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Music Features

Pie or die

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johnny@sfbg.com

MUSIC This year’s Total Trash Fest delivers a number of reasons why the Bay Area is a peerless pizzeria of garage rock: Shannon and the Clams, Hunx and His Punx (or Punkettes), and Nobunny are on hand to serve the most powerful, flirtatious, and leporid trash, whether they’re in outerwear or underwear that’s fun to wear. But the freshest studio delivery of the event belongs to Hoboken, N.J.’s Personal and the Pizzas, who’ll be delivering 12-inch black discs of the debut album Raw Pie (1-2-3-4 Go! Records). Unlike the regular slices the group shares with lucky audiences, they ain’t free, though.

Raw Pie kicks off with the heartfelt anthem “I Don’t Wanna Be No Personal Pizza” before moving on to declare love for a girl with “Pepperoni Eyes” and make it clear that “Nobody Makes My Girl Cry But Me.” Raw Pie‘s lead guitar sound — one that bears an uncanny resemblance to the livewire riffing on a great album by a Bay Area band last year — is the one-of-a-kind sauce that makes songs like “Pizza Army” so tasty. Will Personal and the Pizzas hook up with Italy’s Miss Chain and the Broken Heelz at Total Trash? Who knows? As Raw Pie‘s most inspiring song “I Can Reed” attests, Personal is a man of few words, but I recently cornered him to get some answers about what matters most in his world.

SFBG Can you tell me about how Personal and the Pizzas met and what your upbringings were like?

Personal Uh, we met at this pizza joint called Benny Tudino’s in Hoboken [N.J.] after some rock ‘n’ roll gig in the city. We were all real young, but we didn’t go to school or nothin’. We just hung out on the street and sang Stooges songs and stuff. Real dropouts.

SFBG What pizzeria makes your favorite pizza, and what do you like on it?

P Carmine’s Original in Greenpoint [N.Y.) Totonno’s is good, too — the Coney Island one. I usually just get a regular.

SFBG What’s your favorite place — pizzeria or not — to take a girl with pepperoni eyes?

P Usually just get a pie delivered, watch the tube, and make out on the couch. Drink a few brews. Get real loose, ya know?

SFBG Personal, you’re a talented guitarist who has lent your abilities to some Bay Area bands. Raw Pie rips. What are the keys to your signature guitar sound, and how do you keep your fingers from catching on fire?

P Thanks. You know those hand grippers? Yeah, I just work out with those everyday. Do a few reps, then crank my ax to 12. The thing just starts rippin’. SMOKIN’ HOT!

SFBG This is the drug issue, so if you’re high, what would you order on your pizza? Is pizza your favorite drug?

P I don’t smoke dope. I ain’t no hippie.

SFBG “I Ain’t Takin’ You Out” is a timely song. What is your idea of a perfect night in?

P Usually just get a pie delivered, watch the tube, and make out on the couch. Drink a few brews. Get real loose, ya know?

SFBG “$7.99 for Love” makes me wonder if you might be penning a beer-and-pizza diet book sometime. Do you eat anything other than pizza and drink anything except beer?

P Uh, no. I mean, I like spaghetti.

SFBG If you curl up at night with a good book or magazine, what do you read?

P Hustler, Barely Legal, Buttman. You know, all the classics

SFBG Personal, are you a lover, or a fighter, or both?

P I’m the world’s best lover. I like to get in fights though, too, if I’m bored.

SFBG What shouldn’t be put on a pizza?

P Lay off the artichokes, man. Spinach can get lost, too. C’mon! Gimme somethin’ REGULAR!

SFBG What do you have to do to become a member of the Pizza Army?

P Gimme 5 bucks and you’re in!

SFBG When Personal and the Pizzas hit the Motor City, what are you going to do?

P Gonna burn it down! Gonna tear that mother apart! Gonna kick its ass!

SFBG What would Joey Ramone and Iggy Stooge think of Personal and the Pizzas?

P Not sure what those turkeys would think.

SFBG What’s next for Personal and the Pizzas? Any new musical directions or song subjects that you haven’t tackled before?

P We gotta new single comin’ out on Trouble In Mind in September. Got one ballad on there called “I Want You.” Gotta rocker on there, too, called “Don’t Trust No Party Boy.” Gonna stick to writin’ about real stuff. Girls. Pizza. Beatin’ up nerds. Rock ‘n’ roll. Stuff that matters, ya know? *

TOTAL TRASH FEST: PERSONAL AND THE PIZZAS

With Gentleman Jesse and His Men, Barreracudas, Wrong Words, Beercaz

Fri/20, 9 p.m., $10 ($33 for four-day Total Trash Fest passes)

Thee Parkside

1600 17th St., SF

(415) 252-1330

www.theeparkside.com

Listen to the animals

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MUSIC Moira Scar is from the Bay Area, but it would be better to put it this way: from a time and space at the edge of one of Jack Smith’s 15-hour performances in a crustacean imaginative nethersphere, the musical entity that is Moira Scar has arrived. The duo’s self-released vinyl debut Slink to Intensity is made up of seven songs. Some manifest in frenetic outer space garage sounds. Others conjure sprawling free-jazz fantasy lands just beyond the negative space of a film frame. Slink to Intensity also features three photos of the group’s LuLu Gamma Ray and Roxy Monoxide in nakedly wild attire. The spirit of Mary Daly would approve. I recently asked Moira Scar about itself.

SFBG Moira Scar moves, but not in a typical running or walking way. it meanders or sallies forth, wiggles like a wildebeest, dances or slinks to intensity. What kind of human or animal actions do you find inspiring, and what reactions do you want people to have to your music?

Roxy Monoxide To become your own mystical beast. Still influenced by the made-up animal friends of childhood, along with the ideal that we can somehow stand up with the wild animals of the world and learn to coexist as animals again. But then again, stuck between predator and prey, the tiger mouth chews on her own zebra hinds, kind of like ouroboros.

LuLu Gamma Ray Haunting tones of the waddell seals inspire, along with loud boomings of the Lyrebird, which has two sound sources and can produce a far greater variety of sounds than human beings. Animals and plants have wide ranges of emotions, vast intelligence, and can impart important information if only we’d listen.

SFBG Can you tell me a bit about the vintage-horror film analog sounds in "You Make Me Scream" and how you made them?

LLGR The eerie entrancing sounds are made with a CAT SRM2 70’s analog synth’s pulse width modulation. I play electronic music and musique concrete in the lineage of Delia Derbyshire, Ruth White, Sun Ra, and David Tudor, as well as other courageous musical astronauts.

SFBG What is Moira Scar’s favorite Nino Rota score? For me, you also bring to mind the organ sounds in the movie Carnival of Souls.

LLGR Nina Rota’s cut-up method in Juliette of the Spirits is influential, and also the camp and beauty of organists Korla Pandit and Anton LaVey. Many spirits passed and future possess the vessel’s Pelvis and Saphoid, and are warped and distorted through our lens to create the Muse-ick

SFBG What do you like about Jean Vigo’s L’Atalante?

RM The bittersweet realism with poetic montage, the slacker anarchy and feebleness of our lives expressed through human and cat coexistence aboard barge on 1930s Seine and Paris backdrops, with antagonistic relationships and the wise drunken fool; Moira Scar can’t help but being romantic in spite of our psycho-depressive tendencies, or maybe because of them.

SFBG What drug is most recommended for listening to Moira Scar?

RM Moira is the drug. We have been told that we are like watching Forbidden Zone on acid, and some fans enjoy their lubricants while dancing to Scar. But for us the muse possession is the best high.

SFBG What is Moira Scar’s vision of the future?

RM A show with Bambi Lake, M. Lamar, the Deepthroats, and Omnivourous Sinsillium; and us as vegan witches in a world of cannibal zombies.

LLGR To wake the audience from corporate hypnosis with insect and alien soundscapes. Realign nutrinos and journey through the wormhole with us!

RM and LLGR Transmogrify!

MOIRA SCAR

With Tongue and Teeth, Deep Teens

Aug. 26, 9 p.m., 21 and over

The Stud Bar

399 Ninth St., SF

www.studsf.com


Aug. 31, 10 p.m., all ages

SubMission

2183 Mission, SF

www.sf-submission.com

Beach fossils

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arts@sfbg.com

Live from Betty Ford, it’s the Eddie Money show!” — Eddie Money, Santa Cruz, 8:45 PM, 7/30/10

MUSIC It’s hard to convey your passion for amusement parks without sounding like the lyrics to “Lakeside Park,” Rush’s sentimental 1975 tribute to the summertime midway. Hopefully this observation should serve as a decent justification for an elegy to the unspoken muse of the group’s Caress of Steel.

Consider the beginning of summer in the Bay Area. It can’t properly be called a seasonal phenomenon; rather, summer doesn’t officially begin until you’ve been bombarded with that stupid goddamn Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk commercial — the one that’s remained pretty-much untouched since 1994 — at regular 10-minute intervals. Recall the slightly askance shot of smiling oily young people running on the beach in weirdly lurid 1990s-era one-piece bathing suits, screaming brats strapped into the Fireball, maybe some kind of close-up of a Dip ‘n’ Dots kiosk, all unfolding to the strains of “California Sun.” For better or for worse, this has become the harbinger of the Northern California summer.

Unlike the adjacent pier, another tourist destination, suspended precariously above the water by barnacle-encrusted poles, the boardwalk feels so thoroughly entrenched in its surroundings that it’s effectively become a natural feature of the Santa Cruz shoreline. Years from now, the pelican shall nest on the Giant Dipper “Scenic Coaster”‘s wooden bones while sea lions caper with jellyfish and squid in the sepulchral wrack of Neptune’s Kingdom (the big arcade with Skee-Ball, I mean).

I know it’s naïve to think the commercial hasn’t actually changed — tragically, some new versions of the iconic annoyance have been springing up, laced with recycled footage, of course. Likewise, the Boardwalk has seen a handful of new rides incorporated into its landscape since the commercial originally aired. But stepping onto it in the warm California sun really makes you feel as though you’ve unwittingly wandered into some perpetually-20-years-ago liminal zone — like Richard Linklater’s Austin, Texas, or the Los Angeles of 1987’s Surf Nazis Must Die.

The living, and their fiberglass approximations, populate the “Bands on the Beach!” series, the annual free showcase for long forgotten, mid-level, Frankensteined back together rock acts. It’s certainly hard not to feel cynical about the series after Gregg Rolie (original lead singer for Santana) amuses the crowd with a timely “Who let the dogs out?” reference. But at their core — and I’m only being slightly facetious here — there’s something awesome and spontaneous about these concerts, a judo-like grappling with the condition of being presented as a reanimated artifact.

The first set I caught this summer was Blue Öyster Cult, who I’d seen earlier this year at the Santa Cruz County Fair in Watsonville. BÖC’s facility with vocal harmony and baroque, intertwining guitar arrangement is often discounted. And while the band maintains a rightfully dedicated/defensive cult fanbase, it nevertheless picked up a different set of fans with a certain comedy sketch based on a highly, highly exaggerated cowbell enthusiasm. Multiple factors conspire to make the band’s set a one-note joke, an opportunity to wring those last few precious drops of irony out of a period that’s becoming rapidly depleted.

If this was universally the case, Friday nights at the Boardwalk would be downright sadistic. But Blue Öyster Cult takes seriously the kind of gig that numerous lesser acts would treat as some kind of where-are-they-now closing vignette from an early-period Behind the Music. The dreamy main riff and strange ersatz reggae of “Burnin’ for You” fused together with the sound of waves and ride-machinery and the permeating scent of weed smoke mysteriously radiating from the old hippies and biker couples getting down on the beach. It turned something that for all intents and purposes should be sad and creepy into something weird and beautiful.

