen was buoyant behind the drum set and Quick gave the performance a tasteful poignance.

One highlight was “Midnight Owl,” off their latest album Adios, I’m a Ghost (Hardly Art, 2013), which came out of this August with plenty of critical praise. It was also where Murphy shone the brightest — or darkest.

Murphy crooned the soft chorus wearing a yearning expression while shuffling uncomfortably, “She’s a midnight owl, ain’t seen her yet/ She’s an early riser, ain’t gone to bed.”

Their set seemed to go buy too quick, always a sign of a good show.

Sammy Hagar runs through the hits at the America’s Cup Pavilion

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Celebrating 40-plus years on the rock scene, Rock and Roll Hall of Famer Sammy Hagar hit the stage in San Francisco on Saturday night before a crowd of thousands of enthusiastic fans.
 
Playing the America’s Cup Pavilion, the Red Rocker blazed through a set spanning most of his career, starting out with Montrose songs, then on to his solo material, through his stint with Van Halen, and up through his current output.
 
Sporting his signature shaggy hair and shades look, Hagar kicked off his set with several tunes from his first successful band, the Bay Area-based Montrose, for whom he sang back in the early 1970s.
 
Taking to the stage with two of his former Montrose bandmates, Bill Church and Denny Carmassi, along Y&T guitarist Dave Meniketti, who was filling in for the late Ronnie Montrose, Hagar ran back and forth, pumping up the audience with classic cuts like “Rock Candy” and “Bad Motor Scooter.”
 
When his current backing group took over, Hagar wasted no time in getting to some of his early signature solo hits, running through “Red” and then “I Can’t Drive 55,” which got fans — many of whom looked to have been following him since the beginning — singing along and dancing around, much to the chagrin of the bouncers, who seemed intent on keeping people firmly planted in front of their assigned seats.
 
The seating situation was one of the drawbacks to the temporary venue, or at least how it was configured for this particular show; you could tell lots of fans wanted to dance around and let loose, which is hard to do when you’re surrounded a sea of metal folding chairs and security forces keeping a watchful eye on everything.
 
Otherwise, the outdoor amphitheater located along the city’s waterfront was an ideal location for the concert — it definitely helped that it was one of those great late summer/early fall days and nights in San Francisco, where the sun was out all day, and the fog held off rolling in until the show was nearly over.

Landmarks like the the Transamerica Pyramid and Coit Tower provided a stunning backdrop to watching Hagar traverse the stage, at times bounding around and encouraging the crowd the yell or sing along, at others picking up a guitar and reminding concertgoers that he is also a formidable six string slinger in addition to being one of the best known singers in the realm of classic rock.
 
And that voice still sounds as strong as ever, belting out more hits such as “There’s Only One Way To Rock,” “Why Can’t This Be Love,” and “Heavy Metal” among others.
 
Hagar’s old cohort in Van Halen, Michael Anthony, joined in on bass for several tunes, eliciting a roar of approval when he appeared on stage and bantered back and forth with Hagar, who plied him with a bottle of liquor and tried to convince him to move out of LA to join him here in the Bay Area.
 
While playing one of Van Halen’s hits, “Right Now,” a video montage appeared on a giant screen behind the band, culling parts of the vintage video clip and adding a few newer additions. One said, “Right Now…People are hungry in San Francisco,” with the words “You Can Help” and shared the website for the San Francisco Food Bank — keeping with the fact that Hagar himself had previously announced that he would donate money to a couple of local charities when he made this tour stop.
 
Although it seemed he needed no extra help in winning over the crowd’s admiration, Hagar also scored some hometown points when he took a moment to tell everyone how he had “moved to San Francisco back in 1968 with a suitcase, a guitar, and about $5 in my pocket — and I’ve lived here ever since!”
 
He then added that in recent interviews everyone has been asking him, “When are you going to retire?” 

“I tell them I retired when I moved here and started playing music!”
 
