Noise

Lee Hazlewood: July 9, 1929- August 4, 2007

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In honor of the late Lee Hazlewood, here is Edward E. Crouse’s unfiltered conversation with the great singer-songwriter, from the Guardian in 1998:

Love Lee
A duet over the phone with Mr. Hazlewood.

By Edward E. Crouse

LEE HAZLEWOOD writes, produces, and sings ambrosial pop songs. Ambrosial in both senses: the Greek (what the gods ingest) and the American (that picnic mystery made of canned fruits in heavy syrup and whipped cream). Hazlewood claims never to have met Serge Gainsbourg — a Gallic strategist with a similar dark, drunken heart and thick basso profundo–bizarro pipes who shares his knack for perverse idioms and knocking out hits with boy-girl, Beauty-Beast arrangements. Hazlewood is by no means as fashion-ready as Gainsbourg, which means that clubs won’t charge a premium for lacquered and booted neo-modistes to frug on his birthday, and the prospect of cats aping Hazlewood’s trademark stealth fighter–shaped mustache is doubtful.

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Reggae on the River: “We tried”

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By Molly Freedenberg

Remember way back when a group of disillusioned Burners decided to challenge the status quo by forming their own version of the Burning Man Organization (BORG)? They called it BORG2, and they planned to unseat BORG 1 – or at least inspire a change in its art funding policies – through their “anything you can do, I can do better” approach. Thing is, BORG 2 just couldn’t quite get its act together, and the project unceremoniously fell apart.

Well, it seems the reggae world is now hosting its own version of the BORG2 madness, where fun-fur-wearing desert rats are replaced by dreadlocked dubsteppers. On the left? Reggae on the River, the penultimate reggae festival of longtime repute that seems to be almost as much a mecca for the steel drum crowd as burning man is for DJ Lorin lovers. On the right? Reggae Rising, the BORG2 of this particular conflict, led by former Reggae on the River contributors. The issue? Both want to throw a reggae festival. At the same place. On the same day.

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Tim McGraw’s balls

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Blessed be to the advances in technology that allow alert concertgoers to capture performers at their most uncouth.

Most recently, Faith Hill upbraided a front-row fan for gettin’ too gropy with hubby and tourmate Tim McGraw’s private parts (TMZ has the video here). And of course there’s the now-famous Beyonce tumble (TMZ has it here).

Who needs concert videos when the between-songs shit is so juicy? Anyone who owns a copy of Having Fun With Elvis On Stage — no songs, just banter, some of it quite rambling and surreal — knows what I’m talking about.

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Beatle Watch Day 2: “Across the Universe” viewed with mixture of dread and fear

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By Robert Bergin

Last week, Sean Manning posted about a bunch of lame-o’s protesting the usage of Beatles anthem “All You Need Is Love” in a diaper commercial. Whether the lame-o’s in question also knew about next month’s blockbuster film/Beatles tribute/Boomer-nostalgia epic Across the Universe remains in question, but I think it’s safe to assume that anyone who bothers to research Luvs’ marketing campaigns for instances of song-sullying probably didn’t let this flick fly under their radar.

The variable, then, must be artistic integrity – a quality dubiously associated with rock musicals. Mamma Mia and Tommy have their fans, but those productions succeed mostly because their audience has an emotional attachment to the show before the lights even dim. All the story has to do is not suck.

(I once saw a play called Steven’s Last Night in Town, which was essentially a flimsy excuse for a bunch of actors to sing Ben Folds songs. My favorite part was probably the intro to “Uncle Walter”: “Blah-blah-blah – here’s a conversation that has nothing to do with your uncle Walter.” Awkward silence. “Hey, remember your uncle Walter?!” Seriously, that’s, like, exactly what they said. Verbatim.)

Anyways, go watch this. Back? OK, so director Julie Taymor is clearly sitting on something new, right?

Grinderman at Slim’s: a top three on Tuesday

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My top three performer-audience mano-y-mano, mi-show-tu-show moments at the Grinderman performance at Slim’s on July 27:

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3) A toss-up between the umpteenth time this dude in front of me yelled, “STAGGER LEE!” causing his long-suffering female companion to gently pat him on the shoulder and say, “Yeah. OK. We all know now,” and the moment Nick Cave inadvertently insulted another rabid fan bellowing for old Bad Seeds songs by calling him short and bald. It’s Grinderman, get it? Just play along, dumbkopf. Of course Cave, being the grindingly productive gentleman of letters he’s famously morphed into, immediately qualified the insult with “I’m sure you’re perfectly nice” or some such soft-pedal. Ever feel like you’ve walked into some kind of ongoing dialogue…otherwise known as a rock show?

