Noise

Symphonic triple-whammy: Three hot conductors step up

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We loves us some Michael Tilson Thomas — we better, because she’s everywhere, darling — but it must be hard to live and gesticulate passionately for the San Francisco Symphony in the shadow of the great MTT. It’s not a competition! I know! Still, it’s a treat to see SFS program a night specifically dedicated to some of the other stellar conducting talents it retains, especially for a total symphony queen like moiself.

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Three great classical (bow-tied) tastes: Gaffigan, Bohlin, and Shwartz

The three-day “SFS Conductors on the Podium” series will see Associate Conductor James Gaffigan (who blew me and several thousand peeps away in Dolores Park a while back, conducting the 1812 Overture), Resident Conductor and total cutie Benjamin Shwartz, and fierce Chorus Director Ragnar Bohlin take the stage for a nice, slightly challenging change.

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Benjamin Shwartz, making beautiful music

Particularly interesting will be the world premiere of Mark-Anthony Turnage’s jazzy-sounding Three Asteroids: The Torino Scale, Juno, Ceres, conducted by Schwartz, and the sure-to-be-spectral a capella double-choir performance of Poulenc’s Figure humaine — a haunting setting of Paul Eluard’s poems about war and spirituality, conducted by Bohlin. Gaffigan conducts Bartok’s seldom-heard Suite from The Miraculous Mandarin, and the Thursday and Saturday programs will also feature Prokofiev’s ragged, fiery Violin Concerto No. 1 in D Major, also conducted by Gaffigan and featuring SFS concertmaster and string-whiz Alexander Barantschik. Should be a revelation.

SFS Conductors on the Podium
Thursday, June 5 at 2:00pm
Friday, June 6 at 6:30pm
Saturday, June 7 at 8:00pm
$25-$125
Davies Symphony Hall
201 Van Ness
(415) 864-6000
www.sfsymphony.org

Go go girl, get Poak Chopped

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While I’m still trying to digest the multiple hypes about some coming country-fried “hick hop” phenomenon that I encountered while recently touring the Midwest, here’s a totally hot, totally trannyrific new YouTube dance sensation that Guardian contributor and all-around cutie Matt Sussman just hooked me on: “Poak Chops”

Throw them butter beans, girl.

Black Angels alight in SF

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By Todd Lavoie

If you’re going to name yourself after one of the Velvet Underground’s most epic noisefests, you’d best be well prepared to bring the drone and stir the squall – we want sheets of feedback and hopefully plenty of nervous dread to go along with it. Such requirements are not an issue for Austin, Texas’ Black Angels.

Named for the Velvets’ signature drone piece “The Black Angel’s Death Song,” these folks remain one of the most convincing modern-day practitioners of late ’60s/early ’70s, antisocial psychedelia. Tapping into the bad acid comedowns and anti-Summer of Love vibes of the Velvets and the 13th Floor Elevators – with occasional devil dances in the direction of vintage Rolling Stones as well – the Black Angels specialize in delicious creep-outs and electrifying forays into the psyche’s darker recesses. Most importantly: they know how to write riveting songs, rather than merely settling upon a mood and a groove and sticking with it. See for yourself this Saturday, June 7, when they play the Independent. In the meantime, may I suggest practicing your strut. Oh, and maybe work on your most menacing lurch as well.

The Black Angels have just released their sophomore full-length, Directions to See a Ghost, and to these ears it feels even more focused than their blindsiding 2006 debut, Passover (both Light in the Attic). I must ‘fess up: I’m completely and utterly in love with the packaging as well. Boasting a day-glo pink and neon green concentric-circle op-art design – and what’s more, it’s embossed – there’s something immensely satisfying in losing oneself in the spirals as the Black Angels rattle out a steady prowling rumble. Plus, it’s embossed! Who doesn’t like feeling art and having it feel you back? It’s a damn shame you can’t run your fingers over the computer screen right now and see – no, feel – exactly what I mean:

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REM’s Peter Buck talks about the passion – and the rage

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Mumblecore before mumblecore was cool: Eighties-era REM.

REM guitarist Peter Buck may be well settled into his current role as a 50-year-old Seattle dad, but he hasn’t really slowed down – nor has his band, judging from their latest full-length, Accelerate (Warner Bros.). The group performs tonight, May 31, and tomorrow, June 1, at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley. The first tidbit gleaned from this brief talk showed up in this week’s Sonic Reducer – here’s the rest:

SFBG: So what do you think about the response to Accelerate?

