By Molly Freedenberg

Sure, British threesome the Cribs are pure indie rock. The boys’ striped shirts and messy haircuts won’t let anyone forget. But the danceable melodies, interesting arrangements, and sing-a-long hooks appear to be catapulting them into pop scene stardom (not to mention backing from Franz Ferdinand and a spot on the Coachella Music Festival roster). At least, that’s what I would’ve assumed before I saw them play before a disappointing crowd at the Independent last Wednesday, April 25.

Indie of all stripes. Photo by Molly Freedenberg.

Maybe the Cribs' local fans were planning to see them in Indio a few days later. Maybe others missing the festival were drawn to see Coachella artists DJ Shadow or the Decemberists instead, who were both playing in the Bay Area on the same night as the Cribs. Or maybe I saw them in San Francisco before their time, like catching Amy Winehouse last year.

Whatever it was, the dance floor was noticeably empty – and its few occupants were noticeably unenthusiastic – as the band “oh, oh, oh, oh”-ed through "Martell" (from 2005’s The New Fellas) and their guitars noodled through "Men’s Needs" (from the Alex Kapranos-produced new album, Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever).

And so the concert that was meant to minimize my Coachella envy – as this was the first in four years I haven’t attended the beast in the desert – instead only heightened it. Because as I hungrily devoured concert coverage (particularly NME’s) on Monday, I could only imagine what it would’ve been like to see the normally cute and compelling (but here, a bit bored) Cribs with a crowd full of people who actually cared. Sigh. Maybe next year.

You really gotta feel for LCD Soundsystem -- fresh off the "dance-punk" darlings' conquest of Coachella, bopping untold thousands of the dehydrous ecstatic, there they were the next day, at Mezzanine, playing big to a relatively teensy roomful of adoring fans. Adoring fans, in SF's case, meant a whole lotta surprisingly hoochie mamas grinding against their frattish dates' pelvises (hot, but weird!) and the cream of our post-electroclash scene. Going in, I'd made a joke to my homeboy that the group's hirsute leader, James Murphy, was probably the superstar aspiration pinnacle of every sensitive tweaker bear who fiddles mindlessly with ambient-electronic music in their room -- and sure enough, there was a fair representation of them as well.

Yep, this was the year I finally stopped pooh-poohing, scoffing, scorning, and smugly hrumphing in the delightful cool of the Bay Area and caught the traffic jam heading from LA to Indio for Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival, expanded to three days for the first time. Of course, lucky me, I also got to make the traffic snarl from the freeway exit to the parking lot entrance, and then the teeming mass from the entrance to the ticket taker...you get the picture.

Spidey 3: Hazy days, much music, as Michael Christina's three-legged I.T. overlooks it all. Photos by Charles Russo.

Way too much going on in that headdress, dancing queen: a member of Lucent Dossier Vaudeville Cirque.

Was it worth the cross-stage cacophony, exploding shampoo bottles, the tent city filled with philosophical quasi-frat boys and random ravers that go bump and then, "WHOOO!" at 5 in the morning? You tell me. My brain underwent a major meltdown. Here's a free-associatin' "review"-slash-overview of the Coachella, to be continued with more wonderful photos by Guardian contributor Charles Russo. And gripes -- err, I mean, critiques -- from yours truly.

Zacky, can you hear me? No, 'cause the Lemonheads are threatening to drown the main stage out.

Everyone was obviously there for the Rage Against the Machine reunion, a first since the band went dormant about seven years ago - which explains the major bro-down going on everywhere you looked. The final headliner on the last night, Sunday, April 29, of the three-day fest, they were definitely doing their best to power past the hype and bring the rock with such modern rock staples as "Killing in the Name" and "Bulls on Parade." The scruffily bearded Zack de la Rocha bounded about, blissfully ignorant of the hordes heading toward the exit, hoping to get a jump on the truly terrifying traffic tangle expected on the way back to LA.

Killing in the name of guitar hero Tom Morello.

