Live Shots

Björk plays the part of stunning mad scientist at the Craneway Pavilion

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With purple lightning bolts of electricity jagging toward one another in a steel cage center-stage, powerful pipes that reverberated through the pavilion and rippled out onto the sea, and a fuzzy Snow Cone wig of every color — cherry red, orange, lime green — Björk seemed like the mad scientist of the natural world last night at the relatively intimate Craneway in Richmond, Calif.

She also thanked the audience often, ‘t-ank you, Bay Area, gggrrrratitude!” (she rolls her Rs beautifully) and offered up a 16-piece coven of sequined and hooded Icelandic choir princesses, so you can assume she’s the benevolent type of creator.

The vibe was weird to start, with most of the audience confused as to where to go, do we sit or stand, what is this place, will she come out before dark even though the whole place is encased by floor-to-ceiling windows? Will I cry when she appears? There were a few poofy pink or orange wigs dotting the crowd, and at least one swan costumed fella, who, also benevolent, took time to pose for photos with fans after the show.

The Craneway only holds 4,000 people, which still seems like a lot until you realize that when Björk’s Volta tour came through, it went to the Shoreline Amphitheatre in Mountain View, which holds 22,500. And with the stage in the dead center and the aforementioned ripply waters just outside the windows, it did feel like the smallest possible way to view Björk. “Did she just look directly at me?” It must have been thought dozens of times throughout the night during this Biophilia stop.

The show itself began auspiciously enough, with a young woman stepping out onto the stage to patiently ask the crowd to put away its cell phones and cameras, to live in the moment for the night. People cheered, as concert-goers are sick of the constant interruption at shows (or maybe I’m projecting). Most got the point — hello, we were about to be in the presence of a legendary elf and sonic genius, live in the now — but plenty decided to shirk the suggestion, just too giddy with social media attention. (Full disclosure: I posted a photo of the empty stage long before the show started, but still, I admit to that tugging need to let people know I was there, near her.)

At 9pm, a National Geographic documentary-style voice (actually British broadcaster David Attenborough, narrating Biophilia‘s intro) came over the loudspeaker and explained the night would be about “NATURE, MUSIC, AND TECHNOLOGY.” It also asked us to expand our minds, and a few other ideas that I missed due to excitement. Just listen to the album introduction, it’s all there.

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

The cloaked Icelandic choir — all blonde, Viking-esque, and vaguely Kirsten Dunst-looking, wearing oversized smocks of glittery green or velvety amber-brown with large hoods — marched out and stood in a hunched and humble circle on the already circular stage and began chanting. A sea of impressive vocals rose with immediacy.

And then Björk rose up like a bewigged phoenix from the ashes, and lightly shuffled near the Tesla coils as they crackled with purple electricity inside a human-sized bird cage (technically, a Faraday shield). She later called the Tesla coils her “fun new toy.” The set began with “Oskasteinar,” then electrifying “Thunderbolt,” which teetered between grinding techno thanks to arpeggios timed to the coils and passionate love song, given Björk’s leaping vocals. This was followed by “Moon” (large moons floating and shifting on the circle of TV screens surrounding the stage) and “Chrystalline” (crystal gems dance across said screens). Most songs had a visual component on those screens, a natural element growing and twisting like a video game or early web screen-saver. The image of the earth’s mantle cracking open looked straight out of a biology book.

Björk and the hooded Kirsten Dunsts sang their way through most of Biophilia — the main star of this tour — but also revisited old favorites like “Hidden Place,” which was matched to a neat video of colorful starfish frolicking underwater, and incredibly sexy Vespertine hit “Pagan Poetry,” which burst out of Bjork’s mouth like fire, filling the room with warmth. That powerful “I love him/I love him/I love him/I love him” breakdown felt almost too personal in such a small place. But then the choir piped up with that tender backup “She loves him,” and it brought us all back to the present.

While she sang, Björk one-two shuffled around in platform glitter shoes and a glittery beige haute couture dress that looked like it was covered in 3-D alien breasts. She pushed her body forward and back. She shot her hands out and spread her fingers like she was casting spells to the beats. She pulled out the iPad to play during a handful of songs, and was also backed by a live drummer, a musician on “computers and shit,” and a truly epic harpist, also wearing a glittery oversized smock. Large pendulums swung to and fro just off the stage.

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

Björk and the Dunsts left the stage after an hour, returning a few short minutes later with “Possibly Maybe” off 1995’s Post“Nattura,” and finally, closing with Volta’s “Declare Independence.” For that last song, she asked that everyone stand (VIP area was seated) and sing-along, “Declare independence/Don’t let them do that to you” and everyone obliged, hoping to please their mad scientist master with repeated declarations of independence. Make your own flag, raise your flag higher, higher. 

Set list:
1. “Oskasteinar”
2. “Thunderbolt”
3. “Moon”
4. “Crystalline”
5. “Hollow”
6. “Dark Matter”
7. “Hidden Place”
8. “Heirloom”
9. “Virus”
10. “Sacrifice”
11. “Generous Palmstroke”
12. “Pagan Poetry”
13. “Mutual Core”
14. “Cosmogony”
15. “Solstice”
Encore
16. “Possibly Maybe”
17. “Nattura”
18. “Declare Independence”

Yo La Tengo plays the hits at the Fillmore, covers Black Flag

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The last time I saw Yo La Tengo, on its fabulously gimmicky Spinning Wheel tour, the trio delivered an abrasive, garage-y opening set under an alter-ego, Dump, and closed with a Jackson Browne cover. This past Friday, the band took the Fillmore stage with a loose, meditative acoustic set, before eventually closing with an incendiary rendition of a Black Flag song. There’s no predicting the content, or structure of a Yo La Tengo show; yet, no matter how vigorously it flips from one genre to the next, it sounds unmistakably like Yo La Tengo.

From its yearly run of Hanukkah shows, to its infamously vast archive of cover songs, the Hoboken, NJ trio of Ira Kaplan, Georgia Hubley, and James McNew has cultivated a rich mythology over nearly three decades as a band. It’s also maintained remarkable consistency and prolificacy within its recorded material, which, like Stereolab, has caused many a fan to take its casual greatness for granted. Alternating between insistently bouncy pop songs, blissfully droned-out jams, and cozy ballads to wear your autumn sweater by, Yo La Tengo has assembled a wildly eclectic back-catalogue that continues to pleasantly surprise, and occasionally confound live audiences.

At Friday’s show, the band threw out a curveball right away, with an understated, acoustic rendition of “Ohm,” the decidedly electric opening track from this year’s Fade: its 13th LP, and arguably its most muted, direct work to date. Kaplan and McNew powered through the drony, hypnotic guitar riff at the song’s center with a quiet, chugging insistence, reinforced by Hubley’s understated, yet undeniably groovy drum brushing. It was a captivating opener, and a shining example of Yo La Tengo’s penchant for elegant simplicity.

The remainder of the opening set showed similar restraint, shuffling through several other new songs (the Beach House-y “Two Trains,” Hubley’s gorgeously vocalized “Cornelia & Jane,” the raga-ish “I’ll Be Around”) intermixed with material from the band’s back-catalogue. One definite highlight was a stripped-down rendition of “Decora” (from 1995’s Electr-o-pura), while “No Water” (from its second LP, 1987’s New Wave Hot Dogs) was easily the night’s most unexpected selection.

After a short break, during which many bespectacled audience members pined for a louder, freakier closing set, Yo La Tengo retook the stage with a full drum kit, and an arsenal of electric guitars, providing a jolt that the first half was missing. “Beanbag Chair” (from 2006’s curiously titled I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass) delivered on the band’s talent for effervescently hooky pop songcraft, while “Deeper Into Movies” (a high point from 1997’s seminal I Can Hear the Heart Beating As One) set a darker, angstier mood, foregrounding Kaplan’s fuzzed-out guitar sensibility.

However, a Yo La Tengo show wouldn’t be complete without a sprawling, 10+ minute epic, and the band delivered handsomely with “The Story of Yo La Tengo.” Beginning with ambient washes of guitar and synth, the sprawling jam morphed slowly into a devastating guitar freakout, complete with Hendrix-esque stage theatrics. Given Kaplan’s soft-spoken, dryly funny live persona, watching him attack his fretboard with prog-like dexterity and ferocity was incredibly endearing, in a brain-melting sort of way. Although Hubley and McNew both took turns fronting the band, proving Yo La Tengo as one of the more democratic ensembles around, Kaplan absolutely stole the show.