2) The decision about the last song of the first encore landing in the hands of the guy hollering “TUPELO!” for most of the night. His time came when Cave and Grindermen gathered to decide on the final number – this after playing a raucous, brawling, beer-swilling “Henry Lee,” a genuinely moving “Lucy,” a torrid “The Weeping Song,” and the predictable “Red Right Hand.”

“You can’t leave the country without playing ‘Tupelo,'” hollered our friend.

“What did you say?” asked Cave, straining to hear and seeming to be honestly interested.

“YOU CAN’T LEAVE THE COUNTRY WITHOUT PLAYING ‘TUPELO’!”

“What was that?” The crowd appeared to somehow part, creating a quiet corrider between the singer and the screamer.

To make a painfully protracted interaction mercifully short, let’s just say the guy had to yell the same thing about four or five times before ole Caveroni made the connection. And lo, Grinderman played “Tupelo” with about as much roaring vigor as can be expected from a band half the size of the Bad Seeds. Needless to say, dude was probably beyond psyched.

The crumbled sugar cookie topper: after the song ended, Cave turned back to the audience as the rest of Grinderman shuffled off the stage, and declared, “Now…we can leave the country.”

1) That perfect end was upstaged by the second encore – and the bizarre sight of both Henry Rollins and Jello Biafra jumping on stage to sing hearty backup on a jig-worthy “Deanna.” Who could have imagined that Cave would have been willing and able to orchestrate this totally surreal Giants of Punk Vocals summit. Maybe someone should be enlisting the songwriter for Mideast peace talks.

Daft Punk makes it harder, better, faster, stronger…

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By Sean Manning

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The palpable current of body heat and the nervous tension of thudding beats caused some of those packed in front of the stage to lose inhibition and go into freak-out mode, while others busted a move with their glow sticks, or simply resorted to ecstatic screaming. Berkeley’s Greek Theatre was throbbing with life – and Daft Punk hadn’t even started playing yet.

Call it a show that was nothing if not a tribute to the undeniable musical power of anticipation and release. Case in point: the adrenaline-baiting dance mix that filled the venue as a mysterious black curtain draped the stage that was being prepared for the French house legends. A gust of wind occasionally gave a glimpse of a blasting strobe light or a bit of metallic rigging. The effect worked: not only was the crowd visibly anxious, leading to general shenanigans and throwing things, but some concert-goers were actually tugging at the curtain to get a glimpse of the stage setup that took well over a half hour to set up.

When the curtain peeled away, the sheer buildup had already amped the audience to a level of intensity that most bands would be lucky to get during their encore. And that was the thing: Daft Punk’s entire set felt like an encore, going to absurd lengths to top itself. What could be cooler than hearing “Around the World”? Well, how about “Around the World” blasting out of Daft Punk’s obsidian pyramid set, with a webbed lighting rig, a jumbo big screen, and – oh yeah, throw in the vocals from “Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger,” too, while you’re at it.

And for the actual encore? Well, they lit everything else up onstage, why not light up Daft Punk themselves? Yeah, that was it. And when they turned around, Guy-Manuel de Homem Christo and Thomas Bangalter’s jackets lit up with the Daft Punk logo to the delight of an entire hillside of apeshit-happy fans. Epic.

Au NOW!

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Is there a Grizzly Bear rooting round my trash or an Animal Collective doing my fricking dishes? Nah, it’s just the sound of Au (pronounced, all you phonetics phans, as “ay you”), the Portland-bound solo project of Luke Wyland. Me likes their newly released self-titled disc, a gentle melange of bells, strums, and psych-folk meander.

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Au plays Thursday, Aug. 2, alongside Brooklyn’s Hi Red Center and ex-Gowns drummer Corey Fogel, and
Dannie Little Teeth at Hemlock Tavern, SF. Starts at 9 p.m. and it’s only six bucks, buckeroos.

This week’s vid: Kanye, Zach & Bonnie “Prince” Billy’s country grammar

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Children of the corn. Collage courtesy of Harp.

OK, we give – Kanye is still king, especially after we peered at the inspired new, YouTube-y video for his single “Can’t Tell Me Nothing,” which was posted this week on his site. Call it “Menace II Future Farmers of America”? Behold comedian Zack Galifianakis – glowering manfully on his North Carolina farm, dancing with John Deere shit and cavorting with fresh-faced milk maids in some St. Pauli’s Girl commercial gone horribly, hilariously wrong. Check musician Will Oldham, aka Bonnie “Prince” Billy, striking gangsta pose on country roads. And naturally Galifianakis’s tummy is a marvel to observe (see more of it on his recent live comedy DVD filmed at SF’s Purple Onion).

