A Gulp of Air

I need to take a break, a big gigantic breath, from the maelstrom of finals in which I'm currently engulfed. Last batch of finals EVER, I might add. This time, that pause comes in the form of this brilliant mash-up, which has been an absolute earworm since I first stumbled upon it on Perezhilton.com:



Go to hell if you don't love Carl Sagan.

How Much Have Things Really Changed?

I've been totally transfixed by this video the past day or so:



THIS PERSON IS 16. I guess this is Britney's fault. When she did the Catholic school-girl thing at 17, the world exploded. Miley's showing more skin than her predecessor and practically licking the camera but it seems we're all a little more jaded now. I'm simultaneously flabbergasted by the suggestive ways she's moving her hips and what a great performer she is at 16 and left totally wondering if I even have that much sex appeal. It's no secret that Miley is trying not-so-quietly to shed her Disney teen idol image. God, can you even imagine growing up like that in public? If she becomes the next Britney Spears, don't say I didn't tell you so.





WTF:

Happy Halloween

Alice Cooper will get you into the mood.



I'm going to be Toki Wartooth from Metalocalypse. Maybe I'll post pics if any good ones are taken! Go forth, eat candy and DIE!

I Love the Dead

The Mummies Really Must Be Undead

These photos are from the legendary Mummies' double reunion shows this past Saturday night at both Bottom of the Hill and Thee Parkside in San Francisco. You would never be able to tell that these guys are well into their forties; they kicked every other band that played Budget Rock's ass and made grown men and women salivate and travel all the way from places like Seattle to see it all go down at these two back-to-back shows. Oh yeah, and I'm ragingly jealous of those two Bingo "winners" who scored Mummies records. I'll find you.


Vocalist Trent Ruane and guitarist Larry Winther




Bassist Maz Kattuah



Trent Ruane





I still can't believe I was fortunate enough to get into even one of their shows. I got word that over a hundred people were already lined up at each venue at 7 p.m. The Mummies are San Francisco gold.

From A Few Nights Ago

These iPhone babies were taken at the most recent Kurt Vile show on Wednesday at a sold-out Hemlock Tavern:








It must seem to you that the majority of my posts are about this guy. That is because I think he is completely and utterly brilliant, and the guys he jams with in the Violators are like Vile's four extra limbs. His band brought the heat just as I was told but they also let Kurt do his own thing, especially near the end when he played both "Heart Attack" and "Dead Alive", two of my favorites, off his new album. And the live version of "The Hunchback" didn't disappoint either. Vile's show are all about scraping over new territory to annihilate what he's done before.

A Glimpse into the Future

With Kurt Vile's newest record Childish Prodigy (Matador), it's as if we're looking into a glowing crystal ball in order to see what lays ahead. It's also like being bashed over the head with the crowbar of greatness; this LP is a near-perfect synthesis of Vile's heart-rending, echoey fingerpickers ("Blackberry Song", which moved me to tears), penchant for sprinklings of vocal and electronic effects, and his ability to unleash wailing jams at a moments notice. Indeed, he effortlessly takes seemingly arcane or hackneyed things such as old-school fingerpicking, as in "Heart Attack" or thick effects ("Overnite Religion"), and makes them completely new, completely ear-opening.

In my August interview with the guy, he gushed about the workings of the album, talking about how he had thrown together his older albums in a rush, but had really pieced this one together and fleshed it out:

"It’s just my ultimate album. I’d say it’s my first ALBUM album, it wasn’t just compiled. There’s a lot of layers and you can keep uncovering stuff in there. . .it's definitely more tripped out. . .it’s the closest thing I have so far to my masterpiece."

You can hear all of that. It's the most realized thing he's made; it looks forward while existing as an ode to everyone and everything who's influenced him. One thing I also like is Vile's fearlessness when it comes to reworking songs over and over and letting everyone HEAR the process. On his March release The Hunchback EP (Testostertunes) with his band the Violators, Vile made the title song into a majestic, Neil Young-inspired tune that could've extended until forever. On Prodigy, he's gutted the tune and made it rough around the edges, choppy, and plodding. Somehow, it still works as an almost punk version of the former tune. He sneers and jeers like never before; suddenly it sounds like a completely new song.

He's playing a show at Hemlock Tavern on October 21, and it's with the Violators. This, no one should miss, because I hear they absolutely kill on stage.


Dead Alive
Blackberry Song
Heart Attack
Inside Lookin' Out

Braggadocious

SOMEONE got linked on the Matador Records blog. Indirectly, yes, but can't I just be proud for one moment in my life?

one of these things is much like the other

Most of the time, I have no patience for copies--it's like, do your own thing, be your own pet, whatever. Destroy your idols, as the saying goes. Kill the Buddha. That's what came to mind while listening to the new Sic Alps album, A Long Way Around to A Shortcut (Drag City). Buried in the almost 30 tracks is a roughhewn gem called "Message from the Law", about bothersome letters of eviction, government people who just won't leave you alone and not giving a damn. It's a tight, nostalgic riff-driven piece of cool shrug-your-shoulders rock.