Peter Buck: Pretty positive – I mean, I don’t really read the reviews. But I guess it’s sort of floating in the air that it’s a good record. I feel pretty positive myself.

SFBG: What brought on the more rockin’ approach?

PB: It seems like we were going down the path of making longer, quieter records. And it just seemed like the time for a change.

Acolade or agony? Tribute metal at Red Devil Lounge

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By Kat Renz

Unbanged head hanging low from missing Wednesday’s Iron Maiden show down in Concord? Fear not, for a second chance to hear “Powerslave” live on stage awaits tonight, May 31. Sort of. High priestess of tribute bands Lynda Mortensen promises a night of metal mayhem with Children of the Damned; Damage, Inc.; Hail Satan; and Electric Funeral playing your favorite anthems by Iron Maiden, old-school Metallica, Mercyful Fate/King Diamond, and Black Sabbath, respectively, at the Red Devil Lounge.

Are you rolling your eyes or already making them up in King Diamond face paint? I know – I’m torn, too. Tribute bands are simultaneously shamelessly exciting and totally depressing. Ubiquitous and popular, it seems every famous band now has its tribute counterpart. (AC/DC may claim the most: a glaringly incomplete Google search found 20 AC/DC tribute bands from around the world, including British Columbia’s BC/DC and ThundHerStruck, yet another all-women one from LA.) The appeal is obvious. Performers get to embody their most-beloved rock star, and the audience gets to see a sincere counterfeit of their favorite over-dosed, broken-up, or not-touring band.

With this glut of impersonators, parameters by which to judge are essential. First there’s the sound. While it’s vital to cut the lead vocalist some slack – ever try to match Bruce Dickinson’s vocal theatrics, much less in front of people? – if the vocals don’t make the cut, it’s over. No magic, no tribute, and no closing your eyes and forgetting.

After much Vladislav Delay

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VLADISLAV DELAY
Anima
(Huume)

By Erik Morse

With the re-release of Vladislav Delay’s 2001 electro-acoustic epic Anima, we are granted a peek back at the high-modernist experimentation of European electronics in the late ’90s and early ’00s – the boon of the so-called post-rock era. Finnish DJ and programmer Delay, a.k.a, Sasu Ripatti, once recorded for Achim Szepanski’s underground/post-rave label Mille Plateaux – a titular reference to French post-idealogues Deleuze and Guattari of Anti-Oedipus fame – and he fit easily alongside glitch/IDM labelmates Oval, Cristian Vogel and Thomas Koener and the seminal Clicks and Cuts Series.

While Anima, a 60-plus-minute track of organic synth minimalism, uses little of the computer-generated glitching that became Mille Plateaux’s trademark production, its voluminous and spare abstractions – in rhythms, instrumentation, and tonal palette – was indicative of the “prog” methodology then popular among post-rave artists.

As rave historian Simon Reynolds once described it, the world of underground electronica following the acid house explosion was not that much different than that of rock in the the early 1970s, when increasingly “intellectualized” musicians had to reconsider their goal in the wake of the Summer of Love. According to Ripatti the title of Anima reflects a psychological component to the music, “an inner feminine part of the male personality.” Questions about the veracity of this assertion aside, the dip into musical psychologisms evidences a post-’60s Jungian turn – a popular citation among progressive musicians.

Fired up: Fiery Furnaces’ Matthew Friedberger on politics, personality, ‘Sandanista’

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Matthew Friedberger of Fiery Furnaces is a pistol, punctuating his thoughts with chuckles, and backing up and turning around his statements continually. For the first part of this interview, go to this week’s Sonic Reducer. Otherwise read on.

SFBG: So you describe Remember as long and people can use it as they will. It’s not designed to be an “album album”?

Matthew Friedberger: Well, not to compare this to a masterpiece like the Clash’s Sandanista, which is one of my favorite records, but I never listen to that all at once. I think of that as one record, even if it’s a three-record record, and it’s longer, I think, than this one. But totally different, totally different. Like I say, I don’t mean to compare [Remember] to a record like that. But, um, I do think of it as a record, if you want to think about it – not that you think about it – but if somebody wanted to think about it…you’d think about it together.

Played-out Bill O’Reilly: the no spin zone

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Play us out already: The original O’Reilly footage of the man flipping out.

