Live Shots

Live Shots: Soulwax at the Independent

Tony Robles
-
0

Whether more or less true in other places, the crowds at shows in the Bay Area can be disappointingly savvy regarding encores. They know that if the band says goodnight and leaves the stage, the show is only possibly over. Or if recorded music comes over the speakers, the show is likely over. And (of course everyone knows) that when the house lights come on, the show is definitely over. It’s a convention that the bands and audience both understand, but robs everyone of some fun. Which was why it was wonderfully surprising that the majority of the people at the Independent Thursday night stuck around clapping, shouting, and making noise ’till it hurt in an attempt to get Soulwax to come back out on stage.

Didn’t happen. The staff of the club kept cranking the volume of the music louder, finally getting on the mic to announce that it was really over, everyone actually had to leave. Anyone that wants more will need to check out the Live 105 Subsonic Halloween Ball at the Regency Ballroom tonight, where the Dawaele brothers will be headlining as one of their many other aliases/projects, 2manydjs. Which may be confusing for anyone outside of Belgium, the UK, or Soulwax’s extremely dedicated fan base.

Essentially, what the folks at the show on Thursday (many of whom seemed to have traveled to be there and may have paid hefty sum to the scalpers outside) got was Soulwax, the four-part electronic rock band, which is a bit of an oddity in that its last conventional album was 2004’s Any Minute Now. Nonetheless it’s continued to tour and perform the earlier material, reworking and tightening it up. Which basically means that as a group, Soulwax has its act down: matching suits, tons of strobes to go with them, and the music, a no-nonsense succession of synthed out, percussive tracks that go from brooding to funky to electro without ever stopping. (Maybe part of the reason that people wanted an encore so bad – shortly after a screaming sing-along rendition of “NY Excuse” – was that without the breaks the ending just snuck up on them.) When I say they don’t stop, I mean it; for a band, Soulwax transitions seamlessly, with the skill of great DJs.

Which the Dawaele brothers are, primarily under that other name: 2manydjs. That’s been their focus the last couple of years, culminating in the creation of Radio Soulwax, an ongoing collection of 24-hour long theme mixes available online, accompanied by some pretty crafty visuals created from the sampled album covers. (I’ve found listening to it to be a great way to power through the work day, assuming 5 Hour Energy, coffee, or cocaine doesn’t work for you.) As Soulwax, the band put on a hell of a show–supported by Goose, a group that understands everyone can switch from keyboards to guitars as much as they want, provided that the drummer kicks hard and lays down some tommy gun fills–but 2manydjs may be able to top it. According to an avowed fan I talked to last night (the kind that has the white label vinyl and wears black glasses without lenses–hopefully as an early Halloween costume,) 2manydjs is the “real deal.” Somehow, as an encore, it might be the rare case where the DJ set is better than the band.

Live 105’s 3rd Annual Subsonic Halloween Ball
With 2manydjs, Fake Blood, Bag Raiders, Classixx, Tenderlions, Aaron Axelson, and more
Mon/31, 5:45 p.m., $25-$90
Regency Ballroom
1300 Van Ness, SF
(800) 745-3000
www.theregencyballroom.com

A very Nobunny Halloween turns crazy, quickly

Tony Robles
-
0

It’s a little nerve-wracking going out in costume for a show when it’s not quite yet Halloween. What if no one else dresses up and it’s a scene out of Legally Blonde? Luckily the bands at Brick and Mortar (Zulus, Uzi Rash, Apache, Nobunny, Ty Segall) were slated to perform costumed covers, so I figured it would be safe. (Plus, I spent enough money making the damn thing to ensure I’d be living with my dad for an additional month–so I was gonna milk it.) Still, when I got inside the venue, I scouted to find some other outfits among black clothes and leather. A guy was wearing a 1994 USA Olympic Dream Team windbreaker (“Carl Mullen” he told me, pointing to one of the figures with a basketball). Another guy was dressed as Business Man Who Has Too Much To Drink, Tries To Mosh Too Early, And Is Never Seen Again, but this was easily topped by the best costume of the night: Totally Trashed Crazy Girl.

Totally Trashed Crazy Girl is an excellent example of how to pull off a costume. Because it’s not just about the outfit. Hers was simply a black dress, although she gained (some would say stole) some accessories throughout the night. By itself, not enough to make people understand the costume, but she also committed to the concept. (Because really, who wants to stand around all night explaining how you’re a Totally Trashed Crazy Girl when they ask “What are you supposed to be?”).

As soon as the Zulus came onstage performing as the Stooges, it was clear that TTCG would have to step up her game. Because let’s face it, it’s hard to show up Iggy Pop and Zulus’ Iggy was on it. Launching into “Search and Destroy,” he almost immediately flew into the crowd, where he would spend half his time, when not contorting his body into extreme poses onstage. Simply trying to wave the lead singer down mid-song would not prove to be a strong enough tactic for TTCG.

And step it up she did. While Uzi Rash covered the Undertones, TTCG took to pulling on the lead singer’s pant legs. Initially, slightly bothered, saying “Would you stop that?”, Uzi Rash’s version of Feargal Sharkey eventually just blew her off with bursts of microphone feedback before walking over her with his bare feet.

During its set, Apache’s singer asked if there were any drinks for his Dead Boys. Someone in the audience passed up a partially full flask of Jack Daniel’s Honey Whiskey, which was passed around by the band before being set down by the kit. This is where TTCG proceed to creep onstage and grab it for herself. “No!” the original owner of this questionable liquor said, “That’s not for you!” and took it away.

Now fully in the spirit of the role, TTCG was comfortable being on stage, seeking out any drinks or Reese’s Cups that happened to be evading her. Ty Segall as the Gories took it upon himself to eject her mid-song, screaming “Get this girl off the stage, motherfuckers!”

The bands had a lot to contend with that night in addition to TTCG, in particular stolen setlists taken by overzealous fans. Nobunny, doing his best David Johansen (all the New York Dolls were looking pretty good), had to request that they give it back, “or at least just shout out the next song.” Fittingly, it was “Bad Girl,” during which TTCG made her final appearance. (Clearly it had to be a costume – how else could she have survived the night? Five bands!) “You’re a bad girl,” admonished Nobunny. “Only because you keep punching me in my dick and I don’t like it.” Just to show that there were no hard feelings, he later awarded TTCG a red feather boa.

Live Shots: Zahara! at Swedish American Music Hall

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
0

Yeah, so sometimes I cry a little when I listen to live music. You got a problem with that?

