Foreign Born, Free Energy

(Chop Suey) Philadelphia-based band Free Energy are one of those signings that makes you wonder about the relationship between DFA Records and EMI (Shocking Pinks is another)—like, where do the honest enthusiasms of the tasteful, trend-setting dance-punk label end and the business plans of the corporate machine begin? I mean, sure, James Murphy's tastes are plenty eclectic (see the latter half of "Losing My Edge"), but it's hard to imagine him getting quite as excited about Free Energy's snoozy, bloozy, last-call-at-the-karaoke-pub sub-Strokes rock as he does about, say, the Sonics (the Sonics! The Sonics! The Sonics!). Still, it's perfectly pleasant, persistently hooky stuff, if ultimately kind of forgettable. Foreign Born's songs turn from jangly, twangy indie soft rock to pleading, understated anthems, a trick that satisfies on some fundamental, Pavlovian level. ERIC GRANDY

Arrington de Dionyso, Angelo Spencer et Les Hauts Sommets, L'Orchidée d'Hawaï

(20/20 Cycle) Angelo Spencer is a self-taught musician who hails from the French Alps. Last time I caught him, he was performing as a one-man band, stomping out time on hi-hat and kick drum while playing electric guitar and singing sweetly flirtatious love songs. Avec Les Hauts Sommets (the High Summits), Spencer plays instrumental guitar that takes off from Ennio Morricone's spaghetti western scores and ventures (or Ventures) into wilder, skronkier territories, accompanied on bass clarinet, keys, percussion, and Echoplex by Karl Blau, Clyde Petersen of Your Heart Breaks, and headliner Arrington de Dionyso. The project's self-titled debut album, recorded in Olympia, is energetic, moody, and thoroughly engaging. ERIC GRANDY

Eel Eater, Wild Yaks

(Comet, 4 pm) Eel Eater specialize in voluble raw expression. Sometimes their music is a head rush of trashy, thrashy, punky abandon. It's also, in turns, really "out there" in the best way possible. Without ever ditching their authentic made-in-a-basement aesthetic, the gals (and guy) in Eel Eater dally with some awesomely freaky-deaky flourishes: beautifully wrought instrumental shrieks, hiccuping delay-splattered vox, and fever-dream audioscaping (remember that bridge in "Drain You" where it's just messed-up noises and Dave Grohl's insistent drumming? Imagine that, minus the pummeled percussion and with more wind tubes, and you'll get the idea). Eel Eater are totally worth the indulgence of a daylight-hours visit to the Comet. JASON BAXTER

Fatal Lucciauno, Kay Kay and His Weathered Underground

(Havana) The organic cross-pollination between hiphop and everything else in this town is the real prize of all the hype—I haven't been watching it for as long as many, but I haven't seen it like this in the time I've lived here. The good folks at the Ghost Gallery have the plain good taste to combine Fatal Lucciauno—the Central District firebrand whose firepower is full disclosure, uncomfortable truths, and scary-good rhymes to boot—with Kay Kay and His Weathered Underground's sumptuous orchestral psych pop. It's just our town's music scene living up more fully to its always-exciting promise, recognizing one another, and I'm so not mad. Now can we get a Fa' guest verse on "Oh Motherfuckers" or something? LARRY MIZELL JR.

And there's always more in our complete music calendar listings.

Medeski Martin & Wood

(Showbox at the Market) Nineteen years into their career, John Medeski, Billy Martin, and Chris Wood still defy the sad descent into bland conservatism that afflicts many aging musicians. Instead, these sonic freaks of nature continue to boldly put their distinctive, improvisatory stamp on free funk, soul, jazz standards, and hits, rarely doing the expected, safe thing. MMW's massive, impressive 2009 box set Radiolarians: The Evolutionary Set finds the trio as galvanic as ever: funky, fiery, fiercely exploratory—and they're even better live. DAVE SEGAL

AFCGT, Kinski, Arbitron

(Comet) My first taste of Arbitron came via a spray-painted cassette, housed in a single Stayfree maxi-pad box. The packaging was their clever way of telling me something was about to bleed. That cassette was a glorious display of damaged punk, marginally improvised with just the right amount of distortion and percussive spikes. Since then, the Seattle guitar/drum duo has become more solid, while still teetering on the fringe of ugliness. Sandwiched between Arbitron and headliners AFCGT are longtime local favorites Kinski, known for a mammoth sound that crests over moments of heady beauty. AFCGT, who celebrate the release of their excellent self-titled Sub Pop debut tonight, create blitzing, blistering, cross-wired noise that erupts and flows with rock's gravitational force. Brace yourself for a night of sonic reckoning and shove some tampons in your ears. TRAVIS RITTER

Brutal Truth, Super Happy Story Time Land, Streetwalker

(Studio Seven) Watching OG New York City grindcore band Brutal Truth tear it up live is like attending a speed trial: They already hold the world record for shortest music video (just over two seconds), so it's only a matter of milliseconds before they dethrone whichever band (Agoraphobic Nosebleed? Anal Cunt?) holds the bragging rights for shortest song. After a seven-year hiatus, they re-formed in 2006, and last April released Evolution Through Revolution, a 20-song blast of uncompromising grind. It's nice to see one of the true genre-defining bands show up the new blood, not just keep up with them. KEVIN DIERS

Harlem, Idle Times, the Knast

(Funhouse) There's something ballsy (and galling, too) about a group of indie-rock white boys from Austin calling themselves Harlem. The universe needs to regain balance with a black R&B troupe that goes by Reykjavik or something. Dodgy nomenclature aside, Harlem play peppy, jangly rock that would fit comfortably on a Homestead Records comp from 1985. They're facile with the catchy melodies and sing-along choruses, and they exude a youthful shagginess to which kids who buy their clothes in secondhand shops should gravitate. Harlem appear to love Kiwi-pop geniuses the Clean and Black Lips and have a song called "Psychedelic Tits," so it's hard not to be charmed by them, even though their new album, Hippies (out April 6 on Matador), will inevitably garner them major blog buzz. DAVE SEGAL

And there's always more in our complete music calendar listings.

This week I wrote about the trance-sorcery of Lubomyr Melnyk, but this weekend has several other performances of note.

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