LA Weekly

What I experienced at the Nokia Theater was simply phenomenal. Scary in good ways as well as bad. A sign of things to come and remembering the way it used to be.

Setting the tone for the evening, Mastodon opened up and played a very heavy and very evil set that had the crowed frothing at the mouth for more mayhem. Queens of the Stone Age gave more than anyone could have asked for. A great venue for a band known for their extended hypnotic jams, it is possible that on Monday night they even outdid The Boss (who was playing down the street). The acoustics at the Nokia Theater brought this show to a higher realm of reality. It seemed as if all the sound collected at the roof of the venue and would come raining down on all of us in torrential bursts that no one could hide from. Frat boys and business men head-bangied their highs away side-by-side. We were in for a treat as the band was glad to be back in LA, giving us a proper show for the first time since their Lullabies to Paralyze tour, with head honcho Josh Homme mentioned several times how excited he was and how he "he was drinking about it all day."

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You can almost see their personality in this shot

photographs by Timothy Norris

The only notation I have from the Daft Punk show last night is in this illegible scribble – we were all pretty much bouncing as one as I was trying to write it. It reads, “I am the Brainwasher.” That's it, a reminder to mention something about their song, “Brain Washer,” from Human After All. I can't remember what I'm supposed to tell you, though. For all the beauty of the Daft Punk experience, and it is one of the most inventive stage shows ever presented (they could take this baby to the Vegas strip, easily), it's hard to capture in words.

The first hint of meaning in Daft Punk's show comes with note number one, a G, from the “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” theme. All five notes play and those of us up on the plateau with the pyramid stare in wonder at the two chrome helmeted visitors just below the center eye. Daft Punk is playing at Vegoose, Vegoose. What will they deliver? The same, more or less, as in L.A. -- the nature of the programming interplay between light and sound makes improvisation difficult. I haven't really seen the show described very well, so I'll try here for the unfortunate souls who missed them this summer. This was the final American show of the year, though they're hitting Mexico City soon. Anyway ...

A pyramid in the middle, with a grid of tube lights framing/mirroring the triangle in the middle. Behind, a massive rectangular LED lighting panel, like a huge piece of fabric but very pixillated. The three pieces – pyramid, grid and panel -- interact with each other. Colors on the grid complement the panel and the pyramid, move from reds to pinks to blues to blinding white. But the beautiful part of the presentation is the restraint -- if you can call it that -- the way the pyramid, the lighting system, the music, slowly unfold like a blossoming flower. At first, simplicity. Spotlights poking out from the darkness like saucers in the sky. Over the next two hours, the technology advances, whites and blues move to more vivid colors. Intricate light patterns on the grid move and transform. These patterns get more surreal and complex as the show progresses. It's like the pyramid has something to prove, like in Close Encounters when, after those initial five notes, the big spaceship starts rocking with deep, tuba-like tones, then improvises. The pyramid does the same thing. It flexes its muscle, displays Tron-like grids, freaks out, starts a rapid-fire slide show that races through photographs, images. By “Le Funk,” holy crap the pyramid was nuts.

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Random observations on dancing at Vegoose and elsewhere:

photographs by Timothy Norris

Shins fans don't dance. I know this because it was at the beginning of this show that I first discovered that my wristband was in fact MAGIC and offered me backstage access. And free food. And free cocktails. And free hookers. So I walked confidently past security and within thirty seconds I was standing backstage as the Shins, cute as buttons and dressed as chess pieces, performed one of their gentle little ditties. I was ten feet away. My verdict: I would think it would be a little depressing to be the Shins and watch their crowd not dance. Seldom, in fact, move a muscle. Out in front of them, a sea of stationary heads. A few bobble heads, sure. But the asses, they don't wiggle. They must have read Sasha Frere-Jones' recent New Yorker diatribe.

Lame camera phone shot by Roberts backstage at the Stooges.

The best onstage dancers, better than M.I.A.'s, were the S-1Ws, who, for the past two decades, have been Public Enemy's security team/onstage dance troupe. Dressed in fatigues and sporting thousand-yard-stares and deep, resigned frowns, the two troops stood on opposite sides of the stage and did the Minimal Mambo, which is what David Foster Wallace calls his variation of it in Infinite Jest. Basically, stand like a statue and do not move but for the vaguest little pinky flick to the rhythm. The S-1Ws do a variation involving basically one arm movement maybe every thirty seconds. It's a deliberate, militaristic maneuver, and packs a punch.

Iggy salutes the crowd while our hero, Mike Watt, pushes Fun House forward.