This may have happened last Friday night (10/21) when I went with Sam Love to Zahara!, a performance that featured singing and dance with roots in passionate flamenco from Kina Mendez, live Moroccan musicians (a group by the name of El Hamideen), and even some belly dancing.


My love for flamenco stems from when Sam Love and I lived in Cádiz, a small town in southern Spain, when I went to university. The first day of Spanish Lit class, my classmates and I sat down in a rather plain classroom, save for a poster on the wall of a man with a huge afro, and low-buttoned shirt revealing stacks of gold medallions around his neck. Beneath the photo, one word: Camarón.

In our naivete (and lack of Spanish culture) we thought it had something to do with shrimp. Our teacher entered and one of the first questions asked was not to do with Lorca, but about the dude in the photo. Our teacher’s answer: “ Camarón es Dios.” Wow! Here we were in a Catholic country and this guy was God? We needed to know more. Turns out, Camarón was one of the most famous flamenco singers in Spain, so much so that people wore gold saint medalions of him around their necks in place of Santa Maria. From that moment on, I couldn’t get enough of the emotional, heart-wrenching, powerful ballads known as flamenco.

So when Kina Mendez started singing during the Zahara performance, the potency, the tradition, the Spanishness that came from her lips induced salty tears to roll down my face. It was beatiful. I loved the mixing of cultures happening on stage, the air of pure nostalgia, and the fact that despite their different geographical provenances, the singing of Spain and the drumbeats of Morocco can come together in perfect harmony.

VALE! VALE!

Kina Mendez:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VouPdlUE5I4

Camaron:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJKpyDEJs2U

Live Shots: Gold Panda at the Independent

Tony Robles
-
0

The endangered giant panda. The vulnerable red panda. But, the most rare variety of all, the elusive Gold Panda, emerged under the cover of a hooded sweatshirt (as is his nature) at the Independent Tuesday night, drawn out by the lure of a MPC, samples, and a sold out crowd.

Gold Panda’s music runs between melancholy and exuberance. Even when the BPM picks up on one level and the notes get more and more chopped up, the speedy, aggressive current that runs through so much electronic music never emerges. Maybe it’s the slow drone or the endless, never collapsing crashes that seem to be in the background of most of his songs, a building hypnotic tension behind his beats. (Hypnotic that is, until a quick little break comes around, smacks you in the ear, and leaves like nothing happened.)

As the UK/Germany based musician (“real” name Derwin Panda) played a fairly long set, covering most of the material off his LPs Lucky Shiner and Companion, the music seemed natural and organic, but also utterly inhuman. When voices appear, they’re abstracted, like the foreign ragas or the dissected “you.” (No setlist for this one; knowing the title of “I Suppose I Should Say ‘Thanks’ Or Some Shit”, contributes little to the appreciation, and is arguably distracting.) The stage setup was simple with some LED string lights and a paper lantern, but the live visuals by Ronni Shendar complemented the emotional mood of the songs perfectly, with found typographic examples, oceanic and urban triptychs, and some nature shots deserving of Attenborough.

Openers:
Blackout Make Out wins the best name award. A shaggy haired, jeans-clad, sunglassed, mustachioed, local singer songwriter sang ballads, sustaining notes on the electric guitar over synthetic beats. “Do you, you run away? Will you, will you stay?” At times a little ooh-ooh moan-y, but dude wasn’t afraid to let his guitar go to work over a building four-to-the-floor bass beat. Some cool moments sounded like he was having a conversation with his instrument, or more appropriately, arguing that no one is broken hearted like a man in denim.

At the conclusion of Jonti, a guy behind me said, “It was like a Rain Man set.” Burn, dude. That’s a little harsh, but I knew when Jonti, hailing from South Africa, took off his shoes right before starting, that it was going to be an idiosyncratic performance. Charmingly awkward, he lost a lot of momentum in his mic breaks, and was then be faced with the hard labor up building it back up. But there was a joy in watching Jonti get into his own distinctive beats enough to not just put words together but actually sing. Better than counting matchsticks.

Live Shots: Portishead at the Greek Theatre

Andrew Lam
-
0

Once while talking music with friends on a long road trip I was posed with the task of describing Portishead’s sound. Struggling to articulate the sum of their collective parts, I did a hasty mental cut-and-paste and said, “They’re sorta like…if Pink Floyd was a hip-hop band…and Billie Holiday was their singer.” It’s a clunky description, not so much for the references, but because Portishead’s greatest attribute is their ability to bend genres so seamlessly that it all morphs into their own sort of singular sonic universe. Even the prevailingly appropriate moniker of trip-hop (of the Bristol variety) really seems more of a launching point than a description.

So it was a rare opportunity this past week to witness Portishead’s audio empire live in the Bay Area for the first time in over 13 years (when in 1998, it recorded an epic version of “Sour Times” during a Warfield performance for the Roseland NYC Live album, later that year). Playing the Greek Theatre in Berkeley on Friday October 21, Portishead worked through a 16-song set as a six-piece live band, dark silhouettes set against a backdrop of vibrant visuals as band members broadcasted an eclectic mix of their catalogue (pulling most heavily from their more recent LP, Third). Singer Beth Gibbons was in fine tortured form, even as the early part of the set was dominated by surprisingly straightforward renderings. But during the second half of the performance Portishead delved deep in their element with a batch of expanded arrangements on some prime tracks that produced stunning results, most notably a massively ominous “Wandering Star” and an out-for-blood “Machine Gun.”

Tracks off of the band’s self-titled second album showcased Portishead’s mastermind Geoff Barrows working his way from a cocoon of varying instruments to the turntables were he cut up gargantuan spots on “Over” and “Cowboys.”  The night’s showstopper came in the form of “Roads” (off of the band’s landmark debut Dummy) as Beth Gibbons’ vocals hit their apex for the evening.

Seeing Portishead again for the first time in a decade, I tried to improve on my original description of their sound, but I’m still not so sure how to peg it all: they sounded like Nina Simone scoring a James Bond film, and the beginning of the end of a great romance, and a DJ battle under pulsing blacklights. Of course, none of these are fully apt either. After all…it’s Portishead. For those who know, it’s description enough.