Apparently West enlisted Galifianakis after seeing him perform standup in LA, sayeth Billboard. So kudos to Kanye for letting the silly pair undercut the lyrics’ toughness with wit and a little weird, backwoods Old Joy. Expect more when West’s LP, Graduation (Def Jam) – oooh, scary! – emerges in August or September.

Mo’ MIA, Daft Punkette…and prime time musings from Berkeley

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By Robert Bergin

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A rather old photo of MIA.

Two nights ago, a dear friend and I walked around campus. Our states were altered, and we talked to things that don’t usually talk back to people. Very good listeners, those things. Needless to say it was a sissy-sentimental sort of evening, so when we walked past our campus’s beloved campanile at 11:57 p.m., what else to do but sit down and wait for the bells to bong? We’d be the first to welcome in Thursday – that was the idea. So we sat. And sat.

Yep. Sittin’ sittin’ sittin’. Nice night. Oh, yes, very nice. I wonder where Thursday is? Oh, he’ll be here. Strange, I’ve always known him to be quite punctual. Yes, me, too.

(Thursday is, of course, a man. Thurs Day. Say Thurs. A very ugly name for a woman, but it works great for a dude. He’s probably in one of those ESPN Ironman things, pulling big rigs.)

After what was assuredly more than three minutes, I checked my cell phone. 12:03 a.m.! All this time we’d been waiting at the front door, and he’d snuck through the garage. Called him a trickster at the time, but in retrospect, he was just being polite. Not waking the neighbors.

It’s a good time be young in Berkeley. A while back Jon Carroll wrote a very nice column about the summer of love. If all this feels a bit like a Carroll knock-off, well, I can’t help it. He writes very well, and if his experiences are as honest as his prose, then he lives very well, too. So, my apologies.

Anyways, a while back Carroll wrote a very nice column about the summer of love. I can’t find it online, but the gist of it was that no one really thought of it as, y’know, the Summer of Love. It was just a bunch of people sitting around in a park, welcoming each coming moment. Sort of living out Person Pitch, 40 years before that album’s time. And while Berkeley has had that blissed-out vibe for the past couple months, at least from my perspective, there’s been a tangible air of anticipation as well.

Y’know that episode of Pete and Pete where Big Pete waxes eloquent about how the Fourth of July marks the summer’s apex? For a lot of us kids, tonight’s Daft Punk concert feels like that. All the hikes, the road trips, the feet out the shotgun window, the fire escape sunsets and the People’s Park basketball games, it’s all been a prelude to tonight.

We are going to dance a lot.

And MIA’s playing at Amoeba the following day? Which one, yours or ours? Ours?? Shit. It’s good to be young in Berkeley. You should probably come over – this weekend is going to rule.

What’s that you say? A YouTube video? I got your YouTube video right here, buddy.

Two Gallants tour like hellions this fall, prepare to unleash new LP

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This recently in from Two Gallants’ PR HQ:

“Childhood friends since age 5, Adam Stephens and Tyson Vogel have sustained longevity that very few people, let alone band members, can claim. Merging intelligent lyrics that often integrate historical references and human experiences beyond their own familiarity, Two Gallants captivate listeners with their unique breed of folk, punk and blues.

“The self-titled Two Gallants comes out Sept. 25 on Saddle Creek, following The Scenery of Farewell acoustic EP, which came out earlier this year. Recorded in the band’s hometown of San Francisco at the historical Hyde Street Studios, and produced by Alex Newport (Mars Volta, At the Drive In), Two Gallants builds on the foundation laid by their 2004 debut, The Throes, and their sophomore release in 2006, What the Toll Tells.”

To hear a track from Two Gallants, listen here:


And album track list?

Boxcar Saints tramp it up

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By Todd Lavoie

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Bless the Boxcar Saints. Courtesy of www.boxcarsaints.com.

If there’s anything on this earth that really breaks my jaded, irony-encrusted little heart, it’s the sight of a hobo cranking out a sad, sad waltz.

Are you with me on this one? Can’t you just see it? There he is, shirtless in his denim overalls, a greasy half-empty bottle of hooch tucked in the front pocket, clunking around in the sand with feet falling out of shoes scavenged three states back, somewhere down by the train tracks. It’s a desert nowhere, a three-horse, one-saloon town – cactus, scorpions, the whole bit – and the poor guy’s doing nothing but spinning dust dervishes all around him, clapping his hands in time to a tune only he can hear. Maybe it’s a fine little ditty his Grandpappy taught him, all those years ago, when he was just a little tadpole. Ah, but that was a long time ago.

