By Sean Manning

Nearly 40 years ago, Brazil’s Os Mutantes sewed the seeds of their now-legendary status by creating a pastiche of hallucinatory sounds and good ole fashioned Beatles-like harmonies so fluidly that they’ve inspired a whole new generation of followers extending far beyond the city limits of their native Sao Paulo.

After a successful reunion stint last year, the Baptista brothers - minus founding member Rita Lee - will be doing it again this year for a handful of performances. One of those will be for the Stern Grove festival on Sunday, July 15, with Venezuelan rockers Los Amigos Invisibles supporting. There aren’t many opportunities to get this kind of experience for free, so make sure you show up early to catch the band before you miss your chance.

Os Mutantes perform Sunday, July 15, 2 p.m., at Sigmund Stern Grove. 44 Page St, SF. Free. (415) 252-6252.

Step right up for the git-pickin' pick o' the litter at the first annual San Francisco Picker’s Picnic on Friday, July 6, at Bottom of the Hill.

King City with child.

Joe Price with Vicki Price, King City, Craig Ventresco with Meredith Axelrod, Gaucho, and Pat Johnson will be your shred-meisters. Your host: Chewy Marzolo - player of heavy metal, bluegrass, cartoon swing Latin soundtrack, rag, burlesque, abso-futurist black/death metal, gypsy jazz, cabaret, country, and he says, "a few other types of not-very-popular-to-the-hipsters styles of music in San Francisco for...well...let me see here...um...a very long time."

Joe Price in action.

This time Marzolo bites into a first - the Picker's Picnic. Among the offerings are the Iowa Blues Hall of Fame inductee Joe Price; gypsy jazz combo Gaucho (with Ralph Carney); and Marzolo's own band, King City, who describe themselves as "a five-piece ragtime/tango/Latin/spaghetti western
instrumental San Francisco bonifiedly warranted excuse for a good time." By the way, King City's first official CD, The Last Siesta, comes out this summer on Spencer Muray's Antebellum label and the cover was painted by graf giant Twist, aka, Barry McGee.

It's all on July 6, 9 p.m., at Bottom of the Hill, 1233 17th St., SF. $10. For more info, go to www.myspace.com/pickerspicnic. Be there - or be home pickin' on your own.

Last week at 12 Galaxies, John Doe busted out X's most patriotically-titled tune. I missed Exene on the chorus, but whatever. Independence Day traditions in my world include watching at least a few minutes of Independence Day -- which I just tried to find on TV, and it ain't on, so this tradition is in danger of not happening except in my photographic-movie-memory -- and eating the biggest hamburger I can get my mitts around.

Oh, and FREEDOM ROCK. FREEDOM ROCK has it all! You know what to do, man.

By Max Goldberg

As Andy Cabic and co. tuned up for another gentle folk-rock Vetiver jam Tuesday night at The Independent, my housemate gushed, "I feel like I'm at a real rock concert!"

Indeed, there was something pro about Vetiver's set - it was some combination of a balanced, generous song list, tight arrangements, the Independent's sharply defined sound, and the large crowd swaying to music that so conjures Northern California's finest elements. Now that the band is totally famous having opened for Vashti Bunyan in Europe and playing Carnegie Hall at David Byrne's request, any chance to see them is a real treat.

This one felt like a homecoming: the band was fresh off a recording session at Sacramento's the Hangar, working on a series of covers, many of which (songs by Michael Hurley, Hawkwind, Jimmy Martin, and Biff Rose) were given workouts at the Independent. The tunes from the two albums - Vetiver and To Find Me Gone - felt well-worn and celebratory.

Cabic's quartet has a loose, rootsy sound reminiscent of prime '70s album-rock by Dylan, Neil Young, the Band, David Crosby, Graham Nash, etc. "My Maureen," was given a folksy harmonica lead, "Oh Papa" slowed to a purring lull, and "You May Be Blue," "I Know No Pardon," and "Won't Be Me" all given ample space to sparkle. The band was so relaxed and effortlessly tight that the set reminded me of an MTV-unplugged session in certain passages, but it hit me just the right way, gentle bay breezes and songs-like-old-friends all the way.

So lovely, and worth it, if nothing else, to soak up "Down at El Rio," still a perfect evocation of San Francisco summer twilight. Also, watch out for openers the Dry Spells - Shirley Collins-style vocal harmonies sure to make the psych-folk set swoon!

By Molly Freedenberg

A few years ago, a friend of mine lost most of his fingers when a firecracker went off in his right hand. Having gone to his house just minutes after the accident (and therefore seen the gory aftermath), it was hard to imagine a more gruesome, traumatic accident. And knowing he was a right-handed graphic designer, it was hard to imagine one more tragic.

