Stars of the Lid: stately as a motherfucker.

What the? Chairs at the Echoplex? What is this, a classical-music concert? Actually, it pretty much is, with headliners Stars of the Lid boasting two violinists and a cellist, in addition to core members Brian McBride and Adam Wiltzie on guitars and electric piano (they played with their backs to the audience the entire set, too; cheers, fellas).

Praised by 4AD Records honcho Ivo Watts-Russell as the most important band of the 21st century (gulp), SOTL have evolved from minimalist drone merchants to young-buck holy-minimalist composers (roll over Arvo Pärt and tell Henryk Górecki the news).

Right from the start of their set, SOTL justified their lofty position in today's neo-classical realm with all strings set to “glacial grandeur.” A sinking-of-the-Titanic poignancy washed over the reverent crowd (the Echoplex was maybe half full—not bad on a Monday night for some esoteric, beatless music). SOTL took us to (secular) church, in slow-motion. One wishes the performance were happening in an old ornate cathedral. But then we probably wouldn't be treated to the artfully psychedelic projections of Luke Savisky, who, it turns out, played a video cameraman in Slacker.

Last night, SOTL's music achieved a timeless, placeless stasis. There were no obvious peaks or climaxes; rather, a serene drift predominated, capturing the essence of melancholy. Through spare, economical means, SOTL created incredibly moving scores for the poignancy of the human condition (terminal, to be Pollyanna-ish).

I caught about half of opener Christopher Willits' set. He's a San Francisco-based guitarist who plays through a PowerBook, not unlike the great Austrian musician Fennesz. (You can view a demo of Willits' m.o. here.) The first track of his I catch is a tense throb, somewhere between mid-'70s Tangerine Dream and Hawkwind. Magnificent. Out of this streamlined stream of sound there splintered some spectral shards of guitar, then a cloud of microscopic clicks & cuts emerged with a stuttering choir, resulting in a passage of chaotic elegance and flawed beauty (the best kind).

Later came muted oscillations and angelic ululations, foreshadowing momentousness, which manifested in the form of a piece that sounded like one of Neu!'s pastoral songs slowed way down; so gorgeous. Later, a liquidy blue-gray drone bloomed and radiated peace.

Overall, Willits expertly showed how the guitar can rewardingly function as an abstract sound generator rather than as a riff/melody machine. And the world is a richer place for it.

33 seconds of video from Stars of the Lid's set last night. Thanks, quartzcity.

It's funny how music styles always manage to come full circle, even the ones some would like to forget. Sure, people may have thrown their stretchy leotard pants and hairspray in the garbage a couple decades ago, but who says hair metal is dead? Definitely not anyone packed into the Long Beach arena last night at the Rockstar Energy Drink Taste of Chaos Tour.

Riotous rock bands Bullet for My Valentine, Atreyu and Avenged Seven Fold took turns reviving the arena rock fantasy for thousands of fans, bros and metal heads alike. Support acts included Japanese head bangers MUCC and D’Espairs Rey as well as Idiot Pilot and Ernie Ball battle of the bands winner The Underneath. Needless to say, the show provided fans with enough bang, flash and thrash for their buck.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to catch the opening bands, a rule that I often slap myself for breaking. However, in my rush toward the venue my ears perked up as the yellow jacket security guards waved me in through the glass doors. The distorted roar from the guitars of Atreyu’s “Big” Dan Jacobs and Travis Miguel had barely settled on the arena as the band started their set. Shirtless front man Alex Varkatzas gave a hardcore hello to the crowd as the five piece launched into their set.

If you managed to fight through the trail of sweaty man flesh, the sludge of smashed beer cups and squawking half dressed teen girls, you probably got a hell of a view of the band exploding through songs like “When the Two Are One,” and “Becoming the Bull” off their latest album Lead Sails Paper Anchor on Hollywood Records.

Brutal, chugging rhythms and guttural screams married with melodic singing and guitar lines, is a style that this band has honed to perfection on stage. As he criss-crossed the stage, and over the ramp behind drummer/vocalist Brandon Saller, Varkatzas looked like he was either training for a marathon or buzzing on happy pills. Whatever it was, the crowd couldn’t get enough of his energy.

The show was also chalk full of glam rock flair, if you can picture the '80s on steroids. I couldn’t help getting flash backs of bands like RATT and Motley Crue as Saller showed off his old-school stick twirling. Jacobs, Miguel and bassist Marc McKnight also got into the act with plenty of cheesy guitar hero posing and dizzying tap riffs. Midway through the show, the fanatical moshers in the pit were willing to do the band’s bidding. This included a highlight of the show when Varkatzas ordered every one in the arena to stick up a lighter, cell phone during a song. It didn’t matter if you were using your mom’s pager as a light, everyone shot up their arms and created a flurry of fire flies in the darkness.

By the end of the show, the crowd was even open to more questionable requests from Varkatzas. Before closing the set with “Lip Gloss and Black,” Varkatzas told the crowd to get on their knees before jumping up in unison at the start of the song. I don’t claim to know the life of a rock star, but I’m pretty sure asking groupies to get on their knees is supposed to happen after the show. But it wasn’t a bad way to cap off the bands high voltage a set.

Without wasting time, a gang of stage techs emerged to set up for Avenged Seven Fold. But what could have been another dreaded waiting period between bands turned into a crowd pleaser as it was announced that the show was being taped for the band’s upcoming live DVD. If that wasn’t enough, the crowd was also going to get a chance to be in a music video from the band’s song “Dear God” off of their latest self-titled album. Swirling crane cameras captured AV7X fans in all their drunken, obnoxious, tattooed glory as search lights bathed the arena.

No fire works, pyro gadgets or strobe lights were spared as the band prepared to walk out under their black and white winged skull banner. A montage of U.S. soldiers in battle played on the twin movie screens on either side of the stage. Though a tribute to our soldiers is by no means a bad thing, it seemed a little border-line propaganda for an arena rock show.

