By Adam Lovinus
By Lilledeshan Bose
By Gabriel San Roman
By Rachel Mattice
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Daniel Kohn
By Nate Jackson
By Mike Seeley
THURSDAY, APRIL 27
Kim Shattuck and her Muffs riders stampede the HOB, and Ray Barbee wings back from Japan with hopefully an armful of rare vintage guitars for a show at Detroit.
Once-Wonderlove singer/strummer and current Gypsy Lounge light fixture Chris Paul Overall has a fresh-stamped album out today: The Bruiser(mocked up with fakey shots of Overall all barfought out) is radio pop/rock songs all tricked out with production that puts every second of music in a cozy digital pen. Like he claims himself: Beatles plus Freddie Mercury eating a sandwich, and one side of Stevie Wonder. Plus oatmeal FM guitar tone and songs that are probably about love and life, two things everyone has to deal with whether they want to or not. Tip a glass as salute at the Gypsy Lounge.
AND: Apparently all those bands that hide their bald spots under a tarball of black dye and their beer bellies under a black T-shirt advertising their favorite black T-shirt company hugely adored and ripped off the old Jersey band Lifetime, which is understandable because Lifetime was fantastic cranky kid music—sappy, funny, sad, smart and really fast so you didn't have to worry about actually dancing with anyone—but not understandable because Lifetime basically played the PCH club once and there weren't any future members of Fall Out Boy there to see it. A posthumous discography is a dangerous thing, and next-gen popcore is more mayonnaised than ever. But Lifetime still kick around, and when their creaky old knees need an ice break, singer Dan Yemin packs his other band Paint It Black into the same van: part Lifetime-y smart sap, part growly Black Flag '82 shed-bred discontent ("Exit Wounds," off last year's album). More velocity than melody, the flip of the Lifetime operandi. At Chain.
Coachella is a dream date if you're too young to get into a bar show and too scared to drive your folks' sparkly car to Echo Park for an all-ages show and too hopeful to care about 16 directions of rogue sound-bleed that mush every set together and too snuggly in love to worry about the humanzee portapots—holdin' hands and holdin' it in and hustling to the Del Taco afterward. But if the romance locks you up, you might gorge away for Atmosphere, TV on the Radio advancing maybe a new record, Animal Collective beating on carpet, Devendra Banhart (be cool if he was electric by now), der Juan Maclean, Deerhoof insane, Celebration, Wolfmother if you're not over dude-rock by now, and Matt Costa if you are his tight bro from way back when. At the polo field by Indio; allow six hours for transit, and if your cell doesn't work, just hold it in the air over your head till you get a signal.
More Coachella: Sleater-Kinney sound like Blue Cheer plus Linda Sharrock; Dungen is Os Mutantes with a Viking helmet; Murs is coming hot off his Paid Dues fest into that new album with 9thWonder and Giant Drag go meow-meow-meow-meow. And don't forget to suicide if captured by Matisyahu (Orthodox frat reggae) and Art Brut (need more word count to explain hate) and stellastarr* (parent-funded non-rock), plus other junk. Between an angry sun and an empty field in Indio.
AND: Colombian dos mutantes Aterciopelados back for double-dipping psych/soul/Latin/rock at the Grove.
New Detroit residents the Transmissions harsh out a calculated post-pop like the stuff that French Kiss Records loves: every drumbeat and every guitar chord cut in half so we can see how the insides work. Vocals get a little too Tom Verlaine sometimes—and too Tom Verlaine is basically Mickey Mouse—but there's a blown-out Mission of Burma vibe ("Traffic," and maybe some tape manipulation in the last hunk of "Self v. Self," which, if so, great work!) and some fun rubbery Quine-y guitar lines so you can forgive them for getting so excited into the mic. Produce this by Albini and watch it tick-tock like crazy.
You will remember Imogen Heap from her curtain-call song "Hide and Seek," which closed out some season of The O.C.—soft focus, half-open lips, a little nervous giggle and a cockeyed kiss, and maybe that guy got shot too—and subsequently enjoyed a billion downloads on iTunes. Just her and her vocoder and she doesn't ever pour in one of those soda-pop dance beats—a cute thing to listen to once, or see OC people bleed on a carpet to, if it was that episode. Maybe it was the one where the guy ran away on a boat. At the Glass House.
Potentially superior club VSOP (presented by Vapors mag and some other humans) debuts with a DJ fresh from the big scary citay of New York and a vague style-wars summer-in-the-city vibe. Step into the slaughtahouse at Detroit.
THURSDAY, MAY 4
Wait till tomorrow.
See Calendar listings for club locations. Also: be smart; call ahead.