I've been seeing a lot of fist pumping at many different kinds of shows. Like weird, nearly fascistic fist pumping. At Mastodon, at the Queens of the Stone Age, a lot of it at Justice a few weeks back at the Fonda in L.A. At Daft Punk people were flat-out dancing – and jumping and freaking and rolling and fucking and Losing Their Proverbial Shit -- but the fists were all in the air, hitting lockstep with the kick drum. At a performance by the reigning worst band in the world, Infected Mushroom, lead singer Erez Eisen pumped his fist the whole time. When it's just a few people, it's not as evident. But when you're standing side stage as the Stooges kick out “Dirt”and all these dudes all amped up and pumping their fists, it really starts to look like a Youth March of some sort. I guess it's just a show of unity, but it's kind of scary, especially these ambivalent days. When you see the youth and they're saluting so forcefully, you worry about who's taking them where. Hopefully it's Daft Punk and not Infected Mushroom.

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Vegoose Music Festival, Las Vegas, Saturday, October 27.
By Randall Roberts

Back and forth we walk, through fairway-cut grass, soft and padded on practice fields, the kind that feels really good beneath bare feet. Vegoose day one, and everything is neat and tidy near UNLV. We flow in early, a gentle forest-fire haze coating the sunrays with gauze, we the fresh-faced and willing. In the daytime, it all seems so simple out here. People wander, lounge on blankets, mingle, like we're in a 21st century treeless Seurat. A maintenance guy sweeps up little bits of trash into a dustpan like he's a theater usher, as if in six hours hence we'll ever know the difference. Vegoose: two days, 27 performances, only two of whom, M.I.A. and Blonde Redhead, feature women. The rest are dudes. Most of the shoes are either Chuck Taylors or skate shoes. A few flip flops.

The set-up's simple: Three stages, each with its own sad, unclever name -- Double Down, Snake Eyes and Jokers Wild – lined in a row, a few football field lengths away from each other. Triangulated at the top is a row of food vendors for the grease to be slathered later on in the night, and booze purveyors for the eventual drenching. There's a ferris wheel, V.I.P. sections, an artists' compound, where there is free food, drink, massage, everything necessary to relax. Throughout the acreage, enough dope to kill Cypress Hill. It is smoked and smoked hard, and the wonderfully porous and unconcerned gate security lend an air of relaxation to the proceedings. A few cops on horseback aren't very stealth, to say the least. (You could have hauled in an LSD lab, basically.)

Or, another, equally accurate take, as uttered by a passerby to his friend, “I can smell the roofies in the air.”

More to come as this, the second day, progresses. I've got notes, but it's a lot to digest, and I'm missing Ghostface Killah right now. But yesterday, the Battles were great, the Shins dressed like chess pieces, Iggy and the Stooges performed Fun House and then some. Mastodon declared their intentions early on: "We came to please the wicked." They pleased us. Queens of the Stone Age's Josh Homme theorized: "Everybody knows you dance like you fuck," and for the next four hours I saw a lot of horrifying fuckers. The highlight of last night? Daft Punk, of course. Don't worry, you'll hear all about it, and more. In a nutshell: a lot of people saw God. And I'm pretty sure something weird landed on the mountain behind them. I've got this one photo that I'm having a hard time explaining.

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Sex Pistols at the Roxy, October 25
By Randall Roberts

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you and fuck you. Fuck you Johnny Rotten for wasting most of your No Future -- the first two PiL albums excepted -- making mediocre music and stealing album titles from Flipper. Fuck you Steve Jones for waxing your chest. Fuck you Glen Matlock for liking Paul McCartney – you are still not forgiven. Paul Cook: fuck you because you were my favorite. While the rest of the idiots stumbled about making fools of themselves and creating the templates of what would become their caricatures, you played the drums and shut the fuck up. You seem to have some sense. Please stop this. Tell them, Paul. It doesn't work.

A pox on all of you silly old men sweating and wheezing and singing a song from 30 years past about the Future -- how there isn't one -- when the very fact of the performance negates the declaration, simply highlights the fact of how lame your Future ended up. Thirty years ago this Monday, Never Mind the Bollocks was released. It remains a beast of an album, so ferocious and angry and of its time that any attempt at replicating it is doomed to fail. Maybe if Pissed Jeans or Fucked Up were up here it'd rock, but these skids?

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"Hiya. How ya doing?"

Well, hey! Someone's in a talkative mood tonight. In the first five seconds of coming out on stage the Jesus & Mary Chain have already chatted the audience up more than they might have in an entire North American tour in the late-80s.