The vibe in the arena definitely got kicked up to a new level of extremes as front man “M. Shadows” unleashed Iron Maiden-esque screams in front of a choir of fireballs that exploded behind drummer “The Rev.” If nothing else, their drummer gets props for keeping the beat and singing back up vocals with spouts of hell fire nipping at his ass song after song.

From a showmanship standpoint, guitarists “Zacky Vengence and “Synyster Gates” and bassist "Johnny Christ" had the back to back guitar solos down to a science during “Awaken the Fallen” and “Second Hope." I guess when your band decides to take a stage names you better know how to live up to them, and that they did.

The surprises kept coming during a highlight that looked like every rock fan's wet dream. Gates casually plucked the notes of the song “Walk” by metal legends Pantera, the noise from the crowd was as loud as it had been for the entire show, and rightfully so. To make things even more memorable, Shadows did the ultimate gesture by asking if anyone in the front row knew the words.

A shirtless fan named Mateo got pulled up on stage to deliver the first verse and chorus on the song and he actually didn’t suck. In fact, the band asked him to hang out side stage for the rest of the show. For everyone else in the audience, the band may have just given of us a worthy Pantera cover. But our friend Mateo got a a concert story that will probably get him laid for the rest of his life.

As the band said goodnight to the crowd, they did anything but go quietly. The stage erupted in fire works grand enough to rival the fourth of July. This show is further proof that hair metal isn’t dead after all, it just wears darker clothes now.

(Warning: rambling diatribe ahead on Bruce Springsteen that may or may not make sense, but that's what blogs are for, no?)

I’ve had moments of superfreak Springsteen fandom before. The bumper sticker on my car that proclaimed AND ON THE EIGHTH DAY GOD CREATED SPRINGSTEEN. The time I rented a car for one day (cost: $155.78) on my first trip to New York City in 1989 and drove down to Asbury Park to pocket a few splintered pieces of the wooden boardwalk, and to see where the “Tunnel of Love” video was shot. The day I waited 12 hours in 1984 outside the Brea Tower Records for the slow-ass Ticketron machines to spit out L.A. Sports Arena ducats.

But what I did on Monday at Honda Center easily tops those. I’m in the pit on the Clarence side against the front barricade. Bruce comes over during a verse (What was it? “Girls In Their Summer Clothes?”) and crouches down in front of the ladies on my left. He’s holding someone’s hand and singing right at her. I realize I’m arm’s distance from the man. It’s late in the show, and he’s really sweaty. I reach out and drag my index finger across the top of his hand. He doesn’t notice. He stands up and walks back to center stage. I stare briefly at the glob of Bruce Springsteen’s glistening perspiration on my finger. And then I licked it off.

Mmmm . . . salty!

I'm still trying to absorb a lot of last night's Bruce Springsteen show at Honda Center -- I'll have more on Wednesday, a less-deadline-intensified day 'round these Weekly parts. But in the meantime, enjoy this from-the-nosebleeds clip from the gig, with special guest Tom Morello of Rage Against the Machine, doing Bruce's "Ghost of Tom Joad" (which Rage itself has covered many times live). Watch it all the way till the end for some of Tom's skullcrushing guitar acrobatics...

Also, the setlist:

April 7, 2008
Anaheim, California
Honda Center

Light Of Day -- Tour Premiere
Radio Nowhere
Lonesome Day
Gypsy Biker
Murder Incorporated
Magic
Trapped
Reason To Believe
Because The Night
She's The One
Livin' In The Future
The Promised Land
Working On The Highway
The Ghost Of Tom Joad -- Tour Premiere
Devil's Arcade
The Rising
Last To Die
Long Walk Home
Badlands
Out In The Street

Girls In Their Summer Clothes
Rosalita
Born To Run
Ramrod
American Land

Last night marked the final weekend for Bad Religion's relentless assault on the Anaheim House of Blues.

Since February 29, the elder statesmen of Los Angeles punk have embarked on a blistering "World Tour of Southern California" packing in sweaty, fanatical fans night after night. Los Angeles, San Diego and Vegas HOB's have also been in on the action. With the support of brutal thrashers Death By Stereo and fresh faced beach punkers The Darlings, the energy on stage created enough spark in Downtown Disney to light a fire cracker in Mickey's ass. . . maybe even a few Roman Candles.

As the crowd trickled onto the main floor for the opening act, The Darling's were going full-speed ahead on stage with their slick brand of power chord chugging and AFI style chanting. The vibe in the darkness was a bit flaccid during the songs, but hey, they were opening for Bad Religion and Death By Stereo, so I doubt they really minded that much. However, they got some good hoots and hollers from the crowd after every song. Their sound, a dash of old-school style with a thick lacquer of new-school polish, will mostly likely translate into some solid radio airplay on KROQ someday.

Around the time the Darlings made their exit, one couldn't help noticing the influx of bros positioning themselves near the heavy stage curtain. The Death By Stereo crowd was poised, shirtless and ready for some extreme skull-crushing, borderline homo erotic slam dancing. Don't get me wrong, I'll jump in the pit for a good punk song any day. It's just that some fans are a little less about the music and a little more about showing off their sweet tribal bands and Old English tats.

DBS's front man, Efrem Schulz, was in perfect psychotic form that night as he emerged on stage in a neon jacket that resembled a radioactive banana peel. From the opening song, fans went crazy for Dan Palmer (guitar), Tyler Rebbe (bass) and Chris Dalley's (drums) full throttle thrash that barely even let up for their entire 45-minute set. Punk-O-Rama classics like "Lookin' Out For #1," "The Plague" and "Wasted Words" carried the kind of fury and musical ability that will keep fans buying their records.

Sure, they may be aging, they may look like college professors and lead singer Greg Graffin may actually be one (at UCLA), but Bad Religion is one of those bands with a millennium shelf life.