In true Yo La Tengo tradition, the band came back for an encore set of cover songs: in this case, Black Flag’s “Nervous Breakdown,” and the Scene is Now’s “Yellow Sarong.” Following an uncompromisingly pissy, noisy punk number with a kinder, gentler pop selection, the pairing was perfectly symbolic of the trio’s stylistic range.

Few ensembles can claim Yo La Tengo’s dependability while remaining so utterly unpredictable, and fewer can sustain such a balancing act so unpretentiously. Even after three decades and 13 albums together, Kaplan, Hubley, and McNew continue to record and perform as vitally and infectiously as many bands on the first leg of their journey. If Sonic Youth’s dissolution is for real, we can officially claim Yo La Tengo as the reigning champions of the autumn-sweatered indie set.

Live Shots: Marina and the Diamonds at the Warfield

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I like a little grit. Usually I feel that a great show combines unpredictability, recklessness, and some raw, unpolished vulnerability. That’s what makes live music exciting and dynamic. If we wanted flawless vocals and sonically airbrushed instrumentals, we’d just stay at home and listen to the music on iTunes. So I’m trying to figure out why Marina and the Diamonds’ shiny, choreographed, factory-sealed set at the Warfield Sunday night felt so right.
 
Marina looks like an actual Barbie doll, with the kind of proportions people go under the knife for and a no-hair-out-of-place look straight out of a Bettie Page photo shoot. Her live persona is a hyperbolic take on teen idolhood, oozing confidence as she strutted, posed, and gracefully reclined on the daybed featured in her onstage bedroom set (complete with a coat rack, television, and stuffed animals.)
 
As Marina ripped through a packed setlist studded with costume changes and flawlessly executed pop routines, the sold-out audience — 1/3 tween girls, 1/3 their mothers, 1/3 Castro on a Saturday night — screamed and gushed at every opportunity. Fans wore homemade sashes bearing the Marina slogans “teen idle” and “heartbreaker” and nearly everyone had her trademark little black heart painted on their cheeks. And I can see why.
 
Marina is insanely talented. Her rich, clear voice is pitch-perfect. Her songs are catchy, extremely danceable, and overall just good, old-fashioned fun. She shone brightest when the camp factor was turned up to eleven, as it often was, with prop martini glasses full of glitter and neon lighting. Her more stripped down moments, featuring just Marina and a keyboard, lacked the punch and glamour that makes her presence so awesome.
 
But I think what makes Marina so likeable, despite her unbelievable precision and Mattel-like beauty, is that when she sings “I am not a robot,” you believe her. There is something very genuine about Marina’s hyperfeminine persona. When she said, “San Francisco, are you living in this moment right now? Because I am,” it rings true.
 
Usually my feminist blinkers would be going off at the sight of this woman in a crop top singing to tweenage girls about being a prima donna, but instead I found myself singing along with thousands of devoted fans, “Oh my God, you look just like Shakira/ No, no, you’re Catherine Zeta/ Actually, my name’s Marina!”

The simple fact is that Marina knows what she’s doing. Her image doesn’t seem contrived or commercially driven — it seems like a reclaiming of the femme fatale.
 
Marina may not be redefining dance music or pushing any major envelopes, but she rules at what she does. She absolutely dominates the stage, reminding everyone that there’s no shame in letting yourself enjoy a great pop hook, and that a powerful woman can still totally rock a pink vinyl minidress.

The Rolling Stones rock hard, bring surprise guests, almost make up for outrageous ticket prices

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It’s one of those things about attending a concert – any concert – at HP Pavilion in San Jose: no matter how you approach the venue, you’re likely to run into those hardline Jesus freaks waving signs and condemning you to hell for whatever music you’re about to enjoy. So, like clockwork, last night as I walked towards the ticket office outside the arena, one of them turned his bullhorn on the bunch of us crossing the intersection and, in full brimstone righteousness, shouted – “what are you gonna tell the lord after you die?” To which, a lone voice from the crowd responded – “I’m gonna tell him I saw the Rolling Stones.”
 
It pretty much summed up the enthralled vibe of last night’s crowd, even before the group got into the venue. Neither obscene ticket prices nor the threats of judgment day were going to stop the concert-goers from catching the Stones one last time, and the enthusiasm was clearly palpable (if not heavily intoxicated) inside the arena from the start.
 
I went into HP last night with a million things on my mind about this show, and left with a million more. I could likely write a doctoral thesis about all the issues that surfaced in my brain surrounding the Stones and their half-century legacy: of what it means to grow old in rock’n’roll, or whether there’s any rebellion left in music (“punk rock” gala at the Met, anyone?), and most of all, this time around, of what we’re willing to spend for a concert experience versus the integrity of what we’re actually getting. But if we push all of that to the side for the minute and just attend to the million-dollar question, about the quality of the band’s performance last night, I’d say that the Rolling Stones were (excuse me Jesus freaks) pretty goddamn fantastic.
 
I can’t speak for their show last week in Oakland, or the earlier East Coast dates of this tour, or for that matter….whatever the hell happened to you that night when you went to see them at Madison Square Garden in ’75.  But last night, at the Shark Tank…the Stones seemed like they were out for blood.
 
Kicking off a 22-song set that would run close to two-plus hours, the band quickly blazed through a few big hits – including “Paint It Black” and “Get Off of My Cloud” – with Mick Jagger immediately charging around the length of the stage in dervish-like blurs of energy. The Stones were all smiles when they pulled up guest John Fogerty of Creedence Clearwater fame to turn out a rowdy cover of the Valentinos “It’s All Over Now” early in the set.
 
The show really got traction towards the middle of the night as the band stepped away from its biggest hits and settled into developing lesser known tracks (well…in comparison, at least), including riveting takes on “No Expectations,” “Bitch,” and “Emotional Rescue,” before calling up Bonnie Raitt to play slide guitar and duet with Mick on an epic rendition of “Let It Bleed.”
 
Yet, for however much the band sent the place ape-shit with “Honky Tonk Women,” the show-stopping cold blooded killer of the evening was clearly a ferocious 12-minute version of “Midnight Rambler” with former guitarist Mick Taylor surfacing to add formidable contributions to the already impressive mix. At any other concert, it was the slam dunk moment to shake your head and feel like you’ve officially gotten your money’s worth. But on this tour, the band really upped the ante on when and if that moment could occur.
 
Of all those peripheral issues surrounding the Stones performance, the ticket price was the one that –rightfully – dominated the conversation since this leg of the tour was announced. And since the moment we all realized that the $1200 asking price for a pair of lower tier seats didn’t include a four-night stay in Hawaii, Stones fans began to determine their threshold for paying to see the band, possibly for the last time.

Those prices (officially termed “dynamic pricing,” which really just means institutionalized scalping) were criticized in editorials, and kicked around in chat rooms. It was a horrendous strategy for the band on what really is a victory lap of its 50-year legacy, being both a betrayal of its fans and far cry from what is supposed to be to its roots as a group of bluesmen.
 
But it still brings us back to the same point, anchored off the actual performance, and whether or not the band’s showing could live up to those prices. And last night, Mick and Keith sounded pretty savage on that third verse of “Jumping Jack Flash,” and Ron Wood did more than his share of heavy lifting on some big tracks (in addition to just being the coolest guy on stage), while Charlie’s backbeat kept the house ushers busy all night trying to quell the manic dancing in the aisles from song to song. There was even a local choir (from SJ State) to properly deliver “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” And maybe most of all, Mick was still moving 900 miles per hour during the last few songs, even as much of the crowd watched the encore half-exhausted from the non-stop energy he exhibited all night.
 
So in this sense, the question regarding the quality of the Stones’ performance seemed to be pretty much a no-brainer to last night’s crowd.
 
But as far as the tour’s big question, of what you’re willing to pay to see such a show, well, I’ll leave you to answer that one for yourself.

Live shots: Baby Dee and Little Annie at Amnesia

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Baby Dee and Little Annie are a match made in camp heaven. The women, nearing their 60s, may have only been playing for 25 people, but boy did they put on a
show Thu/25 at Amnesia.

The two looked like characters out of a B movie or a dirty New York speakeasy. Annie, a diminutive little creature, looked like a gypsy in a headwrap and heavy eyeliner. Dee towered over her in an ’80s-esque leopard print sweater and leggings with a pink tulle skirt. When Baby Dee finally appeared an hour after the show was advertised to begin, she sat down at the piano and called into the microphone, “If anyone sees Little Annie, tell her the show has started.”

