By Matt Coker
By R. Scott Moxley
By Charles Lam
By Nick Schou
By Gustavo Arellano
By Gustavo Arellano
By Steve Lowery
By R. Scott Moxley
Courtesy Jive RecordsTHURSDAY, AUG. 25
Backstreet Boys are their own joke, and the punch line is they will never want for food or comfort the rest of their entire lives. And that's fine, because they provide a valuable service: your pasty kids will need something to dress up as at 2011's '90s parties besides Kato Kaelin. At Verizon.
PLUS: the Blue Whales go Aladdin Sane at (panic in) Detroit's Bowie tribute; W.A.S.P. fucks like a beast who's getting kind of fucked out at the Vault, and does anyone remember how much the guy from W.A.S.P. killed in Decline of Western Civilization Two, drinking Jack Daniels in his mom's pool while her loving soul just crumbled into ash?
AND: Irish Brother David Irish celebrates a birthday at Alex's—couldn't go wrong with a gift of Jameson's, right?
BEHIND THE SCENES AT OC WEEKLY: Steve Lowery loves Neko Case and her New Pornographers and often wanders desk-to-desk singing Pere Ubu songs: "Suh-loo-shun!" Ellen Griley loves Dan Bejar and his band Destroyer but never gets enough free time to move more than a headphone-cord away from her desk and sings only silently in her own head. Will Swaim lands lightly on the rooftop helipad and then bounces downstairs with his suit jacket flapping, singing Elvis Costello at the top of his lungs: "What so funny 'bout peace love and under-staaaaanding?" Theo Douglas listens to junky rockabilly 45s on his iPod, unaware of the angry analog ghost of Tommy Blake looming behind him, and Chris Ziegler brings whiskey to work every day—no one knew till now!—and listens mainly to one Kinks bootleg in his office with the door closed and the windows drawn. New Porn with Satisfaction and the Lassie Foundation at the Galaxy.
PLUS: Peelander Z go Japa-nutty at Chain Reaction; Yellowman lets his hair down at the Vault; Rory Justice the Rockabilly Kid sips soda sadly at the Doll Hut.
AND BEHIND THE SCENES AT LA WEEKLY: They get free sodas! While you and me live like DOGS IN THE STREET!
Is it hot in here or is it just Great White?
BUT: What a bullshit thing to say. I just put that joke in so I could see all the ghouls laugh and then make sure not to sit by them. At the Hacienda in Anaheim.
AND: Is it birthday in here or is it just Abstract Workshop's DJ Cocoe, who turns 33 (or was it 45 or 78? Or just like . . . 29?) this year. With house (restoring) superstar DJ Greyboy as guest at Detroit.
PLUS: Is it old in here or is it just Don Ho? Who is so awesomely old that my friend once went to a thrift store just before Ho started playing, found a stack of his records for $1 and had trusting Mr. Ho sign them all after the performance. Discography on demand at the Whittier Salvation Army: sir, you have arrived! At the Coach House.
AND BEHIND THE SCENES AT SQUEEZE OC: "I was BORN! In the U-S-A! I was BORN! In the U-S-A!"
James Brown, who's he? America's greatest musician/entertainer/low-speed-car-chase pioneer, who stayed invincibly consistent from 1956 (Elvis) to 1974 (Nixon) and rode the inevitable downhill slide with style if not grace, even putting in three years in jail and strutting out the front gate an unbroken man. He was the best: Did Elvis go to Zaire? Did the Beatles go to Vietnam? Did Public Enemy sample the Rolling Stones? (Note: 2 Live Crew did.) The man hauled himself up from dancing for loose change as a little boy to planet Earth's official Soul Brother No. 1 through discipline, hard work and God's most perfect ear—if all he'd ever done was grant us Marva Whitney's "Unwind Yourself," he could sleep satisfied, but he went past superstar to superhero (even stopping those riots in Boston in '68). Plus he had his latest wife get ass implants—only the best (in asses and in everything) for James Brown, who deserves any implants he demands. At the Grove.
ALSO: local roots rockers Jah Fellowship just finished up an album with Scientist (right, am I remembering that right?), and after this show at the Blue Cafe, maybe we can talk about how much we like our CDR copies.
I SAW YOU at Detroit Bar with a '64 Fender Jaguar; your name was Jessica Dobson, and you were thinking Kinks and Beatles but playing Elephant 6 pop; you had a string section in an effects pedal and a voice you could light a row of candles with; you had one happy song that still seemed sad about halfway through when the theremin came in and then the rest were real quiet and slow. Me, I was 50,000 shy kids in heartland America waiting to hear you on the late-nite radio—did you see me standing in the back? Get in touch. I felt like we had a connection? With our newest-liked band Cold War Kids.
2MEX presented by Cypress Hill's PsychoRealm, who are much hated by the clerks at Amoeba for drawing in annoying fans—then again, aren't all fans annoying? Sit in your office with the blinds drawn—be cool like me! But 2MEX is a good dude, don't worry. With Quinto Sol at HOB.
The Rebirth do super-smooth super-sweet '70s soul, with elements from Earth, Wind & Fire but with a Philly gloss, like MFSB without the high-powered horns—whoever produced this must have had a sure and steady hand because the laid-back low parts unfold into some tricky breaks without the merest crease: that confidence in their musicianship becomes your confidence in impressing girls who happen to hear this in your car (or guys who happen to hear this in your DJ set, grammar grandmas of Costa Mesa), which is the same reason you shouldn't ever let anyone you want to hook up with hear you listening to Louis XIV, who as of press time, were still famous enough for that joke to stand. The classiest night at the Blue Cafe since Ike Turner strapped a Stratocaster over his silver-spangled space suit.
THURSDAY, SEPT. 1
Destiny's Child (at the Pond) faces off with Devo (at the HOB), and Donna Summers wills herself toward survival at the Grove. What was, what is, what shall be: you hash out who's who. But oh, wow, Destiny's Child: knew a guy once who wore a homemade T-shirt of Beyonce's ass to one of their shows. Don't know if he ever made it past parking lot security. He was a superfan, though—drew the ass himself from pictures off the Internet.
ALSO: Clap clap for Tsk Tsk at Alex's; pop pills for the Bastille mod club at Detroit; echo plex for Year Future at Chain Reaction, opening for the Locust.
PLUS: A shocked public interrupts to remind us: "Destiny's Child! This is the last tour!" Why? (long sigh) "Google-news it."
See Calendar listings for club locations. Also: be smart; call ahead.