Now he’s just a drunk, a rambler, a wobbly old crank who hops trains from town to town, staying put only long enough to do the occasional odd job and maybe buy himself a hooker who ain’t too particular. No one ever learns his name – not his real name, anyway. Rather than Bob or George or whatever, he goes by Smalltooth or Soup Can or something like that. And he keeps on waltzing under the blazing sun to the song rattling around in his head. Oh, the humanity! The drama! Do you feel the pain? Do you taste the tears?

Before you give up on our hobo – let’s call him Flea Stick Slim – maybe you should consider the music of local desert-dramatists the Boxcar Saints before ‘fessing up to the coldness of your heart. Led by the mescal-growl of Dave Hudson, this gang of scoundrels and rounders reveal landscapes studded with snakebites and bar fights and girls who mean nothing but trouble. Sure, they’ve got a Tom Waits thing going on – some of the band has even played with Waits in the past – but these guys also add Angelo Badalamenti-esque slinky jazz and a Calexico-flavored dustiness to their South-of-the-Border commotion. Wailing saxophone on tracks like “Together” (from the 2005 Grand Mal Records release Last Things) keep things nice and noir-ish. Listen closely, and you can almost see Flea Stick Slim himself, our hobo hero on the run from the law…

The Boxcar Saints – joined by the leg-kicking sassies of the Barbary Coast Shakedown’s Dancehall Revue – will tell their sordid tales from the other side of the tracks on Saturday, July 28, 9 p.m., at 12 Galaxies, 2565 Mission, SF. Twelve bucks for a good cry is a pretty good deal.

Tonight! DJ MIA in da popscene haus

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This just in, in, in: MIA will be playing DJ, spinning and freestyling, alongside Maximo Park tonight, July 26, at popscene. So if you were too slow on the uptake for the tickets to her show at Rickshaw Stop Saturday, July 28, or can’t make her Amoeba Music instore in Berkeley that same day at 2 p.m., then you gotta ‘nother chance to watch England’s Tamil Tigeress wax specific.

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It’s tonight, July 26. LA’s Monsters Are Waiting go on at 10:15 p.m., UK’s Maximo Park enters rocking at 11:15 p.m., and guest DJ MIA is expected around 12:15 a.m. Doors open at 9 p.m. at 330 Ritch St., SF. Cover is $15 if you are 21 or older and otherwise $17. Cover for the dance party with MIA is $7, starting after the last band leaves the stage.

Of course if you pass out early tonight, ‘member, MIA will be rockin’ Amoeba Music Berkeley Saturday, July 28, 2 p.m.

Stars: they fall down, just like us!

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By Molly Freedenberg
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…except they have better publicists. And lawyers. And whole record companies fighting to keep their embarrassing foibles out of the public eye. In the case of Beyonce, or Ms. B-Day (am I the only one amused that she named her album – phonetically, at least — after a device that cleans your ass?), who fell head-first down some stairs at her Orlando concert on Tuesday, it’s probably all of the above. It seems B’s team is asking people not to post YouTube videos of the singer’s somersault (which, by the way, she impressively ignored as she got up and continued to sing), and Sony has begun to make copyright claims on each of the videos. I’m not going to argue about what a stupid waste of resources this is, or about how this video has gotten B. more attention, and in more circles, than anything she’s done recently has gotten her. No, I’m just going to say that I wish I had a whole team of people protecting me from my public foibles. Like, say, my drunken antics at the bar last Friday.

You can see Beyonce fall down (or not) in our neighborhood on August 31.

(By the way, though many of the videos of “The Fall” have been removed, tons of others keep popping up. Just search YouTube for “Beyonce Orlando fall”).

The poetry of Lindsay Lohan

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What the hell is happening to young Hollywood? Nicole’s maybe heading to jail (with a Good Charlotte bun in the oven); Paris was in the clink and out of the clink and back in the clink again; Britney’s on the threshold of a full-scale meltdown (and you thought the head-shaving thing was the worst it could get); and now LiLo – the only member of this skanky club that actually has discernable talent – is back in trouble with the law, recent rehab stint be damned.

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What can we learn from Lohan’s troubles? In her hour of need, let’s turn to some of her finer song lyrics. Newly poignant meanings abound. Cries for help lurk between every rhyme. Who cares if she didn’t actually write ‘em all – she sang ‘em, man. Conjecture away!

More free, fab sounds: Amber Asylum’s Kris Force comes out old-school

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Amber Asylum honchette Kris Force gives an olde-styley performance with pal Sigrid Sheie tonight, July 25, at the Homestead. Me thinks it won’t be heaviosity incarnate – instead, Force e-mails, “We’ve been working on a collection of standards and torch songs that we would love to share with you.” She adds that Chewy of Hammers of Misfortune will be joining the duo on brushes.

