Noise

Going down…In Flames

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By Ben Richardson

In 1994, as most of the musical world mourned the death of Kurt Cobain, a humble band from Gothenburg, Sweden, released an album called Lunar Strain, which would go on to help situate the sleepy Scandinavian university town at the center of a swirling metal maelstrom. The band was In Flames, and their incendiary interpretation of the nascent death metal genre would go on to spawn a legion of imitators on both sides of the Atlantic.

The fulcrum of the In Flames sound was a keen ear for neoclassical melody, which they fused seamlessly with the groovy thrash ‘n’ roll that defined the Swedish Death scene at the time. This penchant for soaring arpeggios and Iron Maiden-style close-harmony leads made their music accessible, adaptable, and widely popular. Subsequent LP’s The Jester Race and Whoracle won critical and fan acclaim.

Six years and five albums later, the fire had begun to dwindle. The band had undergone numerous lineup changes, and a seismic sonic shift had been set in motion. By the release of 2000’s Clayman, In Flames was experimenting with slower tempos and crunchier, dumbed-down riffs, while retaining enough soaring leads and double-bass gallop to keep their fanbase placated. 2002’s Reroute to Remain was a different story, a galling stumble into gussied-up nü-metal pablum that introduced triggered trip-hop drumbeats and vocalist Anders Friden’s ghastly embrace of both clean singing and dreadlocks

I heart the Heartless Bastards…

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and they heart me too, cause they’re playing this weekend’s Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival!

Our coverage of the festival here.

Heartless Bastards here:


“Since you took my breath again, would you share your oxygen?”

And live:

Gayest. Videos. Ever. (Pt. 2)

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We’ve been compiling a little archive of local movers and shakers’ favorite super-gay videos, either in context, influence, or just plain awesome swishiness. (Check out Part 1 here.) It’s an webxperiment! Many of the participants appeared in our Gayest. Music. Ever. cover story from last week.

This week, local queer rock impressario Bill Picture of monthly punkrock live-act throwdown Trans Am (happening this Saturday at Club Eight and featuring The Passionistas) chimes in with a few limp-wristed doozies. Check it!

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Bill peeks slyly from behind his partner, DJ Dirty Knees

For me, “gay” is more than just a more-palatable alternative to “poo-stabber.” I also use it to describe things that I think are totally hot, really silly shit, and stuff that’s totally lame. Check out my favorite “totally gay” videos, and you’ll see what I mean:

David Bowie featuring Klaus Nomi, “The Man Who Sold The World”
Then-fence-sitting David Bowie performing “The Man Who Sold the World” with tranny-from-another-planet Klaus Nomi and future-drag-cabaret-superstar Joey Arias singing background. This “gay” falls under the “totally hot” heading. I was seven years old and fascinated by these gender-fluid freaks…

Toilet Boys, “You Got It”
Tranny-fronted headbangers Toilet Boys’ “You Got It.” Again, “totally hot.” The first time I saw the guitarist Sean, who happens to be straight, I thought, “God, I wish I was a guitar so Sean would rub his sweaty business against me every night.”

After the jump: Debbie Harry meets the Muppets, and Madonna gets exxxed

Noodle on, Earthless

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Earthless – who dat? The San Diego-dwelling Tee Pee artists play lengthy instrumentals, part free form, part planned – it’s improv rock ‘n’ roll for those hankering for more of the acid-rockin’ goodness that Blue Cheer, Hawkwind, Cream, Zep, Acid Mothers Temple, and so many other heads have explored, emerging with wild red-veined eyes. Expect much loudness when ex-Rocket from the Crypt/Hot Snakes/Clikatat Ilkatowi/Black Heart Procession drummer and record store operator Mario Rubalcaba (also a former member of Tony Alva’s skateboarding posse) gets together with bassist Mike Eginton and guitarist Isaiah Mitchell.

Oh, and get there early for the Cuts-related Apache and Parchman Farm vocalist Eric Shea’s new combo, Hot Lunch, on Saturday, Oct. 6, 9:30 p.m., at Hemlock Tavern.

