Live Shots

SXSW Music Highlights: Photographer Brittany Powell’s snaps

Charles Russo
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In addition to our other coverage of the SXSW music festival, the Guardian also had photographer Brittany Powell pounding Austin’s pavement in search of great music. Here are some of her photos and impressions from the week.

BRITTANY’S SXSW DIARY

Day One: 3/13/12

Checked out Star and Dagger and High on Fire at Emo’s East. The show was packed, free, and had a mini ramp that was going off all night. Quite the scene. Lindsey Kuhn, makes beautiful silk screened posters for Emo’s Austin that date back twenty years. The show was all ages, so even the youngsters were out!

Star and Dagger was pretty fun and rocking… their guitarist Sean Yseult used to be in White Zombie.  Lastly, High on Fire’s first show of seven at SXSW was as heavy as ever.

Day Two: 3/14/12

Everything was chaotic. I saw lines that stretched for blocks to see bands like Built to Spill and even the Bay Area’s Trash Talk. I ended up at a metal show at Dirty Dog bar and saw Oakland’s Saviours, San Francisco’s Black Cobra, and North Carolina’s legendary Corrosions of Conformity.  

Streets were crowded in Austin, reminding me of Mardi Gras… but the weather was great and it really seemed that everyone was in great spirits enjoying the music.

Day Three: 3/15/12

Thursday night I checked out SF booking agency Leafy Green’s showcase at the Bat Bar. Sleepy Sun played an excellent blend of dreamy psych rock. Singer Bret Constantino has a sexy, almost Jim Morrison-like presence. 

My favorite of the night was Long Beach based Crystal Antlers, who were previously signed with the now defunct Touch and Go records. They had a super trippy dancer join them on stage while they rocked out with incredible force. This band is not to be missed (and apparently they now need a new label)!

Day Four: 3/16/12 

I stopped by the Knitting Factory’s showcase at Rusty’s. There I heard the Atlanta, GA four piece punk band The Biters. They were awesome and let’s just say their lead singer Matt has really dirty mouth!  Worth giving a listen if you’re a Johnny Thunders or a Sex Pistols fan…

Following Rusty’s I headed over to Bar 96, where I managed to push my way into the packed Dinosaur Jr show.  This show was probably the best show I saw all week.  They were amazing, playing nostalgic songs like “Feel the Pain.”  It was a thick, heavy, stoner rock show and I have to say: Bassist Lou Barlow came pretty close to stealing the show from guitarist J Mascis. Felt pretty lucky on this one!

On the way home from the Bat Bar, we overheard the melody from “Just Like Honey…” my personal favorite tune from the Jesus and Mary Chain, who were playing a packed show at the Belmont. Slyly using my photo pass to sneak in the back door, we caught the last five songs of their set.  Such a sweet surprise!

Day Five: 3/17/12

I spent the day at the MOG showcase. What a day!  Things kicked off with Southern CA based band Silent Comedy, who put on quite a show and then it was killer blues musician Gary Walker Jr.

Other bands I loved were Portland’s Blitzen Trapper and Oakland-based Howlin Rain…and definitely headliner The Roots!

 

Zola Jesus, Shabazz Palaces, and more at Creators Project

Tony Robles
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Along with all the epic-sized Lite-Brites and wing-flapping guardian angels at Creators Project this weekend in soggy Fort Mason, there also was plenty of super bass-heavy, heart-pumping, mind-expanding live music. Again, all free.

In the airport-hanger openness of midday in the Festival Pavilion — after a brief, freak hale storm outside — a loud, high-pitched electro-clatter came ringing down the forever long row of speakers. The culprit being Bejing indie rock act, New Pants.

With rapid energy the band bounced through hyperactive synth pop “punk disco,” while video projections by new media artist Feng Mengbo flashed on the screen behind. I most recall one song nearly matched up lyrically with clips from Spongebob Squarepants — the lyrics inexplicably being “I am not gay. Gay gay gay gay gay” and later, New Pants singer Peng Lei in a white button-up smashing a computer on stage, much to the small gathering crowd’s amusement.

After a quick trip back through the “Origin” cube and a saucy vegan tofu burger with pineapple from an Off the Grid truck (Koja Kitchen), I crawled back through the slightly more filled up hanger for always-entertaining LA noise band, HEALTH.  As far as I’m concerned, the best parts of HEALTH were the drumming and the headbanging, which went hand in hand.

The experimental sounds, the mixed vocals, the frantic live show, it was great — but the drummer just killed it, and when another band member picked up the sticks to drum along in pummeling unison, it was near blistering perfection. And to my other point, I just like seeing bands headbang on stage, especially in this odd setting (still bright and light outside, still relatively empty in the enormous space). 

There was one true fan in the crowd — though I’m sure more were there, just possibly bodily contained — that couldn’t help but headbang along with dark flowing hair flying, jump methodically in place, and throw a near-empty cup of beer, much to the chagrin of the nerds around him.

The Antlers followed, and were rather unexciting. It was just that mild, lovely indie rock from a former blog buzz band, suitable for impassioned scenes on nighttime soaps. Though they played it well, not a whole lot of heat.

Seattle’s Shabazz Palaces brought the fun back. While the music off last year’s Black Up is sometimes playful, there’s a refined dynamic in the act, laid out by the casual-close interplay and synchronized dancing between smooth lyricist-808 controller Ishmael “’Palaceer Lazaro” Butler (once of ‘90s jazz-rap group Digable Planets) and bongo slapping multi-instrumentalist Tendai “Baba” Maraire. Lots of grooving followed, and some memorably awkward white boy shoulder jerks of free-form dance in the crowd.

After a round of sweet potato tator tots from Brass Knuckle, it was Zola Jesus mind-melting time.  And just in time to catch that powerfully operatic voice soaring through moving single “Avalanche” off Conatus.

The diminutive vocalist, wrapped in her usual flowing, cape-y white frock, spread her winged-arms out wide during high notes, giving the illusion of a bird about to take flight, or an eerily angelic force, like the inverse of the black angel in Chris Milk’s interactive installation in the nearby Herbst Pavillion.

She was the first act of the day able to truly transcend the challenges of the wide-open space fighting the elements (outdoor rain, shots of wind through open doors, free concert-itus causing general disinterest).  Though that also could have been because the sun was finally officially down, and the true crowds were finally there, more efficiently using the room to huddle. 

And this is when a balding elder with a badge around his neck began holding up his camera and filming Zola Jesus’ set. And it was right in front of me. And then I was watching the floating eerie angel through his tiny screen.

