Music Blogger

Machine Head’s Robb Flynn responds to House of Blues banishment

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Machine Head’s Robb Flynn blogs in response to his Oakland band’s canceled dates at House of Blues venues:

In the six years since the attacks of Sept. 11, the United States has become a better place in a number of ways. As a country, we have implemented a few common sense security procedures and protective measures that have made the nation little more secure; as a people, we are a little more conscious of our surroundings and what we can do to increase our safety; and, as a society, we are (to some degree) a little more aware of our effect on the rest of the world, both positive and negative. On the night of Sept. 11, when I asked the crowd in Tucson, Arizona, to please give 15 seconds of silence to pay respect to those whose lives were lost on that tragic day, for that one brief moment, we all felt like one. These are good things.

However, in those same six years, the United States has also managed to deteriorate into a place much worse than it was on Sept. 10, 2001. Since that infamous day, many ugly truths have surfaced, many of the liberties we once took for granted – freedoms we once thought invincible – have been quietly erased by men that have taken it upon themselves to ignore the Constitution and write their own rules. These are the same men that fed the world lies in order to justify a war that it wouldn’t agree to, men who value power and control over human life and exercise it with an unprecedented audacity and disdain for the law. And these are very bad things.

But worse than any of that, in my opinion, is the fact that, for the most part, we are allowing it. We, the people, are sitting idly by while all of this is happening, watching it slowly unravel in front of our very eyes. The scale of it all so large, the stage so vast that it’s impossible not to feel helpless and detached in the shadow of everything that’s happening — that is, until the same kinda s–t happens to you, on a much smaller scale. You tend to turn a blind eye, until you see the same tyrannical attitudes and repressive tactics trickle down into your daily life, absorbed by corporate America and dictated to you as “the way it needs to be.”

Too metal for Mickey? Machine Head vs. Disney

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By Ben Richardson

Thirteen years have passed since Oakland metal stalwarts Machine Head promised to “let freedom ring with a shotgun blast” on their album Burn My Eyes, and it now appears that frontperson Robb Flynn and company should consider cramming new casings into the figurative chamber. The band’s ongoing Black Tyranny tour – which stops at the Warfield on Friday, Oct. 12 – has been marred by a pair of bizarre last-minute venue changes, both prompted by the inscrutable and unexpected objections of international media conglomerate the Walt Disney Company.

Disney owns the land under the Anaheim and Orlando branches of the House of Blues chain, venues that were slated to host Machine Head and support acts Arch Enemy, Throwdown, and Sanctity during stops on September’s national tour. Two days before the long-since-booked concert in Anaheim, the show was abruptly moved to a different venue by concert promoter and House of Blues parent company LiveNation, which cited pressure from the landowning behemoth as the reason for the switch.

Machine Head claimed on their Web site that Disney objected to the “violent imagery, undesirable fans, and inflammatory lyrics” associated with the band. According to an interview conducted with the Los Angeles Times, Flynn also suspects that the group’s “anti-war and anti-administration lyrics” had an effect on Disney’s decision.

Make mine Mekons…at Swedish American Hall

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Sitting pretty: Sally Timms and the rest of the Mekons sing out another San Francisco Saturday night. All photos by Ashleigh Reddy.

By Ben Sinclair

This year is the Mekons’ 30th anniversary, and it’s been a particularly fruitful year. It’s odd to imagine this Leeds group had once been an edgy punk outfit and then a trad-rock and country combo, slipping into new wave songs now and then. This weekend, they were a folk band.

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And a very smart folk band, at that. After the Oct. 6 show at the merch booth, drummer Steve Goulding wouldn’t let me get away with passing off my last $12 for a $15 disc. Perhaps this is an attitude that has helped keep the band alive for so long. I promptly retrieved another $3 from the folks I came with and returned for a limited-edition copy of Dance on the Volcano, the new album by Tom Greenhalgh’s other band King Tommy’s Velvet Runway. A good decision. We all missed Greenhalgh’s voice that night, as he couldn’t make it for this leg of the tour, but the band rocked the hell out of “Hard to be Human Again” anyway.

