By Sarah Bennett
By Adam Lovinus
By Jena Ardell
By Nate Jackson
By Gustavo Arellano
By Nick Keppler
By Nate Jackson
By Alex Distefano
THURSDAY, JUNE 8
Rockers movie alum Gregory Isaacs has been called the Jamaican Marvin Gaye once or twice—a compliment he modestly diverts—but he might be closer to the Jamaican Sam Cooke: "Don't Go" (one of Isaacs' many notable Trojan-label songs) has that same mournful bring-it-on-home sentiment, shifted to the shores of the Caribbean. The Cool Ruler at the HOB.
PLUS: LA Slumlords got lots of denim and leather and cowboy hats, but then again, so do the guys who muck out the horse stables: Dead Boys drink/smoke/fuck rawk with a girl singer. If they got into Destroy All Monsters or Nyna Crawford's post-VKTMS band Murder, they could grow up real good and scary. At Alex's.
Austrian-born John Tejada has a Detroit techno sound for the Detroit bar, coming in just under an upcoming full-length with a disk of remixes and the new single "End of It All" (one side pensive/other side popping). Plus usual Bristol sesh residents Danny Love and Lil' Brandon.
AND: Roots revisit HOB; new post-Starvations band Fortune's Fleshplays Gypsy Lounge.
Club Rubberking-kongs the Galaxy after a 10-year Las Vegas anniversary event that reportedly had a wild drop-in performance by Prince, and while Prince is certainly just as frequent a visitor to south Santa Ana on many a Saturday night, this hometown Rubber event—theme: "Welcome to the Jungle"—will probably do extremely fine without any non-homegrown celebrities. Tickets wherever PVC bustiers are sold.
PLUS: Chain Reaction goes flea-market with its bi-annual parking lot Swap Meet: merch from local music entrepreneurs such as Revelation and the Militia Group, high hip couture from the Academy, comics cutesiness from AlphaCult, and milk crates and milk crates more. Starts at 10 a.m. to prelude a farewell show by poppiest punk band Up Syndrome.
New Orleans' Morning 40 Federation are on permanent post-Katrina diaspora, finding sloppy hugs from sloppy drunks on a tour to promote an album recorded in a New Orleans studio that (who knows?) may no longer exist. They say they're like Jon Spencer plus Tom Waits, but this sounds a lot more like a Sublime flame job on a Meters chassis: wiki-wiki guitar and bow-chika-bow bass would almost be Bernard Purdie's '74 porno soundtrack except for the guy singing Prince-falsetto about locating, drinking and metabolizing alcohol, as well as other party-favor things. Psychic powers say Ziggens fans would love this. From the city where Blowfly performed with a high-school horn section to Alex's, with support by the Husbands—pleasure seekers with cramps.
PLUS: Indianan Junior Brown is the Rick Neilsen of Western swing: as legend tells it, a dream after years of tutelage under a former Texas Playboy prompted him to invent the guit-steel, a guitar with a steel-guitar shark fin on the spine. Double the trouble at the Coach House.
Feel the pain.
Fantastic that Tech N9ne got going from a Blowfly record he got from his uncle: so many years later, he's still an off-model kind of guy, starting one record with an anti-record-labels song (and also getting dropped from record labels) and sprouting up some Pippi-red hair and mixing schizo-psycho hip-hop with booming gang-vocal choruses and righteous Christian philosophy. Something to be said for fly-over country at the Galaxy.
Walkmen were so agitated like all those 2002-ish bands: "The Rat" got more frantic than the Ramones but didn't seem like it had much real life besides soundtracking a climactic prime-time montage somewhere, though maybe that's the natural effect of an industry in which bands get car commercials before they get hit singles. But new record A Hundred Miles Off loosens up and opens out, blowing off the weird neither/nor post-punk/retro guitarisms for a better, more sustained sense of personality: actual Velvet/Lou Reed experimentations done carefully enough to rank with such actual second-act ding-dong-suckers as Human Switchboard ("San Francisco Nights") and Mirrors ("Hands In My Pockets"), and even a light Dylan vibe on some of this—BRMC is wandering down that same dirt road on the other coast—but they keep it tasteful all around. Inward and upward with Richard Swift and Simon Dawes at the Glass House.
PLUS: Jamaican albino dancehall superstar Yellowman depletes his store of applicable adjectives at the Coach House.
THURSDAY, JUNE 15
Speaking of 2002: Radio 4 back for more at the Glass House. Says the song: "You'll dance to anything!"
See Calendar listings for club locations. Also: be smart; call ahead.