By Alex Distefano
By Daniel Kohn
By Aimee Murillo
By Nick Schou
By Nate Jackson
By Nate Jackson
By Dave Lieberman
By Daniel Kohn
THURSDAY, NOV. 24: Go home to Mom or go home to Dad or go grab your kids or your crummy lonely friends or something; or if you’re really all by yourself, don’t have more than three drinks at the bar; don’t go out and stay up late; just put yourself somewhere with a lot of earth tones and stop being so agitated for one short day: “My baby says we can live in the empty spaces of this life/My baby says far away the stars are coming all undone/My baby says but that’s far away and we’re young/My baby says if the devil comes, we’ll shoot him with a gun!” There’s your Christmas card: TV, table, books, chairs, stuff, it’s a house, it’s a home, it’s a home. Have a nice Bloody Mary tomorrow, though.
FRIDAY What a poor life it must be to mine for authenticity in the wreckage of 50-year-old rock & roll bands; even if it’s there, what could it possibly do for you? The Germs’ legacy is that they were a real-er and better band than they got credit for, camouflaged as they were behind the drugs and the craziness, and they deserve at least as much legitimacy as the lame-but-loved Doors, who beat the Germs to the dead-hot-crazy front man the same way they beat them to the reuniting-without-the-dead-hot-crazy front man too. Shane West does the kind of job one might describe as “enthusiastically workmanlike,” and Pat and Don never quit playing, and Lorna never started, so it should be just fine. Completely fine. The biggest regret? That this show isn’t being billed as “Ex-Nirvana.” If you’re ?gonna reunite, do it right! At the Galaxy with opening bands orgasming with anticipation.
SATURDAY Fuck off—why did Uncle Jamm’s Army reunion with Kurtis Blow, Doug E. Fresh, UTFO and MC Lyte get canceled? Lawsuits by a jilted Roxanne Shante, probably, whose thirst for revenge can’t be sated even by eight years of back-and-forth answer records, concluding in 1992 with her “Roxanne Shit Is Over.” But instead: Saturday night hip-hop stays alive with Abstract Workshop’s traditional last-weekend show at Detroit Bar, this week with Abstract Workshop collective rapper Jud Nester, whose laconic delivery will resonate nicely with those still tired from their turducken comas.
SUNDAY Is one of those mellow days.
MONDAY Little gal Gwenly fills her hometown stadium again, this time with world-class blip-hop contender M.I.A., making her bid for international super-duper-stardom—that or just enjoying the paychecks and the peculiarity of doing the arena scene, just like Black Mountain, who opened for Coldplay and retired to their individual gilded mansions in Canada afterward, or who actually just played a dirty warehouse show in LA for like $500 split among six people and a van and then drove home. What a crummy biz, this show biz! But will M.I.A. have what it takes to conquer America’s flighty 14-year-olds? Pro: people describe her as “fun” and “cool.” Con: people can’t understand her accent. Verdict: she’ll be famous, but only like smart-kid famous. That doesn’t buy you a mansion, but at least you can sleep more soundly in your studio apartment. At the Pond.
TUESDAY Even the CDs coming out this week are being mellow.
WEDNESDAY In their native Wales, they are like the Beatles, or maybe the Sex Pistols: the national pride in the Super Furry Animals is fierce and heartfelt, which is inspiring in a charming sort of occupied-country way because the band can back it up. New album Love Kraft sounds easy in the way post-psych veterans specialize in, a Flaming Lips redux of toasty Beatles pop (add “The Horn” to that list of songs that revisit “. . . hey, Buffalo Bill . . .” with love). A band that deserves its nationalist adoration at the HOB.
THURSDAY, DEC. 1The O.C. show ponies Rooney and openers Simon Dawes, who despite living a Fox-style life in Malibu were able to pound out some head-rush rock & roll at the Echo this summer: total teenage Who/Bowie/Zep worship with a little of the Kinks in their lo-fi recordings. They’re getting some flak for their obvious swagger—oh, how the girls clog up their MySpace with comments—but if only this band had been the Strokes, what a just natural order that would have been. One to watch, unless you already saw them open for Maroon 5. Yeah, that was weird. At Chain Reaxxx.
PLUS: OC riff gnashers Death By Stereo and Avenged Sevenfold blast through the Bren Events Center, a strange meeting between some chill down-to-earth got-it-figured-out dudes—Death By Stereo, who worked hard like Black Flag to claw their way up to where they are—and some eyeliner guys who like Slayer and the Misfits. This will be the least Irvine thing to do in Irvine till next year, when the Wu-Tang do a full show at the Bren. Yeah, that’s weird.
AND: Rokken with Dokken and their limp limp cokken at the HOB.
OH YEAH: The Wu-Tang aren’t REALLY playing the Bren in January, guhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
See Calendar listings for club locations. ?Also: be smart; call ahead.