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Otherwise the classic lineup was present, and the banter between members felt warm and, at times, invigorating. I sat – and stomped and clapped – through the entire set with a happy-go-lucky grin on my face. “Give Me Wine or Money” was the night’s opener, further permeating the “fair trade” section of my mind. “Yeessss…,” I heard myself thinking, “Stop downloading this band from now on.” Later, casting like a smoky, pagan warlock, founder Jon Langford recommended the whole audience not hesitate to spend a bit in the back – after all, Greenhalgh now needs all the money he can get. He and his wife are having their third child.

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Amp Fiddler has us amped

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By Todd Lavoie

A couple of weeks back on Noise, I was carping and crowing away about all those amazing import-only discs that demand a small fortune out of us till a domestic release finally sees the light of day – assuming that moment ever comes, that is. In some cases, it looks likely that American labels will continue passing up wonderful talents such as Candie Payne and Husky Rescue out of curious misperceptions about “the American market” – whatever that means – and we’ll be left with no choice but $20-and-then-some price tags. Yeah, I know – quite the tale of woe and all, this record-shopping dilemma of mine, but sometimes a dork’s just gotta shake his skinny little fists in protest at this great big spinning orb of injustice and say, “Enough is enough!” Feel me?

But fair is fair, they say, and so I should try to balance out that bitch fest with a bit of the ole happy. How about a small victory? And for Detroit, no less! I’ve heard they could use a few victories, so let’s trumpet this one up. See, up till very recently, one of the 313’s finest, cosmic-soul pioneer Amp Fiddler, was without an American record deal for a spell, thus making his latest release a challenge to track down in all but the most obsessively thorough of record stores.

In fact, Afro Strut has been available in Britain on the Genuine label for practically a year, while in his home country it was nearly absent from the racks! Talk about a cryin’ shame. Mercifully, this sad state of affairs has changed, now that Play It Again Sam US/Wall of Sound has issued a domestic version of Mister Fiddler’s sophomore release. Better still: they went and improved upon the original! Rather than simply re-issuing it as is, Amp – or, Joseph at the supper table – took the British edition of Afro Strut and did some, er, fiddling with it. (Yeah, a pun. Shoot me.)

Teddy Thompson: Americana by way of England

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By Anna Mantzaris

Teddy Thompson (that’s Thompson as in spawn of Richard and Linda) may be an English boy by birth, but the 31-year-old’s rock-folk-country sound will make you think he’s spent years fine-tuning his sound deep in the land of the American south.

Taking on the greats – Merle Haggard, Dolly Parton, George Jones – Thompson’s latest CD, Up Front and Down Low(Verve Forecast), is a thoughtful collection of interpretations of C&W classics and not-so-well-known gems, with dad Richard and pal Rufus Wainwright lending their talents. A New Yorker by residence, Thompson takes his show on the road opening for Suzanne Vega; he appears Monday, Nov. 12, at the Fillmore.

Bay Guardian: How did Up Front and Down Low come about? Why an album of covers?

Teddy Thompson: I came home after touring after the last record for a year. I didn’t have a lot to do. I started just recording some songs for fun, but I liked the way it came out and I thought maybe it would make a good side-project album.

Ahoy, my latest lupine indie: Sea Wolf

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Come sea about me: Sea Wolf in performance elsewhere. Photo by Alex Brown Church

By Chris Lotto

Sea Wolf is Alex Brown Church, the band’s frontperson and only standing member. The rest of his pack are drawn on a rotating basis from a conglomerate of LA musicians known as the Ship Collective. It’s unclear whether this tour will produce a more permanent membership. On Wednesday, Oct. 3, at the Independent, he was backed by drums, bass, cello, a drowned-out lead guitar, and an extremely sexy keyboardist doing this lazybop back-and-forth shoulder maneuver the whole night. I think I may have seen a ring on her finger. No matter. That’s not the sort of band review we’re after here.

Invoking the spirit of Jack London’s 1904 work, Sea Wolf plays to life’s awareness of death. The songs intimate a fondness for bluegrass, moving in time with Church’s favorite apprehension: the decay of the natural world. The first five numbers could have easily featured Church alone with zero accompaniment. Like I said, Sea Wolf is Alex Brown Church. It’s not that the show was any less enjoyable because of all the other noise – only that a brooding cello line layered over a skip-slowly backbeat didn’t add much in the way of color, depth, or interest to Church’s own brooding melodies and skip-slowly acoustic.