Of course, that is, until I heard about the accident that befell Roisin Isner, drummer for the San Francisco band Tinkture. According to an email being circulated by her father, the poor girl lost her hand at Dolores Park yesterday when someone threw an M60 at Roisin and her friends. The M60 landed on Roisin’s right hand and blew it apart.

Says her dad, Chris, “She will undergo surgery later this morning but it doesn't look good. Most likely she will lose her index finger; second and third fingers will also be permanently impaired and disfigured. Needless to say, her musical career is over.”

By Robert Bergin

A tiny, weasel-ish looking man sits at his computer, typing furiously, snickering occasionally.

Experimental Dental School on Europe tour 2006, Lille, France. Photo by Fred (photorock.com)

“At last!” he cries, his nasally yelp going unnoticed by his cat, who remains focused on lapping up milk left over from that morning’s bowl of cereal. “I’ve finished my list of the top 25 most ridiculous band names in rock history, and I didn’t include those jerks in Experimental Dental School, Okmoniks, or Gravy Train!!!! Now no one will ever know that Okmoniks sounds like a more tuneful Boyracer with a female lead vocalist! Now no one will ever have their blood boiled by Experimental Dental School's ghoulish, organ-driven devil music! And no one will ever listen to Gravy Train!!!!’s album when it comes out on July 10!”

A gray square on his computer screen asks the man whether he’s sure he wants to submit his list. A white arrow moves toward the “yes” box. Click. Blackout.

Cut to members of Gravy Train!!!!, Experimental Dental School, and Okmoniks playing five on five at the Mack. Chunx browses the Web at a desktop computer nearby. “Egads!!!!” Her scream brings the basketball game to a halt. “None of us made the list!!!!” Silence.

“There’s only one thing to do,” Shoko says quietly. She rips the basketball in half. “Let’s rock!”

Cut to montage of members of EDS and Okmoniks building instruments. Gravy Train!!!! sews on the other side of the room. The montage -- set to some DragonForce song -- is interrupted when Helene from Okmoniks leans against a half-finished church organ and says, “Y’know, our name isn’t really that weird. It’s different, yeah, but it’s not especially crazy or anything. Right?”

Blank stares.

She awkwardly gets back to work.

Restart montage that ends with a triumphant show Saturday, July 7, at the Bottom of the Hill. The crowd is manic, and at one point a man in a suit and sunglasses yells “Boss, I just found the Next Big Thing! Thrice!”

Cut to the cat curled up under the merch table. Blackout. Credits.

Gravy Train!!!!, the Okmoniks, and Experimental Dental School make imaginary movie history on July 7, 10 p.m., at Bottom of the Hill, 1233 17th St., SF. $10. (415) 621-4455.

By Todd Lavoie

I'd always enjoyed Maria McKee's former band, the under-appreciated rootsy rockers Lone Justice, but my moment of conversion--- much like it was for countless others, I'd wager--- arrived in the form of her contribution to the Pulp Fiction soundtrack, "If Love is a Red Dress (Hang Me in Rags)."

Love is... Maria McKee. All images courtesy of www.mariamckee.com.

After I finished collecting the pieces of my heart from the floor at the song's end, I swore true to McKee's transcendent blue-eyed, countrified soul, and that was that. If you too are hopelessly addicted to Dusty Springfield's Dusty in Memphis and are seeking another avenue for getting your fix, McKee is the clear choice. For further proof, check out her incendiary cover of signature Dusty tune "I Can't Make It Alone."

Maria McKee plays with Victor Krummenacher Sunday, July 8, 8 p.m., at Café du Nord, 2170 Market, SF. $20. (415) 861-5016.

By Sean Manning

In a perfect world, the Smashing Pumpkins’ residency at the Fillmore that begins next week would start not with one of the band’s nu-skool eyeliner anthems like “United States” or “God and Country,” but with James Iha and D’arcy Wretsky taking the stage, throwing their replacements off, kicking Billy Corgan in the groin, and then diving straight into “Jellybelly.”

Unfortunately, the chances of that happening are about as good as Corgan growing a hearty mullet in time for his next Rolling Stone photoshoot. The Smashing Pumpkins’ “reformation” may be more than just your typical excuse to tour again, since Corgan seems to be taking this Zeitgeist business pretty seriously, but let’s just hope he still knows how to play the solo from “Cherub Rock.”