With general media personnel, bloggers, reporters, Intel people, and VICE people all there with a barrage of fancy cameras with huge lenses, or iPads, or iPhones snapping away all day, it felt like nearly everyone was there to document the event. If not for a specific outlet, most definitely for some form of social networking.

It left me wondering, who was there to simply absorb the magic in real-time?  Who came for fun? Are we all part of some scary dystopia in which nothing happens but documentation? But also, perhaps paradoxically, who cares? This was a great event, tying together master creators in the worlds of technology, art, music, and food. Who am I to shit on that?

Left pondering this, I realized: my cheeks were frozen stiff, my belly ached from fried foods, and my ugly sniffling cold was rearing its ugly sniffling head. It was time to go home. Luckily, my photographer stayed behind to document Squarepusher and Yeah Yeah Yeahs for those who missed it real-time.

 

Live Shots: Women’s History Month office intrigue with 3 Girls Theatre

Andrew Lam
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In celebration of Women’s History Month, 3 Girls Theatre is staging a lunar cycle chockful of girl power greatness. Part of its month of XX chromosoned-fueled creativity opened Friday, March 9: The Right Thing. The production provides a strikingly realistic window into the life of a female CEO via a long day spent in ruthless mediation on her recent expulsion from her high-power job amid allegations of sexual harassment. The play tells the truth about being a woman in a male-dominated workplace, while dissecting the inner workings of what feels like a real life legal dispute. All the actors held their ground while playing either a super-smart judge or a super-slimy ex-boss, but the real fireball of the show was spunky-punk Sam — the sexual harassment victim — played by Karina Wolfe. With a red head of hair and serious Madonna lace gloves, Wolfe’s character brought something colorful and quirky to the world of “executive Barbies.” The show runs until April 1 and opening night sold out, get your tickets soon!

The Right Thing

Through April 1, various times, $20-$38

Thick House

(415) 801-8081

1695 18th St., SF

www.thickhouse.org

www.3girlstheatre.org

 

Image Comic Expo showcases new stars and the old guard

Tony Robles
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Comic cons serve a variety of functions. They can be press junkets, costume parties, swap meets, social retreats, even museums. Comics writer Warren Ellis has a habit of referring to San Diego’s huge Comic Con as “nerd prom,” which perfectly captures the glow of excitement for mass socialization in funny costumes. By contrast, this year’s Image Comic Expo was more like a nerd Sadie Hawkins dance – a deliberate reversal of the standard hierarchy, where creator-owned books are championed over the widely beloved DC and Marvel franchises that sometimes seem to oversaturate the comics market. It was also a little less garish and hectic than some larger cons, but the sense of community and pride was still richly evident.

The event coincided with two historic peculiarities – the twentieth anniversary of Berkeley-based Image Comics and the migration of San Francisco’s WonderCon to Anaheim this year. And, fittingly, there was no shortage of Image worship over the con’s three days. In the center of the convention floor like a hub was the main Image vendor, which sold books, distributed tickets to panels and workshops, and hosted signings, all in the shadow of a massive edifice with Image book covers on one side and images from Robert Kirkman’s Skybound imprint on the other.

Local vendors were well-represented on the con floor, with Berkeley’s Fantastic Comics (shout-out to my hometown comic book guys and gals) and Escapist Comic Bookstore, and San Francisco’s Two Cats Comic Book Store, among others. The “artist alley” was rife with independent artists and creators selling their wares and producing sketches, while several Image creators, including Jonathan Hickman (Red Wing), Nick Spencer (Morning Glories), and the MAN OF ACTION gents, got their own booths around the con.

As for the sort of crowd the Image Expo attracted, based entirely on my casual observations, there was a notable diversity of age, gender, and ethnicity. There were strikingly few cosplayers, though I spotted one full-blown Aang from Avatar: The Last Airbender, a group of ladies in anime-inspired dress (I made out one Sailor suit), and two young’uns dressed as Batgirl (or a female Batman) and Captain America. Among con guests, the Skybound booth featured an Atom Eve cosplayer, and the comedians of Dipstick Swagger sported a variety of disguises including their own mascot, Luchacat.

By virtue of the con’s Image-centric organization, the panels which ran through Saturday and Sunday were occasionally redundant, with guests like Kirkman, Joe Casey, and Brian K. Vaughan each appearing in multiple places. But breaking announcements and a sense of fan enthusiasm for these beloved creators’ upcoming work kept it all going. Among the exciting announcements at Friday night’s keynote speech by Image publisher Eric Stephenson: the long-awaited sequel to Howard Chaykin’s Black Kiss, a third volume of Phonogram from Gillen/McKelvie, a collaboration between Grant Morrison and Darick Robertson called Happy, and several other new titles.

The most enjoyable panels were the ones that featured folks with a less-established fanbase, who were in a position to introduce new readers to their ideas. The inaugural Saturday panel, moderated by G4’s Blair Butler, focused on the forthcoming Kickstarter-funded collection Womanthology, a showcase for comics by female creators. The panel featured Trina Robbins, Mariah Huehner, Nicole Sixx, Fiona Staples, and Bonnie Burton, all of who contributed in various capacities. The audience, though smallish, was enthusiastic about both the cause and the content, and discussions of such exasperating issues as the “brokeback pose” (slightly NSFW tumblr here) drew applause and thoughtful questions.

Also engrossing was Sunday’s “Image Introduces…” panel, with a slate of recently recognized creators whose series are still in their early issues, including Joe Keatinge (Glory, Hell Yeah), S. Steven Struble and Sina Grace (Li’l Depressed Boy), Daniel Corey (Moriarty), Jim Zub (Skullkickers), Brandon Seifert (Witch Doctor), and Kurtis J. Wiebe (Peter Panzerfaust). It was a joy to see their pride in their creations and their genuine pleasure at getting to share their work with potential new fans.

But let us not forget the old guard: at the “Twenty Years of Independence” panel, the founders of Image told their story and the audience got a chance to witness controversial icons like Todd McFarlane and Rob Liefeld; the “Stories and Scripts: Writing Comics” panel featured Image’s hottest properties, including Jonathan Hickman, Ed Brubaker, Nick Spencer, John Layman, Joe Casey, Steven T. Seagle, and Brian K. Vaughan, who basically all teased each other and had a grand old time.

