It’s Guitar Hero on your cell phone! (kind of)

AT&T has announced it’s launch of the new cell phone game GuitarStar.

Modeled after the video game phenomenon, GuitarStar uses similar beat matching technology, instructing players to “catch” guitar picks flying across the screen’s cross hairs design in time with the music.

The better your hand-eye coordination, the faster you can rise from lowly garage band to stadium superstar, and high scores grant access to new songs of increasing difficulty.

AdME, GuitarStar’s developer, says the game is “the first mobile game fully capable of synchronizing visual movements with the beat of the underlying musical sound track in order to significantly amplify the player’s level of gaming engagement.”

As for character choices, you can pick from either a rock-cliche cartoon or a member of an actual band (available for download). Several emerging bands that have signed on to be part of GuitarStar include Hoopla, Bowling Gnomes, The Carps, Mankind Is Obsolete, and The Daily Pravda.

Never heard of them?
Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll get some bigger names as things get rolling.

*Sidenote: Upon researching, I’ve discovered that The Carps kick a decent amount of ass.

With the iTube, from the British company Fatman. This seems like the iDeal compromise between digital convenience and analog sonic warmth.

This cover of “Immigrant Song” by Heart vocalist Ann Wilson is better than I expected it to be (it will appear on her debut solo album, Hope & Glory, out Sept. 11). Her rendition isn't as bombastic as the original (nothing could be, really), but it's an interesting interpretation of a classic-rock chestnut that retains some of the latent Eastern mystery of Led Zeppelin's version while lending it a subtler edginess. And while she may be 57, Ann is still in lusty vocal form here.

Wilson explains her approach to “Immigrant Song: "[Producer] Ben Mink said, 'Why don't we just start you out like Yma Sumac and take the song way, way North African?' Our version starts a little like a little dot on the horizon, but by the time it's done you've been overrun by all the barbarians."

Who expects an Icon, a Legend and a Voice of His Generation™ to be punctual? Not I. Which is why my 9:15 arrival at Pacific Amphitheatre enabled me to catch only the last 40 minutes of Bob Dylan's Orange County Fair performance last night. Turns out that was quite enough, really.

The 66-year-old lyrical genius and his five nattily attired old pros had the largely Baby Boomer crowd in the palms of their hands. After each number, some people actually bowed while howling their appreciation. I, however, was less impressed.

I'm no Dylan hater, but neither am I a rabid fan. I think he had a devastatingly great run of albums from the 1962-67 (Bob Dylan through John Wesley Harding), and then put out a few very good records in the '70s and '80s, amid a lot of mediocre output. I stopped following the man after 1989's Oh Mercy, though consensus opinion says his latest full-length, Modern Times, is yet another Return to Form.

Be that as it may, the Dylan before us in 2007 is difficult to embrace wholeheartedly. Wearing a boater and a black suit that made me think "maître d' of a classy hotel," Dylan played keyboards, electric guitar, occasionally blew into a harmonica and “sang.” I use scare quotes because what comes out of Robert Zimmerman's mouth in 2007 cannot properly be called singing, no matter how loosely one defines the term. Rather, it is a homunculoid growl, cured by several thousand cigarettes and hindered by substantial quantities of phlegm. One can imagine the mics he uses being sterilized post-show to eliminate the possibility of other vocalists getting cancer from them. Of course, Dylan never had much range and his voice always has been an acquired taste many never acquire, but now it's just downright unpleasant and it does his monumental canon of songs no favors.

I arrive as Dylan & co. are tearing through the jaunty R&B romp “Nettie Moore” off Modern Times. It sounded utterly functional. “Ballad of a Thin Man” follows, with Dylan's phrasing deviating drastically from the recorded version of one of his most beloved songs as heard on the all-time classic Highway 61 Revisited. This way doesn't improve the original, but rather makes a mockery of it. Dylan also radically rearranged “Blowin' in the Wind” to deleterious effect, again coming off like his worst enemy spoofing a chestnut dear to many old folkies. You have to respect an established artist treating his own revered oeuvre with so much irreverence and refusing to stagnate in his dotage. Still, this rendition was grating to the ears, sounding ridiculously awkward and inelegant. Nevertheless, the crowd cheered itself hoarse at its conclusion.

