Noise

Party Radar: Happy birthday, sexy Lexy

0

Gosh and begorrah, I know you’re hungovah — from all that St. Paddy’s Day grog or whatever. Don’t worry, you’ll feel better by Saturday, just in time to celebrate the Lexington Club‘s 14th anniversary, huzzah! Unfamiliar with this rowdy party dyke landmark? Hot chicks, get hip real quick at this blowout, featuring DJs Jenna Riot and Miss Pop, sexy-sexy dancers, no cover, and of course stiff drinks.

After the jump, a Super Ego clubs column from 2007 devoted to the Lex’s 10th anniversary (which was the perfect antidote to the L Word phenomenon of the time), giving you a wee bit o’ lesbian history.

LEXINGTON CLUB 14TH ANNIVERSARY Sat/19, 9 p.m., free. Lexington Club, 3464 19th St., SF. www.lexingtonclub.com

(originally published 4/10/07):

HOT LEX

10 years of hot dykes and cold beer at the Lexington Club

SUPER EGO Lesbians: is there nothing they can’t do? They can run a contemporary art gallery in thigh-baring Versace, tossing back their Paul Labrecqued locks as they leap from their roofless 330Ci. They can go from homeless crack addict to nude Hugo Boss model without gaining a single ounce. They can be a smokin’-hot Latina named Papi, a sassy, brassy canoodler who just happens — surprise! — to be a whiz at hoops. Astonishing lesbians!

Oh, wait. That’s The L Word — about as far from the real world of gloriously rambunctious, wild San Francisco dykes as you can get without scarfing down a gift sack of MAC Pervette lip frost, doing Pilates to Ashlee Simpson (“I am me!”), and microwaving Cheeto, your stump-tailed calico cat. Yes, yes, I know the writhing isle of televised lesbos that L makes LA out to be is one big, fat, easy, anorexic target. Don’t get your Mary Green panties in a bunch, Caitlyn. Just lie back, relax, and think of Joan Jett and Carmen Electra. It’s OK. But just as Chuck D. once bemoaned the fact that most of his heroes don’t appear on no stamps, so my homo heroes don’t appear on no Showtime.

Case in point: Lila Thirkield, the superhumanly vivacious owner of SF sapphic outpost the Lexington Club. When I first moved here in the early ’90s, I almost turned straight or something. The San Francisco my naive dreams envisioned was full of hot, scruffy, tattooed boys into hip-hop and punk, all of them on goofy, gleaming bicycles, occasionally in drag. What I got were mostly overgymed proto–circuit queens in pink spandex thongs and cracked-out twinks you could practically see through. Great if I needed to floss, but … And while all the cute ex–ACT UPers were somewhere adrift — busy shearing sleeves off flannels, maybe — it was the rough-and-tumble sistas who really dotted the t’s on my fanboy résumé. Dykes ruled it.

That was back when wallet chains were radical and FTMs were the new It girls. I’m dating myself, but who wouldn’t, hello? Alas, despite all those Sister Sledge–soundtracked strides up the rainbow of equal signs, women could still get kicked out of bars for making out. Wha? It was a gay man, man, man’s world, and the few lesbian watering holes hewed strictly to the old-school standards: alternadykes, calm down.

Thirkield, a spiky-souled kid at the time, stepped up and opened the Lexington in 1997 to give dykes of a different stripe a dive of their own. Like all bars clever enough to fill a cultural gap, the Lex galvanized its community and reinforced the new, boisterous lesbo aesthetic that combined street activism, machismo appropriation, punk rock attitude, and a winking yen for girly pop culture. And hot sex, of course.

“It seemed so important to have a space where we could be creative, where artists, street kids, and young people could hook up and express themselves,” Thirkield says. “It was my first time running a bar, but it was like the whole community was running it with me.”

Over the past decade the Lex has persevered in the same spirit. “The economics of the city have really changed,” Thirkield says. “Our crowd has a really hard time living here now — that’s why we never charge a cover and we always support other things going on. But really, we’re doing better than ever.”

The young drinking dyke crowd has also expanded, finding homes over the years in such spaces as the Phone Booth and Pop’s, as well as legendary joints such as Sadie’s Flying Elephant and the Wild Side West. New bar Stray is catering to a mostly female clientele, and, although lesbian spaces Cherry and the old Transfer have succumbed, a slew of roving dyke dance parties have taken root.

“The dyke scene has changed in the past 10 years too,” Thirkield says. “It’s more diverse. Certain aspects of it are more visible in the media — some people expect different things. We get a lot more complaints from people coming in for the first time, saying things like ‘It’s such a dive!’ Well, yes, that’s exactly what it is. I mean, it’s great that lipstick types exist. I hope they find a place that makes them happy. But if you want to flick your lighter and sing along to old Journey songs with a roomful of babes from around the world — like during Pride last year — this is the place.”

And what about that pesky L Word? “We get a big crowd to watch it on Sunday nights — mostly because they can’t afford cable. Then they stay for an hour afterward, drinking and bitching about it. So it’s great for business!”

Live Review: Warpaint at The Independent, 3/16

0

The anticipation was brewing: even before the the ladies of Warpaint took the stage at the Independent, a guy standing at front and center passed out. His muscle failure could have been a product of over-intoxication, but I’m guessing it was an overdose of hard excitement. I admit, I too got the jimmy-legs during the show but I managed to keep them clenched until the encore came to a wow-worthy close. And then I hit the floor with a smirk. 

The LA band of four was nothing short of stunning. The set was gorgeously long, stacked with songs from their debut, The Fool [Rough Trade, 2010] and an exceptional jam-session during the encore. The guitars were intense, the drums fierce and the bass lines sanded rough edges with impressive force. Warpaint rocks hard and yet continually taunts with such an eerie, feminine mystique. 

It’s the girly details I liked best: Theresa Wayman hugs her guitar while she sings, Emily Kokal’s hips sway while she plucks a rift, the constant and very mischievous smirk on drummer Stella Mozgawa’s lips and Jenny Lee Lindberg’s relentless wild-child energy. They laughed, they kissed and hugged and flirted– and all the while the music was still totally rad and introspective. Harmonies oozed like honey from the nest and the simultaneous head-banging kept emotions on the rail. They drew the crowd in with a taunting index finger and then pushed us flat down when we got too close. It was the perfect mix of sensual and edgy. 

The Warpaint women are obviously best buds and their complimentary energies explode on stage. They’re like an upgraded version of the Babysitters Club— a hippie, feminist, grown-up version of the girl clan that could have been totally badass if they had traded all their boy-drama and horseback riding for band practice. 

I already totally loved the recorded version of Warpaint but their live performance upgraded my feelings to overflowing admiration for their mad skills, sex appeal and sweetness. No doubt this group is going to blow up and it’s totally deserved. 

SxSW Music Diary: Day 2

0

 

Got a late start and biked downtown in the Texas heat, straight to a loft party featuring Brasileira MC Zuzuka Poderosa. She was spitting out her Funk Carioca lyrics on top of beats being mastered by DJ Disco Tits while the small crowd danced up a storm.

After that it was time to jump into the fray of Austin’s Sixth Street, chock full of St. Paddy’s Day revelers. Tried to go to the NPR showcase but it had just finished, then tried to go see Big Freedia, the “Queen Diva” of Bounce. All we got was a taste from the fringes as the line wrapped around the venue. That’s the thing about SxSW, there so many hassles and best laid plans usually go to waste, but there are always transcendental moments to make up for the frustration.