Since it was an Image-minded convention, creators came first, which is always refreshing, especially for less iconic newcomers with a lot to offer, but the apotheosis of one publisher might wear thin if the convention continues in subsequent years. With a bit of expansion, though, an East Bay comics event might differ enough from WonderCon to hold an audience.

All photos by Taryn Erhardt

 

Live Shots: Bowie beatification at Stardust Sunday

Andrew Lam
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We made a point to sleep in late on Sunday morning to make sure we made it to church. Services started at 9:30 p.m. that evening, so we had to be sure to get our beauty sleep before putting on our Sunday best. Once ensconsed the holy space, there was singing and readings. We were repeatedly told that yes, we are loved… by Bowie. Public Works was hosting Stardust Sunday, the ecstatic services propagated by the First Church of the Sacred Silversexual, an entity devoted to the worship of all things David Bowie.

But this was no mere night of “Rebel Rebel” and “China Girl,” people. Everyone had their lyric pamphlets in hand, glitter layered on, and were sure to join in the many “wham bam, thank you ma’am!”s proclaimed between each epic musical moment. It was pure, ridiculous fun. Mancub and 8ball of the DJ collective Space Cowboys provided the hymnal Bowie beats, and a fabulous mass was had by all. 

Late that night as we walked home, we came upon a golden sign decorating the cold pavement several blocks away from Sunday mass. It served to remind us, just one more time, that Bowie does indeed love us.

For information on the First Church of the Sacred Silversexual’s next services, go here

 

Promising newish acts at Noise Pop 2012: Surf Club and FIDLAR

Tony Robles
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He asked if there were drink tickets. The bartender nodded, saying that the band could have wine now, and then beers on stage. Neither of those options would work for Stockton’s Surf Club, whose members were all sporting big black X’s — the mark of the underaged — at their Café Du Nord Noise Pop appearance.

When Surf Club played, melancholic Stratocaster led pop, that youthful innocence was obvious in its music. Well, let’s not say innocence, maybe timidity? The lead singer was a big guy with a small voice, like Frank Black (or Kim Deal? someone from the Pixies) in quieter moments.

The softness fit with the lyrics, mostly teen angst songs void of irony with small goals and wants: just to be friends, just to get out of bed. Surf Club seems to be off to a good start, keeping it simple, strumming along to a speedy drum beat. We’ll see what happens when the shyness wears off.

The following band, LA’s FIDLAR (which, if you’re keeping score at home was 75% over legal drinking age) had absolutely no issues with confidence. Hell, with a name like Fuck It Dog Life’s A Risk, you know the band’s got to be somewhat carefree, if not downright cocky.

“This song is called ‘Stoked and Broke,’” the band’s most talkative, spastic member introduced the first song, explaining, “because we’re stoked and broke.” What followed was a frenetic set of punk fueled, stripped down rock. With a rollicking tightness that reminded me of Thee Oh Sees, FIDLAR shot along, keeping the energy up by alternating singers.

Simple can be a conscious choice, and for FIDLAR that meant shouting through a song entirely consisting of the words “I drink cheap beer. So what? Fuck You!” with just enough attitude to make it work. Recently signing to Mom+Pop and with a full slate at this year’s SXSW, FIDLAR was definitely one of the better surprises at Noise Pop so far.

From California to Ethiopia with Allah-Las and the Budos Band

Tony Robles
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If you could handpick its most redeeming qualities and inhabitants from any time period in the past half century, Los Angeles could actually be a rather magical place. Pluck the psychedelic guitar strains reverberating through Laurel Canyon, scoop a fistful of bronzed sun-kissed surfers and sparkling waves from the coast, add two shakes of downtown weirdness, and you’d likely come up with something along the lines of Allah-Las, the quartet that opened for Budos Band during the Noise Pop lineup at the Independent Thursday.

Sporting a bolo tie and an acoustic guitar, lead singer Miles Michaud ran the band through a tight set of exhaustively pleasant, twist-worthy folk-adelia – with the kind of echoing vocals that shoot you back to a simpler time of black-and-white TV rock’n’roll. Perhaps behind those smiling, hair shaking acts of Ed Sullivan yore, a secret hallucinatory tab or barbiturate ran through the blood streams; if you could somehow bring those mysteries pumping through warm veins to the surface, you could get the Allah-Las set. Likewise, it could have replaced Strawberry Alarm Clock in Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, had any of its members been alive at the time.

Maybe most of the 20/30-something, casually hippie crowd was not there for these openers (or the other opening acts), because they seemed mostly stoic – and this sound pleaded for shaking, at least a few hip-swivels. Something. 

And from this vintage California boardwalk postcard of a band, we were flown around the world to Ethiopian jazz-via-Staten-Island. The instrumental Budos Band headlined the night and crushed its set – after an abnormally boiling, sticky half-hour wait that left a nearby fan audibly exasperated, and a trail of cool sweat down my back.

The 10-13-piece – counted nine on stage last night – Afro-funk band sauntered out with brassy swagger, clasping large horns (sax, trumpet), traditional vestiges of rock’n’roll (guitar, bass), and plenty of African percussion, amidst a hovering cloud of herbal smoke. Never have I seen such a charismatic baritone saxophonist as Jared Tankel, taking control of the stage with his impressive horn and skill, a maestro of groove, eliciting excitement from the audience by pumping one arm up when freed from the keys.

(The below video was not shot at the Indy, but in Washington a few days earlier) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GjPhtjIKjpc

With an instrumental set, the mind naturally wanders, and with this one, it brought me to Bill Murray. Specifically, the downtrodden, graying Murray driving around listening to Ethiopian jazz artist Mulatu Astatke in Broken Flowers. Though I see Budos Band too as perfect driving music, the audience moved far more for during this round, hooting and hollering, shifting and swaying to the consistent beat, laid down by bongos, congas, tambourine, clave, and West African shekere.

The walls were dripping with sweat by the end of it all, and though it was not the transnational journey I’d conjured, the few hour brain-vacation boded well.

 

All photos by Chris Stevens.

Live Shots: Grimes, Born Gold, oOoOO, and Yalls at Rickshaw Stop

Tony Robles
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Cecil Frena described the lineup at Rickshaw Stop last night simply as “weird music.” He should know. Performing with his synth-fueled electronic dance trio, Born Gold (formerly Gobble Gobble,) Frena stood in front of a camera-slash-iPad pulpit, singing and conducting a third of the group’s sound via a motion-captured, clearly homemade, Janet Jackson Rhythm Nation era-esque military jacket.

