Live Shots

Live Shots: Titus Andronicus at Great American Music Hall

Tony Robles
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If you want to stay in the good graces of Titus Andronicus (which played Great American Music Hall this Tuesday), don’t mention frontman Patrick Stickles’ beard, or his recent lack of beard, or his uncanny vocal likeness to Bright Eyes vocalist Conor Oberst, or really much of anything else. But you didn’t hear it from me. Because of his sensitivity, Stickles has been churning out some of the best anger and angst-driven punk rock of this century. In spite of his sensitivity, he still seems to be a super nice guy.

After making the audience wait a mercifully short time following the rollicking awesomeness of opening Northern California punk band Ceremony, Titus Andronicus humbly shuffled onto the stage, unassuming in T-shirts and ill-fitting jeans. “Ready fellas?” Stickles called out to his bandmates, “Let’s show these people a good time. They deserve it.”

Titus delivered. The band tore through most of its new album, Local Business, and most of its 2010 civil war-themed opus The Monitor with incredible energy and the perfect amount of rage. The crowd, mostly 20-something men, responded with enthusiasm, screaming along to choruses, moshing, and stage diving through the jam-packed, hour-and-a-half-long set.

One fan, presumably not a 20-something man, threw a bra onstage, which Stickles declared to be the second in the history of the band. After bassist Julian Veronesi threw it back, Stickles lamented, “I was looking forward to smelling that. Oh well.”

The new songs, stripped down on the record to more closely mimic the band’s guitar-heavy live sound, translated to a channeled, aggressive performance that proved, along with the seasoned favorites, to be among the show’s standout tracks.

In between songs, friendly audience members struggled to return fallen sweatshirts and packs of cigarettes, shouting out the found items from the pit. During the songs, they returned Veronesi’s pick when he dropped it and crawled onstage to plug in Adam Reich’s guitar when he tugged it out of the hookup.

“There’s a lot of love in the room right now. I can feel it,” Stickles commented before adding, “Get ready to taste the hate.” He then launched into “No Future Part Three: Escape From No Future” whining the opening line, “Everything makes me nervous…”

At the show’s climax Titus covered the Contours’ “Do You Love Me?” and the Replacements’ “Bastards of Young,” restoring a fun, lighthearted atmosphere after the delicious bleakness of “No Future Part Three” which ends with the chant “You will always be a loser.”

Riding the high, Stickles gave shout-outs to friends and to specific fans for everything from their dance moves to the design of their T-shirts. Soon, however, the mood was killed when a fan called out those magic words, “What happened to your beard?” Stickles, disgruntled, accused the fan of taking him out of the zone.

“You’re so sensitive!” someone called out. “What do you want from me?” he retorted. “I’m a fucking artist. I have feelings galore. You’re about to hear some more of them too, so get used to it,” to which I say touché.

Live Shots: La Sera at the Chapel

Tony Robles
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It was nice to see that “Kickball” Katy Goodman hasn’t grown up too much since leaving the Vivian Girls. Her big smile, bubbling stage banter, and virginal attire—a lacy white dress to match her white Fender bass guitar — added a saccharine candy coating to the dark, jangly pop of La Sera, her Los Angeles-based solo project.

Swaying and hopping across the Chapel stage last Saturday night in all black Converse All Stars, Goodman whipped her all-male backing band through a surprisingly short set, clocking in at just around 45 minutes.

La Sera was within the first ten bands to grace the stage at the Chapel, San Francisco’s newest music venue at 18th and Valencia in the Mission; the venue celebrated its opening in conjunction with this year’s Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival last month. The Chapel is a stripped down, well, chapel — complete with stained glass windows and an arching, pitched ceiling with beautiful dark wood rafters.

As an added bonus, in contrast with everything I know and understand about music venues, the Chapel is astonishingly clean. For now, it smells of wood stain instead of stale beer. The 500 capacity venue also offers a small dinner menu and seating spread around the room at simple, wooden tables that match the hardwood floors.

The audience during La Sera was extremely engaged, if mellow, watching with quiet attentiveness and occasionally chuckling at guitarist Tod Wisenbaker’s bad jokes (“He writes his own material,” quipped Goodman. “It’s pretty impressive.”)

La Sera’s newly released sophomore effort Sees the Light picks right up where the last left off, sounding a bit like a co-ed Dum Dum Girls or, as you might expect, Vivian Girls. The live show, like the new album, offered few surprises. Goodman, despite being a veteran of the stage, was surprisingly tame and uncharismatic for a frontperson. For the last song, however, she jumped off the stage and sang directly to some excited audience members, giving a stronger finish to an otherwise good, but unremarkable show.
 
The real highlight of the night was the opener, San Francisco’s own the She’s, a beach-tinged girl band with a slightly doo-wop vibe and a seriously good groove. So good, apparently, that La Sera’s drummer bought a the She’s shirt between sets to wear for his own performance. If the She’s next album is as good as the material they played Saturday night, they could definitely be a band to watch out for.

Live Shots: AU at the Independent

Tony Robles
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It was my first time seeing Portland’s AU live Saturday night, and I had some important questions I hoped the show would answer. First of all, how does one pronounce AU? Aww? Awe? Oww? Gold? More importantly, how would the band recreate its sound live? I had theories, but as AU began its set at the Independent with its most recent album’s first (and most prominent song) “Epic,” those quickly proved false. There were no guitars.

Drum kit, choir bells, Kord keyboard, Roland sampler, clarinet, glockenspiel, what I believe to be a shekere, and quite a few effects and looping pedal – but no strings at all, which I felt particularly embarrassing, having previewed the show by mentioning that very song and its nonexistent yet “impossibly high rising GY!BE guitars.” This is partly due to my listening abilities,* but also an indication of the current musical landscape, which let’s be honest, can be fairly confusing.

Going relatively blind into a Washed Out show a while back, I remember being surprised to find a full band rather than a guy with a laptop and some other tools. Flying Lotus on another occasion was the reverse experience. The infusion of electronic music and digital production tools across genres has led to a seemingly endless palette, where minimalists can create maximal sounds and vice versa.

With AU, some things were as expected, particularly the base created by drummer Dana Valatka, who plays with a grind that recalls Zach Hill and a exploding control that’s more Buddy Rich. Valatka had a few tricks – playing handbells, for instance, at one point from the back of the room in the merch booth – but is generally rooted in the band’s most traditional role.

On the other extreme was Holland Andrews. On the occasion of her birthday, Andrews alternated between singing and playing the clarinet, a shekere, and at one point, a small handheld glockenspiel. The wide range of sounds she was able to produce was multiplied by the use of a looping pedal. These tools suddenly seemed to be everywhere a few years back, particularly in indie rock, giving individual musicians like Owen Pallett, Merrill Garbus, and Dustin Wong the ability to create a live sound larger than one person. I thought I’d grown tired of their use, but Andrews used it to good effect.

Performing a solo, Bjork-esque song “about going crazy” from her side project, Like a Villain, the singer created a schizophrenic wall of voices that was one of the night’s best moments, after which bandleader Luke Wyland remarked in slight awe, “She’s only 24.”