But the obverse, and perhaps more exciting face of the summer concert series arcade token is the Eddie Money experience. If Blue Öyster Cult rises above its pigeonholing as a goofy retro spectacle, Mr. Money gleefully embraces it with a show that can only be described as a resplendent, lurid train-wreck. Eddie Money is no resurrected has-been. Quite the contrary: he is finally capable of carrying his earlier work to its full potential — sung by a “supercharged city kid with rock ‘n’ roll in his soul” (as per Journey’s Steve Perry on an episode of Midnight Special).

Staples like “Two Tickets to Paradise” and “Take Me Home Tonight” are admittedly catchy, but ultimately banal. But in the senior Money’s filthy clutches they drip with sleaze. He gingerly struts around the stage while crooning his myriad hits in a scratchy approximation of his original singing voice. He interrupts nearly every song to demand that we “shake it with the money-maker,” and to illustrate what this might look like, he opens and spreads his black suit jacket and gyrates toward the crowd. His set isn’t so much about music as it is about performing the paunchy, slightly unhinged middle-aged ’80s rocker, a staple of the free concert circuit, and a persona that Money seems to have perfected. The Eddie Money of that Midnight Special clip is dead; in his place is someone infinitely more interesting.

Classy to the end, the Money-man closes his set with a “don’t let your girlfriends drive” joke, as the 200-plus in attendance file out of the Boardwalk. Be sure to leave the beach as clean as you found it!

SANTA CRUZ BOARDWALK BANDS ON THE BEACH!

Fridays, 6:30 and 8:30 p.m.; through Sept. 3; free

(Fri/13, Spin Doctors; Aug. 20, Papa Doo Run Run; Aug. 27, Starship starring Mickey Thomas; Sept. 3, The Tubes featuring Fee Waybill)

Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk

400 Beach, Santa Cruz

(831) 423-5590

www.beachboardwalk.com/concerts

 

Chaos channel

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arts@sfbg.com

MUSIC The first song on Crystal Castles’ new LP, “Fainting Spells,” is a test, a real Indiana Jones-style booby-trap, to ward off unwitting tourists. It opens with a high-pitched squeal, then a driving drum beat — if it came on in the car while your iPod was on shuffle, you’d probably leap out of your seat. The screeching and squealing continues for about two minutes, then plateaus for a breath, and when they return it’s like hearing them for the first time. In the context of a new back-beat, they make you nod your head a bit and notice they’ve been harnessed into a pattern.

Crystal Castles’ sounds are harsh, but they are a band keenly aware of what a difference a little context can make. I’m reminded of that old Jim Thompson quote: “A weed is a plant out of place. I find a hollyhock in my cornfield, it’s a weed. I find it in my yard, and it’s a flower.” Crystal Castles has made a career out of understanding the difference.

Crystal Castles their began their musical career as a lo-fi electronic outfit in Toronto made up of producer Ethan Kath and vocalist Alice Glass. Although they claim the name came from She-Ra’s sky fortress and not the 1983 Atari game, their sound has a catchy MIDI game soundtrack feel to it that makes you wonder if it wasn’t the other way around. When the band first started out, it was Glass’ ferocious voice and raucous stage show that claimed most of the attention. But on the duo’s second self-titled album released earlier this year, Glass’ fierce vocals and Kath’s exploratory coarseness are focused, so they stay harsh while coloring within the lines.

Make no mistake, although the duo’s sound has cleaned up, it’s still not the kind of music you want to spin at your grandparents’ anniversary get-together. The punk-rock attitude suits Kath and Glass just fine, and they return the favor tenfold, first with those aforementioned booby-traps. The albums’ initial single “Doe Deer” headlines a blazing guitar riff under Glass’ chaotic screaming, and has a structure not unlike “Fainting Spells,” where Kath builds on chaos then channels it. But songs like these recall the patchy design of the band’s 2008 debut. Much more surprising are the quieter moments, which see the band embracing the fact that no matter how punk its aesthetic, people are still dancing to this stuff.

Kath continues to experiment with vocal sounds, using repeated syllables that move to the beat and a wide array of samples. I thought “Year of Silence” had Glass singing either in German or backward; a little Googling revealed it not to be Glass at all, but a Sigur Rós sample. Crystal Castles’ 14 little experiments are tighter and slicker than on previous releases, a shift that was hinted at with last year’s “Baptism” single. The song returns here, retooled with additional beats and a quickened tempo that suggests Kath and Glass have more than a passing interest in real rave-style trance.

I don’t know, maybe aloof indie kids are afraid of the words “trance” and “rave-music,” envisioning a sea of candy bracelets and pacifiers. But in taking a punk music approach to electronic music, Crystal Castles is making it easier to convert the suspicious. Kath’s consistently imaginative use of crude noises and familiar-but-disassociated vocals makes Crystal Castles at once a profoundly jarring and catchy album. In an electronic landscape largely still populated by house and ambient, it’s nice to have a band that can churn out such beautiful flowers where other artists see pesky weeds.

CRYSTAL CASTLES

With Rusko, Sinden, and Proxy

Aug. 6, 7 p.m., $35

The Fox Theatre

1807 Telegraph, Oakl.

(800) 745-3000

www.thefoxoakland.com

Gods of distortion

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arts@sfbg.com

MUSIC No one can agree on how guitar distortion was invented, or by whom. The only thing the experts do concur on is that, like many of humanity’s most excellent leaps forward, it was a complete and utter accident.

Whether it was created by a punctured speaker cone, a faulty cable, or a malfunctioning vacuum tube, distortion is now inescapable. Distorted guitars birthed rock ‘n’ roll, and rock ‘n’ roll birthed the idea that anything worth doing is worth doing to excess. For Greg Anderson, founder and proprietor of cult metal label Southern Lord Records, amplified excess is more than just an artistic pursuit — it’s a philosophy. This August, Anderson will appear on stage with his band Goatsnake as part of the Southern Lord Mini Tour, a three-date testament to distortion that will batter the United States’ Western coast with an avalanche of overdriven, fuzzed-out guitar tone.

The guitarist is best known for his work in experimental outfit SunnO))), bane of eardrums and copy editors, whose ribcage-rattling drone compositions and be-robed stage presence were the subject of a widely-read New York Times feature in 2009. If Anderson can be considered the pontiff of an experimental, distortion-worshiping subculture, then SunnO))) is his Easter Mass. But it is his day-to-day work at Southern Lord’s Unholy See that has the more profound effect on the musical landscape.

 

A CAVE OF WONDERS

Reached by phone in, as he put it, “the caves of Southern Lord,” Anderson is eloquent and good-humored, and though he perches at the absolute pinnacle of metal coolness, he discusses the music in the earnest tones of a die-hard fan: “I’m a seeker, man … when I find out about a band, I want to know everything about them — what other bands the members have been in, who’s influenced by them, who their influences were.”

From the point of view of this kind of music junkie, Anderson is living the dream, effectively populating his label with bands that appeal to his personal taste. Rather than being a vanity project, however, Southern Lord performs an important cultural role, curating a uncompromising collection of metal bands that push the boundaries of the possible by wringing the most out of their distorted electric guitars.

Spread thin over three decades and thousands of miles, this underground community can be ephemeral and capricious. Armed with his own significant talent and an omnivorous musical ear, Anderson rides herd on an army of devil-worshiping iconoclasts, elevating up-and-coming acts to positions of prestige, while simultaneously cultivating older bands that have either been long forgotten or driven deep into the cultural topsoil.

 

HEAVY BREATHING

Anderson’s description of his newest signing (and Southern Lord Mini Tour opening act), Seattle death metal-crust punk hybrid Black Breath, typifies the former process: “Over the last couple of years, especially playing with SunnO))), I really turned away from, or wasn’t listening to, much aggressive music. I was actually really into jazz. And then something snapped. I started listening to old hardcore records. I wanted something that was the complete opposite.” Newly re-attuned to the D-beaten tones of hardcore, Anderson received a demo — a four-song, 12-inch vinyl record — in the mail, and couldn’t believe his luck. The album — Black Breath’s self-financed Razor to Oblivion EP — was a distorted revelation. “The font of their band logo was stolen from Celtic Frost, and they listed Poison Idea and Dismember as influences!” Anderson effuses.

Soon after hearing the record, the label headman was due to return to Seattle for the holidays, where the incendiary quintet had a show scheduled. Speaking by phone from his home in Seattle, Black Breath guitarist Eric Wallace describes the madness that ensued. “The details are kinda hazy,” he begins, “but we’ve been telling people that our guitarist Funds [real name: Zack Muljat] and Greg [Anderson] were having an argument about a song that was playing on the jukebox … Funds was arguing that it was S.O.D., and Greg was arguing that it wasn’t, and they were putting bets down and stuff. We ended up singing with Southern Lord after that. It may or may not have been part of the bet.”

 

CORRODED AGAIN

Though Anderson’s fingerprints are all over the forthcoming Southern Lord Mini Tour, his band Goatsnake will not headline. That honor goes Corrosion of Conformity, a legendary underground metal band founded in Raleigh, N.C., in 1982. Though they charted in the early ’90s with two albums’ worth of thick, Southern-fried Sabbath worship, C.O.C (as they’re often called) started as a lightning-fast hardcore trio, churning out political anthems over adrenaline-soaked pogo beats. This summer’s tour boasts the reunited three-piece lineup of guitarist Woody Weatherman, drummer Reed Mullin, and bassist/singer Mike Dean, who will perform the group’s seminal 1985 release Animosity (Metal Blade Records) live in its entirety.

Anderson and the Piedmont power trio go way back. “They stayed at my house in 1986, when C.O.C played in Seattle, actually, on the Animosity tour.” While band’s output in recent years has been limited to 2005’s under-appreciated In the Arms of God (Sanctuary Records), Anderson’s curatorial instincts were ever-vigilant. Reached by phone as he decompressed from a tour rehearsal, Dean explained how it went down: “He reached out to us. He was looking to reissue some of our old stuff. We mentioned that we were gonna record a new release. We just started talking to him about doing that, and he said, ‘Hey, you wanna play some shows out here?’ and we were like, ‘Oh yeah!’ It kinda lit a fire under our ass to get some new songs down and go out and play ’em.”

The existence of new songs was of crucial importance to both parties. For better or worse, reunited metal bands has been emerging from their dingy practice spaces lately like underfed jackals, and results are mixed. To avoid getting lumped in with the rest of the Lazarus-rock scene, Dean wrote songs: “The only thing I can do to allay my feelings of not wanting to be part of that is to attempt to offer something new. At this point, we have four or five new songs that we can perform. We’re doing this as part of readying ourselves to do something new.”

Despite all the hand-wringing about illegal downloading, Anderson attributes this explosion of reinvigorated headbangers to “the fact that information is so easily available, cataloged, and documented meticulously on the Internet. It’s like a trail, a path you can get on, on which you find one thing, and it leads to another thing, and it’s just a snowball effect. It makes it possible for these bands to come out and play to three to four times as many people as they did in their heyday. It’s a real testament to the fact that this music is valid and incredible. It needs to be heard, and it needs to be given the respect that it’s due.” With people like Greg Anderson keeping watch for the young talent and shepherding the old, it definitely will be.

THE SOUTHERN LORD WEST COAST MINI TOUR

Corrosion of Conformity, Goatsnake, Black Breath, Eagle Twin, Righteous Fool

Tue/10, 7 p.m., $25

DNA Lounge

375 11th St., SF

(415) 626-2532

www.dnalounge.com

Undertaker in reverse

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A window in Sean Smith’s apartment looks across the street at the park. To the left of this window, inside the room, there’s an old sign that says Undertaker.