Scratchy hoots, hollers and fists filled the emptiness above the crowd the minute the Bad Religion's blood-spattered banner emerged from the stage curtain. Behind the gravelly voice of Graffin, original members Jay Bently (bass), Brett Gurewitz (guitar), Brian Baker (guitar), Greg Hetson (guitar) and Brooks Wackerman (drums) were a distorted wall of sound as they churned out tunes that jumped all over the band's lengthy time line.

Man, where to start? Talking about Bently's ripping opening bass line during the song "Slaves," Baker's classic punk solos or Wackerman's wailing snare on "Latchkey Kids"? How about the near-death experience I had in the pit during the classic "Generator" where I found myself dangling upside down in my attempt at a crowd surf? Basically, if you weren't at the show last night. . . you fucked up.

At this point, the saying "punk just ain't what it used to be" is as much as of a novelty as the glossy, formulaic crap that spews out of the scene today. For the generation that got the last sniff of the real shit (late 80's-90's), Bad Religion's music will always draw a gritty circle pit and a roaring crowd chorus.

Last night I found myself leaning against the bar in the dim colored lights of the House of Blues in Anaheim waiting for L.A. "livetronica" band Particle to share the stage with legendary Doors guitarist Robby Krieger. When I first saw the name on the ticket, I couldn't believe the man responsible for writing "Light my Fire" would actually be strumming his guitar in front of me. Another part of me was glad to see that he was still alive. I wasn't quite sure what to expect, but I predicted a kickass show on all fronts. Long story short, ehh. . .not exactly what I'd hoped.

Shuffling my feet over the planked floor, I scanned the crowd in an attempt to find out what I had just walked into. The crowd was a colorful mix of sandal-wearing hippies, silver haired rocker types, bushy haired teens, a sprinkling of sexpots and hoard of middle aged guys wearing business casual. It looked like a bunch of parents and their kids sneaked out of the house and ran into each other at the same concert. Whether audience members wore tie-dye, or just ties, by 8:30 p.m. everyone was eager for some action on stage.

Atzlan Underground has been on hiatus for a few years now, but the group is back in yet another reincarnation. Their original 90s post-hardcore punk sound has evolved under the influence of hip hop and Native American music, yet their core remains the same: speaking the truth in all forms and emphasizing man's primitive spiritual connection to the earth.

AU was the main ticket at Reseda's Palomino Bar last, supported by Panic Motion and Los Hijos.

Panic Movement is a three-piece band lead by singer Benjamin Espinoza, a man with two faces. Seriously, it's like something out of a comic book. When Espinoza takes off his hat and glasses and becomes a completely different in a way I can only describe as the superman complex. The group sounded like nothing I’ve ever heard before, but if you put the White Stripes and Wolf Mother together you're getting pretty close.

Third world logic stormed UC Irvine last night as former Native Gun rapper Bambu took the stage, promoting his newest CD, "I-Scream for the Children." As a Pinoy born and raised on the streets of Watts, Bambu's rhymes and perspective come from a place few people outside Manila or Downtown Los Angeles can really comprehend.

Taggers and art were the main attractions outside UCI's student center terrace. Jive, from the the OL crew, was busy with a mural of a person getting decapitated by the letters J-I-V-E. When I asked him what it meant, he said: “He just got his head cut off because he’s actually committing suicide. . .but before he left, he made his peace known to the world and that’s his peace.”

Jive has been tagging for about a year and a half. Letters, he said, intrigue him.

“I’ll even go to bed and I’ll dream (about) how letters correlate and connect how they can sway together, art seems a little boring, but letters, they’re so dynamic,” he said.

On Thursday night, the Detroit Bar hosted LA-based Indie rockers Olso along with The Side A's and Division Day. With only a couple of weeks before they hit the dusty trial to South by South West, the band decided to make a pit stop at Detroit for the first time, and hopefully not the last. Since the launch of their brilliantly-polished second album, "The Rise and Fall of Love and Hate," this dynamic five piece has been spreading it's roots all over LA and OC collecting fan support along the way.

Fellow OC Weekly intern Pat Chavis and I started our night at Detroit doing what wannabe reporters do best...getting there wayyy too early. We shuffled into the dim red shadows of the bar around 8 p.m. to find more people setting up gear onstage than buying drinks. Thankfully, we had a video camera to keep us amused until people started trailing in.

One of those people was an ultra, super almost too friendly drunk sporting a smile and a half empty bottle of Corona. He told us his name was Francisco. He didn't speak any English and with the exception of an introduction page from a high school Spanish book Pat and I were pretty much hopeless. I think he actually makes a cameo in the interview we shot after the show...so keep an eye out.

Review by Jeff Phifer

A Thousand Knives is the band that you haven't heard yet, but you will.

The group’s very first show in LA resulted in an offer to play a party at the prestigious South By Southwest festival this coming week. A Thousand Knives brings a new sound that captures what's happening around them as well as adding a new flavor to the scene, thus the lucky break.

Sim, as their frontman is known, runs his vocals through a line 6 amp that accentuates the lyrics in a way that both distorts them and makes them crystal clear.

Sure, this sounds like an oxymoron but Sim’s vocals sounded like a megaphone without any distortion. The effect produced a loud, vibrant and commanding sound. The vocals were piercing yet not pain inducing. This quality helped round out the shape of A Thousand Knives’ tonality: Sim, singer and lead guitar, acts as the band’s high end while the low end is comprised of a bass player and a drummer who needs a little more confidence.

At the end of their set arose a cloud of smoke that cleared to reveal the rhythm section had switched instruments for an encore that added even more mystique to this new and compelling band.

A Thousand Knives is able to pull of disco-pop dance beats with dark rockabilly open chord (early Danzig style) and still come off with a legitimate popular sound. Call it a sort of dark pop or pop noir.