Just who is Patrick Watson, that Polaris prize-packing son of a gun?

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By Todd Lavoie

Looks like Patrick Watson’s ridin’ the champagne wave. The California-born Montrealer was just awarded Canada’s esteemed Polaris Music Prize for Best Canadian Album of 2007, beating out stiff competition from nominees Feist, the Arcade Fire, and the Besnard Lakes, among others. (What, no Rush? Avril Lavigne? The indignity of it all!) Sure, the prestige has gotta feel good, and the extra publicity must be nice, but how’s this for a cherry on top: the Polaris is a $20,000 cash prize. Not a bad way to offset some of those pesky touring costs. Watson and his identically named quartet are spending the next couple of months charming audiences across Europe and Canada. (Sadly, no American dates at this point, but fingers crossed. Perhaps all this added exposure will inspire a stateside itinerary as well.)

Enter the familiar refrain: “But who is this Patrick Watson guy?” A fair question, considering thus far he’s flown pretty deep under the radar of the music press. Mention the name, and chances are you’ll either get a shrug and a stare or the foot-stompalicious chorus from “The Magic Position.” (That’s Patrick Wolf, pumpkin.) His sophomore album, Close to Paradise (Secret City), has been given heaps of praise – when it’s been reviewed, that is. Up till now, it’s been a hidden little gem, buried away under the sheer crushing power of so much great music coming out this year.

No wonder, then, that it was such a major upset – especially if you were a betting fool with all your chips firmly placed upon The Neon Bible (Merge) – when the relatively obscure singer-songwriter swooped in from the shadows to collect his 20,000 Loonies. Hell, even the almighty tastemakers at pitchfork.com – ever so proud of their ability to remain several points ahead of the curve – found themselves staring down a mighty slab of humble pie upon finding out that the winner of a big-deal music prize was a guy to whom they’d devoted absolutely no coverage whatsoever. I could take advantage of the situation and snark on Pitchfork, but certainly I’ve heard a thing or two about stones and glass houses. Besides, how about focusing on the upside: there’s just so much wonderful stuff out there that it’s impossible to catch it all.

New Radiohead LP – dance, Rick Astley, dance!

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Love that wiggly Rick Astley video that the faux new-Radiohead-album site redirected to last week! You’ve been “Rick Roll”-ed, indeed.

In any case, Radiohead’s HQ/publicists announced today that the label-less group’s new album, In Rainbows, is forthcoming digitally on Oct. 10 (a special double-vinyl/CD “Discbox” of extra songs, special art and photos, etc. is expected to ship on or before Dec. 3 for a mere 40 pounds; the regular, vanilla, humdrum CD is expected next year). And the band swears they had nothing to do with the Astley vid prank.

It all sounds like an experiment in self-releasing – check it out but prepare for lots of slow traffic. And you know if Radiohead and Prince can manage it…

Gayest. Videos. Ever. (Pt. I)

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Really? The Gayest? You be the judge – and there plenty more where these came from, believe me …. Below are some tunes mentioned in, or chosen by people mentioned in, our cover story this week. Rock on!

Dee Jay Pee Play of Honey Soundsystem

D.A.F., “Brothers”

Kevin Aviance, “Din Da Da”

Magic time: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band return

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Brooooce. Photo by Mark Seliger.

By Todd Lavoie

They’re back! Well, almost. This coming Tuesday, Oct. 2, to keep things official and all. That’s when the Magic happens.

Proving that patience really does pay off from time to time, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band are about to reward us rather handsomely for riding out their extended hiatus. Their latest Columbia Records thunderer Magic hits the racks, and if the glowing adjectives tossed around by the press are any indication, the phrase “return to form” is written all over it. Sure, I could’ve already checked for myself, maybe even previewed a couple of songs – thanks to this handy-dandy Internet thing all the kids are raving about – but I really do relish the freshness of a CD when it’s been shucked from its shrink-wrap within hours of its release into the world. There’s nothing quite like it, is there? In an age where everything seems to be so readily available and spoilers are just a click away, I’d rather keep it old-school, thank you all the same. And so I’ll wait till Tuesday to find out for myself. Besides: why would I want to get rid of the one single interesting feature Tuesdays have to offer?