The other songs I caught (“Summer Days,” “Thunder on a Mountain”) rolled by with workmanlike competence. There was an “another day at the office” aura about the whole endeavor. Dylan's Never Ending Tour, by necessity, would appear to wipe out any extreme highs or lows. One expects cruise-control coasting for long stretches, and that's mostly what one gets.

After the Dylan sextet took their final bow, grumbles among audience members could be heard about the absence of “Like a Rolling Stone” (set list and band lineup can be viewed here; looks like I missed the best part of the show, damn it; “It's Alright, Ma [I'm Only Bleeding]” is probably my fave Dylan track), but overall, people seemed quite pleased with Bob Dylan ca. 2007. You have to admire their loyalty, if not their discernment.

Director A.J. Schnack will be releasing his new documentary Kurt Cobain: About A Son in early October. The film will consist of scenic footage from the Washington cities Aberdeen, Olympia and Seattle (where Cobain lived), along with audio recordings done from a series of interviews conducted by journalist Michael Azerrad. The film score was co-written by Ben Gibbard of Death Cab For Cutie and the soundtrack is scheduled to be released Sept. 11.
The film will be coming to the Los Angeles Nuart Theatre October 5.

Please put any comparisons to Last Days right out of your head.

Here is a clip:

Anaheim all-ages club Chain Reaction is broiling with body heat, youthful hormones and the sonic radiation of Portugal. The Man's music. I arrive 20 minutes into their set due to a misjudgment on highway 55, but once at the venue, I'm immediately hit by this humidly tropical blast and promptly swept up in their tumultuous prog-emo rock with bluesy undercurrents. Fans and band members (PTM swell to a septet onstage) are sweating profusely, with the former going ga-ga for and singing along to PTM's songs, which are full of teen drama, flamboyant dynamics and thick, meaty choruses that build a “we're all in this together” feeling.

During the last song of their 80-minute performance, Portugal. The Man shift into spazzy rave-up mode; they fake three endings, seemingly unable to face the thought of walking offstage. Finally, begrudgingly, mercifully for the drenched audience, they call it quits with a suitably exciting, climactic shudder.

At least 200 people came to see this band on a Wednesday night, and most of them know the words and clap along when inspired. Hair gets matted, shirts darken with sweat, dances get danced, visages get etched with exhilaration, hands wave in the air like they just don't care. Several people here surely went home thinking this was the BEST! SHOW! EVAR! of their young lives. Many wet fingers tapped out text messages likely to that effect with impressive enthusiasm as the house lights went up.

It's a ruff mix, but it ain't bad for a canine.

Via: VideoSift

Portugal. The Man have burdened themselves with an awkward moniker (also: damn that superfluous period), but despite a name that makes you feel foolish while uttering it in public, the Oregon via Wasilla, Alaska group (who perform at Anaheim's Chain Reaction July 25) create compelling music that's actually worth the buzz it's generating.

Their new album, Church Mouth (Fearless), is scrappy yet melodic and full of unexpected dynamics and swooping, inventive vocal arrangements courtesy of guitarist John Baldwin Gourley and bassist Zach Carothers. (Drummer Jason Sechrist ably guides the trio through their often serpentine paces.) It's an expansive, sometimes bombastic pop opus with robust blues and prog-rock inclinations, but it's not excessively beholden to those styles. Think of the White Stripes if they were more infatuated with Fiery Furnaces and Man Man than with Led Zeppelin. Complex yet catchy, the songs on Church Mouth will grow on you—like a fungus that will subtly alter you consciousness if you ingest it. And you will.

Hey, Portugal. The Man: Lisbon fun. (Bet you never heard that one.)