But, nostalgic for what?, you might ask. Take a peep and you'll see. It's got the same tune and bassline, although by far lacking the same sense of urgency, as the Beatles' classic "Paperback Writer". As one of my favorite Beatles cuts, I'm not complaining too loudly about Frizco's Sic Alps aping the British legends. After all, who could resist taking a stab at their genius?



Message from the Law
Paperback Writer

Track Review: Killing Joke

Killing Joke made a few good albums, but none are as stellar as their self-titled debut from 1980. I went through a big phase with this album, especially with its opener "Requiem".

They were a post-punk band from the UK whose music seethed with industrial grittiness, carried by big drums, hard-edged guitars, primitive electronics and the uncomprising, fearless vocals of Jaz Coleman. Early on they caught the ears of the legendary DJ John Peel, famous for his Peel Sessions that featured the cutting edge creme de la creme of music at the time. Their music has influenced a laundry list of groups, from Big Black to Faith No More to Nirvana to Napalm Death.

Months ago I snagged the discs but only recently got to giving them a good listen. Boy, do I regret that. I've been flailing around my room non-stop the past few days, pumping skinny fists to their tune "Tension". I have no idea what album the song is from--perhaps a bit more research would reveal that--but it's a hot one. The echoing drums of Paul Ferguson sound like a giant rubber ball bouncing violently off racquet ball walls--they're buoyantly aggressive but never miss a beat. The clipped, Clash-like sinewy riffs play with Coleman's Londonite snarl, and when the entire-band-strong chorus kicks in, you'd better not be standing still. It builds in this sophisticated way that most post-punk bands are too archaic to touch, save maybe Gang of Four or Joy Division. Put it in your trunk and bump it.

Tension
Wardance
Requiem

Vile

Circa September 3rd, Kurt Vile playing at a house party in the Mission, taking a break from a mesmerizing set of songs that shut a lot of people up.

Photo by Isaac Vazquez

The Underbelly

I can't wait for this Ozzy documentary to come out. I will always have a soft spot in my heart for him, and I'll kill anybody who says his brain is fried and that he has Alzheimer's or something. Believe me, I've heard people say that, and it's not cool. He's just a big teddy bear underneath the shakily-applied eyeliner and occasional blank stares.

6 Minute Interruption

This isn't music, but deal with it. Poetry is basically music, right? Right. This is a video of Charles Bukowski cruising around on camera, pointing out all his favorite Hollywood haunts. I went through a gigantic Bukowski phase, as most people who are badass at heart did, but that was before Youtube existed, if there ever was a time. Now there's a goldmine of Bukowski footage floating around on the site and I thought I'd post my favorite. Forever R.I.P., Hank.

Nightcap

I've spent many a night recently playing this video over and over again, just as I'm getting sleepy, the lights have dimmed, and everything else is falling silent. There are a few live performances of Antony & the Johnsons' take on Beyonce's sassy mega song "Crazy in Love" floating around Youtube and all are just as haunting when you can see the undulation of the orchestra backing Antony's pleading vocals. I'm just glad they finally made it official. One of the most genius covers ever, probably.

Thank God August is Over/Please Be Kind September

August was a doozy, but not because I was spending it laying on some beach or painting my nails rainbow or climbing Mount Kilimanjaro or mourning Michael Jackson or inventing automobile-installable record players.

I was busy doing other things, like blowing my mind seeing Sunn O))), sweating at a noisy house party where people actually shut up to hear Eat Skull and the luminous Kurt Vile play in a living room, complaining all the way through summer school, and chasing down this now-tiny but soon-to-be-huge San Francisco band Girls.



Christopher Owens, on the right, is the singer and lyricist of Girls and easily one of the most candid & intriguing people I've ever interviewed. Behold:

On life after the Children of God cult:

"Yeah I'm totally an Atheist. The idea of God is romantic, and I think it's something that people made up. People are the most amazing things on the planet. It's all foolishness and madness, but it's all so great. People just do these things that don't make any sense. That's what makes them great. I like anything romantic, but I don't believe in God at all. But I think the idea of gospel music is beautiful, and the idea of wanting to be rescued by something greater than yourself is beautiful. But giving people guilt trips over very natural things is maybe the most evil thing you can do, maybe as horrible as war. I'm pretty obsessed with Jesus. Jesus was really great."