Ran into SF local Meklit Hadero as she and her band were trying to find the venue where they were showcasing that eve. Then it was on to the Paste party to see Boston’s David Wax Museum at the Stage on 6th. Crossed paths with J Mascis on my way out. 

Caught the tail end of Meklit’s show at Marco Werman’s “All Music is World Music” showcase. Then Abigail Washburn’s stellar bluegrass set. 

Rode clear across town in the hopes of catching Devotchka at Lustre Pearl, but the line for headliner Cold War Kids nixed that plan. Came back to the warehouse district for the Atlantic Records showcase planning to check out Lupe Fiasco but B.O.B was playing in his place. Decided to forgo Janelle Monae’s show (she’d been subbed in for Cee-Lo) so I could get off my feet. 

Check out the slideshow to see a glimpse of SFBG Contributing Photog Matt Reamer‘s adventures.

 

American Idol: First bad vote

1

What’s the matter — nobody but Steven Tyler celebrates St. Patrick’s day? Jennifer must have some sort of green outfit she could wear.


But no: Other than Steven’s little green necklace, it’s as if there’s no holiday. And that’s not the only thing that went wrong.


First the good news: the Born to Be Wild/ Baby I Was Born This Way medley could have been awful, but it was really cool. The “field trip” to the Ford music video studio was shameless. The “something about you” clips were funny,a nd I’m glad to hear that Paul has a 14-year-old wiener dog that smells bad.


Naima gets the best line of the night for telling Randy she has “a passionate hatred for the word ‘pitchy.'”


For the most part, the voting was predictable — until the end. I almost had it right — Naima and Haley were in the bottom three. But so was Karen — and that was just wrong. She’s great; I love her personality, her story, and what S. Tyler calls here “ethnic what it is-ness.” And her mom is soooo cute.


I figured it was Naima’s last night; she’s by far the weakest of the performers, and isn’t going to last another week. But no: the American voters kicked off …. Karen! 


Awful, wrong, indescribable injustice. She’s far better than the other two — and here last-ditch rendition of “Hero” was stunning. J-Lo wanted to save her, but the other judges wouldn’t go for it.


So for the first time this spring, a really bad result. Ick.  

Hip-hop heroes

3

I’m rolling with the big timers: the executive director and founder of a community circus arts program, an after-school program b-boy teacher, the most beautiful family in Bay Area hip-hop, and my boyfriend, who is snapping photos on his Nikon of the rest of us. We’re standing under the high ceiling of Acrosports, in a room filled with trapezes, a balancing beam, an over-sized trampoline, and the contorting, jack-knifing bodies of young, aspiring circus professionals. The people assembled (minus me and my man) are using the power of hip-hop to bring a cultural skill swap to underprivileged youth in Zanzibar.

It’s a feel good moment, particularly because it comes during a week that hosted some of the darkest days in the past century of the labor movement, the start of unimaginable hardship in Japan, and disheartening scenes from our nation’s leaders’ announced Muslim witch hunt. But enough of that for now, Zumbi’s talking:

“This is the first time we’ve done a tour that benefited charities, which is cool… but it’s like, why has this taken so long to do? Why don’t more people do this?”

The emcee from Zion I is makes uplifting Bay Area hip-hop without major label representation, and now it’s been announced that his, DJ Amp Live, and the Grouch’s upcoming tour will be benefiting local community organizations at each of its 36 gigs on its “Healing of the Nation” tour — which is named after the artists’ second collaboration album, Heroes in the Healing of the Nation.

In the Acrosport’s basement, breakdancing students get their new skills battle-ready. Photo by Erik Anderson

“This album, it’s more focused, it’s about communities, families, self. It’s needed! These days, you’ve got Charlie Sheen occupying more time onscreen than the Middle East. Everybody’s all caught up on tiger blood,” Zumbi tells me. It’s positive music, much like the first Zion I-grouch collab, 2006’s Heroes in the City of Dope, but it’s far from Public Enemy-style protest rap. 

Track eight on the new album is entitled “Be A Father To Your Child,” in the chorus of track two the Grouch asserts “I’m a leader/I don’t want to be a follower,” pledging allegiance to self-motivation. There’s a song called “I Used to Be Vegan” on the album that I find particularly resonant given my own struggles with evading cheese. The message is: be a positive force, don’t get swept up in the forces that try to disempower you and make you sad. It’s conscious music, but conscious music meant to have a good time to.

Today we also meet Zumbi’s beautiful partner Tiffany and their three-month old prince, Kodi Shaddai. They pose prettily by the catapulting acrobats behind them and Zumbi tells me that Kodi may well make a cameo appearance in the album’s upcoming music video. He tells me he used to do capoeira himself and jokes about his bad knees with B-Boy Black, a.k.a. Ed Johnson, Acrosports’ outreach director and breakdance teacher who will be one of the leaders on the Zanzibar trip.

Acrosports’ professional track performers practice across the street from Kezar Stadium. Photo by Erik Anderson

Is Zion I’s hip-hop philanthropy new? Certainly not, but what is novel is the group’s maturing image. Zumbi says that Heroes in the City of Dope was “more commentary, more getting fresh.” Heroes in the Healing of the Nation focuses more on creating positive space — reflective of the three men’s new roles as fathers and, gulp, role models. Looking into the future (though he’s far from hanging up his touring hat), Zion I’s emcee tells me that he sees his role in hip-hop as that of mentor to youngsters coming up in the ranks. 

My star-struckedness aside, I should probably be spending more of this article talking about Acrosports and its planned trip to Africa. You wanna see bringing uplift to the people? The place is pretty incredible, offering classes in breakdancing, capoeira, tumbling, and parkour to community members from 10 months of age and up. They run after-school programs in over 20 school, YMCAs, and Boys & Girls Clubs whose philosophy is to empower kids through positive motivation and access to non-traditional sports. 

Community activist Dorrie Huntington founded the place 20 years ago when she realized the building she lived next door to was sitting empty after years as a high school, and then a homeless shelter. Some unemployed members of the Moscow Circus proposed that they start teaching tumbling classes. Soon the team was repurposing sleeping mats from the homeless shelter and donated paint to create the center, all with very little resources. “It took a lot of sweat equity,” Huntington smiles. But that was 20 years ago and the perspiration paid off – now the city has a place where people of all ages and levels of fitness can come to learn how to move their bodies in joyous, creative ways. 

In 2009, Huntington went to Africa to volunteer in a Tanzanian orphanage, and on a vacation ran into some kids flipping out on a beach in Zanzibar. “Their skills were so amazing. They had this truck tire wedged in the sand and they were doing flips off of it.” She struck up a friendship with the amateur acrobats and vowed to return with teachers that could help the kids develop their performance skills. 

It’s a mission that resonates with her staff. “Growing up in a black community,” says Johnson, “going to Africa was seen as learning about your roots. I want to go out there and meet these amazing artists.” I ask him how he felt when he learned that Zion I and the Grouch were dipping into ticket sales to help him and his team realize the dream and he gets a little bashful. “I had to keep my composure,” he tells the group, and turns to Zumbi. “I have the vinyl record of The Bay! I don’t even have a record player, I was just like, I got to have that album!”

Inspiring people creating space for each other to make great things happen. Like a little feedback loop of positivity, it was. And a real good break from the heartache of the news channels.