(If you didn't catch this show, which very few people did, you can see A Thousand Knives at the Sixth and Alameda Warehouse in LA tonight (that is, if you can find it). If you happen to be in Austin for SXSW, stop by the Beauty Bar March 12 or Black And Tan March 15. )

Also check out A Thousand Knives’ myspace, which has a few live recordings.

Review by Jeff Phifer. Photos by Fever Dragon.

First there was the Rock and Roll Circus (Cirque du Rock and Roll), then there was the Circus of the Sun (Cirque du Soleil) and now there is the Circus of the Moon (Cirque du Lune) a.k.a. “Lets Be Friends” at The Vault 350.

The bands on the bill were local and well used to playing in small, darkly lit dive bar venues. Yet on Saturday they planted their sneakers on a stage fit for The Wailers, Boz Scags, Chris Isaac and Death by Stereo. Performing at the Vault is good exposure for local startups, and being plugged in to one of the best sound systems in Long Beach made the night all the more gratifying for all involved.

“Let's Be Friends” was created to eliminate the degrees of separation, with local bands and old friends coming together to put on a show that was bigger than themselves.

I wasn't quite sure what to expect as my shoes scuffed over the wet asphalt toward Kat Von D's first annual MusInk tattoo and music festival on Saturday. But at the very least I figured as long as I didn't walk out of there with a black eye or a tramp stamp it was gonna be a good day.

The trail of cigarette smoke and fishnet stockings led me to to the front entrance. Despite the biting wind and the sprinkles over head, the tunes blaring from the KROQ DJ booth and hoards of anxious ticket holders helped lighten the mood while the yellow-shirted safety police checked my bag.

I walked into the festival to find quite a setup; the place was packed by the entrance of the main tattoo hall as a diverse mix of tatted punks, cholos, hip hoppers and decked out pin-up girls crossed paths with eight dollar beers in hand. If nothing else, this was the kind of scene that could make anyone appreciate of the over-lapping appeal of tattoo culture. However, I imagine most of the guys there were busy appreciating the sea of under-dressed femme fatales proudly displaying their. . .tats for all to see. Overall, it was a pretty mellow scene outside. I would have planted myself out there longer if the wind wasn't such a frosty bitch that afternoon.

Review, video and photos by Patrick Chavis.

Ludacris, Pacific Division
Walter Pyramid, Cal State University Long Beach
February 23, 2008

A night of protests, hos and intellectual conversation in the LBC: isn’t that what hip-hop’s all about?

The opening act—Pacific Division from Palmdale, California—have created a large MySpace buzz. The hip-hop trio were humble and when they weren’t talking about music, they talked about their old jobs working to make it big in a town they wanted to escape. When asked what their music sounds like, Mibbs replied, “It sounds like microwave burritos and dirty carpets.” You can hear their music at www.myspace.com/pacificdivision.

Before Ludacris even appeared, the DJ played an old Snoop Dog record to represent Long Beach, and asked the crowd if the song offended any of the protesters standing outside.

Review by Marco Villalobos. Photos by Christopher Victorio.

Better Than: A six-pack of Red Stripe.

Download: Capleton and Beenie man videos.

Let us take a moment to bow our heads in respect to the wonders of the large capacity concert hall…

Praise be to plastic cups of 12-dollar Heineken. Praise be to latecomers buying box office tickets one minute and then being turned away from the gate a minute later accused of having bogus tickets. But most of all, let us praise the security guard who snapped at me for arriving late and trying to enter through the exit door which she swiftly closed in my face without so much as looking me in the eye.

I’d like to offer her bad perm and orthopedic walkabouts my utmost respect for lasting as long as she did, ensuring the safety of all Rasta revelers, for having been tethered to the Convention Center all of Saturday dealing with Bob Marley-loving frat boys, ganja enthusiasts, and the bubbling bass boom of ragamuffin champion sound.

The minute I cut through the entrance curtains of the Glass House in Pomona Sunday night, it dawned on me how the setup looked more like an intimate rehearsal than an actual gig. In the darkness of the main hall, the venue's flashing strobes and swirling colored lights revealed. . .the floor, buffed and in perfect condition. Scattered clusters of fans contently kept their distance from the stage. It was a pretty rough scene.

That fact alone could have brought the performances of the headlining bands to a grinding halt, but it didn't.

The night belonged to the Louisville, Kentucky-based rock band People Noise (ex-members of VHS or Beta and Boom Bip), a wild pack of prog-rock thrashers from Corona called Casket Salesmen and Long Beach alt rock outfit The Prisoner's Dilemma. The two other bands that gave opening support were Jupiter and The Steelwells. Unfortunately, both bands had stepped off stage before I arrived.

With MTV-friendly swagger, The Prisoner's Dilemma entertained what was probably one of the larger crowds of the evening. With plenty of on-stage antics in their repertoire, TPD, led by singer Evan Dodd, didn't waiver in their efforts despite the slim turnout.

Long Beacher Jeff Phifer reviews Friday's Friendly Neighbors, Ashtray Babies, Vomit Bomb & Bad Parents show at Alamitos Harbor. Also see Fever Dragon's fabulous photos.

There is a new band night in Long Beach called the Butt Rockin' Boat Ride and it's harder and faster than any other night! This baby is leagues ahead of any other venue on the mainland and Friday's “punk rock night” is not to be missed. I can't imagine what people walking by must think when they see a bunch of young punks hanging out on the "Rocket Boat" but I do know that the kids going to prom on the neighboring dock were WAY jealous of the debauchery that their "coming of age" eyes couldn’t resist taking in.

The Rocket Boat is basically a giant speedboat that can seat about 40 people (well, 38 after we were finished). As we cruised around the harbor, I hardly found time to enjoy the scenery. That was until an ocean swell during one of Bad Parents' breakdowns violently rocked the boat, causing everyone to run into each other. Perhaps this was the way the first mosh-pit was formed.

Bad Parents polluted the harbor more than the large ships nearby, with drums that fill your mind with infinite possibilities. Their music packed so much energy into such a small place, I thought for sure someone was going to crowd surf their way overboard, but I was disappointed.