But why shouldn't they be in a good mood? Alt-bands from the 80s lost in the wilderness for years have proved they can tour very profitably. Rather than dingy clubs they can play beautiful old theaters like the Wiltern, cashing a nice check while dusting off the never-quite-got-to-be hits, especially if they haven't tried to foist sub-par new music on us in the meantime.

At least, I'm guessing they were in a good mood. The Reid brothers didn't fight on stage, nor did they talk though, or even come within 15 feet of one another. It was all very business. They plowed through one song after another with nary a guitar tuning or little break in between, bringing out the best, or at least best-known, songs from their best-known albums. And they sounded fucking great.

It's not as if the vocal range of most JAMC songs was ever too demanding. Singing along with Jim Reid from my comfy little perch way up in the balcony to "Head On," "Sidewalking" and "Teenage Lust," I realized these slow, steady tunes, catchy and wonderful as they are, aren't exactly a heavy vocal workout. But Jim cranked them out, raising his skinny left leg behind him every couple of minutes, clinging to the mic stand, while William stood in front of stacks of Orange amplifiers, fat Gibson strapped to his none-too-thin frame, walking in and out of the lights.

The albums on which the JAMC committed their most grievous sins with drum machines (Darklands) and synthesizers (Automatic) contain their best songs, so getting to hear tracks like "Blues From a Gun," and "April Skies" live felt wonderfully cathartic, as if the songs had finally found their perfect home.

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(Photos by Rena Kosnett. Click here for more)

The Troubadour got punked.

The proliferation of stage jumpers, crowd surfers, beverage throwers, and scaffolding climbers that came out to see The Black Lips on Friday totally emasculated the Troubadour's large and normally austere bouncers. There were just too many crazy kids zig-zagging around for them to try and stop it. There weren't violent, mean-spirited punks stabbing each other with spike bracelets — just energetic tomfoolery, instigated by the raw and fast garage rock pace of the band on stage.

(Click here for more photos)

Considering the tragic beginning of the Atlanta based Black Lips (one of the original guitar players and vocalists, Ben Eberbaugh, died tragically and depressingly young in a car accident shortly after the release of their first 7” in 2002), their recent successes seem even more significant. They have a loyal and growing fan base who venture out to see their reputedly crazy live shows, were dubbed “the hardest working band” at the 2007 South By Southwest Festival, released their 6th full length album, Good Bad Not Evil (Vice Records) on September 11th, and just appeared on Late Night with Conan O'Brien a few nights ago. So, I'm not surprised their performance Friday night at the Troubadour was brimming with confidence and happiness. The night got especially entertaining when the band played their cover of classic French rocker Jacques Dutronc’s song “Hippie Hippie Hoorah,” which The Black Lips recorded for their 2005 album “Let It Bloom,” released on In The Red.

(Click here for more photos)

Lead vocalist Cole Alexander had the rowdy dancers eating out of the palm of his hand during this song, evident as they quieted down and jumped back up in response to the cues he was orchestrating from on stage. Also impressive were Cole's tongue, spit, and back bending feats, as well as bass player Jared Swilley's moustache and short-shorts (in his defense, it was really hot that day). During their encore, when Joe Bradley's drum kit fell apart, Monty Buckles, of L.A.'s garage-rock trio The Lamps, rushed up to help put it back together, mid-song. It felt like the raucous spirit of the former kick ass all-ages all-weekend punk club Juvee had infiltrated the corporate house of Troubadour. Major fun.

(Click here for more photos.)

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With Under the Blacklight , their first major label album out in August, the L.A. band played a sold out show Monday night at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. Timothy Norris was there to shoot the shindig. Click here for more photos.

The Bird and the Bee, Greg Kurstin and Inara George, opened the show.

All photos by Timothy Norris. Click here to see the entire set.

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Thanks to the suggestion of my friend Nacho Genzon, I have been listening quite a bit lately to Fred Neil, the American singer-songwriter of the 60's & 70's most regarded for penning the tune “Everybody's Talkin',” popularized by the use of the Harry Nilsson version in Midnight Cowboy. And thanks to some unpleasant and unfortunate personal heartache, I can't seem to remove his comforting, mellow self-titled 1966 album from my turntable. Listening to the first track “The Dolphins,” is like getting a musical hug.

