Not the Little Fuzzy’s Dec. 12 farewell show, but the same costumes.
By Chris DeMento
Seeing a band for the first time can be a treat; seeing a band for the first time on the night of its final performance can be a cathartic, dare I say, religious sort of romp: all the byzantine emotional complexity, malodorous subtext, the washed-over memories of the road and her shitty vomitoria, so many tensions and recollections spilling forth ecstatically. However, seeing a band composed of a Santa Claus drummer and three dancing Christmas trees is, under any circumstance, a revelation.
I don’t know how Little Fuzzy didn’t pass out inside their all-lit-up tannenbaums at their farewell performance at the Make-Out Room on Dec. 12. Experience, probably. They’ve done this same show before, maybe five or six years running.
But enough about the spectacle, on to the songs, which rocked in a very poppy, dancey, groovy way. Not only was I impressed with the way many of the indie numbers developed into stuffed-animal funkballads, but I was struck by the tightness and quality of the playing. Fans of the now-disbanded Little Fuzzy will sorely miss its collective musicianship, which carried quite effortlessly the burden of guitarist-lead vocalist Kirk Markopoulos’s arrangements.
The Society of Rockets member ushers in his favorites for 2007.
1) Hanging out on Jean Herve Peron’s farm in Schiphorst, Germany, at his annual Avant-garde Festival, and hearing sounds differently afterward.
2) Being part of something that led to a 12-inch vinyl gatefold, the Society of Rockets’ Our Paths Related (Underpop)
3) Reissues, good for oldsters and kids alike: from Bee Gees: The Studio Albums 1967-1968 (Rhino) to Cluster’s Sowiesoso (Water).
4) Two nights of the Richard Pinhas Trio live.
5) Ornette Coleman with his son on drums and three bassists at the Masonic Center, Oct. 28. Not the soaring, almost liturgical music of 2005’s SFJAZZ performance, but a blistering of angry, almost punk evaluation on the state of the union.
Vice Cooler of XBXRX, KIT, and Hawnay Troof comes with his other favorite gigs of 2007. For the rest, go to his list here.
– While I was performing in France an orgy broke out (which I did not partake in).
– I played on three boats.
– KIT had a great tour with Deerhoof in the United Kingdom. While in Wales we got to hear an enormous drunken man who resembles a tree trunk take a horrible jab at singing along with Satomi Matsuzaki. Afterward a kid came up and said it was the most inspiring show he had seen. I asked why, and he answered, “Well, I’m a drummer. Seeing you and Greg [Saunier] play was great because you guys are always missing the drums and hitting the rims and stuff. That’s cool!”
Newsdesk.org editor and music critic Josh Wilson weighs in with his best in music for the year:
– Hammers of Misfortune at the Great American Music Hall, Feb. 22. Glorious thunder and truth.
– Circle at Bottom of the Hill, Sept. 27. If Can were a dadaist metal band from Finland.
– Faun Fables with Daevid Allen and Josh Pollock at Cafe du Nord, Nov. 28. Mad Canterbury beatnik styles, eruptive guitar on a tight leash, plus a truly riveting vocal and kinetic display by Faun Fables.
Tuesday night, Dec. 11, and I was feeling really zoned in: got the good word that the RZA and his stagemate Monk were just getting to town after a long drive up the coast, and that meant I didn’t need to stress about getting
down there all that early. I happened to be on their clock.
The openers – Audible Mainframe, Mr. Sayre, and Benflowz – held it down as a packed-full Independent waited for its headliner. Didn’t seem like all that much time to me, although more than one audience member expressed disrelish while waiting for a such a “prima donna.” Feeling really zoned in, completely ignorant of time, I reminded more than one audience member it was the RZA about to come on, be patient, dudes. Have youse a Heinekin.
Whatever route the RZA and Monk took from LA to SF had inspired them. First thing they did was soak the crowd in bubbly. Later they fed it Black Label and Grey Goose. Having officially dropped the Wu’s brand-new album that very same day, 8 Diagrams, Bobby Digital was in quite good spirits, lolling around the stage with a smile, stumbling upon a set of hand drums to beat on, feeling zoned in: “I’m feeling really zoned in,” he said.