Nor is this meant to discount Church’s – and the band’s – effectiveness in conveying a sense of well-traveled melancholia. He’s got a storyteller’s voice that leaves a near sad impression, yet it remains a voice that aims to please – Church has a gift for creating contented hymns of worry. Plenty of heads were bobbing inside the Independent, and Church’s reminiscences definitely had a couple thirtysomething couples giving each other the old “yeah, he’s got it” nod of approval. The lyrics are plenty evocative, happy to be doing a eulogist’s work, but much of the instrumentation is redundant, wasted on Church’s singer-songwriting.

Sea Wolf did get the place going with one you may have heard on the radio, “You’re a Wolf,” a tame little rock-out that, along with a second one just like it – punchy, highly civilized – made a little room for meaningful collaboration. And though it was a short set composed of short songs that all ended abruptly, it seemed that everybody in attendance, myself included, appreciated Church’s thoughtfulness, even more his easy, plangent grace.

Going down…In Flames

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By Ben Richardson

In 1994, as most of the musical world mourned the death of Kurt Cobain, a humble band from Gothenburg, Sweden, released an album called Lunar Strain, which would go on to help situate the sleepy Scandinavian university town at the center of a swirling metal maelstrom. The band was In Flames, and their incendiary interpretation of the nascent death metal genre would go on to spawn a legion of imitators on both sides of the Atlantic.

The fulcrum of the In Flames sound was a keen ear for neoclassical melody, which they fused seamlessly with the groovy thrash ‘n’ roll that defined the Swedish Death scene at the time. This penchant for soaring arpeggios and Iron Maiden-style close-harmony leads made their music accessible, adaptable, and widely popular. Subsequent LP’s The Jester Race and Whoracle won critical and fan acclaim.

Six years and five albums later, the fire had begun to dwindle. The band had undergone numerous lineup changes, and a seismic sonic shift had been set in motion. By the release of 2000’s Clayman, In Flames was experimenting with slower tempos and crunchier, dumbed-down riffs, while retaining enough soaring leads and double-bass gallop to keep their fanbase placated. 2002’s Reroute to Remain was a different story, a galling stumble into gussied-up nü-metal pablum that introduced triggered trip-hop drumbeats and vocalist Anders Friden’s ghastly embrace of both clean singing and dreadlocks

Noodle on, Earthless

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Earthless – who dat? The San Diego-dwelling Tee Pee artists play lengthy instrumentals, part free form, part planned – it’s improv rock ‘n’ roll for those hankering for more of the acid-rockin’ goodness that Blue Cheer, Hawkwind, Cream, Zep, Acid Mothers Temple, and so many other heads have explored, emerging with wild red-veined eyes. Expect much loudness when ex-Rocket from the Crypt/Hot Snakes/Clikatat Ilkatowi/Black Heart Procession drummer and record store operator Mario Rubalcaba (also a former member of Tony Alva’s skateboarding posse) gets together with bassist Mike Eginton and guitarist Isaiah Mitchell.

Oh, and get there early for the Cuts-related Apache and Parchman Farm vocalist Eric Shea’s new combo, Hot Lunch, on Saturday, Oct. 6, 9:30 p.m., at Hemlock Tavern.

Chomp! Neil Hamburger at Hemlock Tavern

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What, me worried? Photo by James Maclennan.

By Ben Sinclair

While Neil Hamburger, the oldest and most haggard to receive the title “America’s Youngest Comedian,” is generally enough to handle on his own, having an act like Pleeseasaur (hardly related to the plesiosaur, ancient Loch Ness monster-resembling reptile of the underwater world) open for him felt overstimulating. Not in a bad way, as this is the humor of estrangement, but each performer so demands your attention that to keep laughing for the length of their set can be a trying task. However, on Saturday, Sept. 27, at the Hemlock Tavern, this task was well worth it.

Hamburger brought his repertoire of dark, so-bad-they’re-awesome jokes, told between spates of phlegmy, audience-snuffing smoker’s coughs and interspersed with long digressions.

He also played a game with hecklers: at one point he launched into a series of compliments directed at a few women in front of the stage. Someone yelled, “Tell some jokes!” Hamburger then accused him of having no respect for “these pretty laaadies,” so he asked if the audience would pay, in dimes, the amount of the guy’s ticket in order to get him out. An even better use for these coins, he continued, would be to stack them on the guy’s face as he lay down and stomp a long narrow hole through his forehead.