 

Live Shots: Asteroid #4 and the Richmond Sluts at Brick and Mortar Music Hall

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By Brittany M. Powell

Brick and Mortar Music Hall may have had some noise complaint troubles with the San Francisco Sound Commission earlier this summer, but that hasn’t kept the venue or Kymberli Jenson, of Kymberli’s Music Box Presents, from putting on great shows.  Last Saturday’s bill included the Asteroid #4 and the Richmond Sluts. It was a handful of loud rock’n’roll bands that blasted us back through the decades with sounds echoing 1960s and ‘70s psychedelia and punk, but also hints of the late ‘90s and early 2000s , when these bands were fresh on the music scene. 

They’ve all been around the block, or as frontperson-guitarist Scott Vitt of the Asteroid #4 put it, these are all “old heads” and “mainstays” at this point.

The Asteroid #4, which recently transplanted to the Bay Area from Philadelphia, released its first EP in 1995.  Its music is a blend of classic psychedelic rock, with a little melodic folk and shoe gaze tremor, and strong influences from late ‘60s psych rock bands like Love, and early ‘90s British bands like Spacemen 3. 

When I asked Vitt how he felt living in California was influencing his band’s sound, he responded, “living and breathing the natural beauty, the mountains, the forests and, of course, the ocean, first-hand, I think it’ll be very evident on our next record that we’ve become a California band.”

And the group sounded plenty at home on Saturday night, as if the packed music hall was its own cozy living room. The set was vibrant and full of the precise kinds of melodies and riffs that can only come from a band that’s been playing together as long as it has — and is more than comfortable in its own skin. When asked about this, Vitt quoted Miles Davis, “you have to play a long time to be able to play like yourself.”

The Asteroid #4’s set included personal favorites, “Hold On,” which seems to have a Brian Jonestown Massacre influence, “The Unknown,” and “I Want to Touch You,” a Catharine Wheel cover.  For the final song, Joel Gion of BJM joined the band on stage for “Into the Meadow.”

After the Asteroid #4, the Richmond Sluts went on, which was an excellent transition into an upbeat set closing out the night.

The Richmond Sluts formed in 1998, in the Richmond District. Imagine the NY Dolls on LSD, with a little bit of the Cramps and the Rolling Stones thrown in to keep it both weird and glammy. I have vague memories of hearing this band play at a few parties back in the day, but I have to say I don’t remember it sounding nearly as tight as it did the other night.

Frontperson Shea Roberts also looks nothing like the Stiv Baters (of the Dead Boys) gaunt 20-year-old look-alike I remember either. While the Sluts don’t really have the same excuse for playing trashy, angsty, garage rock about sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll as their post-pubescent selves did back in the late ‘90s, it doesn’t really matter, cause their talent has matured enough to take the material to whole other level. 

Said Shea, “I know some of the lyrics are a little goofy sometimes and the stuff I’m writing now tends to be a bit more serious…but they were all sparked by some emotion I was feeling at the time and I’m OK with that.  Maybe we shouldn’t take ourselves so seriously.”

We shouldn’t.  Not when we can rock out to music like this to keep it in perspective. 

Their set included tracks like “Sweet Something,” “Sad City,” and “Paddy Wagon” off their 2001 self-titled release. Shea says that he hopes to keep playing with the new Sluts and that’s the plan “until it’s not fun anymore.”

Live Shots: Black Sabbath at Shoreline Amphitheatre

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Reunions can be hit or miss.

Maybe it’s been too long, maybe you’ve lost your chops, maybe you’re getting old and things just aren’t working the way they used to. Maybe your drummer doesn’t want to play.  In the case of Black Sabbath, thankfully, only the latter was true (and it didn’t seem to matter much), and as fans at the Shoreline Ampitheatre witnessed on Monday night, reunions can be a beautiful thing.

It probably didn’t hurt that the band was promoting an album that it is, rightfully, very proud of. The Rick Ruben-produced, 13, is Black Sabbath’s first #1 album in the States, and while it probably won’t get a third or fourth listen from most longtime Sabbath fans, it’s still pretty damn good.

The big question mark going in — at least for those of us who had been checking in on how this tour was going — was around Ozzy’s voice. Was he going to be able to bring it? There were some sad reviews regarding the subject from the Northeast leg and YouTube videos to support them, but by the time he got to “evil minds that plot destructiooooooon,”  on the “War Pigs” opener, it was clear that he brought it.  It was going to be a good night. 

