Music Archives — Page 176 of 279 — San Francisco Bay Guardian Archive 1966

Meet Lolita… and dig on New People’s Tokyo trends

January 2, 2010

Text and photos by Caitlin Donohue

“Sweet lolita” Maria Elena-Diaz is cute as a button shopping at SF’s new hotspot for Japanese subculture

It is rare that you see live baby dolls perusing the racks at an American mall. Abercrombie & Fitch just isn’t cornering the bonnet and bloomer market these days.

But- not to sound redundant- the Japanese do things differently. Case in point: New People, the newest import shopping center to open up in Japantown. It’s here that a subculture from the Empire of the Sun based on dressing like Strawberry Shortcake is finding new visibility in San Francisco.

New People is a vast complex of urban Japanese culture, housing five floors of various wonders and accoutrements. One story is devoted to art, a gallery showing sleekly interesting works in a variety of mediums from stuffed animal chandeliers to leaves rendered in ceramic. One floor’s all about film, now featuring a full month of movies about music in the basement theater. They’ve got a small café offering Blue Bottle coffee and bento boxes that encourages leisurely manga perusal and a vast selection of Japanese tchotchkes- smoke machines, psychedelic origami paper and brave vegetable action figures. But it’s their floor devoted to hard-to-find Japanese clothing labels that makes New People a truly unique place.

The mall is the home of Kyoto-based Sou Sou shoes- tabi footwear in stylee patterns reminiscent of children’s bedding with unusual, toe-cleaving designs. It is also the only west coast retailer of clothing brands Black Peace Now and Baby, The Stars Shine Bright– two O.G. names in the lolita/goth scene from Tokyo.

A walk with L.A.

December 29, 2009

CHEAP EATS For a while there I was running the airport shuttle and it was like the old days when I drove a van. One day I picked up my North Carolina sister L.A. and her husband, and the next, for example, I was dropping off Crawdad’s whole family. This was at an ungodly hour, like 6 a.m.

Knowing that L.A., an early bird to begin with, would be lagging some serious jet, I called her cell phone. They were sleeping at my nephew’s flat, their son’s flat, South of Market. It was 6:15, Saturday.

“Come on by,” L.A. said, not the faintest trace of sleep in her voice. So I did. I came by and picked her up, and we left the boys a-snoring and drove around and about and up and down and across, just generally drawing a big X over 2009 in San Francisco, and wondering about breakfast.

The thing about this particular sister is that she doesn’t seem to necessarily need to be always exactly eating. In other ways, though, we are a lot alike. For example, we have the same mom and dad. For another, our hair and noses are somewhat sorta similar.

L.A. is my favorite kind of vegetarian: the kind who eats bacon. But you have to talk her into it. All in all, she would rather go for a walk. I personally need some coffee at least, if not a full-on breakfast, before I can move about in any kind of consistently vertical fashion. My sister not only doesn’t need coffee, she doesn’t drink it. In short, I didn’t know what to do with her.

So I pointed us toward Glen Park, where we would walk, but drove real slow, hoping hard that a restaurant would open before we got there. Or a coffee house.

I wasn’t thinking about donuts …

And then there they were. There it was, on 24th Street between Hampshire and York, and miraculously the clock struck 7 a.m.. I had forgotten all about Dynamo. Alice Shaw the Person told me about it months or maybe years ago. And here it was, the home of bacon maple apple donuts, flipping on the lights, so to speak, exactly as we were driving almost aimlessly by.

I pulled over abruptly into one of 7,000 available parking spots, and then backed up into another one.

“Bacon donuts,” I explained.

“What?” said my vegetarianish caffeine-free sister. Did I mention she doesn’t eat sugar?

“Coffee,” I said. “Do you want to wait in the car?”

She didn’t. We went up to the sidewalk window and I ordered a coffee and a donut. A bacon donut, of course. Know how much it costs?

Three dollars. That’s just for the donut. With coffee, it was something like $5, which is more than most full-on meals cost where my sister lives.

She ordered a cup of hot water.

There’s one row of tables inside the place, and the tables have flowers on them. It’s a donut shop. There are flowers on the tables. My sister, who is older than me by three years, sat with her back to the wall, watching the bakers work the dough across the counter. They were young and cheerful and listening to good music.

I could almost actually see every single thing in my big sister’s brain shifting, resettling, jiggling into whole new places. It seemed like a good time to ask: “Do you want a bite?”

She didn’t say no, or yes. She sat there, her mouth a little bit open. Sugar gives her yeast infections. She had already told me this.

I sunk my teeth into my $3 bacon-grease-sautéed apple donut, glazed with maple and stuck with crumbled bacon. It’s not a big breakfast. It was already half-gone, but I love my sister, so I held the remaining half-donut to her, and she took it. And she took a bite.

And you could see that she was in immediate heaven, her eyebrows joining her hairline, and her hand reaching for her purse.

“Let’s get another one,” she said.

And we did. And Glen Park was beautiful. *

DYNAMO DONUTS

Tue. Sat., 7 a.m.5 p.m.; Sun., 9 a.m.4 p.m.

2760 24th St., SF

(415) 920-1978

No alcohol

Cash only

L.E. Leone’s new book is Big Bend (Sparkle Street Books), a collection of short fiction.

2000 and gone

December 29, 2009

YEAR IN FILM I will follow him. The opening moments of Pablo Stoll’s Hiroshima convey that sentiment’s dedication in a single shot, a lengthy behind-the-shoulder look at Stoll’s brother Juan Andres as he traverses a suburban street in Uruguay. Such a simple film, Hiroshima: a day-in-the-life structure; silent film intertitles instead of spoken dialogue; “only” one brother’s look at another. Yet there is passion beneath Juan Andres Stoll’s mute detachment, and grief beneath Pablo Stoll’s at times humorous familial portrait of a half-somnambulant with dark circles around his eyes. The passion is revealed in the final scene, when the film’s potent and unconventional use of music reaches a climax. The grief floats around the edges of the screen, and is locked within the closing dedication to Juan Pablo Rebella, Stoll’s co-director on 2001’s 25 Watts and 2004’s Whisky, who killed himself with a gun three years ago, at 32.

Mapping infinite negative space within the movie maze, I can’t help but see Stoll’s brother as Rebella, and connect Hiroshima’s opening shot with the last major shot of Whisky: an uncomfortably extended look at forsaken Marta (Mirella Pascual), tears streaming down her face, in the back of a taxi going who knows where. When Whisky was released, that scene might have seemed like a pale descendant of the notorious 10-minute crying jag at the end of Tsai Ming-liang’s 1994 Vive l’amour. But as time goes on, the increasingly arch Tsai’s vision of isolated sorrow seems less genuine, if not potent. In contrast, Whisky‘s farewell is some kind of transformation, a baton, both end and beginning.

Wherever he may go. Last week, rummaging through a drawer, I came across Alexis Tioseco’s card. My heart hurt more than usual. I remember when I first saw Alexis, at a screening of Jacques Rivette’s Out 1 in Vancouver. During short breaks between segments of Rivette’s 12-hour opus, I’d wonder who he was, recognizing he was important to me before we’d even said hello. A few days later, after we’d met, I remember him walking out of an obnoxiously provocative film, and how his wasn’t an empty or dramatic gesture, just an honest decision. At the end of the festival, Alexis, the filmmaker John Torres, Chi-hui Yang, and I had dinner, and over the course of close conversation with knees touching, I realized my nascent crush was actually a matter of meeting someone extraordinary whom I admired. A month or two later, Alexis let me excerpt part of one of his best essays for the type of year-end Guardian film issue you’re reading now.

On Sept. 1, Alexis and his girlfriend and fellow writer Nika Bohinc were shot to death in their apartment in Manila. There are tributes to them online, many written by people who knew him far better than I. I’m trying now, but I can’t pay respect to Alexis yet. When I’m not feeling rage about his killing, I’m haunted by the purity of his commitment to film and his culture, and how I fall short of it. (As for most U.S. film critics, don’t get me started. The entertain-me imperial indulgence typical of them is especially disgusting in the context of Alexis’s death, a context it now lives within for me.) My failure is something I think about daily, and aim to change.

This is not sentimental. Alexis wasn’t faultless, but he was that special. I remember coming across a short entry on one of Alexis’s sites that not just pointedly but also poignantly exposed the colonialism of a Bruce Baillie film. That little piece of illustrated writing provided a counterpoint to Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s valuable appreciations of Baillie. I thought about it this year through tear-blurred eyes while watching Apichatpong’s For Alexis. “The Letter I Would Love to Read to You In Person,” Alexis’s essay for Nika, is a great piece of film writing. Its title is downright painful to behold. Revolutions happen like refrains in a song, he wrote. I will follow him, wherever I may go.

This Week’s Picks

December 29, 2009

WEDNESDAY 30th

DANCE

Rhythm & Motion 30th Anniversary Dance Bash

If you’re really going to throw down on the dance floor this New Year’s Eve, it’s time to train, and there is no better time or place than the 30th birthday celebration of Rhythm and Motion, a center for global dance and dance workout created by Consuelo Faust. The events include team-taught, all-star master classes, an evening performance by the Rhythm and Motion teachers, and a dance party finale. Everyone is invited. (Johnny Ray Huston)

10 a.m.–midnight, free

ODC Dance Commons

351 Shotwell, SF

(415) 863-9830 x100

www.rhythmandmotion.com

MUSIC

X

Legendary Los Angeles punk rockers X distinguished themselves from other bands of their era by honing the same searing energy that propelled their counterparts and adding the rock solid rhythms of DJ Bonebrake, the guitar virtuosity of Billy Zoom, and the poetic lyrics and intimate vocal interplay of John Doe and Exene Cervenka. This holiday season finds the band celebrating a “Merry Xmas,” having recently released new recordings of holiday favorites “Jingle Bells” and “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.” Despite Cervenka’s recent multiple sclerosis diagnosis, she and the band sound stronger than ever. They’re the perfect musical friends to help welcome in a rockin’ New Year. (Sean McCourt)

With Dave Gleason and the Golden Cadillacs (Wed.) and the Heavenly States (Thurs.)

9 p.m. (also Thurs/31), $31–$71

Slim’s

333 11th St., SF

(415) 255-0333

www.slims-sf.com.

THURSDAY 31st

MUSIC

Boyz IV Men

Don’t be fooled: you might think this band altered their name in parodic jest, but really, it was just an evasive maneuver to throw everyone off while they continue campaigning under their banner of complicit subjection to everything that is male. Boyz IV Men like to think of it as being in the closet — a closet inside an even bigger closet. Their sound is of equal subterfuge: two of them play children’s keyboards with pinky fingers while the third cranks out aggressive, tantrum-driven disco beats. This is all to say that I also grow my beard out for every one of their shows. Spending NYE with a bunch of sweaty, hairy-chested boys and men? Count. Me. Down. (Spencer Young)

With 1.2..3 … Knife!, DJ Summer Camp, and B4M DJ Set

9 p.m., free

Five Points Art House

72 Tehama, SF

(415) 989-1166

www.fivepointsarthouse.com

FILM

“Quintessential Chaplin”

Things you could do tonight at the movie theater: visit an overstuffed multiplex, and suffer through something with the word “Squeakquel” in its title. What you should do instead: head to gorgeous Grace Cathedral for three Charlie Chaplin shorts with live organ accompaniment by Dorothy Papadakos. The bill compiles three movies from 1917: The Cure, in which the Little Tramp is a drunk on the mend; The Immigrant, in which he encounters immediate money woes upon landing in America; and The Adventurer, in which he’s an escaped convict. Classic shenanigans all, with nary a chipmunk in sight. (Cheryl Eddy)

7 and 10 p.m., $10–$15

Grace Cathedral

1100 California, SF

(415) 392-4400

www.gracecathedral.org

MUSIC

Disco 2010 with Glass Candy

Mirror mirror, on the wall, which is the fairest disco NYE event of all? No question: it’s Disco 2010. Aside from some Popscene DJ spots, this is a showcase for the formidable Johnny Jewel, bringing two of his musical projects together on one bill. Most people know of Glass Candy and their aerobic appeal. Not as well-known and newer on the scene is Desire, whose debut recording on Italians Do it Better brought one of 2009’s catchiest and most haunting pop songs, “Don’t Call,” a four-minute breakup anthem that tapped into the “Billie Jean” backbeat before MJ’s death, adding a mournful but propulsive string arrangement to a tale of new independence. (Huston)

9 p.m., $45

Rickshaw Stop

155 Fell, SF

(415) 861-2011

www.rickshawstop.com

FRIDAY 1st

EVENT

Supper Club’s Breakfast in Bed

I enjoy my bed. Comfortable, familiar, a place where everybody knows my name. But after this year’s fabulous New Year’s Eve carousing, how anticlimactic will it be to sink into the same old sheets? Luckily, I don’t have to, because Supper Club is planning a party. Breakfast in Bed includes a breakfast buffet, mimosas, the chain’s trademark mattress hangouts, and house beats that are respectful of the fact that this is probably not the first party you’ve gone to in the last 12 hours. For $140, you and three of your accomplices can even reserve your own bedstead, complete with pillow-side food and drink service. If you’re not a total hedonistic degenerate, you can go to bed when the ball drops and head out here sober to live vicariously through the hangovers of others. (Caitlin Donohue)

5–11 a.m., $10–$40

Supper Club

657 Harrison, SF

(415) 348-0900

www.supperclub.com

SATURDAY 2nd

VISUAL ART

“When Lives Become Form: Contemporary Brazilian Art, From the 1960s to the Present”

Kick off the new year with a blast of Technicolor via this traveling exhibition dedicated to the formidable and ever-morphing visual art and music phenom known as tropicália. With a range that extends from the Brazilian movement’s originator, Hélio Oiticica, to newer artists such as the pre-Ryan Trecartin and pre-Paper Rad color assaults of assume vivid astro focus, “When Lives Become Form” might make it a little easier to forgive Os Mutantes for that McDonald’s commercial. (Huston)

Noon-8 p.m. (through Jan. 31), $5–$7

Yerba Buena Center for the Arts

701 Mission, SF

(415) 978-2787

www.ybca.org

SUNDAY 3rd

FILM

You, the Living

“Be pleased then, you the living, in your delightfully warmed bed, before Lethe’s ice-cold wave will lick your escaping foot.” This Goethe quote opens Roy Andersson’s You, the Living, the sequel to his 2000 tragicomedy Songs From the Second Floor. Composed of 50 absurdist vignettes, You, the Living does not transcend existential ennui; neither does it wallow in angst. Rather, it couples pain with love, portraying a bleakly comic world where despair and happiness carry the same weight. The palette of drab blues and yellows mimic the color of pills, and one could say the film serves as an advertisement for Prozac. The dissonant noise of sousaphones, bass drums, and banjos create an artifice of comedic musicality set against a backdrop of frumpy bedrooms, bars, and office buildings, where nothing really happens. Just everyday life. (Lorian Long)

2, 4, 7:15 and 9:20 p.m. (also Mon/4, 7:15 and 9:20 p.m.)