On what he would be like if he hadn't grown up in the Children of God:

"I feel like I'm smart and I feel like I plan ahead. I like to win. I have good genes, good health. I think if I had not grown up in a cult, I would have gone to school, I would have been an aggressive student. I probably would have been some sort of successful capitalist, and I’d probably have a lot of money and I probably would not have the sort of feelings and emotional genius that I have now, because it's been forced upon me by other people. I think the reason why I’m sort of a romantic artist right now is because I’ve had a damaged upbringing."

On first getting noticed as a band on Myspace:

"I feel like Myspace was kind of this American dream. . .like equality and opportunity for all. Any band can make a page. It doesn't cost you any money and you can decide what pictures you put up there, and people might like you and give you a record deal or whatever. Or you might get laid. It's such an American thing. It's a beautiful thing."

On the role of drugs in his music:

"In San Francisco it's easy to find any drug you want, so I can just get high out of my mind for three days and write music. I recently have become, because of touring, a lot more sober. To be honest, I was a drug addict for a while. It was a big deal in Holy Shit [his former band with Ariel Pink]. That kind of got the ball rolling. I got super addicted to opiates for while. I would love to just be high right now. The only reason I talk about it is because it's crazy. It's really a crazy, amazing thing. And it's crazy how much of your life it can rob you of. I don't know why it's not more of a talked about thing. It's just one of the biggest thing i my life right now. You can just go buy these things whenever. But at the same time, I know it's stupid and you're gonna pay for it."



It's crazy how much these guys have blown up in the past month or so: I've seen them on countless blogs, they snagged the cover of FADER Magazine, their brilliant tune "Lust for Life" soundtracked the Urban Outfitters (?!) Fall 2009 Lookbook, and the Bay Guardian (the first to get the scoop in San Francisco) splashed them on their cover this week, by yours truly. Godspeed you, Girls. You're gonna be stars soon.

P.S. Catch them at their San Francisco-exclusive early record release part at Amoeba Music on Haight St. on Sept 15!

P.P.S. Download:
Lust for Life
Hellhole Ratrace
Summertime
Morning Light

R.I.P. Les Paul

He flew to the sky today, the Thomas Edison of music. His tunes will be radiating through outer space until the end of time.

Songs of the Void

It's summer. Like the young music freak that I am, I'm staying inside all night wigging out over drone-doom metal band Sunn O))) while every other 20-something-year-old in the city is out frolicking till dawn starts to creep through the sky. Here are some nonsense phrases that floated through my skull whilst on the adventure into the void that is their newest slab of tunes, Monoliths & Dimensions (Southern Lord).

"Ringwraith lullabies"
"the soundtrack to the formation of the earth"
"nightmare-wrapped dreams"
"aurora borealis in slow motion"

"+the cosmos"
"descending into the Nothing"
"music that beards and trees like to grow to"
"what was playing on loop inside Nico's head."
"frozen brain"
"long shadows"
"medieval prom music"
"building a castle out of black bricks on Venus"
"Satan's doorbell"
"WWLBD?"

Catch them August 8th at the Independent.

Iron Maiden: Flight 666

One of the last movies I snagged from Netflix before I put my account on hold to save money was Iron Maiden: Flight 666, and I think it changed my life. Since I first laid ears on Maiden in high school (first song heard: "Revelations"), I've only become increasingly possessed by their music as the years have unfolded. Not to mention that I will forever rue the day I chose to not see Maiden in Concord, CA in May 2008 so I could buy tickets to Judas Priest & Motorhead!!!

The unadulterated passion dripping from every note (and the sheer heights they reach with their musical virtuosity) boggles my mind each time I listen to any of their songs, from "The Prisoner", to "Infinite Dreams", to "The Clairvoyant", to "Transylvania", to "Where Eagles Dare", to "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" to "Powerslave" and on and on and on--and their music has more universal meaning to people than almost anyone to come before them besides like, Bob Dylan. Each song is so vastly conceived and executed that it seems wrong not to go absolutely batshit crazy when any of their songs come on, whether you're stone-cold sober or sipping on midnight soda.

I don't want to give any precious detail away (EXCEPT THAT SINGER BRUCE DICKINSON IS THE PILOT OF THEIR JUMBO JET ED FORCE ONE!), but let me just say this: seeing these six regular dudes from working-class England rip, shred and plunder every night on stage--when they're all well into their 50s--and the way the tens of thousands of hopelessly rabid fans from all across the globe (who are often reduced to tears after their shows are over, grown men and all) who come each night to experience them nearly brought tears to my little eyes. It's too much. Long Live Maiden.

Top Ten: Bad Brains

H.R. AIRBORNE!