There’s more to be said about Wyland, the band’s genial center, but it’s largely beyond me at this point. Moving back and forth between solemn intensity and ecstatic excitement, much of the band’s sound – from the orchestral movements on “Crazy Idol” to electronic plotting of “OJ”– is seemingly due to him, behind the Kord, sampler, and whatever else he had up there.

It still left me with questions and reaching for genres, but he did clear one thing up: the name of the band is pronounced similar to a stranger trying to get your attention.

*As a child I’d spent summers at an education camp, where we were only allowed to listen to music (besides the work songs) in guided, “close listening” sessions, tasked with identifying the individual sources of the composition, and understanding both the material conditions/labor that went into each sound. It was a major reason for my escape.

Live Shots: another Nobunny Halloween

Tony Robles
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Walking to the Brick and Mortar Music Hall on Halloween night for the Nobunny show, I was disappointed by how few costumed people were roaming the streets of San Francisco. Doesn’t anyone have time for fun anymore? Turns out I need not have worried. My Halloween-loving peers pulled through, turning the small, darkened venue into a veritable haunted house full of Jedi, devils, skeletons, cats, and so much more.

After dancing and moshing through four punk-and surf-tinged opening bands, the sold-out crowd was dripping with sweat, facepaint was a distant memory, and bruises were already beginning to materialize. Despite long delays between sets and fast-flowing booze, the crowd stayed amazingly positive for a Halloween punk show. When Nobunny still hadn’t come on by one in the morning, instead of growing tired and restless, the crowd seemed only to be getting more excited — and very, very drunk.

Still riding the high from Shannon and the Clams’ awesome, hits-heavy Misfits set — Oakland’s Shannon Shaw makes a better Danzig than Danzig — the crowd was ready and rowdy when Nobunny finally crawled onto the stage on all fours. His tangled hair, creepy, matted mask, and single scissorhand (a la Edward) looked quite at home in the costumed crowd. Barefoot, he hopped around the stage in a frenzy, bouncing, gyrating, howling, and snarling at the audience.

One moment I was watching some girls in the front row spank Nobunny’s cutoff-covered behind, and then after looking away for no more than two seconds, I turned around to see the infamously clothing-optional artist crouching on the stage in nothing but a moth-eaten sweater. Barely acknowledging his state of undress, Nobunny continued his commanding performance and full-body dance spasms.

Charging around the stage, phallus flopping, Nobunny made sure that this would be a Halloween to remember. Even though his was one of the shortest sets of the night, sadly clocking in at only about 30 minutes, Nobunny made every song count. He ripped through Halloween favorites like “Purple People Eater,” “The Monster Mash,” and “Ghostbusters” with lightning-charged energy. His husky, growled vocals lent a welcome grunge tinge to the classic tunes, and the audience responded gratefully, dancing and slamming into each other with renewed vigor.

About six songs in, he rasped, “This is our last song. It’s called, uh…any requests?” After a playful argument with audience members and a lot of name calling, the band charged through one final song before Nobunny shouted “Happy Halloween!” and hopped off the stage and out into Mission Street, leaving his pants behind.
             

Giants sweep the World Series, city goes buck

Andrew Lam
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Praise Scutaro, the Giants swept the World Series last night. And San Franciscans, loose after a brilliant sunny day in the city, with ample practice from the Giants’ victory two years ago, and half dressed in their Halloween costumes, acted accordingly. Photographer Charles Russo was on hand to capture everything from the cheers in Civic Center Plaza to the fires that were lit on Mission Street late last night. Not pictured: champagne geysers, the orange-and-black celebration of choice in 2012. 

Live Shots: Rasputina at Great American Music Hall

Tony Robles
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Guardian music writer Haley Zaremba managed to snap a few shots of Rasputina during the stringed trio’s appearance at Great American Music Hall on Wednesday.

Live Shots: Crystal Castles at the Fox

Tony Robles
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Arriving early to the Crystal Castles show Monday at the Fox Theater, discovering that one opener, HEALTH, had canceled its performance, and that the photo pit would be off limits for the other, Kontravoid, I was left with some unexpected time on my hands. Time that I spent trying to recall where I had seen the eerily familiar image hung over the stage, of a veiled figure cradling a fragile, vulnerable looking man in their arms.

Presented without context, it could be potentially tenderly romantic or gothically morbid, an ambiguity which seemed to typically invite the sort of let-me-Google-that mystery that recent bands have found so chic.*

But all that gets into a realm of meaning that is largely irrelevant here, because that’s not really what was on display at the Fox last night. Ask someone about a Crystal Castles show and they will mostly recount the spectacle. A woman walked out into the crowd supported by the hands of her fans, in a messianic rock move, or alternately crowd surfed in their arms.

All the while, she was performing with a near epileptic frenzy, mouth agape, spitting words that were largely drowned out by the barrage of beats produced onstage by her partner and a tour drummer. If singer Alice Glass were ever actually sent into a fit by the painful amount of strobes accompanying the show**, it is likely that her cries would go unnoticed.

The tradeoff with such pounding intensity is that there isn’t a whole lot of variety. The music drives and drives, largely due to the production of Ethan Kath, but rarely opens up (“Not in Love” a track featuring clear vocals from the Cure’s Robert Smith remains the exception in this regard) as Glass’s primary mode is a wrenching scream. New tracks, including one instrumental that had both of the main members at the controls, only seem to further the band’s hard, caustic edge.

I imagine that there are few casual Crystal Castles fans, and only two extreme ways to appreciate them: either in a drunken fury or with a finger twitching, phone tapping obsessiveness***. When I went home I immediately opened my laptop, to find that picture, and to look up the new songs.

* And perhaps Crystal Castles more than any other. It is after all – as anyone with a search engine could tell you – a band that emerged so rapidly from the internet underground that even the singer was late to find out about it.

** “Shoot between the beats,” the band’s handler told the photographers as he lead us to the side of the stage. “Otherwise you won’t get anything.” Quite helpful advice, really. He could be seen later in the show at the front of the pit, pulling Alice off of the audience, and he promised to give us a heads up if the singer was about to throw a mic stand in out general direction.

*** Remember watching Lost and then immediately going online to talk about the smoke monster or the map in the hatch? This is the musical equivalent of that.

Live Shots: David Byrne and St. Vincent at the Orpheum

Tony Robles
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David Byrne opened his show with St. Vincent on Monday night by thanking the Orpheum for breaking its run of The Lion King for their performance. The David Byrne-St. Vincent show wasn’t too far off from the theater’s regular selection though. The eight piece brass band doing choreographed marching behind the duo had a theatrical effect, feeling somewhere between a Stop Making Sense-themed halftime show and an instrument-bearing ensemble in West Side Story.

The 60-year-old musical giant and 30-year-old indie star brought out a diverse crowd. Byrne was carrying on the legacy of art-school punk-turned-pop band, the Talking Heads, but some in the crowd seemed to be wondering “who is this pretty young talent helping espouse his eccentric philosophies?” The scalpers outside were only selling Byrne’s name on the tickets and there was an overabundant amount of “we love you David” cries from the audience.