Soon Annie was located, and the duo launched into their first song (with a little help from a man in the audience to lift her tiny frame onto the stage.) Little Annie’s low, gravelly voice — which sounded like two packs a day and 40 years, if not something a little harder — was deliciously ragged and worn over Dee’s cabaret-like piano. As Baby Dee headbanged and bashed the piano keys, Annie swayed and posed on stage, using her cane as percussion. Two songs into the set, however, Annie stopped the show because she had forgotten to pray. “I’m discombobulated,” she cried. “Our makeup is crap and I forgot to pray.” As Annie knelt by the stage, Dee said a little prayer of her own. “Please Jesus,” she requested sweetly, “make someone get me a Scotch on the rocks. J&B or Dewar’s.”

When she was informed that Amnesia is a beer and wine bar, Dee screamed, “Fuck you, Jesus! I didn’t want your fucking scotch anyway!” before launching into her next dirge.

After, she repented. “Jesus, I’m sorry. Can I have a beer?”

Calling each other exclusively “honey” and “darling” Dee and Annie played, jested, and improvised through an hour-long set that felt about an hour too short. In between songs each woman told fantastic anecdotes from their tremendously colorful lives. Annie spoke about her short time living in San Francisco, when she got held up for food stamps in the Haight. Dee told a story about curating a Christmas show at the Pyramid Club, in which she dressed a 400 lb woman as the baby Jesus and put an Entemann’s chocolate cake down “the world’s biggest diaper.”

Halfway through the set, I realized something amazing. There was absolutely no side conversation through the entire show. Here we were, in a bar in the Mission, and not a single person was idly chatting with their friends. It’s a testament to the amazing showmanship and magnetic personalities of Baby Dee and Little Annie that every eye was on them for the whole hour they played. The crowd was small, but every person was there for them.

“This has turned out to be a really nice show, hasn’t it?” remarked Baby Dee. “Now I’m happy. It took me a while, but now I’m happy.”

Bat for Lashes brings an occult celebration to the Regency Ballroom

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There’s an idea in literary theory that co-opts the philosophical notion of the concrete universal. The value of a poem, character, or story, it says, can be determined by the particular balance of how general and specific an entity it represents.

The remarkable thing about the music on the three albums of Bat For Lashes, the moniker of British musician Natasha Khan, is its melding of opposites. The songs simultaneously exist in the realm of the ancient and the new, the weird and the ordinary, and the grand and the intimate. And the even more remarkable thing is that seeing it embodied on the Regency Ballroom stage in front of an audience didn’t compromise these effects; it heightened them.

Entering a smoky stage set with lanterns in a costume of a shiny red dress and matching cape, Khan began to sing the album opener, “Lilies,” in a quiet but reverberating voice. Live as in the album, it was hard to determine how much of the otherworldly quality of her singing was due to added effects, but her magnetism, a consequence of both the force of her voice and her presence on stage, deemed that question beside the point. 

As the songs built, with drums, a cello, pulsating bass, and synthesizers entering to create a layers of ethereal noise, Bat For Lashes’ captivating movements and controlled singing provided a strong focal point for the sweeping sound. 

She never lost her audience during the journey along a spectrum of styles. In upbeat tunes such as, “Oh Yeah,” in which a surprisingly clubby backbeat motivated hip-heavy movement both onstage and in the crowd, you could picture that with a different singer and less eerie synth sounds, the music could be straight pop. 

As is, though, it wouldn’t be the soundtrack to a dance club, but an occult celebration. The performance, then, resembled theater, and a fourth wall existed between the audience and the remote but captivating spectacle on stage (which did not deter the audience’s dancing). 

On other songs like the gentle ballad, “Laura,” which Khan dedicated to her father, the wall came down. You could hear each intake of breath in a deeply personal song accompanied only by a piano. 

Most songs, though, occupied a space that combined the poles of theatrics and intimacy. “Siren Song,” which began with the singer accompanying herself on the piano and built to an explosive chorus, exemplified the extremes. In the quiet opening, she sang, “Are you my family? / Can I stay with you a while? / Can I stop off in your bed tonight? / I could make you smile.” The prosaic verse spoke from the vulnerability of a single human narrator. 

The chorus, though, which started, “Till the siren come calling, calling,” and included lofty words such as “evil,” “wickedness,” and “sin,” expanded the scope of the song to the sphere of mythology.  Like many of the others, this one spanned the realms of ancient legend and the ordinary everyday. 

In the melding together of such different scales, Bat For Lashes put on a show that was simultaneously entertaining and haunting. In the seven years that Bat For Lashes has been making music, she has developed a richness in her performance that reads like a well-rounded text. In each line of the show, the universality of myth and feeling crystallized into the concrete form of the enchanting performer. That balance is no small achievement.

Live Shots: Burgerama II outtakes

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Ed. note: Andre Torrez’s feature story on Burger Records, tape culture, and Burgerama II will be in next week’s issue of the Guardian. Here’s photographer Dallis Willard‘s images and impressions of the Santa Ana festival.

At the end of March, my friend Andre and I flew down to LA to check out Burgerama II. The second annual garage-slop festival drew a sold out crowd of kids ready to dine on $5 burgers and stage antics. As someone who feels pretty comfortable with the Bay Area’s rock scene, it was a great chance to check out how the other half of California gets down.

Pulling into the Observatory’s parking lot, the differences were readily apparent. Teens dragging along parents, floppy neo-hippy hats, and lots of face make-up seemed to be the norm.

In San Francisco, audiences seems to come in two flavors. Either “This is the first/best concert I’ve ever been to, so I’m going to go completely bananas.” or “I’ve spent two hours on this outfit, so I can be seen at this obscure side project. Please don’t bump me or dance too close to my hair.”

The vibe in Santa Ana seemed to be one of excitement and camaraderie. Kids were all around checking the stage times and discussing who they were looking forward to seeing the most. Security cracked jokes as they hustled everyone through the entrance. Even the bartender was overly apologetic that he couldn’t serve me since I had forgotten to get a drink bracelet.

The bands seemed to be having a great weekend as well. Hunx gave a fan a mid-set haircut for her birthday. A sea of female fans washed over the security barriers to swarm the stage, and plant kisses on their favorite Black Lips members. My favorite memory was of the entire venue trying to cram into the tiny Constellation room to watch Shannon and the Clams.

Over all, it was a great weekend. My only regret was not buying a Burger Records t-shirt before they were all sold out. I guess that’ll be first on my agenda for next year. — Dallis Willard, dalliswillard.com.

Delicious beginnings: Chocolate 101 at Dandelion

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Photos by Bowerbird Photography

“Hi. My name is ______, and I’m a chocoholic.”

The rest of us took turns, going around the room, introducing ourselves and proclaiming our unabashed love for chocolate. We were all gathered at Dandelion Chocolate the bean-to-bar chocolate company on Valencia Street, for Chocolate 101, an introductory class which included comparison tastings, a tour through their manufacturing area, and a slideshow presentation on farming.

Dandelion Chocolate offers a unique product: the bars are made solely from chocolate beans and sugar. That’s all. The goal is to feature the flavor of the bean, which varies depending on genetics, land, farming methods, and fermentation process.

Dandelion’s chocolate, since it lacks the addition of extra fats and additives, proves difficult to make, and that’s precisely one of the reasons it is worth experiencing. Each single-origin bag of beans is hand-sorted and carefully roasted, bringing out beautiful and intoxicating flavors. Many of the machines they use are specially MacGyvered contraptions, or rehabilitated antique relics.

The candy wrapper is 60 years old, and cloaks each bar of chocolate in a piece of handmade paper from India. We even got to sample some fresh chocolate fruit pulp (YUM!), evocative of passion fruit. We all learned so much about chocolate that evening, and I, for one, came to the important realization that my addiction to Dandelion Chocolate is well-deserved. It truly is good stuff!

Live Shots: Keystone XL pipeline protest

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Photos by Bowerbird Photography

SFBG’s Rebecca Bowe reported on the anti-pipeline protesters who greeted President Obama yesterday in the cold and fog. SFBG photographers from Bowerbird Photography were there as well. After the jump, Ariel of Bowerbird’s take on the scene. 