A portrait of Queen Elizabeth by Christina Empedocles was stolen from its perch over a toilet just before the bar opened for the show.
By Stacy Martin
For one night only, the three bathrooms at one of San Francisco’s all-time favorite leather bars were multipurposed into mini-fine-art galleries. “Walls of Glory,” a temporary, site-specific installation at the Eagle Tavern debuted at 7 p.m. on Wednesday, Dec. 12, and closed that same night at 10. Curated by California College of the Arts graduate student Luke Butler, the show included works by 18 artists.
Butler’s idea for the event came from his desire to stage an exhibition in an undesirable location, a place that’s the complete opposite of a gallery and its white, pristine walls. He also wanted to bring artworks to a place everyone eventually has to go to, and one of the great equalizers of humanity is, indeed, the toilet.
After much convincing, skeptical Eagle bartender Doug agreed to let Butler stage the event, though the show was kept to its brief viewing hours due to potential environmental hazards. But some work was designed to handle the rough environment.
Muddy waters: Danny Keith showed paintings of dudes getting down and dirty.
Take Erik Scollon’s series of tiny porcelain figurines of nude men lewdly posing in the urinals, all begging to be pissed on – and pissed on they were. Jason Kalogiros’s sneaky and rusty tin tea box sat on a shelf above another urinal, with its image of King Edward sporting a black bar of tape over the monarch’s eyes. The object is actually a pinhole camera, and removing the tape lets Edward get a peek and take an image of the visitors to the loo.
Danny Keith’s paintings of guys wrestling in the mud shared stall-wall space with Travis Meinolf’s homey embroidered motto piece, while a photograph by Larry Sultan adorned one wall across from a sink sporting Elisheva Biernoff’s specially molded hand soap in the shape of a nude male reclining on a bed.
One unfortunate consequence of this fun, but risky installation came just an hour or so before the official opening time when a painting of Queen Elizabeth hung over one of the toilets was stolen. The artist Christina Empedocles, realizing that the show must go on, quickly fashioned a response piece for the thief. She embroidered “Hello Teeny” in pink thread onto black fabric and hung it in place of the missing work. Works by Butler, James Gobel, Erin Allen, Jordan Kantor, Keith Boadewee, Jason Hanasik, John Jenkins, Brian Murphy, Jessica Rosen, Patrick Hillman, and Guardian critic Glen Helfand rounded out the show.
For his next curatorial adventure, Butler is hoping to flip the environment from the masculine to the feminine – perhaps creating a new installation in one of the city’s public women’s restrooms.
Glen Helfand introduced a book installation to the Eagle Tavern men’s room; Jason Kalogiros, a King Edward tobacco/tea can-cum-pin-hole camera. Curator Luke Butler presented collages of nude men with presidential heads – the Gerald Ford and Richard Nixon noggins were notable – lounging in natural settings.
It’s gonna hit! So says Montreal’s slinky experimentalists Feu Therese on the front of their new album, Ca Va Cogner (Constellation) – if my ever-rusting grasp of the French language serves me well. (Oh, my ancestors would be so proud.)
Now, I’m not sure if the “it” posed by the title is a sweaty funk-bomb or a seedy stab of gutter-synth – could be either, judging from the ample amounts of each being offered on its 37 fascinating minutes – but I reckon the not-knowing’s the whole idea: this Quebecois quartet seems to thrive on delivering the unexpected. Like a bucketload of bricks – that’s how it’s gonna hit, pumpkin, so duck and cover and let that heavy shit fall where it may. Me, I was blindsided. And it felt fantastic.
