

Los Angeles artist Julia Holter brought her ethereal aesthetic to lovely life yesterday in the rosy-hued confines of Barboza on a damp and clammy night.
The comparisons to Laurie Anderson make sense when you listen to her records, Tragedy and Ekstasis, but that influence has little bearing on her live show. Afterwards, it occurred to me that Holter is what you'd get if Lisa Gerrard had formed Dead Can Dance with Arthur Russell instead of Brendan Perry.
More pictures and a Jib Kidder collaboration below.

Though I lived just outside Washington DC for a few months back in the 1970s, when my Dad was located in Falls Church, VA, I never got to see the DC-based Bad Brains live. They formed in 1979; we moved to the Bay Area in 1975, and I've never been back. In retrospect: I couldn't have handled the Bad Brains of the late-'70s. I grew up on classic rock and Top 40. The minute I heard the group, not long after I moved to Seattle, I fell in love, but by the late-'80s, I was ready for their super-charged sound. The first thing I bought was the tape above.
I still love the Bad Brains, I always will, and Benjamen Logan's documentary, A Band in DC, which premiered last night at Pacific Place (as part of SIFF's Face the Music series), makes a good case for their influence on a number of other hardcore and hip-hop artists, including Henry Rollins, Ian MacKaye, and the Beastie Boys. I cannot lie: when Adam Yauch* appeared on screen, I started to cry. And it isn't just a cameo appearance; he goes into a lot more detail than Mike D or Ad-Rock (the latter spends most of the interview chewing gum).
* Yauch produced the Bad Brains' eighth album, Build a Nation (Megaforce, 2007).

Actor Matthew Lillard's directorial debut, Fat Kid Rules the World, pivots on a Renton high school student who finds himself through punk rock. Although Jacob Wysocki, who plays Troy, wasn't in attendance at last night's Egyptian screening, most of the rest of the cast and crew showed up, including Lillard, Matt O'Leary (who also stars in Megan Griffiths' Eden), and Billy Campbell, who's been working on The Killing in Vancouver. Unlike the AMC series, which claims to take place in Seattle, Lillard's adaption of the K.L. Going novel was actually shot here.
More pictures below.

Life is so weird. But it's the weird that makes it awesome.
Last night I spent Mother's Day with my mom at the Paramount, watching Death Cab for Cutie perform with the Magik*Magik Orchestra. It was the third concert I've ever been to with my mom. First was New Kids on the Block at the Tacoma Dome. Then, Barry Manilow at the KeyArena (no shame).
The first night of this weekend's Psychic Circle mini-fest kicked things off in high fashion at Electric Tea Garden. Second Sight DJs Rxch Wxtch and Ozma Otacava kept the room moving with dubby beats and euro rave-ups in equal measure. Portland's Litanic Mask stunned with '70s-tinged ballads that sounded like an explosion filmed on one of those fancy slow-mo cameras played in reverse... under water.
The air in the room was suitably thick as Light Asylum took stage. They tore through their goth-as-hell synth manifestos with fury and finesse. Front woman Shannon Funchess is an absolute force of nature, her eyes bugging out of her head and every muscle in her body held taught as she sung and dance and basically just rocked the fuck out. This is an act to see live — their recordings paling in comparison to the power of their performance, which is not said as a slight — they just really bring it on stage.
All in all, it was a great start to what should be a great weekend.

From the moment I arrived, I stood directly in front of the stage, but the pushing, shoving, and drink-throwing started early on. Until then, I took as many pictures as possible of White Fence and Ty Segall, but when I couldn't take it any more, I moved to the side, where the situation was more calm, although that presented another problem since I ended up in the path of the oil plates, which a couple of Chop Suey staffers changed out repeatedly to keep the light show going. To their credit, they didn't spill any oil, despite all the non-stop jostling (due to my work schedule, I missed all of the Tea Cozies and most of the Pharmacy).

It wasn't supposed to happen this way, but Chicago busker-turned-recording artist Willis Earl Beal turned out to be the first artist to play Barboza, the new basement club located beneath Neumos, when the venue wasn't ready in time for the other acts—Tanlines, Frankie Rose, etc.—Eli Anderson had booked before last night.
Beal proved himself an odd, but hardly unpleasant choice. On the contrary, he poured his heart into his set, and the audience was into it—those gathered around the low-slung stage, that is. The people at the bar and in the back booths couldn't give a shit, or they would've minimized the chatter whenever Beal turned down the volume—which wasn't often. I don't mean to be harsh; maybe there's something about the acoustics in the room that amplifies conversation, but it was like a loud, irritating buzz around my head (and no, I hadn't been drinking).
Colin Stetson emits strobes of sound. Last night at Columbia City Theater was remarkable. His bass sax is more an armada than an instrument. His songs are more physical expenditures where he rifles through cycles of notes to create lattice or web of sound. Out of that, harmonies rise from his throat and parts of the sax you didn’t know existed. To see Stetson play, is to wonder how he does it. Throat veins and neck muscles engorge and bulge. He’s a physical specimen. Many things simultaneously happen when he plays (using all parts of the sax): circularly breathing, tongue slapping, throat singing, and the keys sound off as beats. Sections droned and growled. Other phases knifed through scales. Stetson is a singular force, a one-man fleet, moving out large chunks of sound.
Here's some (non-professional) video from the show:
And for much of the remaining set, that wasn't a problem. In front of a crowd of 40 or so (occupancy at that hour seemed to be about 75-80 total, although I'm a horrible judge of such things), Beal bellowed and crow with a power that filled every inch of the room and made up for any spareness in his accompanying instrumentals. There's no question Beal is someone to watch in the next few years.