1. I, Bad Brains, 1982
2. Re-Ignition, I Against I, 1986
3. Right Brigade, Bad Brains, 1982
4. Riot Squad, Rock for Light, 1983
5. Fearless Vampire Killers, Bad Brains, 1982
6. Rock For Light, Rock for Light, 1983
7. Don't Need It, Bad Brains, 1982
8. How Low Can a Punk Get?, I & I Survived, 2002
9. Big Takeover, Bad Brains, 1982
10. Secret 77, I Against I, 1986

This post is in commemoration of this fact: I just learned this morning that Bad Brains is playing two nights at Slim's on September 15 & 16. Coupled with Motorhead in October, I might just blow my brains out in a fit of excitement. Waiting for two of the most brutal bands on the planet to descend upon our city is gonna be so, so hard. Can't I just be cryogenically frozen for two months instead?

The New Nexus of My Universe

is the Woodsist label. The future-gazing folks behind the scenes there really have their eyes on the prize right now, putting out avalanches of saliva-inducing releases by artists such as Ganglians, Woods, Psychedelic Horseshit, Wavves, the aforementioned Kurt Vile, Blank Dogs, Sun Araw and Magic Lantern, to name a few. The whole of the lot spray their quirks all over their music, an amalgam of mega lo-fi art rock that swing a pendulum from artful sludge riddled with ennui to epically unbridled fountains of frothy sonic glee.

But let's pause at Ganglians for just a minute:

"Hair"


"Never Mind"


I'm addicted to their bullets of psych folk rock. These bearded Sacramento freaks are really on a roll right now, having just released an LP and EP simultaneously to much positive press. There's a spontaneity to their music, found in their absurdist use of bizarre sound effects and all-over-the-map group vocal acrobatics, that really turns my brain on--and I still only have their self-titled EP. Next up is Monster Head Room, their other Woodsist bag of tricks I can't wait to put into my ears--an adventure surely to be documented on these pages. Look for them onstage as well, grinding with Frisco's own Hospitals at Amnesia.

Mail Time Mail Time Mail Time

Look what arrived in the mail today:



One of my first-ever blog posts described Mayyors briefly after seeing them for the first time by accident at the Eagle Tavern last year. The Sacramento band eschews any and all internet presence, except for releasing some of their singles (one of which I was lucky enough to score at said show) through their distro, Mt. St. Mtn., which sell out immediately because they usually only press like, 200 copies. It's difficult for me to encapsulate their sound. My mind wanders over terms like psycho-garage, psychedelic two-step, psych-thrash punk, demonic psych-punk. It's all of these things (their almost avant-garde use of feedback and distortion their gold star): demonic-psycho-garage-thrash-punk.

They rarely play shows because their members are off being cool engineering albums for fellow musicians around the Bay Area, but when they do play, watch the fuck out. People go absolutely apeshit for Mayyors as soon as they plug in, crushing eachother in their reverie. The singer John Pritchard wears noise-cancelling earmuffs, drools on himself and often gets pinned against the stage along with the rest of the poor souls in the front of the roiling trough of human bodies, croaking out the lyrics while trying to wriggle himself free. And now, BEHOLD THE NEW MAYYORS 12-INCH, DEADS.

The record itself is unlabeled, austere and enigmatic as the band itself, like the obelisk from 2001: A Space Odyssey. The ominous, reverbed clanging began the instant I set the needle down, then quickly unfolded into a balls-out maniacal boogie, Pritchard's voice sneering nonsensically amidst the sound effects and earth-shaking bass. Chris Woodhouse's guitar (along with an entire table of pedals) wastes no time reaching heights of shrill insanity, but just as soon as they lock into a sharp grind, the next track takes over (remember, ain't no song names or Sides A or B on this thing). This one seethes with aggressive, murky feedback, all other sounds fiercely competing to bubble up from the sonic oblivion the bass and drums have laid down.

The third track has that chugging, eardrum-invading bass that's a hallmark of their best songs, the shrieks and angry chirps of Pritchard galloping along with the rest of the bandmates. The fourth and last track, finds Pritchard absolutely wailing, his head probably reared back with his eyes rolled deep into his skull.

These guys are the force to be reckoned with right now in the Bay Area, and I'll fight anyone who begs to differ.


(please ignore the content of the video. just listen to the song and let the world around you melt away.)

Love & (The Summer of) Hate

Is it ever okay to not know why you like or don't like something? Whenever I ask someone why they don't like something--be it music, art or even food--and they reply with "I dunno", I get impatient with them. I ask, "But. . . .why? WHY don't you like it?? Tell me!" It's like hitting a wall (the worst kind!), and some people just can't or won't respond any other way.