Red Vic Movie House

1727 Haight, SF

(415) 668-3994

www.redvicmoviehouse.com

CLASS

Yoga and Ayurveda for Real Life

Here, tallied and totaled, is the approximate intake of the average festive individual over the last week: a cheese plate, a bite of questionable ham, three scoops of black-eyed peas, two pounds of turkey, 15 latkes with applesauce, 110 frosted cookies, a barely edible door off of some poor child’s gingerbread house, a carafe of mulled cider, six cups of eggnog, eight flutes of champagne, a half bottle of Jack Daniels, three trips to the mall after you said you weren’t going to go this year, and the guilt of getting a camera tripod from Aunt Sara when you sent her a very nice bar of soap. A few days late. Yes, your body hates you. Get back in its good graces with a class from one of the most affordable, least judging yoga/massage studios in the city. The Mindful Body’s Kate Lumsden is offering a tutorial on integrating yoga — back? — into your life for the new year, the perfect chance to feel centered again before Monday. (Donohue)

1–4 p.m., $35

The Mindful Body

2876 California, SF

(415) 931-2639

www.themindfulbody.com

MUSIC

Hunx and His Punx, Brilliant Colors

The world was in need of a true gay Teen Beat pin-up, not a closeted one. Luckily, the fun and sexy Hunx came to the rescue, posing in a jockstrap splayed out on a bed filled with pop culture treasures. He’s made some great clips with music video wunderkind Justin Kelly, and his new LP Gay Singles (True Panther/Matador) is great front and back — as evidenced by its cover, which presents crotch-and-ass close-ups of zebra bikini briefs. Do your makeup, and then do someone at this show, which doubles the pop appeal with Slumberland girls Brilliant Colors. (Huston)

With Gun Outfit

9 p.m., $6

Hemlock Tavern

1131 Polk, SF

(415) 923-0923

www.hemlocktavern.com

TUESDAY 5th

MUSIC

Pirate Cat Radio Benefit Show

After 13 years of putting the “arr!” in radio (sorry, couldn’t resist), Pirate Cat Radio has officially been fucked by the FCC. The corporate whores slapped the unlicensed broadcast radio station with a $10,000 fine back in August, and gave founder Daniel K. Roberts (“Monkey”) 30 days to either pay up or challenge the fine. As Roberts fights to put Pirate back on the air, several benefit shows are being held to help save SF’s favorite renegade station. One such show will be at Bottom of the Hill, where local music cuties Hey Young Believer and Blood and Sunshine will play electropop alongside UK electronic artist Con Brio. (Long)

8:30 p.m., $9

Bottom of the Hill

1233 17th St., SF

(415) 621-4455

www.bottomofthehill.com

FILM

Rocky

SFMOMA’s “Museum Highs, Museum Lows” film series continues the binary theme of last year’s film series “Vegas Highs, Vegas Lows,” but shifts locales. The Italian stallion, Mr. Balboa, starts things off, not just because he’s everyone’s favorite underdog — and thus the perfect archetype for overcoming the terrible economy — but because he’s enshrined in bronze at the top of the Philadelphia MoMA’s steps. The thought behind this whole “High/Low” dichotomy is in line with camp — so bad it’s good — so perhaps SFMOMA’s is out to reverse Philly MoMA’s embarrassment about the statue. But who cares about that damned thing? It’s Rocky’s will to survive that we want to see. (Young)

Noon, free

Phyllis Wattis Theater

San Francisco Museum of Modern Art

151 Third St., SF

(415) 357-4400

www.sfmoma.org

New Year’s relief

December 28, 2009

SONIC REDUCER Ah, if only one could give the gift of foresight, how many of us would just throw in the towel, ditch the bitching squeeze, and descend into a netherworld of never-again when faced with the prospect of a dubious New Year’s Eve celebration? Oh, the effing pressure to perform, to live it up and to have a ball, especially when booting out a good-riddance-already year like ’09.

Yet who wants to send it out with a whine rather than on a note of sublime? Who wants to crash to the curb rather than kicking it with joyful liberation and libation? Not I, La Reducer. So let me take the effort out of the forced merriment, remove the angst from the party ranks: here’s the best New Year’s Eve plan for everyone — no matter how magnificent or misguided, buttoned-up or taste-challenged they may be. Pick your NYE poison — then take two Advil and drink a big glass of water before you pass out during the warmed-over breakfast buffet the following morning, at the start of a new decade.

For my keeping-it-casual soul music maestro with a taste for the live jammies The Roots keep their distance from that adorable but far-too-desperate-to-please Jimmy Fallon for NYE and break out the deep originals, assisted by the sprawling SoCal Orgone, at this “sneakers required” beatdown. 9 p.m., $72–$95. Warfield, 982 Market, SF. www.goldenvoice.com

For our favorite mulleted hesherette, forever in acid-washed blue jeans Jump on your bad motor scooter — Montrose is totally bringing some rock candy to Avalon, the same Silly-con nightspot that came through with Y&T last year. With Voyeur and Terry Lauderdale. 8 p.m. doors, $35 advance. 777 Lawrence Expressway, Santa Clara. www.liveatavalon.com

For your too-cool coworker with the asymmetrical crop and the skinniest jeggings on the block Too hep to 12 step? Glass Candy’s nouveau disco darlings Ida No and Johnny Jewel make you wanna strive for the next level in awesome. With Desire. 9 p.m., $45. Rickshaw Stop, 155 Fell, SF. www.rickshawstop.com

For that shy, retiring indie-rock cutie-pie with a sweetly sunken chest and a song in his heart His fave local indie rockers Morning Benders just signed onto Rough Trade for their next long-player, Big Echo. Time is now to trip on the new songs. With Miniature Tigers and A B and the Sea. 10 p.m., $20. Bottom of the Hill, 1233 17th St., SF. www.bottomofthehill.com

For my vintage Bettie Page still mourning the passing of the lindy-hop revival Lee Presson and the Nails keep the antics on edge, alongside veteran Southland stompers Big Sandy and His Fly-Rite Boys. And we’ll all wanna get a gander of the infamous Girl in the Fishbowl. With Project: Pimento and the Cottontails. 8 p.m. doors, $60. Bimbo’s 365 Club, 1025 Columbus, SF. www.bimbos365club.com

For our indie hip-hop homes with a penchant for a smoking party Devin the Dude wants to put you at ease and bring you home in one piece — blunts and brews intact. 9 p.m., $20. Shattuck Down Low, 2284 Shattuck, Berk. www.shattuckdownlow.com

For that indie kid with a wild streak and a secret love of FM radio Local up-and-comers Audrye Sessions might be just the ticket to check out, while Hottub bid y’all to jump in and test its waters. With Soft White Sixties and Manatee. 9 p.m., $12–$15. Uptown, 1928 Telegraph, Oakl. www.uptownnightclub.com

For your art-jam darling with a proggish spirit Chop-chop to the multitalented NorCal player Les Claypool. 9 p.m., $59.50. Fillmore, 1805 Geary, SF. www.livenation.com

For my Southern crust-vamp with a pointy-toed bootie in both the burner and retro-gypsy camps Squirrel Nut Zippers skirt the definable before sinking teensy-tiny incisors into a kind of bluesy cabaret. With Steve Soto and the Twisted Hearts. 9:30 p.m., $65. Café du Nord, 2170 Market, SF. www.cafedunord.com

For that up-for-anything music fan in the mood to shake his milky bottom line You’re down with anything, as long as it’s got a groove or a bit of blue-eyed soul — so get thee to Bay-bred Brett Dennen, A.L.O., and SambaDA, all determined to get the party ‘tarded. 8 p.m., $40–$50. Fox Theater, 1807 Telegraph, Oakl. www.apeconcerts.com

Getting Xmas Twisted

December 21, 2009

SONIC REDUCER “I saw mommy fellating Santa Claus /Under balls so snowy white last night.”

Rude and crude — yes. But outrageous and sacrilegious — and worth stumbling out of the Las Vegas Hilton as fast as your aged legs can take you? Maybe. Though Twisted Sister’s Dee Snider gave us plenty of goofy warning that he was going there, giving us “the real story” — meaning his bawdy, rowdy rock ‘n’ roll story — behind the voyeuristic kicks of “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” our last illusions were shattered, sorta, in the spirit of the gently taboo-busting song.

Ah, and so this is Vegas — just the place to use, abuse, and hock that illusion. The land of The Hangover, neon flash, and an expected and cheesy yet palpable air of convivial good cheer in the buffet line and beneath omnipresent the casino cameras, lurking amid the underutilized Millionaire’s Club slot machines.

“Mommy” was definitely one of the many highlights at Twisted Sister’s three-night stand “Twisted Christmas,” a mix of holiday classics with a goofy rock ‘n’ roll twist and yesteryear hits — the live successor to the group’s 2006 yuletide album of the same name. I had to tear myself away from the Kitty Glitter penny-slot amid the dated beige glam of the Hilton Elvis built, lured by post-show free margaritas and the reverently irreverent metal ‘tude promised by the band that hit it big at the Headbanger’s Ball with “We’re Not Gonna Take It.”

We took in Dee Snider in full clown makeup (“Sarah Jessica Parker dipped in acid!” proclaimed guitarist-manager Jay Jay French, quoting the British press) and a black-and-hot-pink body suit entering in a sleigh drawn by dancers and vixens in skimpy Suicide Girl-wear, Twisted rewrites of holiday classics like the tweaked new last line of “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” (“Christ wa-ah-s a Jew!”), and predictable yuks like the mohawked and pantless Santa Satan who joked about adjusting his sack, or a “12 Heavy Metal Days of Christmas” that naturally included “eight pentagrams” and “five skull earrings.” That’s as satanic as matters got, and though the playing was at times a bit less than tight, the band’s original members were in impassioned form, getting in as many jokes at Ozzy’s expense as Santa’s.

As we watched dozens of likely comped retirees piling into their seats, my companion, Prof. Fluffenheimer, muttered to himself, “I wonder how many of these people will be leaving in the first 15 minutes.”

Lo, our entire row had pretty much cleared halfway into the hour-and-a-half concert — too bad, ’cause they missed the malevolent and very unmerry “Burn in Hell” and a fist-punching sing-along “I Wanna Rock,” which had the remaining metal heads and rockers, 40-something dad-ish fans in polo shirts, wrestling team sprats, Sarah Palin look-alikes, table tennis conventioneers, and sundry other Vegas casino crawlers all hollering “Rock!” in unison. Let’s say it wasn’t the total madhouse the Ramones inspired at the Stone back in the late ’80s. But it brought back those chestnut-toasty, black-leather memories when French and guitarist Eddie Ojeda, now seemingly recovered from his recent back surgery thanks to “massive hallucinogens,” riffed off the Brudders by working “Ho! Ho! Let’s go” into “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

All of which inspired me to fantasize about other Christmas musical extravaganzas that oughta be on every music fan’s list. I’m not talking about Andy Williams and Wynonna, who filled the Hilton theater after Twisted Sister had moved their raucous NYC rawker selves along. And American Idol grads don’t count, being programmed to perform the cheesiest song on hand, on command. How about a little Christmas cheer from these pop types?

Beyonce “Baby Boy” is readymade for a rejiggered “Santa Baby,” or at least a nativity scene featuring “Ave Maria” and “Halo.”

Lady Gaga Her platinum tresses make her a natural Christmas angel. “Boys Boys Boys” must be reappropriated as “Toys Toys Toys.”

Justin Timberlake Picture the Timberlad poking around for a yule log in his “SexySack”.

Kanye West Embracing the chill of West’s last album with songs like “Coldest Winter,” this holiday should look ahead to the New Year by ringing it in KaNYE style. After the graduate gets in a scuffle with Santa, the show ends with a contrite, winged West delivering a bushel of MTV Video Music Awards to a virginal Taylor Swift.

Digging

December 21, 2009

SUPER EGO This time of year, everyone’s showering their Top 10 lists down upon an eager, listless world. I’ll get to mine just as soon as I finish this bottomless pomosa, but I want to give a special shoutout to a couple recent local releases I’ve been digging that may have slipped past your Beatport. (Remember to always use a water-based lubricant with digital. Safety first!)