Setlist:

Silence

Hunter

Nylon Smile

Mysterons

The Rip

Sour Times

Magic Doors

Wandering Star

Machine Gun

Over

Glory Box

Chase the Tear

Cowboys

Threads

(Encore)

Roads

We Carry On

 

 

 

 

 

Live Shots: Anika and Peanut Butter Wolf at the Independent

Tony Robles
-
0

“Sound check,” some dude yelled after the first song on Wednesday night. His voice was particularly loud, because at the Independent, there wasn’t much of a crowd. As if to clarify to his friends that he wasn’t just an obnoxious dick, he added, “Seriously, though.” Anika looked at him with a slightly amused glare. It was the largest reaction anyone would get out of the singer that night.

Were there sound issues? Well, Anika’s vocals weren’t exactly clear, but that was consistent with the sound of her debut record. Produced by Portishead’s Jeff Barrow and released in the the US on Stones Throw, the self-titled Anika album has an underwater, hollowed tone to it, as the singer runs through covers and a few original compositions. The Stones Throw label, which take pride in releasing material that’s as fun as it is challenging, called it an “experience in uneasy listening.” Which seems to be going a bit far: on the original ‘No One’s There,’ Anika’s seductively flat Nico voice combines with a dub beat and some snappy breaks in the chorus for a perfectly catchy effect. When they played it live, it got immediate recognition from the part of the crowd that came to hear it.

If anyone came to connect with the performer, however, they were most likely disappointed. A few times it looked like she was going to say something, before catching herself and pulling back. The occasional stretch of silence hung between songs, punctuated by what seemed to be the same person yelling, “You’re so sexy!” which didn’t seem to ease the tension between the singer and the audience.* Maybe the shyness is a calculated image, but mostly Anika just seemed awkward and not comfortable with being in front of a (small) audience. Which makes sense, given that the singer reportedly met Barrow while working as a political journalist in Berlin last year. It’s been a short road to where she is now.

Even seasoned artists had a hard time Wednesday night. The Starving Weirdos and Jel got sacrificed as openers, essentially just laying down material before a politely unenergetic crowd. Peanut Butter Wolf, the founder of Stones Throw, was a late addition to the lineup, perhaps to try and boost sales. (If there is crossover between Anika fans and Barrow’s, it wasn’t evident. Portishead plays a sold out show at the Greek Friday.) As a DJ, PBW can definitely get things going – his 45 party with Dam Funk at Public Works last spring was fantastic — but at best I can say it was a subdued performance. “I’d tell you to come up to the front of the stage,” PBW said before starting, “but you’d have to pull your chairs up,” referring to the cocktail tables the venue put in the back to make the place seem less empty. His VJ set, full of oddball clips of mostly quirky rock and roll, should have been a bonus, but the seated aspect made it sedate.

Anika’s voice has a lot of familiar character. Her covers of “Love Buzz” and “In the City” midway through had flattering Grace Slick elements to them. But closing the show with Talking Heads’ “Once in a Lifetime” made clear that she still has a ways to go as a performer. Maybe reading the lyrics out of a notebook is in keeping with the zeitgeist of studio recording – wherein Barrow reportedly told the singer to not rehearse – but there’s a difference between getting a live quality on record, and actually being live.

Peanut Butter Wolf partial VJ Set List
Public Image Limited — Bad Life
Kenneth Anger/Mick Jagger — Invocation of Demon Brother
Sparks — Beat the Clock
Josef K — Sorry for Laughing
New Order — Blue Monday
Jimi Hendrix — Hear My Train A Comin’
The Cure – 10:15 Saturday Night

Anika Set List
1 – Terry (Twinkle cover)
2 – End of the World (Skeeter Davis cover)
3 – No One’s There
4 – He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss) (The Crystals cover)
5 – Yang Yang (Yoko Ono cover)
6 – I Go To Sleep (Ray Davies cover)
7 – Masters of War?
8 – Love Buzz (Shocking Blue cover)
9 – In the City (Chromatics cover)
10 – Officer Officer
11 – Sadness Hides the Sun (Greta Ann cover)
12 – Once in a Lifetime (Talking Heads cover)

*If it’s creepy/inappropriate to yell something at a woman walking down the street, her standing on a stage probably doesn’t make it better for anyone.

Save a horse, ride these cowboy pictures: Shots of the Grand National Rodeo

Andrew Lam
-
0

So struck were we by the spectacle that is the first weekend of the Grand National Rodeo (read our print coverage of the event here), your Guardian news team lost a couple hundred dollars worth of camera equipment, by a conservative (uneducated in the ways of photography) estimate (your writer’s). Luckily, we still brought back photo documentation. They never should have let us stand by the bronc pit.

City slickers be forewarned: rodeo nights’ll make you dizzy. Thousands of cowboys hats cruise through the Cow Palace on each of the Grand National’s yearly four main evenings of existence. Last weekend two of these took place, but you’ve still got two more in store for you, should you want them: Fri/21 and Sat/22. You can check out the show ponies in the unfathomably large stables section of the event, take a stadium seat to watch the cattle roping, bronc riding, and barrel racing events, and eventually (they all do) wind up back in line at the concession stand for a cold Coors Light.

How’d we lose the camera lenses? Standing up on the same platform that the cowboys vault from to reach the backs of their designated bucking broncos. You’d do well to stay far from the gaze of these finely-bred, but nonetheless brutally strong hunks of animals. But they sure are fine to look at. So you’re welcome for the slideshow.

 

Grand National Rodeo

Remaining dates: Fri/21-Sat/22 7:30 p.m., $23–$44

Cow Palace

2600 Geneva, Daly City

www.cowpalace.com

 

Mini symphonies and Beach House: Treasure Island, day two

Tony Robles
-
0
Mini symphonies and Beach House: Treasure Island, day two

Though Wild Beasts’ brand of baroque, sensual dream-pop is better suited for a dark and smoky bar, I consider it an honor to catch the UK band in any setting. A sizable crowd gathered around the Tunnel stage at Treasure Island Music Festival to enjoy songs from this year’s Smother, along with older material like breakout hit “The Devil’s Crayon.” Hayden Thorpe’s heavenly falsetto rang out over chiming guitar provided by Ben Little.

“This song is about fucking,” Tom Fleming announced before launching into “All The King’s Men” from the 2009’s Mercury Prize-nominated Two Dancers. At this point, visible swooning ensued among a group of devoted female fans with a handwritten sign praising Fleming’s velvety baritone. It was the final show of a month-long stint in the States for this English bunch. As they directed our attention to the glittering bay behind them, I became quite certain it would be remembered fondly by band and audience alike.