Saying "I dunno" is a cop out most of the time and I just can't get behind it. But lately I've been hitting the "I don't know" wall myself, thanks to the Crocodiles, who are living in a media maelstrom right now. Write ups in every magazine and blog under the sun compare them to Jesus & Mary Chain or Echo & the Bunnymen, mere 80s synth-pop/shoegaze worshippers who've lifted a sound so entirely that they can't even be taken seriously in elite circles. Yet their debut album, Summer of Hate (Fat Possum), has been on almost-constant repeat since I picked it up and I can't decide whether or not to be ashamed of that, because I don't know WHY I like it.



Maybe it's just the inherent and brazen self-indulgence of their hip credo that I identify with, and God knows I'm a sucker for gratuitous, ear-piercing feedback, buzzy, fuzzy overkill and claustrophobic distortion. In their catchy single "I Wanna Kill", the chorus drones "I want to kill tonight/I want to kill tonight" at length--a sentiment I can't deny sharing. Maybe I just need any chance for a bedroom dance-a-thon, especially on those San Francisco "summer" days when it's 55 degrees and cloudy.

"Here Comes the Sky" could actually be termed beautiful. It's a lovelorn surf ballad made hazy by sunstroke and maybe too many hallucinogens, a nod to the Beach Boys with their inside-out, arpeggio-ed finger picking and boyish vocals. "Refuse Angels", the most furious of the bunch, contains the bubblegum sneers of bandmates Charles Rowell and Brandon Welchez, mention of Leon Trotsky and the pulsation of tumbling bad-acid-trip synths careening at an almost-out-of-control 100 mph.

As the album's sinewy, saccharine aftertaste becomes more deeply embedded in my sun-starved brain, I've suffered the bitter realization that the album's dark, menacing sound and labrynthine mazes of Tremoloed distortion are what cloaks its true colors--meticulously crafted pop songs (the enemy? This will be explored later). I can forgive the Crocodiles for this clever feat of illusion now, but in a year I might be throwing this album in the trash as the high reaches of the "I don't know" wall begin to crumble. Or I might've purchased it on vinyl by then.

They arrive at the Rickshaw Stop this August and these ears, eyes and legs will put them to the truest test.

A taste:

Ripping Up Old Things and Putting Them Back Together Again

One local band that is dancing in my spotlight right now is Assemble Head in Sunburst Sound. Picture this: a stoned quartet jamming on day dreams and sound waves both shadowy and sun-bleached that twist, bend and sometimes turn themselves inside-out. I have this vision of Assemble Head driving a rocket-fueled pick-up truck down some interstellar highway riddled with space dust, with Neil Young & Crazy Horse, Jefferson Airplane and Pink Floyd all riding in the back, blasting The Notorious Byrd Brothers and smoking weed. It's just too perfect.


(i guffawed when i saw how regular they look too!)

I have undoubtedly contributed about a hundred to the thousands of Myspace plays they've clocked in on their best tune "Two Birds" from their third disc When Sweet Sleep Returns (Tee Pee), which they recorded with fellow SF neo-freaks Sleepy Sun. The song couldn't groove harder: after the seamless, chemistry-laden boy-girl croons of Brett Constantino and Evan Reiss of SS get strung into a dreamy melody, the real fun begins four minutes in. AHISS sinks its claws deep into a skyward groove, turning up the solid bassline, keyboards and sound effects while guitarist Jefferson Marshall lays down a completely head-swirling solo that beats its wings until the song's final seconds.

After catching them live at Hemlock Tavern last night (it was a great show, but a verbatim performance of their recorded material--they probably could have gone on some truly wild jams, but I guess they didn't feel like it), I grabbed the album on vinyl and quickly went home to unwrap it. The disc is a sea-green, marbled thing and, needless to say, it sounds even more exquisite coming out of my pair of 1970s Harman Kardon speakers.

Track Review: Rolling Stones

There's a million and one Rolling Stones songs and a billion and one things that have been said about them, so I'm going to keep this short and away from the pulpit.

"Moonlight Mile", from the Stones' Sticky Fingers album, fills me with a wistful kind of sadness. Normally I would be repelled by songs with more than a minute of orchestral strings and piano, thinking it was bloated and a self-indulgent move on the artist's part so he could hear his grandiose thoughts come to life on the radio or whatever. But this song creates a cold wonderland with the soaring, wandering arrangements where even Keith Richards gets elegant; it turns into an end-of-the-road journey in song where we see Mick Jagger "with a head full of snow", but still tired, tired, tired of everything. Isn't it hard not to feel that way sometimes?



I can't help but imagine this song as a beautiful blues moan, just a flurry of impassioned acoustic guitar strums and ticks a la Son House, with Jagger stomping his foot and wailing about letting the airwaves flow and sleeping under strange, strange skies. It would be perfect--even though it's already perfect the way it is, a bookend to an immortal album.

My Whole World's Coming Apart

I need you to go to this link immediately, then read on.