It’s all happening tonight, about 9:30 p.m. And it’s, dang, free… though attention to the tip jar is appreciated.

All you need is…less diapers, more navel-gazing ‘60s nostalgia

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By Sean Manning

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In a move that’s sure to send the diaper industry to its knees – and the general public into an era of unabashed pants-pooping – an announcement will be made at the Musicians for Peace stage at this year’s Monterey Summer of Love Festival to protest Proctor and Gamble’s use of the Beatles “All You Need Is Love” in a TV ad. Get it? Like, “Luvs.” Why? ‘Cause that’s, like, our anthem, man. Get yer stinking hands off my anthem.

What’s most surprising is that the folks at Luvs even went for a Beatles song in the first place. Those rights must’ve been expensive, right? Besides, hippie children don’t even wear diapers. They squat and bury. You know, to be closer to the earth and stuff. Why not drop a fraction of the cash and get Wayne Coyne to write a little ditty specifically for these ads? It’d probably be a real toe-tapper, and he’d name it something catchy, too, like “Overflowing Bladder Vs. the Bear Hug Stretch Diaper of Olympus Mons (Interstellar Leaky Bottom) Pt. 1.”

Oh, well. You live – you learn. You get Luvs.

TerrorBird getdown

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Hey Everyone, sorry.. I copy and pasted the info from email i sent diane. but all the show info is still good. hope to see you nex week. hope life is amazin! david

Update!!!
– Boombip Band Live!
– Live Apparence from Casual (Hieroglyphics Oakland)
– Daddy Kev (Alphapup’s President)
– CD Giveaways
– Free Air!!
July 28th, 2007 – San Francisco CA
@ Minna Gallery – 111 Minna St.
$10, 21+
TERRORBIRD ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY BLOW OUT &
DALY CITY RECORDS THRIPLE Ds RECORD RELEASE PARTY
SPONSORED BY XLR8R
*2 Rooms of Madness *
Boom Bip (Lex), Mochipet (Daly City) + Mike Boo (Alpha Pup) + Mike Reed
Daedelus (Ninja Tune), Jel (Anticon), The Bad Hand (Daly City)
Book Rate DJs: Tin Cup & Lazy Brow (Terrorbird), Panther (Fryk Beat),
Dopestyles123 (Daly City) + Yoko Solo (Quake Trap), Human Beings
Copy (Audio Dregs), Meanest Man Contest (Sneakmove)
Bloodysnowman (Daly City), Puzzle (Daly City), Build128 (Girlfight)
+ Very Special Guests…

Flyers:
http://www.dalycityrecords.com/myspace/dalycity_terrorbird_back.jpg
http://www.dalycityrecords.com/myspace/dalycity_terrorbird_front.jpg

Presale Tix:
http://www.dalycityrecords.com

—
David Wang

Mochipet
http://www.mochipet.com

Daly City Records
http://www.dalycityrecords.com

Portland’s got yer Dirty Mittens…

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Set off the Portland twee indie explosion with Dirty Mittens, Bustling Townships, and Eskimo and Sons. The Portlanders head into town whispery song stylings, the fairy-tale folk, and the shambolic sing-alongs respectively.

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Have signage, will tour: Dirty Mittens challenge you to a staring contest.

The crafty Northwesterners settle down at the Red Vic series on Wednesday, July 25, 7 p.m. at the Red Victorian Peace Cafe, 1665 Haight, SF. And dang, it’s free, y’all.

BoBs over Bay-ghdad: Best of the Boy… I mean, bands

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By Robert Bergin

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Ghost Boobs, kids love ’em! Gravy Train!!!! strikes a munchy pose. Courtesy of nyc.metblogs.com.

Perhaps you’ve noticed a lot more bated breath among your neighbors. More expectant glances at calendars and watches, perhaps. Well, there’s a logical explanation for all that anticipation. The Guardian‘s “Best of the Bay” issue drops next week.

But you can’t wait! You’ve gotta have those value judgments! In your hands! In your computer’s hands! In your brain! Now!

Enter the RIPs (Rejected Intern Pitches). I’d say something like, “Consider this an appetizer to next Wednesday’s main course,” but I think you and I both know this is just a silly blog post filled with random stuff. So on with the awards!

Best Band of All Fucking Time: Fall Out Boy, no duh. Or should I say…Fall Out BAY. Oooohhhh.