Four brazen broads and one bold boy blew up the stage last night at Crash Mansion LA in downtown Los Angeles. With the brisk air, clear skies, enthusiastic crowd and overtly friendly staff of Crash Mansion, one almost felt as though he or she had been transported to downtown San Francisco rather than usually musically-jaded heart of Southern California.

The Donnas took notice, and although they climbed onstage almost an hour late, they rocked a set well worth waiting for. Fans eager to hear new title tracks left satiated. And fans in for the long haul were rewarded for their late night excursion with an unusually long performance, including an encore with special guest Steven Perry of Ratt.

For those who've never ventured out to Crash Mansion LA, mid-week is a perfect time to test out the downtown nightspot. Parking was a breeze – at least at 10:30. (Note: The inside space is almost worth the ten dollar parking lot fee, especially considering what a nightmare club parking can be in Los Angeles. )

The sound was impeccable, the space hip without the overtly “too- cool-for-school-and anything-else” vibe usually found at live music shows. Maybe it was the Donnas' fan base, but there wasn’t the usual shoving by the stage, or dirty glares for the girl with the camera inching closer for a good shot or two.

All in all it was everything a rock show should be: a tight performance by a band that has grown stronger through the years, and an unadulterated celebration of music.

More photos behind the cut.

Last night was a celebration of Weekly favorites and new friends at the Prospector in Long Beach. "Locals Only" alum Mikey B. (Le French Kanadian) is in town doing his thang to support his M For Montreal gig and paired up with the Weekly’s own Kevin P. bringing another great Pull Your Pants Up night to those tiresome weekdays.

The lineup: We Are Wolves (from Montreal, naturally), Repeater and Sparrow Love Crew.

SLC’s number one (and possibly most inebriated) fan stood outside on the sidewalk pumping everyone up with “Thhparrow Love Crew! Fuck-yah-high-five!” That seemed to be the general atmosphere: the crowd abuzz with the anticipation of a fantastic show. And probably some Stoli.

Repeater (another "Locals Only" subject) opened the set with their infectious brand of shoegaze serenity. I’ve seen them several times, but last night singer Steve K’s performance conjured up images of Ian Curtis a little more than usual. There’s something so magnetic about Repeater’s music; the melodies have a strong feeling behind them, a kind of audio empathy. I dare compare the sensation to Mogwai.

Next up were We Are Wolves, a band unknown to me no longer. Fucking amazing. Really. The drummer banged (and sang!) with such abandon, sitting down was never an option. A contrast to their dreamy openers, We Are Wolves got the crowd shaking and gyrating like the ‘60s never happened, all done with a bass, drums and some keys. What seemed like an unfortunately short set (I’m guessing 30 minutes that flew like 10), WAW ended in an explosive orgasm of what I’m going to call synchronized-solos. Bring on that Canadian love!

Sparrow Love Crew took to the stage last and very late (I believe it was Tuesday morning at that point) ready to turn it out, only to get through about a song and a half before blowing some speakers. Dammit. SLC proved to be too much for tiny Prospector to handle. Yes, they're beats are that heavy.

On the plus side: I scored an amazing M For Montreal comp with songs from Plants And Animals, The Stills and Chocolat.

See a slideshow from last night over here.

It takes a special kind of person to singlehandedly spark a thunderous clapping session in a dark room full of too cool twenty-somethings. But by the end of Matt Embree's acoustic set at Koos Art Center in Long Beach, any worries of judgment or anxiety had been sucked out of the front doors of the paint slathered gallery to freeze in the midnight air. Huddled together in the darkness, unity and power spread like a fever in the crowd.

Embree, lead singer/guitarist of the OC-based experimental ska band Rx Bandits debuted his acoustic side project, Love You Moon, for a hometown crowd of family, friends and fans on Saturday.

Fighting your way into the center of the pit at a Mars Volta show is no easy task. Hoards of O.C. hipsters and prog-rock junkies found that out the hard way as the L.A.-based eight piece thrashed and howled on a stage erected atop a basketball court (of all places) at the UCI Bren Events Center on Wednesday night.

The energy in the crowd and in the stands was primed for an explosive two and half hours as every inch of the indoor stadium was quickly over run with clamoring shouts, fidgety clusters of mop-headed fans, pulsing house music and a gathering storm of chronic mist.

The band took the stage, horns blaring to their "Fist Full of Dollars" and there was a massive buffalo rush toward the stage. The black curtain that backed the stage dropped like a skirt, revealing a twenty foot tall naked woman bound at the wrists, a snake dressed as little red ridding hood and something that looked like a devilish muppet with a huge corn cob stuffed up its ass. . .yeah, that's what you call a real stage show. All told, there were four backdrop changes throughout the show, each backlight acid trip more insane-looking than the last.

Seconds after strapping on his guitar, Omar Rodriguez-Lopez (guitar, musical composer) fired the first chords of "Roulette Dares (The Haunt of)" from their first album De-Loused in the Comatorium (2001).

With the crowd sparked and lit with frenzy, vocalist Cedric Bixler Zavala did his nastiest as the closest thing to a long-haired Latino James Brown you will probably ever find.

Perhaps you’ve heard of Paper Thin Walls. Their upbeat Indie-pop song "Light Bright" has received air time on both Indie 103.1 and KROQ. Or, you may have read about them in the OC Register. If not, well, that’s unfortunate. Not to worry, though. They have a few gigs coming up where they’ll be playing music from their current EP, “Wake Up.”

They did just that last night at the Detroit Bar and were met with enthusiasm - one guy, in particular, found it necessary to yell “I love you, Maya!” during the downtime in between nearly each and every song. It seemed strange at first. However, on second thought, such attention is probably common considering Maya's the drummer in an otherwise all-male band.