 

Zion I and the Grouch

Sat/19 9 p.m., $25

The Fillmore 

1805 Geary, SF

www.zioniandthegrouch.com

 

SxSW Music Diary: Day 1

0

After making it to Dallas on the early flight from SFO we found gate A36 (connecting to Austin), a hipster ghetto in DFW’s sea of middle Americans. A friend spotted Toro y Moi in the crowd… and off we were to the live music capital of the world.

We got credentialed and then attempted to go to Fader Fort to check out Raphael Saadiq who was going on soon. But the line to get wristbands stretched literally as far as the eye could see, wrapping around a huge field. The best estimate I got for the wait was over 2 hours. Nevermind.

Back under the I35 to the Palm Door showcase on their deck over a creek… Anamanaguchi came on frenetically. According to their blog they make “hyper-active, hyper-positive, 8-bit jams” that center around a hacked Nintendo from 1985. It was pretty irresistible power pop.

Later that eve is was off to the Brooklyn Vegan showcase at Swan Dive. Olof Arnalds sweet Icelandic troubadour style won over the earnest crowd. And after filing into the hotel shuttle I heard an amazing version of “Benny and the Jets” filtering down the street. It was Brooklyn-based Marco Benevento showing the crowd (and those gathered on the street around the huge simulcast) his incredible piano chops.

SFBG Contributing Photographer Matt Reamer went off on his own adventure of a slightly heavier variety, check the slideshow for more on that.

It’s hard to avoid the constant feeling of missing out on something here… something that’s inherent to the SxSW experience. More to come…

American Idol: Elvis and the Lion Queen

0

I was out at the SPJ FOI Awards event early in the evening, so I missed the first few performances, but no worries: Vivian and Michael were taking excellent notes and filled me in. And the best stuff came at the end anyway.


First: What was UP with J-Lo’s hair? I can’t find any pix on the web (Idol is insanely protective of its imagery) but trust me: She looked like something out of the Lion King. And the leopard-print dress didn’t help much. It’s a jungle out there, Jennifer. Grrr.


Next: The background video/light show continues to be utterly moronic, mixing psychedelia and syrup pretty much at random. With the millions they’re making from the Ford commercials, they could get a decent designer.


Also: These people are all so young. The night’s theme was picking a song from the year you were born; for Scotty, that was 1993. As his backstage producers noted, “I have a pair of jeans that were born in 1993.” Five of the finalists aren’t even old enough to buy a drink. No OGs in the lineup this year; Paul clocks in as the senior citizen at 26.


The baby and kid pics were cute; I loved watching Scotty as Halloween Elvis. And with 12 contestants, there wasn’t a whole lot of time for nonsense; the show kept moving. Oh: Casey’s back form the hospital and seems fine.


The details: Naima does “What’s Love Got To Do With It.” Eh. From Viv: “J-Lo thought it was a little pitchy and Randy agreed. Really, it was just okay.”


Paul: Elton John. “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues.” Not Sir Elton’s best song, not Paul’s best performance.


Thia: “Colors of the Wind.” Again, nothing special.


So overall a slow start — until James hit the stage with Bon Jovi. Steven Tyler was so impressed he offered to quit Aerosmith (can you really quit a band that isn’t really there anymore?) and join him onstage. The kid can rock.


Haley: Whitney Houston. Oops.


Stefano, the guy who almost got sent home, turned the entire show around with “If You Don’t Know Me By Now.” His parents weren’t out of diapers when Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes first released that, but somebody else did it 22 years ago, so it counts. Perfect song for him, perfect rendition of a tough piece.


Pia: Whitney Houston, too. The girl is drop-dead beautiful and has a stunning voice — but that horrid white outfit looked like someone had wrapped her in a plastic garbage bag. (“You can’t say it made her look fat,” Jean told me harshly. And it didn’t, really, because she isn’t, but it might have.) Hideous, I almost couldn’t listen to the song. 


Scotty is always solid, born to be a country singer. He’s so good it’s almost boring.


Karen: Marge Simpson hairdo. Devo-meets-Vegas outfit. The song was okay, and the interview with her mom was too cute for words, but next time let mom check the look before you go out the door, okay?


Casey went on with his bass and tried to be Kurt Cobain — and oddly, it worked. Kind of scary, actually. But it worked. Steven: “Crazy and talented — that’s the goop that great stuff was made of.” J-lo still thinks he’s sexy. Grrrr, Lion Queen.


Lauren’s got the flu, but did a great job with Melissa Ethridge. Jacob tried Heart, and failed.


Naima, Haley and Jacob — bottom three. And Naima’s going home. Tune in tomorrow; I’m never right.

Delhi 2 Dublin brings the St. Paddy’s bhangra

0

It’s St. Patrick’s Day and everyone is Irish. Truly — the West coast brand of ethnic identity is a far cry from that of New England and New York, where families ran straight from the Potato Famine to set up shop in certain neighborhoods, maintaining their Celtic colors even now. Nope, by the time the gene pool wagon-wheels its way to California, most people are some amalgamation of several cultures. Which is to say that the Vancouver-based Celtic electro-bhangra of Delhi 2 Dublin should be seen as less of a new bastardization of world musics as much as a let’s-all-get-down reflection of who we are today.

But I’m waxing more sociological (per usual) than the band does itself. We caught the group’s DJ, Tarun Nayar, on a layover in an airport he was having trouble identifying (“Baltimore?” he guessed). The only concrete location we were able to get out of him is that the band is playing Mezzanine on St. Patrick’s itself, Thurs/17, after its show at the Aubergine in Sebastopol on Tues/15. Other sureities? Go to either and you’re gonna have a high-energy, border-blurring dance party on your Guinness-wielding hands.

San Francisco Bay Guardian: So you guys are playing your St. Patrick’s Day show here. In honor of the holiday, can you run down the group’s Celtic connection for me?

Tarun Nayar: Well the group was born on St. Patrick’s Day five years ago, so the Celtic connection is really important to us. The ex-director of the Vancouver Folk Festival called me to do an Irish-themed event. I was an electronica DJ and I was like, I don’t think we’re going to be able to put together enough material for you. He suggested that we blend together Indian and Celtic music. At the last minute we got together with a Punjabi singer. It’s always been easy to blend the two together since then. 

 

SFBG: Is there any actual Irish heritage in the group?

TN: There is – I’m half Irish-Scottish, and our fiddle player Sara Fitzpatrick is – ha, obviously.

 

SFBG: Why does that mix work so well, do you think?

TN: It’s the world’s two greatest drinking cultures! No, but really I think that two types of music – and we also play with North Indian influences – can be really happy, but have a real melancholy, introverted streak too. Plus, there’s all these historical theories that the Celts and the gypsies of North India have common ancestors. But we don’t really philosophize about it, we just play what sounds good. 

 

SFBG: Is there a single genre that describes Delhi 2 Dublin?

TN: We say “world fusion.” But that sounds so lame to me – it has these connotations to it. I just like to say good music.

 

SFBG: You’ve also got some interesting solo side projects…

TN: Yeah, I have a solo CD that came out March first in the States and Canada. It sums up my experience traveling around the world – it doesn’t really have anything to do with electronic music or Punjabi music. I sometimes do the scores of movies too, I just did work on a really gritty film about sex workers north of Bombay. 

 

SFBG: I hear a lot about Vancouver’s incredible cosmopolitan nature, and diversity. How did the city influence your music?