"My mind has been completely blown!" raved one woman at the campground's Cybercafe after Bjork, who gave everyone a good preview of her new album, Volta, backed by a womanly chorus and band in brightly hued new wave, Polyphonic Spree-goes-to-the-Acropolis Grecian gowns. Brass, strings, vibes, Lemur, the works - and some inspiring costume changes from the Bjorkly one.

One thing we can count on: Bjork pushing the fashion envelope; here, she channels a voodoo priestess June Allyson.

Another artist that got the buzz around the polo grounds and tent city was the Bay's own DJ Shadow. As we melted in our Tevas, we overheard kids talking up Shadow, who headlined the second largest stage the opening night, Friday, April 27. Sounded tops. Shadow would helpfully step up to the mic to remind everyone that all the tracks that night were his own - if they weren't recognizable they were brand spankin'. Color splashed videos flickered overheard on a massive screen as Keak groused about those freaks.

Shadow wonders if the audience would take it the wrong way if he blurted, "Talk to the finger."

The Roots sounded tight, hitting it hard midday Sunday. We wandered away midway through a Tarantino-esque

"Can we take quirkily punctuated names to a nutty new level?" the Roots ponder.

I do love me some Jarvis Cocker. Guess I just have a weakness for snide, brainy Brits who like to chatter on about imaginary rain storms and apologize - sorta - for their tardiness on stage. Pulling feel-good tracks from his new solo album, Jarvis, the forgotten son of Joe Cocker (not!) let the healing begin with "Fat Children" and "Don't Let Him Waste Your Time." Too bad we couldn't get a little of that fabled Anglo rainy-day action, he hinted, introducing "Heavy Weather."

Jarvis, don't let your fresh witticisms grow up to be dried-up curds of embittered alcholism.

Attention, Class of 2007: No matter your age, please read all the way to the end of this conversation with Vincent Gallo to discover what he hopes you will contribute to our future.
All curious others, get ready for an illustrated chat that moves through some of Gallo's fave screen idols and non-auteur films to explore his ideas about making music and movies, and also includes my story about a lifesize wax candle of Richard Nixon's head.
Cameos by Hilary Duff and Michael Jackson.

By Molly Freedenberg

Dear Kinky,

Oh, how I love you. Unlike so many other objects of my affection, you always come through. And not just because you come when you say you will, or because you’re always dressed for the occasion, or even because you always act as though there’s nowhere in the world you’d rather be except right here, right now, with me.

No, not only do you always deliver on your promise of high-energy music and a great live show. But you also always exceed my expectations.

Wednesday night at the Independent, you were better, cuter, more energetic, and more incendiary, than I’ve ever seen you before. And that’s not easy, because you were pretty damn good when I saw you at the Knitting Factory in L.A. several years ago. and again at in Santa Barbara during that festival Modest Mouse was headlining with “sunshine” in the title. But this. Oh, God. This.

By Charles Russo

More ruminations on Coachella? You got it.

Got Jah angst? Not here next to Stephen Marley. All photos by Charles Russo.

Twilight of the costumed revelers.

Rage Against the Machine: I found it to be pretty amazing that the band, playing what was possibly the most anticipated popular musical performance in the world this year, could suffer the sort of mix problems that they went through for the first half of their set. This especially when one considers how excellent Bjork sounded two nights earlier.

Furthermore, the odd ordering of their set list put some heavyweight tracks too far up in front, and robbed them of their drama. "Bombtrack," "Bullet in the Head," and "Know Your Enemy" in the fourth, fifth, and sixth slots made for a somewhat anti-climactic experience. However three tracks off The Battle of Los Angeles really turned the show around: "Calm Like a Bomb," "Sleep Now in the Fire" (especially the "TV Eye" guitar breakdown in the middle), and "Guerrilla Radio."

That said, I thought they really salvaged their show by the second half of the set, and by the time they played "Wake Up" (which I haven't seen them play live since 1993), the band was really living up to the hype.

Leaving the press pit after the third song was just utter pandemonium. I had to jump over various barricades to get out. Security was fighting like all hell to retain control of the situation. Further out, I was amazed how many people were packed onto that main stage field. I've seen a lot of headliners play over the last seven years, but never to that kind of crowd.