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Tenacious D tourmate Neil Hamburger stalks the red carpet at the premiere of Tenacious D in the Pick of Destiny. Photo by Simone Turkington.

Just who is Patrick Watson, that Polaris prize-packing son of a gun?

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By Todd Lavoie

Looks like Patrick Watson’s ridin’ the champagne wave. The California-born Montrealer was just awarded Canada’s esteemed Polaris Music Prize for Best Canadian Album of 2007, beating out stiff competition from nominees Feist, the Arcade Fire, and the Besnard Lakes, among others. (What, no Rush? Avril Lavigne? The indignity of it all!) Sure, the prestige has gotta feel good, and the extra publicity must be nice, but how’s this for a cherry on top: the Polaris is a $20,000 cash prize. Not a bad way to offset some of those pesky touring costs. Watson and his identically named quartet are spending the next couple of months charming audiences across Europe and Canada. (Sadly, no American dates at this point, but fingers crossed. Perhaps all this added exposure will inspire a stateside itinerary as well.)

Enter the familiar refrain: “But who is this Patrick Watson guy?” A fair question, considering thus far he’s flown pretty deep under the radar of the music press. Mention the name, and chances are you’ll either get a shrug and a stare or the foot-stompalicious chorus from “The Magic Position.” (That’s Patrick Wolf, pumpkin.) His sophomore album, Close to Paradise (Secret City), has been given heaps of praise – when it’s been reviewed, that is. Up till now, it’s been a hidden little gem, buried away under the sheer crushing power of so much great music coming out this year.

No wonder, then, that it was such a major upset – especially if you were a betting fool with all your chips firmly placed upon The Neon Bible (Merge) – when the relatively obscure singer-songwriter swooped in from the shadows to collect his 20,000 Loonies. Hell, even the almighty tastemakers at pitchfork.com – ever so proud of their ability to remain several points ahead of the curve – found themselves staring down a mighty slab of humble pie upon finding out that the winner of a big-deal music prize was a guy to whom they’d devoted absolutely no coverage whatsoever. I could take advantage of the situation and snark on Pitchfork, but certainly I’ve heard a thing or two about stones and glass houses. Besides, how about focusing on the upside: there’s just so much wonderful stuff out there that it’s impossible to catch it all.

New Radiohead LP – dance, Rick Astley, dance!

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Love that wiggly Rick Astley video that the faux new-Radiohead-album site redirected to last week! You’ve been “Rick Roll”-ed, indeed.

In any case, Radiohead’s HQ/publicists announced today that the label-less group’s new album, In Rainbows, is forthcoming digitally on Oct. 10 (a special double-vinyl/CD “Discbox” of extra songs, special art and photos, etc. is expected to ship on or before Dec. 3 for a mere 40 pounds; the regular, vanilla, humdrum CD is expected next year). And the band swears they had nothing to do with the Astley vid prank.

It all sounds like an experiment in self-releasing – check it out but prepare for lots of slow traffic. And you know if Radiohead and Prince can manage it…

Chicago’s Estrojam hits us where we secrete

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Margaret Cho rocked the mic – and her burleque bone – at Estrojam in Chicago.

By K. Tighe

An estimated 15,000 attendees flocked to venues around Chicago last week, Sept. 18-23, for the fifth annual Estrojam Music and Culture Festival to see women doing what they do best. E-Jam is no touchy-feely Lilith affair: the events ran the gamut from burlesque to boozing, hip-hop to rock, photography to film.

Margaret Cho lit up the festival with a raucous array of ta-tas, tattoos, and tassels. Many eyebrows were raised when the San Francisco-born comedienne took up belly dancing a few years ago, but this week’s stint at the Lakeshore Theatre proved that Cho has taken the cabaret world firmly by the fans and put together a stellar revue. Featuring seasoned pros like New York’s Dirty Martini and LA’s Princess Farhana, up-and-coming transgender comic Ian Harvie, and members of West Hollywood’s Gay Mafia Comedy Troupe, The Sensuous Woman is an edgier take on a burlesque variety show.