Smith is the kind of devoted undertaker who finishes what he starts. He’s a reverse undertaker: the kind that brings things to life, instead of escorting them through death. In recent years, he’s released solo albums of instrumental guitar music, and he’s also put together a pair of compilations devoted to guitarists of the Bay Area. Smith’s dedication to the instrument and its myriad possibilities isn’t selfish. Through 2006’s Berkeley Guitar and this year’s Beyond Berkeley Guitar (Tompkins Square), he’s helping to shine a light on fellow talents like Ava Mendoza, whose new album Shadow Stories (Resipiscent) can turn from Sonny Sharrock-caliber noise to skipping melody at the drop of a dime.

Smith’s own musical ability is vast and alive. He recently finished recording an impressive pair of albums with Tim Green. At a time when designer reissue labels like Numero Group are spotlighting guitar instrumentals, there should be room on a label of note for Smith’s commanding new albums, which stretch from solo interiors to epic band sounds while maintaining the same purity and high intensity. This week, at the Mission Creek Music Festival, Smith will emphasize his quieter, solo side. I recently talked with him about music.

SFBG   Sacred Crag Dancer, Corpse Whisperer (Iota, 2006) veers toward improvisation, while Eternal (Strange Attractors, 2007) has more of an ensemble quality. How was putting them together different?

SEAN SMITH I had a lot of energy towards improvisation at the of Sacred Crag Dancer. My dad bought me a guitar. He’d been wanting to contribute for a while. I found one I wanted and he bought it for me and as soon as I got it I went home and would hit ‘Record” and play. I recorded 3 hours of music and pared it down to 34 minutes.

SFBG What was the process of paring it down like?

SS It was easy. We were quick to hear what worked and what didn’t work in the improv. It’s more like spontaneous composition. I’d try to repeat things or make compositions, cohesive journeys from A to B, rather than fuck around.

There were three levels of editing: first, there’s immediate editing while you’re playing, when you just stop and say “This sucks”; second, there’s determining what works and what doesn’t; and third, determining what works to make a cohesive album that reflects the span of the work.

SFBG In terms of coming up with titles, you’re different from some instrumental artists, who will keep things stark. Some people will pour all their heart into a work and then leave it untitled. Your titles are striking, not throwaway.

SS Well, I hope none of my work is throwaway.

There’s a lot of variation and possibility in titling. You might have your own idea that you start with before the music comes to you.

With Sacred Crag Dancer, the music came first, it was sprouting forth from nothing, and titles had to be created to fit it.

“Extrance” is an exit and entrance — you’re leaving your world and entering a world where the character (of the album) dictates your experience.

SFBG There is a lot of deathly imagery in that album’s titles.

SS “Sacred Crag Dancer, Corpse Whisperer” comes from something I thought I heard Daniel Higgs say one time when I saw him play. The energy of the album was definitely inspired in part by him. I was moving in that [improvisational] direction and then I saw him play for the first time and everything just shifted.

It seems like each of my albums has a character creating the environment. The Sacred Crag Dancer Corpse Whisperer is a conjurer of a weird spiritual realm.

The title “Some Men Are Born Posthumously” is a line from Nietzsche. He was talking about how no one would understand his work during his lifetime.

SFBG I like “Jeweled Escapement.”

SS I’m sure as a journalist you have typed on a typewriter — my typewriter’s escapement key has a jewel on it. All the titles of the album are typed on that typewriter.

FBG Making the kind of music you’re making, which isn’t tied to a particular trend, I figure you probably get responses from all kinds of people —

SS Or nobody.

SFBG Yes. In a sense doing the Berkeley Guitar and Beyond Berkeley Guitar compilations is work on your part to counter that lack of a profile, and perhaps hint at a movement. It’s almost like journalism in a way.

SS It’s been a general problem in the world of solo guitar that most of the people in that world squander their talents in obscurity.

Some people who end up on these collections won’t necessarily do anything else. Adam Snyder (from Berkeley Guitar) is a brilliant musician. He’s written hours and hours and hours and hours of music. He’s obsessed. When we lived together he couldn’t hold a job because all he wanted to was be at home playing. Yet he hasn’t made a record. I don’t know if he ever will, but I’m sure he’s still obsessively playing music.

I’m more into documenting music.

SFBG Do you like Harry Smith?

SS Yes. My mentality stems from that, from thinking, “Wow, thanks to this guy, we have all of this music,” a document of a time, of people, and of culture. If it wasn’t for him, those songs would have remained on back porches. He was able to capture something so the rest of the world could hear.

SFBG It’s a generative thing.

SS And the music becomes more generous to the listeners in the process. It becomes potentially influential.

SFBG What has it been like to work with Tim Green?

SS Great. He doesn’t say a damn thing unless it’s really important, so when he does, it means something.

I’m bummed that the (Fucking) Champs disbanded — that music is like from my dreams or something, instrumental music that powerful. With music like that, no one ever says, “When are you going to start singing?” I haven’t gotten there yet — people still ask me.

This newer music I recorded with Tim is being met with a lot of confusion. Eternal was, too. People are like, “Wait, it’s not solo guitar, but it’s instrumental, and there’s solo guitar and crazy electric guitar on it.” It doesn’t fit neatly into that finger picking American primitive thing.

SFBG Will you always be shifting in relation to that sort of traditionalism?

SS Absolutely. There’s no one way for me. There never has been.

The finger picking or instrumental thing has just been a means of expression.

When I was in 4th grade, I wanted to play saxophone, really badly. They wouldn’t let me, they wanted me to play clarinet. I tried it out for a couple of weeks and didn’t like the tone of it. But I always say that if they’d have let me play the saxophone, I’d probably be a saxophone player right now.

When I found the guitar, I realized I could express myself with it. If I didn’t have a guitar I would find a way to express myself. I’m not just in some pop band. I’m never going to break up with myself. I’m always going to be making music because I’m compelled to.

I particularly don’t want to write lyrics. I’m not interested in singing, because that’s not my instrument. The guitar is my instrument and I struggle enough with that, trying to progress and expand and play authentically.

That’s a huge part of music, too — playing authentically, playing genuinely.

SFBG Figuring that out when making music is difficult. There are different challenges that sort of have to converge. There’s the struggle to make music that to you — to your hearing and intuition — sounds good so that you like it. And at the same time, you have to do that without killing it by trying to make it too good. You have to allow it to be alive.

SS A lot of that is lost simply due to the ways in which things are recorded today.

Everything is AutoTuned. Now, in pop music if it isn’t AutoTuned, people are thrown off by it.

Even more intensely, when it comes to playing honestly, my song on Beyond Berkeley Guitar is called “Ourselves When We Are Real.” That comes from Mingus’ solo piano album [Mingus Plays Piano, 1963] — the first song on it is called “Myself When I Am Real.” When I heard it, it was so disturbing, because it’s so honest. It sounds like all these little thoughts in your head, your inner monologue mixing with the outside world, the way you look at yourself in the mirror and the way your voice sounds.

I wanted to shift that title, and I wanted to call [the composition] that because it was the most authentic piece of music that I had ever written.

SFBG Is that what you were striving for with Tim Green?

SS It’s your own process. He’s not interested in telling you what to do. His question is, “What are we doing today?”

He has tons of old funky gear to work with. He prefers to record to tape, and so do I. He sleeps until around 1 in the afternoon. You never start before 2 or 3 p.m. He likes to go late, and he’s the most patient person in the world.

For the most part, if I don’t get something by the second take I move on, because I don’t want to do it to death. But there was one time when I was playing a guitar line, and I realized I’d been playing it for two hours trying to get it right, and it was making me crazy. Tim was sitting there reading a magazine and never getting frustrated. He’d say, “That one sounded alright — do it again.” He was hearing things.

There’s a drawing in the studio that someone did of Tim sitting at the board. He’s always got a leg kicked out with his black Samba Adidas, and he’s drawn so that he has these huge elephant ears.

SFBG Have you listened to (the Numero Group compilation) Guitar Soli?

SS I haven’t heard it yet. I looked at the track listing and was vaguely familiar with most of the people on it. Even though it’s super obscure I’ve spent the last ten years of my life digging around for solo guitar records. I play a George Cromarty tune, “Topinambour.” Eternal starts with it.

SFBG There are a fair amount of reissues connected to solo guitar as of late — people like Sandy Bull are getting a new surge of attention.

SS This is the age of reissues and revisiting.

I’m in a Black Sabbath cover band with three members of Citay. I find it’s probably the most rewarding band I’ve ever played in. A friend was saying that a cover band now isn’t like this 1986 cruise ship playing Top 40 hits now, it’s a legitimate type of music.

SFBG This might be overstating, but maybe it’s like a spiritual pursuit. If you decide you’re going to cover Sabbath, you know you’re going to go deep into Sabbath.

SS For me, I want to play in a relevant way, so I want to bring the experience of seeing Black Sabbath at their prime to the audience.

SFBG What’s the band called?

SS It’s called Bob Saget.

 

SEAN SMITH

as part of the Mission Creek Music Festival

with Howlin Rain, 3 Leafs, DJ Neil Martinson

Sat/17, 9 p.m., $8

El Rio

3158 Mission, SF

(415) 282-3325

www.mcmf.org

Point of entry

0

MUSIC Blessed with the pipes and vocal chords of an angelic opera singer but willing and able to deliver the type of piercing wail that would shock a banshee, Rob Halford has long been considered one of the greatest rock vocalists of all time. Rightfully dubbed “the Metal God” by fans, he has been making his mark in music for nearly 40 years, from his iconic role as front man for the legendary Judas Priest, through his tenure with Fight in the 1990s, and some excellent solo ventures during the last decade.

Halford is embarking on a summer tour with his own eponymous band. It kicks off in a San Francisco club before joining the mammoth OzzFest, so local fans are in for a rare, intimate treat. “I think San Francisco is still a very important part of America as far as the music scene. And it’s a place that has a lot of great memories for me personally,” says Halford, speaking on the phone from his home in San Diego.

“I remember one of my first ever visits to the Bay Area, in the late ’70s, when [Judas] Priest came over to the States. The big climax of that was a surprise performance with Led Zeppelin. And then some years ago, the guys from Pansy Division took me around to some cool places they thought would be of some interest to me besides Fisherman’s Wharf,” he adds, laughing.

The set list for the tour promises to touch on all facets of Halford’s career, not just Judas Priest. “That isn’t what this is about for me. It’s about playing the Halford material and the Fight records,” he explains. “The music from them is still quite potent and show off what the Halford band is able to achieve, more than anything else.”

Soft-spoken and humble, Halford is still happy to discuss his old band’s accomplishments, including Judas Priest’s classic album British Steel, which received a deluxe 30th anniversary rerelease earlier this year. “Music is like a time machine in some aspects” Halford muses. “[The rerelease] just reinforces that a great song is able to last forever. If a song you wrote in 1980 can still touch people in 2010, then I think you’re doing your work well.”

Next month Halford’s own Metal God record label is releasing the concert DVD and CD Halford: Live In Anaheim, and he hopes to enter the studio later this year to record a new album with his current band before Judas Priest roars back into action in 2011. Obviously, the 58-year old rocker shows no signs of slowing down. Indeed, he says that he loves to keep busy and wouldn’t have it any other way.

“The great thing about music is that there’s no gold watch waiting in the wings,” he says. “You keep doing it for as long as you want, and I’m always grateful because I wouldn’t be able to set foot out of the house without knowing this tremendous and resilient fan base is going to be waiting.” 