Mostly due to their horrible name, I'd never investigated Stockholm's I Break Horses until yesterday, which I spent much of listening to Hearts. Verdict: "Hearts"—the second song on the album—is nice enough, but things get rather formless after that. Mixing/sound issues maligned the first few minutes of their set rendering much aural muddiness, but were corrected soon enough, only by then it'd taken the same turns as their record and grown innocuous. If they've got a great record in them, this isn't it. But, hey, they're young.
Cue hour-long break between sets. I understand, you gotta sell your drinks, but a full hour between the opener and the headliner is absurd.
Thankfully M83 were worth the wait. "This is a fucking huge venue for us! This is amazing for us!" shouted founder/frontman Anthony Gonzales after a few songs, and compared to Neumos, which last time around added an early set after the initial one sold out, the Paramount felt like the right-sized room for M83's brand of glorious bombast. They start with "Teen Angst" off 2005's Before the Dawn Heals Us, and the guy next to me keeps playing a single, passionate air drum as every grandiose shift hits (which he continues throughout the show). Two minutes in, it's evident that M83 have reached a new echelon. Still, I'd have liked to see some of the more orchestral material performed from a band that's now selling out the Paramount. "Outro," a definite highlight from last year's Hurry Up, We're Dreaming was nowhere in the set, and since I've listened to that song more than every other one on that record combined, I was a bit bummed not to hear it. Still, the show was riveting, and when those deep bass notes and chords hit, they rattled in my torso, and it was like the Earth was shifting. You close your eyes at those times and you'll get the chills. Four songs in people are crowd surfing and generally going mad. The bass/keyboard player is flailing about onstage. I won't bore us with setlists and such, but the dynamics last night were well paced, with generous helpings of Before the Dawn Heals Us, Saturdays = Youth, and of course Hurry Up, We're Dreaming. During the ballad "Safe," the lighters inevitably came out. The encore was spectacular and lengthy. The crowd, young (girls sitting on guys' shoulders and doing that weird/lame "sensual" arms-raised-in-the-air-as they-sway-back-and-forth thing were witnessed). The whole thing was over by 11, after a 90-minute-plus set. Lovely.
UPDATE: See more photos and see/hear a mediocre video of "Colours" from last night's show after the cut.

Last night, Eric Emm and Jesse Cohen of Tanlines took the stage at Neumos knowing that they were supposed to play the smaller room below. Because of that, Cohen confessed that he felt he needed to "really bring it", and he certainly did not disappoint. With an impressive percussive array at hand - snare, tom, bongos, crash, MIDI drum pads, synths, and laptop—Cohen and Emm brought a pumped up set to a pumped up crowd, who comfortably wiggled and shook throughout their 11 song set. There were even a handful of crowd surfers—at a synth pop show. Not too shabby.
Was it a nice showing? Does that soft, sweet music translate live? Also, read Trent Moorman's interview. It's really good (and maybe smells a little like baby oil and pizza sauce.)


An intimate show. An overwhelming burst of warmth.
As we responded to David Schmader's early-singles-or-nothing suggestion: instead of simplifying or normalizing over the years, Manchester's James, who began in the early '80s, expanded and experimented with each release until they became an unpredictable, complex, and beautiful force to wash over indefinably unique types of audiences around the world, drowning out fashions, the cool, and any such creationist cries of get-off-my-band's-lawn.
It all started with veteran fan-favorites like "Medieval" (1988) and, out of nowhere, "Play Dead" (1997).
Upstairs, during "Honest Joe" (1993), a man literally punched the ceiling.
Downstairs, during "Hello" (1999), a woman danced like a ballerina.
Others tried to out-obscure each other, with one person yelling for "Billy Shirts" (1986).
Throughout the two hours, James — jet-lagged, all smiles — gradually built the quiet and paranoia up to an extraordinary, blossoming climax that included a delicately escalating take on "Born Of Frustration", the most mad-house version of "Stutter" (1982) the band has ever done, and a glowing "Sometimes" (1993), which brought the building to tears.
Lead singer Tim Booth: 'I feel sorry for anyone who came to hear "Laid"'.
Remarkable.
By any angle.
Set-List:
Medieval
We're Going To Miss You
Play Dead
She's A Star
Five-O
Come Home
Waltzing Along
Space
Honest Joe
Hello
Dream Thrum
Riders
Waterfall
Born Of Frustration
Ring The Bells
Stutter
Getting Away With It (All Messed Up)
Sometimes
Tomorrow