Over on the Bridge stage, seasoned alt-rock vets Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks shredded super hard. Malkmus’ sharp-tongued stage banter kept me giggling between songs. However, anyone standing near where I was won’t need me to recount the wildly distracting antics of the boy dancing with a giant plush hot dog. Also, I’d be curious to hear from the burner brave enough to follow up on bassist Joanna Bolme’s request for “herbal cigarettes.” In an act of genius scheduling, Beach House took to the Bridge stage just as the sun began to set against the San Francisco skyline. The sky took on a surreal orange hue that fit all too well with the Baltimore, Md., ensemble’s hazy, dreamy tunes.

I’m not sure which was more jaw-dropping, the epic sunset or Victoria Legrand’s stunning features displayed on the jumbo screen behind her. Couples embraced and swayed to the melancholic arrangements of Alex Scally’s wailing guitar and Legrand’s organ; a few audience members were reduced to tears. Although I didn’t cry, Beach House’s flawless delivery of “Take Care” just as darkness fell over the island was, hands-down, my favorite TIMF moment.

Maybe I’m getting old, but all the excitement, running between stages, and daytime beers left me exhausted. Sorry Death Cab, Explosions In The Sky served as my TIMF grand finale. I had reservations about the instrumental rock band’s ability to hold my attention for a full set, and previous acts had already set the bar pretty high. However, my expectations were thwarted as the Austin, Texas post-rockers completely blew me away. Members of Explosions In The Sky threw themselves into the mini symphonies, sometimes sitting down due to the physical demand of their elaborate instrumentation. About halfway through the performance, a swarm of illuminated white fabric jellyfish appeared overhead and gracefully bobbed through the crowd. I watched the giant screen in awe as Munaf Rayani open-handedly slapped the strings of his guitar with dramatic emphasis to produce a piercing, eerily dissonant sound. Then Rayani and the band finished up a melodic masterpiece and the audience erupted into wild, reverberating applause.

 

Click here for day one.

Space Mayans and techno-African kuduro: Treasure Island, day one

Tony Robles
-
0

Treasure Island Music Festival rewards the stout of heart and non-possessive of blanket space. The way the island fest is set up, no two concerts overlap – if one feels up to it, one can traverse the 100-some meters between the Bridge and Tunnel (get it?)  stages to catch any given day’s entire. Music. Lineup. Upshot? I spent a solid hour in the press tent with my feet on a card table, tapping away on my smart phone as though taking notes, incredibly unstout.

But the music!

We got there on one of the first, cushy shuttle buses of the day. Chair foursomes facing each other over tables with cupholders? A bike workshop run by Levi’s was set up next to the SF Bike Coalition’s valet services at AT&T so our cycles were tuned and gleaming by the well-deserved end of the festival day? Clearly, TIMF is doing it’s best to ameliorate the rage caused by the long shuttle lines one must endure after the headliner’s close.

Our haste was due to one man: Aloe Blacc (though we managed to catch the also-rad performance by local indies Geographer). Blacc might have been a slightly unconventional choice for the electro-dominant festival but it is, after all, not a bad idea to provide refuge from driving beats and plaintive whines for just a moment. He appeared onstage the embodiment of dapper, and went out of his way to inspire audience participation (singing and soul line) for his singles “You Make Me Smile” and “I Need a Dollar.” A late-in-the-set switch to reggae showcased his range.

Then: ferris wheel. If you want to really see this festival, you will do it from the whooping, screeching heights of an amusement park ride ($5, meh). Do this early in the day because by the time it gets dark, you’ll have lines all the way out to the Burning Man shipping container area (where the bonneted “grahamas” handed out graham crackers and freaky faux-old-woman coddling). Also, do the Silent Disco early in the day for the same, line-related reasons.

Shabazz Palaces was great, the Naked and Famous were great. Battles, I was tickled to learn upon reading my program prior to its set, holds in down in New York for “math rock,” which surely you can imagine as the climbing and descending wash of sounds that it is. I felt the unexamined logarithms washing over me… but it was time for Dizzie Rascal.

Why has this emcee achieved more renown in the United States than nearly any of his non-US peers? (Which I typed out just before being reminded by Wikipedia that Drake is from Canada) It’s been a long time since his 2003 debut album Boy in Da Corner. The Ghanian Brit gave us dubstep because he heard “Americans like dubstep,” got everyone dancing to the sound of police sirens, and generally set the international stage for Portugal’s Buraka Som Sistema, which jounced around the stage in a techno-African kuduro whirl.

One thing. Why is Native American the design motif of choice at festivals these days? I blame Urban Outfitters, but the numbers of TIMF-supplied teepees didn’t help, and to a lesser extent, neither did Workshop’s adorable and well-meaning dreamcatcher classes. Kids, dressing up as an ethnic group you do not belong to is a total no-no, even if you LOVE that neon feathered headdress. Just say no. I saw an awesome group on the Jumbotron whose crowd-locator totem pole had a plush broccoli strapped to it — you are welcome to try an animal, vegetable, or mineral theme. Chromeo turned in a good show, even if the duo doesn’t seem to have switched up its song retinue much since 2007’s Fancy Footwork album.

We stayed at the larger Bridge stage after that to begin the slow push to the front for the Australian end of the day one-two punch: Cut Copy and Empire of the Sun. This was the end of the day, and the well-prepared among us was revving up for the night while the rookies were drooping and falling backwards onto me every fucking time I was looking straight at their wobbly backside.

Can we talk about Empire of the Sun? I’d like to hear a reaction from someone in the back of the audience during that show, because honestly I feel bad for you. If you couldn’t see the costumes that the gaggle of space Mayans onstage were sporting, what was that like? If the epaulet-wigs weren’t easily visible flying through the air, if you couldn’t pick up the subtlety in the way the dolphin head dancers were cutting through the stage’s energy currents – the Jumbotron was tuned to the group’s Stargate-esque visuals instead of the close-up shots of the performers that had shown on it for every other show. Anyway, we were at the front and I will tell you right now what the show was like: awesome, even if most of the people around us were frozen looking at the stage in place of actually moving to the beat.

That was it. Then we waited in line for the shuttles. Which was fine, because we had a lot to talk about, like how there was no way in hell we’d be able to do this again the next day. (Unstout).

 

Click here for day two.

Live Shots: The Hula Show 2011 at Palace of Fine Arts

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
0

Images of chilling fog sweeping over the Golden Gate Bridge and a glowing sunset illuminating the Painted Ladies might not conjure thoughts of hula and Hawaii, but the Hula Show at the Palace of Fine Arts bridged that connection, bringing swaying hula hips to San Francisco in a unique aloha tribute to our fair city.