The first is the absolutely lovely Brick by Brick (Nightlight) by Alland Byallo which sounds excellent either on the dance floor or on a rainy Monday, chilling as you attempt to pour some bottomless pomosa into a giant thermos in your backpack without the waitress seeing, like I am now. As the title suggests, this is a minimal-techish release, building up numbers with a very limited set of elements. Those elements are impeccably produced snatches of sound that propel each track forward with an unfussy chug and even a few flashes of wry humor. Standout tracks like “Bebring” and “Casual Sax” break the minimal mold by giving us some good ol’ funk.

Also yummy: the recently released An-ten-nae Presents Acid Crunk Vol 2 (Muti) acts as a superb compendium of the still intriguing if increasingly in-jokey glitch hop sound. The mysterious An-ten-nae splits his time between L.A. and the Bay, spinning and promoting up a storm, and here he’s gathered a whirl of big names like Marty Party and ill.gates to follow up his first EP. Many seem on their best behavior, but tracks like Akira Kiteshi’s “Ulysses” and Robot Koch’s “Hard to Find” are more than just wobbly punchlines.

OK, my bottomless stocking’s full — let’s go find a party.

CHRISTMAS DAY COSTUME CALAMITY

At first I was going to write “Just try saying ‘Christmas Day Costume Calamity’ real fast three times,” but then I tried it and I could! Yay! The medication still works. A whole bunch of party kids staying in town for the holiday — Richie Panic, Kirin Rider, Willie Maze, Similak Chyld, more — are taking that whole Nightmare Before Christmas mashup seriously and throwing another Halloween for Noel. (Noelloween?) You don’t have to dress as Santa, just dress as something and rock out.

Dec 25, 10 p.m.–4 a.m., free. Som, 2925 16th St., SF. www.som-bar.com

STEVE FABUS

Direct from the past but wholly of the knees-deep-in-disco-revival present — and looking amazing, might I add — Steve Fabus, one of the city’s most admired DJs from some of San Francisco’s most storied clubs (including the Trocadero Transfer) joins the younger generation of groove-heads at the very fun Go Bang!

Sat/26, 9 p.m.–late, $5. Deco Lounge, 510 Larkin, SF. www.decosf.com

FLOW THE FUNK

Vinyl. It is back. And not just in that fetishy backlash way where some people just hate everything new so they pretend nothing after 1995 happened. Avant-techno musicians like the Durian Brothers are wringing crazy textures from “prepared” turntables, much like composer John Cage did from prepared pianos in the 1940s. Underground dance music artists have released a flood of colored-vinyl rarities to increase their PR potential. And, on the more fun side of things, all-vinyl nights have taken off at such DJ-nurturing places as Triple Crown. Appropriate, then, that DJ M3, Triple Crown’s commander-in-chief, would be pulling out an all-vinyl marathon session from his bag of tricks at the new flapper-styley Eve. Five hours, no digital, all free.

Sat/26, 9 p.m., free. Eve, 575 Howard, SF. www.eveloungesf.com

FLOOR SCORE

Next week I’ll be laying down some New Year’s Eve party picks — and probably laying down a little myself in preparation. Bring Momma a little cocktail and a big Australian before her nap, sweetie. But not the toothy, manscaped kind. What? Impossible? Sheesh, just make him Italian, then. Somebody please take the clippers away from Down Under. Anyway, everyone knows that it’s actually the ability to party all the way through New Year’s Day that separates the hot wings from the boneless. Dragging yourself across the finish line (resolutions!) won’t be too hard this year, with promoter Ryan Robles’ Floor Score waiting at the front end of 2k10. Although queer-oriented, this party has enough going for all persuasions, including DJ Pee Play from Honey Soundsystem and Gemini Disco’s Nicky B. ringing in the future.

Jan. 1, 10 p.m.–4 a.m., $6. Siberia, 314 11th St., SF.

STOMPY + SUNSET

Another New Year’s Day secret, only for the sexy (and possibly addicted) people — this 12-hour rager from classic SF techno-house crews Stompy and Sunset. The frankly amazing Stanley Frank of Chilidog kicks things off with some sublime rare-cuts wackiness. Charles Webster from the U.K. headlines. Galen, Solar, Taj, and tons more join in. You make sure to carry some concealer in your purse.

Jan. 1, 2 p.m.–2 a.m., $10/$20. Cafe Cocomo, 650 Indiana, SF. www.pacificsound.net

8, 9 … 2010

December 21, 2009

1. SF garage rock goes pop This year saw Bay Area garage rock go pop in style and impact without losing its soul. I’m thinking of the Fresh and Onlys, and of Ty Segall’s second solo effort Lemons (Goner), a lovely one. I’m thinking of Girls’ Album (True Panther/Matador), which threw down the crossover-move gauntlet with no shame in its game: Christopher Owens’ interviews were as entertaining as his music and brasher — his real talk about sex and drugs made good headline fodder for the excitable British press, but contained the kind of truth that honors life over rules or boring definitions. The secret keeper, though, was the Mantles’ self-titled debut on Siltbreeze. Drew Cramer’s lead guitar and Michael Oliveras’ vocals were even better live, the mark of a band in bloom.

2. The AfroSurreal In May, D. Scot Miller helped put together a special AfroSurreal issue of the Guardian, a collection of words and visions journeying beyond the potential of Barack Obama’s presidency. The Kehinde Wiley piece on the cover wasn’t the only AfroSurreal image on this paper’s front pages — just last week, Conrad Ruiz’s Godzilla-size Yes We Can stomped around the city. Musically, AfroSurrealism manifested in the mind- and mirror-bending quality Dam-Funk’s Toeachizown (Stones Throw) and the rehab hallucinations and Dante-like funeral marches of Chelonis R. Jones’s Chatterton (Systematic). It floated in through cracks in the time warp as well: the ghetto opera of 24 Carat Black’s Gone: The Promises of Yesterday (Numero Group); the proto-punk of Death’s For the World to See (Drag City), especially “Politicians in My Eyes”; and weirdest of all, the gothic funk and skronk of Wicked Witch’s Chaos: 1978-1986 (E.M.).

3. 21st century goth From blackness to deathly whiteface — something gothic this way came in 2009, thanks to Cold Cave’s Cremations (Hospital Productions) and Love Comes Close (Matador). Both staked a claim that the genre is as applicable as death metal to a post-Bush presidency globe. But while those albums notched acclaim and attention, the similar yet more audacious Cure and Cabaret Volatire moves of Jones’ months-earlier Chatterton went ignored and unappreciated. Evidence of racism, proof that German techno only gets appreciated years after the fact, or both?

4. Hauntological mutations In 2009’s sonic mansion, ghosts haunted the hallways leading to and from the gothic banquet hall, and hauntology — a Derrida term applied to music by the critic Simon Reynolds — continued to morph, just as any self-respecting specter should, well beyond dubstep. The maze-like passages of Rooj’s The Transactional Dharma of Rooj (Ghost Box) and Broadcast and the Focus Group’s Broadcast and the Focus Group Investigate Witch Cults of the Radio Age (Warp) both suggested that spirits have short attention spans, while Demdike Stare’s Symbiosis (Modern Love) traded seances on wet afternoons for retro-futurist meetings with medieval wicked witches.

5. Library music For evidence that the past resides in and fuels the present, go to the library. Specifically, to the abundant compilations and Web sites dedicated to library music — the scores of incidental music produced and recorded for soundtrack use on film, television, and radio. In the wake of his gorgeous book The Music Library (Fuel Publishing), Jonny Trunk released more albums devoted to library labels. The Parisian DJs Alexis Le-Tan and Jess put out a pair of Space Oddities library collections — one electronic, one psychedelic — on Permanent Vacation. Wax Poetics published a lengthy piece to the subject. In an interview, Trunk noted that his Scrapbook (Trunk) shares the same fast-change aesthetics of Broadcast and the Focus Group’s hauntological recordings, just one example of how library music of the past forms the music of now.

6. The new ambient The new ambient is not afraid of extreme melancholy, or long compositions — no longer only Kompact, it can be epic. One of the form’s peak representatives is San Francisco’s Brock Van Wey, whose White Clouds Drift On and On (Echospace) bravely strived for, and sometimes reached, sublime solitude. Another was Klimek, whose Movies is Magic (Anticipate), on which a track such as “pathetic and dangerous” lives up to its death-knell title. The last was Leyland Kirby. His three-CD contribution sums up the current moment in both its title and the name of its label: Sadly, the Future is No Longer What it Was (History Always Favours the Winners).

7. 2009=1989, synthpop and shoegaze I explored this theme in last week’s Decade in Music issue. See: Atlas Siund (in particular “Shelia,”), Crocodiles, Fuck Buttons, Loop, Night Control, Pains of Being Pure at Heart, Washed Out (responsible for two of this year’s most gorgeous tracks, “Belong” and “Hold Out”), Wavves, and the xx.

8. How old is now? As the music industry continues to fracture, reissues or uncovered old sounds were as vital and revelatory as new releases. In San Francisco, this meant new rereleases by San Francisco Express, the Units, and most excitingly, Honey Soundsystem’s work on behalf of Patrick Cowley and Jorge Socarras’ Catholic project. Beyond SF, it meant a one-of-a-kind treasure like Connie Converse’s How Sad, How Lovely (Lau derette): one woman, one guitar, one tape recorder, and perhaps the best music of this sad, lovely year.

Espers: high-maintenance psych rock that hopes to hang in there and be of use to humans

December 18, 2009

Espers sailed through the Independent not long ago, spreading their ecstatic breed of folk rock tither and fro. I spoke to Meg Baird before the date, while she was getting ready for a show in the band’s hometown of Philadelphia.

SFBG: How did you approach this new album, III (Drag City)? Were you working with any particular narrative or set of images?

Meg Baird: We didn’t have anything that concrete as far as unified images go. We did kind of talk and get a sense of different places it would be coming from, especially in relationship to II. And we had a big hodgepodge of common ground where we thought it might come from.

We thought about things like new world colonialism, things being above ground instead of underground, something that would be a good counterpoint to the dense underworld of II. Something had landed, in comparison to the space place that II generated. Exuberance, weird Christianization.

Just a common sense of images or feelings. We tend to just write when we write. It’s really loose, more of a guide, so it feels like there’s a sense to everything. Not so that it’s a hard and fast rule — it’s just a way to talk about things.

SFBG: One also gets a sense that there’s a narrative there?

MB: We’re really not that narrative. Again it’s just trying to find a common ground of images. I think even with thinking of things like ships, boats, The Heart of Darkness. It’s so big. It just makes a little more fun when we can come up with a palette of common things. It’s really about tone and sounds — the imagistic stuff is a fluffy way to talk about it. It’s always about tone and feel.

SFBG: So “Trollslända” is not about trolls?

MB: That’s actually a Swedish word for dragonfly. Helena [Espvall], the cellist in the band, is Swedish. We like to have a Swedish language nod in every record.

SFBG: How does Espers write songs?

MB: It’s very ensemble-based, that’s for sure. Which makes it a little tense. I think we have a slightly tense presence on the live front because things are pretty worked out and rehearsed but we’re kind of not sure how it’s going to work at any moment. Especially because the band’s not leader-based. It doesn’t have that dynamic to the band, even if someone is playing a lead part for us. It’s never gone that way for us in a live setting.

SFBG: What was the weirdest show ever for Espers?

MB: Something really weird happened at a beautiful show — formerly the HockHocking Festival in Nelsonville, Ohio. We were invited to play by Michael Hurley — it was a beautiful outdoor festival and somehow people got in a fight right by the stage. It was only happening on my side of the stage — I found it really upsetting that this throw-down fight was happening, especially since it was such an intense environment.

SFBG: Espers are paranormal creatures — is that something you folks believe in?

MB: It’s cool that that’s in there. The name is pretty simple — it’s a reference to a book that Greg [Weeks] had, a book thinking about intellectualism as a form of social deviancy. There was a chapter on a cult in North Carolina — they didn’t use their names. They just referred to themselves as espers.

SFBG: Members of Espers have worked with other performers like Vetiver and Vashti Bunyan — what brings you back together after those other projects?

MB: Wow, it would be hard to describe exactly, which is probably why we like it. There’s something there in the dynamic that we don’t get anywhere else. I don’t know. Now that we know each other so well, it’s just a known quality that there’s a dynamic coming only from the group. It definitely feels like a real collaboration, not just, there’s a leader and here’s a song and back it up. I guess that’s why we like it. It’s always going to be bigger than ourselves — you’re putting a lot into it, but it’s going to be more than the one thing you’re doing.

SFBG: The album art is so beautiful — what’s the story behind it?

MB: Oh, yeah, we’re so pleased with album art. That came from the goofy concepts I was telling you about in the beginning, when we were just getting a feel for the record. Brook [Sietinsons] had this book on a woman artist, Xavier Schipani — it seemed to jive with some of the things we were talking about. She did a new drawing based on ideas we were throwing around.

SFBG: It’s about community-building?

MB: I think it would be a little more cynical than that. It’s about colonialism, too. It’s not all good. Of course, when people were there they had to build community and all those things — we’re just looking at it in a realistic and nonromantic way.

I might be more interested in it because of my interest in early American music. That comes from a family connection. My family is all from Appalachia, from way back — that’s part of the reason why I got interested in folk music.

SFBG: If Espers could be a tree, what would it be?

MB: Probably something very, very high maintenance. Hopefully one that will live… long. That hung in there for a while and maybe had some use to humanity with shade or fruit or something useful rather than pure ornamentation.