There. Glad we got that out of the way. You better be listening to it. Don't make me come over there. Sorry, it's just that I couldn't find a way to deliver to you this inexplicably intriguing song by one John Maus, a man I knew nothing about until about five minutes ago.

My friend Jon (same-name coincidence not my fault) bestowed this tune upon me amidst an online argument about music. I didn't touch it for a week until it bubbled up between giant blocks of Ronettes and Monks songs. Annoyed by the non-sequitir, I checked what the hell it was, then immediately found my legs and arms moving to the beat, without my permission. Skepticism melted into bliss. Everything in my room seemed to vibrate. Never have synthesizers felt so anthemic. JOHN MAUS WHO ARE YOU?!



It wasn't until I read his Wikipedia that I discovered my new purpose in life, the now-obvious reason I was put on this planet. John Maus is from (or at least lives and works in) Hawai'i. I'M FROM HAWAI'I. I'M GOING TO HAWAI'I IN A FEW MONTHS. I MUST FIND HIM AND MEET HIM. ASK HIM QUESTIONS. BUY HIM BEERS. KIDNAP HIM BACK TO SAN FRANCISCO. I haven't figured out what I would do with him next, but this is my mission. Force him to take me on tour with him? It could be an Almost Famous-type saga! Whatever happens, JOHN MAUS IS MY TICKET TO GLORY.

My New Imaginary Boyfriend

I have so many, but I think my new one has the best name out of all my other imaginary boyfriends. His name is Kurt Vile--and yeah, that's exactly what's stamped on his birth certificate. Immediately I am reminded of the Smucker's motto: With a name like Kurt Vile, he has to be good.

Vile, an on-hiatus member of Philadelphia's War on Drugs has recently released his first sonic collage entitled Constant Hitmaker/God Is Saying This to You (Woodsist/Mexican Summer), and upon hearing it, the album instantly became a necessity for those tranquil summer nights when I'm not in a hurry to get anywhere fast.



These simple songs are fever dreams steeped in nostalgia for dusty highways and sunlit backyard parties. We find Kurt Tom-Pettying it up in a folksy, howling reverie on the opening stomper "Freeway" over an easy driving beat:




Constant Hitmaker is peppered with sound effects that alternate between psychedelically bleary and music box-pretty. You know when you dream, how people converse in cavernous, reverbed tones; words hazy and barely audible but hypnotizing nonetheless? Kurt's voice is that: straight out of a REM sleep fantasy. Add finger picking, dog-eared Philosophy textbooks, blue collar affinities, a bedroom shrine to the Holy Trinity of Bruce Springsteen, Neil Young and Bob Seger and marathon lo-fi home recording sessions, and you're picking up what Constant Hitmaker is laying down.

Kurt is playing with fellow Woodsist dwellers Woods at Bottom of the Hill on August 30. Once I've lived it, I'll let you know what it's like on the other side.

Snakeflower 2: Daydream City

In the Bay Area’s labyrinth of low-lit warehouses, cramped house parties and grimed-out dive bars, it’s a cacophonous tug-of-war for the three-chord crown.

This latter day resurrection of what was born in the late ‘60s--the Sears Roebuck guitars, the off key, offbeat attack, the new breed of onstage fearlessness--has fueled our scene for several years now with a mad flurry of unpretentious, all-for-one and one-for-all shows. Poised to snag a bit of the shiny stuff is Oakland’s own Snakeflower 2, a trio whose blistering, bare-bones repertoire seems as if it were dug from a dusty, attic-dwelling bin of decades-old, abandoned vinyl.

Vocalist and bassist Matthew Melton has lo-fi roots stretching all the way back to his hometown in Memphis, Tennessee, where he grew up playing in garage bands and jamming with prolific punk hero Jay Reatard.

Discontented with the lack of fire in the Memphis scene, he put together a ramshackle, road-ready outfit that would become Snakeflower’s first incarnation. They played what Melton, a lover of subgenres, describes as “art-punk non-songs”. Taking the new band and his musical dreams to California provided a gift-and-curse scenario.

“We decided almost overnight to go on tour,” he said. “It was really ill-conceived. We did a full US tour literally calling venues from the road, jumping on these bills and having pretty crazy shows along the way.”


The band reached their wits’ end by the time they made it to San Francisco, and Melton’s bandmates stranded him in the city and left for Los Angeles. He decided to stick it out and reform the band with new members, drummer Billy Badlands and guitarist Tim Tinderholt.

“Where I grew up in Memphis, you can be guaranteed that no one’s gonna pay any attention to you,” said Melton. “Here there’s so much more energy in the scene and plus, being surrounded by so many great bands is such a motivation to keep making great music.”