“But it’s Bruce Springsteen – big deal!” Yes, I can already hear them, snipping and quipping away up there on the horizon, a veritable sea of ironic haircuts and tight-legged trousers poo-pooing away my excitement over what promises to be a highlight of this already-impressive fall music season. Maybe it’s because the Boss reminds the Vice Generation too much of Dad or Uncle Joe?

Furthermore, I doubt Springsteen possesses a single ironic bone in his body; there’s no cheeky winks or clever-for-clever’s sake at play here. He’s far too straight-up for that, thankfully, but such directness might come across as so unfashionably retro in or post-everything culture. It’s probably only a partial explanation, and I could even counter my own argument by pointing out the wonderfully refreshing arrival of what I’ve taken to calling the current sincerity movement in indie rock: witness the impact of emotionally-direct, irony-free acts such as Antony and the Johnsons, Joan as Policewoman, and perhaps even Broken Social Scene.

Awww…freak out!

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File under: “I don’t really care:”

Cleveland’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame announced its nominees this week. Of the nine nominees, five actually get inducted into that great hallowed institution, and get to take part in one of the more self-congratulatory ceremonies that makes its way to VH-1.

And they are:

Madonna
Donna Summer
John Mellencamp
Leonard Cohen
The Dave Clark Five
The Ventures
Chic
Afrika Bambaataa
The Beastie Boys

Madonna is maybe the most surprising — or least? — name. Hell, I remember being ten years old and hearing “Holiday” for the first time. She may have lost me a little bit with the Kabbalah and the British accent and the Britney Spears duet and whatnot in recent years — and her music is not, per se, “rock,” — but you gotta admit, the lady’s pretty undeniable.

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Big ups, Madge!

Local loco techno week

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Ah yes, it’s LoveFest this weekend! There’ll be lots of groovy floats and bunny-eared revellers passing out from lack of H2O — hopefully shirtless. Love! But while the Fest is busy fliying in some mighty Big Names, local techno collectives like Kontrol and Filter are pulling out the stops to make sure SF represents. Here’s a little lowdown of some of the juicier boom-boom haps happening in the next week or so that feature some local meisters in the lineup. Go, kids, go! (PS — I nicked a lot of this info from the inimitable Greg Bird of Kontrol, who rock and sock my world. Make sure to check out their Oct 6 party at the EndUp with my ol’ homey Dan Bell from CANADETROIT)

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After the jump: more more more!

Bryter layter: Nick Drake’s Gabrielle Drake sheds a little light on her late sibling

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From the morning: Nick Drake as a teen.

One of the sweetest panels at the this year’s South By Southwest revolved around the late singer-songwriter Nick Drake: producer Joe Boyd, onetime-possible collaborator Vashti Bunyan, and sister Gabrielle Drake traded anecdotes about the talented mystery man, played music, and took questions to a transfixed crowd. Luckily you’ll get a chance to have a similar experience on Tuesday, Oct. 2, when Gabrielle Drake, Boyd, and singer-songwriter Jolie Holland give a similar talk as part of Noise Pop’s collabo with City Arts and Lectures. I spoke to Drake recently from her home in Shropshire, England.

Bay Guardian: The Nick Drake panel you were on at SXSW was one of my favorite things at the conference this year.

Gabrielle Drake: Thank you. This is a new world to me, because really acting is my world. The music world is new to me. But I do what I’m told! [Laughs]

I was asked to come out to San Francisco and to LA, and I’m glad to do that if it helps Nick and his music. I won’t do it very much because I find in a funny way, the more you go on talking about someone you knew and loved, the more removed from you they become.

BG: Are there a lot of misconceptions out there about him that you feel like you should clear up?