What caught my attention, though, after the 322nd time listening to this record, was the short liner-note biography on the back cover of the album, written by the fantastic music journalist Jerry Hopkins. It is one of the sweetest, most heartfelt, and most succinct album liner-note biographies I have ever had the pleasure to read. It is so nice, you don't even need to listen to the record to appreciate its tenderness (although, I recommend listening to the record). Here it is:

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PJ Harvey
at the Orpheum Theatre, October 15
By Randall Roberts

Polly Harvey waltzed onto stage last night looking like Emily Dickinson after a rough wrestle in the meadow, hair mussed, wearing a floor-length white Victorian gown, its poufy shoulders sprouting high above her frame. The word grow was scrawled vertically down her bodice. The erstwhile aristocrat, 38, smiled, glided past the upright piano, strapped on a ragged electric guitar and fingered out those first low, menacing notes of “To Bring You My Love.” “I was born in the desert. I been down for years. Jesus, come closer. I think my time is near.” And with that melody and those words, this little Emily became Howlin’ Wolf, deep, dark, scary, grunting and growling, stomping, kicking, denying. One woman, one guitar, lying with the devil, cursing God above, forsaking heaven, to deliver love.

Photo by Aimee Candelaria

Her stage was set up like a parlor or a sitting room, a throw-rug in the middle, a rococo chair in one corner with an autoharp placed upon it. Elsewhere, a bawdy-looking bar piano, some guitars and keyboards, a lone cymbal, a little beat-box. Over the next hour-and-a-half, Harvey, often bathed in newspaper-yellow light, roamed from one to the other as if she were in for the evening and playing for friends. From the guitar, she moved to the piano, where she looked like a stagecoach mama sidling up for a little rag. She settled into a chair and strummed the autoharp, and looked like an Appalachian granny creaking out the low-country blues of “Down by the Water.” “I lost my heart, under the bridge,” she sang, cuddling the autoharp like a baby, gently rubbing its back. She jumped from place to place, song to song from across her 16-year career — “Angelene,” “Man-Sized,” “Shame,” “Snake,” — each played with an austere insistence, wrestling with weakness and betrayal, confessing indiscretions. She was, in a word, remarkable.

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By Peter Fletcher

I was reminiscing with my buddy, Bruce Duff, after watching Celebrity Skin at the Detour festival in downtown LA. We were talking about the LA underground music scene back in the late 80s and early 90s (and lamenting the lack of one nowadays) and how there was a camaraderie between the local bands. I may sound like an old coot, but it’s true.

Every week there was a cool bill that was spread around between acts such as: Celebrity Skin, Tex and the Horse Heads, Groovy Red Necks, the Ringling Sisters, the Antja Mimes, Dread Zeppelin, Dumpster, Junk Yard, the Hangmen, Osgood Slaughter and Tragic Mulatto (both from San Francisco but embraced down here), Plastic Cadillac, the Nymphs, Liquid Jesus, the Cadillac Tramps, Motorcycle Boy, L7, Haunted Garage, Christie McCool, Duchess De Sade, Hole, Karmagedon, Fag, Green Jell-O, Rommel’s Goggles, New Improved God, LAPD, Jane’s Addiction, (the one that got away), Seizure Salad, (One of my faves and was only together for about ten minutes), and my unit, Pigmy Love Circus, from downtown LA. These bands didn’t attract droves of hot girls in mini-dresses, and we didn’t make any money, but we could knock any hair band that played the strip on their collective asses.

There were venues ‘o’ plenty to dismantle and relieve of all beer on the premises. Along with the more mainstream rooms like The Whiskey, the Palace, the Roxy and Gazzarri’s, there was Madam Wong’s and Madam Wong’s West, Club 88, Lectisternium, the Coconut Teaser, the Music Machine, the Gaslight, Al’s Bar, Ground Zero, the Shamrock, Raji’s, the Florentine Gardens, Red Light District and the Club Lingerie.

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With only two shows in the US currently slated around the release of her new album, White Chalk, PJ Harvey's concert at the Oprheum downtown had even more of a special-event vibe than her concerts usually have.
Photos by Aimée Candelaria

Photos by Aimée Candelaria

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Devendra Banhart
Orpheum Theatre, 10/13
By John Curry

In every generation of pop music, someone comes along with a fabulous persona to wrap generously around their art. Not since Ziggy has there been anyone as wonderfully camp and exploitive as Devendra Banhart. The songs he played from the new record, Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon, last Saturday night at the Orpheum Theater downtown spanned the last century like no one else seems to be able to do with a strait face. There was Brubeck jazz, Lovin' Spoonful-esque novelities, bellowing Jim Morrison chants, Brazil soundtrack sound-alikes and even a pretty much verbatim version of The Beatles' "Don't Bring Me Down" with Hairy-Fairy lyrics posing as a new song.