After putting in 19 years and releasing over 750 records, Long Gone John is fixing to sell his Long Beach-based label, Sympathy for the Record Industry. He’s asking for $650,000, which is a downright steal, if you take into account the rich back catalog. The price includes all of SFTRI’s assets (master tapes, existing stock, distribution deals, website and mail-order business).

The company—which is a beloved haven for underground garage, psych and punk rock—had an uncanny knack for snagging exciting young bands that eventually went on to blow up (e.g., the White Stripes, Hole, the Electrocutes [who became the Donnas], Rocket from the Crypt, Turbonegro). Long Gone John also became infamous for his sneering contempt toward the business in which he operated and for his snide slogans (“We almost really care”; “A name you can pronounce since 1988”). In an interview with The Daily Swarm, LGJ said, “I wrote the notice a while ago and thought about putting it on eBay but never got around to it. The record industry has been complete shit for quite a while and this morning I was looking at it again and decided it was time. I want to solicit real interest.”

Interested suitors can contact LGJ at sympathy13@aol.com.

LGJ plans to move to Olympia, Washington, where vinyl records sound much better than they do in Long Beach.

The Mashed Potatos played an amazing set at the Hellman House in Long Beach on Saturday night. They were getting the dance party started inside, while outside was raging with firedancers, a mobile jacuzzi (located in the bed of a camouflaged truck, complete with fountains!), and some guy dressed up like a tomato, and booze booze booze.

All in all, it was a great time with a couple hundred of the area's most beautiful people and the best DJs around.

Thanks for everything, Kehni!

It was a night of clichés and familiarities last night at the Pacific Amphitheatre, some good, some not so much. Not so good cliché: Horrifically awkward looking people single handedly driving up the county average body mass index (I know – at the fair???). Oh so good clichés: a blissfully warm summer night, three hours of solid rock music, a dancing crowd, and a practically endless line of beautiful people milling around holding big glasses of beer.

Queens of the Stone Age headlined a perfect show at the fair-adjacent amphitheatre last night, one of those concerts you go to when you’re a kid. It was strongly reminiscent of that time your mom dropped you and your friends off in the parking lot, and your friend Nick pulled the two bottles of wine out of his backpack, and then you totally kissed that pretty girl, but lost track of her and never saw her again – ahem, I mean, something like that (I wonder what ever happened to her).

It’s a stunning venue, the amphitheatre, despite the security staff, who go about their jobs in a manner reminiscent of a secret service agent – a nervous one who’s kind of a dick about it. I personally witnessed at least a half-dozen people removed, one, who was shirtless and holding a half-yard of pina colada, by means of a full nelson. Listen, do NOT fuck with a man in a yellow windbreaker holding a flashlight, at least not here (cliché number four, for those still counting).

Eagles of Death Metal opened for the Queens, and what a bizarre, comical, fun set that was. Front man Jesse “The Devil” Hughes is so deliriously happy to be in a rock band that he can’t be contained to the stage, which he actually left during a song to go explore the audience, blazing smile spread across his mustachioed face.

Last night was the listening preview of Korn’s new album, Untitled, to be released on July 31.

I went out of morbid curiosity to see if the band, whose heyday has long since passed, could produce an album that might re-establish them as a respectable rock band.

That and the free food.

I’m pleased to say it didn’t suck nearly as much as I thought it was going to.

There was no reinvention here, no dramatic change in sound. They stick with what they’re good at: heavy primal beats combined with growling vocals. The new album is still the same old Korn, just a little more matured.

And they’ve completely ditched any traces of nu-metal.
And added just a smidge of electronica.

This album hints at a softer side, but it’s only a hint. Aside from the few times frontman Jonathan Davis does higher, almost gentle vocals, several bits throughout the album feature simple, childlike melodies (I think there was some mandolin in there somewhere, but I could be wrong). Then... boom! A thundering blast of grit and distortion practically assaults the listener, especially on the song Hushabye. I guess it would be unnatural to keep it sweet.

For some reason, no one could find a track listing. However, as luck would have it I was seated next to Shaun, the energetic DJ who had them all memorized somehow. As well as the meaning behind every song and every other Korn tidbit imaginable.