ROB HALFORD

Sat/17, 9 p.m., $37–$40

Regency Ballroom

1290 Sutter, SF

(800) 745-3000

www.theregencyballroom.com

Gryp the surgeon

5

arts@sfbg.com

MUSIC The bass. The accents. A scary little man in a hooded jacket. On first introduction to Die Antwoord via the video for their breakthrough jam, “Enter the Ninja,” I was officially freaked out: intimidated by their honest anger, rank lyrics and ultrahip haircuts. It was early February of this year when the Ninja, Yo-Landi Vi$$er, and DJ Hi-Tek of South Africa entered my life, and only days after we met on the ‘interweb,’ I was officially obsessed.

Blowing up their videos to full-screen, I inhaled their stench, injected their music-laden virus, and swallowed mouthfuls of diseased, infectious theatrical genius for hours on end, letting all that is Die Antwoord swim to my brain, pump through my veins, and wallow in the depths of my stomach. I felt sick, happy, and addicted — and apparently, so did the rest of the world.

Die Antwoord blew up almost immediately after a couple quick posts from influential music tasters. Only six months into their new-found fame, these sick bastards have already played — and wooed — Coachella, signed with Interscope, and gained shows with MIA on their first official U.S. tour. Even gross celebrities like Fred Durst and Katy Perry have typed their praises. Their show at the Rickshaw Stop sold out in less than an hour.

They’re white trash with skills: super-slick production, extra-catchy hard core beats, and personas that should be employed by the traveling carnival. Images of sexpot Yo-Landi and her tween-like frame rotate between cracked-out fiend, a shy classmate I met in the fourth-grade, and a sexy, antiestablishment Swedish lesbian. It’s probably not OK that I find her at all attractive. The tiny-lady MC is totally cool being covered in rats, freely kisses the critters, and holds them upside down by their tails. I am quite jealous of her ability to rock wicked-short bangs.

Then there’s Ninja; a rail-thin, pasty man with a mouth as rotten as San Francisco’s Sixth Street. His collection of tattoos are horrible. My favorites include a large, erect penis; his non-gangster “very secret fairy forest”; and phrases like “If you don’t like funerals, don’t kick sand in a ninja’s face.” His prime video moment: a close-up of his seemingly giant balls aggressively keeping beat to a sick bass line, hidden only under the thin fabric of his “Dark Side of the Moon” boxers.

Die Antwoord’s third member, DJ Hi-Tek, is basically mute and/or hasn’t fully developed his character quite yet. Stay tuned.

So nasty. So raw. So are they real? The Web is stocked with videos of Max Normal TV, Ninja’s, a.k.a. Waddy Jones’, former project that included Yo-Landi Vi$$er as his assistant. They’re art punks and all their projects before now simply laid the groundwork for Die Antwoord.

People’s concern with the legitimacy of the group is out of style. Since when don’t we like people who take on alternate public personas? Would we really like them more if they were, as one Videogum writer put it, “actually borderline mentally retarded poor children from ghettos covered in generic Cheetos dust and meth crumbs?” No. Because either way they’re fokken intense, intoxicating, absurd, and pumping some serious Zef flow. (Says Ninja: “Zef = flavor, ultimate style, fokken cool, more than fokken cool. A zone. A level. And we’re on the highest level.”)

What any fan needs to figure out is how to translate the crazy-thick accent and constant use of Afrikaans slang. Yo-Landi finds it hilarious that fans attempt to sing along, unknowingly screaming absurdities that would make anyone blush. The song “Jou Ma se Poes in ‘n Fishpaste Jar” translates to “Your mother’s cunt in a fishpaste jar,” which, unsurprisingly, has a corresponding picture. Just don’t go around spouting off the lyrics in front of Grandma.

DIE ANTWOORD

With DJ Jeffrey Paradise

Fri/16, 8:30 p.m., sold out

Rickshaw Stop

155 Fell, SF

(415) 861-2011

www.rickshawstop.com

I, in the sky

0

There’s a moment during You Think You Really Know Me, the 2005 documentary on 1970s Midwest cult artist Gary Wilson, when the filmmakers acknowledge that their subject is not necessarily as weird as his music. “I thought he would be a little bit more,” says Christina Bates, coowner of the defunct Motel Records, which reissued Wilson’s 1977 jazz-rock curio You Think You Really Know Me to much acclaim. Bates’ voice trails off. “He’s really in complete control of his image.”

The same could be said of Ariel “Pink” Rosenberg. The Los Angeles musician follows a long tradition of outsiders whose recordings invite speculation on their mental stability, from enigmatic recluses such as Wilson to the late (and rumored schizophrenic) Syd Barrett. But, as Ariel Pink summarizes during a phone conversation, “I’ve never been in the closet, by myself or reclusive like everyone says. That’s a myth.”

Ariel Pink’s releases — which he began recording and issuing as CD-Rs in the late ’90s, moving to Animal Colllective’s Paw Tracks imprint with 2003’s The Doldrums — sound like a melting brain. Heartbreakingly melodic keyboard tones float around like smoke from burning embers. The songs — including “For Kate I Wait” from Doldrums, which became a college radio novelty hit — barely hang onto verse-chorus structure, and Pink’s muttered ramblings unveil feelings of warped alienation and deep melancholy.

Often issued under the “Haunted Graffiti” rubric, Pink’s aberrant synth-pop has proved influential on younger musicians, many of whom have been lumped under the semi-mocking hipster term “chillwave.” But while Neon Indian and Toro y Moi tap into the cultural zeitgeist via krushed grooves and distorted vocals, their overall tone is cool and distant, suggesting a familiar kind of postadolescent anomie. In contrast, Ariel Pink guffaws, grunts, lilts in a cooing voice reminiscent of a whining dog, and shouts nonsense lyrics, all in pursuit of a song’s emotional center. “I’m a necro-romantic! I’ll be suckin’ your blood!” he riffs on “Fright Night (Nevermore),” a track from his recent, excellent Before Today, evoking dewy memories of richly ambiguous ’80s horror flicks and John Carpenter soundtracks.

Perhaps music fans and critics occasionally call Ariel Pink a savant because he’s unafraid to look foolish. His interviews have teased and strained against that perception. “I have something to do with it, too,” he admits. “I open my mouth and say things, and certain things make it to posterity, and make it to Wikipedia, and people think they’re doing their research when they read Wikipedia. So a lot of misconceptions get repeated.”

During the interview, Pink strikes a professional tone, saying that he’s grateful to be signed to 4AD (a subsidiary of major indie conglomerate Beggars Group) after years of struggling as an indie artist. 4AD booked him on an international tour for Before Today, which reached stores in June; and he calls from Plano B, a nightclub in Porto, Portugal where he and his backing band, Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti, are setting up to perform. The long-distance connection leads to frequent shouts of “Huh? I can’t hear you, dude.”

Before Today marks a new, post-bedroom phase for Ariel Pink. Recorded with his band, songs like “L’estat (acc. to the widow’s maid)” and “Bright Lit Blue Skies” benefit from the type of sharply navigated time changes and vivid instrumental colors that can’t be realized through bedroom production techniques. Meanwhile, “Reminiscences,” an easygoing lounge number, draws inspiration from Ethiopian singer Yeshimebet Dubale. “Arguably the most famous type of song form in Ethiopia is tizita, the song of nostalgia and remembrances,” Pink explains.

Ariel Pink admits that past live performances were often chaotic and uninspired affairs where “I didn’t care about anything and just thought about me. That didn’t get me very far.” Musicians shuffled in and out of Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti, adding to the instability. He’s cautiously optimistic about the prospects for his current lineup, which features Tim Koh, Kenny Gilmore, Joe Kennedy, and Aaron Sperske. “I don’t know how long the current incarnation will be around for — we’ve only been together two weeks,” he says, noting that Kennedy just joined the group. “I’m always trying to get a bunch of guys to stay with me.”

After years spent mostly working alone, Pink welcomes the challenge of learning to perform with — and lead — others. “Ultimately it’s more fulfilling for me. It’s no fun doing it alone! Seriously, it’s boring as fuck.”

ARIEL PINK’S HAUNTED GRAFFITI

With Magic Kids, Pearl Harbour

Sat/10, 9 p.m., $15

Bimbo’s 365 Club

1025 Columbus, SF

(877) 4FL-YTIX

www.bimbos365club.com

Ariel, part 2: Think Pink!

0

MUSIC Ladies and gentlemen, meet the real Ariel Pink.

The Los Angeles musician’s first few 2004-06 releases on Animal Collective’s Paw Tracks label were the stuff of indie water cooler infamy, but they also collected recordings (2002’s House Arrest and Lover Boy; 2003’s Worn Copy) that Pink had made years before. It wasn’t until early 2009 that the world had the chance to hear any new output from the notoriously mysterious musician.

Until then, the talk about Pink largely focused on how serious he was — or wasn’t. Built from lengthy experimentation and goofy gimmicks, such as drum noises made with his armpits, his lo-fi music wasn’t just a byproduct of bedroom recording, it was a reimagining of 1970s and ’80s radio jingles and easy listening sounds. Jingles are disposable by definition, yet anyone familiar with some from the ’70s has to admit they are designed to remain in your brain. They were touchstones for the young Pink, and through a love for them, he picked up a knack for great hooks and memorable choruses.

Catchy though they may be, the repetitive nature of Pink’s early songs nonetheless made some listeners wonder whether he was just monkeying about and marketing lo-fi weirdness to those with nostalgic impulses. A sweeping ballad that might mark a poignant moment in a Sunday night made-for-TV tearjerker, “For Kate I Wait” is one of the best songs from his 2004 debut The Doldrums (Paw Tracks). But the damn thing does not need to be over four minutes long, considering it consists of a single idea: sentences that rhyme with the title.

On Pink’s new album Before Today (4AD), he takes the leap to a larger label, drops a lot of the lo-fi scuzz and delivers smoothly succinct pop songs. The lo-fi isn’t gone completely, but it is refined. And while his vocals remain muddy and hidden behind other sounds, half the fun is guessing just what he’s going on about. You can’t take the weird out of a man, and Pink has spent too many years purposely being strange for Before Today to suddenly strip him of all idiosyncrasy. Keen-eared listeners will pick out stream-of-consciousness mutterings like “Make me maternal, fertile woman/Make me menstrual, menopause man/Rape me, castrate me, make me gay/Lady, I’m a lady from today” on “Menopause Man,” and while the tongue-in-cheek imagery conveys to listeners that Pink is still in on his own joke, the album really shines when he manages to play it straight.

The cover art for Before Today’s chief single “Round and Round” may sport a lovingly drawn image of a man french-kissing a dog, but the track itself is so masterfully clean and structured that it transcends homage, becoming one of the year’s best songs. The gifted flair for a sound and a hook that made Pink’s early works so catchy is still there, but he switches up tempo and groove so many times that the composition never outstays its welcome despite its five-minute length. Likewise, “Can’t Hear My Eyes” is easy-listening heaven, with echoed vocals and sharp piano flourishes that recall the Alan Parsons Project’s more radio-friendly fare, like “I Wouldn’t Wanna Be Like You.” These particular songs stand out for their devotion to time and place, but all of Before Today is a sprawling run through the dollar bin at Amoeba Music, and Pink makes it his own by picking apart the best bits and reimagining 2010 as it might have been if Fleetwood Mac and Cherry Coke still ran the radio.