By Laura Mojonnier

By now, you have undoubtedly had the pleasure of seeing Bill O’Reilly go ballistic on an old Inside Edition outtake that resurfaced online earlier this month. The clip spread like only viral videos can, and within days, O’Reilly himself addressed the mini-controversy on his show, joking that the taped meltdown was only the tip of the iceberg. “By contractual obligation, I have to create a few dramas every year for the amusement of my coworkers,” he said smiling, exuding an alarming degree of humility, perspective, and self-control that certainly did not win him his contract at Fox.


Inside the back pedal.

O’Reilly’s attempt to put the matter to rest was futile, however. The footage is just too damn good. I’ve already incorporated his best outbursts into my everyday conversation (“Fuck it! Do it live!” and “Fucking! Thing! Sucks!” are my favorites). The clip is the first video that pops up when you search his name on YouTube, and as of press time, it has garnered more than 1.3 million views. I am clearly not alone.


O’Reilly meltdown: the dance remix

But the real story here, I think, is not the meltdown itself – everyone knows that O’Reilly is a barking, chauvinistic blowhard – but rather the dance remix. Nothing hits the spot quite like watching O’Reilly on loop, rapping, “I don’t know / I don’t know / I don’t know / Fuck!” to the sweet techno beat. I can basically recite the entire song by heart. And in light of the remix, the original footage seems a hollow shell of its former self. It no longer possesses the same power to shock and titillate. Why not? The dance remix, in all its repetitive hilarity, shows O’Reilly’s freak-out for what it actually is: a sadly predictable confirmation that his television personality is not an act.

No self-indulgence for SF’s Mitch Marcus Quintet

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Mitch Marcus in repose.

By Dina Maccabee

The Mitch Marcus Quintet sounds so confident, so full of easy attitude and laid-back strut on the group’s latest release, The Special, (Jazzcubed, 2007), you could almost mistake this mile-a-minute jazz record for an easy ride.

Each track unfolds with a bounty of melodic and structural invention, though the mix of influences – from Eric Dolphy to the Meters – is practically seamless. With saxophonists Mitch Marcus and Sylvain Carton up front flying in tight formation through some impressive mid-air turns, it’s the quintet’s simmering rhythm section that’s responsible for continuously building, tearing down, and rebuilding The Special’s beat-driven foundations. As drummer Ches Smith and bassist George Ban-Weiss man all the bases from swaggering swing to idiosyncratic odd meters and loping six-eight time, guitarist Mike Abraham romps out in left field, lobbing passages of inspired insanity, such as his distorted surf-raga shred-a-thon on “Inditranego,” psychedelically into play.

Like those groundbreaking records by Miles Davis and Ornette Coleman that still shine as irresistible beacons for straight-ahead boppers and free-jazzers alike, The Special has the potential to appeal to both lovers and haters of the jam paradigm. While nearly every tune follows a tightly orchestrated opening with an expansive field of spontaneous solo and ensemble exploration, the improvising feels so honest and un-forced, the vibe so rooted and right, there’s not a self-indulgent note to be heard.

Mitch Marcus Quintet
June 9, 8 p.m. and 10 p.m., $6-$12
Yoshi’s
510 Embarcadero W., Oakl.
(510) 238-9200

Death metal’s best? Arch Enemy to dominate Slim’s

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By Kat Renz

These may be the enlightened days of reinvigorated heavy metal madness, but San Francisco hasn’t hosted a lineup of melodic death metal bands this hefty in a long time. On Thursday, May 29, at Slim’s, Sweden’s ever-fierce Arch Enemy leads the charge of sweeping arpeggios and throaty declarations on the second-to-last stop on their brief North American “Tyranny and Bloodshed” tour. Joining the brutal quintet are three Century Media label mates – compatriots Dark Tranquility, Divine Heresy, and Greece’s death metal offering Firewind. Insert a proper horned salute to Slim’s here for carrying the torch of loud, heavy music of late (Death Angel, Exodus, Slough Feg, and on Friday, May 30, Candlemass and Soilent Green).

Though hardly a household name, Arch Enemy has caught on with metal listeners. Their seventh full-length studio recording, Rise of the Tyrant (Century Media, 2007), debuted last September at no. 84 on the Billboard charts. It could have been higher had the genre’s fans not spent their audio allowance on another new release: Dethklok’s epic cartoon metal album, The Dethalbum, which clocked in at 34,000 copies during its first week out, making it purportedly the best-selling death-metal album to date.