You’d figure, though, that St. Vincent’s three studio albums of incredibly independent and experimental style, projects with diverse artists including Andrew Bird and Kid Cudi, and wide eyes on the cover of Spin magazine might have tipped these guys off as to who she is. Though St. Vincent did call Byrne at one point, “the resident preacher of the evening,” it was clear they were in equal limelight.

The two took turns performing songs from their collaboration, Love This Giant, as well as their own numbers, occasionally fitting their voices in for the harmony. The songs they picked from their respective catalogs carried themes from their joint album, including Byrne’s dilemma of trying to be human in modern America and St. Vincent’s struggles for freedom.

Though at times incredibly personal, the show had a broader message to its audience; one about people coming together despite their differences to figure out the strangeness of life. This was clearly illuminated in Byrne’s lines, “maybe someday we can stand together/ not afraid of what our eyes may see/ maybe someday I’ll understand it better/weird things inside of me.” Byrne even mimed some of these lyrics from “I Should Watch TV” so you couldn’t miss the point.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DWZpX5dQYkA

Everything about the show fit together like the perfect duet: each one had a distinct personality when you tried to focus on them but usually they flowed together seamlessly. When St. Vincent dropped her voice to fit with Byrne on the album and they gave it the egocentric sounding title, Love This Giant, (a reference to Byrne) a lot of the indie fans might have panicked that she would be overshadowed, but in fact this created really great tension.

It allowed St. Vincent to show off her tough core, like when she stood alone, legs apart, rocking on guitar and belting a cry for help in the song “Marrow” from her album Actor. Meanwhile, the band kept the energy up by standing behind her in two opposing lines, bobbing like the Sharks and Jets preparing to rumble.

Surprisingly, the two didn’t use their collaboration to develop from each other musically in the experimental way that Byrne has worked with others, like with Brian Eno. Aside from the brass band, which functioned more as a fun, symbolic decision, we saw the two employing a lot of styles from their previous work. It seemed like they knew already what they wanted their relationship to be: two people standing together despite their differences. And they pulled it off well (thankfully, without a hint of sexual tension).

In this nature, the two swapped soul-sharing moments throughout the show. It began with St. Vincent’s cries for support among flashing lights and dramatic staging while Byrne’s numbers were much more casual, with the musicians lounging around the stage.

As St. Vincent stepped into a more confident role later in the evening, Byrne began to open up with his self-mocking, “Lazy.” By the end though, both performers emerged from their calls to action and got the house on its feet for a small dance party to a few Talking Heads and St. Vincent solo hits, a rare treat in the formal theater setting.

 

All photos by Bennett Cox.

Live Shots: ABADA-Capoeira’s “The Spirit of Brazil”

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Sparking machetes. Lots of them, clanking against each other, as the dancers holding them ran in circles.

I’ll be honest, sitting in the front row was slightly intimidating, and also rather exhilarating! The ABADÁ-Capoeira dance troupe, plus special guests from as far Switzerland, filled the stage with pure energy, in rehearsal for the troupe’s “Spirit of Brazil” show, running Thu/18-Sun/20. 

One of the dances tells the story of an ancient church in Brazil, where people of all religions went to be blessed. It was a moody and beautiful piece. There’s live music, soulful singing by the musicians and the dancers, and, yes, seriously speedy dance moves involving very large, sharp knives. It’s primal, wild, and filled with history. Go see it — just make sure your eyebrows don’t get shaved off!

ABADÁ-Capoeira San Francisco’s “The Spirit of Brazil”
Thur/18-Sat/20, 7pm, $23
Sun, October 21, 3pm
ODC Theater
3153 17th St., SF
www.odcdance.org

Live Shots: Treasure Island Music Festival 2012

Tony Robles
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Music nerds talk lineups the way sports fans manage fantasy teams, particularly with festivals, where suddenly strategy becomes a part of catching a show. Treasure Island Music Festival, is sort of an exception, since in theory you can catch every single act, given the two alternating stages. At the same time, this means that unless you head to the silent disco or take a nap, one of those geeks will be standing behind you during a set, obsessively talking about how the lineup should be slotted differently.

Day 1
SF’s Dirty Ghosts had the challenging task of being a rock band opening the festival on the traditional hip-hop/electronic day. K. Flay followed, and told the crowd “I know it’s early, but we can still party,” and the local MC proceeded to give a hair tossing performance that had her drummer breaking a snare. It was a decent lead in for Oakland’s the Coup. Boots Riley has been off my radar for a bit, but it appears our ambassador of P-funked rap has been keeping more than his afro tight – pulling from now-more-appropriate-than-ever classics like “5 Million Ways to Kill a C.E.O” and the upcoming Sorry to Bother You.

At 2:31pm, a guy in a tie-dye Quicksilver shirt was vomiting near where Grimes was playing: the festival had started. Like Matthew Dear and Porter Robinson, Grimes is a returning acts from this year’s Noise Pop. Maybe it was just her bandmate’s flowing iridescent ponchos, but Grimes’ sound seemed lighter than at the Rickshaw Stop. I decided I preferred this side of Grimes, but the Euro bubblegum quality of the creepily infantile “Phone Sex” was pushing it. Matthew Dear seemed out of place in full sun on the Bridge Stage, fog machines pumping. His set was similar to what I heard at Public Works, but progressed slowly. Nearing the end of his set the band got into a groove with “You Put a Smell on Me” but it’ was a little late.

Toro y Moi sounded just like when I saw it a couple years back, but would probably have fit in better somewhere on Sunday. Near the end you could hear a DJ on the other stage playing snippets and raising the crowd, partly using soundcheck to hype for Public Enemy. When actually starting, Chuck D arrived on stage, introducing the whole support crew but saved Flavor Flav for last.

The hyperbolic performance took me back to a time before reality TV. Chuck D was outspoken (Fuck BET. Fuck urban radio. Fuck Viacom.) but used time well. Flavor was Flavor, and rambled for five minutes after his time is up. AraabMusik, waiting on the Tunnel Stage didn’t seem to mind: he gave an impressive, sample stuttering finger drumming MPC performance, after having a smoke with his crew.

At 6:01 I saw the guy who’d been throwing up earlier, walking arm in arm with a girl, both smiling and probably holding each other up.

Things started to blur, the time between switching stages seemed to decrease. Porter Robinson left no impression on me. Tycho sounded like a person making slow, thoughtful love to a synthesizer, but whereas it could have been a great lead-in to the xx, suffered from being between Robinson and a high energy performance from the Presets.

Speaking of which, I’ve had an aversion to the Presets (largely stemming from issues I have with Australian pop), but their performance, particularly “If I Know You” won me over. An awkward soundcheck delay for the following band, SBTRKT, meant the worst thing I could say about it is that it felt too short. Producer Aaron Jerome and singer Sampha played to their strengths, closing with “Wildfire” and having what seemed like the whole crowd leaning back and strutting like they were the sexiest, smoothest motherfuckers on the field.

Girl Talk opened with the awesome (and oft utilized) “International Player’s Anthem” by UGK before quickly triggering “Dancin’ in the Dark.” I hear the Boss at least once more before I leave twenty minutes later. I’m sure there was confetti.  