The opening fan dance was not your standard pink and frilly affair, but an irreverent pulsing precursor to the sexual themes of the show set to Peaches’ “Boys Wanna be Her.” Here’s the thing – everyone in the cast was flapping a fan, not just the pretty girls – it was clear that Cho intended to blur some lines. As she emerged from the feathered curtains, the audience went ape and Cho began a well-received stand-up routine with “I’m Margaret, Bitch.” Keeping on the current event tip, the comic called out the critics of Britney’s VMA performance, ascribing the commentary on the pop star’s weight to “a symptom of a diseased mind.” Going on to vividly and hysterically describe that fateful day in an airport bathroom for Sen. Larry Craig, Cho introduced her show as “Like Donny and Marie – but with an all-tranny chorus line.”

Magic time: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band return

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Brooooce. Photo by Mark Seliger.

By Todd Lavoie

They’re back! Well, almost. This coming Tuesday, Oct. 2, to keep things official and all. That’s when the Magic happens.

Proving that patience really does pay off from time to time, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band are about to reward us rather handsomely for riding out their extended hiatus. Their latest Columbia Records thunderer Magic hits the racks, and if the glowing adjectives tossed around by the press are any indication, the phrase “return to form” is written all over it. Sure, I could’ve already checked for myself, maybe even previewed a couple of songs – thanks to this handy-dandy Internet thing all the kids are raving about – but I really do relish the freshness of a CD when it’s been shucked from its shrink-wrap within hours of its release into the world. There’s nothing quite like it, is there? In an age where everything seems to be so readily available and spoilers are just a click away, I’d rather keep it old-school, thank you all the same. And so I’ll wait till Tuesday to find out for myself. Besides: why would I want to get rid of the one single interesting feature Tuesdays have to offer?

“But it’s Bruce Springsteen – big deal!” Yes, I can already hear them, snipping and quipping away up there on the horizon, a veritable sea of ironic haircuts and tight-legged trousers poo-pooing away my excitement over what promises to be a highlight of this already-impressive fall music season. Maybe it’s because the Boss reminds the Vice Generation too much of Dad or Uncle Joe?

Furthermore, I doubt Springsteen possesses a single ironic bone in his body; there’s no cheeky winks or clever-for-clever’s sake at play here. He’s far too straight-up for that, thankfully, but such directness might come across as so unfashionably retro in or post-everything culture. It’s probably only a partial explanation, and I could even counter my own argument by pointing out the wonderfully refreshing arrival of what I’ve taken to calling the current sincerity movement in indie rock: witness the impact of emotionally-direct, irony-free acts such as Antony and the Johnsons, Joan as Policewoman, and perhaps even Broken Social Scene.

Bryter layter: Nick Drake’s Gabrielle Drake sheds a little light on her late sibling

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From the morning: Nick Drake as a teen.

One of the sweetest panels at the this year’s South By Southwest revolved around the late singer-songwriter Nick Drake: producer Joe Boyd, onetime-possible collaborator Vashti Bunyan, and sister Gabrielle Drake traded anecdotes about the talented mystery man, played music, and took questions to a transfixed crowd. Luckily you’ll get a chance to have a similar experience on Tuesday, Oct. 2, when Gabrielle Drake, Boyd, and singer-songwriter Jolie Holland give a similar talk as part of Noise Pop’s collabo with City Arts and Lectures. I spoke to Drake recently from her home in Shropshire, England.

Bay Guardian: The Nick Drake panel you were on at SXSW was one of my favorite things at the conference this year.

Gabrielle Drake: Thank you. This is a new world to me, because really acting is my world. The music world is new to me. But I do what I’m told! [Laughs]

I was asked to come out to San Francisco and to LA, and I’m glad to do that if it helps Nick and his music. I won’t do it very much because I find in a funny way, the more you go on talking about someone you knew and loved, the more removed from you they become.

BG: Are there a lot of misconceptions out there about him that you feel like you should clear up?

GD: I think there can be. And in the end his music speaks for itself, you know, and that’s great. The only questions I can answer really are questions about the childhood we shared together. Other people can answer questions about his music. But I don’t think there are any easy solutions to what made Nick the musician he was. I think the enigma continues really. No one can really come up with easy solutions, and I’m only there to clarify a part of the picture. That is perhaps an important part that needs to be clarified, so that we can go on from there.