Definitely the strangest thing I’d seen all night, until Born Gold started its second song, at which point one of the other members strapped on a pair of stilts and began marching through the audience, playing a custom instrument consisting of a Roland SP-404 affixed to a snow shovel blade. The lighting for the theatrical set was either pitch black or blazing multicolored strobes, including a pair of handhelds that Born Gold used to blind part of the audience after covering them with a black tarp.

In more subdued moments Born Gold did synchronized dances with folding fans or put on helmets and beat each over the head with drum sticks.

As much as I noticed the music with all that going on, I’d say Born Gold was a decent fit with the first opener, Yalls. Yalls’s Dan Casey also played largely vocal driven electronic, although typically at a slower tempo and with a quirkier, less sexy lyrical sense. (Did Yalls just say something about living off the pennies in his moustache?) The clipped female R&B samples that made up a sizable portion of one of his beats recalled the time that Ben Gibbard dug up J Dilla’s grave to form the Ghostal Service and cut a chillwave album.

It was clear that most people in the sold out crowd were there to see the very buzzed about Grimes, particularly the wave of hardcore photographers who emerged and cut to the front just before the night’s second to last act, oOoOO (pronounced, by Frena as “Oh, upper case and lower case.”) With a heavy, grim quality that thematically might have fit with Grimes, in terms of the night’s lineup oOoOO was just slotted wrong, as the set was an experiment in how slow one can go. The answer? Really fucking slow. Put a cassette of dirty hip hop — with lots of syncopated hi hats and claps — into a boombox, wait for the batteries to die, record the last ten seconds, loop it, and you’ll get the idea. It’s perfect music to use when training your sloth Barbara to give a lap dance.

Still, it was fairly amazing watching the pros go to great lengths to get the perfect shot of oOoOO’s parka, although the one next to me spent most of the set texting and updating her blog, which was maybe less insulting to the musician than when she was playing Words with Friends while Release to the Sunbird opened for the Flaming Lips the night before. Hopefully as a joke, oOoOO ended his set by throwing the bouquet of flowers from the cover of Power, Lies & Corruption into the audience.

Grimes was on after. She performs with the same sort of spread arm, ambidextrous style as the keyboardist from Battles, and met expectations. She had support from Born Gold, as well as a sinister, largely vestigial dancer, whose main move consisted of adjusting her hood. Weird.

Cursive gets candid during Noise Pop

Tony Robles
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Tears, booze, sex, pain, martyrdom, regret. Against my better judgment, I was singing along with the band. I was singing carefully, with my eyes closed and likely a smile creeping up in the corners of my mouth. I couldn’t help it, it came from within, as much as that particular act generally annoys me in packed settings. The swell of angular guitar and thundering drums pulled back mostly leaving higher octave vocals from a scale that slides to and fro: “Your tears are only alibis/To prove you still feel/You only feel sorry for yourself/Well get on that cross/That’s all you’re good for.”

It was mid-song (“The Martyr,” 2000’s Domestica), mid-set (Noise Pop), of Cursive’s likely sold-out performance at Great American Music Hall. I opened my eyes, scanned the room, and saw we were all singing along breathlessly. Plaid-shirted forearms thrust towards stage, fringed heads bobbing, and everyone within earshot hollering towards the center. There in the middle stood grizzled singer-guitarist Tim Kasher, leader of the Omaha-bred longtime Saddle Creek Records fixture Cursive, as well as the Good Life. Parsing his words carefully, Kasher spoke for nearly the first time after a quick-fire opening shot of beloved Domestica and Ugly Organ tracks, interspersed with brand newer, understandably less-clapped-for I Am Gemini cuts. “Let’s get candid,” he understated.

As with the folly of any continuous lovers, there was ecstasy and there was heartbreak. Dashing Kasher, the classic storyteller, the frog-croaking boozehound, inspires great emotion in his followers, only those who’ve been with him for quite some time – say, more than a decade – may question the direction of sound. Cello out, trumpet in. Perhaps it was projection, but it appeared the crowd and Kasher were mutually orgasmic during early career, well-worn classics, and likewise, faking it to get through the newer ones.

Ending the official set with “Art is Hard” (later explaining he’d be back for an encore, after taking a shot), Kasher reminded us why we were there, because making art is indeed hard and trying, and thrilling and sometimes, routine. “Fall in love to fail – to boost your CD sales.” It’s pulling all those creative types like taffy, up to fame, sideways to monotony, and sometimes, down with it, but if you don’t have a soundtrack to the downward spiral of inventive misery, well, all else is lost too: “You gotta’ sink to swim.”

 

All photos by Chris Stevens.

Spanning time with the Flaming Lips

Tony Robles
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I ran into a temporal anomaly while driving. My first warning sign was the police cruiser with one headlight flashing its sirens behind me. Wrong place at the wrong time? Well, I was getting pulled over in Sebastopol on the way to Richmond from SF, but when the cop told me I was doing 78 in a 55, it suggested one thing —speeding.

And speeding isn’t spatial — location is irrelevant — you are precisely where you should be, just too fucking soon. The cop seemed hopeful that he could help me, but as he took my papers and ran back to his car I knew he had abandoned me to the crush of an impending temporal singularity, as time began to move in slow motion.

Slow motion. Some refer to it as time dilation. The sensation that a certain duration lasts longer than it should. The Flaming Lips have a song about it, called, obviously, “Slow Motion.” It goes like this:

Hey, come on over.

You know the day is going slower.

It takes a year, to make a day.

And I’m feeling like a float in the Macy’s Day parade.

Or like a boat, out on the ocean. 
I’m drifting round in slow motion.

LSD and other narcotics aside, time generally doesn’t work that way. Compared to your life so far, each additional day is a smaller proportion. Time telescopes, you speed up, it goes faster. Slowing down is the opposite, unnatural. Sitting in a car waiting for the cop to come back (Is he going to search me?) or laying on a couch with friends trying not to cry — whenever time slows down — it’s unnerving.

You only know this much about “Slow Motion” — an alternate track from The Soft Bulletin not released in the US — because you saw the Flaming Lips play it once. But which time? Not at that fair in Santa Rosa. That one had a rave after. Not at the Fox Theater. That was the one where you slow danced with your girlfriend (at the time) until the staff asked you to leave. At Sasquatch, there in the Gorge? They did play The Soft Bulletin then, but it was rushed. That guy stood behind you — when Wayne Coyne was recounting Steven Drozd almost losing his hand and Michael Ivins being in a car crash — screaming “Play-a-song!” No, there just hadn’t been time.