TN: Vancouver has one of North America’s strongest South Asian music scenes. Without the light of that community and the strength of its culture Delhi 2 Dublin definitely couldn’t have made it. Our singer and dhol player are out of that tribe. Without the open-mindedness of the people of Vancouver also, I don’t think we’d be around. We’ve always felt that San Francisco is a bigger version of Vancouver. San Francisco was one of the first cities on the West coast to embrace us. 

 

 

Delhi 2 Dublin 

With Señor Oz, Pleasuremaker, and DJ Dragonfly

Thurs/17 9 p.m., $18

Mezzanine 

444 Jessie, SF

www.mezzaninesf.com

American Idol: Easy on the lipstick, Jennifer

0

So J-Lo walks out with the other judges in a kind of a three-way hug (with the girl in the middle, of course; this is American Idol, after all) and the first thing I can see is that massive glob of bright-red lipstick, so overwhelming and dominant that it’s almost like some of those earliest colorized movies Ted Turner did, where the tinting is way off and it looks too weird. Course, as my daughter Vivian noted, her nails matched her lips, and that’s cool. But all night, I couldn’t even look at the panel without seeing: Giant. Red. Mouth.


Easy, girl, easy. Trust me, you look just fine without the flaming lips. (Can you imagine kissing her? Of course you can, I mean, but: My mustache would look like I’d stuck my face in a bowl of strawberry Jello.)


Now then, onto the music.


The theme was songs from your favorite idol, meaning your personal top musician. Lauren, who is Vivian’s fave, picked Shania Twain, and frankly, it wasn’t up to her potential. Casey went next, with the Joe Cocker version of “Little Help From My Friends” — and damn, he was good. Perfect choice, strong delivery — he’s a shoo-in for the next round and is going to be one of the final half dozen.


Ashton. Diana Ross. Don’t do it unless you can do it. She didn’t.


Pia. Best in the show last week. This time she tried Celine Dion, “All By Myself.” (Didn’t Eric Carmen do that song first? The man who sang the Raspberries hit, “Hey Baby Go All the Way?” I suppose “ABM” was a step up from that, but not much.) I’m biased because I hate the song, but I like Pia, and she didn’t pull it off.


On the other hand: James did “Maybe I’m Amazed” better than Paul McCartney. Seriously. The original’s not Sir Paul’s best effort, but this kid (who, with the departure of Brett, gets the Best Hair In Show Award) is awesome. If he weren’t such a hard-rock-guy-with-a-fauxhawk, he’d be my pick for the final.


Haley. She’s 16. “Blue.” Better than the other girls, but it was the guys’ night.


Jacob. “I Believe I Can Fly.” Horrible, stupid song that belongs in a Kindergardent graduation ceremony. And God — the background! The clouds zipping by! I was waiting for the Rapture. The man can sing, but this one? No.


Thia tried Michael Jackson. Not that good.


Stefano tried Stevie Wonder. J-Lo loves him (watch out for the strawberry Jello, dude), and both of my kids think he’s a winner, but I’m not that impressed. 


Karen is my favorite of the women. She did Selena, and (according to the adorable video) she was doing Selena when she was about six. She’s got charm, personality, sings better in Spanish than English .. and this wasn’t her night. I voted for her anyway.


Scotty, of course, did country, Garth Brooks singing about a river. Again, the background was ridiculous; folks, the song’s about a river. We get that. You don’t need to flash slides of rivers on screen. But he’s just so cute and talented that it didn’t matter. Another one for the final grouping (but can he get beyond country?)


Tonight: The endless, endless, endless drama of who goes home.   

Looney AutoTunes: KMEL on a Saturday morning, and when urban radio was urban radio

0

When I made the promise to listen to 106 KMEL for this piece, I fantasized about a weekend afternoon listening to hip-hop from the golden era of the mid-’90s. I expected a few aggravating commercials, maybe an abrasive deejay or two. Nothing I couldn’t handle, right? Wrong. Dead fucking wrong.

On a Saturday morning, I faced the ad-nauseum assault of urban contemporary on its own battleground. At 10 a.m., I tuned into the AutoTune onslaught. A little ditty from Diddy-Dirty Money called “Loving You No More” gave way to the entrepeneur formerly known as Puff Daddy’s “All About The Benjamins,” which in turn was blended into Dru Down’s “Mack of the Year.” The chain continued with 50 Cent’s “Just A Lil Bit,” and then Twista featuring Chris Brown’s “Let’s Make a Movie,” before finally settling into Lloyd Banks featuring Jeremih’s “I Don’t Deserve You,” another “slapper.”

Somewhere between the third or fifth time I heard Nicki Minaj featuring Drake’s sports-drink-commercial- disguised-as-a-pop-song “Moment 4 Life” (but, unfortunately, not before a Waka Flocka Flame/Rick Ross mashup), I turned it off. Less than two hours had passed, but I checked the mirror for a long gray beard anyway. There were two reasons for this: first, listening to the radio seemed to extend time beyond my conceptions of seconds, hours, and years; secondly, well, I felt old. I found myself reminiscing like old-timers are wont to do. “I remember when urban radio was urban radio,” we might say.

J-Boogie’s Dubtronic Science featuring Lunar Heights, “Inferno”:

I remember when urban radio was urban radio. When I met DJ Wisdom (then known as Winnie B) at a house party in the early ’90s and told him that I was teaching creative writing to “under-served” youth in Hunter’s Point, and then met J-Boogie at another party a few days later, they invited me onto their new KUSF radio show, BeatSauce, to promote my program. I came through a few more times over the years, and it was a pleasure just to watch the fellas sift through the stacks of LPs and EPs, trying to create the best soundtrack for the evening. Sometimes the songs would relate to a topic that came up during the totally-ill call-ins. At other times, the challenge seemed to be to have the one record that answered some obscure, esoteric request. You never knew what to expect, and that was the fun and danger of it. Being one of those Methuselahs who remembers the thrice-dubbed 90-minute cassettes of Mr. Magic‘s Rap Attack, I had an appreciation for how far the music of my generation had come.

San Antonio-based Clear Channel Radio, the owners of both 106 KMEL and its competitor for the urban market, WILD 94.9, programs these stations from afar based on global market appeal and point systems, a process that results in indescribable, nay, perverse musical setbacks. The pre-recorded radio personalities don’t answer phones or jockey discs, and the only solid beats I heard were on the public service announcements telling kids to get tested. Unlike listeners who find fault with the powerless deejays, local programmers, and the indies who pay them, I found myself feeling sorry for the whole lot. They gotta listen to this shit every day knowing they’re playing themselves…right out of a job.

Extra, extra, read all about it: Hard French returns

0

Spring has sprung and anyone walking by El Rio last Saturday would have seen the telltale signs -– a line of fashionably dressed folk spilling down the block, distant sounds of yesteryear audible from the street, and if that wasn’t enough to get you interested, then the wafting scent of outdoor grilling was sure to get you through that door to find yourself at the best daytime soul BBQ and dance party to be found anywhere. Yes, another year of Hard French is upon us.

As expected, Saturday’s Hard French birthday party and season kick-off was a blast, more shakin’ and off the hook than any Hard French party yet. The soul gods parted the clouds for a day so that the mortal babes could dance and cruise in the sun, and DJs Carnita and Brown Amy killed it, spinning both hits and rarities from their extensive collection of soul and funk 45s – a treasure trove they’ve no doubt been adding to over their recent hiatus.