GD: I think there can be. And in the end his music speaks for itself, you know, and that’s great. The only questions I can answer really are questions about the childhood we shared together. Other people can answer questions about his music. But I don’t think there are any easy solutions to what made Nick the musician he was. I think the enigma continues really. No one can really come up with easy solutions, and I’m only there to clarify a part of the picture. That is perhaps an important part that needs to be clarified, so that we can go on from there.

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Gabrielle Drake.

BG: What was your childhood like?

My hippie LoveFest post

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As much as I like to rag on electronic music, I happen to like a lot of it. And even more importantly, I think it deserves more respect, attention, and mainstream support than it gets. Being a great DJ is no less a hard-earned skill (often, on top of natural talent) than being a great guitarist or, I don’t know, accordionist. And for all its annoyances (fluorescent clothing, adults dressed as children, and the proliferation of bad DJs, among them), the electronic music culture is a remarkably positive one: it’s about joy and love and consciousness (don’t laugh, it’s true), about trying to reach that transcendent, collective moment in which you feel alive and empowered.

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Photo by MV Galleries
LoveFest 2006

Laser in on Bonde do Role

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Those zany kids in Bonde do Role – they don’t answer their e-mail, their tour manager misplaces his cell phone – it’s a regular sitcom over in BDR HQ! Too busy livin’ it up, I guess. Anyhooo, after much ado and no interview by the time today’s issue hit print, I finally heard back from the band’s Rodrigo Gorky. Here’s what he coughed up via e-mail; you can check what they’re about for yourself at the Independent on Friday, Sept. 28.

Bay Guardian: How did the band get together?

Rodrigo Gorky: After one rehearsal with a “proper band,” we all just got drunk and started doing baile funk tracks using the most impossible samples possible – from the Darkness to AC/DC and Alice in Chains.

BG: What inspires the group’s lyrics and album and song titles?

RG: Mostly stupid jokes and bad sense of humor that we find funny. (I know, sounds twisted, but that’s what it is!)

BG: The recent album is titled With Lasers – why LASERS?

Saint Steven Morrissey – comedien et martyr

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By Erik Morse

In the inaugural vignette grotesque of Genet’s 1949 memoir-cum-roman noir Le Journal du voleur, the black prince of literature recalls his childhood travels between Paris and the ruins of Tiffauges. Here, along the verdant slopes of the Loire, was the crime scene of France’s most diabolical pederast and murderer, Lord Gilles de Rais. Genet claims his adoration for the countryside’s eponymous genets (a kind of flower endemic to Europe
also known as Spanish broom) compelled him to worship at their rhizomes while they, in turn, bowed to their human counterpart in a veritable miracle of the rose.

“They know that I am their living, moving, agile representative, conqueror of the wind,” he writes. “They are my natural emblem, but through them I have roots in that French soil which is fed by the powdered bones of the children and youths buggered, massacred, and burned by Gilles des Rais.”

This recurring trope, Genet’s “artifice of the flower” framed his every character and crime from the “spiky blossoms” of Darling Daintyfoot’s theft to the prostitute Divine’s “warm anal stele” to the “decorous pageantry” of Querelle’s murders. Flowers were, for Genet, a synecdoche for beatification growing rampant in the charnel house of absolute evil.

The figure of Steven Morrissey on the Smiths’ 1983 Top of the Pops debut had all of the Dionysian and homoerotic charge of Genet’s underworld flaneur. With his chiseled, Northern jaw line, coiffed pompadour, and back pocket overflowing with gladioli, Morrissey summoned, in his melodramatic rendition of “This Charming Man,” the saintly icons of condemned playboys Weidmann and Pilorge who adorned Genet’s cell at Sante prison.

The lachrymose crooner achieved a similar macabre infamy, penning odes to the victims of the Moors Murders and using gay icons Joe Dallesandro and Terence Stamp on the Smiths’ album covers. During a 1986 “graveyard” photo session for the New Musical Express where he mused to a reporter, “I can stand in a graveyard for hours and hours, just inhaling the individuals. When they lived, when they died, it’s all inspiring,” he inspired a new generation to mourn the slaughter of the innocents.