From a distance, the Prince of Darkness, looked a bit like the Grandma of Darkness, shuffling around the stage, engaging with Tony and Geezer, both of whom were flawless, and throwing the occasional bucket of water into the front rows. He even managed to get a few jumps in here and there (he was wearing sensible New Balance shoes).

Locomotive issues aside, Ozzy, Tony, Geezer, and the young Tommy Clufetos delivered sweet doom to their adoring fans, slow and heavy.  Most of the hits were there, punctuated by the occasional deeper cuts.

The first real frenzy arrived four songs in with “Snowblind,” but there was nary a dull moment before or after. “Dirty Women” was kind of a snoozer, but at least the behind-stage video production featured a nice edit of vintage boobs to keep us entertained.  About two-thirds in, after “Fairies Wear Boots” and “Rat Salad,” the OGs shuffled off, leaving the young-blood Clufetos behind his behemoth kit, where he proceeded to bang out a remarkably long, but also pretty remarkable (nobody is missing Bill Ward at this point), drum solo.

It was easily long enough for the old-timers to pee, take their meds, get dialysis, or whatever it is old rockers do when they take a break (The pee break for the rest of us came in the form of “Is God Dead?,” the nine-minute single off 13. It’s pretty good, but not nine-minutes good.)

The drum blitz went right into “Iron Man,” which obviously got everyone worked up, but was really the last high-point of the pre-encore show, which closed out with the aforementioned single, “Dirty Women,” and “Children of the Grave,” on which Ozzy’s vocals started to go a bit flat. He was, however, able to revive his pipes for the obvious encore, “Paranoid.”

The between-song banter was filled with graititude and mentions of the copious amounts of Northern California pot smoke. Always included were two-three F-bombs, mostly in the form of “let me see your fucking hands,” “Go fucking crazy,” or “We fucking love you.” We did, and we fucking love you, too.

Outside Lands 2013 winners (Paul McCartney, Chic, Bombino) and losers

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Hall & Oates, or Trombone Shorty? Willie Nelson, or Vampire Weekend? This year’s Outside Lands presented its 65,000 attendees with some perplexing choices, resulting in what might’ve been the festival’s most eclectic lineup of its now six-year run. As always, Golden Gate Park was a most picturesque venue, with patches of sunlight punctuating the heavy fog, great nighttime atmosphere provided by the purply-lit trees, and a generous smattering of what Grizzly Bear’s Edward Droste called, “the bougiest food stands I’ve ever seen at a festival.”

Now, without further adieu, here’s a rundown of several acts that’ve left me beaming in the days since Outside Lands came to a close:

BEST OF THE BEST:

Paul McCartney
“How many people have learned to play that one on guitar?” Paul McCartney asked his enraptured audience after a beautiful solo performance of “Blackbird.” (A sea of hands went up, of course.) Watching the crowd’s reactions to McCartney’s most indelible songs, ranging from ecstatic to reflective, it was obvious: this music really means things to people.

Much like Stevie Wonder last year, Sir Paul delivered an unrelenting hit parade on Friday night, delving into the Beatles and Wings back-catalogues for three hours (!) of immediately recognizable songs, pulled directly from the audience’s collective consciousness, and relayed back again. Sure, McCartney’s stadium-ready backing band has largely sterilized the exploratory wildness of the Beatles’ post-mop-top sound, but what a joy it was to be serenaded by the elder statesman of rock ‘n’ roll, giving it his all at the ripe old age of 71.

McCartney was shrewd to forgo his newer material (honestly, who came to hear that anyway?), in favor of Beatles and Wings songs, ranging from black-tie pop ditties like “Eight Days a Week,” and “Paperback Writer,” (performed on the very guitar he wrote it on), to the explosive, technicolor invention of “Being For the Benefit of Mr. Kite,” and “Magical Mystery Tour,” to wistful ballads like “Yesterday,” (which featured the Kronos Quartet on strings, no less) to the giddy excess of “Helter Skelter” and “Live and Let Die.”

It was surreal to be in the presence of such a towering cultural figure, especially as he rattled off casual anecdotes about hanging with Hendrix and Clapton. Despite his stature, though, McCartney’s stage presence was utterly charming, and the rousing singalong he initiated to his ultimate anthem, “Hey Jude,” was the festival’s most communal moment.