Use these next three weeks to rev up for the next Hard French on Saturday, April 2nd, because before you know it, it’ll be time to party all over again.

Live review: Elephant 6 Holiday Surprise tour

0

I caught up with the The Elephant 6 Holiday Surprise tour as it made its stop at the Independent in San Francisco on Sat./5, and it was nothing short of magical. A dozen or so core members of the Elephant 6 Collective rotated instruments and played each others’ songs. It was like a slice of Athens, Georgia performing on a holodeck-cum-stage for a bewildered SF audience that didn’t know what to expect.

Singing saw virtuoso Julian Koster (Neutral Milk Hotel, Music Tapes) looked like he was dressed for a slumber party, and some may say he stole the show with almost sickeningly adorable storytelling and mechanized organ-playing contraptions. But there were many high points. The Athens folks’ cover of Elf Power’s cover of the Tall Dwarfs’ “Nothing Is Going to Happen” and John Fernandes’ (Olivia Tremor Control) tricked-out viola solo blew my mind, and perhaps my favorite moment was when angel-voiced Scott Spillane (Neutral Milk Hotel, the Gerbils) and his famously epic neck beard led the group in a caroling of the Gerbils’ “Lucky Girl” which sounded better than the original. 

There were games, and crowd participation, with one winner getting to choose a song for the group to play. He opted for something by Mazzy Star. I would have chosen something more out of character, like “Juicy” by the Notorious B.I.G., but then again, I wasn’t playing. Maybe next year — fingers crossed. These folks know how to entertain, and they managed to make a two-hour performance seem short, leaving me wanting more.

American Idol: Well, at least that’s over

1

How long does it take to tell 10 contestants that they’re in and 14 that they might have to go home? Particularly when there are no real surprises and pretty much everyone knows what’s going to happen? Wait! I just did it! About 11 seconds!

But no, this is American Idol 2011, where Ryan fucking Seacrest fucking Productions, Inc. has to drag every bit of drama out of every possible minute and extend things endlessly, to make time for more commercials and expand the cash machine that seems to be all that’s driving the show anymore. So we watched for an hour and a half — 90 minutes — before His Seacrestness was done breaking the news. (Ryan, Dawg: This isn’t the Oscars. The envelope thing was lame.) Much hugging (wait — if I go on Idol, can I hug J-lo?), much sadness, much joy — oh, the humanity!

Please, please, can we get back to the singing now?

I really have no gripes about the shakeout — the right people went through, the right ones went home, and the final 30 minutes, when six contestants sang for their (financial) lives, was great. All of them: great. Best talent pool ever.

I felt a little bad about Brett, but only because he loooks a lot like my friend Andy Ratshin looked in high school, and Andy went on to fame and fortune, of a sort.

Not happening on Idol, not for Brett. But I suspect many of the also-rans got the exposure they need to start getting real gigs. J-Lo was right — all of them belonged there.

If we can just get rid of the drawn-out nonsense now, It’s going to be a great season.

 

 

The Mutaytor’s latest album burns bright and deep

0

A year ago, I got the opportunity to watch The Mutaytor record its latest album, “Unconditional Love: The Westerfeld Sessions,” in the William Westerfeld House, a mansion on Alamo Square with a rich history. Instruments filled the beautifully restored home, and the music seemed to resonate with the 120-year-old walls – as well as with the book that I was completing at the time: The Tribes of Burning Man: How an Experimental City in the Desert is Shaping the New American Counterculture.

As I wrote for the Guardian at the time and in my book, The Mutaytor is Burning Man’s most iconic musical spawn, a band that started on the playa as a pickup group of musicians, dancers, acrobats, and dusty freaks, developing into an enduring of collection musical ambassadors for this burgeoning counterculture. Mutaytor and its music has a special place in the hearts of most burners.

Now that the album has been released and logged several plays through my speakers, I have to say that it’s more than just a sentimental favorite. This is just a great fucking album! Most of the songs draw from the group’s extensive existing playlist, and tunes like “Give a Little Mo’” and “The Family Business” will be as familiar to veteran burners as the well-worn early tracks from Burning Man’s other big iconic act, the Berkeley-based beatfreak Bassnectar.

But Mutaytor is a band of serious-minded musicians and sound engineers, so this album still feels fresh and big. With a full horn section and multiple drummers banging away on sprawling drum kits, the sound just explodes at times, driven steadily along by former Oingo Boingo bassist John Avila. And the album is filled with fun little surprises, like when “Give a Little Mo’” veers off into a rift from Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train.”

Although the band is based in Southern California, it has a special connection to San Francisco and the Westerfeld House, a sprawling mansion owned by longtime burner Jim Siegel, where the band’s members – which can number as many as two dozen for its spectacular shows – stay when they’re here performing. It’s like sacred ground to them, which is why they recorded here and miked the whole house up for sound.

“We’re getting the best tones,” singer/guitarist/arranger Buck Down told me at the time. And maybe I’m projecting, but I can almost feel that rich setting as I listen to this album, in which big rocking moments give way to haunting melodies, like the strings in “Tung Jen III” that seem to carry with them ancient memories from this storied mansion.

So, on a personal note, I’m excited to return to the Westerfeld House for a book reading and discussion next Friday the 11th starting at 7 pm, where I half-expect the walls to still carry a faint vibration from this epic recording session. Come on by and tell me if you can hear it too.

Or as The Mutaytor says in “How to Convert Civilians into Rock Stars”: “We are nymphs, we are figments of your imagination, and then we are gone, gone, gone, gone…”

American Idol: The women struggled a bit

0

Not as great a night for the women, I have to say. The guys pretty much blew everyone away, but I only saw one Idol-class performance from the women, and I saw a lot of pretty weak stuff. The good news: Pia Toscano. The last one on stage, after the final commercial, just when I was trying to hustle the kids off to bed, and we just had to sit down and shut up and listen. Amazing; no props, no horrible background (those floating clouds just have to go), just a woman with an amazing voice hitting all the notes and holding the audience spellbound.

The bad news: Rachel Zevita. What was that? The maybe: Michael, my son who plays bass and loves heavy metal, and my daughter, who plays piano and loves Rhianna and Taylor Swift, both were into Kendra Chantelle. Me? Not so much. Okay, but nothing special.

Overall, bad song selection, too much hype and not enough delivery — and damn! Randy’s starting to channel his inner Simon. Harsh, Dawg. But you were right.

Tonight: I predict more pathos, more drawn-out drama about everyone’s childhood, lots of tears and very little singing.

American Idol: The boys bring it

1

I’m not taking it all back (yet) cuz I still think all the tears and drama are stupid, but Ihave to say: the guys brought it last night. Not a single contestant truly sucked (except Jordan, who almost truly sucked, but he’s a jerk anyway). Some were absolutely spectacular. Doing Screamin’ Jay Hawkins on Idol is nuts, so much could go wrong — but Casey Abrams pulled of “I Put A Spell On You” in a way that seemed almost impossibly brilliant. I thought Steven Tyler was going to melt into a puddle, he was so blown away. Jennifer Lopez said he was sexy, which should pretty much leave him set for life. I loved Paul McDonald singing Maggie May. Good song selections everywhere. Tonight: The girls.    

Noise Pop Live Review: Dominant Legs and How to Dress Well

4

Synth and bass, rock and roll, some combinations are easily matched, but when you put How to Dress Well on the roster, pairings aren’t as obvious. Dominant Legs‘ mangy pop was an odd precursor to Saturday night’s How to Dress Well performance at Cafe Du Nord, but then again, what flatters eerie falsetto and awkward emotions? 