All the classic Hawaiian moves were there, with a twist of Bay Area flair — plus some Arabic chanting, Hindi ragga, New York house music, and even a cheeky tribute to Lady Gaga. A heart-stoppingly lovely performance of the classic Frank Sinatra song “Somethin’ Stupid,” a wholly enthralling Mexican-tinged hula solo, and a dance in honor of the Dungeness crab (performed with snappy aplomb by the warrior-like male members of the company) proved the full range of the graceful Na Lei Hulu I Ka Wekiu dancers. They flashed genuine, welcoming smiles when dancing; it was clear that they were having fun, and their easy island spirit wafted down from the stage. With live musicians giving rhythm to the dancers movements, a breath of fresh Hawaiian breeze didn’t seem all that far away. See them this coming weekend if you have the chance, and partake of the global island spirit.

The Hula Show 2011
Through Oct. 23
Palace of Fine Arts Theater
www.naleihulu.org
Tickets $35/$45

 

 


Live Shots: Gardens & Villa and Waterstrider at Bottom of the Hill

Tony Robles
-
1

Rarely, if ever, do I see such unbridled joy at shows these days, at least not in the way I saw it last night for every band at Bottom of the Hill.

Even for barefoot Berkeley Afropop openers Waterstrider (this week’s Localized Appreesh) – not that the band isn’t excellent, because it is – but when was the last time you witnessed ecstatic masses losing their shit and screaming for “one more song” during the opening set of a Thursday night rock show? Perhaps it was the uncharacteristic heat. (Strange how strange it is to see San Franciscans out at night wearing little more than a strappy sundress or stretched-out tank top.) That kind of warmth and freedom does something to your endorphins. But I also chalk it up to the ‘Berkeley co-op factor.’ Waterstrider mentioned the co-ops (where it was spawned) and got a rousing reply. Like a hippie frat.

My show companion reminded me halfway through the night that one of our earliest visits to Bottom of the Hill was for Pretty Girls Make Graves, Your Enemies Friends, and Atom and His Package. Don’t jump to protest, the music of these bands and last night’s bill cannot compare sonically (the former was during the post-rock Aughts, a time when I was the one with the ‘X’ scrawled on my hand). But the youthful energy, and excitement, this is what triggered such memories. The kids throwing their hands in the air with abandon. I caught a young woman headbanging, swinging her hair back and forth, last night to music you wouldn’t expect.  And she was all smiles.

That ecstasy continued for touring headliners Gardens & Villa, hitting San Francisco with two stops left before its return to Santa Barbara. Opening the set with shuddering album opener, “Black Hills,” the five-piece began smooth and calm, soon sending the crowd into yet another tizzy with the more anthemic “Cruise Ship.” It moved along through other tracks off the recently released self-titled album, including “Spactime” (heavily profiled in print this week), and broke out a new, more upbeat dancey jam, to boot. The crowd ate it up, like ravenous heat monsters.

 

All photos by Chris Stevens.

Live Shots: Prince Rama, Gang Gang Dance at the Independent

Tony Robles
-
0

A few things Prince Rama –  show openers at the Independent last night –  and Gang Gang Dance –  headliners – have in common: a whole lot of rhythm, standing tribal drumming (Gang Gang also has a more Western seated drummer), psychedelic visuals (damn, should have brought those drugs the kids take), and high, reverberating, Bollyhood-recalling vocals.

Sanskrit chanting-synth act Prince Rama, somewhat of a baby-Gang Gang-in-training, had a lesser stage show, but the crowd still dug it. As noted by Taraka and Nimai Larson, their families were in attendance (I peeked a whole lot of them dancing up front and in the balcony) –  wait, are they really sisters? No matter, midway through the set, there was a trust fall, during the song “Trust,” off the band’s newest release Trust Now (Paw Tracks). That’s a whole lot of trust for such a sparse front row. Also on stage: the folded-over visuals producer, mixing warped live feeds of the Larson girls, eerily recalling Grace Slick’s color-saturated turn in Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit.”

Gang Gang had such a strangely unceremoniously beginning, each musician casually making their way to the stage, then slowly grabbing the instruments; with singer-percussionist Lizzi Bougatsos –  wearing an over-sized skeleton vest, winged patterned blouse, and killer heels – holding up a large drum and banging. It did help build momentum, likely the point. Once the thumping bass and beats got going, it was a memorizing set, full of rave-like whimsy and “positive energy” (the floating triangle projected on the screen behind included those words, and vibrated with the rest of the sound). Bougatsos moved effortlessly from standing drums to mic to rhythmic dance-off with peculiar on-stage “spirit guide” Taka Imamura (who spent much of the set maneuvering a plastic bag covered stick). The wicker-tree-hat-dance was an odd moment, but thankfully brief.

Gang Gang played nearly every song off newest release Eye Contact (4AD), and saved the older tracks for the encore. All the while, a figure in one of those Scream masks filmed from the sidelines and drank straight tequila. Clearly, an entertaining night. Though I can’t help but recognize that the areas of the crowd where plumes of smoke rose were likely having the most fun.

Live Shots: The Rapture play Blow Up Forever II at the Factory

Tony Robles
-
0

Blow Up is reputed to be the best party in the city. I’ll say it’s almost certainly the best regular event for the 18+ crowd. But rule number one of going to a 18+ club event: don’t wear your nice shoes, even if the code says  “dress to impress.” It was only thanks to sheer luck and repeat viewings of The Matrix that I managed to avoid a geyser of projectile vomit in the Factory’s overcrowded men’s room Saturday night at Blow Up Forever II. “You go here.” I said, guiding the poor kid to the urinal I was about to use. “I’ll wait for the stall.”

When it was time for its performance, headlining ‘dunk’ (if the lead singer wants it to be called that, he’s got it) outfit the Rapture generally kept things upbeat and moving, going with tracks like “How Deep Is Your Love,” “Roller Coaster,” and the title cut off of the new album In the Grace of Your Love, while not slowing down to the point of the wonderfully plodding “It Takes Time to Be a Man.” Given the club context, and the need to keep people dancing, it made sense. Singer Luke Jenner worked the audience from the front of the stage and at one point strolled out into the sweaty throng thanks to a roadie and a very long microphone cord; but special credit for effort goes to Gabriel Andruzzi. Resembling the spawn of Jeff Goldblum and Kramer (in the best way possible) Andruzzi was on at least triple duty, regularly taking breaks from the keyboards to bust out a saxophone or deliver extremely animated overdoses of cowbell to the crowd.

 

All photos by Ryan Prendiville.