SCENE: Lazer Sword zaps the boom-blap

December 18, 2009

By Michael Krimper. From SC ENE: The Guardian Guide to Nightlife and Glamour, on stands in the Guardian now!

Lazer Sword photo by Beryl Fine

San Francisco-bred electronic duo, Lazer Sword, has a secret weapon. Bryant Rutledge (a.k.a. Low Limit) and Antaeus Roy (a.k.a. Lando Kal) have developed a musically enhanced dehydration gun that zaps the sweat out of dance crowds like a soul-sonic Super Soaker. There’s no escaping it. Inside investigators report that this weapon emerged mysteriously from a Mission District apartment building in 2006, conceived from a reactive mixture of 1980s sci-fi psychedelia and a futuristic bass-rattling force unanticipated by even the most forward-thinking predictions of the oncoming 2010s. It’s manufactured out of grime-ridden computer technology and 8-bit video game parts, designed with the stuttering ferocity of electro-house synthetics and drum machines, and blessed by the hustlers and gangstas of swagger rap. Welcome to Lazer Sword’s boom blap.

And just like one of those vintage sci-fi films, Rutledge and Roy seem to be on their way to world domination. The duo just returned from their second European tour, slaying dance floors from London, England, to Bialystok, Poland. “Crowds overseas are pretty open to electronic music in general,” says Rutledge, “but I get the feeling that two guys jamming on their midi controllers making weird rap beats mixed with dolphin noises and Hanna Barbera samples is a little different and new for them.” Unabashed, Lazer Sword welcomes the challenge of converting unknowing club fiends, wallflowers, and beat heads alike to their leftfield, electro hip-hop bounce. “There’s always an awesome feeling when the crowd doesn’t know what to expect at first,” Roy weighs in, “then over time, cats are dripping in sweat and falling over themselves.”

2K top 12: A dozen from Mosi Reeves

December 16, 2009

Guardian writer Mosi Reeves, who contributed a stellar essay to our Decade in Music package, weighs in with a lucky dozen of favorites from the past decade. Says Mosi: “Yep, I probably need to go outside now.”

*Ghostface Killah, Supreme Clientele (Epic)
*Ellen Allien, Berlinette (BPitch Control)
*Cannibal Ox, The Cold Vein (Definitive Jux)
*Modest Mouse, The Moon and Antarctica (Epic)
*Edan, Beauty and the Beat (Lewis)

*Flying Lotus, Los Angeles (Warp)
*Quasimoto, The Unseen (Stones Throw)
*Boards of Canada, Geogaddi (Warp)

*M83, Dead Cities, Red Seas and Lost Ghosts (Mute)
*Colleen, The Golden Morning Breaks (Leaf)
*Portishead, Third (Mercury)
*TV on the Radio, Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes (Touch & Go)

Flashing lights

December 16, 2009

Guardian illustration of DJ AM, Daft Punk, and Steve Aoki by Matt Furie and Aiyana Udesen

DECADE IN MUSIC Good lord. Who can remember all the strobe-lit twists and turns that Bay Area nightlife slid down in the past decade? Even if I wasn’t utterly and gloriously hung over from 10 years of being 86ed, it would still be a sweat-drenched, dry-iced, hypnotic blear. That’s a lovely thing. The ABC crackdown on underground parties in the late 1990s still held strong — and lively licensed spaces like Café Du Nord, Slim’s, Buckshot, and DNA Lounge as well as many music-oriented street fairs are still feeling the pressure of the War on Fun. But you can’t stop the party. And, baby, we lived through it.

One point about nightlife in general this decade: no one could ignore it. From hip-pop’s odiously capitalist-utopian "da club" to the tourist-trap explosion of global dance music festivals, club culture was on everyone’s radar. Today’s pop stars blithely name-check underground nightlife legends like Leigh Bowery and Larry Levan, and middle-school kids fill their notebooks with fantasy club outfits. Oh yeah, edgy nightlife has been completely commodified — thank you, Steve Aoki and DJ AM — but it’s a testament to its amazing versatility that going out is still enormously subversive fun, and the onslaught of bottle service and stretch-limo-packed music vids have had little impact on a vibrant independent scene. (In fact, the independent scene has gotten a ton of mileage out of parodying and reinterpreting mainstream club dreams.)

The last 10 years of the local club scene certainly gave me a lot to write and think — and drink — about. That was probably nightlife’s most distinctive feature: it finally came into its own as an art form, one that welcomed multiple interpretations while devilishly playing with our heads. The best party promoters in the Bay worked hard not only to present immersive subcultural experiences but also to contextualize their parties in terms of global movements. You couldn’t just fly in a supastar DJ and set the light show on random anymore. Clubgoers rejected that kind of dollar-driven cynicism. They wanted to know how a party would plug them into something different, something relevant, something uniquely of the moment, something beyond.

In short, they wanted personality. At times, this meant that concept trumped music — how many times did you find yourself spazzing on the dance floor to someone’s hodgepodge iPod playlist in 2005, just because that someone was ironically amazing? But it sure was fun for a while, giving dance culture a kick in the fancy-pants and throwing open the door to a glittering array of musical styles. And everybody looked fantastic. Irony freed us from previous expectations like beat-matching, genre hegemony, fashion anxiety, and bland slickness. (It also introduced a flood of unicorns and neon accessories.) Deconstruction at last! For good or ill, but mostly for good, anyone could be a DJ, throw a party, design a flyer, work a look. All you needed was a little space, a big idea, and a sense of adventure. A crowd helped, too, but only if you worried about something as mundane as paying the bills. Reality? Oh, really.

That mid-period chemical peel of irony neatly divided the decade. We cruised and shmoozed into the new millennium on the Boom-bubble back of a lazy lounge wave — the sunny house-lite sighs of Naked Music and Miguel Migs, the mushroom jazz of Mark Farina, OM’s smooth-beats Kaskade, and the friendly turntablism of Triple Threat popping the pink Champagne. That wave soon crested, churning up a foam of pink-slip parties, when discount daytime raves and increasingly baby-powdered coke binges took over. Luckily, happy hour took credit cards. Clubland reverted to a pre-Internet sensibility, with small spaces ruling and breakbeats all the rage again.

Alongside the breaks (a sound the Bay actually had a big hand in developing) the club music menu was still hogged by chunky techno, diva house, Burner trance, retro overload, and sing-along hip-hop. Post-punk, electro-funk, radical eclecticism, and global-eared sounds popped their heads up at times: Joy at Liquid, Milkshake at Sno-Drift, Club KY at Amnesia, Knees Up at Hush Hush, Popscene at 330 Ritch, Step at An Sibin, Fake at Cat Club, roving Bardot-a-Go-Go, and one-offs at 26Mix, Blind Tiger, Jezebel’s Joint, Pow!, Annie’s, Tongue and Groove, Storyville, and Justice League. Electroclash had its brief moment, too — anyone remember Electro Rodeo at Galaxy? — and reggaeton made a thrilling brief appearance. But in general the Bay was a little late in breaking free from the ’90s.

That sounds absolutely pukey, but it wasn’t. Some beautiful nights came out of this period — I’m half-remembering Said’s Afro-house Atmosfere, David Harness’s deep-souled Taboo, and anything at the Top, EndUp, or the Cellar. And living in the ’90s wasn’t so bad considering primo parties like Qoöl, Wicked, Stompy, Thump, Death Guild, and New Wave City maintained a presence. Also, if you were looking for "exotic" sounds, you could easily find them at some of the best ethno-audio spaces, like Bissap Baobab and Café Cocomo. But yes, those four-four beats got tiresome.

Then, around late-2004, came a return of the repressed, an explosion of Day-Glo styles that had been incubating in a clutch of neon-oriented, omnivorous-eared parties like Le Freak Plastique at Hush Hush and DJ Jefrodesiac’s Sex With Machines (later Frisco Disco) at Arrow. Soon San Francisco was in the midst of a small-venue, independent promoter golden age — and a rosy flush of youth. Finally, more than the same four people were throwing parties! And you were never sure of what you’d hear.

After a few debauched months of those rag-tag iPod-oriented shindigs, things sorted out into a handful of heady genres. Technology spookily inserted itself — almost every dance floor was bathed in the light of a little half-eaten apple. Serrato and Ableton software made live edits and mind-boggling mashups, like those heard at Bootie, possible, and timelines fell away to reveal gleaming ahistorical sonic landscapes. Beat-matching gradually came back into vogue, but wittily revealing the seams between tracks became the ne plus ultra of DJ craftsmanship.

The French invaded in the form of Daft Punk- and Justice-inspired electro bangers, spraying young clubbers with American Apparel and shutter shades. To my ears, Richie Panic and Vin Sol were our best balls-out interpreters of this fuck-all party sound and spirit, and Blow Up at Rickshaw Stop its finest venue. Minimal techno made sure hot nerds with little glasses were still in control — Kontrol at EndUp, in fact, was the club that did the most to nurture the Berlin-based sound here, with venue Anu and now the near-perfect 222 Hyde offering various party backup. Genius local minimal players like Nikola Baytala and Alland Byallo worked hard to stretch the boundaries, while Claude Von Stroke and the Dirty Bird Records crew added some much-needed humor.

There was a backlash to all the technology, which revolutionized gay clubs. DJ Bus Station John’s all-vinyl, unmixed bathhouse disco sets goosed the moribund queer scene into exploring its AIDS-shrouded past, and threw open the back door to the far-reaching sets of freestyle and rare ’80s fetishist Stanley Frank and the kiki-technotics of Honey Soundsystem.

London’s dubstep sound morphed into glitch-tipsy future bass — another genre the Bay can claim as its own — before it got a firm party foothold here. Which is more than all right, considering that mutation spawned beloved duo Lazer Sword and led Burner techno giant Bassnectar to change his sonic stripes. Most inspiring to me was the outpouring of global sounds in the Bay, from NonStop Bhangra’s whirling saris to Surya Dub’s growling dubstep-bhangra hybrid, from Tormenta Tropical’s bass-bomping nueva cumbia to Kafana Balkan’s breathless, Romani-delirious funk.

So where are we now? If any moment could be called "post-whatever," this is it. Anything goes, excellently, but it’s accompanied by a feeling that we’ve informed ourselves fully of the past, that we’ve mastered the technology of the present, and that, no matter how intelligent the music, we can still have a damn good time. My only gripe about the past decade in nightlife — other than I wished we’d had a more conscious reaction to war — is, alas, the same one as last decade. Where are all the women? Big ups to Ana Sia, Sarah Delush, Forest Green, J. Phlip, Felina, Dulcinea, Miz Margo, Nuxx, Black, and the Stay Gold, Redline, and B.A.S.S. sisterhoods. But seriously, I hope the teens see less testosterone-driven talent behind the decks. We’ve got the style down — now let’s change the look. OK?

2009 = 1989

December 16, 2009

Guardian illustration of Cold Cave’s Wesley Eisold, Robert Smith, and Crocodile’s Brandon Welchez by Matt Furie and Aiyana Udesen

2009, will you be mine — my bloody valentine to 1989? More than once this year I’ve felt the effect of a 20-year loop. This sensation wasn’t quite déjà vu, but more a sense that the underground sounds of my youth were returning, slightly transformed, as outer-reach themes for another generation. It wasn’t mere recycling or brazenly wholesale copying. At times, it didn’t seem conscious. But it was undeniable.

Turn an ear to the opening instrumental dirge on one of the year’s most-praised albums, The xx (Young Turks), by the band of the same name. Its languid yet cold guitar lines seem to grow like so many nightcreeping vines from those of the Cure’s "Fascination Street" on Disintegration (Elektra, 1989). Elsewhere, the xx’s doped, lolling sensuality tapped into the early days of Tricky and the Wild Bunch, just before Massive Attack began to bloom in … 1990.

Turn another ear to the goth trance of Pictureplane on Dark Rift (Lovepump Unlimited) and the frozen odes of Cold Cave on Cremations (Hospital Productions) and Love Comes Close (Matador). Here we have new incarnations of Trent Reznor circa-Pretty Hate Machine (TVT, 1989) — industrial and electronic, yes, but with the kind of melodic sense that set Reznor apart. Cold Cave’s Wesley Eisold taps into Reznor’s rage on some of Cremations‘ louder moments, and his grasp of atmospherics is Flood-level. Travis Egedy of Pictureplane is more fey than Reznor, but he and Eisold, like their forebear, craft alienation anthems from lonely spots on a vast America.

Madchester, are you here again? The sweeter sounds on Dark Rift and a pop thrill such as Memory Tapes’ Seek Magic track "Graphics" wouldn’t be out of place on New Order’s Technique (Factory, 1988), which shifted from lush gleaming open stretches to more manic machinations. All praise electronic music in 1989, when Arthur Russell was moving from a world of echo to another thought, and Bob Stanley and Pete Wiggs of Saint Etienne were putting together the first elements of a scheme that would soon yield Saint Etienne’s debut single, a 1990 cover of Neil Young’s "Only Love Can Break Your Heart."

Twenty years from their inception, Saint Etienne are a major touchstone for some of this year’s most acclaimed or interesting releases. Every act on the Swedish Sincerely Yours label could qualify as a child of Saint Etienne’s Foxbase Alpha (Heavenly, 1991), or as baggy-era revivalists. In 2008, that meant the Honeydrips, and also the Tough Alliance, whose A New Chance suggested lost outtakes from Happy Mondays’ Madchester Rave EP (Factory, 1989). In 2009, jj’s No. 2 and Air France’s No Way Down tapped into the femme pop of Stanley, Wiggs, and Sarah Cracknell. A different, perhaps more fascinating phenom floats forth from the radiophonic odds and ends of Foxbase Alpha and especially Saint Etienne’s So Tough (Heavenly, 1992). Rooj’s The Transactional Dharma of Rooj (Ghost Box) and Broadcast and the Focus Group’s Broadcast and the Focus Group Investigate Witch Cults of the Radio Age (Warp) go hauntologically further with Stanley’s and Wiggs’ practice of searching for spirits through a twist of the radio dial.