San Francisco’s Dominant Legs played like summer in a bottle. Happy guitars, lots of cowbell and rad bass made the winter weather outside melt. The only thing missing was sunshine, or lights in general. Half the band was hidden from the crowd due to a lack of lighting– particularly the adorable Hannah Hunt. One disgruntled lady in the audience voiced her disapproval by shouting, “We can’t see the pretty girl in the blue dress,” to which Hunt meekly responded, “It’s green.” Case in point. 

The band of five played three brand new songs, two cute and sleepy and one with tropical breeze, but the hits were any that picked up the pace. The real gem was as suspected– “Young at Love and Life.”

There was a brief interlude by Shlohmo and his way cool collection of old school tracks, including my personal favorite, TLC’s “If I Was Your Girlfriend”– brought me right back to Mr. Burg’s fifth grade class.

Then the stage cleared. A lazy stream of fog seeped from a small machine in the corner as Tom Krell grabbed the mic. Immediately things felt awkwardly intimate as the man behind How to Dress Well told the crowd, “This week things have been kind of tough for me,” said Krell. “But I guess we’ll see how it goes.” And it went in all kinds of ways: uncomfortable, pretty, sexy and repulsive. It was Krell, naked (only figuratively), revealing every last detail of his diary in a high-pitched squeal of sorts, accompanied by super smooth, shattering bass, electronics and R&B stylings. 

At first it seemed like a bad dream. My ears hurt. I thought slitting my wrists sounded like a nice alternative to listening to songs entitled, “Suicide Dream 1” and “Suicide Dream 2.”  I did enjoy the projected visual art and it seemed to pair well with the horror escaping his lips. I couldn’t believe all these people had paid to see this guy. Was this a joke? I turned to the dude next to me (just as his friend offered up some Flamin’ Hot Cheetos) and asked him if he ‘really liked this?” He laughed. “Uh…no comment.” Then he thought about it for a second more. “Well, I don’t hate it.”

And surprisingly by the end of his one-man show I realized I also didn’t ‘hate it’ but couldn’t quite get to the ‘liking’ part either. I grew to respect the dude for what he brought to the table. Krell has balls. Really big balls. Who else would stand up there and tell everyone that this song is about how his life “feels closed,” instead of “feeling open, like when I was young.” It was hipster poetry hour and I needed a cigarette. That’s some depressing shit, man. If only I could’ve understood the actual lyrics. Were those real words?

How to Dress Well is what it is, folks but whether it counts as live music, a band or a quality performance is still up for debate. The transition from amazing recorded material to live act still has some kinks; or maybe that’s the intention and you’re cool and totally hip if you get it. I’ve never been one to understand ‘performance art.’ Instead it seems easier to categorize this fiasco as another talented bedroom musician lured from his comfort zone, into the outdoors and onto stages. We should stop being so pushy.

 

 

Worst American Idol ever

16

Ok, American Idol. I sat through four hours this week. And yeah, Randy is Randy and Steven Tyler is a rock god and J-Lo is so pretty it makes my teeth hurt, but:

I miss Simon. Because everytime somebody really mangled a song, he’d remind them that “this is a singing contest.”

That’s right: This is a show about singing. But not this year. This year it’s all Total Drama Island. The Pathos! The J-Lo weepfests! The tragedy, the crying, the terrible stories of people’s lives and awful interactions between mean and unpleasant contestants who kick the weak ones out of their groups! Oh, the reality of it all!

An entire episode was devoted to watching anxiety-wracked contestants walk down a surreal flying-saucer-style walkway onto a stage where the judges would try to make them think they were going home, only to let slip at the last moment that they get to come back for another round. Or maybe not. Tears of joy. Thrown chairs. A woman trying to dry hump Ryan Seacrest. And it never ends.

Note to the producers: This is not Survivor: San Andreas Fault. We want to hear the contestants perform. We’ll take the good and the bad, but please: No more of the ugly.

Live Review: Paula West brings the best things to the Rrazz Room

0

There’s a short list of outlets for female crooner aficionados these days. Sure, there are winning classic vocals from the likes of Madeleine Peyroux or Jane Monheit. But I’ve yet to witness the poignancy of Billie Holiday, the sass of Eartha Kitt, the sultriness of Julie London, or the sheer perfection of Ella Fitzgerald, in any current-day singer.

Though Paula West may not be a legend, she has become a leading international jazz vocalist and local treasure. Watching her perform every year for the past decade, I can vouch: she keeps getting better. She hasn’t recorded an album since 2002 and those she does have fail to fully capture the essence of live performance. Live, her impeccable breath control and diction shine, as does her soulful longing and contrasting wry humor.
What truly wows a jazz lover is West’s song selection. Each year she plays a multi-week run at Hotel Nikko’s Rrazz Room (how I miss her former setting, the now-shuttered Plush Room). West and composer/arranger, George Mesterhazy, convert songs to jazz in genres as wide-ranging as country or rock. Mesterhazy also leads West’s backing quartet (Mesterhazy on piano, Ed Cherry on guitar, Barak Mori on bass, and Jerome Jennings on drums). It’s not unusual to hear her sing the funky “Iko Iko” alongside the Scottish ballad “The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond.” Her love for Bob Dylan surfaces yearly in Dylan tunes arranged with jazz spirit — this year, it’s “Shelter from the Storm.”

This year, West keeps things upbeat with a bouncy rendition of Irving Berlin’s “The Best Things Happen While You’re Dancing,” “Come Runnin'” (made famous by Lena Horne), and the ever-delightful “At Long Last Love,” by Cole Porter, another songwriter she commonly performs. Hoagy Carmichael could never dream of his “Baltimore Oriole” being as sexy as it is with Mesterhazy’s sultry arrangement and Jerome Jennings’ exuberantly sensual drums. Easy listening rarely sounds as good as it does in West’s version of Glen Campbell’s “Wichita Lineman.”

West thanked us for coming out instead of staying home to watch reality TV, launching into what she dubs the “Reality Show Trilogy,” evoking laughter with Pearl Bailey’s “Tired”: “Washin’ and a-tubbin’/ Cleanin’ and a-scrubbin’/ Sure leaves my glamour with a scar…Tired of the tears I shed/ Tired of livin’ in the red/ Tired of my same old bed…’Cause I’m tired, yes I’m tired of you.”

The yearning is palpable in her gorgeous delivery of Irving Berlin’s “Supper Time,” which Ethel Waters sang in the film As Thousands Cheer. West’s rendition of “Miss Otis Regrets” is equally emotional, even chilling. West starts off in a steady, pleasing pace, mesmerizing as her show progresses with her impressive memorization of complex verse and controlled belting.

Sipping Rrazz Room’s mediocre, over-priced drinks becomes less obnoxious when you’re enveloped by West’s clear, dusky vocals and Mesterhazy’s skillful quartet. Her current run lasts until March 13, so there’s still time for a little “Baltimore Oriole.”