East Bay's Saul Kaye has found his mission - each CD-release show he's doing for his latest, A Taste of Paradise (by the way, who came up with the subgenius idea of doing multiple CD-release shows - when does it all end!?) is going to be focused on raising awareness of missing people of the Bay Area.

Lynn Ruth Connes.

His upcoming show at La Pena will spotlight Lynn Ruth Connes, who disappeared in 1976 in Berkeley.

Kaye, meanwhile, can be found on Sat., Aug. 4, at La Pena Cultural Center, 3105 Shattuck, Berk. (510) 849-2568.
$10-$15 sliding scale.

Hairspray (2007) ain't even in theaters yet, but there's already another movie-to-musical-to-musical-movie boomerang making the Hollywood rounds. According to Variety, a remake of Footloose (1984) is afoot, har har, but with actors actually singing and dancing (instead of, you know, simply DANCING THEIR ASSES OFF).

Anyone who's watched the Footloose DVD commentary with writer Dean Pitchford knows the original film was conceived as a spin on the musical, where the characters didn't actually croon but let the soundtrack do the talking: Bonnie Tyler's "Holding Out for a Hero" during the tractor chicken race; Shalimar's "Dancing in the Sheets," featuring my favorite Footloose character, the groovy diner cook who's not too busy flippin' burgers to DANCE HIS ASS OFF; Deneice Williams' "Let's Hear it for the Boy" as Willard (Chris Penn, RIP) learns to boogie so he can impress Rusty (Sarah Jessica Parker); and Moving Pictures' "Never" as tortured soul Ren McCormick (Kevin Bacon) works out his high-school angst by, ahem, DANCING HIS ASS OFF.

Anyway, the new version -- to be produced by the guys who made Chicago -- is set to star Hairspray/High School Musical heartthrob Zac Efron. High School Musical helmer (and Dirty Dancing choreographer) Kenny Ortega will probably direct it. And -- since I'm obviously a fool for Footloose -- I'll probably go see it. Though I may not be DANCING MY ASS OFF about it.

By Todd Lavoie

Last night I had the most peculiar dream. There I was, in Paris of all places, glug-glugging champagne from the boot of a Moulin Rouge can-can showgirl while a pair of elephants bejeweled with emeralds and rubies swaggered a slow bolero to the one-two-three/one-two-three of a rowdy accordionist grinding out hot-pepper triplets from the razor edge of a tightrope hung above.

I pulled my hungry gullet away from the champagne overflow and the heaving tray of exquisite pastries cradled in my lap to crane my neck in the direction of the most deliciously weepy cello I'd ever heard, sighing into my ears from overhead. Up in the balcony, swaying back and forth, were two young lovers with eyes blazing hot 'n bothered, and every time their fingers touched, the swell of strings surged out of them. I looked out into the crowd--- jugglers, acrobats, fire-eaters, starry-eyed mystics, couples dancing with the sheer wild damn-it-all abandon of being in love for the first time. My cat, Pickles, was playing the castanets with fierce precision. Hell, I don't even have a cat.

By Robert Bergin

Summer is for trains, cowboys, Rock the Bells, the Simpsons Movie, Daft Punk at the Greek, getting dirty, Slint at Bimbo’s, children’s programming, and soccer. But until all that shit happens, here’s some quasi-relevant YouTube videos to keep you occupied.

Intro: Wu Tang Office

1. Shame on a Simpson

2. Thomas (Is the Loneliest Tank Engine)

3. Arcade Fire Spaghetti

4. Dr. Stringz

5. July 27

Outtro: summer fun with Slint

Bonus track: The Future Is Now*

*But you gotta put it on silent and sync it up with this:

They're kinda like the lil' saints of fuzz guitar, in that sense. Sunday, July 15, SF threesome the Makes Nice makes it a free-for-all spasm of "Glorious Freakbeat Pyrotechnic Madness."

The combo's peeps describe the event as "just one band, all night, plus the killer selecting of DJ Mystic Stylez from Memphis, who will spin garage, psych and raw rock & roll before, between, and after the Makes Nice's three sets. Did we mention it's free? Between free admission, cheap beer, and no enemy bands, you can't lose!!

The Makes Nice are the Rodney Dangerfields of Freakbeat. Their explosive post-mod power trio pop psych R&B harmonized violence is very, very pretty (see Les Fleur de Lys, Small Faces, Pretty Things, Equals, Everley Brothers, Tomorrow, Idle Race, Beach Boys, Nuggets 2). They have gorgeous harmony vocals and Keith-Moon-on-11 drums and fuzz bass and fuzz guitar."