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Gabrielle Drake.

BG: What was your childhood like?

Laser in on Bonde do Role

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Those zany kids in Bonde do Role – they don’t answer their e-mail, their tour manager misplaces his cell phone – it’s a regular sitcom over in BDR HQ! Too busy livin’ it up, I guess. Anyhooo, after much ado and no interview by the time today’s issue hit print, I finally heard back from the band’s Rodrigo Gorky. Here’s what he coughed up via e-mail; you can check what they’re about for yourself at the Independent on Friday, Sept. 28.

Bay Guardian: How did the band get together?

Rodrigo Gorky: After one rehearsal with a “proper band,” we all just got drunk and started doing baile funk tracks using the most impossible samples possible – from the Darkness to AC/DC and Alice in Chains.

BG: What inspires the group’s lyrics and album and song titles?

RG: Mostly stupid jokes and bad sense of humor that we find funny. (I know, sounds twisted, but that’s what it is!)

BG: The recent album is titled With Lasers – why LASERS?

Saint Steven Morrissey – comedien et martyr

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By Erik Morse

In the inaugural vignette grotesque of Genet’s 1949 memoir-cum-roman noir Le Journal du voleur, the black prince of literature recalls his childhood travels between Paris and the ruins of Tiffauges. Here, along the verdant slopes of the Loire, was the crime scene of France’s most diabolical pederast and murderer, Lord Gilles de Rais. Genet claims his adoration for the countryside’s eponymous genets (a kind of flower endemic to Europe
also known as Spanish broom) compelled him to worship at their rhizomes while they, in turn, bowed to their human counterpart in a veritable miracle of the rose.

“They know that I am their living, moving, agile representative, conqueror of the wind,” he writes. “They are my natural emblem, but through them I have roots in that French soil which is fed by the powdered bones of the children and youths buggered, massacred, and burned by Gilles des Rais.”

This recurring trope, Genet’s “artifice of the flower” framed his every character and crime from the “spiky blossoms” of Darling Daintyfoot’s theft to the prostitute Divine’s “warm anal stele” to the “decorous pageantry” of Querelle’s murders. Flowers were, for Genet, a synecdoche for beatification growing rampant in the charnel house of absolute evil.

The figure of Steven Morrissey on the Smiths’ 1983 Top of the Pops debut had all of the Dionysian and homoerotic charge of Genet’s underworld flaneur. With his chiseled, Northern jaw line, coiffed pompadour, and back pocket overflowing with gladioli, Morrissey summoned, in his melodramatic rendition of “This Charming Man,” the saintly icons of condemned playboys Weidmann and Pilorge who adorned Genet’s cell at Sante prison.

The lachrymose crooner achieved a similar macabre infamy, penning odes to the victims of the Moors Murders and using gay icons Joe Dallesandro and Terence Stamp on the Smiths’ album covers. During a 1986 “graveyard” photo session for the New Musical Express where he mused to a reporter, “I can stand in a graveyard for hours and hours, just inhaling the individuals. When they lived, when they died, it’s all inspiring,” he inspired a new generation to mourn the slaughter of the innocents.

MF Doom swayzies, leaves Pigeon John to do his thing

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By Christopher Lotto

I’d say about a fourth of those who came out to see MF Doom at the Independent on Sept. 18 took off when they found out he wasn’t going to be performing. The rest of us stayed – way to go, SF – to watch Pigeon John, a lithe, high-energy smart-ass from the LA underground. The Independent’s consolation was to open its doors and waive the admission fee, promising full refunds to ticket holders, so why not shtick around for a little what’s his name? I mean, it was Tuesday night, and it was free.

A skilled MC and a well-rounded stage performer, this Pigeon John. He kept it simple: himself, some turntables, some tubs. The set stayed tight even as it went beyond what had been rehearsed for his opening act, and his avuncular talkshit played extremely well between numbers that featured both his Tin Pan Alley tenor and a sharp flow – think
“private-college gangsterism.” He took off his sweater to demonstrate the “Pigeon John,” a sort of go-go-gadget-
arms, semi-apoplectic running man followed by the gratuitous but ever crowd-pleasing slide from side to side. And he pulled some hilarious faux big baller moves, including handing out a couple $10 bills to audience members.