Pink is often casually tossed in the freak-folk category of knowing eccentrics, alongside the likes of Devendra Banhart and Joanna Newsom. Both Banhart and Newsom have recently taken a more classic approach to their respective crafts — to great success — while remaining true to their unique personalities. It’s likely that the freak-folk tag’s death and in turn these artist’s survival resides in the realization that weirdness doesn’t have to define you as an artist. Mark down 2010 as the year Pink decided to take his turn at bat, cutting the shit and showing the world Ariel Pink cooks with fire.

Redneck dawn

0

If it left here tomorrow, would you still remember redneck rock? In the 20-tweens, you might hear it rushing through the purple veins of Southern gothic TV: within Jace Everett’s growling poster-boy blues, “Bad Things,” which opens True Blood, and Gangstagrass’ hip-hop-drenched banjo-and-fiddle hillbilly vamp, “Long Hard Times to Come,” the theme to the trigger-happy Justified.

In 1974’s The Improbable Rise of Redneck Rock, author Jan Reid defined the genre as Texan through-and-through, based in irreverently reverent Austin and embodied by Willie Nelson, Kinky Friedman, Janis Joplin, Doug Sahm, Townes Van Zandt, and Billy Joe Shaver. Reid sees the Dixie Chicks, Steve Earle, and Stevie Ray Vaughn as its unlikely descendants, but that’s only one blood line. The rusty dust of redneck rock can also be found rising from the sound of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man” and “Sweet Home Alabama” and the Allman Brothers’ “Ramblin’ Man” and “Blue Sky” on classic rock radio. Or whenever 38 Special’s soft-rock stab at Top 40 popularity, “Caught Up in You,” pops up, be it in a biker bar or a key girl-power moment from Drew Barrymore’s Whip It. Redneck rock lives wherever the Nuge wanders, crossbow in hand. Do the ghosts of redneck rock lurk wherever Buffalo Bill beards and American Gothic facial hair may roam?

Today, Nashville yields few answers: you’d be hard-pressed to hear anything beyond the “new rock” recent past in the OTT bounce of the Kings of Leon, apart from the sinewy guitar snaking beneath the pelvic thrust of, say, “Sex on Fire.” Though perhaps this year’s watery disaster — evoking the legendary 1927 Mississippi floods that inspired a generation of blues songwriters — will bring in a new wave of soul-searching.

You’re likelier to find remnants of redneck rock in the fiery ambitions of Louisville, Ky., combo My Morning Jacket. Or out west, in the Cali-rock dreams of Howlin Rain and the Portland folk-psych ruminations of Blitzen Trapper. These bands are also fans, unafraid to demonstrate their allegiance to those enlightened rogues the Allmans — shred-savants in the name of “Jessica” and the still-astonishing “Whipping Post” — or the Band, the group whose wide, deep catalog likely has the biggest impact on post-punk’s redneck rockers.

Perhaps it’s a sign of the times, with the recession continuing to bear down unsparingly on the music world, but neither My Morning Jacket, Kings of Leon, nor Howlin Rain has released a studio album since 2008. The exception is Blitzen Trapper. Enigmatic storyteller Eric Earley and company came to most critics’ attention with their third full-length, Wild Mountain Nation (Lidkercow Ltd., 2007). That recording dared to reclaim a kind of back-to-the-backwoods, Green Man-tapped mythos, complete with saintly tramps, critter call-outs, country caravans, and a genuine-dandelion-wine “Wild Mtn. Jam.” The new Destroyer of the Void (Sub Pop) yields further clues to the ensemble’s redneck of the woods.

The four-eyed Minotaur on the cover of Destroyer replaces the spectral Bigfoot skulking through Wild Mountain Nation‘s underbrush and the changeling wolf-boy in the title track of Furr (Sub Pop, 2008). In the opening title track, this Destroyer stalks a spaghetti southwestern dreamscape awash with rolling stones, wayward sons, and other rock ‘n’ roll archetypes, pieced out with harmonies more akin to “Bohemian Rhapsody” than “Good Vibrations.” Is this a rustic-rock mini-opera variant on the Who’s “A Quick One, While He’s Away”? Instead, Blitzen Trapper appears intent on chasing away yawning distractions, the enemy of imagination — bounding over Rockpile hill and dale on “Laughing Lover,” fluttering after acoustic-guitar-glittered butterflies in “Below the Hurricane,” then finally settling down for a tale about “The Man Who Would Speak True,” a protagonist who destroys all who listen with his terrible honesty.

Does this fear point to why Blitzen Trapper prefers to take refuge in a lush, obfuscating thicket of folk tales, rock ‘n’ roll tropes, and unexpected sonic switchbacks? Truth is feared, and healing sanctuary can found in the natural order. No wonder Blitzen Trapper treats its windy musical changes — the roaring fuzz-guitar-and-B-3 overture of “Love and Hate,” the dying trees and elegiac piano and strings of “Heaven and Earth,” and the minor-chord yet blissfully sweet “Dragon’s Song” — as mysterious, unchanging, and impossible to tame.

“Sadie, I can never change,” wails Earley, in a feather-light tip of a cap to “Free Bird”‘s “This bird you cannot change/Lord knows I can’t change.” It’s a slight, very specific turnaround from the proud, loaded declaration of independence hammered out with such lyricism by Skynyrd: Blitzen Trapper stands its ground in fertile soil, part Mississippi Delta and “The Weight,” part A Night at the Opera and Village Green Preservation Society, its melodies — and heart — ever unresolved, its notions semi-nonsensical and wild-eyed.

BLITZEN TRAPPER

With the Moondoggies

Wed/30, 9 p.m., $20

Fillmore

1805 Geary, SF

(415) 346-6000

www.livenation.com

Dressed in black

0

arts@sfbg.com

MUSIC “Every song I wrote was born out of being alone and frustrated in this perpetually sunny place,” explains Dee Dee, the leading lady of the Dum Dum Girls, who wrote and recorded the band’s debut full-length, I Will Be (Sub Pop), as a way to pass the time in Los Angeles. “It was a struggle to be happy and fill the hours in a day.” The album’s got a sunny-side-up vibe: the bottom-half has a fried, rough edge, while the top part remains bright and runny yellow.

Dee Dee (birth name: Kristin Gundred) is a lifetime Cali chick. She grew up in the East Bay, frolicked in San Fran and Berkeley during high school, went to college in Santa Cruz, returned to SF, and then moved to L.A. “It was such a shocking move,” she writes via e-mail while on tour in Paris. “But I’m grateful for the contrast it added to my life — for its amazing coasts and for my husband and friends, who I’d never have met otherwise.”

By herself, the 27-year-old singer-songwriter wrote tracks in her L.A. bedroom. When Dee Dee needed a band to take her songs to the stage, she recruited her a girl gang: Jules (guitar and vocals), Bambi (bass), and Sandra Vu (drums and vocals). “There was no other way to become a real band than to find the right girls and flesh out the songs a bit,” she says. “Nothing compares to playing with them.” Together the ladies are united aurally and visually — they all dress in black.

Dum Dum Girls released a rough-and-tumble self-titled EP before getting signed last summer by Sub Pop. I Will Be is a reverb-loving, 1960s girl group-influenced, rebel rock ‘n’ roll album smeared with Dee Dee’s sugary vocals. The album was produced by Richard Gottehrer, who cowrote “My Boyfriend’s Back” and produced albums by Blondie and the Go-Go’s. Gottehrer polishes the group’s sound without losing the speed and shake that distinguishes it. The ascent may seem quick, but Dee Dee’s been singing since she was a wee tot and pushing her own music for the past 10 years.

“I’ve finally got a handle on it,” she adds, about living and making music in LA. “And now I’m going to fuck it up again and see what songs come out of this next move.” The Dum Dum Girls show at Bottom of the Hill will be a homecoming of sorts, since Dee Dee prepares to return to hot-and-cold Frisco. “It’s time to go home,” she remarks.

“My life is kind of plagued with heaviness right now and attempting balance always channels itself into my songs,” Dee Dee notes. Her songwriting makes it clear that not only does she have an excellent sense of melody and harmony, she also knows how to tell a story.

“Bhang Bhang, I’m a Burnout,” an upbeat and jangly song, “is a positive commentary on the creative use of marijuana,” she explains. Observations such as “But really it just opens up doors/I never knew could be/in your head” make it easy to guess what Dee Dee was up to as she hid in her bedroom writing into the late hours of the night.

Listening to the high-spirited “Oh Mein Me,” it’s easy to get caught up in the blur of sound and make-up words like “Each to each/Oh my, oh my,” but the song is actually sung in German. Dee Dee explains it is about “love at first sight” and “the dramatic cosmic connection.” The poet-at-heart says she learned German because of her obsession with Hermann Hesse, whose narratives follow wanderers as they search for the meaning of life, or for meaning in life. Hesse’s thematic influence is apparent as the album maps out the experiences one has while growing up.

The middle of the album has the sweet stuff, with an adolescent-meets-adult feel. The lyrics possess maturity but emit the feel of a first kiss. “Yours Alone” starts in the schoolyard at age five and rocks its way through first times on to forever. “It’s bits and pieces gathered from my whole life and constructed into a love story,” she confirms, “starting with Ari Radowsky in preschool.”

The slowed-down “Blank Girl” is a purified duet sung with Brandon Welchez (of Crocodiles), who also plays guitar on the track. It follows an ugly-duckling-to-swan trajectory, relating the passage from shyness to finding a voice. “Rest of Our Lives” is a romantic ode written by Dee Dee for her husband. “Your eyes consume me/They always have/Before you knew me/I dreamt of them,” Dee Dee sings, looking back to her childhood ideals of romance. Informed by 1950s doo-wop and ’60s pop, it’s one of the sweetest songs about monogamy in years.

The failures of love are addressed in “I Will Be,” a rattled tale about a desperate, unbalanced affair that takes the listener back to the rough stuff. I Will Be concludes with “Baby Don’t Go,” a ready-to-make-you-cry Sonny and Cher cover. Whether slow or fast, sad or happy, sunny or rough, Dum Dum Girls captures the charms of the past, forming them into an anthem for the present. When asked what love means to her, Dee Dee simply and succulently replies, “Everything.”


With Crocodiles, White Cloud, DJ Mario Orduno

Wed/30, 9 p.m., $12

Bottom of the Hill

1233 17th St., SF

www.bottomofthehill.com

Now voyager

0

arts@sfbg.com

MUSIC What might Jefre Cantu-Ledesma’s status be? Casual but committed, relaxed yet extremely productive sounds about right for the Alps music-maker, Root Strata label head, On Land festival organizer, and now the third leg of the recently formed Moholy-Nagy.

Not another reunion band-cum-supergroup — Cantu-Ledesma, Danny Paul Grody (the Drift), and Trevor Montgomery (Lazarus) were founding members of Tarentel — the new SF project shares a moniker with the Bauhaus movement mover-and-shaker, although the trio is much more unassuming than all that.

“I think Danny and Trevor had been playing for a couple months, and they called and asked if they could borrow one of my synthesizers,” recalls Cantu-Ledesma on the phone, taking a break from his day job in operations at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. “I said, ‘No, but I’ll come down and play it’ — an asshole move on my part, but that’s typical of me.” You can practically hear his tongue being firmly thrust in cheek.

Very casually, but consistently, in the spirit of a “nerding-out recording project” with the members switching instruments and utilizing a “junky analog” ’70s drum machine Montgomery found on eBay, the threesome hunkered down in its longtime Hunters Point practice space, making what Cantu-Ledesma describes as the “most synthesized thing any of us has ever done before. It’s largely improvised around bass lines or drum parts, so things weigh it down and other things can have freedom around it.”