The group's current CD, Candy Wrapper & 12 Other Songs, is now out on SF's Frenetic Records. The label unleashes the band's This Time Tomorrow this September.

But this time, let 'em knock you out at the Knockout, 3223 Mission, SF, July 15, 9 p.m. And it's free, free, freeeeeeeeee.... !

By K. Tighe

The sweet Chicago sky. All photos by K. Tighe.

When the folks at Pitchfork decided to add an extra day to this year's festivities, I doubt anyone suspected this. As the lineup for the July 13 kick-off evening was announced, jaws across the blogosphere dropped. In collaboration with All Tomorrow's Parties/Don't Look Back, Pitchfork Music Festival was packed with ringers: Slint, GZA, and Sonic Youth all performing their most important albums in their entirety on the same soil, in Chicago's beautiful Union Park.

As I walked through the press gate of the festival an hour before the first band was set to begin, a lingering air of "Holy shit, are we really going to see this tonight?" hovered above the crowd. The lawn in front of the Connector Stage was full with people chomping at the bit to see Slint open the event. Across the park, the Sears Tower loomed large behind the Aluminum Stage, where crowds were already busy defending prime spots for later performances from GZA and Sonic Youth.

Knowing it would be awhile before any rock began to ensue, I decided to explore the community that had sprouted for the weekend.

'Nuff said.

It seems that the only presidential candidate with guts enough to rock the vote -- or should we say Barack the vote? -- was Illinois Senator Barack Obama. Sure, there might be a little hometown heroism explaining his booth, located directly across from a satellite Whole Foods Market doling out bento boxes to hungry, hungry hipsters. Volunteers were busy spreading the Obama love, signing people up to vote, and selling some kick-ass Obama '08 merchandise.

A conversation about Barack always makes me feel warm and fuzzy -- as does shopping for records, so I high-tailed it over to the WLUW Record Fair. A bit overwhelming, the record fair is one of the largest structures on the grounds. It's no Amoeba, but the fair does offer a pretty good selection of new and used vinyl, and a great way to kill time between sets. Adjacent to the vinyl-junkie fix, is the Department Clothing and Crafts fair. A bunch of Chicago crafters set up booths selling various handmade wares. Festival-goers were snatching up jewelry, iPod-holders, and obligatory mini-buttons. I noticed that someone had figured out how to make fruit bowls out of melted records, which left me pretty hot and bothered for a second.

Next, it was time to head over to the Connector Stage to hear Slint play their 1991 album **Spiderland** live. Slint seems like an unusual choice to kick off such a festival: the minimalist Louisville rock band packs a lot of punch, but it's the low-key kind. No danger of the Kool-Aid man bursting through a wall at any point during their set. In addition, the idea of hearing the highly influential **Spiderland** in stark daylight is a bit confusing. Most people in the crowd are probably accustomed to crouching in the fetal position in the corner of a dark room, breaking the pose only to flip the record. When singer-guitarist Brian McMahan took the stage in wraparound sunglasses, some preconceptions were shattered. When the band played the Great American Music Hall last year, they set a pretty high precedent for themselves.

Slint glints like crazy, opening the Pitchfork fest.

As they took the stage on July 13, people cheered like crazy, and the guy in front of me almost had a heart attack. The set was very casual, and the crowd went into hysterics during every break between songs. By the time McMahan began howling, "I miss you," at the end of “Good Morning Captain,” it became clear why **Spiderland** has remained a critic's darling for so many years -- a powerful, beautiful album that hasn't lost one iota of its luster. Today, it positively glimmered under the Chicago sun.

By K. Tighe

The power of Cat Power. All photos by K. Tighe.

To kick-off the Pitchfork festivities on Saturday, July 14, I decided to check in with some Bay Area denizens.

I'd been hearing excited murmurings about cheap subscriptions to Ready Made magazine, so I headed over to see how the Berkeley publication was faring in the Chicago heat. The corner booth was swarmed with people eager for a turn at custom-designing their own organic T-shirts. Mike Senese, the magazine's product and online manager, made the trip out from California to organize a crew of local volunteers. This was Ready Made's second year at Pitchfork, and Senese explained that they've decided to offer festival-goers the chance to get a year's subscription for only $5. It's a huge hit. According to Senese, the booth has been constantly busy between the T-shirt making and subscription-peddling -- he's barely had time to see any of the bands.

Ready Made's Mike Senese spreads the T-shirt-making word.