Assembled in 1996 by former Carcass guitarist Michael Amott and ex-Carnage bandmate John Liiva, Arch Enemy’s infant days were especially notable for the technically devastating dual guitar work of brothers Michael and Christopher Amott. In 2001, the group replaced Liiva with a new vocalist, Angela Gossow. Arch Enemy’s since become lazily tagged as that band with the hot blonde Valkyrie who can growl as gutturally as any angry and seasoned death metal dude. Regardless Gossow holds her own in very male-dominated, aggression-fueled scene. (Fellow journalists with metal ambitions take note, there is hope: writing for a German metal mag at the time, Gossow landed the Arch Enemy gig after giving a demo tape to Christopher Amott during an interview.)

Who loves Bobby and Blumm?

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Bobby and Blumm
Everybody Loves
(Morr Music)

By Max Goldberg

Over the last decade, Berlin label Morr Music has carved its niche as a purveyor of delicate down-tempo pop. Bobby and Blumm’s debut, Everybody Loves, is as winsome as it gets, though W.S. Blumm’s electric hollowbody guitar imbues the sweet-nothing melodies with an autumnal glow.

Blumm, a classically trained musician, has himself released three fine solo albums of Burt Bacharach-inspired electro-pop on Morr, but Everybody Loves resulted from his joining up with Swedish vocalist Ella “Bobby Baby” Blixt. The chamber-folk compositions and subdued vocal melodies make Bobby and Blumm seem like the European answer to Massachusetts stalwarts Damon and Naomi.

Blumm’s ultra low-key electronic crackles and Blixt’s confounding English lyrics (“I’m super real / I’m a future present / in the future present”) give Everybody Loves a tentative, dissipating quality, though it’s a beautiful fog while it lasts.

RIP Utah Phillips

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This in from Red House Records:

“It is with great regret that Red House Records mourns the loss of our friend Bruce ‘Utah’ Phillips who passed away Friday, May 23, at his home in Nevada City, Calif. In a time when words like ‘icon’ and ‘legend’ are bandied
about too freely, Utah was the real deal: a consummate songwriter, labor historian, humorist and towering figure in American folk music. A true original, we will not see his like again and it was our great privilege to have been able to partner with him on a number of record releases. Our deepest condolences go out to Utah’s family and many
friends and the countless fans who will profoundly feel his absence. His family requests memorial donations to Hospitality House, P.O. Box 3223, Grass Valley, CA 95945; (530) 271-7144; www.hospitalityhouseshelter.org.

“Born Bruce Duncan Phillips on May 15, 1935, in Cleveland, Ohio, he was the son of labor organizers. Whether through this early influence or an early life that was not always tranquil or easy, by his twenties Phillips demonstrated a lifelong concern with the living conditions of working people. He was a proud member of the Industrial Workers of the World, popularly known as “the Wobblies,” an organizational artifact of early 20th century labor struggles that has seen renewed interest and growth in membership in the last decade, not in small part due to his efforts to popularize it. Phillips served as an Army private during the Korean War, an experience he would later refer to as the turning point of his life. Deeply affected by the devastation and human misery he had witnessed, upon his return to the United States he began drifting, riding freight trains around the country.

“His struggle would be familiar today, when the difficulties of returning combat veterans are more widely understood, but in the late ’50s Phillips was left to work them out for himself. Destitute and drinking, Phillips got off a freight train in Salt Lake City and wound up at the Joe Hill House, a homeless shelter operated by the anarchist Ammon Hennacy, a member of the Catholic Worker movement and associate of Dorothy Day. Phillips credited Hennacy and other social reformers he referred to as his ‘elders’ with having provided a philosophical framework around which he later constructed songs and stories he intended as a template his audiences could employ to understand their own political and working lives. They were often hilarious, sometimes sad, but never shallow. ‘He made me understand that music must be more than cotton candy for the ears,’ said John McCutcheon, a nationally known folksinger and close friend.

Reinvention does the trick for Verbena’s Scott Bondy

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A.A. BONDY
American Hearts
(Fat Possum)

By Todd Lavoie

Fans of the Birmingham, Ala., grunge-rocking outfit Verbena will likely be mightily surprised by the latest move from former lead howler Scott Bondy: the vocalist, having re-named himself A.A. Bondy in the process, swapped the band’s familiar flannel-isms for moody Delta folk-blues on his solo debut, American Hearts, and the results are a hugely successful re-invention for the artist.