Fess-up time: I’m no expert on all of the intricate details of the willfully iconoclastic Constellation Records universe. (Yeah, a pun, I know.) I’ve adored the cinematic sturm-und-drang naysayers Godspeed You! Black Emperor from the get-go, and I’ve always enjoyed the elusive textures and chilling silences of Do Make Say Think, but there’s a hell of a lot of other stuff on that label I still have yet to hear. Fact is, I probably would’ve missed out on Feu Therese, too, if I hadn’t heard the last couple of tracks from Ca Va Conger playing in a record store recently. My point? Up until then, I’d always somehow expected the entire Constellations roster to be a pretty serious lot, all agitprop and clenched jaws – not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, when it’s done eloquently and thoughtfully, which Godspeed et al. have managed all along. So, I was more than a bit bowled over by Feu Therese’s playfulness. There’s an anything-goes spirit at work here which leaves me with a satisfied smirk every time. Picture this: Serge Gainsbourg has hooked up with Talking Heads and Brian Eno – y’know, back during their fertile Fear of Music/ Remain in Light (Sire) collaborative heyday – to pay homage to Kraftwerk and Can and early-’70s Italian thriller soundtracks. What could be better, really?
We, the indie: Maggie Vail (left) of the Bangs fired off this open letter to Rolling Stone.
This came over the e-mail transom today from Maggie Vail, publicist at Kill Rock Stars (and also of the Bangs) with the subject line: “an open letter to rolling stone.”
“We, the undersigned independent record labels, wish to share our indignation regarding Rolling Stone’s November 15th pull out editorial, which featured the names of our artists in conjunction with an ad for Camel cigarettes. This editorial cartoon gives every impression of being part and parcel of the advertisement wrapped around it. The use of an artist’s name to promote a brand or product should be done only with the artist’s explicit consent, something that was neither solicited nor obtained from the labels or bands.
“When questioned, Rolling Stone has referred to the ‘Indie Rock Universe’ pull out section as an ‘editorial,’ but it hardly seems accidental that this editorial content is wrapped in a giant ad from R.J. Reynolds announcing their support for independent artists and labels. The idea that this was a coincidence in any way seems dubious at best. There are two other pull out sections in this same issue of Rolling Stone. Both are wrapped in advertising, but neither of these ads could be construed as part of the editorial content within.
“Many of the bands named, and the labels that represent them, are very unhappy with the implication that they have any involvement with R.J. Reynolds and Camel cigarettes. We ask that Rolling Stone apologize for blurring the line between editorial and advertisement, and in doing so, implying that the bands named support the product being advertised.
“Sincerely, Kill Rock Stars, Touch and Go, Skin Graft, Lovepump United, Lucky Madison, 5RC, Audio Dregs, and Fryk Beat.”
Wow, let’s lay down the gauntlet to network (and cable) TV, Webcasters, or whatev to top the wonderfully weirdness of this Pee-Wee’s Playhouse Christmas special. Where are these surreal moments on holiday TV today, pray tell? Grace Jones picks up the beat on “Little Drummer Boy”!
Known in the rest of the world as simply Brakes, here in America the Brighton, England, freewheelers have been given the Beetlejuice treatment, forced to have their name repeated thrice in a summons much like that of Michael Keaton’s wacky exorcist character from Tim Burton’s classic film. The similarity doesn’t end there, however: vocalist Eamon Hamilton (formerly of British Sea Power) and his fellow adventurers do a fair bit of exorcism themselves, albeit of a different variety, and with equal measures of piss and vinegar. On their sophomore release, The Beatific Visions (Rough Trade/World’s Fair), released earlier this year, Brakesbrakesbrakes are once again deliriously hell-bent on shooing away the ghosts of sterility, and much like its predecessor, the results are exhilarating. Wildly eclectic without sounding forced, it is a short, bursting blast of an album that dazzles with ambition and wit.
Careening out of the gates like a late-period Pixies without the UFO fixation – a comparison helped by Hamilton’s occasionally Frank Black-like tenor – the lads hack away at classic rock clichés on “Hold Me in the River” and “Cease and Desist,” while novelty-dance number “Spring Chicken” yelps and twitches with levels of glee bordering on mania. Half Dadaist manifesto, half Molotov sneer, “Porcupine or Pineapple” manages to simultaneously sound gloriously absurd and genuinely enraged, thanks to arresting repetition of the title against Hamilton barking, “Who won the war? Was it worth fighting for?” Title notwithstanding, The Beatific Visions is a fine tonic indeed for exorcising demons, and proof that cathartic release can be one hell of a ride.
