Tonight Tonight in Music
posted by October 16 at 10:11 AMon
The Fiery Furnaces are playing the Crocodile. Click here to read Michaelangelo Matos’ review of their new album Widow City.
Rogue Wave, Port O’Brien
(Neumo’s) The first album from Oakland’s Rogue Wave came along in 2003, right at the height of Shins-mania. Recorded mostly solo by band mastermind Zach Rogue (né Schwartz), Out of the Shadow wafted along on sweet, pastoral pop harmonies and wide-open compositions, much like their Portland-based peers. Rogue built his sound on overdubs, though, so despite its bear hugging of cuddly pop hookery, the music had an off-kilter, lone-gunman feel. New members were acquired to fill out the band’s live performance, adding heft and momentum to their 2005 Sub Pop follow-up Descended Like Vultures. Released last month on Jack Johnson’s Brushfire Records, Asleep at Heaven’s Gate has an even more vivacious ensemble feel. Rogue’s songwriting is sharper than ever, the studio production rich and warm. Good God: We’ve reached the point at which Sub Pop and Jack Johnson have something in common. JONATHAN ZWICKEL
(Nectar) When it comes to gag-inducing musical terminology, the phrase “acid jazz” is right up there with “trip-hop” and “the Dave Matthews Band.” Hate the nomenclature; don’t hate the… nomed? The fact is, Roy Ayers might be known as “the Godfather of Acid Jazz,” but back in the mid-’70s, he was a soul-jazz innovator, one of the first classically trained musicians to fuse the booty-moving rhythms of funk and disco into the extended melodic flights of post-bop jazz. Everybody loves “Everybody Loves the Sunshine,” Ayers’ best-known tune, a breezy, soul-drenched swinger that’s as positively uplifting as its title implies and has been sampled up and down the R&B tree. Recently, Ayers has been recording with neosoul singer Bilal, and his current touring incarnation reflects that hard-hitting, deeply groovy aesthetic. This won’t be a sit-down and gape jazz show. JONATHAN ZWICKEL
Hellogoodbye, Say Anything
(Showbox Sodo) I was one of the few people over the age of 22 who liked Say Anything’s debut release, …Is a Real Boy. I liked its brutally honest lyrics, I liked the fearless attempt to do something a little different (it’s a vaudevillian rock opera disguised as a fourth [fifth?] wave emo record), I’m a fan of crazy people, and singer Max Bemis is actually crazy. It shows in his lyrics. In “Wow, I Can Get Sexual, Too,” he unapologetically sings about using phone sex with (I assume) a groupie to satisfy himself. In “Admit It,” he, well, admits, “I worry about how this album will sell because I believe it will determine the amount of sex I will have in the future/I self-medicate with drugs and alcohol to help treat my extreme social-anxiety problem.” He picks fights, he calls bullshit, he talks shit about himself—it felt like he was mocking the very genre and lifestyle he was a part of, and I thought that was fucked up, but pretty great. Sadly, their new record, In Defense of the Genre, is a lot less confrontational and therefore boring to me. That’s the thing about the crazies—they’re totally unreliable. MEGAN SELING