Chic
Faced with the unenviable task of filling a D’Angelo sized void (the neo-soul comeback king cancelled his Friday night appearance at the last minute for unspecified health reasons), Chic hopped onstage with an arsenal of disco-funk party jams, and drove the crowd wild. On any Outside Lands bill before this one, Chic might’ve been disregarded as a throwback novelty act, but considering bandleader Nile Rodgers’ high-profile rhythm guitar work on “Get Lucky,” Daft Punk’s “anthem of the summer,” the entire crowd, young and old, had something to be excited about.

Dressed in white, head to toe, Rodgers’ impeccably tight backing band ripped through a number of Chic originals (“Good Times,” “Le Freak”) as well as a handful of his productions for other artists: most notably Diana Ross’ “I’m Coming Out” and David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance.” Rodgers’ ultra-syncopated rhythm guitar cut through the fabric of each song, and fascinatingly, the looming shadow of “Get Lucky” seemed to place his ever-modular approach to the instrument in a new, fashionable context.

Bombino
Much like Tinariwen, another group from the Tuareg region of West Africa that’s garnered intercontinental attention, Bombino of Niger injects the skipping rhythms and flickering melodies of their homeland’s folk music with a dose of unmistakably Western groove: namely, psychedelic rock and American blues. Bandleader Omara Mochtar hardly spoke a word to the audience, but his lively, smiley stage presence was endearing, especially as he delivered flaming guitar licks that would perk up Hendrix’s ears.

While Bombino’s hooks and melodies were certainly involving, the real magic was in those woozy, hypnotic grooves, often suggestive of the Grateful Dead at its most transportive. Dressed in traditional garb, and reveling in the power of extended jams, Bombino’s set was a welcome departure from the indie rock/EDM same-yness Outside Lands is prone to suffer from.

Nine Inch Nails
Trent Reznor is totally buff now. He looks like the kind of gym-rat who might bully the creator of Pretty Hate Machine for his lunch money. But more notably, he’s sober, happily married, and seems invigorated by the prospect of revisiting his ’90s project that introduced industrial music to the pop mainstream. Reznor and Co. took the stage with great conviction on Saturday night, making an assertive case for NIN 2.0’s relevance in the restructured music world of 2013.

Sure, Reznor’s dream-team touring lineup didn’t quite materialize (King Crimson guitarist Adrian Belew and Eric Avery, the bassist of Jane’s Addiction dropped out early on, citing creative differences), yet his backing band was airtight and incredibly versatile, folding marimbas and even Chinese violins into the usual rock band instrumentation, and resulting in some of the most compelling sonics of the whole weekend. With computer guru Josh Eustis (formerly of Telefon Tel Aviv) on board, NIN’s electronics were richer in detail than ever.

The band’s forceful renditions of bangers such as “Head Like a Hole,” “The Hand That Feeds,” and “Closer” channeled the catharsis that runs through Reznor’s music like a freight train. “Something I Can Never Have,” was the subdued ballad of the night: dramatic and moodily lit, but never contrived or unintentionally goofy. “Hurt,” put the entire audience in singalong mode, suggesting a twisted spin on Pink Floyd’s communal anthem, “Wish You Were Here.” New songs, “Copy of A” and “Come Back Haunted,” were engaging and strong, portraying a band too inspired to lean on its past achievements.                   

As far as spectacle goes, NIN trounced any and all competition. Constantly wheeling instruments and projection screens around, the band utilized the depth of the stage unlike any festival band I’ve ever seen.

It’s always inspiring to see a band return to form with such strength of purpose; between the fantastic visuals, the band’s versatility, and Reznor’s newfound vigor, NIN initiated an astounding return on Saturday night, maybe even turning a new generation of EDM kids on to their brand of industrial menace.

RUNNERS UP:

Jurassic 5 made an explosive comeback after more than five years off the radar. Rappers Chali 2na, Akil, Zaakir, and Mark 7even laid down verses that bounced effortlessly off each other, with DJs Nu-Mark and Cut Chemist providing a thick, but minimal, backbone. The LA-based group delivered one of the most downright fun sets of the entire festival, filling Outside Lands’ glaring hip-hop void with boundless energy.