Young and old showed up Wednesday evening, shouting to have their voices heard over the polite clinking of knives and forks at a $32,500 a plate dinner organized for Pres. Obama at the Getty’s home in Pacific Heights. Whenever the President rolls into town, so many different lobbying groups come to raise their banners and clear their throats that it is easy to mistake the gathering for a traveling carnival of weirdness.

Yet, this time felt different. While various groups still made their causes known (and advocated for single payer health care, releasing Bradley Manning, and closing Guantanamo Bay), the overwhelming preponderance of protesters stood together in unity and urged Pres. Obama to prevent construction of the Keystone XL pipeline.

Even though the diversity in age, ethnicity and attire (yes, someone showed up wearing sequins and roller blades – this is San Francisco after all!) ranged wide, solidarity on this single issue was strong.  Both sides of the sidewalk shouted together against building the pipeline. Apparently, the oil supporters (if any), did not show.  Perhaps they found warm comfort in a limousine ride to a fancy dinner at the Getty residence.

Who knows? While the outcome of the fight for Pres. Obama’s ear is unknown, it is clear that hundreds of protesters shivering in the fog and cold got hoarse trying.

Live Shots: Texas is the Reason at Bimbo’s

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Texas is the Reason’s show at Bimbo’s was not sold out, but it sure seemed packed as I struggled to find a good vantage point on Friday night. When I eventually got a clear view, I saw that the stage was hazily lit by dark blue-purple lights. The amplifiers and drum kit on stage were glowing, heavily draped with white Christmas lights. The visual, in its stark simplicity, was stunning.

This perfect, quiet kickoff was the reassurance I needed to prove that this wouldn’t be the gaudy, overwrought reunion that I had feared, but the graceful, tasteful gathering that I had hoped for.

Texas is the Reason was originally created in a flash flood of sad basement bands in the early ’90s. This era in rock saw an extreme surplus of angst and overly-emotional, self-indulgent music that created the term emo and then turned it into a dirty word. Distracted by all the Dashboard Confessionals and Saves the Days, it’s easy to forget about the bands that started the movement and influenced an entire era of musicians — the bands worth listening to.

Texas is the Reason was one of those watershed early emo bands. The band only released an EP and one full album before imploding in 1997, but its take on post-hardcore had already quietly spread its influence across the industry. Just around 16 years later, the group has resurfaced for one final nine-stop tour before it officially and permanently disbands.

The audience, which had been waiting at least a decade, to see this band, screamed as Texas is the Reason slunk onto the stage and started tearing through its first song. The hiatus took no toll on the band’s live presence. Guitarist Norm Arenas’ reverential expression seemed like transcendence as Scott Weingard swung his bass around like a weapon and Garrett Kahn crooned a whine, looking appropriately pained.

The sound, packed in taut layers over Chris Daly’s focused drumming, packed a serious punch. The musicians seem to play with great ease, as their years of experience have created an unbelievably tight groove. The entire performance, more than anything, seemed incredibly sincere. The lyrics didn’t seem outdated or outgrown, the songs were treated with just as much respect and conviction as they would be if they were new.

Fans responded in kind, shouting “thank you” between the songs. Some sang along, but most watched quietly and intently, stoically swaying and nodding. In the midst of shouted requests, one woman called out, “Anything! You guys rock! Play whatever you want!” This comment perfectly embodied the content, appreciative atmosphere of the concert.

The entire show felt like a meeting of old friends, catching up. The band clearly felt this closeness and camaraderie as well. “We’re happy you’re with us,” Kahn shouted, before asking, quite seriously, “Who’s coming to Los Angeles with us tomorrow? We’ve got room in the fucking van! Who’s coming?”

The band made no attempt to shield the crowd from its future state. “How many of you are seeing us for the first time tonight?” Kahn asked. “Well it’s the last time. It’s bittersweet.” After about an hour, the set drew to an emotional close. “This will be our last one,” Kahn told the crowd. “These songs belong to you now. They’re yours.”

Live Shots: Flume at the Rickshaw Stop

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Every time I’ve been to Popscene in the last few years, and I mean every time, I see the same guy. Deep 30s, clean cut, and so meticulously well-dressed that it’s conspicuous. Particularly conspicuous when he’s gravitating around a pair of black lingerie wearing girls dancing like they can’t drink. But I guess that mix is fairly typical of Thursdays at the Rickshaw Stop, for the weekly event that always brings in a new crowd by being an 18+ dance party, while maintaining a certain following with the promise of seeing an emerging music act that “could be the next big thing.”

Or, as the case was with Australian electronic producer Flume on Thursday night, the next Porter Robinson. As in “OMG, can you believe he’s only 20?” and the additional hype that goes with it. The crowd was sold out and eager to hear him DJ, many in the audience probably choosing the show over more established popular EDM acts playing that night like Major Lazer at the Independent or the Skrillex/Diplo (he’s everywhere) event going on for the video game convention.

“Is everyone excited to see Flume?” Dexter Tortoriello of opener Houses asked, in the cliched end of set mic break, before making the astute observation, “If we were in Australia right now, we’d be seeing him in a stadium, but instead we’re at Rickshaw Stop.”  Flume – real name Harley Streten – had a sudden rise that included knocking One Direction off the top chart spot with his self-titled debut.

Sorry to say, despite Tortoriello’s excitement, Houses performance was strangely out of place. I caught what was at the time just a duo of Tortoriello and musical-romantic partner Megan Messina at Public Works in November and, while it had been pretty awkward in a shoegazing sort of way, they showed promise and an underlying energy waiting to get out, particularly with tracks like “Reds.”

Thursday they had the addition of a drummer and a guitarist, and Messina had a lot more to do and seemed less contained by nervousness, but strangely played new, more sonorous, thoughtful, and ultimately indistinct music. It was particularly noticeable as they made a consciously slow start coming off of a pop hip-hop track DJ Aaron Axelson played, causing someone to yell out “Drums!” at the end of their first song. “It feels cold up here,” a guy in a hoodie told his friends, which usually isn’t the case at the event.

Flume came on to the sounds of chopped vocals and faux-Afropop “More Than You Thought” from his album, and I made the conscious choice to not try to get back up front to try and get a picture. The real reason is I wimped out. The aesthetic reason is there are no satisfying photos of anyone in front of Macbooks. But the jealous reason is he’s young* and handsome, as the girls in front of me who have been in love with him for soooooooo long will point out, and doesn’t really need it.

On record, Flume is entirely listenable, a palatable mix of dub grooves, steady hip-hop beats, and jazzy, spacy tweaks that occasionally recall Flying Lotus, perfectly paired with pop vocals from a range of singers. His live show aims to be just as pleasing mixing in recognizable hits like Mos Def’s “Mathmatics” and Biggie’s “Juicy.” A little easy and a little bit too much cultural appropriation for my tastes, but it worked on the crowd.

 At one point – the climax of the set really – Flume followed a version of Major Lazer’s “Get Free” (complete with a trance build and dubstep breakdown) with two of his best songs, “Insane” and “On Top.” Featuring lovely, pitch shifted vocals by Moon Holiday and the line “the only risk is that you go insane,” “Insane” is the kind of euphoric  track  you can get lost in, and the best hints at the depths Flume could delve into in the future.

But the electro hip-hop of “On Top” is the current album’s best statement of where the 20 year old is now. “All that I want in my life is the chance to do my thing,” the chorus says, and it’s entirely aspirational, before the triumphant verses kick in. “The nights forever young, it’s us that gets old,” is basically saying YOLO, but comes off a little closer to “Carpe Diem.” Or whatever is Latin for “night.”

*As his suburban origin story goes, he learned to make music from software he found in a cereal box at an age when people like me were trying to figure out masturbation.

Foxygen works its uncanny magic at Brick and Mortar Music Hall

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I experienced a strange phenomenon in the few days leading up to Tuesday’s sold out concert at Brick and Mortar Music Hall. The first in a series of strange events occurred in a coffee shop. I overheard one barista say to another, “Put on that Foxygen song.”

“Who?” she asked.

“It’s like ‘oxygen’ but with an ‘F.’”

The next day, one of my favorite websites listed Foxygen’s “Shuggie” as the “Song of the Day,” and later that evening, a friend mentioned the band in a conversation that had very little to do with music.