According to him, “Starting Over” is about Davis fighting his personal demons, and “I Will Protect You” (which brought back those bagpipes!) is dedicated to his children, cautioning them not to make the same mistakes he did.

See? More matured.

The drums stand out as phenomenal, thanks to help from Terry Bozzio who stepped in during the brief departure of David Silveria.

Although Head has left the band, his presence is not forgotten. Supposedly “Love & Luxury” is about their strained relationship (Before Head’s book was read, of course. Now they’re cool). This track is one of the more upbeat and choppy tracks, which reminded me ever so slightly of old skool NIN.

We also got to preview the video for the first single “Evolution”, which will be airing on TRL this Tuesday.

The video’s theme is about the de-evolution of man back to monkey, thanks to medicinal advancements (pills pills pills!) and the fact that we like to kill all our natural predators for sport. It’s pretty flashy, you can bet there was a ton of money poured into it.

There is also some kind of mockumentary going around online about the same issue. Korn will be releasing that as well, so keep an eye out if your interested.

I don’t know if this album will win over any new fans.
Putting out an 8th album of pretty much the same stuff can be as much of a risk as a complete reinvention.

For die-hard fans (of which there are many, including the entire Midwest), Untitled is a dream come true: more of what they love, from the band they love. This will guarantee them mainstream success, but only for so long.

The question is: when are we going to get sick of Korn?

Lavender Diamond demurely demand world peace forever.

First thing I hear out of Lavender Diamond singer Rebecca Stark's well-designed mouth—and uttered with not a trace of snarkiness—is something to the effect of “Let's hear it for peace on Earth.” The editor in me always wants to retort, “Like, where else—Saturn?” (This is why people tend to shun me at parties.)

Anyhow, Stark's little preamble at July's edition of Orange Crush wasn't unexpected by anybody who read Tom Child's fine Lavender Diamond piece in OC Weekly or by anyone who has seen the Los Angeles band in the flesh. She and pianist Steven Gregoropoulos, drummer Ron Rege, Jr. and guitarist Devon Williams seem to be unironically idealistic, for reals. How they remain immune to LA's cynicism is a mystery that may never be solved.

Dressed in a salmon or peach gown (hard to tell in OCMA's lighting) and wearing a corsage, Stark looks like an archetypal mid-20th-century entertainer: a wholesomely pretty, clear-skinned brunette possessing a gorgeous, pure-toned voice that goes down so damned easy (some coarser grain actually would be welcome at times). She's also one of the most congenially chatty musicians I've ever seen.

Stark introduces “The Garden Rose” as a song written on the first day of Bush II's Iraq War. It's a mellifluous, country-esque ballad that wafts somewhere between Mazzy Star and Neko Case; no wonder so many folks are loving this band. Another piece is preceded by an anecdote detailing Gregoropoulos chopping off his fingertip in Amsterdam—and then unknowingly eating it along with his sandwich. Stark declares “Open Your Heart” a “song of practical intention,” and that it is. It's also incredibly engaging, rollicking and milky white, like everything in LD's canon. “Oh No” is probably Lavender Diamond's most intense tune, with Stark asking, “When will I love again?” a question that sadly resonates with your correspondent. Sniff.

When Stark at one point announces that “This song ['Open Your Heart'] is written for all the people in all the cities of the world,” even jaded old me can't sneer, but rather marvel at Lavender Diamond's indefatigable optimism and supremely catchy, lilting songcraft. One can almost believe they could dominate this world, if it were worth doing so at this late date.

Chuck D: Give this man a Classic Rap radio program, stat!

Way back in 1991, I made a prediction that the airwaves would be saturated with Classic Rap Radio by the late '90s/early '00s. That sparkling future obviously hasn't come to pass. Although there are a few such stations on the 'Net (here and here) and the odd show devoted to it on terrestrial radio, not much '80s/'90s rap gets excavated for public appreciation (see this blogger's take on the subject).