Willie Nelson was warm and welcoming as ever, with his family band in tow, and a rasp to his Lou Reed-ish speak-singing delivery that’s only grown more endearing with age. “Always On My Mind,” was especially tender, and made me want to give the ponytailed icon a big hug.

Grizzly Bear has a tendency to take the stage with an off-putting sense of self-importance, like the fastidious pastel-wearers their critics accuse them of sounding like. Unlike their uptight performance at the Fox Theater in Oakland last year, the Brooklyn quartet seemed to let loose in the festival environment. The results were fiery, especially on Shields’ dynamic closer, “Sun In Your Eyes.”

Hall & Oates took the stage authoritatively with their signature brand of agreeable soft rock, but more interesting was the crowd’s reaction: many older audience members seemed to take their music at face value, while younger attendees seemed torn between sincere and ironic appreciation.

Jessie Ware‘s vocal prowess, and the quality of her nu-R&B productions, suggest a self-serious performer, but her jokey, self-deprecating stage persona resulted in a disarming, hugely engaging set. A cover of Marvin Gaye’s “I Want You,” thrown in the middle of her groove-laden “No To Love” was an especially nice surprise.

COMPLAINTS:

The National delivered some heartfelt ballads on rust-belt hopelessness, and alcoholism, among other things, and went so far as to bring the Kronos Quartet and Bob Weir on stage. While their set might’ve been incredibly involving in a smaller, indoor venue, something about the band’s intimate songs being performed in the social-media-playground environment of the Lands End stage felt very off.

Vampire Weekend has noticeably beefed up its sound, and grown less insufferably twee since debuting in 2009, but the cutesy, Ivy-League preppiness that continues to draw fans to Ezra Koenig and his Columbia brethren still repels me. Like this year’s much lauded LP Modern Vampires of the City, their set wasn’t exactly “bad,” but that’s the most I have to say for it.

Rudimental surely meant well. The nine-piece, UK based, drum ‘n’ bass-inflected pop ensemble brought infectious energy to the stage, but the result was overwrought and heavy-handed, resembling a busy plate of fusion food with too many sparring elements to result in anything coherent.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs aren’t a low quality band by any means, and songs like “Heads Will Roll” and “Maps” were smartly written, and well delivered, but vocalist Karen O’s incendiary presence made her backing musicians come across as expendable, by comparison.

Red Hot Chili Peppers certainly amped the audience up with their signature Cali vibes, but my overall impression was of a band whose brand-name status has far surpassed its creative potency. Chad Smith and Flea provided a blistering funk-punk rhythm section, especially on bangers like “Higher Ground,” their iconic Stevie Wonder cover, but vocalist Anthony Kedis looked withdrawn, and not quite stoked to be doing his job. The band can certainly fill stadiums in 2013 (and hey, more power to ’em), but at this point, the Chili Pep empire seems to have lapsed into the zone of diminishing returns.

Can’t-miss treats at the upcoming SF Street Food Fest

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The smells of deliciousness were overwhelming. Where do we start?!

As Sam Love and I wandered around the La Cocina media preview for August 17’s San Francisco Street Food Festival, everywhere we looked there were delightful taste treats, colorful, fresh and also deep fried. I’ll take four of each, thank you.

We made the rounds, chatting with fantastic chefs who are living their dreams, whipping up flavors from around the world. We tried everything and, while we enjoyed it all, becoming clean plate champions many times over, there were three highlights that made our short list. If you don’t have the stomach to make it to all the vendors at the Street Food Festival, we’d recommend trying these first:

Chiefo’s Kitchen
Chiefo served plantain and chocolate bread pudding that was soft and heavenly, but also punched back with a sinful slap of rum. Chiefo’s Kitchen West African flavors are not to miss. Check her out at the Night Market!

Azalina’s Malaysian
I live for Azalina’s smile. She could hand me a slice of cold leftover pizza, and with that smile, it would taste like the most exquisite dish. The fact is, Azalina cooks with tremendous love and care, and eating her food is therapy for the soul. She is an amazing chef, from a long family line of street vendors from Penang, and her food explodes with the island’s spices, but also takes advantage of our freshest local California produce. She prepared sweet potato dumplings, decorated with colorful fruit and veggie bonnets. So yum!