These coincidences probably mean nothing other than the fact that the band, whose second album, We Are the 21st Century Ambassadors of Peace & Magic, came out in January, are taking off. But I found something strange in the repetitions, maybe a reflection of the fact that there seems to be a certain uncanniness to Foxygen in the first place.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtdWGGpvY1s

At first listen, the band struck me as an almost unsettling echo of classic psychedelic rock. Even the album title bears striking resemblance to the names of 45-year-old concept albums such as The Kinks are the Village Green Preservation Society and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. And the parallels to the Kinks and the Beatles do not stop there. “San Francisco,” with its sparkling circus instrumentals and soft tinny vocals sounds like any song off of Village Green, and a line about introductions in the album opener “In The Darkness” feels like a direct nod to the album opener of Sgt. Pepper’s.

And while this makes for a pleasant listening experience – who doesn’t want more of the Kinks and the Beatles? – I found the derivativeness slightly problematic.

As soon as the band came onto the small stage at Brick and Mortar, though, that didn’t matter. Wearing embroidered frocks, suede coats, and ruffled blouses, costumes to complement the sound, the band played through a long set that, for all of its performative aspects, never felt forced. Each tune, from the feverishly noisy title track to the wistful “No Destruction,” poured out of the five-member band with ease.

Sam France, the diminutive frontperson, is a rockstar from a bygone era. Within the first few songs he had descended into the audience, shed his fur-lined coat to reveal a jean jumpsuit, and invited us all bowling. With beady eyes that shifted their focus in a manner reminiscent of the quietly plotting villain in any psychological thriller and fingers that moved as if he was casting a spell, he exhibited an oddly magnetic breed of charisma. And he had done all this while showing expert vocal range and control. He had the unique ability to sound both like Lou Reed to Nico.

And although the band’s music and style would seemingly make them untouchable, the venue and the familiarity on stage gave the performance an air of intimacy. While France’s swagger commanded the show, Jonathan Rado, with whom France formed the first incarnation of the band at age 15 (seven years ago – these guys are young), played a quietly endearing counterpart. Their interactions, including Rado muttering “asshole” into his mic, reminded us that though they perform like rock stars, they’re also kids that want to have a good time. And that kind of fun is contagious.

At the end of the night, Rado thanked the audience. “We have so many friends here,” he said and then corrected himself. “I mean, you’re all our friends.” And, with the help of that uncanny magic that seems to characterize the group, that felt true; for reasons that go beyond its restitching of classic rock, Foxygen feels like a band you’ve known and loved for a long time.

Live Shots: LGBT Community Center celebrates 11 colorful years

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Photos by Bowerbird Photography

Last Saturday, the disco ball sparkled from above, while below on the dance floor, party-goers glittered in gold. There was much to celebrate, with the SF LGBT Community Center‘s annual gala “Soiree” celebrating 11 years of sercing the community — and even more to drink, with bottomless bottles of champagne. There were also plenty of sights to drink in, including a few bottomless pairs of pants!

Of course, it was partying with a cause: tickets and auction items went to benefit the Center and their programs. With same-sex marriage equality rights in the balance this week at the U.S. Supreme Court, the Center made it clear that the LGBT community can always depend on them, regardless the outcome. District Supervisors David Campos and Scott Weiner also were in attendance and voiced their commitment to the Center.

Tita Aida worked the stage, introducing one great drag act after the other, including performances by Honey Mahogany, Ambrosia Salad, Miss Rahni, and Alotta Boutte. The theme was Studio 11, explaining why Salvador Dali watched haughtily from the VIP section, as boys in golden spanky pants made their rounds turning eyes. It was a night to remember, or at least a night to try to remember (after all that booze!). Congratulations to the LGBT Center for another year of amazing work and for throwing another wonderful gay-la.

 

Bad kids get slimed with the Black Lips at Great American Music Hall

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The Great American Music Hall was a soupy, sweaty mess of swamp-like proportions before the Black Lips had even taken the stage Monday night. The crowd, buzzing with the combined excitement of intoxication and anticipation, erupted into howls and screeches as the band took the stage in a puff of fog-machine smoke. From behind the mist, one of the Black Lips yelled into the mic, “If you wanna be smart, read a goddamn book. If you wanna have fun, you’re in the right goddamn place!” And so it began.

The Black Lips are notorious for their raucous, maniacal live presence, often accented with vomit, blood, and piss. The fans, familiar with the reputation and eager to partake, were rowdy and ready for shenanigans from the first distorted chord. The Black Lips’ brand of garage rock is fun and rollicking, but certainly not the sort of heavy metal or hardcore that one would expect to produce the kind of reckless moshing and stagediving that persisted through the entire set.

Standing still was not an option (see above shaky photos). I watched as bystanders were swept into whirlpools of bodies and slimed by shirtless perspirers. The best — and only — option was to join in and dance with abandon.

What this Black Lips set lacked in vomit and blood was certainly made up for in nudity and playful sexuality. Just three songs in, a young woman ripped her top off and jumped into the crowd. Moments later a young man who had climbed onto the stage planted a kiss on the surprised mouth of the security guard who tried to apprehend him.

Meanwhile, in the crowd, audience members literally wrestled — Greco-Roman style — on the filthy floor as the man to my left happily pressed a beer can to his already blackening eye.

As the floors quaked and the Lips screamed, it was impossible not to bask in the collective joyful insanity. The band itself, while playing with enthusiasm and embracing crazed fans crawling across the stage like so many fire ants without a flinch, did very little to contribute to the wild vivacity of the gig.

The Black Lips’ reputation brings together the perfect storm of adrenaline junkies and rock’n’roll enthusiasts to make a great show happen regardless of their own actions. Even their slow songs — songs that in any other circumstances and played by any other band would be met with mellow, stationary gazes — were met with crowdsurfers and a sort of slow-motion moshing.

The frenetic energy that swept the crowd during beloved songs, most notably — and most appropriately — 2008’s “Bad Kids” was an indescribable high. Hundreds of screaming voices and jostling bodies jumped and lunged to the explosive chorus, singing “bad kids, all my friends are bad kids” and screaming, “kids like you and me!”

When the Black Lips filed off the stage and the lights came up, I surveyed the damage. Beer cans, sweatshirts, and single shoes littered the floor. Sweaty fans in all states of undress stumbled out of the beautiful, ornate venue and into the mercifully cool night, hooting and shouting about their new battle scars.

Live Shots: Rich Kidd, Young Galaxy, tween angst, and barbecue at SXSW, Day 3

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Photos and words by Bowerbird Photography

The surrealists employed a method of drawing called the exquisite corpse, where an artist would create an image on a section of paper, fold it back to conceal the image, and then pass on the paper for another artist’s contribution. The beautiful monstrosity wasn’t revealed until everyone was finished and the paper unfolded.

Walking down South Congress Street during SXSW 2013 yesterday felt like the musical version of an exquisite corpse. Nearly every block had its own outdoor stage, with an alternative country performance across the street from a hard rock band, indie pop music next to honky-tonk, and street musicians in between. It was sonic mayhem.

While some find it enjoyable to be able to sing along along to a familiar band, there is unequaled pleasure and pride in “discovering” a new one – the more obscure, the better. We left our frustratingly fathomless festival handbook at the hotel, letting fortune be our guide, and made for S. Congress. The street is aptly named because it seems that everything comes together there, and has the gentrified, bohemian feel of Valencia Street, with vintage shops, craft fairs, and a good ice cream parlor.

While musicians are turned away at larger venues downtown, it’s virtually open mike in SoCo. That’s not to imply that the music is worse. On the contrary. It is here that we stumbled upon a standout band called Residual Kid, from Austin, with Max Redman (12-years-old), Ben Redman (14), and Deven Ivy (14). Teen/tween angst doesn’t get better than this.

At the Music by the Slice stage, Telekinesis lead singer Michael Lerner sat front and center, singing over the cymbals of his drumset to hipsters holding pizzas. Young Galaxy, from Canada, also performed, it with a ’80s synth-heavy sound, snappy beats, and open-throated vocals.

Moseying down to the St. Vincent De Paul parking lot, Canadian country music band Corb Lund played to a crowd lounging on overstuffed sofas, reminiscent of an impromptu porch concert. Singing straight country with a storytelling bent, he twanged about speeding on the highway with a foot “heavy with redemption” and a “bible on the dash.”

Down another block, adorable duo, Kelly Willis and Bruce Robison, got folks dancing at the South by San Jose stage with romantic country ballads.

While the music may be eclectic, the food is less so, despite the ubiquity of food trucks. While most restaurants serve any combination of Tex Mex (fried burrito anyone?) and BBQ (Austin’s staple food is shredded pork in a white bun), it is possible to find some fresh greens. At the non-profit, Casa de Luz, we sat down to a hippie-cafeteria style prix fixe lunch, piled high with kale and homemade kraut.