Yellow Swans’ Gabriel Mindel Saloman (left) and Pete Swanson.
By Gabriel Mindel Saloman
Here are five more musical selections for 2007. See www.sfbg.com for the rest.
FIVE MORE TOPPERS FOR 2007
1. Top way to take the money and run: the career of Andrew WK
After a few years of cult celebrity and corporate bucks, Andy has found some excellent ways to throw curveballs to those who think they have his number. In 2007 he did amazing production work for Sightings, joined Current 93, did a dance party-lecture tour, paraded with Karen Black, provided multiple online and print advice columns and features, and is now working with Lee Perry. What a life.
2. Top example of righteousness: Harry Belafonte
No doubt about it, the man threw down during his keynote speech at the Gathering for Justice in Oakland. It’s rare these days to hear an artist speak with such clarity about the past and the present. Hearing him talk – thanks to Davey D’s great online resource – is like eating food after fasting for days. And his amazing records are still $1 at most thrift stores.
3. Top elephant in the room: punk rock economics
The new realities of MP3s, peak oil, and a looming recession … well, you do the math. DIY shows have been $5 a head since the ’80s. That won’t even pay for a meal anymore, much less a tank of gas on a trip to any big town north, south, or east of the city. Something’s going to change, but what?
German composer, serialist, sonic renegade, and electronic investigator Karlheinz Stockhausen died Wednesday, Dec. 5, at age 79 in Kuerten-Kettenberg, Germany. Largely responsible for introducing – or spoiling – the experimental harmonics of early 20th-century composers Messiaen and Webern to the futurist world of sine-wave electronics, tape-music, and micro-rhythms, he was lauded by everyone from Pierre Boulez to Paul McCartney, who famously included him on the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s. Along with the works of LaMonte Young, Stockhausen’s varied and immense oeuvre proved to be the most influential and compelling of the latter half of the 20th century. According to a writer at London Observer, Stockhausen represented the spirit of rock ‘n’ roll long before it acknowledged its forefather. Without Stockhausen, there would be no Beatles, no Velvet Underground, no Brian Eno, no Aphex Twin.
In proper cybernetic tribute, collected here are a number of interviews and excerpts from his work.
These are my top 50-some Bay Area bands of ’07. Some of them moved here this year. A few of them moved away this year. Maybe a few of them broke up this year. Several of them are even my own bands, but I wouldn’t be playing in them if I didn’t think they’d make it on to a list this massive. All of them were active while living here in 2007.
Here it is:
0th
16 Bitch Pile Up
Axolotl
Badgerlore
Bleachy Bleachy Bleach
Breezy Days Band
Bronze
Bulbs
I got these Christmas blues
I don’t know what do
I got a brand new song
But no one to sing it to
– G Love, Monday, Dec. 10 at the Grand
Dear G Love,
When I left out of work today the air was kind of chilly, the NoCal weather likes to change all silly. Shivering, I thought I better warm me up, really, 22 to 49 to catch my man from Philly.
I wanted to stay and maybe help you turn it out, but I’m on my work jawn I know you know the route. See I’m green with envy and I’m squinting through some purple, like trying to find some sense in the square side of a circle.
So I hope you’ll be alright then if I tell a quick story, I can’t imagine that you’d mind it if I gave my oratory. So here goes nothing push my pen toward a shove, I thank you for your “Peace, Love, and Happiness,” cuz:
Yeah Yeah Yeahs may be critical faves, and they may have pretty much all the cool kids at their shows, and they may have created an unassailably cool image to boot, but their latest EP, Is Is (Fontana/Interscope), makes it very difficult for those diametrically opposed to such across-the-board-acceptance to write the band off as more empty product.