And time, for the Flaming Lips, is important. Because as a band — one that has been through all sorts of well documented shit — the Flaming Lips know the value of time (particularly borrowed) and have made it their work to not just create music but get into the complete manufacture of moments. Which is a tricky business, because moments are bastards. Take all the pictures you want of the blinding lights, the beautiful costumed kids, the confetti cannons or all the other individual weapons that the Flaming Lips use to wage musical psychedelic war on time, and the moment still might not fit in a shutter, no matter how you slice a second.

It was at Bimbo’s. Not the time they played Noise Pop a few years back, but more recently. They were playing The Soft Bulletin, and taking their time. Hitting every single track from every single version of the album. Not quite slow motion, but close. When was that?

It was the night after the couch. When you were watching Blade Runner on TV, just the end part. Where the maniac with white hair is running around, trying to knock some sense into the other idiot character, who hardly even realizes he’s alive most of the time. And it starts getting heavy. Meaningless inevitability; the crushing force of time. Fucking tears in the rain. Before you know it, you’re happy it’s basic cable, because sometimes a commercial interruption is all that’s keeping you from crying.

It was the night after that. The Lips were going slower for sure, but still way too fast. The moments going by before you’re ready. Before you know it, they are on to other songs, and “Slow Motion” is somewhere in the past, back there with your best friends on the couch, never to return.

The band is getting ready to play something else, Steven readying both miraculous hands on another instrument while Michael stands ready, as ever, on the bass. You want to reach into your bag to take the camera out again, but you resist the urge. It won’t capture the cold press of the air canisters at your back anyway. Or, for that matter, the hookah scented air from the smoke machines. And anyway, if you’re taking pictures during “Feeling Yourself Disintegrate,” you’re probably irretrievably lost.

And suddenly, everything has changed. The cop comes back to the car. Tells me my record is clear, that he just marked 65 on the ticket, because I was didn’t know where I was. He gives me some directions, regarding the roads. I don’t really listen (but do thank him and let him know about his broken headlight.) I drive forward, knowing exactly where I am. I was at a Flaming Lips show, and now I’m driving home.  

Live Shots: Surreal Valentine’s re-wedding at Eternity Ball

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Photos by Bowerbird Photography

For Valentine’s Day, Sam Love and I celebrated by going to one gigantic wedding reception. Oh wait, there was a wedding ceremony too. Actually a re-commitment ceremony, where a popular SF wedding officiant, Cynthia Gregory, in her formal black robe, honored a husband and wife’s 20 years of marriage together and blessed them and their continued union. The bride still fit in her wonderfully fluffy satin wedding dress a-la 1992, cinched tight in the back with a gigantic bow.

Weddings are expensive. Tickets to the Eternity Ball, were steep, at $150 a pop, adding to the feeling of a genuine wedding experience. But also like a wedding, any second doubts or financial jitters could be easily soothed with an open bar, and then liberated on the dance floor with a good shake, to all the best 1980s cover songs by some fine Bay Area wedding crooners.

I have to say, I was a bit nervous that the event would be a snooty, swanky affair, but despite the fact that the invitation suggested tuxedos, ball gowns, and wedding dresses as appropriate attire, it was really just another excuse for San Franciscans to do what they do best: dress up and go wild.

One bride sported a pink wig, and her groom wore a black top hat over his flowing dreadlocks. A posse of about six ladies dominated the color palette in their fire engine red, polka dot country girl dresses. Way back in 1985, one of the women bought the dresses at Gunny Sacks for two dollars each. She wrapped them in boxes and told her girlfriends to come over for a surprise, and to bring their pearls. They opened their “gifts,” and after some adjustments, went out on the town, looking perfectly matchy-matchy.

The dresses still fit and come out once or twice a year. This time, the ball gave them a chance to be instant bride’s maids. Besides dancing, costumes, music and drinks, there were space-age edibles to nibble, like mac-and-cheese served in a flying saucer and truffles floating on liquid nitrogen. The whole evening was rather surreal and amazing, much like a wedding party dancing in a house of mirrors, and fueled with a bottomless supply of booze.

But there was one thing missing … where was my slice of wedding cake?

Live Shots: Los Campesinos! and Parenthetical Girls at Great American Music Hall

Tony Robles
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0

When I last caught Parenthetical Girls in SF, singer Zac Pennington closed the show in a memorable way: traipsing around the room with a single drum stick, tapping out the solemn beat of “Stolen Children” on every available pint glass, shattering them and covering the floor in shards.

It made for a good show, but I had to imagine that someone – particularly the person that had to sweep up – was not happy. Pennington took time to tell his side of the story while opening for Los Campesinos! Friday night at the Great American Music Hall. With a typical wry petulance, Pennington said it was a reaction to an engineer who did little more than sit and eat pizza during the sound check for the his band, which hails from Portland, Ore. (a place that, the singer remarked, “has taken the crown for white liberal self-importance in the last few years”).

Whether or not that’s a valid reason for his antics, Parenthetical Girls remains a worthwhile live band largely because of Pennington’s theatrics, which combine Rufus Wainwright’s flair for drama with Mick Jagger’s vamping. Between wandering through the crowd with complete disregard, worming his way across stage face down on his stomach, and deep-throating the microphone, it was a surprise that Pennington found time at all to sing (he’s a multitasker).

Only the band’s drummer made any attempt to compete in terms of physical energy Friday, the other two members consistently played with an aloof cool, particularly keyboardist (and Susan Ann Sulley doppelganger Amber Smith,) who managed to stay blasé even as Pennington suggestively wrapped his mic cord around her pale neck. “Point of fact, the only time we ever get to play nice venues in San Francisco is when we play with Los Campesinos,” Pennington noted. “God bless those guys.*”

*Amen.

Live Shots: Making truffles with Neo Cocoa at La Cocina

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“Ganache is proof that God loves us,” exclaimed a student with pink and purple hair, as Neo Cocoa founder Christine Doerr rapidly whisked a bowl of melted chocolate and poured it into a metal frame for cooling. We all stood around a huge table at La Cocina, learning how to make Doerr’s award-winning chocolate delights, essentially the soft and rich insides of a classic truffle without the hard outer shell. After a quick demo, it was time to get to work ourselves, rolling the chocolate in our hands to form balls and then dusting them in all variety of coatings, from fennel powder to cacao nibs.