It’s easy to hear what the California scene has done for Snakeflower 2’s live shows and recordings; their aggression is undeniable. The band’s late-2008 release Renegade Daydream (Tic Tac Totally) is steeped in the dire urgency of a fragile heart under pressure. It grooves hard on dagger-sharp hooks and viciously airtight chord progressions, all hammered out at shit-hot speed to keep up with Melton’s nervy vocal swagger. “Memory Castle”, the album’s single, is awash in psychedelic, tunnel-vision reverb and ruminates on lost dreams and the courage it takes to get them back.

For the next album, due in Spring 2010 with their first European tour, Melton’s got his eyes on a new direction for Snakeflower 2. When his other brainchild, smooth-punk outfit Bare Wires, began to get hot, Snakeflower 2’s gigs took a hiatus. But during that time, Melton devoted himself to writing fresh and epic material unlike anything most garage bands have touched before.

“I’ve actually been working in secret to write and record a 14-minute long cantata called ‘Forbidden Melody’,” he explained. “I was really trying to find time to set aside to isolate myself for really pure ideas to work with. It’s something totally different, almost like a rock opera. I was taking choruses and refrains from songs and stringing them together. I’m trying to go a little bit further, really trying to come up with something new.”

Leave it to Melton and his mates to shoot the moon and score an album out of it, while the rest of the garage scene sticks to the ordinary.

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This is the OG version of what appeared in the San Francisco Bay Guardian. Today I experienced one of the many varieties of potholes and shitstorms young writers must endure to get more than just their feet in the door: weird, unauthorized edits and a massively bruised ego. The ones my editors chose for the published piece came out of nowhere and fall flat on the page, and I almost involuntarily punched my boyfriend in the face because I was so overcome by anger.

My byline stands proudly here.

MJ Omelette

It's really something the way the world seemed to stop for a few days after Michael Jackson died. It quickly became apparent that EVERYONE gave a shit about him, on a level I couldn't have predicted because all I ever heard were cruel jokes and guffaws when I spoke of my own super-fandom. And in the media maelstrom of tributes, retrospectives, op-eds, top tens and unforgiving, sensationalistic news updates, it's obvious that the public will stop at nothing to find out everything about one of the most controversial, enigmatic human beings we've never known.

But why does anything else about him matter? No one would have ever cared about the guy if it weren't for his music. It's safe to say that MJ concocted the most universally timeless music since Bach and Beethoven. Take away the music from the man and all he had left was a life people loved to ridicule over a few beers. It's also safe to say that at 50, his creative streak had probably long dried up, but who cares? What Michael Jackson already made is written in stone.

RIP Michael Jackson

Dead at 50. Cardiac Arrest. From what? Can you believe it?

Thriller was my lifeblood growing up. It always made me move. I still know Vincent Price's rap by heart, and can do a perfect air guitar to Eddie Van Halen's "Beat It" solo.

Musical genius. Don't care what anybody says.

Blowin' It

The Rubdown's newest single "Idiot Heart".

If Sunset Rubdown's main mouth Spencer Krug's head was something you could crack open, a carnival of sights, sounds and ideas would spill out onto your shoes. Brilliant flashing-light melodies, a freak-show parade of instruments, and Krug's trumpeting, nouveau yodel have lead their sweeping cavalcade of songs over the span of this Montreal-born band's short yet impressive discography since Krug went rogue from Wolf Parade. But nowhere has Krug's grand ferocity shone as brightly as on Sunset Rubdown's third LP, Dragonslayer (Jagjaguwar). Their lo-fi past has finally been left in the dust for an ambitiously experimental oeuvre: indie opuses painted with complex, chutes-and-ladders arrangements; banshee-guitar trills; and tales of taut heartstrings and Icarus dreams swirl together in a fireworks-display of madcap musicianship.

Their show at Rickshaw Stop is sold out and I couldn't get my sweaty fingers on a ticket because I was too busy being lazy and eating sandwiches and punching holes in the walls about having to start summer school. OH WELL.

This Is Revealing

I was recently asked by my friend David what song was at the top of my iTunes play count. "No bullshit," he said. And dudes, of course I have nothing to hide: reigning over my play count is Neil Diamond's "Forever in Blue Jeans".

There's really no explanation behind it other than Neil Diamond's Greatest Hits is one of those albums so central to my youth that I will never be able to shake it (others include Mariah Carey's Music Box, Rubber Soul, Thriller and Roy Orbison's Greatest). It reminds me of the sunniest of days, carefree and zooming around my neighborhood on my neon yellow bike in the afternoons, blonde hair flying in the wind; coping with waiting till my parents finished cooking dinner by dancing in the living room and singing my 8-year-old lungs out pretending I was on stage under lights. It was back when I thought a two-week Christmas vacation seemed like two years, my favorite movie was "The Wizard" and I actually liked McDonald's.