But the siren smell of smoked meats is too alluring, and we couldn’t help but splurge on an artery-clogging, three meat BBQ sandwich from the food truck, La Barbecue. Delicious. There was also an offshoot show behind the BBQ parking lot, called the SX704 Showcase, with hip-hop performances by SL Jones from Atlanta, and Rich Kidd from Toronto.

As we walked over the Congress Avenue Bridge in the evening, the famous bats started to leave their hiding places beneath, swarming in search of their sunset meal. They made thousands of shotgun holes in the sky, and moved in tandem like a starling murmuration, adding just one more sight to the wonderful weirdness this town has to offer.

Navigating the wild landscape of music, parties, and food at SXSW is exhausting, but in the end, we’re rewarded with great memories. And it’s a good thing we took photos too, because our eardrums are shot.

Live Shots: Unknown Mortal Orchestra, fornicating turtles, and one Dixie Chick at SXSW, Day 2

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Photos and words by Bowerbird Photography

Immersing oneself in the SXSW 2013 musical experience feels akin to getting deep fried in a small tub of hot oil, crammed with sundry other dancing meats. The sizzle we hear are our eardrums giving their last scream from last night’s who-knows-where-we-are dance party. Austin is hot with things to do and people to do it with.

To try to cool off in the afternoon, we took a stroll along Lady Bird Lake (a beautiful, dammed section of the Colorado River threading through Austin); however, as hard as it may be to get into a show, one can never really escape the festival either. Floating on the water like giant square speakers, cruise ships blare beats and host bacchanals. Even under the water, the party rocks on. Gazing on with a group of varyingly enthused, bewildered, and disgusted bystanders, we watched (what we think were) two huge turtles get it on. Talk about hardcore. It’s clear, Energizer picked the wrong mascot for endurance.

Multiple venues abut the lake, including the outdoor World Stage, featuring the bubble pop sensation Won Fu, from Taiwan. It could have stepped out of a ’60s children’s show with its wholesome good looks, zany sense of humor, and tight retro outfits. The group has the optimism that comes from playing to audiences packed with kids, and the wry wit that comes from playing to too many audiences packed with kids. Its melodies are short, catchy, and pepped with sugar-high beats. Its lyrics are obsessively constrained to myopic motifs, like short skirts and BBQ. With two foxy ladies backing up the lead singer in his squire cut mop, one can’t help but smile when he advises us to “have a nice day, have a nice year, have a nice life, yaaaa!!!”

World music sometimes just seems synonymous for random. Following this gigglingly cute act, was Daria, from Angers, France, bringing a whopping fist of furious metal rock.

The Seattle indie radio station, KEXP, hosted a party at Lance Armstrong’s bike shop, Mellow Johnny’s. We caught a set by Unknown Mortal Orchestra, where the audience packed the floor, listening with quiet appreciation. It’s easy to imagine oneself coasting on a cloudy day over the 520 bridge into Seattle with UMO’s echoey guitars on the radio before stopping on Capitol Hill for a micro-brew with friends.

The highlight of our night was catching the band, Family of the Year, at the Moody Theater. Its music wraps one with the remembered, condoling comfort of a childhood blankie, and would make the perfect soundtrack to a heartbreaking Sundance film. The band performs like a tight family might, and for the first few songs, it shared the musical load so equally it would have been hard to tell who was the lead singer. This sense of togetherness is one quality that makes its music tender such emotional solace. The build-up of each song is transportive, and after the set, we felt the kind of drained satisfaction that comes after a long cry.

Also at the Moody was Lord Huron, a folk band that parachutes its melodies into vast, open soundscapes, leaving them to explore their way back home.

Many fans also came to hear Natalie Maines, of Dixie Chicks fame, showcase songs from her new album, Mother. Her outspoken directness of yesteryear has found perhaps new stylistic orientation toward introspective candor.  Maines performance, though reserved, was solid, featuring a melancholic cover of Pink Floyd’s political anthem, “Mother.”

Live Shots: The Hush Sound at Great American Music Hall

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I was introduced to the Hush Sound in high school, when a girlfriend burned “Like Vines” onto a mix CD for me. It was love at first listen. The awkward, adorably fumbling song structures and whimsical lyrics of the Like Vines album were the perfect mirror to my gawky teenage soul. Goodbye Blues, the last album the band released before going on hiatus, showed more advanced songwriting technique and much better production. It was a tragedy. Growing up had made the Hush Sound lose its charm. I kept burning old Hush Sound songs onto mix CDs for a couple of years, and then slowly forgot about it.

You can imagine my surprise when, walking into the Great American last Friday night for a Hush Sound reunion show, I found myself in a nearly sold-out venue. As it turns out, other people had also restlessly waited through the five-year hiatus for this opportunity to relive their youth.

The crowd was predominantly early-20s females — my people. All around me I saw old, faded Hush Sound T-shirts several sizes too small and excited faces screaming at every advancement of set up: drum kit, scream, mic check, scream.

As the Hush Sound took the stage, the energy in the venue was through the roof. To my — and apparently everyone else’s —delight, the first song was “Like Vines.” The floor shook with bouncing bodies and the band nearly drowned out by hundreds of people singing along with every word.

As the set progressed, the audience’s energy plunged ahead undaunted. It screamed for every song, every interlude, and every very bad joke. The band itself was no match for us. Old, beloved songs seemed limp and lifeless. The band seemed tired, and the banter between Greta and Bob was stiff and painfully unfunny.

While the audience clearly had not outgrown its love for the Hush Sound, it seemed as though the band itself has moved on. When the group introduced a few new songs, however, its renewed energy and interest was palpable. Brand new songs like “Scavengers” had a great groove, awesome sing-along vocals, and the kind of enthusiasm that had been missing from the rest of the show.

For the encore, we fans were asked to show out requests. When “Crawling Toward the Sun” was selected, the crowd roared in excitement, to the bands apparent disbelief. As it plunged into one of its oldest songs, everything came together for a brief moment.

The band seemed to enjoy it and the audience was absolutely ecstatic as it sang in chorus and swayed with nostalgia.
This joyful moment was a relief to me. It proved that the Hush Sound is still capable of capturing such moments. I am hopeful that the band’s next album is a return to the simple, earnest melodies its fans will always love it for.

Live Shots: K-Pop’s Night Out, Ashley Monroe, and more at SXSW, Day 1

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Photos and words by Bowerbird Photography

Fans made scrawling lines all through Austin, Texas, waiting to gain access to countless shows, as the SXSW 2013 music festival kicked off on Tuesday night.

Some eager devotees sat cross-legged, tolerating the intense Texas sun since 9am according to a chatty security guard, for the K-Pop Night Out showcase. In the SXSW hierarchy, badges trump wristbands, leaving hardcore fans without tags to load up on patience, scour listings for shows with free access, and pray capacity doesn’t max.

The Geeks, a punk band from Seoul, kicked off the K-Pop lineup — and their music was loud and fast. The lyrics, although mostly screamed in English, were unintelligible. It was all you could want from a punk act. The lead singer’s face-ripping seizures and crotch-grabbing agonies made the perfect counterpoint to his nice boy, real life personality. (He wore cute red Keds and white socks, after all.)

Over at the Empire Control Room, rising star, Ashley Monroe, brought a polished sound and mainstream appeal to SXSW, after appearing on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno Monday night.  We expect to hear her a lot more at weddings, as couples make goo-goo eyes during their first dance.

For those who want to steer clear of the madness, it’s getting real in the Whole Foods parking lot with free preview concerts, clean bathrooms, and healthy samples. Buggaboo, a laid-back, broad strumming, stomp-along Austin band stopped shopping carts in their tracks.

Another act, Mike Love (not to be confused with the Beach Boys singer) came from Hawaii, bringing hippy goodness with reggae flair that paired well with the imported bananas we shared. He whipped out the beatbox, singing along to the loops he laid with lyrics that favored staccato pronunciation of multisyllabic words like “positivity” and “beautiful,” to embrace their full, upbeat, rhythmic potential.

In addition to the music, people watching at SXSW provided its own entertainment. Sitting on the curb on Tuesday’s balmy night, and chatting with eager travelers from Mexico to Australia, felt good enough when standing in another line proved too much.