It’s 1989: Andrew Weatherall is about to fuse his dancefloor acumen with My Bloody Valentine’s noise-bliss on the epic "Soon." It’s 2009: Weatherall returns to the realm of epic rock electronics with Fuck Buttons’ Tarot Sport (ATP). Here in San Francisco, a new brigade of superb rock bands — Girls, the Mantles, the Fresh and Onlys — arrives, all of whom wouldn’t sound out of place on Alan McGee’s Creation label back when Shields was spending all of its money in the studio. This year brings reissues of Loop’s Heaven’s End (Head, 1987), The World in Your Eyes (Head, 1987), Fade Out (Chapter 22, 1988), and A Gilded Eternity (1990, Situation Two), while spacemen-two acts such as California’s Crocodiles (on Summer of Hate, Fat Possum) and Moon Duo loop listeners back twenty years in time like a retro-futurist astronauts.

Just last week, the DJ Alexis Le-Tan told me that 2009 should have been another summer of love, like 1967 and 1988. In the new book 1989: Bob Dylan Didn’t Have This to Sing About (University of California Press, 198 pages, $21.95), the Bay Area critic and poet Joshua Clover uses Public Enemy, N.W.A., and the birth of Nirvana to establish 1989 as a pivotal year in popular music. It’s a point that the music this year argues just as convincingly on an understated scale, whether it’s Blues Control charting the quiet moments of Sonic Youth’s Daydream Nation (Enigma, 1988), Night Control coming off like the next Guided By Voices, or Kurt Vile and Wavves jousting cross-coastal for the role of son of Dinosaur Jr. Listen back to look forward.

False Idols

December 16, 2009

Guardian illustration of the Jonas Brothers by Matt Furie and Aiyana Udesen

DECADE IN MUSIC Forget what you’ve heard: stars aren’t born — they’re made. Pop music over the past decade has been defined by the music industry, with standout stars manufactured to be, well, standout stars. We’ve reached the point where the biggest names are chosen by reality TV, the media, and, more often than not, the Disney corporation.

Does that sound cynical? The past 10 years have by no means represented a dearth of good pop music. But it’s impossible to reflect on them without acknowledging the massive influence of American Idol, a show that emphasizes and glorifies the artificial production of pop stars. Sure, it’s found plenty of legitimate talent (try to avoid Carrie Underwood), but that doesn’t downplay its role as an assembly-line for fame.

We came into this millennium with boy bands facing their inevitable, and long overdue, decline. The Backstreet Boys went on hiatus in 2002, but let’s face it, that was more of a formality than anything else. (Remember 2000’s Black and Blue [Jive]? Yeah, me neither.) Something had to fill that void. How convenient, then, that American Idol debuted in June 2002.

"This is American Idol," Ryan Seacrest emphatically declares at the start of each episode. On the surface, the show is about letting America choose: winners are selected by texted and phoned-in votes. But the contestants are shamelessly molded by the judges and producers, told how to dress, how to act, and — of course — what to sing. I’m sure this isn’t much different from what has always gone on behind the scenes, but American Idol was the first program to show us just how inauthentic pop music can be, and to add a false veneer of democracy to the package.

There have been several success stories, depending on how you define success. First season winner Kelly Clarkson continues to maintain a thriving career, though much of that has involved a process of reinvention. Former contestant Jennifer Hudson won an Oscar for Dreamgirls, but only after she’d sufficiently distanced herself from the show. (Ask producer Simon Cowell how he feels about that.) Finally, there’s the most recent runner-up Adam Lambert, the queer alternative to squeaky-clean winner Kris Allen.

As a launching off point, American Idol offers unparalleled opportunities. But to make the more lasting pop impression, singers have to find their own niche and, in their own way, rebel. It’s comforting to know there’s still room for self-expression. The machine continues to pump out idols, but the occasional burst of creativity manages to find its way through.

At least, to some extent. It’s hard to stay optimistic about the future of the genre when one of the biggest pop stars of last year, Taylor Swift, epitomizes the mundane. Bubbly and fun but nothing special, her "country" crossover appeal is simply an affected twang. And her success? Thanks to Kanye West’s interruption of her acceptance speech at MTV’s Video Music Awards, Swift found herself cast as a victim by the media. Were those tears in her eyes when Kanye stole the mic, or was that twinkle the knowledge of how far his faux pas would take her?

Meanwhile, Disney continues to promote its own brand of actor-singers. The tradition is nothing new. Let’s not forget that Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera, big from the start of the decade, are former Mouseketeers. It’s clear that the Jonas Brothers and Miley Cyrus have talent — whether or not you like their music — but there’s something disingenuous about their wholesome personas. (Let’s not forget Miley’s controversial photo shoot. She has a bare backside, you guys!) Purity rings aside, they’re as much industry creations as anyone American Idol has spit out.

Perhaps I’m being naïve. The music industry’s role in pop music is a longstanding tradition, but never before has the mechanization been more obvious, or aimed at a younger audience. My hope, then, is for a decade full of mold-breakers like Lady Gaga, whose freak act may not be new but is still more exciting than most anything else out there. And as for those mom-approved wax figures? Let’s just wish they make like Icarus and fly too close to the sun.

Some kind of mastodon

December 16, 2009

Guardian illustration of Mastodon’s Brent Hinds, Dimebag Darrell, and Metallica’s Lars Ulrich by Matt Furie and Aiyana Udesen

DECADE IN MUSIC When Limp Bizkit took the stage at Woodstock ’99, its sophomore album, Significant Other (Interscope/MCA), had been in stores for a month, debuting at No. 1 on the Billboard charts. For a group whose previous apex was the metaphorical perfection of its "band emerges from giant toilet" set design at the ’98 Ozzfest, this was a huge accomplishment. The album would go on to sell more than 16 million copies.

Despite this gargantuan haul, something changed forever that night in Rome, N.Y. Having whipped the crowd into a frenzy while performing the band’s hit single "Break Stuff," Limp Bizkit singer Fred Durst bore the brunt of the criticism in the aftermath of a concert that devolved into chaos, arson, and rape. The justice of these allegations was dubious, but the damage had been done. The red-capped rap-rocker and his band never recovered, and a new decade began, one that had no time for Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water (Interscope), or the entire genre of "nü metal," which had begun an inescapable demise, coughing out System of a Down’s bizarre masterpiece Toxicity (American) in 2001 like the final contrition of a dying sinner.

Having survived the deteriorated septums of the 1980s and the deteriorated JNCO hemlines of the 1990s, metal was finally afforded a fresh start. There was an explosion of post-hardcore and "screamo" artists, of varying quality. European imports that had weathered the U.S.’s fallow period enjoyed new-found appreciation; the Gothenburg death metal sound stormed across the Atlantic, though it was soon to be done to, well, death by a crop of Second World imitators. Seeds were also sown in these early years for two trends that would suffuse the decade to come. The release in 2002 of Isis’ Oceanic (Ipecac) and Killswitch Engage’s The End of Heartache (Roadrunner) fomented an explosion of glacial, Neurosis-inspired instrumental "post-metal" on the one hand, and mall-friendly, screaming-to-crooning metalcore on the other.

Tragedy struck in 2004, and metal fans reeled as they learned that Damageplan guitarist "Dimebag" Darrell Abbott had been shot and killed while performing at a Columbus, Ohio, nightclub. The Texan’s groundbreaking sounds had given many a headbanger hope during the nü metal years. And though the breakup of Abbott’s band Pantera in 2003 had been a heavy blow, the senseless crime perpetrated by schizophrenic ex-Marine Nathan Gale (who killed four in total) threw an entire musical community into mourning. The untimely death of one of the genre’s true geniuses will be a unmistakable blot on the decade when the historical long view is taken.

While the wounds of a recent passing were still healing, multi-putf8um Bay Area thrashers Metallica picked at older scars, releasing the introspective documentary Some Kind of Monster (2004), to critical acclaim. An unfettered look at a band with more than 20 years of emotional baggage to work through, the film was unswervingly painful to watch. Nevertheless, the publicly humiliating therapy proved effective, and Metallica emerged with more purpose than it had mustered in years. It is matched in its renewed vigor by a growing crop of classic metal bands that have staggered out of the ’90s with new tours, new albums, reunited lineups, and a new generation of fans, including their Bay Area peers Testament, Exodus, and Death Angel.

These graying warriors have been introduced to younger audiences by a proliferation of national package tours, which bundle large stables of artists to appeal to the widest possible audiences, leading in turn to widespread temporal and subgeneric cross-pollination. The venerable Ozzfest franchise led the charge before succumbing to economic privation, though not before a 2005 spat between the members of Iron Maiden and Ozzy Osbourne’s wife-cum-manager Sharon culminated in the indefatigable Irons being hassled onstage by her egg-throwing minions.

The release of Guitar Hero II (Harmonix/RedOctane/Activision) in 2006 was similarly instrumental in the revitalization of metal and guitar-driven music more generally. Though the first installment sold well, it was the sequel that ushered in the phenomenon as we know it today, and an unimpeachable track list opened the ears of the video-gaming public to a world of distorted possibility. It was as adept at resurrecting older artists as it was at breaking younger ones, and metal mainstays like Mastodon and the Sword owe the tastemakers at Harmonix a debt of thanks.

Mastodon’s rise to prominence as America’s premier young metal band marks a fitting end to this decade of destruction. Raised on ’70s prog, ’80s thrash, and the hardscrabble underground music of the ’90s, its music is as aggressively technical and high-brow as Limp Bizkit’s was simple and mookish. 2003’s Leviathan (Relapse) and follow-ups Blood Mountain (Relapse, 2006) and Crack the Skye (Relapse, 2009) encapsulate an era hungry for music that is simultaneously heavy, challenging, and as ambitious as the output of metal’s resurrected masters. Now we must await the riffs of this century’s teenage years.

The breakdown

December 16, 2009

Guardian illustration of Rihana, Lady Gaga, and Britney Spears by Matt Furie and Aiyana Udesen

DECADE IN MUSIC The long-tail slither of the ugly aughts connected umpteen memes: from the rise and fall of Napster to the triumph of "freemium" and the tragedy of the commons, Britney’s vanilla titillations to the haute couture blandishments of Lady Gaga, the funky vulture schematics of Beck to the smoky heroin whispers of Amy Winehouse, the Cristal-fueled corporatism of Jay-Z to Lil Wayne’s codeine-and-tattooed hallucinations — then on to Gwen Stefani, Friendster, TV on the Radio, Justin Timberlake, Franz Ferdinand, Lil Jon, Radiohead, M.I.A., Bonnaroo, the Strokes, Björk, Peaches, the Black Eyed Peas, Justice, Ghostface Killah, Missy Elliot, Pharrell, Animal Collective, Kanye West, and the Libertines …

We, the greedy-eared, were merely supplicants in the age of relativism, competitively rationalizing any product a multinational corporation, small business, or dude in his bedroom surrounded by thrift shop gadgetry marketed to us. So when half-naked Disney Channel tarts got dirty and partied in the U.S.A. with sk8er bois, we loved them as feminists disturbing the status quo and made them VH-1 Divas. When thugs in white tees commanded us to drop it like it’s hot, sold us crack music, and promised to P.I.M.P. us, we hailed them as cultural revolutionaries and gave them Pepsi and Sprite commercials. And when hordes of drive-by truckers took us out, screamed silent shouts, and brought good news for people who love bad news, we granted them a 9.0 rating on Pitchfork and a headline spot at Coachella.

But we should have known better. When positive word-of-mouth and community spirit is codified into "murketing," popular artists become ready-to-sell-out brands, and songs are critiqued through cyberbuzz and SXSW showcases, then even hipster nerds, true-school backpackers, stolid minimalists, and iconoclast idolaters are susceptible to megabucks advertising campaigns and Clear Channel heavy rotation schemes. (Only the overly familiar arc of hype kept its traditional shape in the warped musical universe with his provocative 2000 masterwork The Marshall Mathers LP [Interscope], Eminem twisted shock-jock observations over steroidal keyboard tracks, leading Rolling Stone magazine to dedicate an issue to "The Genius of Eminem." Nine years later, the rapper’s album Relapse scored 59 out of 100 on the reviews aggregator Metacritic.com. Genius: still fleeting, apparently.)

Overshadowing it all was what Time magazine recently called "The Decade From Hell": the hanging chads of the 2000 election, 9/11, Hurricane Katrina, the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the red state-blue state civil wars, the housing bubble. The world did not end, but we swathed ourselves in materialist follies like grief-stricken widows turned desperate housewives, cougars on the rebound. We justified our war on ourselves with a complex financial instrument called "freeconomics." We raped and pillaged our creative communities and paid nothing, and only offered a salutary blog post in return.

Amiri Baraka once called music "The Changing Same." Written in 1966, his essay was an old jazz poet and cultural activist’s valiant attempt to reconcile his beloved "new thing" of free jazz and Black Power with the uplifting, integrationist rhythm and blues of Motown. Four decades later, we can’t even muster Baraka’s conflicted praise for the music world. All is dead. Wired magazine used a photo of the 1937 Hindenburg disaster to portray "The Fall of the Music Industry." Nas declared Hip Hop Is Dead. Indie rock, the soundtrack to our suburban Garden State youth and The Real World: Brooklyn faux-bohemian adventures, went to hell and a Hot Topic outlet. Fuck, man, even George Harrison, J-Dilla, James Brown, Johnny Cash, and Michael Jackson died.