MF Doom swayzies, leaves Pigeon John to do his thing

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By Christopher Lotto

I’d say about a fourth of those who came out to see MF Doom at the Independent on Sept. 18 took off when they found out he wasn’t going to be performing. The rest of us stayed – way to go, SF – to watch Pigeon John, a lithe, high-energy smart-ass from the LA underground. The Independent’s consolation was to open its doors and waive the admission fee, promising full refunds to ticket holders, so why not shtick around for a little what’s his name? I mean, it was Tuesday night, and it was free.

A skilled MC and a well-rounded stage performer, this Pigeon John. He kept it simple: himself, some turntables, some tubs. The set stayed tight even as it went beyond what had been rehearsed for his opening act, and his avuncular talkshit played extremely well between numbers that featured both his Tin Pan Alley tenor and a sharp flow – think
“private-college gangsterism.” He took off his sweater to demonstrate the “Pigeon John,” a sort of go-go-gadget-
arms, semi-apoplectic running man followed by the gratuitous but ever crowd-pleasing slide from side to side. And he pulled some hilarious faux big baller moves, including handing out a couple $10 bills to audience members.

He likes “black white girls” – don’t we all? – and his music seems informed by a variety of popular influences: at the end of the show he had DJ Eq spin the famed guitar intro to “Blackbird,” an appropriately rhetorical sign-off (love for the “Grey” and the “White Album”).

Ska’d yet? The Specials bassist Horace Panter’s tome arrives

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By Todd Lavoie

Book alert: Horace Panter, bassist for the much-beloved ska institution the Specials, has just released his memoir, and it looks quite tasty.

Entitled Ska’d for Life: A Personal Journey with the Specials (published in Britain by Sidgwick & Jackson, but distributed in America by International Publishers Group), it promises to give plenty of fresh insight into the motivations behind some of the most memorable songs of the Thatcher era, along with some intriguing observations about why the band unfortunately couldn’t make it past three albums. Haven’t read it yet, but I’ve pawed it over a few times, and it looks quite well-written. Dare I say, it may be as authoritative as some of those wicked basslines Panter unleashed as part of the Specials’ mighty rhythm section! March on over to your favorite independent bookstore and take a look for yourself.

Ah, the Specials – they were great unifiers. Back in college, I once had a clenched-fisted straight-edge roommate who lived and breathed the hardcore lifestyle 24/7. What a mope. Swear to god, the only way to crack a smile off that guy would be to throw on some Judge or Youth of Today, which he did, relentlessly. Nothing against either band, of course, or the genre, even, but this kid was just so rigid about it! For him, nothing else existed besides two-minute anthems about the evils of drugs and alcohol, both of whom I seemed to be getting on with quite well, thank you very much.

Punk you, Bad Brains

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By Duncan Scott Davidson

I went to the Bad Brains show at Slim’s last night. The sad admission: I’d never seen them before. I mean, I had, for the Rise (Epic, 1993) tour with Israel Joseph I on vocals instead of HR, which really doesn’t count, now does it? Sort of like going to the Wonka Chocolate Factory and being shown around by someone named “Millie Monka” instead of Willie Wonka.

Needless to say, I was stoked on the show last night, though I wasn’t expecting to see HR playing a guitar, an F-hole Ibanez with a blue sunburst paint job. That was all well and good, and added a little more crunch to the music (as if it needed any). I remember being physically moved by the early Brains footage in American Hardcore, just floored by how raw and forceful they were live. Nonetheless, I knew HR wasn’t in his twenties anymore, and wouldn’t be wearing a white droogie outfit and doing flips. Still, during the reggae tracks, when he wasn’t moored to his guitar, he stood with his hands in the pockets of his oversized ragamuffin Harry Potter hoodie-cardigan-blazer thing, his eyes slits, clearly higher than Haile Selassie I. You figure the guy can’t be a whole lot older than fellow DC favorite son Henry Rollins, but you know Hank wouldn’t rock out with his hands in his pockets. Of course, Rollins doesn’t smoke a whole cannabis club to his head every day. And what is it with being from DC and affecting a Jamaican accent? Does playing reggae and being a Rasta mean God sends down and authentic accent from above? Does converting to Hinduism make you speak like a Bollywood star?