Recorded in a converted barn in the quiet Catskills hamlet of Palenville, N.Y. – most famous for its role as an epicenter of the Hudson River school of romantic landscape painting – the album plays intriguing games with concepts of time and place, making over Bondy’s idyllic new home as a Civil War battleground while offering torrents of hellfire-burning Biblical imagery as well. As it turns out, Southern Gothic knows no boundaries.

Bondy’s husky, weather-beaten rasp proves to be an enormously versatile instrument amid the stark atmospherics of this largely acoustic affair, bristling with end-is-nigh menace on the knife-wielding blues of “How You Will Meet Your End,” but still capable of generating ravishingly woozy gospel fervor on the shuffling “Rapture (Sweet Rapture).” The full-length’s complicated balance of despair and spirituality comes to a head on “Vice Rag,” a Jesus-come-hither Delta hoedown punctuated by conflicting pleas of “sweet, sweet cocaine / won’t you all be mine.” American Hearts’s true highlight, however, is the title track: a protest anthem in which Bondy’s Jesus steers clear of the disc’s ever-looming violence and instead fights for peace: “If your God makes war, then he’s no God I know, ‘cause Christ would not send boys to die.”

DEMF: Girl Talk bumrush, Mr. De’s sexy beach, gettin’ Yeke

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Marke “too many pills, you’re not 17 anymore” B is at Movement ’08: Detroit’s Electronic Music Festival. Read part one here, and part two here. Apples! Apples everywhere! Downtown Detroit is a laptop orchard. “Mac should really sponsor these things,” said Hunky Beau, freshly arrived on the scene to improve my picture quality. But the answer is that Mac doesn’t have to — those glowing, half-eaten little beauties speak from the booths themselves. girltalka.jpg Oh, that Girl Talk. All pics by David Schnur DEMF’s day 2 was so pleasant it hurt, and the crowd was full of neon-festooned hipsters (they have them here too!) eagerly passing time before new old-school rap duo Cool Kids and sample-happy girly boy Girl Talk hit the the Red Bull stage, which overlooked the Detroit River. We passed the time in the sunny company of the great Mr. De’ featuring Greg C. Johnson, whose “Sex on the Beach” from back in the day is a protobooty classic. The crowd was going nuts — Mr. De’ schooled the “ghetto tech” kids on some real sensuality. mrde2a.jpg Mr. De’ sexing the keyboard mrdea.jpg Greg C. Johnson, pleased Cool Kids gave a predictably stunner set — even calling out to Detroit and pumping some rhymes over ancient electro — and then Girl Talk came on and the crowd went bananas. I’ve never really warmed to the Girl Talk phenomenon. We have great mashup artists in SF, and dropping some Public Enemy over a Toto sample is sooo 2005. Still, the man’s a genius when it comes to party music and self-promotion: who knew all you had to do was post several YouTube vids of kids stage diving off your laptop platform and you could be famous? Well, maybe everybody knows that now, but Girl Talk knew it first. And who am I to argue, even when he dropped his pants and mooned the crowd in his boxers for half his set while he leaned over his equipment. But this year is indubitably Richie Hawtin’s year — despite other hometown giants Kevin Saunderson, Carl Craig, Stacey Pullen, and Alton Miller on the roster — so after a few Girl Talk singalongs (oh yes, there was stage-diving) we went over to the Beatport tent to catch the Windsor homeboy in a harder mood tan the previous night, at least until he dropped Mory Kante’s “Yeke Yeke” and the dance floor exploded. richieha.jpg Richie Hawtin: Gettin’ Yeke