Day 2

Between openers Imperial Teen and Joanna Newsom, things were rather low-key, just all around relaxing, emotional, sunny music (including my returning favorites, Hospitality.) The crowd trickled in steadily and the field fills up with blankets faster than the day before. It’s a rather sedate afternoon, aside from one thing.

Who scheduled Ty Segall – noted garage thrasher, guitar mangler, and kick drum stomper – in that mid-afternoon slot? Love the dude, he sounded great, but he was not much appreciated outside the pit. The blanket crowd? It didn’t dig that. Particularly right between Youth Lagoon’s indie emo Bob Dylan and Gavin’s second cousin. That’s prime time nap time, especially when the first half of Joanna Newsom’s performance can’t be heard past the soundbooth. (Seriously, can Nap Time with Joanna Newsom be a real thing? On Nick Jr. after Yo Gabba Gabba?) The collective bombast of Los Campesinos picked things up – back to back with Segall would have been a hell of a way to wake up.

And bake up. Because Best Coast was playing with the sun going down. When this festival is at its best, the music and the environment seem to play into one another, and from there out, it basically went perfect. I haven’t seen the band since a sloppy show at Regency Ballroom with Wavves a few years back. The basic sound is still the same – beachy guitar pop with a stony edge – but has developed since then. Part of it’s lineup changes, as the new drummer is a lot tighter than before (and has easily the loudest snare of the weekend), part of it’s just improvement. Bethany Consentino apologized for singing a slow song, but there’ was no reason. She can definitely carry a ballad now.

Anticipation iwas high for Divine Fits, the “supergroup” featuring Dan Boeckner, Britt Daniels, and Sam Brown. Mainly I’m sure because a lot of fans were there for the Bay Area debut, but also because of the glorious, Hollywood matte painting skyline waiting for them behind the Tunnel Stage. As soon as they hit the chorus of “Baby Get Worse,” complete with the ’80s throwback keyboard, I was sold. Halfway through the set someone up front was apparently amped enough for Boeckner to ask, “Dude, are you on PCP?” Elsewhere in the crowd people pleasantly remarked, “Hey, this sounds like Spoon.”

Previously I’d thought the crowd seemed thicker due to all the blankets, but when I walked back towards the Bridge Stage, I realizes that simply way more people turned out for some combination of the last three bands.

M83 – returning to the Bay for the first time since their sold out Fillmore shows in the spring – opened with an alien, had lots of lasers, and played that one song. One thing I now know for sure: it is possible to play percussion while doing the running man.

The last act on the Tunnel Stage, Gossip was one of the only real surprises for me this festival. Punk diva Beth Ditto opened by welcoming the audience to comedy night, later commenting that the band hadn’t toured the US in three years, because the Euro is stronger. Crowded at the front of the stage were possibly the most intense fans I saw all weekend, clearly attached not only to Ditto’s vocal talent, but also her empowering, Aretha Franklin-esque sense of Pride. Pointing to the already crowded photo pit, Ditto said cruelly, “I wish there was a lot less space. And a lot more photographers.”

You couldn’t really have more photographers than there were in the pit at the end of the night for the xx, stopping in the Bay Area for the last festival date on their current tour, supporting the sophomore album Coexist.

It was clear that in their live performance the xx tries to capture the same sort of intimacy as their albums, with a stark and stripped down stage and singers Romy Madley Croft and Oliver Sim in the front. Either singer could do well alone, but together there’s an undeniable chemistry, like lovers in dialogue.

In their live show they definitely play into that, while producer Jamie XX stays literally more in the shadows; Sunday night he was up a level behind the pair, manning a series of controllers, cymbals, and drum pads to creates the fundamental beats that the guitars wash over. The resulting music takes its time – I’d call it shoegaze dance if that weren’t such an idiotic concept – and the xx did as well, opening with the enrapturing “Angels,” setting a sensual mood that stayed till then end.

Earlier Ditto had called them, obviously, the Sex Sex. Anyone who really felt that way – or just wanted to get to John Talabot and Jamie XX at Public Works – hopefully caught a cab, as the wait for shuttles off the island at the end of the night were upwards of an hour and a half. Note to self: work that factor into the TIMF strategy next year.

Live Shots: Peter Gabriel at HP Pavilion

Tony Robles
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0

Peter Gabriel strolled onto the stage at HP Pavilion on Tuesday with the house lights still glaring and the upper tier of the arena empty save for a scant few concertgoers sprinkled throughout the vast space.

Standing at the center stage microphone, Gabriel matter-of-factly began to explain to the audience how the concert would be structured for the rest of the evening. For an ever artistically-minded musician known for the theatrical nature of his live performances, it was a strangely stilted beginning to the start of his concert, exuding all the excitement of a CPR certification course.

Gabriel came to San Jose touring on the 25th  anniversary of his much-celebrated 1980s-era gem, So, set to perform the album in its entirety, amongst other greatest hits material. It was a show that held unique promise as a concert experience, and was therefore all the more surprising that the results were merely, well, so-so.

Performing along with many of the highly talented original musicians from So, the 62-year-old Gabriel ultimately put on a mixed bag of a performance, at times stunningly brilliant, and at others, awkward under the weight of it’s own production. He started the show with three strong tracks – “Obut,” “Come Talk to Me,” and “Shock the Money” – only to have them languish under the fluorescent house lights of the hockey arena. Gabriel’s idea (as he carefully explained at the start of the concert) was to convey the atmosphere of an acoustic rehearsal session, or really, as it came across – soundcheck.

The show finally gained momentum as the lights came down and the instruments went electric. Gabriel delved into the depths of his catalogue with tracks like “Digging in the Dirt,” and “Solsbury Hill,” roaming back-and-forth from his keyboard to center stage amid pulsing lights, and embellishing the lyrics via his lumbering dance moves. The surprising inclusion of the obscurity “Humdrum” rounded out this middle set in subtle though engaging fashion.

The evening then transitioned into So, without a break, starting with Gabriel’s soaring vocals on “Red Rain,” and then delivering on all the heft and weight of “Sledgehammer,” much to the delight of his dancing fans. “Mercy Street” quickly proved to be a high point, beginning with a amazing harmony section before Gabriel fell to the floor and proceeded to sing the brooding lyrics flat on his back throughout the massive looming atmosphere of the song.

Yet for as solid as Gabriel and his band sounded, the show began to sag in spots. “Big Time” quickly obliterated the compelling mood generated by “Mercy Street” with its second-rate “Sledgehammer” pop, just as other tracks such as “That Voice Again” proved sub-par to the better material on the album.

As the performance proceeded to the latter part of the night, Gabriel’s choreographed dance moves grew redundant as they persisted from song to song, while the massive production of the light show – involving a small swarming army of lighting technicians, dressed ninja-like for discreetness – really only rendered mediocre (and distracting) results.

Of course, as Gabriel moved through a 10 minute-plus version of “In Your Eyes” and a spirited “Biko,” his adoring fans continued to embrace every second of the show. If there were flaws in the performance, or rather, better Peter Gabriel shows to be had in years past, they seemed to be met with a collective – “So?”