O whither that elusive butterfly named Sleep?

The Nightwatchman: Tommy Morello played one of the best sets of the entire weekend in the Gobi tent on Saturday afternoon, showcasing his Woody Guthrie-meets-Bruce Springsteen-via-Bob Dylan solo acoustic material to an extremely receptive crowd. He closed the set by enlisting Perry Farrell and Boots Riley to sing Guthrie's "This Land Is My Land." Quite a spectacle.

Watch this, Nightwatchman.

The three surprise performances of the weekend for me were Busdriver, Brazilian Girls, and the Klaxons. Of course, this required me to miss much of Jarvis Cocker, Interpol, and Placebo. I guess that's the nature of the festival.

Busdriver wants you to check out his tonsils.

Peaches: definitely one of the best sets of the festival - if for no other reason than her sense of theater. After Ron Jeremy introduced her and the band took the stage wielding light sabers and wearing space masks (?), Peaches got up on the drum kit and started with "Fuck or Kill," getting the crowd to sing "Impeach My Bush" (though they soon leave out the "My"). She then strapped on a guitar and started into the driving riff of "Rock Show," jumping down and running up to the center stage mic to sing.

The common drum set cowers beneath Peaches's boot.

Bay Area beauty-pop duo Willow Willow branch out with a new self-titled album on Mod Lang. English folk, Anglo-pop ala Marine Girls and Tracey Thorn, and much sweetness for all.

Willow Willow's Miranda Zeiger and Jessica Vohs get together for an album release party, Tuesday, May 8, at Cafe du Nord, 2170 Market, SF. Bart Davenport - last sighted, slinging ax, at "Notes from a Toon Underground" at the Castro - and Ricky Lee Robinson open, starting at 9:30 p.m. Tickets are $10.

The SF Weekly’s obsession (jealous much?) with our 5/2 cover story on Vincent Gallo and the Mission Creek Music and Arts Festival is forcing me to put one of my credos – “Don’t make me cut you!” – into practice.

I read, or at least glance at, the Weekly. It’s one of the less rewarding requirements of my current job. So I couldn’t help but notice that its Sucka Free City column has launched two successive attacks on a recent profile I wrote about Gallo. Got that? That’s two different Weekly articles about one alleged “puff piece.” I guess there must be something to what we’re doing for them to be so strangely fixated.

I have better things to do, and better work to put in the paper, but I’ll use this blog to pick these Sucka Free City articles off one by one, talk a little about misogyny and lame Cro-Magnon straight journalist dude posturing – a relevant topic here - and then add some real observation about the state of arts journalism as executed, and I mean executed, by the SF Weekly and their overlords at the New Times, excuse me, Voice Media.

Guardian staffer Ben Hopfer hit Mistah FAB's CD release party, presented by Stash magazine, at Fat City last night, May 10. Here's his report and pics on the local rap star-studded fete:

Mistah FAB soaks up the limelight. All photos by Ben Hopfer.

San Quinn opened up the night with his protege Hollywood. They performed "Hell Yeah," some classics, and a cut off his upcoming album, which I think, is titled Rock Star.

Mistah FAB came out and thanked everyone for showing up, then proceeded to shout out the entire Bay Area. He brought, like, half of Oakland onto the stage. What was really cool was that he let the other rappers perform their songs onstage with him., giving so much shine to everybody else that they ran out of time for him to perform his own single.

Big Rich strikes a pose.

Guardian contributor George Chen writes in: So Fall Out Boy is holding a contest to have people open for them when they are on tour. Robin Williams on Fire is vying for that honor. The idea of these kids opening for a ridiculous pop punk band is too funny to pass up.

Fall Out Boy won't know what hit 'em.

Make the Bay Area band's dreams come true! Go to www.mylocalbands.com/promos/fobcivic/vote.asp# and select Concord, Calif., and vote for Robin Williams on Fire. You'll be glad you did.

Robin Williams on Fire wants to light one under a certain Boy's bee-hind.