DEMF: Moby’s Go-go, Hawtin clogs, DBX shocks ’em, and too high to skate

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Detroit native gadabout Marke B. hits Movement ’08: Detroit’s Electronic Music Festival with a handbag full of what-what. Read part one here. The Techno Gods surely had a little laugh on the first (graciously sunny) day of the DEMF. Even though downtown’s sprawling, reinvigorated Hart Plaza on the waterfront – nestled in the shadows of the new casinos pumping serious cash into bigshot pockets and directly opposite the infamous “fist” statue that socks across-the-river Windsor, CA, in the kisser – was brimming with suburban kids and roaming tribes of fun-furred and mohawked candy ravers (love those kids!), and even though Moby (!) headlined, and started his closing DJ set by playing one of his own songs (albeit a remix of his classic “Go”), the old soul of the Detroit underground shone through in quite a few places. (Clarification: Oops my E must have kicked in then. See comment below.) demfdbxa.jpg Waiting for Moby Underground, quite literally. This year, promoter Paxahau Events has reopened the huge concrete-walled basement of the plaza, and has installed the soulful house DJs there, rather than the traditional hardcore noise experimentalists. By two o’clock, heavily muscled dance crews had stripped off their shirts and were throwing down – headspins included – to the sounds of Detroit classicists like Reggie “Hotmix” Harrell and Minx. (That night, freaky Terrence “The Phone Man” Parker and tribal-soulist Stacey Pullen would turn the underground area into a sweaty mass of writhing gay and straight bodies.) upsydaisy.jpg Upside-down to the morning beat demfsteven2a.jpg Terrence Parker hits So much for the house – and notably missing so far this year have been the little independent DJ setups sprouting about the plaza like tiny laptop-vinyl mushrooms – what about the four other stages? What about the techno? The main, video-projected-upon VitaminWater stage, where Moby would later thrash about like a puggle to his electroclash-tinged pop-techno throwbacks, got a slowish start with way-cerebral live sub-dub fractal burbles from local DJ-band hybrid trio nospectacle, which included Jennifer A. Paull, one of the few female knob-twiddlers at the fest. (I went with my fabulous mom, who seemed to be briefly into it.) The stage didn’t really seem to catch fire, though, until Canadian techno purist DBX aka Dan Bell hit the stage in the penultimate slot at 9pm. What Detroit techno used to look like: DBX’s “Electric Shock” from a TV dance show (I think “The Scene” in the late ’80s)

DEMF: Cold techno feet as big fest heats up

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Native Detroit gadabout Marke B. hits Movement: The Detroit Electronic Music Festival That thing where you return to your hometown and immediately, or at least on the ride home from the ex-urb airport, begin to feel your former soul flood back into you – old or familiar buildings take on some weightier significance in the fading evening light, new buildings even more. And then you’re hooking up with old friends downtown, smoking a bowl or two, generally reminiscing and catching up, and driving around looking for a party, although you wouldn’t mind if you just stayed in the minivan bopping to 20-year-old Balearic beats and laughing your ass off with your BFFs. train.jpg The grand, abandoned Michigan Central Train Station, two blocks from my Corktown residence in tha D. (Don’t try to throw a party here, you’ll get srsly busted.) All of which is a belabored way of saying that I didn’t get much afterhours in here in Detroit last night, the “official” pre-party night of Movement: The Detroit Electronic Music Festival, now going on nine years. Sure there were big bonanza advertised shindigs – this festival attracts tens of thousands of globe-hopping techno-lovers to the bowels of the Motor City, no mean feat, that – but for me and my SF fairy-dusted baggage none of them grabbed on all night long. That’s OK: where else in the world but here would you find yourself on a dance floor with legendary DJs Juan Atkins and Eddie “Flashin’” Fowlkes — and 20 other people? Their party “The Fuzion of Science & Techno” had moved from the Detroit Science Center to the grand Majestic Theatre at the last minute, due to what I judge to be poor pre-sales. At first that was cause for a little alarm – the Science Center party is a bit of a tradition, and with a line-up that included Theo Parrish, Mike Clark, Kenny Dixon, Jr, and Alton Miller, the lack of draw was a shocker. Plus, the usual tiny panic hits: is techno really dead? Have the “neo-electro faddists,” as Detroit music journalist Hobey Echlin calls them, taken over and relegated soulful tech-house to another early grave? Aw, hell no, it was just midnight on a Friday in downtown Detroit. We were probably way too early, wot.

No rest for the ‘No Wave’: author Marc Masters chats up his tome

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What’s the story behind the music movement that cried, “No”? I recently caught up with No Wave author Marc Masters via e-mail, as he prepared for a series of Bay Area appearances: Saturday, May 24, at Amoeba Music in SF and 21 Grand in Oakland and Sunday, May 25, at Artists’ Television Access in SF.

SFBG: How did the book project come about?

Marc Masters: Black Dog approached me about writing a book about another subject, but for various reasons that fell through. They mentioned they had been considering doing a no wave book for a while. I¹d always liked no wave and wanted to delve further into it, since there have been lots of theories about it when it happened, which bands were part of it, and so on. So I was really excited to get that chance. I was intimated, too – so I contacted Weasel Walter for advice, since he¹s been researching and collecting this stuff forever. When he agreed to help with material and proofreading (and eventually write the foreword), I felt a lot less daunted.

Sonic Reducer Overage 2: block partay, Nothing People and Pets rage through Sunday

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Heavy Mochipettin’.