Hella Vegan Eats
Two words: doughnut burger. Wait — it’s not what you’re thinking! It’s a doughnut sandwich stuffed with a beet and kamut patty, topped with kale, pickled red onions and dill weed, and squirted with secret sauce. It’s pretty much the cutest thing ever, perfectly balancing the most unhealthy and healthy food items in a few giant bites, and worth unhinging your jaw for. Vegan can definitely be bad-ass.

Photos by Bowerbird Photography

Cave of garage rock dreams: Primitive Hearts, Pinkslime, Lunch, Sweat Lodge

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I came to an Undisclosed Cavernous Area (let’s call it U.C.A from here out) on Saturday in the greater Bay Area with the promise of two things. First, that I would see an array of garage and surf punk bands for free — and second, that I would be going to something possibly illegal, which is fairly punk, as well.

The setting was, as mentioned, a fairly damp U.C. A. The stage was to be determined by the bands that played. Powered by a generator and dimly lit with a couple of clamp lamps, the show boasted dozens of people gathered close to hear the bands and to (literally) be kept in the light.

The first band up was Primitive Hearts, a garage-pop band from Oakland. Airing on the side of Ramones-worship, the trio cranked through its set playing selections from its latest full length released this year, High and Tight. Throwing a bunch of glow sticks into the audience, Primitive Hearts set the party-like atmosphere of the show.

Up next was Pinkslime, yet another band from Oakland via Portland, Ore. (definitely a trend for this show). The duo served up good and sludgy surf-punk. Some songs were similar to Thee Oh Sees with buckling riffs, and vocals that take a backseat to said riffs. Either way, the audience ate it up, and things got a little rowdy with a few po-goers. Unfortunately, this was Pinkslime’s last show for the next few months.

Lunch, which is a messy garage pop-punk band from Portland, pretty much killed it. The touring group, hot off the release of its newest full length cassette, Quinn Touched The Sun on Resurrection Records, ripped through its set, ending with a cover of “Skulls” by the Misfits.

Last was San Francisco’s Sweat Lodge, self-described “pow wow punk”. With overwhelming bass lines, sleepy vocals, and fits of thrashy-ness, Sweat Lodge draws from psych, punk, and garage rock influences.

The nature of the band, loud and sloppy, was greatly reflected in the U.C.A.  The singer beckoned people to get as close as possible to the group. But this caused problems. The vocalist darted in and out of the audience, every which way, falling and leaning into the crowd-goers pinned against craggy walls.

In a turn of events, he fell and knocked over Lunch’s sound equipment, possibly damaging it irreparably (according to one member from Lunch). Though he apologized, the atmosphere in the U.C.A was tense as Sweat Lodge cranked out its last few songs.

But still, I commend Sweat Lodge for taking the no boundaries approach — it brought everybody closer in an actual and sentimental sense, and ended the show on an interesting note.

All the folks that played that night were solid, and all had one thing in common: they were all people of the punk ilk trying to jam in a U.C.A.

Also of note: On August 3, Sweat Lodge is playing with Nobunny and The Shrills at El Rio in San Francisco for $8. The show starts at 10 p.m. and is 21+.

Live Shots: Phono del Sol 2013 with Thee Oh Sees, Marnie Stern, Surf Club

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John Dwyer stood holding his guitar, smiling and making small talk with the crowd, having been asked by a Phono del Sol staffer to hold off while, presumably, the band on the other stage finished up its set. “Alright, I think we’re just going to get started,” he said, seemingly without cue, and Thee Oh Sees began playing, giving the day a much needed jolt in energy.

Can you have too much control? Up until that point on Saturday, things were running smoothly. The musical acts were alternating without interruption on the two stages set up at the idyllic (and freeway adjacent) Potrero del Sol park, the weather was perfect, you could test drive an electric Fiat, and everyone seemed sated, even in the beer garden where the queue for Lagunitas and wine had started to resemble a Möbius strip, with patrons receiving a drink only to return to the back of the line to wait for another.

Everything was very under control, on the Potrero Street entrance where you could watch skateboarders try to confidently hustle their way past security, only to be directed to buy a ticket if they wanted to gain access to the park skating area during the festival. (“Just a tip,” Dwyer joked, “but if you show up at the skatepark tomorrow you can skate for free.”)