Lovefoxxx makes SF love her at the Fillmore

Tony Robles
-
1

By the end of last night at the Fillmore, CSS’s dynamic lead vocalist-party rioter Lovefoxxx was stripped down to a black tank top and ripped up jean shorts over fishnets, her raccoon eye makeup smeared across her face, fluffed pink hair electrified out of its sockets.

She had cartwheeled, stage-dove, danced through the crowd trailing the mic, spit liquids like a fizzing fountain across the stage/herself/the audience, and told us all  “I love you” a half dozen times, requesting that we should shout “I love you” back in manly intonations. For what started out as a calmer evening, with rumored low ticket sales, the show grew into a massive all-out punk rock dance party by evening’s close. My cheeks hurt from smiling.

Even openers MEN, who unfortunately had to work with a far smaller and less worked up audience in the early stages of the show, were working it it overtime, lead vocalist-electronics-shifter JD Samson hopped from mic to synth to laptop, and raised her tattooed arms, sporadically jumping into high-kicks to get the crowd going.

10 great bits about CSS and MEN at the Fillmore:
1. Lovefoxxx screaming “Fuck Everything” in a faux-growl before kicking off the jam, aptly titled “Fuck Everything” off the Brazilian rave-punk band’s new release, La Liberación, an album that takes one tiny baby step away from electro and one towards reggae-beat.
2. Before jumping in to (arguably, its biggest hit) “Music Is My Hot Hot Sex” off its self-titled debut, Lovefoxxx telling the crowd she’s single, and introducing her slightly-embarrassed guitarist-cowbellist Luiza Sá as also single.
3. The revelation that “Let’s Reggae All Night” is CSS’s least requested song. The band then ripping it open and tearing it apart, cementing its place as a future live request.
4. Before MEN’s song “Make Him Pay,” JD explaining “It’s about feminism and the economy.”
5. JD asking,  “Who here has eaten a burrito today?” Then seeing a show of hands. We do love our burritos, San Francisco.
6. Lovefoxxx grabbing the glasses of a toe-headed stranger (?) and trying them on for show.
7. The audience and artist call and response during MEN’s “Who Am I?” — “Who am I to feel so free?” “Who am I?”
8. The life-sized cartoon cut-outs of cute-dressed people (presumably odes to other collective members, including Johanna Fateman) on stage with MEN.
9. The kindergarten pink construction paper hearts attached to CSS’s amps, keyboards, and affixed to guitarist Ana Rezende’s shirted boobs.
10. Lovefoxxx. All of her. The glittered fox mask, stripping to fishnets and ripped shorts, constant mic swinging, drink-swilling, cartwheeling, butterfly-dancing, crowd-surfing punk princess goodness. She’s the electro-Brazilian Wendy O. Williams.

Live Shots: Dum Dum Girls/Crocodiles at the Great American Music Hall

Tony Robles
-
0

The new Dum Dum Girls album, Only in Dreams, has left such an indelible impression on me, that I was surprised when the four-piece surf-garage band jumped into “Bhang Bhang, I’m a Burnout” for its second song last night at the Great American Music Hall. I’d all but forgotten about the song, a tune that I’d fallen in love with – hard – not more than a year prior when it appeared on the band’s debut, I Will Be. It was a welcome reminder, as was the rest of the set, of both its strong lo-fi past, and hard-earned rock future – those descriptors mostly applying to electrifying frontperson Dee Dee.

She looks like a rocker, in signature striped black tights (which I also spotted on at least two other females in the crowd) and black leather jacket, along with the fringe of black bangs. But it’s her style, her commanding voice, and quick snarls with squeezed shut eyes that solidify the role. In between Dee Dee’s husband’s set (he of the quite fun retro Jesus and Mary Chain-esque San Diego act Crocodiles), and the Dum Dums, the house spun ’60s girl groups chant-alongs, a good choice for the night’s entertainment. Once the Dum Dums appeared, a few males shouted flirtatious admiration. The non-stop talking duo of middle-aged white men in front of me seemed appreciative too, yet never lulled their own veryimportant chatter. I did the twist out of that section.

There were a few technical difficulties, problems with the rhythm guitar sound apparently, and extra-long tuning, but it hardly detracted from the main show. The Dum Dums play enjoyable music, period. It’s reminiscent of Leader of the Pack-girl gangers but has that great fuzzy garage guitar edge. It’s all I wanted as a teenage girl looking for something vintage-modern that spoke to me. I wanted the Switchblade Sisters in rock form. I just had to wait a decade.

The biggest moment of the night came at the very end during the the brief encore when the quartet returned to play Only in Dreams‘ echoing, rolling epic, “Coming Down.” The strength of Dee Dee’s voice when the song breaks and she hits  “here I go-o-o” rang through the Great American with raw power — the crowd cheered when she reached that high note. It was like exorcizing demons, or willfully falling down the rabbit hole. We were then left to fend for ourselves out in that cruel rainy abyss of the Tenderloin.

 

All photos by Chris Stevens.

Live Shots: Odd Future at the Warfield, 9/30/11

Andrew Lam
-
3

Hello, and welcome to the worst concert photography post ever! Let me explain. Odd Future’s sold-out show at the Warfield on Friday was not a hip-hop show. Or it was – the group’s wordplay and Shaolin-esque mythological persona is pretty unimpeachable – but it was mainly a grimy, sweaty, hopped-up-on-youth punk show.

Odd Future presents the conscientious music conundrum: can one like a band whose lyrics are reprehensible? The crew from Compton is way more attractive than the Insane Clown Posse, but the milieu that they’ve conjured, complete with darkly nonsensical terminology and sheer, bounding disregard for niceties, strike similar notes.

The stage’s backdrop was a massive image the Golf Wang tour’s kitty mascot, introduced by the group as Sharkcat. 

“Look at Sharkcat’s eyes! Aren’t you scared?” The audience roared back, completely not scared by whatever the group had to offer. 

Odd Future’s songs focus on the going insane, violence, and getting head. The meat of the masses was young men dressed in the same sneaker, tee, and cutoffs look of the men onstage, but a large portion of the crowd at the Warfield was in fact, young women. They screamed along to every lyric and when Tyler the Creator, the group’s brave young leader, surged to their side of the stage, they rushed forward with elbows just as pointed as the ones their masculine counterparts were flinging side-to-side and backwards in the frenzied mosh pit that would usually resolve with a security guard roughly shoving a key instigator out the theater to sure doom and no-reentry on the twinkling mid-Market strip. 