 

All photos by Charles Russo.

Amanda (Fucking) Palmer unites the freaks at the Fillmore

Tony Robles
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Theatrics! Camp! Bravado! Glitter! Body hair! Going to an Amanda Palmer concert is like taking a trip to the island of misfit toys. Standing in the crowd, I was surrounded by top hats, tutus, tuxedos, pink mohawks, steampunk creations, and many more accessories that I can’t begin to identify. 

The audience at the Fillmore last Wednesday was incredibly diverse in age, gender, and style, seemingly united only by their love for the many artistic eccentricities of Amanda Fucking Palmer, as her fans call her.

An electric performer, Palmer ruled the stage, looking like the black swan in dark, heavy makeup and a corset as she spit her venomously witty lyrics and jerked around like a marionette, swinging a megaphone, banging on her keyboard, and running instrumental drills with her band, the Grand Theft Orchestra. The setlist, dominated by her new album Theatre is Evil, crackled with energy and emotion.

The night’s dynamic itinerary offered many emotional highs and lows. In a particularly heartbreaking segment, Palmer brought up a box that had been left on the merch table for people to fill with all the bad and sad things that had happened in their bedrooms. Usually Palmer reads the box, but her husband, writer Neil Gaiman, offered to read tonight. 

The tragic and highly personal details people shared cast an incredible hush over the sold-out room. Usually, Palmer records this reading and mashes it into a new song, but she forgot on this night (she later issued an online apology and a promise to make it up to the fans with a recorded version.) 

Despite this omission, the segment was incredibly powerful. These dark secrets saw the light in a crowd of people who were really listening. Palmer does something truly incredible here, using performance art to de-stigmatize past trauma and to turn sharing into a beautiful, communal experience.

This solemn moment was balanced with the transcendent song “Bottom Feeder” in which Palmer, looking like a mermaid, jumped into the crowd wearing a jacket that trailed yards of rippling chiffon over the audience. Under the fabric, holding it up with our hands, the audience members were grinning widely at each other in a moment that perfectly captured the whimsical beauty of the song and the entire night.

 

Beach House lets its music do the talking

Tony Robles
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Do you remember the museum scene in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986) where Sloane and Ferris kiss, while Cameron is off by himself, getting lost in a Seurat painting? There’s no dialogue. Just a particularly contemplative Dream Academy cover of a Smiths song, the museum awash in blue light. It’s a quiet, slow spot in the movie, but it had a big impact – partly because it was so simply done.

There was a moment like that at Beach House’s sold-out show at the Fox Theater in Oakland on Friday. Maybe a few moments.

The dream pop duo of Victoria Legrand and Alex Scally is all for simplicity – they’ve kept to the same musical palette for the whole of their career, restricting themselves to a hazy organ, shoegaze-y electric guitar, tom-tomming drums, and Legrand’s androgynous, smoke-and-honey voice. But they use these things to great dramatic impact – moody, contemplative melodies give way to lush, hope-filled soundscapes, the contrast between the two making for emotional, intimate moments.  It’s slow music, carefully constructed, and sometimes drone-y, tight pop melodies notwithstanding; to be honest I wasn’t sure that I’d stay entertained, watching them for an entire set.

But the duo has toured extensively for the past few years, and the show was pretty smooth, the music confidently played, and despite their introverted approach to showmanship, there was enough theatrics to keep things moving, relying on simple changes to the stage, to their body language, to keep things interesting.
Legrand, her face hidden behind a birds-nest tangle of hair, was a brooding presence onstage. Her voice soared, but she never moved from behind the keyboard, her fingers locked to it even as she was sometimes seized by fits of headbanging. Her stillness, her unique voice, the complete lack of eye contact made her mesmerizing, the focal point of the stage. Meanwhile, guitarist Alex Scally didn’t say anything at all to the crowd and bounced in his seat, reminding me of a Muppet-like character.

Their stage set up was raw, black and white striped panels and stark white lights. But this slowly developed as the show progressed, into floods of deep red and blue color, constellation-like scatterings of twinkling lights — each minimalist change well-timed, as leisurely as Scally’s delicate guitar playing. And they were long into their set before any film was introduced, or strobes, or multi-colored lights.

When I say long into the set, I do mean long – they played for an hour and a half. Legrand’s voice almost tireless, save for a few glitches here and there – a slightly flat harmony, a catch in her throat. Almost every song drew a yell from the crowd as they stuck to their poppier, upbeat songs, drawing mainly from their most recent, and most successful albums – Teen Dream, and Bloom.

But they did toss out a Scooby snack for the die hards —  “Auburn and Ivory” from their first, self-titled album. Legrand said they hadn’t played it in four years, but they did so admirably, the guitar twirling around the steady waltz of Legrand’s organ like a one twirls a finger in their hair.

They played well to their sold out crowd, maintaining their shy distance, yet giving us what we wanted.

Opener: Dustin Wong, formerly of Ponytail, was rad. He had a lot in common with Beach House, preferring a limited palette of instruments as well – in his case, a guitar and scads of pedals. Layering guitar line over guitar line until the piece hit the sublime chaos of a fugue, Wong didn’t talk much to the audience at all, save for his facial expressions as he played. The two acts together made for a night of quiet people who wanted the work to speak for itself.

Live Shots: Wilco and Jonathan Richman at the Greek Theatre

Tony Robles
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What’s that thing that guitarists do in concert, where they get real close, face-to-face, and gaze down intently as if sizing up the other’s instrument? The sort of maneuver that the Traveling Wilburys probably did on almost every occasion, in a full circle formation? Does it serve a purpose? Timing perhaps?

While Wilco’s Nels Cline was having his standout moment Saturday, taking his time delivering his solo for “Impossible Germany” off of 2007’s Sky Blue Sky, the other guitarists were communing at center stage, giving each other a Wilbury. At the moment, it seemed that the show – the second of two nights at Berkeley’s Greek Theatre – was dangerously close to veering into jam band territory.

Luckily, as much as Wilco gets indulgent at times – going extra long on a solo or an outro – the songs are the opposite of improvised. That the band’s live performances so closely resemble the album versions is impressive, given how structured and varied the songs are on record. Only listen to recordings, and one could assume that a lot of the music is overdubbed, until seeing the band live and discovering that on tracks like “Misunderstood,” all that percussion is purely drummer Glenn Kotche, whose bass drum seemed extra powerful Saturday night.

Seeing Wilco more than once, there are things you come to expect. “Misunderstood” will have a shout along coda of potentially endless “Nothing”s. “Via Chicago” will see the band’s alternation between harmony and noise exaggerated to an extreme, with the guitarists in the front strumming and carrying on, seemingly oblivious to a blaring interjection of distorted noise created by the rest of the band behind. It would be tiresome if it wasn’t so well done.