Live Shots: The Robert Glasper Experiment at New Parish

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It really wasn’t a question whether the Robert Glasper Experiment would be any good at the New Parish on Friday night  – but how it would go about replicating the success of Black Radio, which recently won the Grammy for R&B album of the year.

That’s an album that features notable collaborators on each track – Erykah Badu, Lupe Fiasco, Bilal, Mos Def/Yasiin Bey, etc. – which could leave pianist Glasper a lot to make up for live. Going into the show I had a few theories: maybe the group would use pre-recorded vocal tracks in places, maybe up-and-coming vocalists would be pulled on stage from Oakland’s music scene, or maybe some surprise guest would be introduced. (Singer José James was nearby at the San Jose Jazz Winter Fest. Maybe he’d finish in a timely manner over there and stop by?)

Glasper didn’t do any of that. When he came to the stage close to midnight, he quickly* introduced the rest of the Experiment – Casey Benjamin, Chris Dave [Ed. note — the drummer that night was actually Mark Colenburg], and “newly signed Blue Note recording artist” Derrick Hodge – and asked the completely packed crowd “Are there any Radiohead fans in the house tonight?” Keytar-playing Benjamin began singing “as your life passed before your eyes,” his voice given an alien quality via a vocoder, and Glasper began loosening up, playing the keys with occasional Mifune-esque shoulder shrugs, and taking the song further and further beyond the source materials.

Seemingly 10 minutes later, when I assumed the band had transitioned to some other song besides “Packt Like Sardines in a Crushd Tin Box,” the band collectively seemed to hone in on the familiar melody.

And then they stepped back, Glasper and company stood to the side, as Hodge played a hefty bass solo. Glasper has a bold personality and a clever streak, as was evident a year and a half ago at Sketchfest, where he improvised on level with Reggie Watts, musically and comically.** Yet most of the time, he’s not a domineering figure, and doesn’t demand attention.

The band reformed, moving into a spacy version of Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme” and then Sade’s “Cherish the Day,” a song featured on Black Radio with singer Lalah Hathaway. But the charming, beaming Benjamin provided computerized soul and a really smashing and free saxophone solo.*** Increasingly, Glasper and company provided a showcase for the vocalist, as they did on Black Radio.

Covering a lot of musical territory with album tracks like “Ah Yeah”, and more interpretive covers including Bobby Caldwell’s “Open Your Eyes”/Common’s “The Light” and Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,”**** the crowd embraced it, shouting out “Tell Me, Robert!” and other encouragements. The guy who shouted “Take your time!” midset had the right idea, but I think the band already had that in mind.

*Well, after mentioning the after-party at Legionnaire Saloon. Asked for more specific directions, Glasper said “I don’t know where the fuck it is. Just go.”
**Opposed to this year’s Sketchfest event, where Glasper, Watts, and drummer Chris Dave seemed strangely timid and, well, giggly. Maybe having something to do with this.
***Guy in the back, telling his friend that he could totally play that: full of shit or a talented musical unknown? Based on the girl standing next to him, constantly asking if anyone in the group was hungry, probably the former.
****The best surprise for me was the cover of soul jazz classic “Think Twice” by Donald Byrd, who died last month.

Live Shots: Passion Pit, Icona Pop, Matt and Kim at the Bill Graham

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Swedish duo Icona Pop made the typical announcement about being really happy to finish up its tour in San Francisco, last Thursday at the Passion Pit/Icona Pop/Matt and Kim show at the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium.

Things likely have changed for Icona Pop, which specializes in bouncy, dubstep-inflected pop about “heartbreak,” particularly since the song “I Love It”* was appropriately included in the episode of HBO’s Girls where TV’s most self-centered character** goes on a coke binge.

Icona Pop received its biggest, swelling crowd response closing its set with the track, essentially the millionth song to say YOLO in recent memory. I’d say it has the potential to be the “song of its generation,” but only if we can all agree that that whole concept needs revising.***

Matt and Kim played Girl Talk (or at least a mega-mashup-mix of Black Sabbath, Timbaland beats, Jay Z 1.0, etc.) while warming up. Matt wore a Big Freedia t-shirt. Just a couple clues that the pair is similarly oriented towards audience response.

Snippets of familiar hits – Alice DeeJay’s “Do You Think You’re Better Off Alone” comes to mind, as well as Dr.Dre and Snoop**** – were occasionally mixed in with their own music, which most often has the same twinkling piano and rudimentary drum beat. Fun often came at the cost of sticking slavishly to trends, which would explain the “Harlem Shake” section of the show.

I want to dislike the duo, but somehow the two members remain really shiny, seemingly unpretentious musicians who have done their best to scale up from fine china-shattering house parties to festival sized performances and still be engaging. (The equipment mounted cameras they use make them seem slightly less like rockstars and more like contestants on a reality TV show, still slightly shocked by the exposure.) Even slightly criticizing them makes me feel like the time I tossed a kitten down a staircase. (I was 6.)

The last time I went to see Passion Pit – at the Warfield during the Manners tour – well, it was on what would retroactively be a first date, and in part because of the lame soul revue opener and my general nervousness, I drank way too much alcohol and ended high up in my balcony seat, where the show on stage seemed to consist of firing strobes lights directly at the audience. So, yeah, it was a lot of fun.

And, of course, I was very interested to see what a Passion Pit concert is actually like. Well, things started off maximally with “I’ll be Alright,” Manners single “The Reeling”, “Carried Away,” and the pretty “Moth Wings.” Then singer Michael Angelakos moved into a slight lull of twee balladry with “Love Is Greed,” a potentially devastating song for anyone that grew up on watching too many Disney movies*****, and “It’s Not My Fault, I’m Happy”, eventually rising back up to peak with the two best songs from sophomore album Gossamer, the R.Kelly-esque “Constant Conversations” and the politipop masterpiece “Take a Walk”******. It was a good performance, with Angelakos stalking the stage throughout and the band actually jamming a little bit on “Mirrored Sea.”

Passion Pit ended with “Sleepyhead” and “Little Secrets” as the encore. There were bubbles and confetti, but ultimately it all may not have been as memorable as forgetting.

*I like to imagine this song is borrowing the chorus structure of 10cc’s “Dreadlock Holiday,” but somehow I doubt it.
**Besides maybe Walter White.
***How can someone three years younger than me not know of Mr. T?
****Or David Axelrod/David McCallum.
*****At one point in the night, Angelakos began singing slowly and for a split second I was expecting this.
******Also on Girls, last night.

Noise Pop 2013: The Thermals and Dirty Ghosts at Rickshaw Stop, Bender’s happy hour

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I first learned of the Thermals in 2005 from the DVD series, Burn to Shine, in which bands play a house that’s set to be demolished. In an unlucky Portland, Oreg. home, the pop punk trio – by then together for just under three years – bounding with energy, played exclusive single “Welcome to the Planet.” That particular Burn to Shine installment also featured live, untouched performances by Sleater-Kinney, Mirah, the Decemberists, and the Gossip. A basic slice of life in Portland that year, all under one soon-to-be-gone roof.

Friday’s Noise Pop show at the Rickshaw Stop celebrated the 10th anniversary of the Thermals’ very first album, More Parts Per Million (2003, Sub Pop). And while it’s now all these years later, and the band has since released a decade’s worth of records building to 2013’s Desperate Ground, the Thermals have maintained a joyful, power-pop exuberance and nasally shine. The Rickshaw crowd pogo’d off its feet to every song, nearly in unison, matching the excitement of the band on stage, even causing a brief kerfuffle near the end.

“This week is the 10th anniversary of our first record,” said lead singer-guitarist Hutch Harris, “I hope you like it because we’re going to play most of it.”

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

And the sold-out room did enjoy it. Despite the band’s relative longevity, the audience seemed mostly on the younger side; I’d guess at least half were under 21, and spotted those inked giant Xs on many a pumping fist (maybe they were just straight-edge? Do kids still do that?). That could also be due to the fact that the show was 18 and over, and the Rickshaw generally attracts a younger set.

The show opened with experimental San Francisco pop trio Ev Kain, which had a confusing, dense sound peppered with echoing duel vocal harmonies, expert, off-time drumming, angular guitars, and upbeat ska melodies. At different points, it was reminiscent of the early aughts math-rock and dance punk explosions, a welcome change from standard SF garage acts, at other moments the roaring lead vocals were distracting from the drumming (though I always am drawn to a drummer who sings). I overheard comparisons to both Radio 4 and Fishbone thrown out among the attendees up on balcony. See? Confusing.