Best Shamelessly Hip Music Video that You Are Watching While Living in the Bay:

Best Initiation into Gravy Train!!!! culture:

I think I’m a little too much of a corn-fed heteronormative frat boy to truly appreciate this band. Not that I actively dislike them or anything: hypersex just isn’t really my thing. Still, even though I went to their Bottom of the Hill show a couple weeks ago mostly to check out the opener, Experimental Dental School, I thought it’d be interesting to bring along a companion that didn’t know anything about the headliner.

So I sent an e-mail to my fraternity’s listserve saying I had an extra ticket, and I get a response from a friend we’ll call Biff. Biff, in addition to having a heart of gold, fulfills a few of the requisite external qualities of your prototypical frat boy: sandals, muscles, a strong affinity for Sublime, et cetera. I told him it’d be fun and internally prepared myself for a night of awkward vibes and incredulously raised eyebrows.

Of course, we weren’t even there five minutes before I came back from the bathroom to find Biff slovenly making out with some girl in a velvet dress in the middle of an already sexed-up crowd. (I’m not sure what was better or worse, the instance itself or his shrugging explanation, “She didn’t even give me her name. She just said ‘I’m from LA.’”). Sleazy? Yeah, but what’s the point in turning your nose up at smutty thrillseekers? Fiery loins…just another thing Gravy Train!!!! and my fraternity have in common.

(Ed.: And if you’re curious about that sexy GT, check out the cute animated video for “Burger Baby.”

Electro-fied

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By Molly Freedenberg

Blame it on my newish obsession with Chromeo, but this punk and rock diehard is suddenly getting all excited about electropop. I suppose it was really only a matter of time, considering I grew up doing kick-ball-changes to Marky Mark (and his Funky Bunch), and have been indoctrinated into the world of house and breaks by six years of Burning Man – and what is electropop if not the marriage of those two danceable genres? Either way, after weeks of devotion to Black Tuesdays (Cutiepie DJ Lance spinning Minor Threat and Joy Divison at Delirium), suddenly the following events are what have my motor running (or my turntable spinning?) this week:

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Ratatat and Devlin&Darko
Leave it to the culturally savvy folks at Flavorpill to get some badass acts for their anniversary party. Tonight’s shindig at Mighty features Brooklyn duo Ratatat, who have been opening for Daft Punk in Europe, and Devlin&Darko, who have somehow managed to make Paul Simon’s 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover a dance anthem.

Pitchfork Music Festival Day 3: Just try keeping the Lidell on De La Soul

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By K. Tighe

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Jamie Lidell rocks the synthetics. All photos by K. Tighe.

Sunlight danced off of Jamie Lidell’s Mylar-embellished headpiece as the Cambridge-born genre-bender yucked it up like only a Brit can. When not encased within his make-shift mechanical perch, Lidell contorted around the stage in a gold-embossed smoking jacket, giving the impression that this fringe-hugging impresario was something of an electro-soul shaman. An old hand at manipulating peripheral noise elements, Lidell pulls from an arsenal that includes a Theremin. He loops and layers. There was even a brief cameo by a handheld gong, though the fire power to reckon with is an achingly soulful, and relentlessly funk-filled croon.

Lidell was proof positive that the solo performers at this year’s Pitchfork Music Festival lineup intended to shake things up. Still, no one was more vulnerable on stage than Stephen Malkmus. The former Pavement frontperson didn’t have any equipment to hide behind. His was a simple equation: a man, a guitar, the masses. It was a throwback to what festivals used to mean, back in the hippie days when an acoustic guitar could hit harder than a backline full of Marshall stacks. Malkmus delivered a stunning, if sparse, performance that included several Pavement songs. At the end of his set, he was even joined on drums by former Pavement drummer Bob Nastanovich.

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Dressed for indie success: Kevin Barnes of Of Montreal.

It’s not a stretch to assume that Of Montreal’s Kevin Barnes whiled away many childhood hours playing dress up and performing in front of a mirror. The anti-glam Abba-fetishists served up gimmick after sparkling gimmick, and the crowd ate it all up. A guitarist molting hot-pink wings, an acrobatic ninja flipping around the stage, and the trademark stilts that have brought many an Of Montreal up to the – ahem – next level filled out a disco-perverted performance. Barnes’s frequent costume changes culminated in a risqué ensemble of black-leather corsetry that elicited an expected chorus of whistles and shrieks from a starry-eyed audience. The whimsical Georgia group finished with a flourish: an encore of the Kinks “All Day and All of the Night” that sent the crowd into the requisite hysterics.

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“Think pink!” think Of Montreal.