“It’s more like hanging out with friends having some lunch and getting some coffee and making music,” he adds. “It’s not like, ‘Dude! We’re in a band!'<0x2009>”

Easy-going but quick to step back and see the folly or humor in whatever’s before him, often issuing a loud, bright laugh, Cantu-Ledesma seems less than impressed with self-important “band dudes,” even after years spent in an influential combo like Tarentel.

“Oh, gosh, are you picking up on that?” he replies, dryly ironic, when asked about it. “Well, even with the Alps, when you look at it on the surface, it looks like we’re writing songs, but we’re not writing songs. We just want to create stuff and not so much worry about the fidelity of recreating things.”

But what things Cantu-Ledesma makes, judging from the haunting watercolor tone poems of Moholy-Nagy — music that could easily slip into a cinematic mood piece like Zabriskie Point (1970) or Paris, Texas (1984) — and the alternately motorik-beatific and insinuatingly delicate experiments of the Alps’ new Le Voyage (Type). For Cantu-Ledesma’s forthcoming solo album, due this fall, he’ll dig into his more shoegaze-ish background, but for Moholy-Nagy, he gets to “exercise another side. I’m a total knob-tweaker kind of guy, but we get to move around a lot more than we get to on other projects. Things are tending to sound more quirky or funky than other things we’ve done.”

In a way this project is an extension of the San Francisco Art Institute painting and sculpture graduate’s interior, rather than audibly exterior, work. “I’m going to say this, and I’m not trying to be new age,” he confesses. “But honestly, I used to be really intense about stuff happening a certain way. But I worked on my own development and became more secure with my own personality. and that really helped in terms of — without sounding too Californian — just letting it flow.”

That goes for his collaborations with filmmaker and kindred SFMOMA staffer Paul Clipson: a DVD of their Super-8 films and sound pieces since 2007 comes out this summer and coincides with an August performance at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. “We love what we do, but there’s no plan behind any of it,” Cantu-Ledesma ponders. “I know this probably sounds facetious, but I’m not really motivated to make things happen — though obviously with things like On Land, you’re booking and buying plane tickets and stuff.”

On Land is firmly grounded in Cantu-Ledesma’s Root Strata imprint, which materialized in 2004, inspired by SF collectives like Jeweled Antler and then-Bay Area-based performers like Yellow Swans, Axolotl, and Skaters. It’s a way to present artists that Cantu-Ledesma and co-organizer and label cohort Maxwell Croy like and have worked with in the last year, in a “nice venue,” otherwise known as Cafe Du Nord. In early September, label musicians and friends like Charalambides, Grouper, Oneohtrix Point Never, Zelienople, Dan Higgs, White Rainbow, Barn Owl, and Bill Orcutt will appear, with video collaborations by Clipson and Nate Boyce, at the second annual gathering.

“Does the Bay Area need another music festival? Probably not,” Cantu-Ledesma quips wryly. “But you’re not going to see Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy or Vampire Weekend. We’re trying to show a different strata of stuff from California or Oregon, kind of a West Coast underground, or people who just fit into our tastes, which are idiosyncratic and weird.”

MOHOLY-NAGY

With Brother Raven and Golden Retriever

Wed/16, 9 p.m., $7

Hemlock Tavern

1131 Polk, SF

(415) 923-0923

www.hemlocktavern.com

rootstrata.com

www.onlandfestival.com

The devil vs. Miss Jones

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By Lilan Kane

arts@sfbg.com

MUSIC A contemporary throwback, Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings sound like they stepped right out of Curtis Mayfield’s 1972 soundtrack for Super Fly (Rhino/WEA). Authentic soul music is hard to come by these days, but recording on 8-track reel-to-reel with some of the funkiest live musicians and one of the baddest soul singers on the planet, the group has successfully recreated and updated a late 1960s to early ’70s soul sound. In the process, it has captured a devoted fan base, selling out shows worldwide and gigging everywhere from the North Sea Jazz Festival to The Colbert Report. This journey has been no easy task, as made clear by the title of a new album: I Learned The Hard Way (Daptone).

The super soul sister with the magnetic je ne sais quoi has had some strong trailblazers to look to along the way. Asked over the phone who she would most like to perform with, Jones answers without hesitation: “I always wanted to sing with Mr. Brown.” Indeed, her favorite memory is meeting the Godfather of Soul in April of 2006. She’s also covered his track “I Got The Feelin’.” James Brown “changed my life,” Jones says. A longtime lover of soul music, she had difficulty finding her place in the industry. Breaking the mold of Disney tween sensations and autotuned pop stars, she faced rejection and prejudice. Music industry image and its underlying injustices allowed record execs and DJs to tell her she was too black. Her response? “Damn right. I’m black and I’m proud.”

Brown hasn’t just been a key influence for Jones — he also helped inspire the music and the sound of the Dap-Kings. In 1996, the group’s bandleader and bassist Gabriel Roth (a.k.a. Bosco Mann) invited Jones to sing backing vocals on a Lee Fields session, an experience that prompted a friendship and musical relationship between the two. An avid Brown fan, Bosco has collected every obscure JB record he could get his hands on since college. Over the years he’s brought together some of the best musicians in the New York area to form the Dap- Kings. The band is highly sought after for session work, especially after its contributions to Amy Winehouse’s Back To Black (Republic, 2007).

Jones fans know and love her brilliant remake of Janet Jackson’s 1986 hit “What Have You Done For Me Lately?” Interviewing Jones, I had to ask who had the genius idea of covering the song. Turns out it was a family affair — Bosco’s sister brought the song to the table, and Bosco made a killer arrangement, resulting in one highlight of the 2002 debut, Dap Dippin’ with Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings (Daptone). People can’t be blamed for thinking that Jackson had covered a Jones song, and this time-tripping is characteristic of Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings’ sound. The group’s first 45s were undated, and even soul music collectors often were fooled into thinking they had somehow missed them while on crate-digging missions to discover the most underground soul recordings.

I Learned the Hard Way is, of course, soulful. But beyond that, it’s socially and politically aware. Jones’ favorite track, “She Ain’t A Child No More,” is about an abusive mother and the painful yet newfound triumph experienced by her grown child. The subject matter is heavy indeed, but the song is written and performed in a way that exudes strength and courage. Another song, “Money,” is a clever twist on unrequited love. Recorded five years ago, it has finally made it onto a record — with perfect timing. “Money, where have you gone?” Jones wails. “Money, why don’t you like me?” Many people will find themselves singing along, mad that the money has up and left. With 10 other wrenching songs, the whole record packs some serious heat.

SHARON JONES & THE DAP-KINGS

With the Heavy and DJ Harry Duncan

Fri/25, 9 p.m., $22.25

The Warfield

982 Market, SF

(415) 775-7722

www.thewarfieldtheatre.com

Freedom for

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arts@sfbg.com

MUSIC It can be tough to see the woods for the trees, to eyeball the big picture ideas amid the seductive specifics of a lush, ancient green aroma of a redwood forest after a rain, or the honeyed, sun-washed lethargy that comes with a warm summer day. But pin down one crucial branch of Brooklyn band Woods with an archetypal Barbara Walters query — “If Woods could be any tree, what tree would it be?” — and you just might get, “Omigod, I’m drawing a blank.”

Jarvis Taveniere, once of Wooden Wand and the Vanishing Voice and now heading up Woods along with founder Jeremy Earl, pauses and ponders the arboreal possibilities on a beautiful day in upstate New York. He has a gin and tonic in one hand and a Pink Floyd rock bio in the other. He could be swimming, learning to dive, and hurting his shoulder instead on this mellow day, just before Woods uproots and sets out on tour.

“I was going to say redwood. I thought that sounded cheesy, but I’m going to say it anyway,” he decides. “There’s history there — it’s extremely old and huge. And I’d like to hear what they have to say: ‘Tree, tell me about Henry Miller — what was he like?'”

Taveniere will have his chance to speak to the trees when Woods gets to SF and Big Sur. The latter’s Henry Miller Memorial Library is the site of the Woodsist Festival, nominally a showcase for Earl’s label, Woodsist, but really, as Taveniere puts it, “just any excuse to get up there” and play with friends like SF’s the Fresh and Onlys. “You don’t have to sit in the sun and buy $5 bottles of water,” he quips.

Woods take to California’s leafy retreats like seedlings to the herbaceous floor of old-growth forest, making a ritual of roaming beneath the bowers of Muir Woods. “We have to go to Muir Woods every tour,” says Taveniere, who grew up in upstate New York along with Earl and spent his youth “hiding out” in the woods building forts and fashioning his own little world. “It’s just the tranquil feeling you get over there, especially living in New York and being on tour and some of us living in city. We always leave in a such nice peaceful state, resetting the mind a little.”

That kick-back feeling, mixed with the unexpected sensation of having your mind suddenly kick-started, suffuses Woods music, from the unpredictable musical twists and unlikely power of the band’s live performances to the most recent Woods album, At Echo Lake (Woodsist), a sunnily insinuating document of summer 2009, named for the humble New Jersey vacation spot near Earl’s hometown. It shimmers with surf ‘n’ turf rumble (“From the Horn”), Badfinger-esque melancholy (“Mornin’ Time”), and nether-worldly noise and triangle plinks (“Pick Up”) — sometimes in the very same song. Who would think lines like “Numbers make no difference unless you shine like you should/And the night hangs it back in place” could touch the heart strings like they do? Woods’ deep sweetness and natural mystery runs throughout like a fresh, cool stream.

At Echo Lake is the fruit of songwriting stints in Brooklyn — and the lure of barbecue, which enticed friends like the Magik Markers’ Pete Nolan to contribute drums to “Get Back” and Matt Valentine to “lay down some sweet santar” (a modified banjo-sitar) on “Time Fading.” “You trick them to come up for barbecue,” Taveniere jests. “Everyone’s loose, having a good time — it’s the perfect opportunity to create.”

WOODS

With Kurt Vile and the Art Museums

Fri/11, 8 p.m., $16

Slim’s

333 11th St., SF

(415) 522-0333

www.slims-sf.com

WOODSIST FEST BIG SUR

With Real Estate, Kurt Vile, Moon Duo, the Fresh and Onlys

Sat/12, 3-11 p.m., $22.50 (sold out/waiting list)

Highway 1, Big Sur

www.myspace.com/folkyeahpresents

www.henrymiller.org

Shock it to ya

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El boogie, my love of loves

7 & 11 belong together

Please set free your G

Love & Bravery on forever — Shock-G

After our recent interview, Shock-G — frontman and producer of now-disbanded rap legends Digital Underground, discoverer of 2Pac, and alter ego of the Groucho-nosed Humpty Hump — e-mails the poem printed above. “I need you to put this in,” he writes. “It’s my thank you to fans for letting me move on after DU.” Plus, he adds mysteriously, “it has many meanings.”

It’s a characteristically offbeat request. Eight years on from meeting Shock, it’s still hard to anticipate his moves. The occasion of our phone conversation is a new disc of Digital Underground rarities, The Greenlight EP (Jake Records). The 2008 Jake Records release Cuz a DU Party Don’t Stopa similarly miscellaneous collection misleadingly marketed as “the final DU studio album” — lacked the coherence of classics like Sex Packets (Tommy Boy, 1989) and was panned by critics, so Shock wants to make the status of Greenlight clear.

“I don’t want to give the public the idea like, ‘Yo, we just made a slammin’ new album,'” he says. “DU’s not my purpose right now. It’s more like, ‘I’m cleaning out the closet, look what we discovered.'”