Doerr, who originally started in the entrepreneur incubator program at La Cocina in 2008, now has her very own professional kitchen in Belmont and has been named one of the top ten chocolatiers in North America. No doubt today’s class was excited to learn chocolatey secrets from such an expert in the world of sweets.

At the end of the night, we all came away with a little box of chocolate heaven, perhaps to share with that special someone for Valentine’s Day. Even if you weren’t at the class, you can pick up a wonderful assortment of Neo Cocoa for your honey at many stores in San Francisco, including Bi-Rite Market and Canyon Market (and even Whole Foods).

Live Shots: Golden Glass 2012 slow food and wine festival

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0

Wine was flowing freely at 11 a.m. on Sat/4 for the pre-show press tasting. We had prepped ourselves by carb-loading on whole wheat oatmeal pancakes before heading to Fort Mason for the Eighth Annual Golden Glass festival (which raised awareness and funds for slow food programs) preparing ourselves to indulge in a smorgasbord of carefully vetted, sustainably produced wines.

(Oddly, I liked the first wine we sampled, a moscato d’asti by La Caliera, all sweet and bubbly, the best. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that it was the first wine to hit our tongues that morning, but I really believe it was just that great. You should try it.)

The wines came from all over Italy and California, along with a sampling of delectable edibles, including hot-from-the-oven bread by Danny Gabriner of Sour Flour and a large, golden roasted pig from the Butcher Brothers. Also at the Slow Food “Ark of Taste” table were some quirky culinary finds, like the Bodega Red potato. Once the staple tater of the gold miners, over time, it disappeared and was thought to have been completely lost until it was recently found. It is now being grown in Marin County, in hopes of reviving this long-lost tuber.

We skedaddled before the show opened to the public, since the event was totally sold out and we had a feeling that wine aficionados were going to take the place by storm, or rather, sips and gulps. But we felt lucky to have tasted such a wide and delicious variety of libations, before we teetered off to find some lunch.

Live Shots: Precious Drop

Andrew Lam
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The evening’s “Precious Drop” dance performance at CounterPulse on Saturday, February 4 was centered around the theme of water — which is becoming a controversial topic as issues of water rights become more muddled. Most of the dances, performed by Mohamed Lamine Bangoura, the Jaara Dance Project, and Bu Falle African Drum and Dance, focused on celebrating Mami Wata and her fickle ability to pour down from the sky to provide precious drops of life. The choreography onstage mixed traditional and modern moves, performed by talented dancers from across the globe whose smiles filled the space with a joy that you could feel, even sitting in the audience.

Live musicians provided a background of fertile beats on a variety of drums and marimbas, and they also sang, making for a wonderful show. Their efforts were rewarded — both nights were sold out the space, with happy dance fans sitting on the floor and standing in the hallway to get a glimpse of the wetness onstage. The piece was a work-in-progress, so keep your ears perked (follow the drum beat!) for future performances.

A 2011 Jaara dance performance

Live Shots: Decentralized Dance Party

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0

All photos by Bowerbird Photography
 
When Sam Love and I finally arrived at Union Square on Fri/27 night, we were surprised by the mass of boomboxes perched on peoples’ shoulders, like a thousand John Cusacks in Say Anything, heading down Powell Street. Somehow, we found our friends (Ickles and Eckles) when the party descended at the Powell Street BART station. The music blared and tourists careened their heads over the banisters of the station to see what the heck was going on. It was a Decentralized Dance Party (DDP), where strangers get dressed up, gather with their old boomboxes, and wait for the organizers to hijack a radio frequency, where they send out the jams on long antennas, for some major noise and wild Friday night dancing.

The theme was “Strictly Business,” so at times it was hard to tell the downtown suits from the party people, which just added more crazy to the mix. Of course, it got pretty hot on the concrete dance floor and layers were quickly stripped. Eventually, we found ourselves walking down Market, a hoard of twinkle-toed goofballs, getting down to everything from Journey to LMFAO. Almost to the Ferry Building, we stopped in a business park at 1 Bush Plaza and were told — gleefully? — that we had amassed 400 noise violations. The cops gave us one more song. Little did they know, DDP would pick a nearly 15 minute-long song – extending the party just long enough to finish off those “water” bottles and find someone’s shoulder to dance on.

Live Shots: Fitz and the Tantrums

Tony Robles
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A steady backbeat. The swirling organ. Lots of saxophone. Two singers who double as dancers. One skunk striped haircut. Without a doubt, Fitz and the Tantrums have their act together, and worked it Thursday, the first of two nights at the Regency Ballroom.

The Tantrums, a stylish soul revival band with pop tendencies, are led by singer-songwriter Michael Fitzpatrick, a skinny man with a skinnier blonde streak in his ‘do. Fitzpatrick’s voice is somewhere between blue-eyed soul artists Daryl Hall and Michael McDonald (the Doobie Brother, not the guy from MadTV, although there is a striking resemblance to the latter). Fitz is matched vocally by Noelle Scaggs, whose hair no longer matches the band’s banner. It’s the chemistry between the two that drives the band onstage, complementary but also competing to be more bombastic. Neither seems afraid to work up a sweat, but Scaggs for her part apparently picked up an old trick from Tina Turner, which is to hold the tambourine in hand and just shake the whole body.

In the last year, the group has been getting a lot of attention, mainly through festival performances, including Hardly Strictly Bluegrass. The Tantrums won me over at Sasquatch in Washington, with some nice placement before Sharon Jones. The show on Thursday was essentially the same, down to the banter, audience interaction, and requests to “get low.” Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, as it comes off more natural than mechanical – a level of polish and chops that would sweep X Factor or American Idol. If, however, that reality competition dreck comparison is a little too safe for comfort, rest assured that Fitz, for his part, drops way too many F-bombs for network TV.

Setlist
1. Don’t Gotta Work It Out
2. Winds of Change
3. Breakin’ the Chains of Love
4. Wake Up
5. Pickin’ Up the Pieces
6. Rich Girl (“Rich girls will break your heart, but a poor girls will take all your fucking money.”)
7. 6 AM
8. Tighter
9. Lovesick Man
(“This is where the motherfucking dance party will begin.”)
10. LOV
11. Steady As She Goes (Raconteurs)
12. Dear Mr. President
13. News 4 U
Encore
14. We Don’t Need No Love Songs
15. Sweet Dreams (Eurythmics)
16. Moneygrabber

Live Shots: Paufve Dance’s So I Married Abraham Lincoln

Andrew Lam
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This weekend Paufve Dance is winding its way through all the rooms at Dance Mission Theater, making the audience follow, as it performs So I Married Abraham Lincoln. There are only three performances left for the production, so snag those tickets quick before this little gem passes you by.