Across the park, the New Pornographers closed out the Connector Stage with their token take on power-pop. Ingratiating themselves to longtime fans by throwing in plenty of tracks from their upcoming album, Challenger (due in August on Matador), the Pornographers did not disappoint.

When the sun started to go down, the vendors were busy packing up, the crew was beginning to strike equipment, and the toilet paper that had been conspicuously absent from the port-a-johns revealed to have been strewn about the now-empty lawns in front of the Connector and Balance stages, I began to wonder how the hell the Pitchfork peeps think they can wrap this thing up. Seventeen thousand people who have just had the shit rocked out of them are clustered around the Aluminum Stage – the gigantic AV screens are all running the same anticipatory feed, and the act to close this fest better damn well live up to the hype.

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The Pitchfork crowd was utterly smitten with De La Soul.

Enter De La Soul. Wait, sorry, enter De La Fucking Soul! This comes as a booking no-brainer in hindsight. How do you impress hoards of elitist music-enthusiasts when you’ve spent three days hiking up the precedent? By booking a band that doesn’t care if it impresses anyone. By booking De La Fucking Soul to get on stage, have a good time, and remind everyone about what sparked that passion for music in the first place. The set largely consisted of well-worn tracks from 1989’s 3 Feet High and Rising, and the minute that DJ Maseo started bouncing around stage, all arms were in the air bouncing along with him. With Posdnuos and Trugoy egging everyone on from behind their self-inverted mics, no one stood a chance.

The boys starting chiding each other – quipping about their ages between songs, throwing out sarcastic jabs at A Tribe Called Quest – and it was clear that there was no agenda afoot, save rocking the fuck out of everyone in earshot. The sound-related shortcomings that had been plaguing every stage all weekend must have sparked some kind of karmic fury, because De La Soul was working at volumes that hadn’t been present all weekend.

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Lo, De La.

When DJ Maseo stopped scratching and announced that, because of his age, he could no longer hold his bladder and had to take a bathroom break, the crowd didn’t seem to get the joke. Then Maseo announced that he had a replacement in mind and brought out Prince Paul – iconic hip-hop legend and producer of 3 Feet High and Rising – and the audience went positively ape. Paul’s appearance prompted dozen of normally cooler-than-thou VIP laminate holders to jump the fence into the All Access area and shake it with the stagehands.

During all the commotion, Trugoy came to the side of the stage to ask the hundreds of press, agents, publicists, and artists, “What are you guys supposed to be?” With the over-eager shout of “VIP” he got in response, he laughed into his mic, and repeated it to thousands in front of the stage, which was, of course, answered by a chorus of boos and hisses. “We’re just gonna call you guys special fans over here. Now, we know you’re the movers and shakers of the industry – but these…,” he said, gesturing to the masses, “…these are the hip-hop people.” For a brief moment, that old rock ‘n’ roll adage – you know, we’ve got the amps; you’ve got the numbers – took over, as the general admission audience screamed their heads off.

Tweet! Makin’ out the Bird and the Bee

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By Todd Lavoie

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Hey, swingers! Dolls! Diggin’ those retro-futuristic sounds again, aren’t you? I know, I know: ain’t nothin’ better for sipping Mai Tais on the patio, daddy-o, than a few shakes and shimmies of an electro-samba graced by a cool, cool kitten cooing from the soft belly of outer space, is there? Now that I’ve bent your ear, how about throwing in a little Frenchified pop and maybe a sprinkle of Martin Denny exotica, while we’re at it? Sounds like a classy joint, doesn’t it?

Well, good news, space age bachelors and bachelorettes: on Thursday, July 19, at the Independent, you can indulge all of your tiki bar dreams and bossa nova fantasies, thanks to the smooth stylings of LA’s finest ambassadors of pop sophistication, the Bird and the Bee. Singer-songwriter Inara George (daughter of the late, great Little Feat funkster Lowell George) and multi-instrumentalist wizard Greg Kurstin – the respective winged creatures in question, I’d reckon – whip up a potent cocktail of late ’50s/early ’60s poolside elegance, Left Bank yeh-yeh girl intemperance, and Tropicalia free-wheeling, all served up in a postmodern update of that era’s kooky visions of a 21st century, which seemed so far away at the time.

Best of all, the duo doesn’t drown it all in irony, either! Sure, the lyrics contain a few knowing winks, but amongst the snarky irreverence – look to their bouncy bout of whimsy entitled “Fucking Boyfriend” for proof – are moments of homage so sincere that I can’t help but imagine the pair lounging around in their Ray & Charles Eames furniture, feet up, drink in hand.