PAULA WEST
Through March 13, $35-45
The Rrazz Room
222 Mason Street
415-394-1189
www.therrazzroom.com
http://paulawestonline.com

Rediscovery: The hypnotic appeal of Jeff Phelps’ Magnetic Eyes

0

“That album is something I’ve known about for a long time,” Dâm Funk says of Magnetic Eyes, which was written, recorded and produced by Jeff Phelps in 1985. Thanks to the German label Tomlab, more people are finding out about Magnetic Eyes today. Along with the Tony Cook compilation produced by Dâm’s cohort Peanut Butter Wolf and released on Stones Throw, Magnetic Eyes is a rediscovered jewel of ’80s funk. But whereas the Cook album has roots in classic soul, Phelps’ album is a cool, synth-powered collection that brings techno figurehead the Electrifying Mojo to mind. It’s also blessed with peerless cover art and — as you’ll find out after the jump — it inspired a fantastic music video.

If the Pointer Sisters danced with neutrons, then Phelps — to paraphrase Magnetic Eyes’  “K-Shell” — danced with electrons, making bedroom recordings with a Tascam Portastudio 244. Sleek and minimalist, his compositions are on point. Electronic elements mingle with delicate jazz touches. The most powerful and pop example is “Hear My Heart,” where a Yusef Lateef-like woodwind briefly duets with a beguiling, raw (no studio enhancement trickery whatsoever) vocal by teenager Antoinette Marie Pugh. Beginning with a basketball game and moving on to closeups of red fingernails and tearful eyes (not to mention scenes of champagne fireside romance), the video for “Hear My Heart” is, like the best Jan Terri videos, a no-budget delight. The song itself is lovely and hit-worthy.

Jeff Phelps, “Hear My Heart,” from Magnetic Eyes:

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

While Phelps lived in Houston, TX at the time, the sound he crafts on Magnetic Eyes’ title instrumental track is a precursor to Detroit techno (the plaintively moving “Don’t Fall Apart On Me” could be an Inner City demo), not to mention the retro-informed future funk that Dâm Funk creates today; Dâm’s collaborator Ramona Gonzalez of Nite Jewel is also a fan of the album. Knowing this, I had to ask Dâm about the Electrifying Mojo, whose late-night radio sets — bringing together Kraftwerk and Parliament — helped forge the Detroit techno sound.

A sample of the Electrifying Mojo on late-night radio:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qXu3Alw0-Hw

“I have some old tapes of his,” Dâm said, “His concepts were great, and he played great music. It’s all about the delivery and the passion. That’s what I try to do with my selector sets [as a DJ]. I want them to be special, more to the left angle and the dark side.”

The dark angle and the left side are both abundantly present in the cover art of Magnetic Eyes, which was created by an artist named Garry Hollie that Phelps knew at the time. While introverted instrumentals frame the album, it has a round-the-way creative and collaborative essence, with one lyric (“On the Corner”) penned by Phelps’ wife, and another (“Wrong Place, Wrong Time”) by one of his co-workers. Phelps still makes music today, and in a recent interview, he says he listens to a lot of Steely Dan (a likely influence on Magnetic Eyes), as well as Gil Scott-Heron, Tupac, and…Nite Jewel.

   

Luminous “Rothko Chapel” comes to SF Symphony

0

Ambient music is currently waging a sustained comeback (even the old ’80s New Age label Windham Hill has been sending me emails lately!) But if you’re looking for something that reaches for timelessness — with a lot more philosophical underpinnings than Yanni has mock turtlenecks — then the glowing symphonic sound sculpture that is Morton Feldman‘s “Rothko Chapel,” coming to the SF Symphony Wed/23-Sat/26, is just what you’re after.

Written in 1971 by the intellectually restless composer as a specific commission for the great Abstract Expressionist painter’s Houston chapel, Feldman’s meditative work for chorus, viola, percussion, and orchestra — which will surely be burnished to shining perfection by conductor Michael Tilson Thomas, he’s like that — replicates the spiritual absorption that can overwhelm when face-to-face with a Rothko canvas, let alone the 16 at once that comprise the chapel.

(I always think of Rothkos as paper towels for the soul. Feldman supposedly once said, “Do we have anything in music for example that really wipes everything out? That just cleans everything away?”)

Here’s a wonderful paragraph on Feldman’s relationship to art, especially Rothko, written by Alex Ross in 2006:

The example of the painters was crucial. Feldman’s scores were close in spirit to Rauschenberg’s all-white and all-black canvases, Barnett Newman’s gleaming lines, and, especially, Rothko’s glowing fog banks of color. His habit of presenting the same figure many times in succession invites you to hear music as a gallery visitor sees paintings; you can study the sound from various angles, stand back or move up close, go away and come back for a second look. Feldman said that New York painting led him to attempt a music “more direct, more immediate, more physical than anything that had existed heretofore.” Just as the Abstract Expressionists wanted viewers to focus on paint itself, on its texture and pigment, Feldman wanted listeners to absorb the basic facts of resonant sound. At a time when composers were frantically trying out new systems and languages, Feldman choseto follow his intuition. He had an amazing ear for harmony, for ambiguous collections of notes that tease the brain with never-to-be-fulfilled expectations. Wilfrid Mellers, in his book “Music in a New Found Land,” eloquently summed up Feldman’s early style: “Music seems to have vanished almost to the point of extinction; yet the little that is left is, like all of Feldman’s work, of exquisite musicality; and it certainly presents the American obsession with emptiness completely absolved from fear.” In other words, we are in the region of Wallace Stevens’s “American Sublime,” of the “empty spirit / In vacant space.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qxSt_w2ODaQ

(Speaking of vacant spaces, I absolutely love how the lowish resolution on the Rothko paintings in the video above melt their surface scrabbles into pixellated smears.)

SF SYMPHONY PRESENTS MORTON FELDMAN’S “ROTHKO CHAPEL”

with Mozart’s “Requiem in D Minor”

Wed/23 at 8pm, Thur/24 at 2pm, Fri/25 at 8pm, Sat/26 at 8pm

$35-$140

Davies Symphony Hall

201 Van Ness, SF

www.sfsymphony.org

Live Review: Prince at the Oracle Arena

11

At this point in his 35-year career, Prince is perhaps justified in expecting us humanoids to happily accept anything handed down to us from Mount Paisley Park. But at the Oracle Arena in Oakland on Mon./21 — the first of three last-minute concerts planned for the Bay (Thursday’s show was announced Monday night, after more than 30,000 tickets were sold for the first two performances in less than 72 hours), the mood was a curious mixture of intense, polished skill tinged with unexpected insecurity: Prince, in full 52-years-young prodigy mode, broke from the action in one instance with a surprising, “Are y’all having fun?” And heated anticipation and adulation gave way to a brief outbreak of boos — the audience pressed hard to get into the show, and was loathe to give up its ground after the first encore, hollering with displeasure when the house lights came up.

It was a mixed bag, albeit an entertaining and fascinating one, from an entertainer who can still pull out the stops, fingering his fretboard with one hand while slicking back his short crop with the other. A playful Prince alternately grinned at his band, placated the fans with hits, and happily jammed at length on one of his many Telecaster-style guitars, pacing himself all the while with breaks featuring guest Sheila E. and his backup vocalists. His impassioned take on “Cool,” the song he bestowed on the Time back in 1981, said it all: Prince was out to reestablish his own ageless brand of awesome, and have fun doing it. 