Popism, with its allusions to a global village united under Western capitalism and American exceptionalism, was the philosophy of the day. And pop wasn’t serious music; that term was reserved for late 19th century classical composers and Brian Eno. The rest was noise, MP3s to load onto our iPods, digital squeaks interspersed between gun claps on Grand Theft Auto, and a soundtrack for The Hills and Grey’s Anatomy.

So what did a decade of Auto-Tunin’, guitar-strummin’, and Reason-scrollin’ zombies sound like?

It sounded like glitch, click-hop, IDM, Italo-disco, smooth house, fidget house, blog-house, hard house, Parisian electro-house, South American tech-house, "Body and Soul" house, progressive house, Balearic trance, happy hardcore, dubstep, "beats," wobbly, wonky, funky, nu-rave, darkwave, chillwave, glo-fi, retro soul, neo-soul, swag, crunk, blog rap, favela, booty bass, and B-more. A twitch of niches, each discarded as it surfaced.

On LCD Soundsystem’s brilliant 2003 single "I’m Losing My Edge," James Murphy rattled off a Goldmine catalog full of cult garage bands, No Wave performers, disco DJs and Krautrock novelties, and then sardonically crooned, "You don’t know what you really want."

So what did we really want?

Whatever we desired was at our fingertips. Every song, every trend imaginable was either available on file-sharing programs like Limewire and Soulseek, or could be requested on "private" torrent sites such as Oink and What.cd. A MySpace account yielded streaming music from dozens of your favorite bands, and thousands of friend requests from bands you’ve never heard of.

In this steaming melting pot of microgenres and mixtapes and YouSendIt.com downloads, the finishing line was the current pop zeitgeist, a blessed moment when every Stereogum.com and Nahright.com blog post, and VH-1 Best Week Ever and Current TV Infomania episode was referencing the same thing. Kelly Clarkson sounded just like Avril Lavigne on "Since You’ve Been Gone," but it was so catchy that even Ted Leo covered it. Danger Mouse fused Beatles’ The White Album and Jay-Z’s The Black Album into The Grey Album. Girl Talk made a mixtape of popular crunk tunes and called it Night Ripper; A-Trak did the same thing and called it Dirty South Dance. Vampire Weekend made an album that sounded like Talking Heads, but then so did Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. Dirty Projectors tried to sound like Aaliyah. Fleet Foxes sounded better than My Morning Jacket. When everything is mashed up and boiled, everything sounds the same no matter what you call it.

We cherished catchphrases like "Shake it like a Polaroid picture," a line from OutKast’s sock-hop anthem "Hey Ya!" So it became a Polaroid commercial. Feist’s silly folk-pop charmer "1, 2, 3, 4" became an iPod commercial. Daft Punk’s robo-funk smash "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger" became a Gap commercial. The greatest reward, it seemed, was to become a 30-second advert, a YouTube staple and an American Idol. But anyone who could spam the mainstream earned a booby prize of a Perez Hilton post, a Wikipedia entry, and a top 10 entry in Twitter’s trending topics.

The decade was a stankonia cloud of one-word extinguishers and blueberry boats, milk-eyed menders and bloodthirsty babes, American idiots with cold veins, cryptograms and deadringers, Yankee hotel foxtrots and the danse macabre, and yellow houses and Merriweather Post Pavilions.

And when we finished eating at the Internet trough until our hard drives burst into gigabytes, we were surrounded by a bizarro world of logos, marketing slogans, and impoverished, overworked artists. In turn, we were chewed and swallowed by the gorgon Fame Monster spiking the long tail’s tip. But we didn’t care. We were filled with so much self-loathing and glee at this digital age that had enveloped us, but saw no other way out than to embrace it unthinkingly, with closed eyes, and with no wonder as to whether it could mean something more than the ravenous, all-destroying hunger of the vampire, the undead.

But love is not pop. And we are alive. It’s time to wake up and reclaim our souls. We have a lot of rebuilding to do.

Nothing like it

December 16, 2009

Guardian illustration of E-40, Mac Dre, and Mistah F.A.B. by Matt Furie and Aiyana Udesen

Crack baby anthem, you can feel this music — Mistah F.A.B., "Crack Baby Anthem," from Baydestrian (SMC, 2007)

DECADE IN MUSIC In retrospect, it’s easy to see 1999 as the end of Bay Area rap’s glory. The ’90s mob music era was pretty good around here. Too Short had paved the way from releasing local discs to landing a major deal. A spate of acts were signed in the early ’90s (Digital Underground, E-40, Spice-1, the Delinquents) and the mid-’90s (the Luniz, Dru Down, Richie Rich, 3X Krazy), not to mention that the world’s most popular rapper, 2pac, claimed Oakland as his home.

So what happened? 2pac’s murder in 1996, for starters, took the jewel in the Bay’s crown. The second round of signings yielded less sales than the first, with only the Luniz’s debut, Operation Stackola (Noo Trybe/Virgin, 1995), hitting putf8um. Conventional wisdom and conspiracy theory generally hints that the murder of Queens rapper Notorious B.I.G. in L.A. in 1997 — frequently portrayed as a revenge killing for 2pac — turned major label interest away from Bay Area rappers, though it’s unclear whether anyone from the Bay had anything to do with either Biggie’s or Pac’s death. The majors stopped signing Bay Area rappers around that time, a situation that remains largely, though not entirely, unchanged today. The final factor was the purchase of local rap station KMEL by Clear Channel in 1999. KMEL never played enough Bay Area music, but soon stopped altogether, save for E-40 and Too Short, the only two acts to retain their major deals as the new century dawned.

Enter "the drought." With no radio and no major-label interest, Bay Area rap languished. Local alternative rap fared better because its business model usually didn’t include the radio or the majors. Though the Hieroglyphics had been around since the early ’90s, the collective stepped up their activities in the late ’90s and early ’00s. Given their devoted following, heavy touring, and iconic symbol, Hiero was Bay Area hip-hop for many outside the region. The Bay was also home to hip-hop collectives like the Solesides-derived Quannum Projects, whose Blackalicious put out Blazing Arrow through MCA in 2002, during a brief blip of major label interest in progressive hip-hop.

Two of the significant records from this period were Party Music (75Ark/Warner, 2001) by the Coup and Sonic Jihad (Guerilla Funk, 2003) by Paris. A neo-P-Funk dust-up, Party Music achieved much notoriety for its original cover depicting members Boots Riley and Pam the Funkstress seemingly blowing up the World Trade Center. Scheduled for September release, the album was of course put on hold after 9/11 until new art could be arranged. Paris was one of the earliest local acts to go major. He predates the concept of "alternative" rap — when he began, you could be a militant rapper like Chuck D and still get signed. After two years of mind-numbing flag-waving in this country, Paris had the audacity to release an album whose cover depicted a plane about to fly into the White House, and whose lyrics excoriated the Bush administration, accusing it of complicity with the 9/11 attacks. It was a bold action in an otherwise spineless cultural moment.

Meanwhile, the Bay was reloading. Special mention must go to Mac Dre, who, with the Delinquents and a few others, held the scene together in its lean years. Dre went to jail for four years beginning in 1992. When he emerged in 1996, major label opportunities were drying up, but he refused to let it stop him. From 1998 to 2004, he released 11 solo albums on his Thizz Entertainment label, not to mention innumerable compilations and side-projects. At a time when almost no records were selling locally, Dre was moving between 30,000 and 60,000 units. In an increasingly homogenized MC environment, Dre’s distinctive personality shone through, manifesting itself in a series of humorous characters on Thizz: Thizzelle Washington (2003), Ronald Dregan (2004), and The Genie of the Lamp (2004).

During the ensuing hyphy movement (circa 2005-07), debates ensued over who was responsible for the new music. Dre was a huge influence on hyphy’s colorful, comic aesthetics, but he was murdered before he could reap the rewards of his efforts. Producer Rick Rock, one of the Bay’s few national hitmakers, landed a deal with Virgin for the Federation, breaking them onto the radio with the hit "Hyphy" in 2003. Former 3X Krazy-member Keak da Sneak, however, was the man who brought this particular bit of Oakland slang to hip-hop, asserting his own claim with the Traxamillion-produced, local No. 1 "Super Hyphy" in 2005.

In between, newcomers the Team had a 2004 local radio hit, "It’s Gettin’ Hot," and inked a deal with a Universal imprint which ultimately fell through, while producers EA-Ski and CMT got their own protégés, Frontline, a deal with Ryko-imprint Penalty Records. Still in high school, E-40’s son Droop-E also contributed to the sound through radio singles like Mistah F.A.B.’s 2005 track "Super Sic Wid It."

Even this tiny amount of major interest and radio support resulted in heady times: "the drought," it seemed, was officially over. Yet after a couple of years of valuable if lukewarm support, KMEL again stopped playing local hip-hop, and the few major deals haven’t panned out. Clyde Carson from the Team was picked up by Capital, only to be dropped three years later without releasing an album. Mistah F.A.B., who continues to enhance his profile through collaborations with the likes of Snoop Dogg, remains subjected to Atlantic Records’ agonizing delays, which would have killed the career of anyone less determined.

After a couple years, the post-hyphy period of Bay rap took on a discernible personality. Though many complained hyphy was too oriented toward kids, that trend has continued to develop. The new crop of Bay Area acts — including J. Stalin, Shady Nate, Beeda Weeda, D-Lo, Stevie Joe — identify with their high school-age fans, whereas previous generations rapped as adults, even acts like Dre or the Mob Figaz who were still in high school when they began their careers. The generational shift might be considered in terms of the 1980s rise of crack, for whereas Dre, the Jacka, and others dealt crack as teenagers, the current crop was born at this time.

J. Stalin, for example, literally is a crack baby, and all these younger MCs grew up with crack as an established fact of life. The new vibe might be labeled "crack baby music," for this fact is explicitly if inarticulately present as a subject or theme. The anger of this generation manifests in the extreme violence of its lyrics, and the gangsta social consciousness of 2pac’s time is extremely attenuated, though not entirely gone. Its appeal to ghetto youth growing up in this appalling post-9/11 era is perfectly comprehensible. Yet despite its darkness, the current music also illustrates the resilience of this regional culture even in the face of indifference and neglect. In terms of the overall American rap world, there’s nothing quite like the Bay.

You ought-sa know

December 16, 2009

FEBRUARY 2000

Christina Aguilera defeats Britney Spears in the Battle of the Midriff-Baring Blondes (i.e., wins the Best New Artist Grammy). The first words of her acceptance speech are "Oh my god, you guys!"

APRIL 2000

Pop goes the world: ‘N SYNC sells 2.4 million copies of No Strings Attached (Jive) in its first week of release, a sales record which still stands. To date it has sold over 15 million copies.

Metallica files suit against Napster, accusing internet pirates of stealing their booty — er, royalties.

Pop goes the world, part two: Britney Spears releases Oops! … I Did It Again (Jive). Album title will take on extra meaning in 2004, when Spears takes the vows twice in a single year (her first marriage is annulled after 55 hours; her second produces a pair of sons in quick succession).

MAY 2000

Eminem releases The Marshall Mathers LP (Aftermath). Two years later, he picks up a Best Song Oscar for "Lose Yourself," the theme from his critically-acclaimed 8 Mile. Eminem’s cinematic success was not to be repeated by his otherwise successful protégé, 50 Cent (see: 2005’s dismal Get Rich or Die Tryin’).

OCTOBER 2000

Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water (Interscope) drops; it’s an early contender for worst album title of the decade. Related: "Limp Bizkit" is probably the worst band name of all time.

FEBRUARY 2001

Jennifer Lopez has the number one album (Epic’s J.Lo) and movie (The Wedding Planner) in the country. Media frenzy peaked with Bennifer fever (2002) and national-punchline Gigli (2003).

JULY 2001

Mariah Carey’s downward spiral begins, including a bizarre appearance on MTV’s Total Request Live and the ill-timed release of Glitter, soon after the September 11 attacks. Carey later reclaimed her pop-diva throne with 2005’s The Emancipation of Mimi (Island).

AUGUST 2001

Aaliyah dies in a Bahamas plane crash.

SEPTEMBER 2001

America: A Tribute to Heroes airs on all major networks. It’s the first in a series of concerts featuring big-name performers that would crop up after every major disaster throughout the decade, including the Indonesian tsunami, Hurricane Katrina, and the death of Michael Jackson.

APRIL 2002

Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes dies in a car crash in Honduras.

JUNE 2002

R. Kelly is charged with having sex with a minor after a certain videotape goes viral. "Trapped in the Closet," his 22-part 2005 "hip-hopera," proves even more fascinating.

SEPTEMBER 2002

Kelly Clarkson wins the first season of the hugely popular talent contest American Idol. In Clarkson’s wake: pop stardom, fellow success stories like Carrie Underwood (and failures — anyone seen Taylor Hicks lately?), a zillion rip-off competition shows, a thousand moments of zen with Paula Abdul, and the baffling "Claymate" phenomenon.

NOVEMBER 2002

Michael Jackson. Blanket. Balcony.

DECEMBER 2002

Whitney Houston informs Diane Sawyer that "crack is wack."

FEBRUARY 2003

Famed producer and legendary oddball Phil Spector arrested after a woman he’d just met, actress Lana Clarkson, is shot to death in his mansion. In 2009, after two trials (the first ended in a mistrial), he’s found guilty of second-degree murder.