It seems like the time is way overdue for such a format, but hip-hop — at least mainstream/major-label hip-hop — is notorious for not paying proper respect to its history and being much more concerned about what's HAWT RIGHT NOW and drilling a small handful of songs into your memory banks with nauseating frequency.

It would be easy to find plenty of DJs who could competently program such a niche medium, but the catch is to convince the bean counters there's a demand/market for old-school/Golden Age hip-hop. Considering that so many radio stations are fueled by nostalgia, Classic Rap seems like a surefire winner, as the genre has nearly 30 years of catalog from which to draw. (You could also do special segments just spotlighting the major sources of samples for hip-hop classics.)

Get people like Chuck D, MC Serch, the Ego Trip dudes, Dante Carfagna, DJ Shadow, Kool Keith, Steinski, Coldcut and Biz Markie to host some shows and you're in serious (or Sirius, if you dig satellite radio) business. I think this format has amazing potential. Who has the vision and financial wherewithal to execute it?

All right, people. There will be absolutely no shit-talking in this blog. No matter how tempting. I just can’t do it.

Joe Tucky, an Orange County resident, has written a country song called “A Salute” dedicated to our soldiers, both active and veteran.

The inspiration?

It came to him in a dream.

“I woke up at 3 in the morning with the complete song in my head,” said Tucky. “I’m not a songwriter, but the entire song and lyrics came to me in a dream.”

Tucky claims his friends and family begged him to produce the song, after hearing the deeply moving lyrics, which have allegedly brought many people to tears (in a good way, I presume).

Lyrics like “I am a country singer, this is a country song. If you don’t want to listen, why don’t you move along.”

No, no, there are better ones.

“So when you see an American soldier, salute him and let him pass by. Remember that American soldier, for you he is willing to die.”

(You know, when my first-grade class sang “Proud to Be an American,” it made my mom cry. It just so happens that a song doesn’t have to be a masterpiece to inspire patriotism.)

Tucky recorded the song with the help of country singer Sam Morrison. Neither man has actually served in the military, but both want to “express respect and gratitude for our country’s armed servicemen and -women.”

Morrison and Tucky want as many soldiers and veterans as possible to hear their song.

Tucky wants you all to buy his CD (for just less than 6 bucks, from his independently owned production company) and either give it to a soldier or veteran you know — or don’t know (not important) — as a sign of respect for their service and sacrifice.

You know what would be an even greater sign of respect?

If Tucky donated all his proceeds to a charity like Soldiers Angels or Freedom Is Not Free.

Huntington Beach punk label TKO celebrates its 10th year of existence July 20 through 22 with three shows in three different venues. Friday night's gig goes down at Alex's Bar (21+) in Long Beach; Saturday's happens at Vault 350 (all ages) in Long Beach; and Sunday's takes place at the Airliner (18+) in LA. Heavyweights such as Antiseen, Poison Idea, Smut Peddlers, Smogtown and many others will be igniting mosh pits, increasing adrenalin levels and inducing sweat stains during the TKO bash. Make sure you're well-rested for this.

In other TKO news, the company will open a retail record shop in Fountain Valley (18948 Brookhurst St.). Label boss Mark Rainey expects to launch the store in August. We wish him all the best in this horrendous music-retail climate.

Bomani “D'mite” Armah offers some sage advice, delivered in the blustery, sledgehammer-subtle style of mid-'00s mainstream hip-hop. Bling the ruckus . . .

You kerrraaaaannnnggggg? Sonically, I mean. Then I want to hear your music. Urgently.

I'm on the hunt for Orange County metal bands, preferably the cacophonous cream of the crop. Please send CDs to me at the address below and/or shoot me links to your website/MySpace at dsegal@ocweekly.com—the sooner the better. Thanks.

Dave Segal
OC Weekly
1666 N. Main St., Ste. 500
Santa Ana, CA 92701

Satanique Samba Trio
Sangrou
(Amplitude Art)

Curb Your Cynicism is a recurring blogtastic feature in which the music editor pithily enthuses about new releases and reissues he thinks will enhance your life and erode your cynicism about the state of music, circa now.