We got the (electro)funk: Talking with Chromeo’s Dave-1

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By Molly Freedenberg

You’d think a writer living in Tech Central and a musician who works almost exclusively with electronics would be able to figure out how to have an international conversation. But somehow, Chromeo’s Dave-1 (who was in London at the time) and I couldn’t get that archaic piece of equipment (you know, the telephone) to work for us. So we turned to ye olde computer. Below is the transcript of our email interview, emoticons and all (who knew Dave-1 uses smilies?). I’ll let y’all know if we actually talk face to face after their show at Mezzanine on Monday. chromeo may truong 2_2.jpg

San Francisco Bay Guardian: So first of all, I love the new album. How was making this one different from making the first?

Dave Macklovitch: Well we took a while because we really wanted to come up with the catchiest songs. We took our time. We wanted this to be a more sophisticated record. We polished the arrangements, the mix too. We got Philippe Zdar to mix it, actually. And then it was also really important for us to put the emphasis on the lyrics this time around. So you know, that explains everything from “Bonafied” to “Momma’s Boy”…

SFBG:I know you didn’t know much about electronic music when you formed Chromeo. Is that still true? Either way, who’s been influencing you (or who have you been excited about listening to) in the past few years?

DM: I mean, now we’re up on all that stuff. All the Parisian stuff, London cats like Switch and Sinden, German cats like Digitalism and Boys Noize, we like all that. But we don’t come from that world. We discovered this through Chromeo and everyone who’s supported us over the years…

Pitchfork Music Festival Day 2: Life-changing moments with Yoko Ono, Cat Power, Dan Deacon, Battles, Girl Talk…

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By K. Tighe

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The power of Cat Power. All photos by K. Tighe.

To kick-off the Pitchfork festivities on Saturday, July 14, I decided to check in with some Bay Area denizens.

I’d been hearing excited murmurings about cheap subscriptions to Ready Made magazine, so I headed over to see how the Berkeley publication was faring in the Chicago heat. The corner booth was swarmed with people eager for a turn at custom-designing their own organic T-shirts. Mike Senese, the magazine’s product and online manager, made the trip out from California to organize a crew of local volunteers. This was Ready Made‘s second year at Pitchfork, and Senese explained that they’ve decided to offer festival-goers the chance to get a year’s subscription for only $5. It’s a huge hit. According to Senese, the booth has been constantly busy between the T-shirt making and subscription-peddling — he’s barely had time to see any of the bands.

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Ready Made’s Mike Senese spreads the T-shirt-making word.

Next I checked in with Cory Brown, founder of Emeryville’s Absolutely Kosher Records. Brown and his two little nephews were busy doling out T-shirts and albums to ecstatic festival-goers, but he managed to find a few minutes to tell me that all of the AK bands — across the board — are selling really well. At the fest for a third year, the AK was now joined by hoards of other small imprints from coast to coast in the WLUW Record Fair tent.

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Absolutely Kosher honcho Cory Brown chillin’ with chillen.

Later I headed over to the FlatStock Poster Convention on the other side of the park to check in with Terrance Ryan, a.k.a., Lil Tuffy, San Francisco’s premier rock poster artist. Tuffy told me he was doing well, selling many posters, and having fun. A quick look around at the other vendors — who are all extraordinary — solidifies in my mind that SF does it better: Lil Tuffy’s prints were one of the highpoints of the convention for me.

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Lil Tuffy peddles his posters.

Finally it’s time to take in some music. I head over to the Aluminum Stage, where Grizzly Bear is about 10 minutes into their set. Having been underwhelmed by the band in the past, I wasn’t really expecting much from their mid-afternoon slot. With a sweeping, ethereal momentum that seemed to sprout out of some deep flirtation with rock opera, the Brooklyn quartet positively thrived in the festival environment. The drummer seemed to be working on about 13 internal metronomes, anchoring a set list largely pulled from their 2006 album, Yellow House. A flourish of delicate melodies were layered over the driving rhythm, and the whole thing sounded like an experiment in wrangling chaos. The end result was so charged, I’m surprised the band didn’t collapse after the final song. I suspect they at least had to go bury their feet in the earth of Union Park to ground themselves after such a stellar showing.

The sassy genre-spanning spastics Battles christened the cooling weather with an unabashedly raucous shit storm. Pulsing with hipster smugness, the New York prog-electro-funk-metal-kitchen-sink group pounded through an unsurprisingly mind-melting set to an audience that just couldn’t get enough. Sewn into the fabric of Battles’ success is their ability to produce sound that seems to shed irony. Indeed, the festival crowd was coated with a heavy gloss of the stuff, igniting a theme of “Fuck being cool — let’s just dance!” for the duration of the evening.

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