During a recent performance that the Guardian was privy to, the sparse set filled with the monochromatic tone of the dancers’ clothing, gave an air of desperate times, with just the right amount of humor. Music ranged from opera to punk rock, giving the impression that dancers moved between time and space, free of affilation to a specific era. 

So I Married Abe Lincoln

Fri/27 and Sat/28, 8 p.m.; Sun/29, 7 p.m., $15-18

Dance Mission Theater 

3316 24th St., SF

www.dancemission.com

 

Live Shots: The old-timey escapades of the Edwardian Ball

Andrew Lam
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The Edwardian Ball, thrown by Rosin Coven and the Vau de Vire Society, never fails to amaze — and absinthe-addled though we were, we managed to take in all the sights, from petticoats a-plenty to splendid corsetry to handsome haberdashery from an era gone by.

Despite the fact that stunning vintage apparel has come to be expected, the Edward Gorey-inspired event — now in its 12th year — is anything but old hat.

Between the World’s Faire, the Vendor Bazaar, and the ball itself, organizers of the old-timey escapade had plenty to add: midway games, an artist lineup that included a neo-Victorian hip-hop time-traveler and his dancing gorilla, a carousel of bikes by Cyclicide, Gorey-themed puppetry, plus freakshow performers with tricks that were anything but same-old. Forget slipping doller bills into your sideshow gal’s panties, and think staple-gunning fivers to her tongue. Strictly period? Not exactly. But lots of fun — for the audience, at least.

 

Local musicians reinterpret Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon” at the Rickshaw Stop

Tony Robles
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Had you been skeptical about the “UnderCover Presents: Nick Drake’s Pink Moon” event Sunday night at the Rickshaw Stop you wouldn’t have been alone. It had the potential to be disastrous. Coordinating the sound alone must have posed a considerable challenge. How do you get 11 eclectic local bands — 50 performers each with specific sound needs — to play one song from one album without frazzling intervals between each performance and each set up? And then of course there’s the album to consider, Nick Drake’s Pink Moon. How can the bands perform the covers without butchering the album?
 
In the case of coordination and sound, it was a flawlessly organized UnderCover event, co-produced by Faultline Studios. Band set ups were seamless, the sound was first-rate, and the visuals by Joe Case that projected behind the stage were diverting. There were also pre-recorded interviews with band members shown before each performance, which made for an altogether different concert experience. With regards to Pink Moon, if you had hoped to hear covers that faithfully honored the songwriter’s final album, the event was likely a let down, but not a catastrophe.
 
Pink Moon is an odd choice for this kind of an event. For one, it’s terse — with only 11 songs, it clocks in at 28 minutes, and so each band is on stage for only a moment. It’s essentially a bleak piece of songwriting as well, recorded with only guitar and vocals, aside from the light piano on the title track. As John Wood, who produced Pink Moon said in a 1979 radio interview, “[Drake] was very determined to make this very stark, bare record and he definitely wanted it to be him more than anything.” However, the event’s music director Darren Johnston saw this as an invitation. He in fact chose the album because of its sparseness and the endless ways to approach it. “It’s not even my favorite Nick Drake album,” he said in one of the pre-recorded interviews.
 
It’s worth noting that many of the bands did not seem to be Drake aficionados, nor did they pretend to be. A series of pre-recorded interviews showed that they were unaware that a “pink moon” or “bloody moon” represents imminent disaster in other cultures, and that Drake was possibly foretelling his antidepressant overdose, which happened two years after the album was released.
 
Needless to say then, the bands tweaked and reinvented the songs on Pink Moon. If the result wasn’t sensitive tributes to Nick Drake, it was still seasoned musicians putting on compelling performances. Music Director Darren Johnston’s own band, Brass Menažeri, started the night off with the title track, “Pink Moon” which was a rumpus of snorting tubas, trumpets, and French horns. It was followed by the Oakland pop band Kapowski who managed to churn out a memorable piano take on “Place to Be.” The Real Vocal Quartet turned some heads with their cover of “Road,” sticking to the song in the beginning, then veering into a blasting collage of strings before coming back up, rather reluctantly, for another verse.
 
The performance that best embodied Pink Moon was the saxophone player David Boyce’s rendition of — interestingly enough— the only instrumental on the album, a song called “Horn.” With an array of effect pedals, Boyce withdrew from with the original song, but managed to embody the whole album with it. He puffed away and evoked its desolation, adding layer upon layer of drifting, sometimes ear-splitting sounds that encapsulated something like panic and nausea.
 
In many ways, you wanted to hear these bands doing their own material and performing longer sets. It was a shame that we only got a taste of the Billie Holiday inspired voice of singer Kally Price, for instance, who was spell-binding in the very, very brief amount of time she was up on stage.

Brass Menažeri (“Pink Moon”)
Kapowski! (“Place to Be”)
Real Vocal String Quartet (“Road”)
Kally Price (“Which Will”)
David Boyce (“Horn”)
Pocket Full of Rye (“Things Behind the Sun”)
Broken Shadows Family Band (“Know”)
Freddi Price (“Parasite”)
Ramon and Jessica (“Free Ride”)
Aaron Novik (“Harvest Breed”)
Jazz Mafia (“From the Morning”)

All photos by Jessica Trimmer

Ceviche secrets with Culture Kitchen

Andrew Lam
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After an incredibly steep hike up 24th Street, Sam Love and I arrived on the doorstep of Culture Kitchen, a traveling cooking class that hires immigrant women to teach their home recipes and share spicy and savory secrets of their culture. 

Using the kitchen that a friend offered up, our chef for the night was Maria, a native of Peru, who gave us a lesson in ceviche — that beloved raw fish dish one “cooks” in lime juice — a classic chicken dish called aji de gallina, and sweet filled alfajores.

We all got to work squeezing limes, chopping onions, mixing dough, and swapping travel-food stories. We discovered some great cooking tips, like how to make instant dulce de leche by sticking a can of condensed milk in a boiling pot of water and letting it simmer for a few hours. We also learned how to properly plate Peruvian ceviche, a style that includes two kinds of corn, yam, iceberg lettuce (for show. Ok, I ate it!) and of course delicious white fish, smothered in onions and tangy lime juice. 