A 7-song EP, Greenlight benefits from its tighter focus. DU completists may recognize obscure gems like “Used 2B a Sperm” — a sci-fi story of Shock as a sperm cell journeying to the egg. Other tracks like “Purplebrainhurrycainhabit,” produced by a then-unknown David Banner, emerge for the first time. 2Pac appears on a bonus 1991 live version of “Same Song.”

But Shock would rather dwell in the present, which is among the reasons he finally disbanded the group. Much of his conversation concerns his whole-food diet, a difficult pursuit when spending 200 nights a year on tour.

“It requires more thought than most people care to put into it,” he says. “What you eat is so important to your future health and clarity of mind. I’m actually in better shape than I was in my 20s and 30s.”

This lifestyle change dovetails with his other reason for ending DU: the increasingly heavy drug use. Motivated by his health consciousness, Shock’s new sobriety is also an artistic decision. In the 1990s, DU performances were theatrical shows, Shock running the group like a band, in a way that gradually lapsed in the new millennium

Yet live performances led to his latest venture, the Shock-G3 Trio. A collaboration with DU’s original DJ, Fuze, on turntables, and early member PeeWee on guitar, the Trio unites what Shock calls DU’s “core musicians,” responsible for most of 2Pac’s first LP, 2Pacalypse Now (Priority, 1991). The format allows Shock to stretch out on keys, as the group jams on the DU/2Pac repertoire, as well as funk, jazz, and whatever else Shock gets in his head.

“The thing about working sober is the small eye signals on stage and PeeWee and Fuze catch them,” Shock enthuses. “Like the audience wants us to go a few bars longer. Or if they’re not feeling it, backing out of those songs. It keeps the shows tight.”

Composite material

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MUSIC This Thursday, Yoshi’s SF hosts an experiment fusing of the border-crossing sound of songstress Rupa (best known for leading SF’s rousing global agitpop band The April Fishes) with the grand indie rock orchestrations of bassist Todd Sickafoose (who has lived in Brooklyn for the past several years while leading his band Tiny Resistors and working with Ani Difranco). What initially seemed to be a cross-country collaboration is actually taking place closer to home now that the prodigal Sickafoose has returned to the Bay Area to live part-time. Mark Orton of Tin Hat Trio lends his arrangements to this sonic amalgam.

SFBG How did you two meet?

RUPA MARYA I met Todd through Ara [Anderson] and I think I’ve heard Todd’s band play more than any other band in the last year. I love his compositions. Then I heard that he was possibly moving back to the Bay Area. So when Yoshi’s wanted to book me, I wanted to do something different. This is a chance to show the more intimate side of my music, which I don’t get to do when I’m playing with a big, raucous band. To share that with Todd is really exciting.

SFBG: Todd, you lived here in the Bay Area, then moved to New York about five years ago. Why?

TODD SICKAFOOSE: All my musical friends had migrated there. In some sense it was an obvious move. But that’s also when I started playing with Ani, and she was in Buffalo. So everything became very New York-centric.

SFBG: But you recently moved back?

TS: I’m still playing music with everyone in New York, so I’m excited to be truly bicoastal. My family still lives here. This is home. But I’m part of the scene in Brooklyn, and it’s an exciting time there. So that’s home too. Coming back here it’s great to check in, see what’s going on, and to find people to play my music with. There’s a collective of people playing my music at this point. I never meant for it to be that way, but it seems right because it requires a large band.

SFBG: How many people are playing at Yoshi’s?

RM: There will be a string quartet with Todd on bass, so a string quintet, percussion, saxophone, marimba …

TS: Then clarinet, trombone, duduk …

RM: The duduk is an Armenian flute. It makes such a beautiful sound.

SFBG: What’s the night going to be like?

RM: Instead of just playing a set of my music and then a set of Todd’s, we’re trying to figure out a way to weave the different elements together. I have no idea how it’s going to sound. In The April Fishes I’ve been playing with some of the same people for five years. So to step away and play with a completely fresh group of people is thrilling. It started out of an impetus to welcome Todd back to San Francisco. And Yoshi’s is a quiet listening room where you can have a different kind of musical exploration. I hope to always play with lots of amazing, inspiring people, like Todd.

TS: I like the idea of this collaboration because Rupa’s music sounds very inclusive to me. I think that’s her mode of operation. In New York there’s such an overload of everything — musicians, ideas, and projects — that a lot of people figure out what they are by shutting out other possibilities. What’s left becomes what they are. San Francisco has a tradition that’s the other way around. I like the idea of being a magnet for many different things. To the point where you don’t know what it’ll be in the end, but it’s a recipe for a good night of music.

RM: Basically it’s just to have fun.

TS: And sushi.

RM: Really good sushi.

RUPA WITH TODD SICKAFOOSE

Thurs/3, 8 and 10 p.m., $10-$15

Yoshi’s SF

1330 Fillmore, SF

(415) 665-5600, www.yoshis.com

Spirit of LCD

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By Peter Galvin

arts@sfbg.com

MUSIC It’s getting more and more difficult to talk about new music without comparing it with the work of some other band, or to whichever Stones song the guitar reminds you of. It’s useful to be able to pick a reference point and say “It sounds like that,” but you’re walking a slippery slope when you imply that all music is directly derivative. James Murphy is probably incredibly aware of this tendency to make comparisons. As LCD Soundsystem, Murphy crafts intricate, dense dance music, but a quick peek into his record bin likely indicates where his true passion lies. It is a bin well-stocked with records from Bowie, Eno, Talking Heads, and other 1970s rock icons. It is not so strange that Murphy, 40 years young, would be a fan of ’70s rock. But he does seem an unlikely figure to emerge as a 21st-century musician who not-so-subtly melds the music of his formative years into contemporary dance hits.

Murphy’s transformation into indie icon happened almost overnight. First single “Losing My Edge” on Murphy’s own DFA records was one of the most buzzed-about songs of 2002. But in the years leading up to its self-titled album in 2005, LCD Soundsystem soon found itself caught between two futures: solid, if silly, dance music and intricate explorations of genre. In those days, Murphy tended to ad lib goofy lyrics over his tracks well after the musical parts were recorded, inadvertently threatening to sabotage dancefloor-fillers like “Yeah” and “Daft Punk is Playing at My House” with self-conscious sarcasms. It wasn’t until LCD’s second album, Sound of Silver, that Murphy proved how seriously he takes his craft, displaying a happy medium between his urges for humor and reference, and allowing his songs to create their own happy personalities.

This is Happening is LCD Soundsystem’s third album and it’s all happy personality, marking it as the best representation of Murphy’s signature mix of dance and ’70s rock. The album cover showcases Murphy in a suit and tie that recalls Robert Longo’s “Men in the Cities” work, or perhaps riffs on the poster for Jonathan Demme’s 1984 Talking Heads performance film Stop Making Sense. Though the cover is an urgent reference to those other works, it announces Happening as the album where Murphy fully directs his self-awareness toward creating music that recalls and riffs on, but never replicates. For every track on Happening, there is a clear ’70s counterpart (the official tally heavily favors the production of Brian Eno and the vocal affectations of David Byrne), but they all surge with freshness and originality.

Opening track “Dance Yrself Clean” exhibits mumble-mouthed vocals and a drum/bass combo that wouldn’t be out of place with the low-key meditations from Murphy’s recent Greenberg soundtrack, at least until the three-minute mark, when the song explodes with sound. If it were possible to live within a song, I’d live here, in the reverberation of drums and synths that keep the song rolling another five minutes. “All I Want” is a direct homage to Bowie’s Berlin era; Eno guitar fuzz swirls around the refrain “All I want/Is your pity” before laser show synths create the impression that the vinyl is literally melting as it spins. “One Touch” and “Pow Pow” have Murphy doing his best Talking Heads and “You Wanted a Hit” is the album’s one concession to Murphy’s meta-humor, as he snottily expounds on the band’s unwillingness to conform to expectations, but the result is a song so layered and catchy that it hardly takes away from the album’s consistent pacing.

Pacing is a big factor in This is Happening‘s success, and many of Happening‘s nine songs would not fare as well apart from the album experience. On its release in March, “Drunk Girls” struck me as a particularly hackneyed stand-alone single, one that threatened to turn off as many listeners as “North American Scum” did from 2007’s Sound of Silver. So it comes as a surprise to hear how fitting the song is within the context of the album itself. The chanty back and forth of “drunk girls” and “drunk boys,” interrupted by the silver-tongued chorus “I believe in waking up together/So that means making eyes across the room,” is likely to score the trailer for whatever terrible dating show MTV comes up with this summer. But the song doesn’t deserve that grim fate. It’s part of a tangible tone and feel that makes Happening that rare dance record that’s best enjoyed as an album rather than as a collection of singles.

It may be all the rage to reference ’70s and ’80s music these days, but Murphy isn’t that ironic hipster mashing up dance beats with dad-rock, or that London band mimicking the Clash. Playing “spot the influences” in This is Happening is easy, but I don’t believe Murphy intentionally sets out to replicate the records he grew up with — they’re an integral a part of who he is. In a 2005 Pitchfork interview, Murphy admitted, “I’m not wandering under a banner of originality or a myth of no influences. There’s no purity in what I’m doing.” But Happening emerges as an undeniably pure-sounding album anyway. Drawing from the familiar sounds of an era, Murphy has gone beyond recapturing a spark that was already there. He’s created a whole new reference point.

LCD SOUNDSYSTEM

Thurs/3, 9 p.m., $35

Fillmore

1805 Geary, SF

www.livenation.com

Orgone and back again

1

“IT’S A BACK-BRAIN STIMULATOR! IT’S A CEREBRAL VIBRATOR! TURN YOUR EYEBALLS INTO CRATERS!”

Thus intones Dave Brock on “Orgone Accumulator,” an ass-kicking Rube Goldberg-device of a space rock staple, and to this day the final word on the science of orgone accumulation. But Brock just as well might have been describing his immortal Hawkwind, and its 30-plus-year legacy of melting brains.

My first exposure to the group came through the titanic double live album Space Ritual (United Artists, 1973), a sprawling collection of tracks that draws you into its gravitational pull through a convergence of the inexplicable and the strangely familiar–adventurous. Its sci-fi explosions underpinned by the rhythms of classic rock ‘n’ roll, the album negotiates the ungainly symphonic mass of sound into something resembling popular music — what I imagine the Voyager Golden Record version of “Johnny B. Goode” sounds like through vintage 1972 space helmet speakers.

The Hawkestra’s wall-of-sound aural assault-and-battery was crucial to the early evolution of rock’s more adventurous strain. Yet the group, like their own Silver Machine, has a way of flying sideways in time. If there is such a thing as a trajectory to heavy metal, then it’s almost certainly cyclical, with Brock’s cosmic rock cadre materializing in disparate spots along the circumference. Here in 2010 AD, Neurot Recordings, the consistently adventurous record label of Neurosis guitarist/vocalist Steve Von Till, is set to release Hawkwind Triad, a collaborative homage featuring 11 classic Hawkwind anthems as covered by U.S. Christmas, Minsk, and Von Till via his ongoing solo project Harvestman (including fellow Neurosis member Jason Roeder on drums this time around.) There’s a common musical current running through these three supremely cosmic bands, a signal that traces one of its numerous potential origin points to circa-1970s Ladbroke Grove, England.

 

II: COOL, PSYCHEDELIC, FUCKED-UP

“Cool, psychedelic, fucked-up heavy music,” is how Steve Von Till describes the bands on Hawkwind Triad.