Why not take on two more for the raucous road leading into Memorial Day weekend? Sunday will be hopping…


Mighty Underdogs at Bonneroo 2007.


LIVE ON THE LANE

Expect to get on up to get down when eight bands and artists converge on Maiden Lane for music, live art by Vulcan, food, and bevvies. Performers include the Mighty Underdogs collective with Gift of Gab (Blackalicious), Lateef the Truthspeaker (Latyrx), and Headnodic (Crown City Rockers) (7:30-8:15 p.m.), Bayonics (6:30-7:15 p.m.), Mophono (5:45-6:15 p.m.), Mochipet (8:25-9 p.m.), Ghosts on Tape (9:10-9:45 p.m.),
Maus Haus (5-5:30 p.m.), Ryan Greene (3:30-4 p.m.), and Egadz (4:20-4:40 p.m.). Proceeds benefit the music program at George Washington Carver Elementary in SF. Sun/25, 4-10 p.m., $12 basic entry; $35 all-you-can-eat-and-drink. Maiden Lane between Kearny and Grant, SF. going.com/liveonthelane

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NOTHING PEOPLE AND THE PETS
Hypnotic drone-rockers Nothing People find something to celebrate at a free record-release party. Oakland outfit the Pets also tear it up in honor of their own punky release. Sun/25, 5-7 p.m., free. Lucky 13, 2140 Market, SF. (415) 487-1313.

Andrés Subercaseaux’s sublime dispatches: from ‘Aqui’ to eternity

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ANDRES SUBERCASEAUX
Aqui
(Triple Down)

By Todd Lavoie

What a journey. Chilean post-rock/post-electronica composer Andrés Subercaseaux has just released the mind-warping sonic travelogue, Aqui (Triple Down), and I must say, this is one of the more filmic pieces of music I’ve heard in a while.

I realize that the “soundtrack for a nonexistent film” device has blown up into its own genre by this point, but Subercaseaux deserves to be added to the list. By turns funky and uplifting, nervy, and unsettling – and occasionally poignant and quietly evocative – Aqui doesn’t so much create a single “here,” as the title suggests, but rather an entire topography of different “here”‘s. The range here is quite impressive, employing everything from jittery electronica to languid post-rock to freewheeling Tropicalia excursions, and our man handled most of the instrumental responsibilities himself. Anyone who can reference artists as diverse as Tortoise, Stereolab, Os Mutantes, and Brian Eno without resorting to mere pastiche gets big thumbs-up from me.

Aqui starts off with the bubbling, squeaking mood piece “Amazonas,” a soothing instrumental that wouldn’t feel entirely out of place on Brian Eno’s 1975 ambient-pop masterpiece Another Green World (EG/Astralwerks/Virgin). The insertion of what sounds like thumb pianos plucking away in romping loops gives the opener a more playful edge over anything on the Eno album, however. Poke your ears between the track’s bird squawks and the cricket chirps, and the soft glow of single, sustained keyboard notes hovers mid-air.

All Dresden Doll-ed up at the Fillmore

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High drama with Dresden Dolls’ Amanda Palmer at the Fillmore on May 18. All photos by Neil Motteram.

Contributing photographer Neil Motteram checked out the Dresden Dolls show at the Fillmore on May 18. Here’s what he shot.

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East Bay Ray gives the Dolls a hand with a cover of “(You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (To Party!).”

Cluster klatch: Krautrock poobah Hans-Joachum Roedelius gives it up

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By Matt Sussman

Kosmiche godfathers Cluster have been back from the future for more than three decades now, with the core duo of Hans-Joachum Roedelius and Dieter Moebius having offered a rich and varied body of studio albums and collaborations – most notably with Brian Eno – as well as live documentation and solo outings. Through the analog mists and drum machine clicks of their ‘70s albums one can discern many of the splinter groups, such as ambient and synth-pop, which electronic music would break apart into in the ensuing decades.

I engaged in a quickie Q&A session with Roedelius over e-mail, prior to the duo taking the stage at New York’s annual noise jamboree No Fun Fest. (Ed: For more on Cluster, see Matt Sussman’s “Cluster luck: Krautrock’s darkest stars reappear in our firmament.”)

SFBG: Since 2007, you and Moebius have been engaged in a second reunion of sorts, following a ten-year hiatus. Do you find it challenging to work together again, especially in a live setting, after such a long break?