Bad Brains, back in the day.

Stealing time with Thievery Corporation

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Corporate raiders? Thievery Corporation.

By Kevin Lee

Before Thievery took the stage on Sept. 15 at the Treasure Island music fest, I took the opportunity to sneak backstage and ask what D.C.’s favorite downtempo duo was up to.

Bay Guardian: How are you guys enjoying the Bay Area so far?

Rob Garza: We’re having a great time. We always love being out here. It’s one of our best
audiences.

God of thunder alert – Valient Thorr at Slim’s

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By Ben Richardson

Almost all of the members of Valient Thorr wear denim jackets emblazoned with their own backpatches, which would be a pretty lame move by a band that didn’t claim to be from Venus.

Yet once a group makes a certain level of commitment to a ridiculous concept, all is forgiven, and a collection of pseudonyms and a convoluted interplanetary backstory only serve to heighten Valient Thorr’s endearing, cultish goofiness. They stormed the stage Wednesday, Sept. 19, at Slim’s, ripping through a high-octane set that combined punk rock, AC/DC, and a healthy dose of ZZ Top.

Majestically bearded frontperson “Valient Himself” patrolled the stage like a demented ringmaster, stretching the world’s tightest pair of purple thrift-store pants to their absolute limit. His ranting, raving vocal stylings kept the crowd raucous, and his copious sweat rained down on the front row, especially when he started purposefully flicking it out of his armpits with both hands.

Barnburners such as “Heatseeker” and “I Am the Law” were kept at a fever pitch by the guitar team of “Eidan” and “Voiden Thorr.” The two seared from start to finish, displaying a devastating talent for four-fingered sixteenth note runs in between their psycho-boogie chord changes. One of them – I’m not sure which – even demonstrated a novel hairdo which I will dub the “reverse beard,” which involves pairing a mohawk and beard combo with a second beard that joins the “face” beard above the ears and runs down along the back of the neck. With some careful maintenance and maybe a little tattoo work, the guy could have a convincing face on the back of his skull.

Weekend fun begun? Maps, One Block Radius, Blank Tapes unraveled

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Oh, the places you’ll go, the shows you’ll see. Here are a few that slipped down an air shaft before the issue hit print.

Maps
Mercury Prizes are flying furiously these days – and yet another nominee for this year’s lovin’ cup comes our way this forthcoming week: the Maps. The UK group’s We Can Create (Mute) has been praised for its “understated ambition (Billboard) and “mood-enhanced stargazers” (Blender). Could it be the next big thing, since snowy earpieces? They chart a path at Bottom of the Hill on Monday, Sept. 26.

One Block Radius
Ex-Scapegoat Wax members suture hip-hop heft with pop preoccupations. Equipto, Xienhow, and others help ’em out on Saturday, Sept. 22, at Elbo Room.

Blank Tapes
Matt Adams captures a carefree, skewed pop vibe with his startlingly rangy new self-released CD, Daydreams, at this party. Supported by Greg Ashley and 60 Watt Kid, Adams and co. perform Sunday, Sept. 23, at Café du Nord.

Moments to treasure – at guess where!

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I got my eye on the isle. Photo by Sofia Ramirez.

By Kevin Lee

First off, I have to say that the folks behind the inaugural Treasure Island Festival did a spectacular job and this year’s event must be considered a success: Treasure Island could be considered a “cozy” outdoor music festival, simultaneously intimate and spacious.