At the same time, new material was given deserving attention and time in the set. Singer Jeff Tweedy started soft with a tender rendition of “One Sunday Morning,” the closing track from 2011’s The Whole Love, before building the intensity with the opening track from that same album, “Art of Almost.” It was an immediate showcase of the band’s range, and the live recreation of the shifting “Art of Almost” was particularly electric, complete with the synchronized pulsing strobes accompanying the driving, snare-cracking build that happens near the five minute mark.

Maybe the band just seemed particularly tight since I was comparatively sober. And apparently not alone. “The wind must be blowing out tonight, because I don’t smell nearly as much mari-joo-wanna tonight,” Jeff Tweedy said, adding “No, that’s good for me. I’m still high from last night.”

Elsewhere in his brief mic breaks Tweedy took the time to both thank the Bay Area crowd for “inventing concerts” and also praise the always endearing Jonathan Richman, who Tweedy called one of 12 American originals, along with Little Richard, Buddy Holly, Hank Williams, Louie Armstrong, Woody Guthrie and “the dude from Night Ranger.”

Richman opened the evening with perpetually stoic drummer Tommy Larkins. Tweedy is right, and it’s always great to see Richman, but given the opportunity, catch him at a smaller venue like the Makeout Room, where he seems to leach the life force and feed off the crowd in an intimate setting. Saturday night was sadly lacking in age-defying roundhouse kicks.

Live Shots: Aesop Rock at the Fillmore

Tony Robles
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The anticipation was killing me. After waiting through 10 weeks of postponement and three openers, I just wanted to see Aesop Rock. Well over two hours past showtime on a Sunday night at the Fillmore, the audience was getting restless.

The show, originally scheduled in July, was canceled just hours before, when someone broke into Aesop Rock’s tour van. Now, 10 weeks later, we were tired of waiting. When Aesop Rock finally burst onto the stage with his touring group (and Hail Mary Mallon bandmates) DJ Big Wiz and Rob Sonic, the energy in the room exploded.

Aesop Rock raced through standout tracks such as “Dark Zero Thirty” and “ZZZ Top” from his new album Skelethon, spitting his verse at lightning speeds. His rapid-fire, pop-culture-referencing, stream-of-consciousness lyrics, which have earned him a reputation as one of the smartest MCs in the industry, sparkled under the stage lights.

The increased speed of the live performance allowed the tracks to take on new life, both more playful and more aggressive.

Halfway through the show, Aesop Rock paused before preforming “Racing Stripes,” a song about a bad haircut, to call up an audience member to get sheared on stage by opening band Dark Time Sunsine. The deal is that the scissors start moving when the beat drops and don’t stop until the song is over.

Aesop Rock has performed this stunt at every stop of his tour, but tonight was a special night. Since it was the last show of the tour, they also pulled up their long-haired tour manager to get his cut by “a person who knows a lot about hair….Ms. Kimya Dawson!” Dawson, who will be releasing an album with Aesop Rock later this year, ran onto the stage, afro bouncing. By the end of the song, both men onstage had extremely, uh, creative asymmetrical haircuts and Dawson had even started in on her subject’s chest hair.

After the barbershop was cleaned up, some of Aesop Rock’s older songs started surfacing. This setlist, to the audience’s delight, contained several odes to San Francisco eateries. “Check it out,” he shouted. “Y’all like late-night eating?” The rapper, who lives in the city, devoted an entire song each to late night diner Grubstake and Polk Street’s 24-hour donut shop Bob’s.
“This city has been fucking fantastic to me,” Aesop Rock shouted in one of his rare moments of earnestness. By the end of the packed two-hour set, he had certainly returned the favor.

Live Shots: Rock Make Festival

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Crafting DIY-style is already pretty punk rock — but combine it with actual live tunes, and you’ve got yourself the Rock Make Street Festival, a street celebration of music and art.

This past Saturday, 9/15, the Indian Summer sunshine rays beamed down on Capp and 18th street in the Mission, as festival par-tay goers munched on Indian burritos from the Kasa Indian food truck, ogled handmade wood ties by Wood Thumb and of course, listened to music by local bands like Permanent Collection, a punk pop band that took the stage and added some seriously rocking moments to the festival. Rock Make: a true indie celebration of what makes the Bay Area so downright beautiful.

Live Shots: Blondie and Devo at the Warfield

Tony Robles
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I was flipping around on my car’s FM dial last week and had the bleeding-from-the-ears misfortune of coming upon Taylor Swift’s staggeringly awful new single. I thought for a moment that I landed on some kind of Disney or Nickelodeon channel, where corporate-oriented bands score those awkward tween TV shows. In reality though, Swift is currently selling the shit out of the thing on iTunes…and leaving me to question my faith in humanity’s hearing.
 
So I was all the more enthusiastic as I headed to the Warfield on Monday night for the Devo and Blondie double bill. Clearly, I was in need of some kind of authentic audio to counter balance the heavy dose of vapid pop I had stumbled into on the airwaves. And even as their 1979 heyday grows ever more distant, Blondie and Devo delivered in a big way on Monday.
 
In a Warhol-esque gold lame getup, Debbie Harry exuded all the badass charm that you would expect of her, delivering a great set to a dedicated crowd that delighted in Blondie classics like “Heart of Glass” and “Hanging on the Telephone.” Harry sang “Call Me” with an exquisite edge that seemed to all by itself unravel my modern music frustrations.
 
Better yet, was the aberrant entity known as Devo, which filled its opening slot with an eruption of live wire punk energy that proved strangely relevant to the age we reside in. It was more punk than anything you’ll find at Warped Tour, more neo-futuristic than Skrillex and his plastic space ship stage at Outside Lands. “What We Do,” “Are We Not Men,” and of course “Whip It” were all showcased as Devo built its sublime dozen song set to an oddball fever pitch, amid pixilated waves of scrolling visuals and numerous costume changes.
 
All told, I left Sixth and Market to return back to the future with my confidence restored in American music. Swift’s new single isn’t the first time that radio (or MTV or iTunes) has hurled all manner of sonic schlock in our direction. And if that’s true, then Blondie and Devo suggest that the inverse must also be true: that genuine audio eventually rises to the top in the long term, through one avenue or another.
 
And if it arrives wearing one of those weird red conical hats, then so be it.

 

All photos by Charles Russo.

Live Shots: Skill Exchange Launch Party

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Photos by Bowerbird Photography

Essential life skills surely include knowing how to tie a bow tie, or how to saber champagne. Ok, maybe the second one is more like a glorified party skill, but it’s probably one worth having, just for shits and giggles.

If you were at the Skill Exchange Launch Party last night at Store Front Lab then you learned how to do BOTH of those things. And for the next three days, you can feast on a smorgasbord of other wonderful instruction, including urban chickenry, the basics of wiring a lamp, letterpress printing, and bike mechanics.