The first song, “Rockers to Swallow,” shows what would have happened if Royal Trux got huge, with Karen O perfectly channeling Jennifer Herrema’s rock chick stance without losing two-thirds of the audience in the process (which is why Trux never made it). From there, each of the five songs is stamped with Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ now personal and highly identifiable style: midtempo sex music with rad guitar riffs. Sure, these guys came out of the new wave of post-punk NYC dickhead bands emerging during the early 2000s, but, well, even I like these songs – and I hate all new music, mostly.
The tunes were written and recorded during the band’s Fever to Tell tour and reportedly amid some serious personal upheaval for all involved. That means maybe their next offering will be lame, or there will never be one. I don’t think the former is possible because despite all the hype and exuberant critical acceptance, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs have yet to trip over themselves or even make a misstep, whether it be stylistic or sonic. Cool band.
Out of all the ’80s thrashers that managed to survive the nu-metal wasteland of the ’90s, none have re-hoisted the oriflamme of thrash with the vehemence of Exodus. After abortive Korn-era attempts to regain prominence were scotched by endless line-up changes and label disputes, the band coalesced in 2004 around guitarist Gary Holt, who was determined to get the band back in the studio. The result was Tempo of the Damned, an impeccably fierce reminder of the band’s days as the kings of the Bay Area thrash scene, before Metallica came along and displaced them, poaching Exodus lead player Kirk Hammett along the way.
In 2005 the band joined forces with powerfully bearded vocalist Rob Dukes to record Shovel Headed Kill Machine, a similarly furious album that welded 15 years of metal innovation to the iron chassis they had forged on their early efforts. The timing for the band’s renaissance could not have been more perfect. Exodus were able to take advantage of America’s exploding appetite for metal, and the quality of their songwriting allowed them to trade in on their sterling ’80s reputation without alienating fans of more modern metal forms.
This fall, Exodus released their third album of this promising new era, The Atrocity Exhibition: Exhibit A, carefully sticking to the formula that had garnered success for their two previous discs. The airtight interplay between the band’s most senior members was once again the primary focus of the music; guitarist Gary Holt and drummer Todd Hunting thrash together with daunting precision, crafting neck-snapping tribal grooves and meticulous shredding duets. The band also continues to rely on the intricate, epic song structures that they have made a staple, showcasing their ability for stop-on-a-dime instrumental shifts and complicated arrangements – five of the album’s nine tracks clock in at eight minutes or above.
Aye, yes, it’s been a stellar year for Scotland, musically speaking, what with floor-me-flat-out releases from the likes of Edwyn Collins, Alasdair Roberts, Malcolm Middleton, Emma Pollock, the Twilight Sad – not to mention the triumphant return of the Jesus and Mary Chain – and, sitting at the tippy-top of this list, the astonishingly prolific folk-pop troubadour from Fife, Kenny Anderson, better known as King Creosote.
Earlier this fall the honey-tenored charmer – in what is most likely his boldest move towards courting a larger audience – unleashed Bombshell (679 Recordings), a ravishing collection of introspective acoustic-pop and rousing indie folk-rock. Simply put, the album is fan-bloody-tastic: warm, glimmering, and deeply soulful, it’s the sort of thing which should appeal to anyone who isn’t afraid of a bit of sweetness and vulnerability coming through their headphones. Not that I’d necessarily compare the guy to Nick Drake or Elliott Smith or Iron and Wine, but I’d reckon a great many fans of those artists would find themselves seriously wooed by the King’s sensitive strummings if they gave him a chance.
In fact, that’s exactly how I got into his stuff: “an Elliott Smith with brighter edges and a Scottish accent,” I’d heard somewhere a few years ago, so needless to say I was intrigued. Then, of course, there was the matter of – and this is a biggie if you’re a die-hard musical dot-connector like me – Creosote being the brother of Gordon Anderson, the former Beta Band member now recording oddball-pop under the name Lone Pigeon. Not that the King Creosote universe overlaps too much with that of the deliriously iconoclastic Betas, mind you. Don’t expect any forays into warped acid-house or ambient-funk here. Still, it’s a relationship worth mentioning, especially since the Lone Pigeon has collaborated with Creosote on a few projects, including Bombshell.