The four 20-somethings that make up PTW - Sergio Garcia, vocals; Adam Babashoff, bass; Adam Castilla, guitar; and Maya Tuttle, drums - can be found practicing most nights out of the week. Having completed their first EP, they've begun working on their next. As long as they stick to the lively sound and catchy guitar riffs that make "Wake Up" worth listening to, PTW should be set.

When it came time for their final song at Detroit last night, the drunk-on-PTW crowd was disappointed. Some guy, prolly that same Maya lover, demanded that the group “play on all night!” Sorry, mate. Said EP's only $5, take that home with ya.

For more info on the Orange County band and to check out up coming shows, go here.

Even though it rained pitbulls and kittens Wednesday evening, a ton of people were in attendance at Dante Basco Presents: Hybrid Culture and Tard & Feathered at the Dragonfly Club in Santa Monica.

If you don't know who Dante Basco is, you probably know him by another name. He was Rufio in the movie Hook. But little Rufio's long since grown up and besides acting and penning poetry, he owns and operates the Dragonfly.

I chatted up SqueekDoe, one of the MCs of Seal Beach-based group WillieWho?, which sounded great last night, even with a broken drum set. WillieWho? is: SqueekDoe on vox, Michal Alkana on keys, Jon Grillo on bass and Sevag Kazanci on Turntables. They sound suspiciously like Incubus + a DJ and a killer MC. The group was the first of four other bands that played, namely, The Love Child, Basco Bros, Marcu Pualk and the Terrapin.

Last night's gig was also a family affair, with the Basco brothers celebrating Dion Basco's birthday. Dante’s nephew performed a song while poetry was dispensed by both Dante Basco and his sister Arianna.

In the back room, Arianna's clothing line "Tard and Feathered" was featured next to Rob Flates, the designer of the clothing line “Children.”

Pictured: A) The band Williewho? and B) Left to right: Dante Basco and brother Dion Basco

Video from last night:

Lichens (Chicago guitarist/vocalist Robert Lowe) has balls. Before a crowd of metal heads who wanted to rock the fuck out on cochlea-threatening volume and controlled bombast, he began his set with field recordings of birdsong, while seated off to the left side of the stage. You could sense he was sending currents of unease through the audience at Echoplex. He gradually added dulcet vowel sounds from his throat and then intricately looped the “oh”s and “ooh”s. Soon after came Frippian electric guitar quavers and liquid undulations.

Occasionally, Lichens would let out banshee wails that seemed incongruous coming from a dude with a large 'fro and bristly handlebar 'stache. All of these sounds emanated and accrued methodically, as if they were part of a sacred ritual. Lichens shaped them into ghostly, multi-layered waves that either left people rapt or utterly bored. (Count me in the former camp.) For what it's worth, I think David Lynch would love Lichens' intense, ominous drones and uneasy ambience.

Om joined Lichens during the last five minutes of his set. The trio eased into a slo-mo funk excursion with Lowe's dewy guitar pointillism enhancing Om's staunch low end. It sounded like Pink Floyd jamming with Funkadelic.

After Lowe exited, Om cranked up the volume tenfold. San Francisco's Al Cisneros (bass) and Chris Hakius (drums) are perhaps the purest power duo in the business today. If Black Sabbath excised Tony Iommi's guitar and Ozzy somehow obtained a PhD in arcane theology and the occult, they might've sounded like Om. Despite offering no frills nor ecstatic thrills onstage, Om nonetheless rivet you. Cisneros intones in a monkish monotone a string of polysyllabic verbiage that would take you a century to decipher while grinding out bass lines with which you could build bridges. Om don't inspire devil horns so much as a kind of scholarly awe. This is philosopher's stoner rock.

Monolithic, monomaniacal and massive, Om set the controls for the heart of the earth, yet their music somehow uplifts, no matter how low it goes.

Photo by Jered Scott

Five guys, eight chins, one instant party.

Long Beach hip-hop dynamo Sparrow Love Crew radiate incredibly positive energy, lyrical choreography and witty verbiage. They own a stage like Donald Trump owns the Trump Tower. Backed by the not inaccurately dubbed “magic hands” of DJ Opi Styles, the four MCs (Devoux, Diggery, Sureflo and Mikey Brixx) diplomatically trade off verses and then chant in unison for rousing emphasis at the conclusion of nearly every bar. Beastie Boys took this steez to the bank, of course, but SLC do it with just as much infectious bonhomie and ludicrous braggadocio (it's somehow much more charming when nice, blue-collar dudes who look like E-Z Lube grease monkeys boast outrageously on the mic than some douche in a wifebeater and bandana).

Every SLC track is an ultra-hype party jam. There's no room for gloomy contemplation or dwelling on the world's problems at one of their gigs. You come to Sparrow Love Crew like you go to your cabinet for those prescription meds. You come to Sparrow Love Crew for hearing “Tabasco” rhymed with “Fidel Castro.” You come to Sparrow Love Crew to see a man of Brobdingnagian dimensions bounce onstage like a rabbit on meth... while rocking pink sunglasses.

On one cut with an Ed Banger-ish, distorted, filthy synth riff and punishing funk beats, SLC repeatedly shout “We get up/You get down,” and this is the most succinct and right-on self-evaluation I can imagine for this beefy bunch.

Sparrow Love Crew play every Monday night in January at Detroit Bar. Go, and wave goodbye to your post-holiday blues.

Magic Lantern peaked "At the Mountains of Madness."

Weekly poster/music zine L.A. Record cashed in on its good karma and booked a strong lineup to celebrate this obscure, esoteric holiday at the renovated library known as Eagle Rock Center for the Arts. Featuring savvy DJs with deep crates of psych, garage, shoegaze and prog (Billgazer, Short Shorts, Heru John Basil, the last of whom got seriously shortchanged, to my chagrin) and four bands you'd do well to investigate, the night only suffered from the first hour's frequent power outages and the aforementioned abbreviation of Mr. Basil's DJ set. Otherwise, the performers mostly rendered the absence of hard liquor irrelevant with their distinctive brands of sonic intoxication.