But through it all, like Bowie recreating show tunes with a fuzzy Les Paul and a Mime Makeup Kit, Devendra puts his own very likable spin on it all.

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Detour's over, but I just got sent a link to a ton of great shots from the DJ stage, including the Ed Banger set, including DJ Medhi and Justice. Great shots of the spinning, crowd surfing, fist-pumping action taken by Cesar Alvarado. Click the link to see the Flickr set from him.

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Missed the sold out Beirut shows? Ahh, lucky you. They're playing at 6:30 tonight at Amoeba Records. Go on over and check it out or read Rena Kosnett's review to convince yourself not to miss it.

Photo by Rena Kosnett

Amoeba will have a webstream of the performance on their website, but come on, you live in LA - head on over and see some free good live music.

While you're over there pick up the new record from Devendra Banhart. John Payne does an excellent Q&A with him this week that you can read here. (It's not in the paper)

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Rogue Wave
El Rey, October 11, 2007

When the red curtains parted, Zach Rogue stood on the drum riser pumping both fists in the air like a prize fighter, while Pat Spurgeon pounded out the beat (and the too long intro) to "Harmonium," the fist track off their new album, Asleep at Heaven's Gate. It's hardly a song brimming with optimism. As upbeat and driving as the tune sounds, the lyrics tell another story, "“All your dreams thrown in the trash / You were born into war / You were taught not to ask / For every single possibility."

Still, the band looked confident and excited, heartily welcomed by the eager, but not sold-out, crowd. Maybe it had something to do with the last time they had played L.A. as Rogue explained from the stage.

"Safari Sam's... I was sick."

"We were all sick," said Gram LeBron in orange shirt, orange pants, orange tie, and Charlie Manson beard, playing an orange guitar.

"Sick in the head," answered Rogue.

Photos by Timothy Norris. Click here for more.

It's reportedly been a tough road to the new album for a band that for my money was making indie-pop records just as hook-laden and joyous sounding as their SubPop label-mates The Shins over the past few years.

But SubPop is no longer their label. Their new home is Brushfire (Jack Johnson, G. Love, Money Mark) and the reviews for Asleep at Heaven's Gate have been, well... mixed.

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Beirut
Avalon, Oct 10, 2007
Words and photos by Rena Kosnett

Zach Condon has the voice of a champion.

Hearing Condon, the 21 year-old high school drop-out/New Mexico native behind the powerful Balkan-Klezmer arrangements of Beirut, sing at Avalon Wednesday night helped me establish a personal contemporary poster-child for the term "wunderkind." Despite his young age, Condon sings with sophistication and conducts his eight-piece band with a rare and generous earnestness. Because of his baby face and unassuming stage attire (beige cardigan, faded black jeans), it's quite startling when he opens his mouth. For a second I actually wondered if there was an operatically-trained puppet master behind the red curtain pulling the strings. But after a few moments of soaking in the crooning, it was clear there was no faking that smooth, yet piercing bellow.

Photos by Rena Kosnett. Click here for more.

The sold-out crowd's roaring reception to the opening chords of Beirut's single "Elephant Gun," released earlier this year on the EP Lon Gisland, was anthem-like in its emotional reach, and the finely crafted polyphony tumbling out of Beirut's 4-piece brass section felt victorious. It made me think of the movie Rudy - that scene at the end where everyone in the stadium chants Rudy's name as he runs onto the field. Happy, swirling girls in front of me screamed out "J'adore! J'adore!" which is something I would typically find trite, but because I was floating 4 inches above the ground while absorbing ukulele, accordion, and clarinet, I found it charming, even fitting. I can also honestly report that I have never seen a band live that made me feel like being Jewish was hip. Contempo-Klezmer: More fun than a barrel of rabbis.

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Once upon a time, the music editor and maybe 1 or 2 others at LA Weekly would have gotten an advance of a hotly anticipated new album, often months before street date. There's also a good chance it would have then sat in the back seat of that person's car until after street date.

Radiohead made sure our music editor, and everyone else in the building, got their atrociously titled new album at the same time as everyone else. So I was curious who here got it, and what, if anything, they paid for it. I told people here that if they illegally downloaded it, let me know, I wouldn't use their name.

Somewhat surprisingly, no one admitted to getting the album off of a torrent or music blog, and a lot of people ponied up good money for it, because, as art director John Curry said, "Hey - it's going straight to the band. Why not?"