Yet, it's evolved into this lionized anthem, a song I would play at my wedding or funeral. It's a vivid ray of memory into the way I once was: little, new, excited. The song is honest and simple, celebrating love only the way the Diamond can. It unwinds on an easy guitar lick and steady bass drum, punctuated by trios of triumphant vibraphone notes carrying lines like: "Money talks, but it don't sing and dance and it don't walk"-----Yeah, Neil. Sing it.

What's atop your iTunes play count?

Ye olde warriors of analog acid trips

Peep this article I wrote for the San Francisco Bay Guardian for the week of May 13th.

Track Review: Thee Oh Sees

Thee Oh Sees third album, HELP (In the Red) isn't out yet, but that hasn't stopped me from getting my hot little paws on it at a recent show.

At first, I was underwhelmed by HELP in its entirety, especially after seeing most of the tracks played live (Oh Sees shows are practically untouchable). Then an angel was sent from the heavens in the form of an early birthday present: a new pair of Sennheiser headphones , which gave the album the dimension and buoyancy I thought was gone.

"I Can't Get No" quickly breaks into a smooth gallop after a few space-age guitar licks and yelps from John Dwyer, San Francisco's musical kingpin. With flourishing drums and guitar, the song is off like a race horse on derby day, Dwyer's voice hugging bandmate Brigid Dawsom's for dear life in a tight-knit, staccato cascade of words and genius phrasing as they declare "I can't/get no/help at all!" Laser-cut drum runs string the verses together seamlessly as taut guitar chord progressions form the song's vibrant bedrock. Dwyer and Dawson's unfettered wails of beautiful, minor-key anguish about the pitfalls of self-reliance could almost be mistaken for quite the opposite.

After the mindbending, whiz-bang cohesion of their critical smash The Master's Bedroom is Worth Spending a Night In, the rest of HELP needs to prove its greatness in new and different ways, but I'm not worried---I have a feeling the genius of Thee Oh Sees is lying around in there somewhere.

Dwyer bids you adieu:

Pleased to Meet You

This is my bass. He's an ESP Ltd., and a ravishing blonde with two badass, obsidian EMG pickups gleaming with sinister, bombastic intent.

We just celebrated our two-month anniversary together by learning a few Oh Sees songs, although he's been pushing me to move on to "Where Eagles Dare" and "Flight of Icarus" by Iron Maiden sooner rather than later.

I purchased him from Rocker Guitars just before Thanksgiving with a paycheck and a half and a head full of ideas. I was tired of being merely a spectator when it came to music--obviously taking music fairly seriously and being endlessly fascinated by those who make it can only satiate a person so much. A bridge must be built, and then must be crossed.

Coachwhips, I barely knew ye

If only I were cooler 5 years ago, when the Coachwhips were shooting things up with their hissing and growling kamikaze garage rock. I undoubtedly would have played them so loud and repeatedly that any set of speakers I owned at the time would have been ripped to shreds in a matter of weeks. What was I listening to back in 2004 anyway? I was listening to a lot of Black Sabbath, Interpol, Flaming Lips, YYYs, Ratatat, Ziggy Stardust, and Television. Quite the cheese plate, but clearly I wasn't a total lost cause.

Alas, it was only last month that I really started to bang my head and move this old pair of hips to the Whips' 2003 album Get Yer Body Next Ta Mine. The long-player spits out the Whips' when-it-rains-it-pours feedback punk stomp in approximately 27 minutes, making John Dwyer's scratchy screen door blues wail and his electric guitar's adrenochrome yelps seem like even more of a swaggering masterpiece. The velocity of John Harlow's drums make me feel out of breath just thinking about them; they sound as if a magically-tamed rabid dog grew opposable thumbs and got behind a drumset, crashing, clanging, and foaming at the mouth.

Slightly less conceptually chaotic than other releases like Peanut Butter and Jelly Live at the Ginger Minge, Get Yer Body is a rollicking, cohesive set of incomprehensibly-sung tunes where occasionally the words of song titles bubble up from the visceral murk (innuendo-laden numbers like "I Put it in Way Down South" and "Hey Stiffie" cast an intriguing umbrage, indeed), punctuated by avalanches of two- or three-note staccato Dwyer guitarisms. The mad "UFO, Please Take Her Home" is a careening porch holler that reduced me to pinwheeling around my bedroom, casting punches in several directions and kicking things.

The glorious scuzz that defines the Coachwhips' repertoire makes me upset that I hadn't made this my senior-year-in-high-school soundtrack, when it would have been the perfect excuse, neé the REASON for dabbling in mischief while I could still get away with it. John Dwyer lives on Haight Street--maybe I'll drop by with some beers and beg him to get back on the wagon, even though he's busy churning guts with his new band, Thee Oh Sees. For now, I'll have to be content dwelling on the past.