Golden Animals churned out raw, tumultuous blues rock (harder but less catchy than obvious reference point White Stripes, much better looking than Black Keys) and old-timey barroom sing-alongs. The male guitarist/vocalist wore a suede vest, black derby and regulation Grateful Dead hair and beard while the female drummer looked as if she stepped out of Robert Altman's McCabe & Mrs. Miller. I half expected to see Jerry and Grace wandering in the crowd (I had to “settle” for RTX/Royal Trux femme fatale Jennifer Herrema).

Crystal Antlers' cyclotronic rhythm & bruise and garage-rock barrage scared all the literary ghosts out of the former library, but this performance somehow lacked the psychedelic overdrive of a September Prospector show with guest keyboardist Ikey Owens. Still, it was pretty thrilling.

L.A. duo Antimc (bass, guitar/laptop) found a sweet spot between post-rock and hip-hop and kept on hitting it for the duration of their set. Check out their album on Mush, It's Free, But It's Not Cheap. They're off to Australia soon to continue their tour support of speed rapper Busdriver.

Long Beach's Magic Lantern climaxed the evening splendidly. Their first song was as mesmerizing as watching explosions in slow-motion or seeing a whole meadow of flowers blossom in time-lapse photography. The second song was a ceremony of shaken little percussion toys, Korg oscillations and mellifluous wooden flute trills. The third song was all sacred plodding and divine whorls, a languorous seduction into the psychedelic vortex (I think somebody may have spiked my Sobe Energy drink). “At the Mountains of Madness” transfixed the remaining headstrong audience members and thrust us to said geological phenomena.

Before this transcendent occurrence, I and many others had our photos taken with “Santa” (L.A. Record publisher Charley Rose) and received generous gifts for our trouble. Mine consisted of four old paperbacks with such promising titles as Girls & Sex, Sexual Behavior, The Art of Loving and The World's Greatest Dirty Jokes.

I wish to profusely thank L.A. Record (which is edited by my predecessor, Chris Ziegler) for making this probably the best Christmas party I will attend this week.

Photo by Tobias Schneider

If they were any tighter, they'd combust.

Those were my first scribbled notes of the night, as the Dap-Kings tore through their opening 30-minute set sans the regal soul diva Sharon Jones. An eight-piece featuring two guitarists (one of whom sings), a bassist, a conguero, two saxophonists, a trumpeter and a nonchalant drummer on a very stripped-down kit, this New York octet animate and dynamite '60s soul and '70s funk with the sort of brio to which James Brown would have to give it up and turn it loose. What they do is not innovative; it's just damned good party music that you feel in your pelvis and root chakra. The crowd was appreciative, but still a bit torpid—maybe because the band was supposed to go on at 7, but didn't begin till 8:30.

That changed dramatically when Ms. Jones commandeered the stage in a form-fitting white dress. She has some extra baggage, but she flaunts it—and her prodigious vocal and dancing talent—with not an iota of shame in her game. Jones possesses a fiery bravado reminiscent of Tina Turner, bolstered by a James Brown-like showmanship and a desire to involve the audience that goes beyond any other band's I've seen. Seriously, she could make stars out of unknowns on a nightly basis, as she calls up patrons to dance and act as foils for her song subjects. At one point, she had five young women come up at once and each one exhibited hot moves. But the ringer in the bunch was a mutton-chopped white dude who channeled the late JB with lightning-fast kicks, leaps and splits. Jones' own hoofing was wild and energetic; she moved like a woman half of her 51 years. And when Jones announced, “All y'all gonna be my background singers,” she elicited a spirited response.

The well-paced set touched on most of the new 100 Days, 100 Nights album, but the highlight was a song about Jones' two sets of ancestors (West African and Native American). The music—ravishing, ravaging funk-soul fire—became increasingly intense as it went and Jones matched it with her hyperkinetic gyrating. The crowd lost it.

The encore raised the room temperature with scorching covers of the Spinners' “It's a Shame,” James Brown's “There Was a Time” and "It's a Man's Man's Man's World,” and then broke into a medley of classic cuts that allowed Jones to unveil her repertoire of vintage dance moves (the boogaloo, the jerk, the mashed potato, the pony, the funky chicken, etc.). After nearly two hours, SJ and D-K had left it all on the Galaxy's stage, raising the mother and turning this roof out (see, it was so good, I can't even get my clichés straight).

Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings' “Let Them Knock” (Live)

Cavil at Rest: Love congas all. Photo: Adrienne

Los Feliz quintet Airborne Toxic Event play the kind of peppy, downcast rock I always seem to hear during my infrequent visits to Urban Outfitters. This sort of Strokes/Arctic Monkeys/Bloc Party steez goes in one ear and out the other without leaving much of an impact on your correspondent. I wish ATE well, but they're definitely not my bag, although the fine young things in the surprisingly large Monday night crowd, uh, ate it up. Within a year, ATE will be extremely popular and, I predict, laughing in my face over this dismissal. Just you watch...

Cavil at Rest, on the contrary, hark back to a time (early '70s) when pop groups would casually bust intricate progressive-rock moves, when melodies bore sophisticated arrangements and three-part vocal harmonies, when songs often contained surprising dynamics and tricky key changes. This Mission Viejo five-piece exhibit an effusive elegance, a potent sense of fun, an infectious camaraderie and an easy chemistry. Their positive energy somehow doesn't cloy. When Ryan Hahn (vocals/guitar/keys) gushes between songs, “We're so happy to be doing this,” he comes off as genuinely grateful rather than patronizing.

Cavil at Rest channel their instrumental fluency into catchy songs, not indulgent displays of technical proficiency. That and the fact that they're good-looking dudes with charming personalities (what a high percentage of hotties in the audience, damn) betoken a promising future for Cavil at Rest, who'll be spending much of December working on their debut album as they ponder a studio and producer for it.