An hour earlier, during Marnie Stern’s set, I’d been wondering when things were going to pick up. The giddy guitar shredder and her band were speeding along at an energy level that seemed well above the stony, post-lunch crowd. Stern herself seemed rather high, hopping around bare-foot on the hot stage, delivering Woody Allen impressions and wondering whether her guitar overpowers her vagina (or vice versa) between finger-tapping blistering rhythms. But the response — polite applause from a largely reclining crowd — was typical for the day up to that point.

If anyone was gonna change that, it was San Francisco’s best live band, and a few songs in, the crowd was good and riled up. Not for lack of effort. I love watching this band play in part because of how animated they are, and half-way through a marathon version of “Contraption/Soul Desert” drummer Mike Shoun — his veins bulging out of his neck like a pissed off Ren and Stimpy character — was totally in control but with a look of effort somewhere between fighting off an epileptic fit and vomiting. Meanwhile, Dwyer was shifting around like he belonged on a Rat Fink t-shirt, changing gears but never slowing down. (The closest they came is during the middle dirge of “Strawberries 1+2” off Floating Coffin.)

With a sound that’s not punk, or garage, or surf, or psych, but rather a distillation of each’s best aspect, Thee Oh Sees have honed a distinctive sound over the last decade that’s totally affecting, so that when Dwyer invites everyone who wants to come up on stage, with the promise that Brigid Dawson has an extra tambourine for someone and the warning that they better not knock anything over, a lot of people take them up on the offer.

It’s not complete chaos, because Thee Oh Sees have enough control to make it work.

Notes on some bands:

Surf Club: I haven’t seen these guys in a while, but the tail end of their set sounded good, as they’ve loosened up on stage and gone a bit from the light surf rock influence that — coming out of Stockton — plagued them with an irony (there’s no beach there!) that writers (like myself) jumped on.

Cool Ghouls: Sorry Tim Cohen, I can’t save my Kinks references if a band is going to open their set with a song that sounds exactly like Muswell Hillbillies-era Ray Davies. But “Natural Life” was a swell opening and showcased the backup horn section right off the bat, and I subsequently enjoyed this band, and lolled at Pat McDonald’s Beefheart-like goofy rendition of “Eenie Meenie Sassaleenie” as stage banter. (Probably my biggest laugh of the day. The only real competition came from host Anna Seregina, who delivered commentary between bands in a Yakov Smirnoff-style Eastern European accent, probably in reaction to the uphill battle of being a host at a day-time music festival: “I like music like the Dixie Chicks, but they are not playing today.” “Thanks to Aaron Axelson of Live 105 and Popscene. I like Live 105 and I like Popscene. but they do not play the Gypsy Kings so I do not like them.”)

Social Studies: They sounded so much better than opening for Hot Chip the other week. Most likely because as a band it relies less on any sort of posture and attitude and more on a big multi-guitar sound that plays better out in the open. Ditto for singer Natalia Rogovin, whose vocals tend to hang in the air a bit. Shame she was having technical issues with her microphone just as it she was slowing down and coming to the front on “Developer”.

Radiation City: It reminded me off a bigger, less twee Hospitality, without a distinctive sound, but I may have just been hangry.

Painted Palms: These guys sound like “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” meets “Star Guitar,” and hearing them take their time getting into “Falling Asleep” from their Canopy EP, it was clear they know how to structure a song. Occasionally I felt like they could lay off the la-la-la’s, and various oh-oh-oh choruses, if only to let the light, whimsical rhythms float on a bit more.

Bleached: Black bean burger from Doc’s of the Bay. Bad name/pun, great burger, amazing ketchup.

YACHT: Having caught the band recently at Noise Pop, and having just emerged from the pit of Thee Oh Sees, I didn’t make to the end of YACHT’s set. But the duo looked great, obviously.

Live Shots: Chvrches at Mezzanine

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The night started with shrieks. Well, back up. It actually started sedate. Opener Still Corners had cancelled at the last minute, due to visa issues*,” so we knew it would be a bit of a wait before headliner Chvrches came to the stage at Mezzanine. In the meantime, we stood around commenting how nice it was that there was no one under 21.