“We really cater to the ladies,” Tyler snarked at one point, thanking the XX-chromosoned for braving the rough-and-tumble front rows. Or maybe he was serious – his washboard abs, unveiled midway through the show, winked knowingly at this being the case. 

And because of that, I’m real sorry that my photos suck. Consider them rather a homage to the general feeling of the show rather than literal documentation. They’re worth a look though, because the set kicked ass. Odd Future is real, real good. The group’s appeal to the skaters, the hip-hop kids, and the yelping R&B babies is the kind of connection that didn’t need that Late Night with Jimmy Fallon Show performance to cement itself — the artists are really artists, they’re deranged-sexy, and they’re bringing through a kind of hip-hop that has little to do with the consumerist posturing we see most of the time.

“I am not a fucking role role model!” one of the group members bellowed. Well, yeah. We didn’t think you were.

By the time the show ended (at 11 p.m.?! One wonders if the Warfield got nervous about the would-be stage climber the band flung the 15 feet back down into the crowd, spine first, just as he had ascended to the level of his beloved rap crew) one of Odd Future’s emcees was leading the crowd in their customary chant: “KILL PEOPLE BURN SHIT FUCK SCHOOL.” It’s all real ignorant, but looking at the kids around me I couldn’t help but be glad that they were here and not at an ICP show. 

And that conundrum? Consider it tabled for the moment. I think I was singing along. 

 

Live Shots: Smuin Ballet in rehearsal at Palace of Fine Arts

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
0

The stage was sheathed in a cloak of purple smoke, that coated the dancer’s skin as they whirled their way across the black floor. Smuin Ballet was doing a final run through of their piece Tango Palace at the Palace of Fine Arts last week, in preparation for opening night, and I was there to snap a few photos of those final moments of rehearsal on 9/23/2011.


The dance piece, which is supposed to invoke “the brothel, the barrio, and the barroom,” mixed classic tango with hints of ballet, just along the fringes of the dancer’s dresses. The dancer’s strong, sculpted bodies moved with each beat to create a theatrical sense of old-time tango, whose Argentinian roots were brimming with passion and romance, and quite a bit of naughtiness.

Here’s a video from earlier this year of the company in rehearsal:

 

SMUIN BALLET

Through Oct 1, various times and prices

Palace of Fine Arts

www.smuinballet.org

 

Live Shots: Twin Shadow, Diamond Rings at the Great American Music Hall

Tony Robles
-
0

If you truly believe that music is moving entirely forward – not cyclical – you need only to have peeked inside during any given moment of last night’s Diamond Rings/Twin Shadow live musical appearances at the Great American Music Hall. Your impressions would shift. New wave revival remains viable, those electro-soaked keyboard jams on stage, the half-shaved heads and feathered accessories in the crowd (including the feathery bits attached to the young miss thang who was removed quickly after Twin Shadow began thanks to an illegal sip of costly beer). It’s something I’ve grumbled about in the past, but for no good reason.

Twin Shadow could be described as both a Brooklyn quartet and, more accurately, as the stage name of George Lewis Jr. — who looked like Morris Day plus Bruno Mars with that skinny mustache, gold bib necklace, and fashion chapeau last night, but in my mind sounds more like a R&B-shot Morrissey. Midway through a fine synth-saturated, occasionally keyboard tinny set that included most tracks off Lewis Jr.’s danceable debut album Forget, the band broke into “Yellow Balloon,” a pulsating ode shot directly backwards into the not-so-distant musical past, with Lewis Jr. in full swoon mode.

That’s when I felt it: despite my bitter blathering, this nostalgic jolt of colorful energy feels damn good, especially compared to the fuzzed out, slow-moan apocalyptic nature of the music I’ve been vibing as of late; bring on Adam Ant warrior eye-makeup (as opener Diamond Rings sports in the video for his song “Something Else” — last night’s set closer) and Siouxsie and the Banshees bird’s nest hair fluff (as seen in the audience). If it keeps feeling this good, I too won’t soon Forget. Oh, the heart-felt sentiment and cutesy outro. That’s another thing I remember from the 80s.

Live shots: Ladytron at the Regency Ballroom

Tony Robles
-
0

There are not a whole lot of degrees between cool and being cold. On record, Ladytron has always affected a certain disaffected air, and live they come close to crossing over to the alienating side of performance. Alienation can be intentional.

The opener at the Regency Sunday night, SONOIO (Alessandro Cortini, formerly of Nine Inch Nails), hidden beneath a hooded sweatshirt, fetally crouched at the edge of the stage near the electric firelight of a single flickering bulb, and sang into an umbilical cord of rope lighting. It was a pose which meant a very intimate show for a five foot radius. (Unable to see anything further back, I spaced out and thought the following story concept: A mad scientist discovers how to swap minds and switches with a newborn baby in
an attempt to make up for his shitty childhood.)

Opening slowly with “Soft Power” from 2005’s Witching Hour before getting into new track “Mirage” and the haunting “Ghosts,” Ladytron wasn’t rushing it. The only movement on stage seemed to be the billowing of singer Helen Marnie’s draped sleeves, as the musicians performed like scientists in a lab (focused, if not outwardly passionate.) Predominately four people with synthesizers, Ladytron had a drummer on stage, and his heavy kick was a welcome addition (the coupling of the pulsing bass beat and brilliant red strobes on “Little Black Angel” was a near seizure inducing experience.)

More often than not, though, I couldn’t tell if Ladytron was effortlessly performing, or performing without any effort. The band gets labeled as having a cult following, and there was definitely some collective captivation. Instead of raucous calls for an encore, Ladytron submitted to strangely well choreographed “woo-oooh”s from the audience.

“I like your singing,” Marnie said, returning to the stage, before launching into “White Elephant,” the opener and standout of their new record, Gravity the Seducer. “Destroy Everything You Touch” was last and meant Ladytron was going out on a high note. As a flourish, the drummer closed with an incongruously animated, over-the-top outro. A suggestion perhaps, that he was in the wrong band.

 

All photos by Stephen Ho.

Live Shots: Hightower, Walken, and Black Cobra at YBCA

Tony Robles
-
0

It was all head banging and high-flying guitar yesterday evening in the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts’ outdoor sculpture garden. With the wailing thrash of Hightower, the electric doom of Walken, and two-man hardcore power of Black Cobra, the event, dubbed Metal Mania, was a success.