Ex-Guardian art director Victor Krummenacher has left our fair offices but he's not forgotten: dude can still be seen playing around town and far beyond city limits with his groundbreaking group Camper Van Beethoven and in CVB vocalist David Lowery's Cracker - and now solo (see this week's Sonic Reducer) - future appearances include opening for the Knitters at Great American Music Hall on Saturday, May 19.

Folks depart, but some things are eternal...like music lists. Here's Krummenacher's most recent adds to his iPod.

- Tinariwen, Aman Iman (World Village)
By far the most badass Malian blues band going. The CD of the year so far.

- James McMurtry Americana Master Series: Best of the Sugar Hill Years (Sugar Hill)
Given to me by a friend, an old friend who knows me too well and is currently stuck on "Gulf Road."

- Grinderman, Grinderman (Anti-)
The undercurrent of demonic Pro Tools loops by Warren Ellis keeps grabbing my ear.

- Paula Frazer and Tarnation, Now It's Time (Birdman)
Best release by Paula in a long time - cool string arrangements.

- Fall, Hex Enduction Hour double-CD reissue (Castle)
A birthday present. My favorite record of my junior year of high school holds up 25(!) years later.

By Todd Lavoie

All aboard the Technicolor carousel!

Patrick Wolf emerges from his blink-and-you-miss-it retirement - he'd announced only last month that he'd be taking an extended break from music - with a Left Coast tour. Our beloved British Boy Wonder will eventually head back overseas on another European orbit to support his recent glitter-fabulous release, The Magic Position (Fontana Universal). Wolf's threats of self-imposed exile? A hasty decree delivered from a temporary funk, apparently, according to his press releases. So, I guess it's true, folks: April showers do bring May flowers, after all.

Please, kind sir, may I offer you a ride on my showily art-directed carousel?

And what sorts of floral bouquets are we talking about here, you ask? Heavens above! How about garlands so glitzy, so glammy, so shamelessly rococo that they border on the surreal? Theatricality is one thing, but the breathlessly-ambitious Wolf - all of 23 years old - pivots and whirls into near-pageantry territory, as sweeping string arrangements and dense canopies of sound provide the sort of surging drama needed for such a commanding vocal presence. Restrained this ain't, and the otherwise dull-as-dishwater world of pure pop has been made all the better for it. Sure, I could trot out a Rufus Wainwright comparison for the quick answer, but consider this: if Rufus aches to be Judy Garland, Wolf fancies himself the heir apparent to Hunky Dory-era David Bowie, and he's got the vision to back it up. And much like bright-eyed Bowie believers Marc Almond and the late, great Billy Mackenzie of the Associates, the guy knows how to work the camp angle and still wreck the sweet bejesus out of your poor unsuspecting heart.

Patrick Wolf plays Monday and Tuesday, May 21 and 22, at Café du Nord, 2170 Market, SF. No Bra and DJ Baron Von Luxxury open, starting at 9 p.m. Tickets are $14.

Paradise - I gotta get me some of that!

Chris Johanson's Abstract (Invitation) (2003). Courtesy of www.jackhanley.com.

Tomorrow, May 22, be sure to check out Paradise Library, a "very special event" in the lobby of Le Meridian Hotel in SF, Sic Alps' Mike Donovan e-mails. It's the opening of an art installation by married MIssion Schooleys Jo Jackson and Chris Johanson, now bunked down in Portland. Expect "beautiful colors, many great books," and live music by Sic Alps. Writes Donovan: "We put together a special set of tunes for this show (due to the volume constraints) so don't miss this one-time deal!"

Sic wit it. Courtesy of the Sic Alps Web site.

It's at Le Meridian Hotel, 333 Battery at Clay, SF, May 22, 6-8 p.m. And it's all free - just how you like it.

Guardian contributor George Chen made it to the No Fun Fest at the Hook in Brooklyn, May 17-20. Here are a few pics and thoughts from the brain behind Chen Santamaria.

This was John Wiese, Jesse Jackson (I am assuming that is his real name), and Corydon Ronnau (Obstacle Corpse). Jackson destroyed his already partial guitar, and some crazed fan walked off with the neck and guts. By the way, he would like them back - no questions asked.