The show had originally been scheduled at the Rickshaw Stop, but when it sold out quickly, it was moved to Mezzanine, and anyone under drinking age was issued a refund. This meant there wasn’t the early crush of teenagers permanently camped out at the front of the stage.** I know, I know, it’s not nice to gloat over someone else’s exclusion. Maybe I forget about being that age and not understanding how I wouldn’t get to see my newest musical obsession live, just because the venue was 21+. I remember now, though, because twenty minutes before start time the other side of the spectrum arrived: the banshees.***

You know them. The kind of people who slip through the crowd, pretending their friend is just…over…there, until suddenly they stop in the gap you’ve made for them to pass, and you realize that their friends are actually behind them, daisy-chained along (and now standing on your feet). The kind that love, love, love each other (and are so glad they’re all here!) but don’t give a damn about anyone else. The kind that re-count how many free shots they’ve been given (not recount as in a great story, but re-count as in they can’t keep track of the actual number at this point).

The kind that seem a few penis straws short of a bachelorette party. The kind that — when you supportively catch them mid-stumble and extricate them from the remaining inch between your date — turn to their friends and act like you manhandled their pudenda. The kind that are (of course) joined by their moist, B.O. laden friend Owen****, who is the kind of guy that just happens to be surrounded by assholes all the time, since his breed of loud, shrieking belligerents has the perfect mix of self-awareness and obliviousness to make it seem like assholes surround them wherever they go. The kind of people who have to say, “Let’s not fight tonight.” *****

Obviously, it wasn’t really that bad, but whenever you wait extra long without an opener, the crowd starts to feel a bit hellish. In which case, Chvrches coming to the stage with a slow downed version of Prince’s reverent intro to “Let’s Go Crazy” was the perfect segue into the musical reward for our suffering: 

Dearly beloved
We are gathered here today
To get through this thing called life

Electric word life
It means forever and that’s a mighty long time
But I’m here to tell you
There’s something else
The after world

A world of never ending happiness
You can always see the sun, day or night

Once on stage, the Scottish electronic pop trio started out with “Lies,” and the bright sharpness of singer Lauren Mayberry’s voice quickly pushed the shrillness of banshees out of mind. It has an instantaneous accessible quality to it that immediately hooks in and grabs attention, validating the lyrics “I can sell you lies, you can’t get enough. Make a true believer of, anyone, anyone, anyone.” It goes a long way to explaining how, after posting just a few songs online, the group of Glaswegians has captured such attention.****** On “Recover,” played later in the evening to the crowd’s largest response, Mayberry sings with a monosyllabic attention, giving such clarity to the words that they hardly even matter. It could be the alphabet.

Refreshingly, this focus comes without grandstanding.******* Mayberry is rather stationary on stage, but the clarity of her iconically pop voice is by itself without pop-cliche affectations, dances or costumes.******** The band functions best as a unit. Iain Cook and Martin Doherty are the musical foundation, combining elements of post-punk and synthpop, updated with some trap elements (see: the intro to “The Mother We Share”).

Both act as multi-instrumentalists and backing vocalists on stage, with Doherty most notably giving a little oomph to chunky drum samples on the MPC, and Cook bringing his bass to the forefront on songs like “Lungs.” When Doherty took lead vocals for a song, his singing was a little more raw, a little more tender — like early Bernard Sumner — with a pleading stage presence and a more obvious Scottish accent.

After playing as much already released and new material as a band that hasn’t actually released an album could have — with Doherty thanking the crowd for the largest headlining show they’ve ever done — Chvrches returned to the stage (and the Purple One) for a cover of “I Would Die 4 U.”

*It always seems to be visa issues when a band cancels. Is that just the all-purpose excuse?
**The luxury of an empty bladder.
***The only reference to Scottish culture I’ll make, since sadly it’s all I know.
****He is always named Owen.
*****With emphasis on “tonight” because it happens frequently enough to be a normal occurrence.
******To the point that their first live show was reportedly already filled with label types and music journalists.
*******Choice quote: “As my mom says, we’re all the same, nobody’s special, we’re all shit.”
********So, pre-Madonna stage with a Madonna-esque voice, but not prima donna.