I don’t like techno. And by calling it techno, of course I mean to deride electronic music, perhaps only for effect, or maybe because I have all these negative electro-associations: the movie Swordfish, for example. There’s one. Falling asleep behind the wheel somewhere along I-90 and waking up to the white-hot snap of a lightning bolt, my buddy’s nightmarish screaming, and the Virgin Suicides score blaring an almost-swansong over factory-installed speakers – there’s another.
So when I swerved into Amnesia the other night, it was not without some degree of reluctance that I paid a $3 cover to hear Moped, a two-man electronic outfit from around the way. A couple-three soju and sodas eased me, however, into the acknowledgment of memory files long since repudiated, zipped-up, stored in the recesses of my Neuronet Processor next to my DJ Shadow penchant and those digitally manipulated nudes of Monica Seles on Blossom Russo.
All playful digs aside, I really enjoyed Moped’s stuff. They had old TV episodes of Batman playing in slow-mo on the projection screen behind them. I think I actually stooped to the cliché “I wish I were on acid right now,” such was the nature of my relish, my drunk. Peter Gavin is not so much a frontman as he is an arbiter, sequencing his live bass, sax, and synth tracks atop the viciously groovy drumming of Scott Eberhardt. Their cover of Salt and Pepa’s “Push It” was nothing short of an achievement.
Some call this stuff electro jazz. Sounds like live house to me. Whatever it is, it stoned me to beat the band. I kept hoping Gavin would pull out some nunchucks, capable multitasker that he is. What this reigning Moped boy lacks in gutter-funk, he recoups in class and taste. And the tireless Eberhardt plays with astounding feel considering all the thumping and bumping the music needs from him. OK, so maybe I’m straddling them a bit too eagerly, but it sounded tight, was expertly conceived, and is a lot less dangerous to take for a spin than the Real McCoy. Remember them? Damn that German Eurodance crap. Damn it to hell.
So the night, Nov. 30, was a disaster of sorts but not for the reasons you’d think – and before you gag yourself with the prospect of another music review-turned personal soapbox or group session, bear with me. I’d like to think there is a point to my mawkishness. There is a certain regimen that proceeds from a typical Friday evening in the Bay that includes: 1) Driving with abandon, windows down, sunroof retracted, a hurly-burly of pre-weekend tune-age, a ritualized exorcising of the week’s frustrations, fleeting Bay vistas obstructed by billboards to the right and a swathe of mountains to the left; 2) The trickle of evening that always seem to greet you at that asymptote of the Peninsula where the sepia tones of suburbia meets the neon city with its bleary-eyed halogens and dayglo pleasuredoms; 3) A fine meal, which is to say nothing in moderation and everything in excess; and 4) A moment of love, nostalgia, tomfoolery, or any of a number of sensuous terms that might describe the simple, inexplicable pleasures that only live music can afford us – jouissance, freude, orphic plaisir, or, at the very least, “like a monkey making love to a skunk – maybe didn’t get all he wanted, but got all he could stand…”
Of course, you see, it didn’t happen that way. Driving up the 101 in Friday rush-hour has its occasional pleasures and aesthetic appeals but not when dinner reservations in the Mission and a hop-skip-jump over the Bay Bridge are timed out perfectly to coincide with Sam Beam’s performance at the Paramount. Over an hour parked in the concrete desert is a numbing death-trip. Honk. Break. Lurch. Then there’s the inevitable parking morass that is downtown SF: where one parks in the Richmond to play on Harrison – and the confusing cell-phone tag-games that often delay dinner reservations and sometimes end friendships.
Reservations cancelled, eh?
What?! 7:30 already! I’m barely through the second scotch and soda and already it’s time to move on. Back onto the road and across the great steel artery leaving the flickering night of the city before it’s even begun in earnest. Wait…wait…where’s my WALLET?!
Believe it or not, we all might learn a thing or two from Iron and Wine’s Sam Beam – namely, not to sweat the little things and embrace your quotidian flaws. His Hirsuiteness took the cavernous auditorium of the Paramount on Nov. 30 for two hours of brittle ballads and po’ boy twee pop.