Think of how smart you’ll be after all these workshops?! Well worth checking out. Here’s a list of all the class options, although some of them might already be sold out. Tickets can be purchased here. Check out the lineup:

Friday

31 RAX 3:00-4:30PM
Vintage Clothing: Styling, Care and Mending $8
TOWN CUTLER 5:00-5:45PM
Essential Knife Skills: Safety, Slicing and Knife Sharpening $5
ALMANAC BEER 6:00-8:00PM 21 and over only
Home Brew and the Beer Industry $12


Saturday

URBAN CHICKEN NETWORK 10:00AM-12:00PM
Backyard Flocks: Urban Chicken Keeping $8
DAVID HARD 12:30-1:30PM
Nuts and Bolts of Lamp Making: Wiring Basics $8
PASTORAL PLATE 2:00-3:30PM
The Whole Chicken: Butchery, Carving and Making Stock $12
SPICEHOUND 6:30-7:45 PM
An Introduction to Artisan Salts $8

Sunday

PUNK DOMESTICS 10:00AM-11:15AM
Making Piadina: Traditional Italian Flatbread $12
MARGO MORITZ 3:30-6:00PM
How to Shoot in Manual: The Basics of Photography $8
PUBLIC BIKES 6:15-8:00PM
Basic Bicycle Mechanics and Maintenance $8

 

3D knits, canapes, moving mannequins: Shots from Fashion’s Night Out

Andrew Lam
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Shots by Bowerbird Photography

Models and mannequins started to blend together. Downtown SF was abuzz with fashion frenzy on Thursday for Fashion’s Night Out — a multi-store extravaganza taking place in urban areas across the country.

The streets were filled with wonderfully-outfitted fashionistas and all the fancy department stores were filled with up-do stations, makeover fun, nibbles, and bubbly — and even a little local indie love. Holy Stitch, a custom denim/hem and repair company who “assists denim lovers of the most passionate and exacting breed,” and was on location to bedazzle shoppers’ jeans, as part of a pop-up fashion shop curated by the Bold Italic at Macy’s.

There were also iPad portrait sketches and fall lines on display by SF fashion students, including the chunky and luxurious sweaters by Jeanette Au. Fun for all those with a love for fashion!

Spiritual bump and grind at Purity Ring

Tony Robles
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The luminous, blinking cocoons that have been rumored to grace the stages of Purity Ring’s live shows — as boasted by the lucky ones who have been able to get tickets to these consistently sold out performances — glowed with aqua-blue precision at Bottom of the Hill on Labor Day.

It was one of those elusive evenings the music gods hand craft. Every member of the crowd seemed to be in on this magical energy, knowing that sonic-satisfaction was promised to each and all by the end of the night. The Potrero Hill venue bustled with unanimous glee as the audience waited anxiously, gratefully, for the Halifax-Montreal-based duo to bring elegant live justice to its prodigious debut album, Shrines.


Composed of Corin Roddick (instrumentals) and Megan James (vocals), Purity Ring mingles the heavy, sensual beats of trap-rap with the lush innocence of dream pop. Like many artists who grew up during the 1990s (Roddick is 21 and James, 24) – and who experienced the spectacular explosion of the Internet as it evolved through the eruption of electronic music – Purity Ring composes with their life’s cumulative soundscape in mind, chopping and screwing what they know best.

But what is it exactly about Purity Ring that makes them so undeniably beautiful, and perfect to listen to at any mood, at any time of the day? What separates them from other recent sensations like Grimes, who also sings with a coy alien voice and futuristic flair?

James, for one, surrenders herself within her own words. She sings not with the glittering, sexual boldness found in many leading female artists, but rather with a strong, poised admission of her self-relinquishment and childlike vulnerability. Her unassuming, calm warbles that soar within the ethereal bass line proclaim the helplessness we all feel when the weight of the universe presses down on our little ribs. James alluringly invites the listener to share in her longing for that defining release found in music, poetry, love, and sex.

Purity Ring has found a way to make electronic music organic. Roddick performed using a light-emitting keyboard sampler made by him from scratch. The lovely aforementioned cocoons lit up at Roddick’s command to the tune of the trembling synths, to match all of our trembling thighs. The two performed wearing garments designed and sewn by James herself.

The flawless combination of un-ostentatious, self-effacing poetry and transparent musicianship brought down the walls of even the most aloof wallflower in the room. A spiritual bump and grind took hold of everyone’s pelvic bones as Purity Ring delivered a night of pure, pristine music, when for once, all made sense in the world.

 

All photos by Demian Becerra. 

Jellyfish, oxtail, and more from the Street Food Festival

Andrew Lam
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The annual Street Food Festival enlivens blocks of the Mission every year with many of our great food trucks, booths manned by the kitchen staff of our favorite SF restaurants, and a few visiting guests — which at this year’s fest on August 18 included my favorite Portland food cart Eurotrash, and the adorable Linda Green of Ms Linda’s Catering from New Orleans. The most significant addition to the Street Food lineup this year wasn’t a cart at all,  but rather an entire event — the Friday night before the main festival, the Night Market took over the Alemany Farmers Market. In the whipping winds of South San Francisco we sampled unforgettable bites that were not available at the Street Food Fest. The festive, Chinese lantern-laced outdoor space made the Night Market a stand-out. I hope it becomes a yearly feature.

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Full captions: 
1. The star of the Night Market was The Boss Hog, the debut of a new project from the Bone & Gristle Boys (SF’s Ryan Farr  of 4505 Meats and Rhode Island’s Matt Jennings of Farmstead). 
 2. One of the best sandwiches I’ve ever had, The Boss Hog is slow-roasted pork, cornmeal-fried pork cutlet, Vermont cheddar, smoked pickles, red onion, greens, jalapeno ranch dressing, Farr’s chicharrones
3. One of my favorite Portland food carts Eurotrash showed off fresh grilled prawns loaded in a baguette with spicy curry slaw
4. At the Night Market, Fifth Floor chef David Bazirgan’s delicious fava bean falafel wrap 
5. Ken Ken Ramen served jellyfish at Friday’s Night Market
6. Vada Pav (spicy potato puff sandwich) from Juhu Beach Club
7. Friday’s festive Night Market — a tradition I hope continues each year
8. State Bird Stuart – State Bird Provisions’ Chef Stuart Brioza assembles burrata and fried garlic bread
9. The top taste of Saturday’s festival was State Bird Provisions’ (Bon Appetit’s 2012 # 1 New US Restaurant) hand-pulled burrata atop addictive fried garlic bread
10. A Korean favorite from the Inner Richmond, To Hyang’s braised oxtail with daikons, carrots, dates, hard-boiled egg

 

Live Shots: Desaparecidos at the Regency Ballroom

Tony Robles
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A wave of nostalgia rolled fierce last night through the Regency Ballroom. It was everywhere – on stage with the Desaparecidos, a reformed group of five accomplished Omaha musicians, who seemed to lean on one another for comfort during noisy breakdowns, bending backward and lurching forward while playing all the tracks off their one album together, Read Music, Speak Spanish (Saddle Creek Records, 2002). It was in the rapturous, screaming crowd, mosh-pitting past its prime, and pumping skinny fists to the beat. And up on the balcony, it rose on my arms in the form of an endless series of goose pimples. Nostalgia sans irony.

In between tracks off Read Music, Speak Spanish, the band jumped out of the past and into the (possible?) future with brand new songs, including the recently released “MariKKKopa” and one that group leader Conor Oberst said they just named, “Anonymous.”