Opening the show was white zoot-suited Oakland native and psychedelic funk-rock pater familias Larry Graham, the bassist who broke ground and moved major booty with his slapping technique as part of Sly and the Family Stone. Fronting his band, Graham Central Station, Drake’s uncle got the audience primed with a sing-along to his 1980 slow-dance hit “One in a Million You,” before immediately ripping into a jaw-dropping bass demo that had him scraping his strings against a mic stand and probing them with his teeth — an exhibition that would have had Jimi Hendrix pondering the possibilities of the low end. The kicker: a lengthy Sly and the Family Stone medley, including a moving “Family Affair,” “Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin),” and “Dance to the Music,” with a finale that had Prince rising up from the bowels of the glyph-shaped stage, clad in fuzzy après-ski boots, to join Graham and crew for “Everyday People” and a palpably joyful “I Want to Take You Higher” that inspired everyone onstage — and a good batch of the crowd — to leap in unison.

The psych-funk-rock lineage clearly established, Prince remained the main Event-with-a-capital-E. The artist presently known as Prince is still an eerily, extraterrestrially-gifted performer, capable of shredding in hair-band-esque Eddie Van Halen mode, then tossing his leopard-pick-guarded guitar off the stage, and finally breaking into a fluid yet precisely controlled slew of popping, locking contortions in what looked to be flared satin PJs. A big-screen closeup of his posterior moving ever-so-minutely in time to the beat captured the detail with hilarious exactitude.

I had to laugh, marveling at the calculated, smooth perfection of the maestro’s moves, though Prince’s absolute, practiced fluency in so many modes of American music — rock tear-throughs, blues jams, soul breakdowns, pop sing-alongs, R&B balladry, jazz interludes and conga workouts with Sheila E. by his side — is seriously hard to question, and in keeping with the title of this tour, “Welcome 2 America.” This not-of-this-earth visitor has conquered the musical languages of the land, turning the tables on the natives.

Still, nothin’ compares 2 love, and Prince was out to please Monday — sprinkling his set with hits like “Raspberry Beret,” “Controversy,” and “Kiss” and unleashing a violet confetti downpour with “Purple Rain” — while seemingly just as eager to embrace the contributions of Carlos Santana, who was lent the Princely guitar; Bay native Sheila E., who sang “The Glamorous Life” to loud home-girl cheers; and backup vocalist Shelby Johnson, who memorably emoted through “Misty Blue,” as Prince playfully pulled Larry Graham up to enact a faux-romantic reunion.

The guest appearances may not have matched the celebrity drive-bys at his recent NYC dates — those ranged from Alicia Keys and Questlove to Cornel West and Kim Kardashian (who got kicked off stage for less-than-stellar dancing) — and new twirlers the Twinz weren’t in the house to add considerable sex appeal, but I, for one, left sated after a two-hour performance that included an hour-long encores. Prince’s displays of slink-worthy lewdness have been replaced by exhibitions of guitar hero virtuosity — “I don’t know how you feel, but I’ve missed you something horrible,” the gold-satin-draped artist cooed to us over a hot gold guitar toward the end of the show — but that made it no less a close encounter of the Princely kind.

PRINCE
With Larry Graham
Wed./23 and Thurs./24, 7:30 p.m., $71.50-$238
Oracle Arena
7000 Coliseum Way, Oakl.
www.livenation.com

Snap Sounds: Forest Swords — and the spirit of Aaliyah

1

FOREST SWORDS
Dagger Paths E.P.
(No Pain in Pop/Olde English Spelling Bee)

High on the “Ideas I Wish I Had” list is Forest Swordscover of Aaliyah’s “If Your Girl Only Knew,” a different (if equally idiosyncratic) take on R&B than that of fellow Olde English Spelling Bee act Autre Ne Veut. The group’s M. Barnes taps into the recessive, almost ghostly shade-throwing of the original — one reason why Aaliyah was a unique pop phenomenon — and slows it down to near-Gothic stasis, while adding another twist to the lyric’s romantic intrigue by flipping the gender of the vocalist. The spirit of Aaliyah haunted dubstep and its mutant kin in 2010, thanks to Forest Swords’ “If Your Girl,” and also James Blake’s “CMYK,” which sends the vocals of her best-known hit, “Are You That Somebody?,” through a series of flying-floating transformations. Check out the originals and covers/updates, as well as some more ruminations about this phenom, after the jump.

Of course, Aaliyah’s influence has been seeping into non-pop or R&B places for some time, from the Gossip’s live interpretation of “Are You That Somebody?” (which followed in the footsteps of Northwest no-bass counterparts the Spinanes cover of the same song)  to Gang Gang Dance’s professions of love for her around the time of Saint Dymphna. The vinyl version of The xx’s debut album includes the group’s cover of “Hot Like Fire,” which, like “If Your Girl Only Knew,” comes from Aaliyah’s 1996 album One in a Million, where her lithe mystique found a perfect home within Timbaland’s shadowy and spacious yet rhythmic production.

It’s tempting to view Aaliyah’s eternal return as an outgrowth of the fact that some if not many of these artists (and others) were probably kids swept up in radio love back when she was a major phantom of the airwaves. But as time passes, the summer and fall of 1998 — when “Are You That Somebody?” was topping the charts, Missy Elliott’s songwriting was in full effect, Brandy and Monica were fighting over a boy, and R. Kelly was beginning to explore musical narratives with Sparkle and Kelly Price — is starting to seem like a halcyon era of R&B pop. While I like some of the tributes to Babygirl I’ve just outlined, I can confidently say her originals stand supreme.

Forest Swords, “If Your Girl,” from Dagger Paths EP:

Aaliyah, “If Your Girl Only Knew,” from One in a Million:

James Blake, “CMYK,” from CMYK EP:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w6nd8kr3Chk

Aaliyah, “Are You That Somebody”:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-EymH-COrGk

Noise Pop Film Festival: the new new age?

0

The Family Jams, a documentary by Kevin Barker (the man behind Currituck Co. and and on-again-off-again accompanist of Vetiver), captures the careers of the genre-fucks Devandra Banhart, Joanna Newsom, and Vetiver in their infancy on a 2004 summer tour. (The doc screens Thurs/24 as part of the Noise Pop Film Festival; check out a trailer here.)

Near the film’s beginning, Barker, in a voiceover, shares a memory of seeing large flying cockroaches that lived in his grandmother’s kitchen drawers in Hawaii. In the next scene — whodathunk? — a large cockroach appears during a show in Houston, Texas when his musical family (Banhart, Newsom, and Andy Cabic of Vetiver, among others) plays together at the show’s end. Could this link ‘twixt families be made any more obvious?

The documentary also attempts to challenge the so-called limitations of the family’s categorization as folk, but fails. During a radio interview, Banhart asks Cabic, “How do you deal with being considered “folk? Do you accept the humiliation of their inaccuracy and narrow-mindedness?” And in his next breath, a (possibly intoxicated) Banhart says, “Mine is new age. You’ve got to understand, new age — it’s got a bad taste in everyone’s mouth.”

He goes on: “I’m trying to make it groovy again. I’m really trying to give it some credibility. New age — that’s appropriate because it’s a combination of different things.” So, the genre-defying Banhart gives himself a label.  Huh.

While The Family Jams has its humorous moments, like when a shirtless Banhart enters a door that clearly says “Shoes and Shirt Required Beyond This Point,” the doc’s high points come courtesy of concert footage. Jammin’ is what this family does best on camera. Otherwise, Barker’s film is largely a slow-moving study of community, and little else.

The Family Jams

Q&A with director Kevin Barker and members of Vetiver after the screening

Thurs/24, 9 p.m., $10

Viz Cinema

New People

1746 Post, SF

http://2011.noisepop.com/film/