“The obvious lineage of my journey to Hawkwind,” Von Till says over the phone from his post-Bay Area home in Cour d’Alene, Idaho, “was growing up and being totally into Motörhead.” This lineage is doubtlessly followed by many devout Hawkwind followers, who might first encounter the band as a footnote to the career of bassist/sometimes vocalist Lemmy Kilmister. (Back in high school, an offhand reference buried within the liner notes to Motörhead’s No Remorse compilation album is where Hawkwind first hovered into my line of vision.)

“Growing up, there weren’t a lot of fans in my circle, but we tended to find each other,” Van Till says. This dynamic unfolded once again as the mad-scientist guitarist found himself drawn to the nascent triad through the irresistible pull of a common love of one of rock’s freakiest acts. “Funnily enough,” Von Till says when asked how Hawkwind Triad came about, “U.S. Christmas and Minsk had contacted me and said they were thinking about doing this project, and asked if I would be willing to put it out on Neurot Recordings. Being thoroughly convinced that I was the bigger Hawkwind fan, I said, ‘Yeah, but on the condition that you let me record on it.'”

The result of this collaboration is the rare cover album with replay value past the initial novelty factor — those haunted by memories of the “ironic” punk cover album should have no cause for alarm, partly because the subject matter flat-out crushes, but also because of the inherent consonance between the three bands, as evidenced by the album-like flow between tracks (the structure doesn’t segregate bands — we seldom hear an act twice in a row). Before dispensing with the space-tropes, it needs to be said that all three groups share some kind of sonic kinship that reveals itself most starkly as they orbit around Hawkwind’s catalog.

 

III: IN WHICH HARVESTMAN TAKES US DOWN THROUGH THE NIGHT

How’s this for an overture: I saw Harvestman in San Jose back in March, wherein Von Till introduced his set by telling us that the stage/venue was now, effectively, his spaceship. Von Till’s bluesy croak serves him well in Neurosis, adding a human voice to the otherwise alienating canyons of dissonance and cool droney shit. While covering Hawkwind as Harvestman, it becomes perhaps the high point of his tracks. As in his other works, this is the sound of someone, ahem, lost in space — on “Down Through the Night,” Von Till’s voice clings to the crackly rhythm guitar like a life preserver, while cold, electric snatches of melody emerge around him before descending back into the fuzz. This may be the song Von Till was born to play — likewise, this is my favorite track on the album.

 

IV: IF MINSK WAS AROUND IN THE ’70S, WOULD IT USE A BUBBLE MACHINE?

Minsk makes everything scary. When the doomy Peorians opened for Wolves in the Throne Room last summer, with God as my witness, Slim’s started spinning during their set (full disclosure: beer on empty stomach, etc.) In interpreting Hawkwind, somewhat terrifying in its own right, the familiar rambling bass walks, cavernous guitar, and psychedelic poetry of the lyrics — interlaced with oscillating electronic beeps and warbles, flute attacks, sax honks, and ghostly keyboard lines — no longer coalesce into a groovy Milky Way of sound. Like a grotesque funhouse mirror, the band stretches the familiar Hawkwind vibe to cyclopean proportions, reminding us that there’s something implicitly terrifying about being that distanced from terra firma. “Assault and Battery/The Golden Void” at once sounds the most like a Minsk and a Hawkwind song: either beautiful or nightmarish, depending on your vantage point. “Down a corridor of flame,” indeed.

 

V: CHRISTMAS COMES TO THE HALL OF THE MOUNTAIN GRILL

U.S. Christmas covering Hawkwind feels almost inevitable. Of the three groups lending their respective voices to the space rock primogenitors, USX appears the most immediately indebted, bearing Hawkwind’s singular vision through the 21st century and nurturing essential mutations to the sound.

This is not a knock on the band’s originality. Rather, being situated amid such sonically rich territory seems to have motivated the band to stretch its psychedelic iteration to the weirdest frontiers possible. Eat the Low Dogs (Neurot Recordings, 2008) showcases a group of musicians operating through its own inscrutable logic. Rorschach riffs that could conceivably echo Neil Young and Crazy Horse, Black Sabbath, and/or Philip Glass abound throughout the record, underscored by Nate Hall’s raw vocals, which somehow reflect Hawkwindian drones and trills. On “Silent Tongue,” Hall repeats “50 bottles of gasoline” with a cumulative intensity until it comes to act, intentionally or not, as a mantra for regenerative musical destruction. U.S. Christmas’ sound is fixated on smashing its influences down to the atomic level and reconfiguring the orgones into constellations of its own singular design. Like their cohorts on Hawkwind Triad, the North Carolina quintet discerns the loopy, time-bending trajectory of its English forebears’ Silver Machine, and hops aboard.

Magnetic folk

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The video for “Home” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros plays like a Super 8 summer memory you wish you had. The happy, whistling back-and-forth duet between front man Alex Ebert and real-life girlfriend Jade Castrinos is illustrated with scenes from a 21st-century Merry Prankster stopover in Marfa, Texas. Everyone’s playing guitars, running through fields, and prancing about holding hands in a way that suggests the 11-piece folk band’s bond goes beyond the ecstatic sing-alongs that have been the toast of festival crowds from here to Coachella.

The group’s creator, Ebert (who spent another life as singer for the sharply mod punk band Ima Robot) is undoubtedly the ring leader of all this. He presents himself in a vaguely messianic manner, with unkempt brown hair piled atop his head and enigmatic zeros painted on his torso. “But it’s done with a smile,” Ebert says during a recent phone conversation about Edward Sharpe, Ebert’s musical transformation, and art-based community making. The group’s namesake, he explains, began as his autobiographic ideal.

“Edward Sharpe was an idea of a better version of myself, the me that I wanted to be when I was five years old — which I think is what all of us want to be,” Ebert reflects, unhurried despite his publicist’s insistence that we talk no more than 15 minutes. “It’s not really such a big deal, I don’t think. I guess in some ways, when I started the band I didn’t feel particularly attached or close to myself. Alex Ebert — I didn’t know what the hell that meant anymore.”

So he got on a new deal. Met his new love, Castrinos (“The power her spirit exudes, the truth that pours from her eyes, the reminder of sort of something bigger whenever she’s around — sometimes you meet people that are inexplicably important,” he says about their relationship), started jamming with friends from around town, bought a white school bus, and took off on tour.

Ebert says his transition to folk music was a bid to create togetherness in the Los Angeles of his childhood, where sprawl seems to have precluded connectivity. “What the city did for me was really make me pray for community,” he says. “It made other people pray, and I think some of that yearning has made its way to the album as a heralding for some kind of community.”

It’s enough to make you throw on your peasant skirt and thumb for a ride on the bus. But what exactly would one be signing up for? What’s up with, say, the red zeros? Ebert laughs. “I still have to figure out what the hell [they mean],” he says. “I was getting really, really into mathematics and physics [back when in 2009, when he formed the band]. I was getting into trigonometry and not knowing what the fuck I was talking about. One night I came up with the Magnetic Zeros. It just sort of felt like something.”

So maybe the point is not to get bogged down in the specifics of the Edward Sharpe mythology. Which is fine, because the music is entertaining enough on its own. The ease of the collective background singing recalls the organic way it was created. Onstage, Castrinos and Ebert romp about, clearly quite pleased with the joy their adventure has brought to their fans over the last year — but perhaps less so about the sold-out shows and critical accolades.

“The music industry is … it’s just important not to take it too seriously,” Ebert says, reflecting on how he maintains joy in the face of hectic touring and promotions for the album. “That can be really crazy-making. It can be a bizarre, humorless game, so I think it’s good to bring some levity and levitation to this whole situation.”

EDWARD SHARPE AND THE MAGNETIC ZEROS

With Dawes

Thurs/27, 9 p.m., $25

The Fillmore

1805 Geary, SF

(415) 346-6000

www.livenation.com

San Francisco gaze

0

arts@sfbg.com

MUSIC On certain mornings in San Francisco, I step outside and feel as if I’m enveloped by clouds. Dew drops slide off of wiry branches, sparkling as they hit the cement sidewalk. Is it pretty or is it dark? It’s pretty and dark. Before I lived here, it wasn’t clear to me that this was even possible. As the day unravels, it reveals both sunny and stormy moments.

Much like a San Francisco day, the no-fi psych-rock of Young Prisms casts sunbeams and rain showers. Sitting with the group on the rooftop of Ruminator Audio, a studio space in the Mission, I ask about the moods it aims to create and receive. I hear the words "dream-state," "California," "tripped-out," "engaging," "engrossing," and, finally, guitarist-vocalist Matthew Allen’s breakdown: "It’s made so you can hear it two different ways. So each time you listen to it, whether at a show or on your headphones, you’ll discover totally different things."

Four-fifths of the group spent their childhoods in all-boy or all-girl schools on the Peninsula, where a strange amalgam of suburbia and house parties drove them to wage war against ennui by making music. Randomly — once — they performed as individual musicians at an improv show at Mills College before they found each other as a band. Bassist-vocalist Giovanni Betteo played a miked typewriter; Allen and guitarist-vocalist Jason Hendardy played guitar.

Eventually, in a desperate attempt to escape the suburban boredom that bubbled outward as they got older, the barely 20-year-olds moved into a house in San Francisco. Here they met Jordan Silbert, a Detroit native, who completed the prism as drummer. As Silbert jokes, "It’s been the worst two years of my life."

In the YP’s Mission house, the friends became a band. The energy of "a crammed, shitty apartment," as Betteo deems it, led to productivity and tomfoolery. "But at least we were able to practice there," Betteo notes. To which vocalist Stefanie Hodapp adds, "And play music how we wanted to."

"We had just started writing songs again for the first time in years, and also had just met Jordan. So things were really weird," Betteo elaborates. "We were trying to understand each other’s personal styles for a while and what we’re into. We would try different techniques, like jamming together or individually bringing in parts of songs."

"One day it all freely came out," he says. And the band’s self-titled EP for Mexican Summer was born. Its combination of shredded chords, dreary drumbeats, and nostalgic crooning is luminous and murky.

SXSW and an accompanying tour forced YP to abandon their San Francisco rental, and on returning, they’ve found themselves scattered across the city — in the closet spaces of their friends in the group Weekend and on borrowed couches. "We are certain there will be a new YP home," the band declares. "Sometime soon, we hope." The house had negative and positive aspects, they explain. Someone on their block was shot in the dick. There was blood on their porch for weeks.

Young Prisms’ upcoming show with Weekend celebrates a new split-single on Transparent. It is the first in a succession of releases from the prolific band: a split 7-inch with Mathemagic on Atelier Ciseaux, a live 12-inch on Under Water Peoples, and a full-length that might be released at the end of the summer.

According to Batteo, the track on the Weekend split, titled "I Don’t Get Much," is a precursor to the sound of the upcoming full-length. The album is being mixed by Monte Vallier beneath the roof where we sit. "It’s the last song we wrote in the apartment," Betteo says. "From there, the songs have become more cohesive. There is more focus and more of a mission."

"I Don’t Get Much" slowly flows in with shoegaze reverb, rises up, and then drags the listener down. The water levels eventually re-rise and plateau. There are echoes, heartbeats, and an apocalyptic romance, as male and female vocals repetitively discuss the end.

When I ask the band to explain the existentialist undercurrent that ripples throughout the song, Allen rhetorically asks: "If you don’t do anything, what does it really matter?" And vocalist-partner Hodapp notes, "It’s about how dying does not matter once you get in the ground."

Can a dark day be textured with the pretty? Or is the sunny sky filled with clouds? Young Prisms have the answers. *

YOUNG PRISMS

With Weekend, Grave Babies, and Swanifant

Sun/30, 9:30 p.m., 8 p.m., $8

Hemlock Tavern

1131 Polk St., S.F.

(415) 923-0923

www.youngprisms.com