Saturday, Sept. 15, I showed up fashionably late which meant I missed local act Zion I. But I did
manage to see Ghostland Observatory, a frenetic Austin duo that pulsated with vigor – thanks to the vocals of Aaron Behrens and loopy, electrified beats of Thomas Ross Turner. Ghostland impressed the early-afternoon crowd and likely garnered many a new Bay Area fan.

Local artist Kid Beyond dropped some lyrical inspiration before launching into an up-tempo set,
part techno beats, part jungle, and part slick vocals. I had the chance to briefly talk to KB after his set, and he mentioned that one of his lyrical inspiration is Hafiz, a Persian poet from the 1300s. How about that for drawing on the past?

MIA: I admit, she put in a full-on effort to get the crowd moving. Midway through her set, she implored female fans to climb onstage – 30 random girls followed suit and began dancing the only way you can while sharing the stage with MIA. A couple of tracks later, she clambered 10 feet up on the lights scaffolding with cordless mic in one hand, belting lyrics. Mind-boggling displays of showmanship.

Kickstart my heart

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I love hair metal. I love it more now than I did when it was actually popular and not just popular in this ironic, 80s retro, leggings-are-back sort of way. I’m not sure who to blame for this: My sister’s band, whose show opening for Bon Jovi last year led directly to my obsession with finding “Dead or Alive” and “It’s My Life” on Limewire? My ex-boyfriend Kyle, who wooed me with a metal-heavy mp3 mix? Or maybe the indie-rock hipsters who’ve bored me so much with their anemic (but pretty, I admit) shoe-gazing songs that I’ve had to turn to Journey for a good hook? Whatever it is, I suddenly have the musical taste of a 16-year-old boy – in 1983.

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Then.

High on High on Fire live

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Early High on Fire, mach I. Courtesy of MTV.com.

By Ben Richardson

There were a few chuckles from the audience when someone enjoined High on Fire to “play the heavy one,” and a few more when frontperson Matt Pike replied, “I will.”

Levity aside, the good-natured heckling suggested something more profound. During the band’s free set Tuesday evening at Amoeba, High on Fire became the Heavy One, writ large and inked in blood, and ran through a set of songs from their new CD that pummeled with abandon.

Pike’s fingers danced like dervishes across the extra-wide fret-board of his custom-made nine-string, and his face twisted into a devilish grin every time he pulled of something particularly awesome. The kings of conflagration inebriation played the new songs to perfection, doing full and fiery justice to Death Is This Communion riffmonsters like “Turk” and “Rumors of War.” The trio was rounded out by drummer Des Kensel and bassist Jeff Matz, the thunder to Pike’s lightning fingers, and a gruesome rhythm twosome in their own right. If the set had any weakness, it was that the frontperson’s voice sounded a little thin, but the ex-Sleep guitarist’s raspy, wounded bellow is appealing in its rawness, and he was hampered by an admittedly dinky PA.

After yesterday’s record release, High on Fire sets off on a national tour, returning to San Francisco for two culminating dates at the Independent, Oct. 28 and 29.

Shootin’ it with LCD Soundsystem’s James Murphy

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Murph, murph, murph, murph, murph. Yeah, me and the infamously curmudgeonly James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem are tight li’ dat. No, actually I joke – we’ve only been in touch twice, including the time I corresponded with him on the Rapture in 2003, but I do confess, that the man is a bundle o’ fun – if you like your artist-producer-label-honcho types witty, down-to-earth, relatively unpretentious and workman, and nimble with the gray matter. For the first snatch of this interview, see Sonic Reducer; for the rest, keep on keepin’ on.

Bay Guardian: So what’s this about a Fabriclive mix CD with your drummer Pat?

James Murphy: Yeah, we’ve been DJing together in the last year and in New York together a bunch, but it’s really fun on tour when we have a night off or at an afterparty or something. I don’t do anything before my show – just sit back stage and wonder if I’m going to remember the lyrics.

BG: No group hugs or prayers?

JM: No, we don’t any of that stuff. I think the more befuddled and unprepared we are the better the show, often. It’s just such a weird situation that if you overthink it beforehand you’re just like, ah, “I’ll just check out…”