DJ Robert Acosta almost spoiled the show for me, though, when he said, “That guy's voice [Taylor Rice's] reminds me of Christopher Cross. I mean that in a good way.” But seriously, check out Cavil at Rest next time they play out, dubious yacht-rock comparisons notwithstanding.

PowerSolo: Nordixie Danes show us Americans how to rock, white-trash-roots style.

There's something terribly sad about seeing Jon Spencer playing with his latest band, Heavy Trash, before a crowd in the two figures on a Sunday night. Spencer once led his Blues Explosion trio to glorious heights of critical respect, artistic achievement and respectable commercial showing. They recorded at least three excellent albums (Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, Extra Width and Orange) and were one of the most dynamic, thrilling live bands on the planet for the first half of the '90s. What made JSBX special were the trio's subversion of trad rock (and its blues roots) through outrageous exaggeration and mutation of its base elements (including cult of personality/ego boosting/Elvis vocal mannerisms), whirlwind/shift-on-a-dime dynamics and sheer amphetamine-freak energy. A show by them at CBGB in 1990 remains one of the most brain-blasting rock spectacles I've ever witnessed (and I've witnessed many).

Before JSBX, Spencer led Pussy Galore, a controversial band of mostly Ivy League graduates playing at being stoopid, feminist-baiting, LES scum rockers. Pussy Galore were the best band on the planet for one week in 1988, right after Sugarshit Sharp came out. Them were the days...

By contrast, Heavy Trash (who include Speedball Baby/Madder Rose's Matt Verta-Ray) are a disappointing retrograde pantomime. Both Spencer and Verta-Ray have done much more challenging work in their previous outfits. On this tour, the guitarists (Matt on electric, Jon on acoustic) are backed by the bill's opening group, PowerSolo (standup bass, tabletop guitar, drums). They competently run through rockabilly numbers that are essentially roots-music museum pieces. Heavy Trash show too much reverence for the past, approaching it from all-too-familiar, rote angles. Their music comes off as a pointless, listless exercise in nostalgia.

PowerSolo, on the other hand, played the same sort of meatloaf-and-mashed-potatoes Americana rock, but somehow imbued it with freshness, partly due to a wickedly funky drummer and a feral, redneck energy. So imagine my surprise when I found out they're not from Alabama, but rather Aarhus, Denmark. Led by two guitarist brothers (Kim Kix and Atomic Child) who must weigh 250 pounds between them, PowerSolo spirited out a series of tightly constructed songs that were instantly memorable and danceable. As reinventions of the good-time rock-and-roll wheel go, PowerSolo's was delightful. Let's hope they make Heavy Trash step up their game.

Last night's Tiger Mask "Trash Au Go-Go" show at Anaheim's The Juke Joint was a blast, the perfect example of a great bar show with blazing bands, distracting girls insisting on conversing even though they were standing 10 feet from a guitar amp, and a, oh let's just call them "not attractive", drunk couple grinding each other, that like a car crash, you can't help but stare at.

Kicking things off were Long Beach's own The Vooduo, a 2-piece drum and guitar duo that pound out some raw floor stompin' horror-tinged garage rock. Neidi Night in her Wednesday Adams outift and using nothing more than a floor tom and snare was lost in the tribal beat of her own pummeling, while Eerie Powers fingers bled on the guitar and sang until the lining of his throat could take no more. I couldn't help but think while watching them that they would make the perfect soundtrack to a Tarantino movie.

After what looked like some confusion as to who was supposed to play next, Woolly Bandits took the stage for a high energy tension filled set. Boasting the inclusion of a couple of members who played in and recorded with the "new" Sly Saxon and The Seeds a couple years back, and forming Woolly Bandits during the The Seeds 2004 Red Planet sessions, these guys and gal rock like no one's business. Highlights of their set for me were the songs I recognized from their debut album, Say Hello To My Little Friend, including the hip shakers "Don’t Want You Around" and "Bomp Shu Bomp".

The night's main event were The Love Me Nots, the Phoenix, AZ band who caught my attention almost a year ago when I stumbled upon them while perusing a Tucson club's website, which led me to first seeing them at the now extinct Lava Lounge in Los Angeles. Nicole Laurenne (vocals, farfisa), Michael Johnny Walker (vocals, guitar), Christina Nunez (vocals, bass), Jay Lien (drums) have only been a band for less than two years, originally intending it to just be a side project as each were already in other prominent Phoenix area garage rock acts (The White Demons, The Sonic Thrills, and The Madcaps), but things thankfully clicked so well (songs, recording, touring, press), that each have made The Love Me Nots their full time gig.

The Love Me Nots are led by Laurenne who completely manhandles the farfisa and belts it out in a range that can go from the croon of a sultry lounge singer to the urgent wail of Janis Joplin in only the matter of the change from verse to chorus. She is backed by the penetrating force that is Walker's buzzsaw guitar work, Nunez's thumping bass and Lein's ferocious drumming (the dude hits hard). With a set that consisted of half songs from their debut release, In Black & White, and half songs from next year's forthcoming sophomore release (again to be recorded by Jim Diamond), every song came off better than anything on that other Black & White album that people are sure to be wasting their time talking about next week.

The Love Me Nots play again tonight in Hollywood at Safari Sams with Throw Rag, The Joneses, Lords of Altamont, Deadbeat Sinatra, and Sons & Lovers.

Seattle's The Girls and Das Llamas hit the Avalon Bar in Costa Mesa last night, the furthest stop South on their short West Coast tour, for two high energy sets in the tiny shoe box of a bar. Set up in the back corner booth area and part of the walkway to the bathrooms, both bands performed in almost complete darkness to a small yet eager crowd who usually don't get treated to live performances at this local watering hole.

The Girls, who I was eager see based on the recommendations of the former Catheter and current Tall Bird, Davey Brozowski, did not let me down with their early-Cars mee