On their MySpace page, Satanique Samba Trio write that their music sounds like “a jar full of wrong.” Sounds right to me.

SST hail from Brazil, but don't expect any “Girl From Ipanema” mellowness or Mutantes-like psychedelic whimsy from this quintet (even their name is wrong). Instead, SST wrench out angular, knotty grotesqueries that allude to avant-garde jazz and progressive rock without exhibiting obvious trademarks of either genre. You know how some faces are so ugly you can't take your eyes off 'em? An ugliness that's so over-the-top it becomes a fucked-up kind of beauty? Same principle applies to SST's music. Sangrou is kind of like The Elephant Man of albums—and I think David Lynch would appreciate these guys, too.

Sangrou's 16 tracks skitter by in 35 minutes, but a lot of sonic info is crammed into its brief run time. The prevalent modes are clattering, disjointed and spastic. Imagine John Zorn's more jittery, scatterbrained compositions played by French eccentric Albert Marcoeur, or the Mothers of Invention if they were sozzled on rum. A recurring tension between highbrow jazz and lowbrow circus music lends the disc an oddly compelling friction.

According to the press bio, two SST members reputedly are ex-gangsters while the other three are music-school graduates; their live shows often feature transvestite dancers. Now this crazy album is starting to make sense. . . . Prolonged exposure to Sangrou makes me want to smash bottles, slap asses and cuss in Portuguese.

Below is a short video of a track not on Sangrou, which nonetheless gives you an inkling of SST's off-kilter genius.

Saturday was the annual rockabilly festival Hootenanny in Irvine, and I had a rockin' good time.

There were tons of people, but not in the overwhelming I'm-going-to-die-of-heatstroke-and-no-one-will-find-me way of, say, Warped Tour or Coachella. People could actually find spots in the shade.

Lots of foxy boys (I left my taste for pomps back in the late '90s, but hey! "When in Rome" . . . )

The music sets were brief and efficient, 30 minutes and right on time.

Lots of vendors selling deliciously pretty little things.

Free booze backstage. Cold beer out front.

Social Distortion kicked ass.

Look at my pictures!

They’re calling it “A Celebration of Life.”

Tomorrow night (Saturday, July 7), Orange County metal band Six will be partying and paying tribute to Eric Stewart, departed dear friend and one-half of the recording duo Stewart/Roberts Productions.

Six will be accompanied by Kiljoy Union, Complex and New Hatred, and there'll be a set by DJ Atrochez. Some go-go dancers will also be there, you know, in case you weren’t celebrating life enough.

Sounds like one hell of a sendoff, in pure rock & roll style.

Proceeds from the show (a mere $10 cover) will go directly to Stewart/Roberts Productions to “continue Eric’s dream of a place where artists can create and record.”

Besides the warm, fuzzy feeling of helping a worthy cause, every entry will also receive a copy of Six’s latest album, Between the Warning and the War, which was the last album Stewart recorded.

It’s enough to bring a tear to your blackened eye, but I won’t tell anyone.
Come on now, show some love.

A Celebration of Life at the Blue Cafe, 17280 PCH, Huntington Beach. Sat., July 7, 8 p.m. $10. 21+.

Japanese psychedelic samurais Boredoms have arranged an amazing spectacle for what some amateur numerologists think will the luckiest day of the century, July 7, 2007. The concert happens at 5 p.m. in the Brooklyn Bridge Park, New York, and is free, but you need to RSVP; it's probably a moot point now anyway.

Led by Boredoms' front man eYe and Hisham Baroocha (ex-Black Dice, Soft Circle, Pixeltan), 77 drummers, arrayed in spiral formation like a boa, will play a score titled 77BOADRUM. The performance celebrates Boredoms' 20th anniversary as a group and the general awesomeness of gathering some of the world's most inventive drummers (including those from Gang of Four, Oneida, Holy Fuck, Gang Gang Dance, Excepter, Crash Worship and many others) in one place to bash their kits in the great outdoors.