At a Rhode Island nightclub, 100 people are killed when a fire breaks out during a Great White concert.

MARCH 2003

On the eve of the Iraq War, Dixie Chick, Texan, and American hero Natalie Maines informs a British crowd: "We’re ashamed that the President of the United States is from Texas." Backlash, and a feud with uber-patriotic fellow country star Toby Keith — who had a 2002 hit with "Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue (The Angry American)" — ensues.

AUGUST 2003

Madonna smooches Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera onstage at the MTV Video Music Awards. Oh my god, you guys!

SEPTEMBER 2003

Johnny Cash goes to meet the Ghost Riders in the Sky. Two years after his death, Walk the Line gives him Hollywood biopic treatment; Reese Witherspoon picks up an Oscar for portraying June Carter, who died just months before her husband.

NOVEMBER 2003

Michael Jackson is arrested for child molestation, not long after the broadcast of Martin Bashir’s fairly skeevy Living with Michael Jackson interviews.

Newlyweds: Nick and Jessica debuts. (Spoiler: they get divorced in 2006!)

FEBRUARY 2004

Janet Jackson. Superbowl. Boob.

JUNE 2004

Dave Chappelle’s Lil John imitation became the imitation you loved to imitate. Whuuut?

AUGUST 2004

Look out, brah! A bus belonging to the Dave Matthews Band dumps 800 pounds of shit off a Chicago bridge and onto a tour boat.

OCTOBER 2004

Ashlee Simpson pulls a Milli Vanilli on Saturday Night Live.

DECEMBER 2004

Heavy metal guitarist Dimebag Darrell shot to death while performing in Columbus, Ohio.

FEBRUARY 2005

YouTube is born.

JUNE 2005

Michael Jackson found not guilty. Dove Lady celebrates.

SEPTEMBER 2005

"George Bush doesn’t care about black people." — Kanye West, during NBC’s live "Concert for Hurricane Relief."

JANUARY 2006

High School Musical airs. Sequels, worldwide fame for even lesser cast members, and nude photo scandals await.

MARCH 2006

Three 6 Mafia win an Oscar for Hustle and Flow jam "It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp," which they perform live at the ceremony as fossilized Academy members gape in confusion.

JUNE 2006

Over a quarter of a million people download "Hips Don’t Lie" in its first week online, despite the fact that the Shakira track is so utterly inescapable it’s incredible anyone would choose to listen to it during any spare moments when it wasn’t playing already.

OCTOBER 2006

Amy Winehouse releases Back to Black (Island Records); the would-be retro pop queen’s career screeches to a halt after various addictions take hold. For the next few years, Winehouse’s downfall is gleefully chronicled and circulated by paparazzi worldwide.

FEBRUARY 2007

American Idol also-ran Jennifer Hudson wins an Oscar for her supporting performance in Dreamgirls. The gracious Hudson somehow keeps the phrase "In your face, Simon!" out of her acceptance speech.

Britney Spears. Clippers. Hair. (Chris. Crocker.)

JUNE 2007

The Sopranos airs its last episode. Journey’s "Don’t Stop Believin" becomes a new-old sensation.

OCTOBER 2007

Radiohead self-release In Rainbows, allowing customers to determine their own price for the album’s download.

DECEMBER 2007

Jamie Lynn Spears, 16-year-old sister of Britney, announces she’s knocked up. Oh my god, you guys!

APRIL 2008

Miley Cyrus lets Annie Leibovitz take a vaguely smutty photo of her for Vanity Fair.

AUGUST 2008

Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta, a.k.a. Lady Gaga, releases The Fame (Interscope). Pop domination imminent.

SEPTEMBER 2008

Blink-182 drummer Travis Barker and Adam "DJ AM" Goldstein are the sole survivors of a small plane crash in South Carolina. Goldstein is found dead in August 2009, leading to more than one tasteless Final Destination joke.

NOVEMBER 2008

Long-gestating, near-mythical Guns N’ Roses album Chinese Democracy (Geffen) finally drops. World shrugs, admits they’ll always prefer Appetite for Destruction (Geffen) no matter what Axl does from here on out.

FEBRUARY 2009

Christian Bale’s angry rant at a crew member on the set of Terminator: Salvation becomes an Internet sensation. A dance remix follows almost instantaneously. "What don’t you fucking understand?"

Chris Brown beats up then-girlfriend Rihanna. He pleads guilty in August; as part of his sentence, he must stay 100 yards away from Rihanna (10 yards at public events) for five years.

JUNE 2009

Michael Jackson dies.

SEPTEMBER 2009

Berkeley Repertory Theater premieres American Idiot, a musical based on the 2004 Green Day album.

"Taylor, I’m really happy for you, and I’m gonna let you finish, but Beyoncé had one of the best videos of all time." — Kanye West, MTV Video Music Awards. This is the only interesting thing that has ever happened to Taylor Swift.

Aughties Bay Area

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December 16, 2009
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Illustration of Kyp Malone, Joanna Newsom, and Devendra Banhart by Matt Furie and Aiyana Udesen

Picture ’06, the aughties about half over. Alissa Anderson, cellist of the sweet and elegant Bay Area country-folk ensemble Vetiver, was positively boiling.

"I think if you ask anyone who gets labeled as freak folk, they’ll basically tell you they think of it as f-cking garbage and insulting. It’s not accurate, and it’s just a cop-out."

Anderson — the DIY fashion impresario of Mittenmaker and the rock photog who went on to publish a tome via Chronicle Books — was no wilting violet, no shy refugee from a well-behaved string quartet. She only resembled a curly-maned Mucha poster girl crossed with Maria Schneider. In the halcyon days of ’06, she was royally pissed about the way her band — led by then-domestic partner Andy Cabic, musically and "spiritually" supported by Devendra Banhart — had been tagged as flaming freaks. This after Vetiver was plopped above the fold like overseeing avatars in a flashy New York Times photo collage illustrating a big, fat feature on the out-folk, "New Weird America," altogether-psychedelic movement. Booty-danced by Lindsay Lohan and wooed by Karl Lagerfeld? For Banhart and Vetiver’s crew it was just part of the hallucinatory passing parade of hairy fairies, gentle noise visionaries, and elegant acid explorers.

And it was just another Saturday night as the San Francisco Bay Area’s teeming subcultures, multitudinous lifestyles, and micro-tribes met in the evening shade. At SF’s last-call witching hour of 1:45 a.m., in the thick of the transformative and transfigurative ’00s, Anderson was in the car, looking for the night’s next after-hours warehouse party, and I was in search of a way to encapsulate the Bay scene, somehow, in print.

I followed Anderson from dusty gravel parking lot to her DJ friend Muffin’s soiree. The Dogpatch warehouse he shared with other musicians, artists, and the odd Web jockey was surrounded by heavy industry — trucking and transporting companies, old cement factories — and sat smack atop an auto repair garage known to emanate noxious fumes.

But what a great space for a raging party. Anderson grabbed and hugged pals as we climbed the skinny, swerving stairs to a large, rectangular space overlooking a street populated by hipster insomniacs. The difference between this and other clubs? Everyone was dancing to the rock-hard, grimy techno. I spied Anderson as she disappeared behind a massive piece of furniture into another room, while the evening’s live band, the Sixteens, prepped for a set of sharp, shattered art-punk that wouldn’t be out of line on a late-1970s Mudd Club bill.

Welcome to the Bay Area music scene, underground, overground, and increasingly known throughout the country during the ’00s for the hard-partying, house-rocking, artistically (and, at brief moments, commercially) ambitious ways that it swings. Chalk it up to the Summer of Love and its legacy of acid tests, its rotating doors of psychedelic perception, and taste for bold experimentation. Or to Sly Stone and his Owsley-fried knack for hybridizing funk and pop. Or to Too Short and 2pac and their street-level rap touched by heroic dealers and neighborhood Panthers. Or to an anthemic Green Day and its politicized Gilman Street punk, and a garage-days-to-arena-stages Metallica and its thrash nation. Or even to the massive creative infusion that came to the Bay with the dot-com Gold Rush, and then suddenly found itself with free time after the tech crash — young, imaginative minds that viewed the last psychedelic revolution as a starting point.

Witness the Friday night scenes at the Mission District’s Adobe Books, where artists and fans spilled out onto the street, socializing and sloshing red wine, to see microscopic, well-curated exhibits and hear a local band or two. Or the memorable one-offs that might find you stumbling down a rocky Caltrain track in the pitch black, after the trains stopped running at midnight, to hear DJs play in the tunnels. Or the Oakland parties of local music dynamo Vice Cooler.

Onetime SF Art Institute undergrad Banhart and Mills College compositional major Joanna Newsom might have drifted away by ’06, but the Bay Area rock, noise, and electronic scene still boasted binaries and beyond — Comets on Fire and High on Fire, Music Lovers and Lovemakers, Finches and Faun Fables, Deerhoof and Clipd Beaks, Rogue Wave and Thee More Shallows, Kid 606 and Six Organs of Admittance.

In the last half of the aughties, Thee Oh Sees, the Dodos, Ty Segall, Nodzzz, Wooden Shjips, Jonas Reinhardt, Mi Ami, Sleepy Sun, Sholi, Howlin’ Rain, Colossal Yes and more joined the locals crew, while onetime NorCal-ers like !!!, the Rapture, and Kyp Malone of TV on the Radio made a splash on the other side of the continent. Arthur magazine caught the Bay Area tailwind, swathing its covers with the images of Bay-bred performers, which fed a sister scene down south. How did one get a handle on such a sprawling sonic landscape populated by the children of Blue Cheer and Moby Grape, Brian Wilson and Neil Young?

By going out every night and then some — and why not? There was always something going on — and though so many of these talents didn’t bust out into the mainstream like Lady Gaga or Weezer, the Bay made its presence known, big time, as a site of audio and music technology revolution amid the chat and twitter of the overall tech boom.

The Bay — once home to Universal Audio innovator Bill Putnam (who developed stereo recording and studio essentials like the 1176 and LA-2A compressors) and Redwood City magnetic tape giant Ampex (supported by Hillsborough retiree Bing Crosby) — has, in the aughties, changed the ways music is made and listened to. Daly City’s Digidesign produces Pro Tools, the widely adopted digital recording platform that transformed the sound of studio-produced music in the ’00s. Cupertino’s Apple and its iPod, iTunes, and Garageband sped the spread of digital music, the demise of physical product, and gave everyone with a MacBook a tool to make their own beats, podcasts, and songs.

Napster brought file-sharing to new highs, or lows, depending on whether you think "information wants to be free" or "home-taping is killing music," until Bay neighbor Metallica brought it down. East Bay-bred DJ Shadow made it into Guinness World Records in 2001 for supposedly creating the "first completely sampled album" with … Endtroducing (Mo’ Wax, 1996). UC Berkeley grad and MySpace cofounder Tom Anderson brought DIY oomph and social networking savvy to bands eager to promote themselves, and Brisbane’s YouTube revived the video as a viable pop-art form. Now Pandora is breaking pop hits down to their quantifiable components — slightly easier than reducing the multitudinous Bay Area music scene into Google-able, bite-sized bits.

You had to be there. And on the cusp of this adolescent century’s teens, amid the flux and flow of music-makers and pop creatives moving in and town, it’s time to ask some new questions: what are we doing and listening to next?

The decade in music

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December 16, 2009
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IN THIS ISSUE:

>>The breakdown: A hyped-up digital decade stung by its own long tail
By Mosi Reeves
>>You ought-sa know: A tawdry, tuneful timeline of the last decade
By Cheryl Eddy
>>Aughties Bay Area: Meet me at MySpace with your iPod and we’ll indie dance
By Kimberly Chun
>>Flashing lights: 10 years on the Bay Area dance floor — and still looking fantastic!
By Marke B.
>>2009 = 1989: The end of this decade sings a love song to the end of a decade past
By Johnny Ray Huston
>>False Idols: Pop went meta, exposing its gaga machinery
By Louis Peitzman
>>Some kind of mastodon: Out of the rap-rock toilet and into the fire — the decade in metal
By Ben Richardson
>>Nothing like it: From mob to hyphy to crack — the decade in Bay Area rap
By Garrett Caples

DECADE IN MUSIC "If you don’t like it, don’t listen to it" This became the comment-capping mantra of a musical decade that started with excess — record stores and Napster, industry fat cats and self-released upstarts, CDs and MP3s all coexisting in ignorant bliss — and ended with the sound of one thumb Twittering. The promise in that catchphrase, that music selection has become so democratic that we can ignore what we’re not into, also proved a trap. With all the fractionalized niche overload and microbranding, who hasn’t felt the sting of that uniquely contemporary psychological malady, feeling-out-of-the-loop-itis? How do you know you don’t like it if you don’t hear it?

Still, the giddiness of sonic freedom has touched us all, and diversified playlists have provided plenty of kicks. No longer is the world of sound divided into mainstream and alternative — Kylie was shoehorned into the Fox Theatre while the Pixies headlined Coachella. And no longer does the same tune deliberately get stuck in everyone’s head. We readily admit we’ve yet to hear "Party in the USA" or have the slightest clue what a Daughtry is. We’ve been far too busy digging nueva cumbia and Scandinavian death metal to click out of curiosity, though we’re sure we’ll get around to it. With everything instantly available and a warped sense of retro shrouding all ears in historical doubt — believe it or not, "Don’t Stop Believing" sounded horrible in 1981 — the past decade already seems a bit of a blur. (And all this audio information hasn’t necessarily made us smarter or more noble. What did we do after we invaded the wrong country? Gleefully watch a young pop starlet implode.) The current musical moment seems to be reveling in a sigh of relief. "Chill" is the watchword, stillness is the move: a welcome respite from the beaver-flashing spills of yesteryear.