All-teenage, all-girl beach pop group the She’s (ahem, our recent cover stars for the On the Rise issue) followed and impressed with those breezy harmonies and technical skills. The quartet opened with “Picture of Houses,” in which three of the four harmonize, “picture of houses in my life/grey skies and warm sand/it’s al-ri-ght” – that last “it’s alright” being repeated in a dreamy Beach Boys ode.

Pretty much everyone around me was smiling during the She’s set, especially when lead singer-guitarist Hannah Valente dedicated a song to her dad, saying “Happy birthday, dad!” before launching into a brand new track.

Next up, Dirty Ghosts brought out the Flying “V” guitars and classic, hard-hitting rock’n’roll. The band, another trio from San Francisco, seems to be getting tighter and brighter every year – perhaps it has just been too long since I’ve seen them live. They blew my mind like it was the first time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Lu9ydAkXzY

Led by the hair-shaking guitarist Allyson Baker and bassist Erin McDermott (who sported a beer tap strap and a Faith No More shirt), Dirty Ghosts played songs off last year’s Metal Moon, and seven-inch “Katana Rock/Eyes of a Stranger” (2012). They killed with “Eyes of a Stranger,” which, as they noted, is in the classic 1980s film, Valley Girl (a.k.a my all-time favorite movie), and also with gritty single “Ropes that Way,” during which Baker and McDermott walked toward each other and did that noodling rock star move they’re so good at.

An audience interaction I dug during the set: whenever Baker mentioned Canada, or talked at all really, a smaller cluster of ladies near me screamed, whooped, danced, and repeatedly called back to the stage banter (old friends from Baker’s native land of Toronto?). Either way, they were feeling it, and it was contagious.

The next day, I stopped by Noise Pop’s free happy hour show at Bender’s and caught the awesomely hard, deep-fried Southern ’70s rock’n’roll act Wild Eyes SF  (with electric singer-tambourine shaker Janiece Gonzalez wearing an American flag denim vest, naturally, and drummer Ben Richardson, who, full disclosure, is a sometimes Guardian contributer), along with “[Black] Sabbath-worshiping” rock band Owl, and some delicious deep-fried tater tots dipped in ketchup. The greasy daytime show, packed with tall dudes with long hair and black shirts, was the perfect antidote to the poppy preceding night, and ended my Noise Pop 2013 week with a bang and a belly ache.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P25oXVQPqYM
(Video shot by Guardian arts editor Cheryl Eddy)

Noise Pop 2013: R. Stevie Moore is cool, plays Bottom of the Hill

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R. Stevie Moore is cool. When was the last time you saw a 60-odd-year-old* man standing on stage shouting “where my bitches at” and repeated calls of “swag”? That kind of thing never happens.** (Though it did last night at the Noise Pop show at Bottom of the Hill with Moore, Fresh and Onlys, Plateaus, and Burnt Ones).

Whenever anyone not born prior to 1990 tries to even pronounce that word it comes out all wrong, and the best anyone else can guess is that they’ve got some bad weed, are mentioning their recent trade convention experience, or most likely misquoting a 20-year-old SNL sketch, that last one being a closer reference for the age group.

Which is just to point out that while the rest of us seem to inevitably suffer from mental stasis at a certain age, struggling with increasing brain plasticity and self-inflicted memory loss, Moore was doing a pitch perfect Tyler the Creator last night, as he continues to function as a weird pop culture sponge.***

I don’t even know if OFWGKTA is still around or if people say swag unironically at this point without checking Google Trends. And I guess that’s kind of the point, because as the powder-blue-bearded Moore worked through a small part of his extensive catalog (“He covers a lot of ground,” someone in the crowd observed in the understatement of the night), it became clear that one thing the man is isn’t hip, but he is cool.

Fashion becomes passé, quotes become tired, sic transit fucking gloria, but Moore, the consummate outsider, proves that it’s hard to go out of style when you’ve never truly been in, even as a new wave of hipper musicians like Ariel Pink follow in his footsteps.****

While Moore sang that he “likes to stay home” last night as a closer, I couldn’t help but think how little he seems to have changed since the music video*****, and be glad that he’s still out on occasion. Pretty cool.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v1MfeLx6Uds

*emphasis on “odd.”
**outside the world of recent fun.-loving Taco Bell commercials.
***or vampire, which would explain his longevity.
****and have become his collaborators.
*****compared to other iterations.

Noise Pop 2013: Cruel Summer, Lake, and the Blank Tapes at Hemlock

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It’s a low-key kind of Noise Pop year compared to the past three or four, without the huge, attention-grabbing headliners of yore  (looking at you, Flaming Lips at Bimbo’s), but Wednesday’s show at the Hemlock Tavern could have been nuzzled in nicely in any very early NP lineups, which is what made it feel authentically true to the inherent spirit of the festival.

No pomp or glitz, no big names or sold-out, packed-to-the-gills chaos. I initially went to see Olympia, Wash.’s Lake, a twee, lo-fi indie pop quartet with great hooks, but found much enjoyment out of the two bands that sandwiched that act (Cruel Summer and Blank Tapes), perhaps even more so?

I arrived early in Cruel Summer‘s set; I’m told the jangly San Francisco act had only played a few songs to the neatly packed in Hemlock crowd. There were casually smiling faces stretching from the front of the stage back to the sound guy, however there wasn’t that trademark Hemlock hot stink just yet. You could stretch your legs out without knocking into a sweaty mess. Though I detected a wafting hippie scent. 

Cruel Summer, which consists of two hard-rocking ladies out front (bespectacled lead singer-guitarist Thea Chacamaty and bassist Chani Hawthorn), along with guitarist Josh Yule and bassist Sean Mosley, created a rolling wave of reverb and noise  – so loud it drowned out the vocals – in a “dreamy gazey noisey hazy wavey gravy” way, as the band is wont to describe it. During the loud-sound-wave a few heads in the audience bopped and jerked hard, meeting each thundering drum hit with a nod of approval. Cruel Summer’s been around since 2011, but could easily fit in with ’80s shoegaze scenes or ’90s K Records stock.

The latter goes for second band Lake as well. Actually, Lake is currently on the K roster. And it fits right in. An aside: when I was first learning there was music being made beyond pop radio (‘sup KIIS-FM?) in my early, impressionable tweens, I had a friend with an older sister who was of the super cool girl alternative guild. She and her friends were in to riot grrrl, and twee, and K, and Kill Rock Stars, and the like. They wore cardigans, boat stripes, short skirts with nubby tights, and thick-framed glasses, and had glittery Fenders and drum kits. I feel like the older sis and her crew would’ve dug both Cruel Summer and Lake.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wO4ZA7ezlEg&feature=youtu.be

Anyway, Lake played mostly new songs last night, some that had sexy Bossa nova bass lines – the bass was noticeable after Lake asked the crowd if anything needed to be turned up louder. Some got so funky a few people noodled along to the beat. The four band members switched instruments a few times during the set, and three traded off covering male/female lead vocals, including Eli Moore and his wife, the sweet-voiced Ashley Eriksson, who also played keyboards.

Next up was the Blank Tapes; the trio also traded off male/female harmonies and pop hooks, but with a garage-rooted rock’n’roll edge – that was also due in part to standing drummer Pearl Charles smacking just two drums, a floor tom and a snare, often with a mighty thwack. This is also when the scent changed from hippie to pizza, as someone brought in a delicious-smelling pie, and I got jealous.

The dynamic between Charles and Blank Tapes pied-piper/multi-instrumentalist Matt Adams reminded one of my show-going companions of the famed Lee Hazlewood-Nancy Sinatra collaboration. Though on looks alone, it could’ve been Lindsay Weir and Ginger Baker. The band – which has the advantage of a rotating lineup and addresses in both LA and SF – sounded great, alive and full of energy, pumping up an already pleased crowd with crackling beach garage songs like bubbly “Coast to Coast” (a new single on Oakland’s Antenna Farm Records), a song I feel like must be called “Beach Party,” and tracks off 2012’s Sun’s Too Bright (Burger Records) tape. Live, the songs seemed far less relaxed than recorded versions.

It’s the way I imagine Noise Pop began, 21 years back, with talented, eclectic, lo-fi, noise-pop-genre-specific acts from up and down the West Coast huddled in a favorite little local venue, beating the shit out of their instruments. No fuss, no muss.