This just in: Freight & Salvage Coffeehouse – the longest-running, full-time venue for folk and traditional music west of the Mississippi River – announced today it has been awarded a $1.161 million grant from the California Cultural and Historical Endowment (CCHE) to fund construction of its new green performance space, school, and café.
A release from the East Bay institution continues:
“Construction will begin before the end of the year on the nonprofit’s 18,000-square-foot venue at 2020 Addison Street, in Berkeley’s Downtown Arts District.
“The Freight’s new home will have a listening room that doubles the audience capacity of its existing 220-seat venue. The plan also includes an additional 1,339-square-foot performance space, state-of-the-art sound system, café, and store offering CDs and sheet music.
“As an all-ages, family-friendly venue, the Freight is using this opportunity to expand its education program, and will offer a variety of folk and traditional music classes in six classrooms, bring music into the local schools, and establish a library and archive that will be open to the public.
Brian Miller contemplates the Lightning Bug Situation – he’s responsible.
C’mon down and down some more choiceness along with that hard eggnog: you’d think this was high-music season with all the live sounds out there. Here’s what didn’t make it into print in this week’s Sonic Reducer yet nonetheless stands out, shining like a friendly faux candle in a neighbor’s window.
Ghost of Curtis
We’ve lost Control again? Pay tribute to Joy Division once again. Wed/5, 9 p.m., $6. With Hot Challenge and Death Valley High. Hotel Utah, 500 Fourth St., SF. (415) 546-6300.
Head Boggle Domo
Squelching, ringing noise by way of SF meets Santa Cruz and Australia’s most clamorous. With Jap Jap, Bonnie, iXi, and Everything Is Inebriated. Wed/5, 8:30 p.m., donation. All ages. ArtSF, 110 Capp, SF.
Parker Street Cinema in motion.
Parker Street Cinema
The SF band unfurls evocative, cinematic instrumentals that cue the halcyon days of Tristeza and Album Leaf. With Excuses for Skipping and French Miami. Wed/5, 9 p.m., $8. Rickshaw Stop, 155 Fell, SF. (415) 861-2011. Also Thurs/6, 5 p.m., free. Rasputin’s Music, 2401 Telegraph, Berk. (510) 848-9004. Also Fri/7, 5 p.m., 5 p.m., Rasputin’s Music, 630 San Antonio, Mountain View. (650) 947-0181.
Ramon and Jessica captured by Christian Bruno. Ramon and Jessica
Winsome fiddle and Casio get together for a few tunes, documented by filmmaker Christian Bruno. With Maya Dorn and Eggplant Casino. Wed/5, 9:30 p.m., $6. Hemlock Tavern, 1131 Polk, SF. (415) 923-0923.
The Thermals
Punker than you – and recording for Sub Pop.
With the Big Sleep and the Scandells. Wed/5, 8 p.m., $15. Slim’s, 333 11th St., SF. (415) 522-0333.
Vampire Weekend
Ivy League indie-rock afro-pop? Can I get another descriptor? Warriors can see for themselves on the brink of the buzz band’s debut release. With Grand Ole Party and Still Flyin’. Wed/5, 8 p.m., $12. Independent, 628 Divisadero, S.F. 771-1422. www.theindependentsf.com
Meg Baird
Lovely Appalachian traditionals emanate from the Espers songbird. With Assemble Head in Sunburst Sound and Rahdunes. Fri/7, 9:30 p.m., $7. Hemlock Tavern, 1131 Polk, SF. (415) 923-0923.
Batman vs. Predator
“The greatest band of all time ever in history”? according to their MySpace page. Or just Santa Rosa’s most chaotic and comic book-obsessed? With Melt Banana and xbxrx. Fri/7, 9 p.m., $13-$15. Independent, 628 Divisadero, S.F. 771-1422. www.theindependentsf.com
Immigrant
The SF indie rockers of Evening spin off into a new, rockier variation. With Triple Cobra and Frail. Fri/7, 10 p.m., $10. Bottom of the Hill, 1233 17th St., SF. (415) 621-4455.