Below are two video clips of Boredoms playing Japan's Fuji Rock and England's All Tomorrow's Parties festivals, just to give you the slightest inkling of what's in store tomorrow.

Boredoms at Fuji Rock Festival

Boredoms at All Tomorrow's Parties

Flight of the Conchords prove that it is indisputably so in the clip below. This Kiwi duo pull off the incredibly difficult feat of combining witty humor and good music with understated panache. I've seen them twice and they had me laughing throughout most of their sets, which is rare, because I'm a demanding customer when it comes to comedy.

Unfortunately for those who slept, Conchords' July 11 El Rey show is sold out. But you can peep their EP, The Distant Future, out Aug. 7 on SubPop.

Battles, The Troubadour, June 30, 2007
Better Than: Any other show happening in Southern California on this night.

“That is the future of music,” freelance photographer Choncey Langford declared after Battles’ performance Saturday night. It’s a hard statement to refute, so I’m not going to try—mainly because I agree with it.

If you read my review of the Brooklyn-based quartet’s latest album, Mirrored, you’ll know my position. I think they’re poised to be a paradigm-shifting band. That a unit as uncompromising as Battles sold out the Troubadour suggests that every so often, challenging music can break through the morass of corporate Cheez Whiz® and move significant numbers of people.

I expected the Battles crowd to be composed mainly of geeky male math-rock aficionados, but there were plenty of young female fans in the house, and they were dancing up a storm, to boot. Here was a media-hyped group who not only deserved the buzz, but who was also garnering large adoring crowds. I expect my alarm to go off and wake from this pleasant dream any minute now. . . .

Battles consist of four genially studious men in button-down shirts and short sensible hair, save for guitarist/keyboardist/vocalist Tyondai Braxton’s unruly afro. The members’ unassuming presence belies an instrumental extravagance that’s often breathtaking. Guitarist Ian Williams multitasks on VST keyboards, plug-ins and Logic Pro audio software, as does Braxton. Dave Konopka plays bass and guitar while John Stanier commands his drum kit like a drill sergeant. His cymbal is three feet higher than is typical, seemingly because dude likes to work harder than necessary to punish it. The extra effort pays off.

Beginning with a mournful, proggy bass fanfare by Konopka, the band gradually shifts into a radiantly crunching guitar attack, propelled by Stanier’s heavyweight-champ, galloping beats. This leads into Braxton gutturally spitting into his mic, and then looping the sound into a rhythm, which Battles then use as the next song’s foundation. The piece is cantankerous and undulating, a strange species of danceable prog rock accentuated by OCD guitar clangor and, later, a bark-being-stripped-off-trees corrosiveness. The audience went wild for it.

Mirrored’s first single, “Atlas”—which builds to an unlikely rave-anthemic climax—and several other Battles tracks initially give the impression they’re mad automatons running amok. Adding to this otherworldly effect are Braxton’s vocals, which consist of pitched-up glossolalia that confounds sing-alongs. But Battles are actually more like an advanced race of sonic geometrists, conceiving impossibly intricate aural angles and trajectories at breakneck velocity and convulsive power. At times, Battles seemed to be composing thrilling car-chase themes for MENSA members, insanely rapid gamelan pieces for fans of ’80s King Crimson, or avant-garde Looney Toons for those who find Carl Stalling’s work to be too sedate.

Overall, this gig proved that what is ostensibly a rock band can incorporate digital technology and still be fluid/dynamic with it, can bring the noise and inspire ass-shaking, can be fun (if weirdly so) and intellectually stimulating.

The future of music? Let’s hope so.

Reporter's Notebook
Personal Bias: I’ve loved everything Tyondai Braxton’s done on record and in concert, and I’m a big fan of Don Caballero and Storm & Stress (both of whom Ian Williams played in).
Random detail: Stanier’s kit was mic’d so loud that each tom-tom and kick-drum hit severely wounded that part of my brain where memories are stored. I’m still trying to decide if this is a good or bad thing.

Photos by: Choncey Langford