Last night, Elvis Costello and the Imposters brought their Spectacular Spinning Songbook show to the Paramount, and it was wonderful. As I mentioned in my preview piece:
Tricked out with song titles spanning Costello's career, the Spectacular Spinning Songbook is a Wheel of Fortune–style contraption spun by lucky audience members, with the band banging out whatever song the wheel reveals. If live-action Costello Song Roulette isn't gimmick enough for you, the stage also holds a go-go dancer shimmying in a cage.
What I learned last night: the cage-dancers are, more often than not, the lucky wheel-spinners themselves, and I am happy to report that despite our region's reputation for not dancing at rock shows, last night's audience-participation cage dancers totally brought it. I don't know if I've ever been more proud of my city. (I'm looking at you, Freaky Steve, and also at you, couple that's been married for 26 years and shimmied together in the cage to "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding?".)
The band: amazing. Keyboardist Steve Nieve remains Costello's greatest not-so-secret weapon, fleshing out the melodies with simultaneously high-drama/low-cheese touches. Costello is a ridiculous charming showman, veering between enthusiastic carnival barker-isms and wry self-deprecation. And, somehow, Costello's contentious singing voice sounds better and less-strained live than it does on record (or at least than it has on recent records).
Highlights: the aforementioned "Peace, Love, and Understanding," "Girls Talk," "Accidents Will Happen," "Man Called Uncle," "(I Don't Want to Go to) Chelsea," and covers of the Beatles' "Please Please Me" and Chuck Berry's "No Particular Place to Go." Also, a slamming version of "Waiting for the End of the World" that made me wish Costello & co would deign to do a full re-recording of My Aim Is True, the thin, flat sound of which has always been slightly at odds with the brilliant compositions.
Dashed Hopes: The wheel never landed on Imperial Bedroom's "Man Out of Time" or King of America's "Suit of Lights."
More Josh Bis photos after the jump.

Thom Yorke is a funny bunny, living in the utterly beautiful delivery of his tones. Songs where he’s not playing an instrument dangle him like a puppet, causing spastic hops and gesticulations. Yorke is somehow old and young simultaneously. A marble bust/fetus, existing outside age, but inside the amniotic sack of the sound, connected to the mother by his umbilical in ear monitor chords.
“Morning Mr. Magpie” as a highlight tore out of Selway and Deamer’s conjoined four-armed ligament like they were sending a message on a telegraph machine. Starting the second encore was another highlight, “Give Up the Ghost,” with Yorke and Greenwood alone onstage tranquilizing the horde.
A gracious, nimble Clive Deamer spoke briefly afterward draped in a comfortable-looking cardigan. We talked about psychiatric nursing care in England, Skrillex hair do’s, and Seattle’s in progress Proton Therapy Center at Northwest Hospital. He confirmed that Johnny Greenwood had injured his thumb and that it was causing him some problems, prompting the band to skip certain songs. He also talked about the immense backdrop of LED lights behind the band onstage. The LED’s are inside plastic water bottles, not light bulbs. He said it was like being inside DNA. Or maybe I said it looked like being inside DNA. The band had a long drive to San Jose ahead of them. He bid adieu, and was off to retire to his bunk inside the mobile fortress of the Radiohead bus.
More pictures and the set list after the jump.
The reports started yesterday from Portland. "Hot Snakes more or less destroyed everyone and everything," said Red Fang fifth man Chris Coyle on Facebook. I'd been peeing my pants about this show for months years, and I'm glad to say Hot Snakes delivered last night in spades.
God knows how scalpers get word that a Hot Snakes show is sold out, but they did, and two or three of them were out in force. I missed Spider Fever due to a work-related meeting, but they sounded promising from the line outside. Just inside Moe Bar were the absolutely converse machinations of Moe Bar Mondays, a long-running night scored by commercial hip hop and twentysomethings. After the line was the showroom, where the Bangs (yes, that the Bangs) were on. Their set built energy head-on toward the end, but the crowd wasn't responding well. Maybe the fan bases don't mix, but either way, most of the crowd didn't appear to know how rare an occasion it was to see the storied Olympia rock trio. "We're almost done," said the frontwoman (I don't know which one.), almost sheepishly. "Hot Snakes are on next. This microphone smells terrible."
Hot Snakes start with "I Hate the Kids." Then they rip through Suicide Invoice like it'd just been released. The crowd quickly simmered into a boil. By "Who Died," beer cans and bodies were flying. "It sounds exactly like the album," yelled my giant Samoan companion, who'd never seen them live before. Jason Kourkounis is on drums for all of this, but when they switch to songs from Audit in Progress, Mario Rubalcaba comes out. Both drummers crush it, and when those breakdowns with Gar Wood's low-note bass lines come in, I'm shouting and pumping my fists like a sports maniac, like I haven't done in years. John Reis is hunched over his guitar, slashing at it with a fever, Rick Froberg and Wood more laid-back, and it's that dichotomy that creates the inexplicable magic of those melodies.