Jello turns 50 with toasts from the Melvins, Triclops! and others

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This just in from Alternative Tentacles: honcho Jello Biafra will be celebrating the big five-oh with two nights of shows including the Melvins, Jelvins, Triclops!, Drunk Injuns, and a new (unnamed as of yet) Biafra project.

“Legendary singer of the Dead Kennedys and head honcho of the highly influentual punk label Alternative Tentacles, Jello Biafra, has no plans on fading away soon. The outspoken, controversial Biafra has been active as a spoken word artist for quite some time and also performing as Jello Biafra and The Melvins, or just Jelvins. On his 50th, Alternative Tentacles celebrates with a show showcasing Jello’s new band, reunited skate-punk legends Drunk Injuns, and latest crop of exciting bands such as Akimbo, and Triclops!.

“The newly hatched Biafra band (as yet unnamed) is Ralph Spight (Victims Family, Freak Accident, Hellworms, etc.) on guitar, Billy Gould (Faith No More, Cool Arrow Records, etc.) on bass, and Jon Weiss (Sharkbait, Horsey, Tonnage, etc.) on drums. Coady and Jared of the Melvins are recording the new Big Business album in June, so the Jelvins bassist this round will be Andy Coronado (Wrangler Brutes, White Shit, Skull Kontrol). The emphasis will be on new music, with the occasional nod to the past evil doing. To open the shows, the Melvins reach back to their original ’83 hardcore days with King Buzzo on guitar, original drummer Mike Dillard and Dale Crover manning the bass.”

“BIAFRA FIVE – O”
June 16-17; 8 p.m.; $22 per nigh, $40 both nights
Great American Music Hall
859 O’Farrell, SF
(415) 885-0750

Sonic Reducer Overage: Ladytron, Last of the Blacksmiths, and more

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Give Ladytron a little sugar.

As usual, SF, you’re far too much for one music fan or one paper to handle. Here are more worthy picks that didn’t quite make it to print. Knock yourselves out.

Cave Singers
There is life after post-punk. Pretty Girls Make Graves, Hint Hint, and Cobra High seem far away for the Matador art-folkies. With Botticellis and Triumph of Lethargy Skinned Alive to Death. Thurs/22, 8 p.m., $12. Independent, 628 Divisadero, S.F. (415) 771-1422.

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Last of the Blacksmiths
The SF ensemble may be last, but they’re not to be forgotten, as they whoop it up moodily on the occasion of their spanking fresh album, **Young Family Song** (Vanguard Squad), alongside Black Fiction writer Tim Cohen’s the Fresh and Only’s. With El Capitan. Sat/24, 9 p.m., $10. Café du Nord, 2170 Market, SF. (415) 861-5016.

Rats
The misunderstood NYC critters promise to rip you a new one. With Some Days. Sat/24, 6 p.m., $5. Hemlock Tavern, 1131 Polk, SF. (415) 923-0923.

Ladytron
They only want you when you’re 17 — when you’re 21 you’re no fun. But if you’re the UK combo you have considerably longer shelf life: fans are chomping at the bit for Ladytron’s forthcoming fourth album, **Velocifero,** for their new imprint, Nettwerk. Tues/27, 8 p.m., $27.50. Fillmore, 1805 Geary, SF. (415) 346-6000.

Do you know the way to Jose James?

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The Dreamer by Jose James is one of those rare debut recordings that is going to grow in popularity due to people’s genuine love for it rather than paid-for hype about James being a major talent. No doubt about it, James is talented, and in a manner not so common these days. James isn’t getting a Clive Davis kind of hype; his album’s on Gilles Peterson’s label Brownswood. Those trappings hint at a type of acid-jazz shallowness that the instrumentation sometimes skates near but generally averts. As for James, he’s a vocalist who loves the music of Pharoah Sanders. There should be more singers like him.

The video for James’s version of Freestyle Fellowship’s “Park Bench People” is an unaffected extension of the track’s lyric. This version of the track is abbreviated, and the song itself doesn’t vie for my favorite moment on The Dreamer. The two songs I keep returning to are the title track and “Winter Wind,” where James’s tenor reaches its highest (almost young Jimmy Scott-like) androgynous realms and also the moments when his phrasing is most reflective and measured. Both of those ballads are lovely, suggestive of a 21st century Gil Scott-Heron (though James has yet to touch Scott-Heron’s political profundity) or at least the spirit of Jeff Buckley. Calling all bookers: I don’t see San Francisco or Oakland on James’s list of upcoming tour dates.


Jose James, “Park Bench People”