Oberst, ever the emotive front person, threw his long pony hair back and kicked his red bandana-swaddled leg up during the intense guitar swells and his mid-lyric yelps of “woo!” The singer-guitarist-Bright Eyes mastermind also talked about the disparity between the rich and the poor, the problems with a two-party system, Arizona’s sheriff, Obama’s short-comings (fewer cheers there), and a whole lot about the RNC. I also think he called someone a witch?

As one balcony-percher noted, “he’s preaching to the choir.” And another, “I feel like this political rhetoric was more interesting 10 years ago.” That would be when the band first came out, railing against the American dream. Still, it was nice to hear that someone out there in the music biz still cares; and that there are relatively mainstream bands still willing to stand up for what they believe. Sure, Desaparecidos is a cult favorite on an indie label, but Oberst supposedly dated Winona Ryder, so it’s not like he’s exactly under the radar. Anyways, I can’t recall if he discusses such issues during Bright Eyes sets as well, but he certainly seems more intense with all the fury of Desaparecidos. And his vocals were stronger than ever.

The most nostalgic track of all (at least in my general area) was “Manana.” Rousing lyrics being, “We will learn, we will love, we will work to change each other/We will spread, we will cover the earth like air and water/Tomorrow is blank, well, just fill it in with our little answers/If we are stopped, well, just start again.” And ending with an intro callback, Oberst howling “Yes, today we are giving birth to our own fu-tur-r-re.”

Down in the crowd below Oberst, the pit ebbed and flowed. There were crowd-surfers and rising plumes of smoke. After a tight hour and 15-minute set, Desaparecidos played a brief encore that included the Clash’s “Spanish Bombs,” during which time a rapid fan tried to get at Oberst and a guitar tech and security guards snapped into action. Oberst put his hands out, saying “it’s fine, it’s fine.” After finishing the cover, Oberst ran up to drummer Matt Baum and apologized for something, then kissed him on the mouth.

The band closed out with screamy “Hole in One.” Baum cracked hard into his drums then whipped the sticks onto the stage. The whole thing was over before 11pm, like some sort of back-in-time dream.

All photos by Chris Stevens. 

Live Shots: Rock the Bells at Shoreline Amphitheater

Tony Robles
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With a lineup jam packed with hip-hop artists from all across the genre’s increasingly diverse spectrum, Rock the Bells last weekend at Shoreline Amphitheater came and left Mountain View in a two-day flurry of generational hops.

The logistics: 35 acts from over two decades of hip-hop covering two stages in the span of a weekend. With just about any song, regardless of era, available via the web, this type of generational shuffling in music is becoming a normalized impulse.

Guerrilla Union makes this schizophrenic melodic-itch physically possible to scratch, manifesting a hip-hop festival where you can walk the fun 10 minutes over (as you people watch and Instagram the countless bizarre-yet-delightful festival goers the Bay Area music scene never fails to offer) from 22-year-old rapper, Tyga, to more established legends like Ice Cube.  

The first day’s main stage was predominantly run by young up-and-coming artists, and the smaller Wu-Tang inspired 36 Chambers Stage housed the prevailing hip-hop royalty. A$AP Rocky, “that pretty motherfucker,” glided across stage as he chanted the sonic equivalent of liquefied codeine, fusing Harlem street-cred with his purple swag lifestyle.  Rocky melted different cultural sounds and styles in a celestial, stoner pace — a pleasurable synthesis for this warm August afternoon. He was accompanied in his set by Schoolboy Q to perform “Hands On The Wheel” and “Pretty Flacko.”

Mac Miller was low energy and did not execute with a whole lot of diction. His uncomplicated performance may have worked excellently at 36 Chambers, but as the main stage at Shoreline Amphitheatre is designed to house over 25,000 people, the sheer distance between the stage and the majority of the audience understated the straightforward solo set.

The 36 Chambers Stage had no arranged seating. Instead, the proper hip-hop show codes of conduct reigned — meaning you bump n’ grind your way to the front and throw weed in place of roses on stage to show your undying appreciation. DMX, proved that his energy is and always will be legendary. The “Divine Master of the Unknown” leaped around stage and invited the enthusiastic crowd to bark along to “Ruff Ryders Anthem.”

As the sun began to set, J. Cole graced the main stage with a live band playing behind him. In “Lost Ones,” a song that documents abortion by taking on the perspectives of both involved members, Cole brought forth a surge of passionate sentiments — staging a poignant lyrical monologue and compelling the audience to emotionally engage with his words. The Grammy-nominated, platinum producing artist was completely unassuming, and seemed to be entirely thrilled by having the opportunity to perform for the ecstatic crowd. He showed his contagious reverence for music, releasing his body in between verses to the swings of 1990s jazz beats, and sitting back in the middle of his set to listen to his pianist’s solos.

The crowd for the second day of the festival did not appear to be the slightest bit tired from the full night before. Everyone’s energy was even higher (pun definitely intended) for Sunday’s line-up. Living Legends performed two sets, one after another, as Zion-I Crew, The Grouch and Eligh, and Murs and Fashawn took control of the Paid Dues Stage (formerly the 36 Chambers stage) for the collective’s fully deserved two-hour block.

Slick Rick took the cake for best wardrobe with his banana yellow jumpsuit and giant glittering chains hanging fabulously low. Penelope Cruz freaking out at the blonde Johnny Depp in the highway scene in Blow played behind him, making Slick Rick also a close contender for most interesting video display (Kid Cudi’s celestial soundscape Saturday night was also splendid).

Common seemed to not take a single breath in his entire set. In between his adrenaline-packed performances, he complimented the Bay, shouted out to the audience, responded enthusiastically, and of course, brought a pretty lady with flowery pants on stage to towel off his sweat.

The reunion of  Bone Thugs-N-Harmony was hauntingly good. Their effortless ability to harmonize in super-speed, and all the while communicate cutting words on death and distress, is a phenomenon most people of my generation only hear in recordings and fantasized of one day hearing live. Hits like “Tha Cross Roads,” “1st Of Tha Month,” and “Thuggish Ruggish Bone” brought chills throughout the audience.

The festival came to a final close with headliner Nas, who was certainly the best choice for knitting together a cohesiveness to the wildly diverse styles and sounds made over those two days. Large structures of retro vanity lights radiated brightly — the talented artist himself was wearing dark shades at 10pm — and Nas blurred the line between old school and new, imprinting a memorable, dazzling end to this year’s festival.

A vision in Vocaloid: Fashion shots from J-Pop Summit Festival 2012

Andrew Lam
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Black lace, kimonos, and colorful wigs ruled the day this weekend in Japantown at the J-Pop Summit Festival Aug. 25-26. Also popular this year, for those of you trend-spotting, were sweetly wobbling attenae, which announced the presence of the head attached as they weaved through the booths, stopping here and there to check out the Vocaloid dance contest, an Evangelion fan’s robotic get-up, or the Sunday performance by 18-year singer Kylee. Although there was music, food, and things to buy, it was really all about the clothes. Whether they were dressing up to be a favorite anime character or simply sporting super-sweet tights or an awesome leather jacket, those on the street were working it in some pretty amazing threads.

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