He likes “black white girls” – don’t we all? – and his music seems informed by a variety of popular influences: at the end of the show he had DJ Eq spin the famed guitar intro to “Blackbird,” an appropriately rhetorical sign-off (love for the “Grey” and the “White Album”).

Ska’d yet? The Specials bassist Horace Panter’s tome arrives

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By Todd Lavoie

Book alert: Horace Panter, bassist for the much-beloved ska institution the Specials, has just released his memoir, and it looks quite tasty.

Entitled Ska’d for Life: A Personal Journey with the Specials (published in Britain by Sidgwick & Jackson, but distributed in America by International Publishers Group), it promises to give plenty of fresh insight into the motivations behind some of the most memorable songs of the Thatcher era, along with some intriguing observations about why the band unfortunately couldn’t make it past three albums. Haven’t read it yet, but I’ve pawed it over a few times, and it looks quite well-written. Dare I say, it may be as authoritative as some of those wicked basslines Panter unleashed as part of the Specials’ mighty rhythm section! March on over to your favorite independent bookstore and take a look for yourself.

Ah, the Specials – they were great unifiers. Back in college, I once had a clenched-fisted straight-edge roommate who lived and breathed the hardcore lifestyle 24/7. What a mope. Swear to god, the only way to crack a smile off that guy would be to throw on some Judge or Youth of Today, which he did, relentlessly. Nothing against either band, of course, or the genre, even, but this kid was just so rigid about it! For him, nothing else existed besides two-minute anthems about the evils of drugs and alcohol, both of whom I seemed to be getting on with quite well, thank you very much.

Stealing time with Thievery Corporation

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Corporate raiders? Thievery Corporation.

By Kevin Lee

Before Thievery took the stage on Sept. 15 at the Treasure Island music fest, I took the opportunity to sneak backstage and ask what D.C.’s favorite downtempo duo was up to.

Bay Guardian: How are you guys enjoying the Bay Area so far?

Rob Garza: We’re having a great time. We always love being out here. It’s one of our best
audiences.

God of thunder alert – Valient Thorr at Slim’s

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By Ben Richardson

Almost all of the members of Valient Thorr wear denim jackets emblazoned with their own backpatches, which would be a pretty lame move by a band that didn’t claim to be from Venus.

Yet once a group makes a certain level of commitment to a ridiculous concept, all is forgiven, and a collection of pseudonyms and a convoluted interplanetary backstory only serve to heighten Valient Thorr’s endearing, cultish goofiness. They stormed the stage Wednesday, Sept. 19, at Slim’s, ripping through a high-octane set that combined punk rock, AC/DC, and a healthy dose of ZZ Top.

Majestically bearded frontperson “Valient Himself” patrolled the stage like a demented ringmaster, stretching the world’s tightest pair of purple thrift-store pants to their absolute limit. His ranting, raving vocal stylings kept the crowd raucous, and his copious sweat rained down on the front row, especially when he started purposefully flicking it out of his armpits with both hands.

Barnburners such as “Heatseeker” and “I Am the Law” were kept at a fever pitch by the guitar team of “Eidan” and “Voiden Thorr.” The two seared from start to finish, displaying a devastating talent for four-fingered sixteenth note runs in between their psycho-boogie chord changes. One of them – I’m not sure which – even demonstrated a novel hairdo which I will dub the “reverse beard,” which involves pairing a mohawk and beard combo with a second beard that joins the “face” beard above the ears and runs down along the back of the neck. With some careful maintenance and maybe a little tattoo work, the guy could have a convincing face on the back of his skull.

Weekend fun begun? Maps, One Block Radius, Blank Tapes unraveled

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Oh, the places you’ll go, the shows you’ll see. Here are a few that slipped down an air shaft before the issue hit print.

Maps
Mercury Prizes are flying furiously these days – and yet another nominee for this year’s lovin’ cup comes our way this forthcoming week: the Maps. The UK group’s We Can Create (Mute) has been praised for its “understated ambition (Billboard) and “mood-enhanced stargazers” (Blender). Could it be the next big thing, since snowy earpieces? They chart a path at Bottom of the Hill on Monday, Sept. 26.