Two hours after we started, we all sat down at a long communal table, the full moon glistening over the city (the kitchen we were using had the most amazing view. Bonus!), to enjoy the foods of our labor. We asked Maria how she learned to cook and she said that in Peru, her abuela is a master home chef and taught her all these recipes. She also told us that her abuela won’t like her sharing them with us. Good cooking is a way to a man’s heart and you don’t want just anyone to know how to make all the good dishes. Sworn to secrecy, Sam Love and I left that evening with over-stuffed bellies, a few lovely new friends, the recipes to throw a super-authentic Peruvian dinner party (that not even friends of Abuela can replicate) and, I kid you not, leftovers.

For information on the next Culture Kitchen get-together, head to www.culturekitchensf.com

 

Live Shots: New Fire at Brava Theatre

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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1

Stirring together a mix of contemporary theater and actual traditional ceremonies, New Fire (which opened last night and runs through Jan. 29) is a play that gives its audience insight into the beautiful world of Indigenous American culture. 

The performance attempts to show how ancient ceremonies are relevant in today’s modern society, especially in a world with so much suffering. There is wonderful live music, video montages, dancing, and a trouble-making Coyote, that is always getting herself into mischief. The Brava Theater is celebrating 25 years of women’s theater and this play, by Cherríe Moraga, is a perfect way to commemorate two-and-a-half decades of female-fueled creativity on stage.

NEW FIRE

Jan. 11-29, $10-$30

Brava Theater

2781 24th St., SF. 

www.brava.org

Live Shots: Phonte and 9th Wonder at New Parish

Tony Robles
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I’ve heard complaints that the Occupy movement doesn’t have a clear message, but Saturday night you could read it from a passing car. At an intersection off of Broadway, where a large crowd had gathered, a few people held up a giant banner on the corner that read “FUCK THE POLICE.” And as we passed groups of officers in riot gear and searched for parking among  the cop cars on nearly every block, it was also obvious that a confrontation was brewing.

It may have been N.W.A. out on the streets, but inside the New Parish where a show was taking place, it was strictly no beefing. Rapper Phonte and DJ/producer 9th Wonder, formerly members of North Carolina’s alternative hip-hop group Little Brother, were finally performing together after settling some outstanding public grievances.

Addressing the crowd midway through the show, Phonte — in a playfully straight-forward manner — explained that he’d done a lot of growing in the last year, and that he’d learned that mistakes have a way of  living on the Internet. Recalling some Southern gospel preaching, he asked the audience to repeat the word “perpetuity” after him, on top of turning to their neighbors and saying “You got to own up to your own shit.”

Support included local openers including Richmond’s Locksmith and D.U.S.T. from Zion I’s crew as well as tour mates Median and Rapsody, but the focus of the show was definitely Phonte and 9th, who ripped through a set of material including both LB and more recent solo work. Part of their speed was necessity. “Grown man rap time,” Phonte called it, explaining that being an aging artist meant that you have an aging audience, with children, bills, and responsibilities, well past the point where “you can spend the whole god damn night at the rap show.”

On the plus side, having an older audience means that they are also likely to be more familiar with your work. When the beat dropped on “Lovin’ It,” a major track from LB’s 2005 concept album, The Minstrel Show, the whole crowd went off.  

But what really surprised me was to see a couple upstairs singing to each other the call and response section of “Make Me Hot,” a short proto-soul/Percy Miracles from LB’s 2003 debut The Listening. There was a sense of coming together (if you put the civil unrest an police action going down half a mile away out of mind.).

And considering that Phonte said it was his first sold out “solo” show in the Bay Area, definitely a long time coming. Which may have been why, despite expressing a plan to “Come to the show, spit these raps, take my ass home,” he didn’t seem to be rushing it.

Live Shots: Starfucker and Painted Palms at Great American Music Hall

Tony Robles
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0

Though Starfucker hails from Portland, Ore., it’s easy to see why the band feels at home here. If a bunch of hip, pasty dudes performing in drag doesn’t scream “San Francisco,” I don’t know what does. Its name is edgy enough to elicit parental concern (the less offensive STRFKR is often used instead), but Starfucker’s trendy synth-pop is catchy and sweet.

Every time the band rolls through town, it seems like more resident scenesters have been bitten by the Starfucker bug. Maybe it was the release of the delightful Reptilians (Polyvinyl) in March, or its appearance at last summer’s Outside Lands festival that ignited Starfucker pandemonium. Whatever the reason, the group was inspired to put on three Bay Area shows to accommodate voracious fans this time around.

Friday night’s sold-old show at the Great American Music Hall was jam-packed enough to quell the most insatiable appetite. As the band appeared in gaudy thrift store dresses and wigs, the young, attractive crowd went ape. Joints were sparked, beers were lifted, and the band made it impossible to have a bad time.

At every Starfucker show I’ve seen in the past (I’ve seen a lot), the band seemed to rely heavily on the seductive charisma of former lead vocalist Ryan Biornstad. Without Biornstad, the boys mostly resigned to their respective positions on stage with no one taking a lead position. There was, however, plenty of tambourine shaking and wig tossing.

Though slightly less exciting visually, Starfucker sounded better than ever. Melodic synthesizers and guitars meshed with founding member Josh Hodges’ gentle, androgynous vocals. The extremely long set featured a bunch of tracks from Reptilians, including the Passion Pit-esque “Julius,” a hand-clap inciting “Death as a Fetish,” and many older selections from the Starfucker catalog. With its lusty bassline and celestial synths, “Isabella of Castile” served as a reminder that the band’s name was aptly chosen. Other highlights were the Target commercial jam “Rawnald Gregory Erickson the Second” and cover of Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

When the set finally concluded, we were a sweat-soaked, satisfied bunch. Those on stage were likely sweatier and undoubtedly more exhausted. There wasn’t much between song banter, but the night began with Hodges declaring the band’s love for San Francisco. Hey Starfucker, the feeling is mutual.

Opener: I spent most of Painted Palms’ set trying to figure out why keyboardist Reese Donohue was giving me major déjà vu. I realized that I’d seen Donohue doing lead vocals during electronica outfit Butterfly Bones’ opening set for Starfucker at the Rickshaw Stop years ago. I’m pretty sure I also saw him on stage with absurd joke rap ensemble Flophouse when it opened for Starfucker side-arm Skeletron at Milk Bar. Painted Palms was, however, the most promising act I’ve seen Donohue perform with so far. A relatively new band with only one EP under its belt, the duo cranked out a short set filled with bright loops and chill vibes, which was a nice way to warm up for Starfucker’s crazy energy.

All photos by Wolfgangg Photography.

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