The Litter Box

IT'S BEEN SOME time since San Mateo has been able to lay claim to anything worthwhile from a music standpoint. And, as the world in general has steadfastly refused to acknowledge anything of substance ever coming from said burg beyond the Congregationalist Church's choir or the occasional embittered pro-Mummies screed from some critic/boob, it appears the Yellow Press are on the verge of becoming San Mateo's great hope for international recognition. Who these men are and what exactly they want from us isn't exactly clear, but whatever it is, they mean business.

This foursome includes Alan Tarkowski, Tim Wilson, Steven Chamberlain, and Jason Orlovich, but that's assuming those aren't actually aliases, which I wouldn't bet on. As a unit, they're relatively new (less than a year old), but again this is somewhat speculative. When it comes to the Yellow Press, the hard facts are blurred and any information garnered about them is open to question. But after witnessing them firsthand, I've come to believe the following as absolute truth: they're highly motivated and almost single-minded in purpose.

The Yellow Press arrived for their set dressed in khaki pants (nonpleated), pastel golf shirts, and sweaters tied around their necks, so obviously they're either heavily financed or just plain swank. Save for the bartender, they seemed to have no use for anyone else in the club. Instead they remained ensconced in the corner whispering among their own. When the clock hit the appropriate mark, they plugged in and delivered the sonic equivalent of a dozen rabbit punches to the clientele's collective schnozz, unplugged, and went back into a postset huddle to continue scheming. It was as if they were bidding their time, understanding that playing a shit hole on a weekday night was a necessary function in order to put Phase Two of the Master Plan into operation. (At the end of the month, they play Thee Parkside, where I work.)

Sure enough, a couple of weeks later the band have set out on a two-month tour of the United States, and the reports filtering in suggest bigger things on the immediate horizon. Magnet magazine will include one of the Press's songs on a compilation disc next month, and rumors of an impending two-record deal with a pretty awesome label are circulating. Naturally the secret society that is the Yellow Press remains tight-lipped on any details, preferring instead to deal in vagaries. No matter. Be on the lookout for these cats before Phase Three bounces them into the big time.

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Zzzzz – snark! Wha? Cough. Oh, I'm sorry. I must have dozed off. I was listening to the new Tommy Guerrero album, Soul Food Taqueria (Mo' Wax), when all of a sudden I just kind of decided to completely give up. You know, like, on life? What is a soul food taquería? Apparently it's a restaurant in some distant and terrible land that pipes in a horrifyingly benign form of music. If you took redundant porn riffs, cut them down to 16 rpm, added some '70s made-for-TV-movie funk, lite-jazz guitar noodling, a little Santana, a dash of drum 'n' bass, and a smidge of trip-hop, and mixed the whole thing in lo-fi molasses while offering occasional quasi-"positivities," you've got the starting point. The ending point is maybe something to send you off into that coma immediately following your final insulin injection.

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On to other intriguing local bands: Film School have made an EP that gets the whole hooray-for-simplicity thing just right. Their second release, alwaysnever (Amazing Grease), finds Krayg Burton and his revolving cast of the area who's who meting out a perfect mix of ethereal ambience, raging guitar drug drone, and relatively unself-conscious and delicate vocals. There's a bent for experimentation not just because, but because it fits the moment. The too brief three-song ride comes off as a completely natural and confident slab of yesteryear paradise that harks back to the day when people stood while staring at their shoes.

Film School play July 6, 4 p.m., Bottom of the Hill, 1233 17th St., S.F. $10-$12. (415) 621-4455.