The Litter Box

IT'S HARD TO imagine that my Bob Hope Deathwatch Pool is now heading into year number eight without a winner. With five guys kicking in 20 bucks a year, I'm pulling for the old dog to make it another couple rounds just to juice the jackpot into four figures, even though the initial motive of the pool was a desire to see the Unfunniest Man in Showbiz dispatched to the great beyond, posthaste. Now I think it would be sweet to collect a cool grand off the passing of the godfather of the cue card. And before anyone gets maudlin about the man, please keep in mind that for years he has been a right-wing butt plug and an all-around jerk to most people out of the public eye. Happy 100th, needle nose. Come on, May 29, 2005! Daddy needs a new German turntable with a diamond composite needle, a fountainhead base, and a motor with power conditioning!

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Speaking of old, San Francisco clubs are in the middle of being assaulted by an army of ancient rock 'n' roll veterans of varying consequence. It started June 8 with the Buzzcocks hitting the Warfield. The architects of pop punk and the most influential of all of the first-wave Brit punks are still as crucial and invigorating as they ever were, and while the new lineup was initially despised by the keepers of punk a decade ago, the Buzzcocks are once again universally revered.

Not so the Cramps, who pulled into town the following evening at the Fillmore. Where exactly things went completely wrong for this once mighty entity is hard to say, though dropping the double guitar attack in favor of a standard guitar-bass sound has a lot to do with the unraveling. So does the band's inability to field a steady rhythm section for the past 15 years. This much is certain: once Congo Powers split the scene, Lux and Ivy crossed the line from dodgy oddities to full-blown camp and have never looked back. They've rarely been very good since.

Who will save rock 'n' roll? Probably not the Dictators, but these pre-punk rockologists have been doing their best to keep the genre's corpse afloat for nearly 30 years now. With a couple killer singles and a better-than-decent album released in the past couple years, the recent departure of founding guitarist Scott "Top Ten" Kempner makes the 'Tators a wild-card pick. Can they still pull it off live? The smart money says, "Most likely," and the heart says, "Of course." But the brain has trouble resolving a Dictators minus the Man of 1,000 Poses delivering the goods. Find out tomorrow when Handsome Dick Manitoba and the lads hit the Bottom of the Hill. Oh, and then there are the Dropkick Murphys, who, while qualifying as ancient rock veterans, have also always been terrible and therefore barely worth mentioning. They play somewhere in the area at some point in the near future, too.

While we're on the subject of the Dictators, a heartfelt R.I.P. to Fred Blassie, a.k.a. Classy Freddie Blassie, Fred "Butcher Boy" Blassie, Sailor Fred Blassie, and to some, Fred Blassman. The self-described King of Men, one of pro wrestling's all-time great heels, legendary managers, hilarious big mouths, and a legit fan of the band passed away last week at the age of 85.

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It's shocking how much tougher and tighter the Pattern sound with the addition of their new rhythm section. Not that they were ever flat-out rotten by any stretch, but bassist Jason Blalock and drummer Kyle Gibson (of the even mightier Hot Wire Titans) make them sound like a whole new band. Pattern haters (and there are a few of you out there) will have to reconsider them in a big way. Currently in the beginning stages of a bruising whirlwind tour of the United States, they'll get off the road June 23. Then, if they have any brains at all, they'll immediately beg Gibson (who is theoretically a fill-in) to come on board full-time.

Dictators play Thurs/12, 8:30 p.m., Bottom of the Hill, 1233 17th St., S.F. $13. (415) 474-0365.

Dropkick Murphys perform Mon/16, 8 p.m., Slim's, 333 11th St., S.F. Call for price. (415) 522-0333.