One Block Radius
Ex-Scapegoat Wax members suture hip-hop heft with pop preoccupations. Equipto, Xienhow, and others help ’em out on Saturday, Sept. 22, at Elbo Room.

Blank Tapes
Matt Adams captures a carefree, skewed pop vibe with his startlingly rangy new self-released CD, Daydreams, at this party. Supported by Greg Ashley and 60 Watt Kid, Adams and co. perform Sunday, Sept. 23, at Café du Nord.

Moments to treasure – at guess where!

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I got my eye on the isle. Photo by Sofia Ramirez.

By Kevin Lee

First off, I have to say that the folks behind the inaugural Treasure Island Festival did a spectacular job and this year’s event must be considered a success: Treasure Island could be considered a “cozy” outdoor music festival, simultaneously intimate and spacious.

Saturday, Sept. 15, I showed up fashionably late which meant I missed local act Zion I. But I did
manage to see Ghostland Observatory, a frenetic Austin duo that pulsated with vigor – thanks to the vocals of Aaron Behrens and loopy, electrified beats of Thomas Ross Turner. Ghostland impressed the early-afternoon crowd and likely garnered many a new Bay Area fan.

Local artist Kid Beyond dropped some lyrical inspiration before launching into an up-tempo set,
part techno beats, part jungle, and part slick vocals. I had the chance to briefly talk to KB after his set, and he mentioned that one of his lyrical inspiration is Hafiz, a Persian poet from the 1300s. How about that for drawing on the past?

MIA: I admit, she put in a full-on effort to get the crowd moving. Midway through her set, she implored female fans to climb onstage – 30 random girls followed suit and began dancing the only way you can while sharing the stage with MIA. A couple of tracks later, she clambered 10 feet up on the lights scaffolding with cordless mic in one hand, belting lyrics. Mind-boggling displays of showmanship.

High on High on Fire live

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Early High on Fire, mach I. Courtesy of MTV.com.

By Ben Richardson

There were a few chuckles from the audience when someone enjoined High on Fire to “play the heavy one,” and a few more when frontperson Matt Pike replied, “I will.”

Levity aside, the good-natured heckling suggested something more profound. During the band’s free set Tuesday evening at Amoeba, High on Fire became the Heavy One, writ large and inked in blood, and ran through a set of songs from their new CD that pummeled with abandon.

Pike’s fingers danced like dervishes across the extra-wide fret-board of his custom-made nine-string, and his face twisted into a devilish grin every time he pulled of something particularly awesome. The kings of conflagration inebriation played the new songs to perfection, doing full and fiery justice to Death Is This Communion riffmonsters like “Turk” and “Rumors of War.” The trio was rounded out by drummer Des Kensel and bassist Jeff Matz, the thunder to Pike’s lightning fingers, and a gruesome rhythm twosome in their own right. If the set had any weakness, it was that the frontperson’s voice sounded a little thin, but the ex-Sleep guitarist’s raspy, wounded bellow is appealing in its rawness, and he was hampered by an admittedly dinky PA.

After yesterday’s record release, High on Fire sets off on a national tour, returning to San Francisco for two culminating dates at the Independent, Oct. 28 and 29.

Shootin’ it with LCD Soundsystem’s James Murphy

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Murph, murph, murph, murph, murph. Yeah, me and the infamously curmudgeonly James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem are tight li’ dat. No, actually I joke – we’ve only been in touch twice, including the time I corresponded with him on the Rapture in 2003, but I do confess, that the man is a bundle o’ fun – if you like your artist-producer-label-honcho types witty, down-to-earth, relatively unpretentious and workman, and nimble with the gray matter. For the first snatch of this interview, see Sonic Reducer; for the rest, keep on keepin’ on.

Bay Guardian: So what’s this about a Fabriclive mix CD with your drummer Pat?

James Murphy: Yeah, we’ve been DJing together in the last year and in New York together a bunch, but it’s really fun on tour when we have a night off or at an afterparty or something. I don’t do anything before my show – just sit back stage and wonder if I’m going to remember the lyrics.

BG: No group hugs or prayers?

JM: No, we don’t any of that stuff. I think the more befuddled and unprepared we are the better the show, often. It’s just such a weird situation that if you overthink it beforehand you’re just like, ah, “I’ll just check out…”