For myself, I had planned to pay nine bucks. I had heard they were nine songs on the album, and that seemed fair, in an iTunes-ish kind of way. Alas, when I went online Wednesday morning, the Radiohead site was down.

My plan for immediate gratification thwarted, I went back to listening to the new Rogue Wave CD, trying to figure out why everyone hates it.

Here's what other people at LA Weekly said, from jaded journalists to I.T. staff who haven't bought a CD from a store since 1998.

"I paid $5. I hear the average is about 5 British pounds, which is
about ~$10" -William Cheng, Staff Accountant

"4.20 pounds" - R., art department (The price makes more sense when you know that R.C. co-invented the Vortex)

"1O US dollars. Being one of my favorite bands I felt like getting it for free just wasn't right. Maybe that's the gimmick. Hmmm." -Chris Blake, Music Manager

"I sprang for the discbox; it was $81.77 with the exchange rate, and the download was included." -Todd Sternisha, IT / Web Support Tech

"I paid 8.79 - (But I wanted to pay 6.50. I got confused by the currency conversion. I am easily confused.)" - Pandora Young, Asst. to the Editor

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Artists giving away their music for free, a chronology.

1906, Brant Rock, Massachusetts. Sailors off the coast of the Atlantic hear an eerie, otherworldly sound emanate from a box given to them by inventor Reginald Fessenden. On shore, Fessenden stands in front of a microphone attached to a synchronous rotary-spark transmitter, sings a hymn, "O Holy Night," and accompanies himself on violin. “Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,” croons Fessenden as the sailors listen, awestruck. “Let all within us praise His holy name.” As the signal fades and then vanishes, one particular seaman, Thomas Charles Webster, immediately fetches his violin and continues the song. The sailors rejoice. For free.

1921, Sugarland, Texas. Huddie “Leadbelly” Ledbetter, incarcerated for killing his cousin during a fight, pleads his case for early release to Governor Pat Morris Neff. During the proceedings, Leadbelly performs -- for no money -- a clemency song that he penned especially for the occasion. Soon thereafter, Neff frees Leadbelly. Thirty years later, the governor, on his deathbed, reminisces about his life. Between images of his first love and his final election, Leadbelly’s little melody drifts through Neff’s head, even though he didn’t pay a dime for it. Priceless.

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17th Annual Divas Simply Singing
Wilshire Ebell Theater, October 6, 2007
By Ernest Hardy

When former choir nun Darlene Koldenhoven let loose a piercing high note near the end of her performance, it may have been the only time in history that an opera singer’s rapturous crowd response was led by someone in the audience yelling, “You better work, bitch!” The biggest draw on the ticket was, of course, the promise of seeing all three original Dreamgirls – Sheryl Lee Ralph, Loretta Devine and Jennifer Holliday – reunited onstage. But even before that fan fantasy was realized, the line-up for this HIV/AIDS benefit concert (proceeds split between the organizations Balm in Gilead and Women Alive Coalition) had made asses leap from seats in one ovation after another.

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LA Weekly Detour Festival
Downtown Los Angeles, October 6.
By Randall Roberts

You can tell a good music festival by the number of sprinters, joggers, and speed walkers racing from stage to stage during set lulls -- you know, the excited fans torn between two bands, not wanting to leave one but not wanting to be late for the next. At good events, the crowd ends up in this semi-suspended state, present joy wrestling expected joy until one pins the other and, lo, you gotta take off running or commit to staying.

You can't see everything at the LA Weekly Detour Festival. But in an event with four stages, participants must decide on their festival philosophy: to float carelessly from stage to stage, or to commit. Those who decided on the former – which I did – missed some bands they probably should have seen, but were less stressed about it in the end. At one point I was walking toward the City Hall East stage when a grumpy girl in red Chuck Taylors angrily snapped at her boyfriend, “I can’t believe I missed Kinky.” (I felt the same way, but I was stuck at the Comedians of Comedy stage, where Brent Weinbach was obscenely, disturbingly brilliant.)

People ran to see Perry Ferrell’s Satellite Party as though he were doling out free joints (not that there was anywhere near a scarcity, based on an unscientific whiff test), but I’ll never forgive him for that shitty theme song for Entourage, let alone the very existence of Porno for Pyros. It was during his set that some girl, out of the blue shouted, “God, I love L.A.,” and she really truly meant it.