Groups of bewildered black-shirted fans slowly started to gather near 6 p.m. to catch Hightower, mostly climbing to the stone bleachers to sit for the still-early opening set. Hightower didn’t seem to mind, they appeared genuinely stoked to be there, all big hair head shaking and quick-footed shoeless drumming. But no one seemed more appreciative then metal maniac-quilter Ben Venom, the artist who pitched the show to YBCA in the first place.

He stood for every band, nodded along with the rapid-fire drumming, and at one point during Black Cobra’s sublimely heavy performance (extra credit: the band’s next SF show is with Kyuss and the Sword), I believe Venom spun around to give the finger to the upscale highrises behind us — but that could just be wishful thinking on my part.

Those who attended owe Venom a thank-you because it was a incomparable experience, such noise and vigor in such a peaceful space, opportunity otherwise unknown. We got to wander the museum’s decorated halls, then head outside to catch three epic local acts. Let’s say it together: Thank you for bringing metal to the museum, Venom.

 

All photos by Chris Stevens.

Live Shots: Ke$ha, Fox Theater, 9/14/11

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
1

Neon lights, glitter, and balloon drops certainly made for a bedazzled set, as Ke$ha took the stage, wearing the most glitz of all.

She worked her infamous bad-girl ‘tude and got as raunchy as possible for her very own “Get $leazy Tour.” Add in her troupe of zoombie-fied dancers and the whole vibe was gritty pop, circa the end of the world. (Did you know that she co-wrote that jam for Britney? Word.).

You can tell that Ke$ha thrives in the spotlight, but she’s a new pop princess and her voice needs some time to develop and mature. But the whole “stage drama plus musical mash-up” works together to create that perfect concert concoction. And if Ke$ha is reading this … she’s probably saying “Oh please! Blah, blah blah!”

Live Shots: White Hills, Carlton Melton, and Dirty Ghosts

Tony Robles
-
0

What if god – note lowercase emphasis – was a drummer? Assume that this god is the mythical male being you’ve come to know through Renaissance-era oil paintings, clutching lightning bolts, triumphant with lengthy white locks and foreboding upward gazes. What would this particular god do behind a drum kit?
He would hit very, very hard, smashing symbols with abandon, flipping sticks into the air then casually catching them mid-song; all the while his face would convey a knowing smirk, that wild-eyed yet faintly bemused stare toward the sky. You’d have Andy Duvall, former member of Zen Guerilla, current drummer-guitarist for Carlton Melton.

At the Rickshaw Stop last night, Duvall and Carlton Melton (a band, not a dude) — excuse the expression — melted minds. The appreciative crowd of mostly polite late-20-somethings kept spinning around towards each other with wide-eyed, “are you seeing this shit?” glances at their companions. The instrumental four-piece played entire set without a word. Duvall’s drum solos were heavenly.

The San Francisco band was tucked in between two rock and capital Roll acts, which made for an extended night of remarkable music. First up, another local: Dirty Ghosts. After Carlton Melton, the touring act headliners, New York’s White Hills. Now this, my friends, was a good bill.

While Dirty Ghosts looked a bit like the Ramones (half of them at least, in tight leather and jeans) and sounded like punk riffed hard rockers (with a killer rhythm section), White Hills oozed glam — from silver-painted face to see-through bass to sequin-covered blouse — and apparently played so similar to the Entrance Band that one of my show companions legitimately asked, “did they used to have a different name? Was it the Entrance Band?”

The joyously noisy space-rock outfit does have a similar aesthetic and sensibility — the long hair was flowing all night long — but White Hills jumps out of the stoned space rock at points to near metal, with such brutal wailing riffs.  White Hills also had something in common with openers Dirty Ghosts, both boasted a gifted electronics dude, on stage tripping out sounds and twisting knobs on beat machines; only Dirty Ghosts’ dude, who just so happens to be Aesop Rock (extra credit: he’s married to electrifying, swooshed-banged lead singer-guitarist Allyson Baker), also was tasked with handheld percussion (cowbell, shaker).

White Hills, led by an equally appealing duo of hair shakers, guitarist Dave W. and bassist Ego Sensation, sped through gnarly psychedelic rock off H-p1 (Thrill Jockey), and, like Carlton Melton, never really addressed the audience. Quite honestly, they never really needed to: a nice reprieve actually from the “really great to be here, how’s everyone doing? I need a beer” throwaways we hear at nearly every other show.  Just rock incredibly hard and loud and we’ll be satiated.  There’s no want for god-like skills here, that’s just an added bonus; it’s acid-laced frosting on the Day-Glo cake.

 

All photos by Chris Stevens.

Live Shots: Religious Girls, Part Time, and Born Gold

Tony Robles
-
0

Last night at the Knockout, Religious Girls killed it. It was a homecoming show of sorts for the local band after its late summer tour, and the feeling was all warm and fuzzy — minus a drunken birthday boy fight in the crowd. The Knockout itself was crowded, but not that unbearable, sweat-running-down-the-walls packed it has been known to incur. The boys of Religious Girls, who we profiled earlier this week, played hard and tight; especially the drummer, who we’re giving MVP for the night.

After opening the show, Religious Girls were followed by another recent birthday boy, San Francisco’s 80s synth dreampopper Part Time, backed by a full band, then Canadian trio Born Gold (formerly Gobble Gobble).

All photos by Chris Stevens.

Live Shots: Stepology at Herbst Theater, 8/21/2011

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
-
0

At most performance rehearsals, there isn’t the need to do a sound-check with the drummer and the dancers. At a tap show, it’s a must. The beats are coming from both parties, so those amps better be set to pitch perfect.

This past weekend, metal-soled kicks took the stage, for a performance by the very talented Stepology, a local tap dance organization who is trying to preserve those classic tip-tappity steps through its annual Bay Area Tap Fest program. I stopped by the Stepologists’ final rehearsal to get a taste of what they were up to, and was very glad I did. 

As a child, I had a large portrait of Fred Astaire in my bedroom (no joke!) and remember spending hours watching classics like Holiday Inn and Swing Time with my grandmother. They were such entertaining and silly movies. Those classics definitely had an influence on me, because I too took tap lessons and started dressing in long vintage skirts that made a perfect bell shape when I twirled.

Stepology is keeping that genuine spark of classy foot moves alive, while adding in some modern sensibility, with live contemporary music and clever originality. I’m sure anyone who sees the troupe perform will feel just a bit of nostalgia — and excitement for the future of this art form.

Fred, showing off the moves in Holiday Inn:

1...91011...15Page 10 of 15

48hills.org is the official publication of the non-profit San Francisco Progressive Media Center.
Contact us: info@48hills.org