Rat Bastard has done time in To Live and Shave in LA and Laundry Room Squelchers - he also has the lowdown on how Miami changed New York noise. Carlos Giffoni organizes the No Fun Festival and the No Fun label and he performed.

Trevor Tremaine and Robert Beatty (also of festival headliners Hair Police) accompany Burning Star Core founder Spencer Yeh and Zaimph's Marcia Bassett (Hototogisu, Double Leopards, Zaika).

Gerritt Wittmer and Ryan Jencks have been touring across country with their respective solo acts (Gerritt and SIXES) and piling together as Deathroes. East Village Radio personality, AMillionKeys blogger and former SF ingenue Ceci Moss was in the house as well.

Leslie Keffer invited a bunch of women onstage, cranked a Madonna party song, and basically turned No Fun into "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." Partner-in-crime Rodger Stella glared menacingly and dropped his pants in the hip-hop fashion of the day. The ladies, including Tarantism's Angie Edwards, smacked him with a stuffed dolphin. Thank you, Freud.

Raionbashi and Kutzkelina were the highlight of my Friday evening. Female yodeling, processed and delayed. Raionbashi did push-ups as well. "We're here to pump you up!"

Twig Harper represents for the Nautical Almanac Sound System. That Brite Spots record looks dope. The DJ booth is like a cage.

Aaron Dilloway, a.k.a., Killoway, a.k.a., Hanson Records' fearless leader, nails it home on the last night of No Fun. One of the highlights.

By Sean Manning

If the advent of sample culture has taught us anything, it’s that you can’t just slap two and two together and expect to make something transcendent. For every Grey Album there are countless forgettable mash-ups attempting to play “What if?” with pop’s back catalogue and even more pointless remixes. And while rock purists may decry anyone who can’t barre a chord to save their life as a phony, real cut-and-paste collage—when given the proper attention to detail and refinement—can be magic.

Brazilian-born DJ Amon Tobin crashed an otherwise typical set of hip hop and funk spinning at San Francisco’s Mezzanine on Friday night with an abrasive wall of white noise and grinding beats—all in glorious surround sound. It was an appropriate beginning—a palette cleanser of sorts, and a call to the audience that you shouldn’t be dancing anymore. The wall of sound was embellished with audio snippets of a children’s choir to great apocalyptic effect before transitioning into “Esther’s”—a powerful and aggressive track from Tobin’s recent album The Foley Room, which darts fragments of micro-percussion around a sample of a revved engine. The result was something exhilarating and somewhat mysterious, because despite his command of the stage, Tobin seemed to be generating an impossible amount of sound.

As a sound artist more than a breakbeat fiend, Tobin may have seemed a little bit out of place at the Mezzanine, but his performance showed that while everyone and their mom may have access to GarageBand these days, true envelope pushing sound collage remains much more elusive, and, inherently, much more interesting.

By Beth Gilomen

We all like to think that we are unique little snowflakes. We assume that we formulate opinions of our own will and make our own decisions about our likes and dislikes. That may be true, but to a certain extent, one company has proven that what we like may not be as subjective as we think.

Platinum Blue, a research company, has developed something they call the "Music X-Ray." Basically, by analyzing hit songs, ranging from classical compositions to current pop music, Platinum Blue has been able to detect upwards of 60 mathematical patterns that popular songs fit. These algorithms are not detectable by the human ear, but they somehow appear to influence how we feel about the things we hear.

The company claims that using their analytical software, a record label can increase the chance of picking a hit from 10 percent to roughly 80 percent. They claim that they were able to predict the success of Gnarls Barkley's single "Crazy" by testing it against these mathematical patterns, and apparently, the program's predecessor predicted Norah Jones' success before she "was on anyone's radar," according to the Web site.

So great, right? Record labels won't have to spend millions of dollars promoting singles that, mathematically speaking, don't stand a chance. That's great for their budgets, but it sets a frightening precedent.

Cheryl Eddy wrote: Did you see that interview a few weeks ago where Keira Knightley was all, "I wish I had Beth Ditto's sexy body, but I'm just so naturally skinny! Tee hee!" Sure, beeyatch.

This month's NME. FIERCE!