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The show didn't end after Kinky, but my laptop battery did. After a full day of jogging up and down the streets to catch good bands, things seemed to slow after the sun went down - not in the quality of the music, but definitely set times. Satellite Party may not have started late, but they finished kind of late. Closing the set with "Stop," and "Jane Says" though (and "The Mountain Song" a little earlier), no one complained.

Raveonettes sounded good, but apologized for not quite matching the festive mood of the audience. "You've been drinking all day. We haven't." Indeed. Then the wait for Justice to start seemed to go for way too long. Most people didn't seem to mind though. Matt Fleischer wandered by trying to find a Sprite, which I had to admit sounded like a damn good plan.

Here are some videos of some of the performances from last night. A good time had by all. And unlike the Chicago marathon, no one got hurt.

Justice

The Noisettes: Count of Monte Cristo

The Noisettes:Bridge To Canada

Teddybears

Satellite Party - Jane Says

Satellite Party - Stop

Turbonegro

Raveonettes

Aliens

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Up until now, it's been a lot of pleasant surprises: bands that maybe a lot of people hadn't been too familiar with, but ended up digging.

Not so with Kinky. Thousands are standing in front of the stage, while Kinky do their Underworld by way of Mexico City Monterrey thing, and loving it big time. Of yeah, Pink just danced her way backstage.

Still, no more beer for me... Someone reading this would do well to bring me one. Here's some Kinky pix:

The really good news is that it's dark now and I'm not a good enough photographer to shoot bands in the dark, so I can go get that beer now.

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Who do I gotta blow to get a drink around here?

It's very annoying that you have to choose between drinks and seeing bands. The "beer garden" is roped off and you can't see a stage anywhere from it. I guess I get it though, because there's also a lot of 14 year olds wandering around, which, if I was 14, this would be a pretty cool place to be.

Shout Out Louds: They're fucking great. Read John Payne's interview with 'em. And they played a good 45 seconds of The Clash's Train in Vain, which is a pretty good way to make friends with a couple thousand dancing fools standing around downtown while the sun goes down.

I was on my way to see Comedians of Comedy when I got sidetracked by Obama's crew, then realized Shout Out Louds were playing and backtracked. Patton Oswalt, I'm sorry.

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"Yea Sweden!" Someone from the crowd yelled at John Englebert from Johnossi, "You've got good health care!"

"Yeah - California loves Sweden," he replied. Johnossi's album doesn't come out in the U.S. until Tuesday, but it'd be hard to be more impressed with it than their live show. A two-piece (acoustic Guitar and drums), Johnossi wrangles a surprisingly killer electric army out of his beat up guitar with the help of a lot of amps and pedals. The 2-piece rock/roots thing is nothing new at this point - nor are excellent bands coming from Sweden - but that doesn't mean you shouldn't check em out.

The Noisettes, from London, have a wicked not-secret weapon in their front-woman Shingai Shoniwa. Punk/blues/Karen O rolled into a pair of gold hot pants, they're currently holding the crowd pretty spellbound. And Shingai just invited the crowd back to her trailer "If you can sneak back there," so I'm gonna give it a try.

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I managed to miss the Aggrolites, which sucks, cuz they're mean and fun. I caught them at the Getty Museum courtyard earlier in the summer and they were excellent - too good to be playing so early in the day here at Detour. Well, I didn't miss them entirely... I could hear what i think was them, while I walked block after block around L.A. looking for the entrance to this place. roots reggae punk songs with slicked back hair and much tougher looking then their exellent musical chops might indicate.

Did catch, and as usual dug The Deadly Syndrome. Indie rock with synths and Chris Richards' shiny high voice sounded mighty nice on this clear L.A. day.

Every 15 minutes that passes out here I see more cops. It's like they're multiplying like bacteria. Come on down, there's still plenty of time before Turbonegro plays.

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Saturday, October 6. Gates are at noon. Here are the stage lineups:

City Hall East

Bloc Party 10-11:30
Teddybears 8:30-9:30
Satellite Party 7:10-8:00
Kinky 6:00-6:45
The Noisettes 4:50-5:35
The Cool Kids 3:40-4:20
Nico Vega 2:50-3:20
Pity Party 2:00-2:30

City Hall South

Busy P, DJ Medhi, Sebastian, Kavinsky, So Me 10:10-11:45
Justice 9:10-10:10
Moving Units 7:55-8:45
Autolux 6:40-7:25
Shout Out Louds 5:30-6:20
Johnossi 4:30-5:05
The Deadly Syndrome 3:40-4:10
Scissors for Lefty 2:50-3:20
Mink 2:00-2:30