Looking back, though, a lot has happened since Y2K, when the late Biggie and yet-to-be-Vegas Celine Dion were belly-jousting for the top spot on Billboard Hot 100, and Santana’s Supernatural was imminent. (For starters, everyone knew what the Billboard Hot 100 was.) We’ve seen Britney outdo Sinead, Eminem get Nelly, Destiny’s Child survive until it didn’t, Creeds and Outkasts, Norah Jones and Usher, MJB’s breakthrough and Whitney’s breakdowns, and the glittering cuckoo moments and emancipation of Mariah Carey. We’ve seen Ashlee Simpson wiggle her acid reflux-addled uvula. We’ve heard Kanye. And heard him. The spawn of Billy Ray Cyrus has raided our thin wallets, Katie Couric has quizzed Lil Wayne about weed. We’ve encountered more neo-microgenres than you can shake a Nano at, seen vinyl rise like a zombie from the dead, and YouTubed another hole in the ozone.

Locally, the Bay Area kept a low profile — were Keyshia Cole and Train really our only contributions to thenational pop landscape? Yet we still made an enormous amount of exhilarating music. Mashups, space disco, metal onslaughts, freak folks, hyphy, arty indie, psychedelic drones: all found a teeming nest of originators here. The Guardian asked our music critics to plug in and go nuts on the past decade of local and universal pet sounds. Behold our multi-tentacular monster mash. (Johnny Ray Huston and Marke B.)

Our weekly picks

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December 15, 2009
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WEDNESDAY 16th

FILM

Free Form Film Series: "Awesome and Painful"

The folks from Lost Media Archive and the FFFF (Free Form Film Festival) have a Christmas treat for y’all: a screening of the "universally loathed" Star Wars Holiday Special. Before that, six dudes from various parts of the U.S. will treat viewers to experimental videos. With titles like Hulk Smash, Cakestain! and Polygon Sun, it’s likely — well, very likely (I did some interweb research) — that these videos are of the laffy taffy, low-tech, seizure-inducing variety. While this might suggest everything jejune and sarcastic, I would also qualify that suggest with smartly so. (Spencer Young)

8 p.m., $6

Artists’ Television Access

992 Valencia, SF

(415) 824-3890

www.atasite.org

THURSDAY 17th

FILM

Kenneth Anger: Restored Prints

Not one to dabble so much as drench himself in the occult, Kenneth Anger has been dubbed a weirdo. Committed to the underground, his short films are weird, too, but in an interesting and entertaining kind of way as opposed to creepy and cloying. Two of the Anger movies showing tonight — Scorpio Rising (1960) and Kustom Kar Kommandos (1964) — worship handsome James Dean-type men and their equally handsome machines through serene, phantasmagoric pans across shiny engines, belt buckles, and bulging biceps, all queerly contrasted with 1960s pop. The other two films on the program, Fireworks (1947) and Rabbit’s Moon (1950/1971) are equally hunky-dory. Also, the 82-year-old weirdo might be in attendance. (Young)

7 p.m., $7–$10

Phyllis Wattis Theater

San Francisco Museum of Modern Art

151 Third St., SF

(415) 357-4000

www.sfmoma.org

MUSIC

Popscene Holiday Gala with Mike Relm

‘Tis the season for video mashups. The holidays always make me want to break out the TV Carnage DVDs — nothing says gift quite like John Ritter making horrified faces to Rosie O’Donnell’s performance in Riding the Bus With My Sister (2005). Mike Relm is one of SF’s chief video turntablists, with a resume that includes Mike Patton’s Peeping Tom project. He won my heart by naming his debut DVD Clown Alley, after the defunct semi-North Beach burger dive known to inspire the Guardian’s own Marke B. to break into song. He makes the scene at Popscene’s festive gala. (Johnny Ray Huston)

With DJ Sharp

10 p.m.–2 a.m., $5–$10

330 Ritch

330 Ritch, SF

(415) 541-9574

www.popscene-sf.com

FRIDAY 18th

PERFORMANCE

Hubba Hubba Revue’s Chrismanukkah

Hubba Hubba Revue is big in England. Word of the SF burlesque troupe’s shenanigans had reached my burlesexual friend Lou Lou, who knows about tassel-twirling because, back in Blighty, she’s a "maid" who flounces about the stage between acts cleaning up the dancers’ tossed underthings. Lou Lou was convinced "the maid" was a universal feature of burlesque shows, and was surprised to learn that in the Hubba Hubba Revue, her role is played by a man-monkey named Zip the What-Is-It, bald but for a tuft of hair on his crown. Things are different here. But they do have lovely ladies stripping all retro-like and enough shiny bells and whistles to keep even the burlesque-shy (does such a person exist?) jaw-dropped and fancy free. The troupe’s holiday celebration promises peace and goodwill to (wo)man, and performances by Bunny Pistol, Professor Shimmy, and Meshugga Beach Party, a Jewish folk surf jam experience. (Caitlin Donohue)

9 p.m., $12–$15

DNA Lounge

375 11th St., SF

(415) 626-1409

www.dnalounge.com

www.hubbahubbarevue.com

LIT

Glam Gender Release Party

You can never have too much drag for the holidays. Or can you? No, no you can’t — especially if your stocking is not only filled with enough bird seed to size you up to a triple-D cup, but also with the ravishing new book Glam Gender, a glossy to-die-for tome self-published by photographer Marianne Larochelle and art director-stylist-drag legend Jose Guzman Colon, a.k.a. Putanesca. Contained within is an encyclopedia of the most well-known local drag queens of the past decade, including many no longer with us. The project, with punchy bios written by paparazzi punk Bill Picture, was "such a beautiful thing to work on," Putanesca told me. "It’s a real community celebration, and also a bit insane." Freshly released, the book will be available — along with glorious prints and most of the queens themselves — at zany Victorian wonderland Finn’s Funhouse. Watch your dress. (Marke B.)

6–10 p.m., free

Finn’s Funhouse

814 Grove, SF

www.glamgender.com

MUSIC

Super Adventure Club

Up-sides to cold weather: the dependable absence of mosquitoes, eggnog, layers of $4 Goodwill sweaters that nicely camouflage Christmas cookie bulge, and socially acceptable hibernation. Wait, scratch that last one — you’re going out. You’ll wanna brave those arctic winds for multitasking duo Jake Woods and Michael Winger, who combine their strange genius to form Super Adventure Club, a band you could like for the name alone, but don’t have to because their punchy riffs on everything from German "üntz" music to French love songs deliver a restorative kick to the circulation system. I straight up challenge you to get through their set — or that of headliners Diego’s Umbrella — without jumping about like a crazy person. You’ve got a tough first step past the front welcome mat, but know — just know — that your winter woes are about to melt like a square snowflake in funky town. (Donohue)

With Diego’s Umbrella and How To Win at Life

9 p.m., $8

Elbo Room

(415) 552-7788

647 Valencia, SF

www.elbo.com

SATURDAY 19th

EVENT

Renegade Craft Fair

December mall jaunts tend to induce claustrophobia, Santa terrors, and unpredictable, Manchurian Candidate-style reactions to all those cheery Christmas carols. Avoid the commercial hustle at the Renegade Craft Fair, founded in 2003 in Chicago — where a Renegade Handmade store remains open year-round — and now a multicity phenomenon. SF’s version opens shop just in time for the last-minute gift scramble, with more than 150 local DIY denizens (who had to apply to participate, so you won’t have to sift though sub-par crap) offering up all manner of bow-worthy ideas: fabric goods, silkscreened art, jewelry, accoutrements for babies, housewares, toys, stationary, and more. (Cheryl Eddy)

Through Sun/20

11 a.m.–7 p.m., free

Herbst Pavilion, Fort Mason Center

Marina at Laguna, SF

www.renegadecraft.com/holiday-sf

PERFORMANCE

Trannyshack Star Search

The queen, apparently, is not dead. Beloved and be-loathed trash-drag emporium Trannyshack glitter-axed its weekly operations at the Stud last year. But like the chunky-jewelried zombie ass-slave Mrs. Roper hostess that she is, Heklina rises from the ash heap of Manhunt addiction to bring back the Trannyshack Star Search competition, thirsty for new blood to fill her ghoulish needs. She’ll be joined onstage by the wonderfully horrific Peaches Christ to oversee performances by "special" guest judges Sherry Vine and Kembra Pfahler of the Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black. Hoku Mama, Putanesca, Princess Kennedy, and Anjie Myma also judge the 10 hopefuls, and DJ Omar glam-sluts up the crowd, if that’s even more possible. (Marke B.)

10 p.m.–3 a.m., $15–$20

DNA Lounge

(415) 626-1409

375 11th St., SF

www.dnalounge.com

EVENT/PERFORMANCE

Circus Ignite!

Does it seem like circus is everywhere? It’s true. And that’s not just in local venues, mainstream media, and fashion. Circus groups are taking their clowning, juggling, stilting, and acrobatics out of American cities and into under-served communities across the world. They’re entertaining, educating, inspiring self-esteem, and fostering cross-cultural communication in communities affected by natural disaster, dislocations, and military conflicts. One such group is Dreamtime Circus, a fantastic organization that launched with a trip to India last year and plans to spend next spring in Peru. Help support the cause by attending this weekend’s fundraiser, featuring DJs, a silent auction, and performances. (Molly Freedenberg)

9 p.m.–4 a.m., $12–$20

Siberia

314 11th St, SF

(415) 552-2100

www.dreamtimecircus.org

EVENT/MUSIC

Carols in the Caves

Candlelight. Cave acoustics. Ancient instruments playing age-old carols. And you as part of the angel choir. Could there be anything more classically festive than Carols in the Caves? The brainchild of percussionist/musician the Improvisator (a.k.a. David Auerbach), this tradition has been delighting audiences for 24 years in a variety of caves and wine cellars around the Bay Area. This time Auerbach brings his dulcimers, flutists, drums, and bells to Hans Fahden Vineyards, a gorgeous property on a ridge above Calistoga that features panoramic views of Mount Saint Helena. Buy your tickets, save some extra cash to purchase wine, and get ready to settle in to a sound spa for the mind. (Freedenberg)

2 p.m. (also Sun/20), $45

Hans Fahden Vineyards

4855 Petrified Forest, Calistoga

(707) 224-4222

www.cavemusic.com

FILM

The Birds

So … 500,000 European starlings did an air show in Bodega Bay, I mean Sacramento, this past week. Video evidence is flying across the Internet. It’s official, a real-life version of The Birds (1963) can’t be far off. Of all of Hitchcock’s classics, this is the one best served by the big screen. If you’ve only seen it on TV, you don’t know it. Out of your gilded cages, Melanie Daniels fans, and into the Castro to fend off angry beaks with your impeccably manicured hands. (Huston)

2:30 and 7 p.m. (double feature with Notorious), $7.50–$10

Castro Theatre

429 Castro, SF

(415) 621-6120

www.castrotheatre.com

SUNDAY 20th

MUSIC

Brian Setzer Orchestra

Brian Setzer has made a long-lasting career of resurrecting musical styles from the past with his formidable talents. He first came to fame as leader of the Stray Cats, energizing traditional rockabilly with his scorching guitar skills. He then went on to revamp swing and the classic big band sound of the 1930s and ’40s with the Brian Setzer Orchestra, whose hits included a cover of Louis Prima’s "Jump Jive An’ Wail." Tonight’s stop here in SF is part of Setzer’s seventh annual "Christmas Rocks!" tour, featuring revved-up versions of timeless holiday songs like "Jingle Bells" and "White Christmas," as well as selections from his own hit discography.(Sean McCourt)

8 p.m., $55–$69.50

The Warfield

982 Market, SF

(415) 775-7722

www.thewarfieldtheatre.com

TUESDAY 22nd

VISUAL ART

Taravat Talepasand: "Situation Critical"

Bay Area artist Taravat Talepasand’s explorations of cultural mores in Iran and America manifest as everything from motorcycles to graphite drawings. Her second show at Marx and Zavaterro casts a sharp eye at xenophobia and assorted manias circa-1979, among other things. "Situation Critical" should be worth a visit simply to see the nightmarish Disney-esque painting Ayatollah Land. (Huston)

10:30 a.m.–5 p.m., free

Marx and Zavattero

77 Geary, second floor, SF

(415) 627-9111
www.marxzav.com

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Music

Rhythm & Motion 30th Anniversary Dance Bash

X

Boyz IV Men

“Quintessential Chaplin”

Disco 2010 with Glass Candy

Supper Club’s Breakfast in Bed

VISUAL ART

“When Lives Become Form: Contemporary Brazilian Art, From the 1960s to the Present”

You, the Living

Yoga and Ayurveda for Real Life

Hunx and His Punx, Brilliant Colors

Pirate Cat Radio Benefit Show

Rocky

CHRISTMAS DAY COSTUME CALAMITY

STEVE FABUS

FLOW THE FUNK

FLOOR SCORE

STOMPY + SUNSET

Free Form Film Series: "Awesome and Painful"

Kenneth Anger: Restored Prints

Popscene Holiday Gala with Mike Relm

Hubba Hubba Revue’s Chrismanukkah

Glam Gender Release Party

Super Adventure Club

Renegade Craft Fair

Trannyshack Star Search

Circus Ignite!

Carols in the Caves

The Birds

Brian Setzer Orchestra

Taravat Talepasand: "Situation Critical"