A few songs in, I can no longer contain myself in Neumos's Sound Sweetspot™, that area just mid-back of the center of the room where everything sounds balanced, but god damnit, it's just not loud enough. I surge into the pit like a kid. Yos-Wa from Monogamy party is somewhere in there. A guy in a red shirt is literally picking up his friends and carrying them into the fray. At some point, I get knocked so hard my glasses go flying. This is the same thing that happened at King Khan & the Shrines, but this time the outcome is downright touching. Immediately, two or three people have their cell phones out and are scanning the ground. A security guard with a flash light appears like a giant hairy angel. Then Kristen Naranjo is suddenly there and handing my specs back to me. I thank everyone profusely and move back out of the chaos. Hot Snakes do an encore with some covers and end with "Plenty for All." I'd go on, but I already have for too long. Words can't do justice, but, you know, it's my job to try. I'm still glowing.
Some days you decide to go ahead and say "yes" to every adventure that presents itself to you, and those are the days you end up applying lipgloss to cover up your wine lips in the bathroom of an Ani DiFranco concert. That's what happend when I accompanied a friend to the Showbox night before last to see her buddy Seth Glier, who was the opening act. But when we stayed for the set afterward, my friend blew my mind with her vast biographical knowledge of Ani. "This song is about one of the two abortions she had," my friend explained matter-of-factly as she sipped on her plastic cup of $7 red wine.
I never got exposed to Ani DiFranco during my young college feminist stage... her music doesn't seem horrible or anything, it's just as a teen I avoided the singer/songwriter genre in favor of grrl punks. Upon asking around, it appears many of my legit rock friends secretly have a firm DiFranco staple from their youth that I didn't know about. "I had all her records in high school," my other friend Laura explained. "Getting into her music really made me devolve into some Jack Johnson/String Cheese hippie bullshit for awhile, though." Ani DiFranco fans were not as hippie-d out as I thought they would be (Although I did see one peace sign back tattoo was surrounded by yin-yangs.), and everyone seemed so sincere and stoked to be there. I am being told that To the Teeth is actually a really great album that's worth investigating. What do you think?
British shoegaze-rock deities Swervedriver performed two songs on Late Night With Jimmy Fallon last night: the surging 1991 single “Son of Mustang Ford” and the new “Deep Wound” (no relation to J Mascis and Lou Barlow’s old band). You can view the footage at Prefixmag.com.
Swervedriver are touring the US again, with a Seattle date at Neumos April 4. Look for a feature on the group in tomorrow’s Stranger.
The video below (don't worry; it eventually gets lighter) captures what I thought was the highlight of Mudhoney’s righteous, powerful set last night at Tractor Tavern. There, they bust into some freeform freakout action during "Tales of Terror" with bonus Mark Arm interpretive dance/air Theremin action and Steve Turner's spontaneous Jimi/Sharrock pyrotechnics. For a band that’s been around for over two decades to maintain the lean ferocity of their younger years is remarkable; it’s even more impressive at this late date that they can still surprise a fan who’s been there since Superfuzz Bigmuff.
In a set heavy on early classics (“Into the Drink,” “Hate the Police,” “You Got It,” “When Tomorrow Hits,” “Touch Me I’m Sick,” “In N Out of Grace,” “Get Into Yours” “Sweet Young Thing Ain’t Sweet No More,” etc.), Mudhoney showed no signs of decay or any indication that they’re blanding out in their middle age. On top of that, Arm (who recently turned 50) and Turner look fitter than most musicians half their age. And if you can still inspire a mosh pit with lots of guys sporting male-pattern baldness, you’re probably doing a lot right.
Opening the show, Australia’s feedtime also were on fire. They tore through about 20 songs in 50 minutes, brandishing a stripped-down yet massively dense, chugging punk concrète (think Morton Feldman as interpreted by the Stooges), with bracing side trips into hard-bitten blues. Playing Seattle for the first time ever due to the release of Sub Pop’s valorous boxed set of feedtime’s four albums from the ’80s, The Aberrant Years, this power trio played like humble heroes finally receiving their due for laying down dozens of awesome tracks 25-30 years ago. I went earplugless for feedtime, because tinnitus is worth it at their hands—even if they didn't do my favorite cut, "Arse."