City Hall West

Turbonegro 10:00-11:00
Celebrity Skin 8:50-9:30
The Raveonettes 7:30-8:15
Comedians of Comedy 4:55-7:10
The Aliens 4:00-4:40
The Aggrolites 3:05-3:40
Augie March 2:10-2:40
DJ Darren Revell of Indie 103.1 1:00-2:00

City Hall Plaza

DJ Paul V of Indie 103.1 9:30-10:30
Le Castle Vania 8:00-9:30
Busy P, DJ Medhi, Sebastian, Kavinsky, So Me 4:30-8:00
Franki Chan 3:30-4:30
Travis Keller 1:30-3:00
Bruce Perdew Noon-1:30

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Some performances from last year's Detour Festival...

Beck - Mixed Bizzness

Basement Jaxx

Beck - Clap Hands

Oh No! Oh My!

The 2nd annual Detour Festival is this Saturday in downtown L.A. Click here for ticket information and the full list of bands, including Kinky, Turbonegro, Satellite Party, Justice and Bloc Party

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Morrissey
Hollywood Palladium, October 1, 2007
By Jonah Flicker

On the first night of his self-described ten-night “residency” at the Palladium, Morrissey dispelled, once and for all, the notion that he’s the “sultan of mope-rock,” as the LA Times recently referred to him. Anyone who sees Moz perform live will realize that’s a bullshit title. The way he romances his microphone cord, the way he engages the crowd by letting them ask them him questions, the way he simultaneously embodies the roles of old-school showman and petulant rock star… this is joy, not misery. And what a way to shut down the regal and classy Palladium, due for some major refurbishing in the near future.

The adoring crowd surged forward like a spring tide as Morrissey took the stage. His backing band, all in matching green shirts, performed his catalogue with a surefire, rehearsed competence. The set consisted of a flurry of recognizable and well-loved tunes, mostly culled from the latter half of his solo career. It’s been rumored recently that Moz and his fellow ex-Smiths have been offered obscene amounts of cash to reunite, but it seems unnecessary when he busts out old faves like “Stop Me if You Think You’ve Heard This One Before,” “Stretch Out and Wait,” “London,” and the literally show-stopping “How Soon Is Now.” Granted, one can’t help but ponder Johnny Marr’s enormous musical contributions when listening to these tunes. But when Morrissey decides to lay it on thick during songs like “That’s How People Grow Up” or “Irish Blood, English Heart,” there’s no question that he does very well on his own, thank you. The latter of these two songs was performed during his brief encore, the entire band dressed in Chivas soccer uniforms. Morrissey still had on his dress shoes, of course.

Photos by Timothy Norris. Click here for many more from the show.

Read on...

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Some excellent Timothy Norris photos that didn't get put up a few days ago when they should have been: Editors Live at the Wiltern September 24 with Biffy Clyro and Ra Ra Riot

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There are quite a few twists to the story of the new Radiohead album that broke on the band's website last night . One that is getting very little attention is the terrible name of the album: In Rainbows.

But here are a couple others:

1. Journalists won't get advance copies or early access. They get their music when you get your music.

2. That box set is $80! It's real - It's not just a dozen files on your computer. And yeah there's double vinyl... But that is steep - even Bjork's seemingly endless supply of CD & DVD box sets seldom run that much.

3. When the "real" CD comes out sometime next year - the one that you can buy at your local music store (Wal-Mart, Circuit City, Starbucks) - it'll probably still be on a major label. Rather than an admission that the majors still have a lot of sway, this could end up being just another kick at their floundering business model. By the time that jewel-box hits the shelf, who will be left to buy it? Radiohead will make out like bandits: They'll get a big up-front advance, and not have to make any promises to deliver future albums to that label. The deal will also likely only be a license which means they will retain the permanent rights to the album, and will get it back in a few years (and maybe even sell it to the highest bidding labels in other markets as well. Japan, Australia, Europe... it adds up). When the license expires (5 years - maybe less?), they can license it again for another advance, print up some themselves, do whatever they want. That's a lot of hurdles for any label to overcome. But because the band is who they are, someone's going to cough up a lot of cash to try it. And that's after Radiohead will have been selling it on their own three months or more.

4. Who thinks the move is smart? Business Week for one. No analysis yet from Financial Times or Wall Street Journal, but I'm betting they'll agree with Business Week.

Just last week there was a lot of talk that Amazon's relatively cheap, high quality, un-DRM'ed MP3s would be a watershed moment of the music industry. Well, here's another: they come fast and furious these days.

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