Antelope
The Dischord trio formed by ex-members of the Vertebrates and El Guapo herd into SF. With Fucking Ocean and Mi Ami. Sat/8, 9:30 p.m., $7. Hemlock Tavern, 1131 Polk, SF. (415) 923-0923. Also with Trainwreck Riders, Fucking Ocean, Ovens, and Touch Committee. Mon/10, 7 p.m., $3. Bike Kitchen, 1256 Mission, SF.
Andrew Bird on Letterman.
Andrew Bird
The nest has been all a-twitter over his latest, Armchair Apocrypha, but I prefer his last disc, The Mysterious Production of Eggs. Sat/8, 8 p.m., $28.50. Warfield, 982 Market, SF. (415) 775-7722.
Lightning Bug Situation
Jolie Holland guitarist and Speakers member Brian Miller parties like it’s a CD release party – and it is! For the dream-worthy A Leaf; A Stream. Sat/8, 9 p.m., $6-$8. Amnesia, 853 Valencia, SF. (415) 970-0012.
Etta James and the Roots Band
The Fillmore-reared hell-raiser returns to the hood she ran as a member of a girl gang (see her autobio, Rage to Live). With Moonalice. Sat/8, 9 p.m., $49.50. Fillmore, 1805 Geary, SF. (415) 421-TIXS.
Prefuse 73
Flabbergasting at Bimbo’s 365 Club, and expect no less this time around. With School of Seven Bells and Blank Blue. Sat/8, 9 p.m., $16. Slim’s, 333 11th St., SF. (415) 522-0333.
Tempo No Tempo
Breezy indie by way of the East Bay. Sat/8, call for time and price. Stork Club, 2330 Telegraph, Oakl. www.storkcluboakland.com.
Giant Skyflower Band
Delectable, hazy Brit-Invasion-style rock-pop from Skygreen Leopards and Papercuts stalwarts. With Citay and Coconut. Sun/9, 9 p.m., $8. Café du Nord, 2170 Market, SF. (415) 861-5016.
Shonen Knife
The Japanese girl group bounces back with a new album, Fun! Fun! Fun!, released in their homeland and a tour with founding bassist Atsuko Yamano, now living in the US. With Juliet Dagger and Vernon Grove. Tues/11, 8 p.m., $16-$18. Slim’s, 333 11th St., SF. (415) 522-0333.
On Friday night, Nov. 30, I caught Etienne de Rocher’s farewell tribute at the Rickshaw Stop. It went off all mellow, with candlelight and whatnot. Seems your boy is off to Athens, Geo., to buy property and raise his kids, kick it with his broski, and find a porchswing or something.
Et il me manque deja: I’m a sucker for the sounds of the overeducated. He did a most academic Slick Rick, despite botching a few lines. (This is a compliment.) And his old stuff, stuff I’d never heard before, the once-upon-a-time stuff he used to play with the same buddies who showed up to honor him on Friday evening, conjured perfect images of budding intelligentsia in khakis, Rod Levers, beanies, and shit-eating grins cutting Latin or some AP class to get high, eat Popeye’s, play video games, and bust arch freestyles over instrumental B-side cuts from Public Enemy EPs – underwrought, expropriated gesticulations and the stuff of preparedness’ memory.
Gala, a café acquaintance of mine was there – a smarty-party to herself with some great advice for me: indulge. I’d never seen de Rocher before so that’s certainly what I did, in my Boathouse warm-up pants, Stan Smiths, and an Extra Tasty Crispy mustache, my virgin ears teething against the literary tropes. I was picking up what de Rocher and friends were putting down, like the rest of the packed, booksmart house.
According to Baller Status, Bay Area rapper Spice 1 was shot in the early morning hours of Monday, Dec. 3, in Hayward. There are few details, but here’s what the Web site ran:
“The rapper’s manager, Six, confirmed the shooting to BallerStatus.com, but said despite rumors, Spice is still alive and in critical condition at an unspecified hospital.
“According to Six, Spice was shot twice, once in the chin and another time in the chest, which just missed his heart by inches.