Next I checked in with Cory Brown, founder of Emeryville’s Absolutely Kosher Records. Brown and his two little nephews were busy doling out T-shirts and albums to ecstatic festival-goers, but he managed to find a few minutes to tell me that all of the AK bands -- across the board -- are selling really well. At the fest for a third year, the AK was now joined by hoards of other small imprints from coast to coast in the WLUW Record Fair tent.

Absolutely Kosher honcho Cory Brown chillin' with chillen.

Later I headed over to the FlatStock Poster Convention on the other side of the park to check in with Terrance Ryan, a.k.a., Lil Tuffy, San Francisco's premier rock poster artist. Tuffy told me he was doing well, selling many posters, and having fun. A quick look around at the other vendors -- who are all extraordinary -- solidifies in my mind that SF does it better: Lil Tuffy's prints were one of the highpoints of the convention for me.

Lil Tuffy peddles his posters.

Finally it's time to take in some music. I head over to the Aluminum Stage, where Grizzly Bear is about 10 minutes into their set. Having been underwhelmed by the band in the past, I wasn't really expecting much from their mid-afternoon slot. With a sweeping, ethereal momentum that seemed to sprout out of some deep flirtation with rock opera, the Brooklyn quartet positively thrived in the festival environment. The drummer seemed to be working on about 13 internal metronomes, anchoring a set list largely pulled from their 2006 album, Yellow House. A flourish of delicate melodies were layered over the driving rhythm, and the whole thing sounded like an experiment in wrangling chaos. The end result was so charged, I'm surprised the band didn't collapse after the final song. I suspect they at least had to go bury their feet in the earth of Union Park to ground themselves after such a stellar showing.

The sassy genre-spanning spastics Battles christened the cooling weather with an unabashedly raucous shit storm. Pulsing with hipster smugness, the New York prog-electro-funk-metal-kitchen-sink group pounded through an unsurprisingly mind-melting set to an audience that just couldn't get enough. Sewn into the fabric of Battles' success is their ability to produce sound that seems to shed irony. Indeed, the festival crowd was coated with a heavy gloss of the stuff, igniting a theme of "Fuck being cool -- let's just dance!" for the duration of the evening.

By Molly Freedenberg

You'd think a writer living in Tech Central and a musician who works almost exclusively with electronics would be able to figure out how to have an international conversation. But somehow, Chromeo's Dave-1 (who was in London at the time) and I couldn't get that archaic piece of equipment (you know, the telephone) to work for us. So we turned to ye olde computer. Below is the transcript of our email interview, emoticons and all (who knew Dave-1 uses smilies?). I'll let y'all know if we actually talk face to face after their show at Mezzanine on Monday.

San Francisco Bay Guardian: So first of all, I love the new album. How was making this one different from making the first?

Dave Macklovitch: Well we took a while because we really wanted to come up with the catchiest songs. We took our time. We wanted this to be a more sophisticated record. We polished the arrangements, the mix too. We got Philippe Zdar to mix it, actually. And then it was also really important for us to put the emphasis on the lyrics this time around. So you know, that explains everything from "Bonafied" to "Momma's Boy"...

SFBG:I know you didn't know much about electronic music when you formed Chromeo. Is that still true? Either way, who's been influencing you (or who have you been excited about listening to) in the past few years?

DM: I mean, now we're up on all that stuff. All the Parisian stuff, London cats like Switch and Sinden, German cats like Digitalism and Boys Noize, we like all that. But we don't come from that world. We discovered this through Chromeo and everyone who's supported us over the years...

By Todd Lavoie

Hey, swingers! Dolls! Diggin' those retro-futuristic sounds again, aren't you? I know, I know: ain't nothin' better for sipping Mai Tais on the patio, daddy-o, than a few shakes and shimmies of an electro-samba graced by a cool, cool kitten cooing from the soft belly of outer space, is there? Now that I've bent your ear, how about throwing in a little Frenchified pop and maybe a sprinkle of Martin Denny exotica, while we're at it? Sounds like a classy joint, doesn't it?

Well, good news, space age bachelors and bachelorettes: on Thursday, July 19, at the Independent, you can indulge all of your tiki bar dreams and bossa nova fantasies, thanks to the smooth stylings of LA's finest ambassadors of pop sophistication, the Bird and the Bee. Singer-songwriter Inara George (daughter of the late, great Little Feat funkster Lowell George) and multi-instrumentalist wizard Greg Kurstin - the respective winged creatures in question, I'd reckon - whip up a potent cocktail of late '50s/early '60s poolside elegance, Left Bank yeh-yeh girl intemperance, and Tropicalia free-wheeling, all served up in a postmodern update of that era's kooky visions of a 21st century, which seemed so far away at the time.

Best of all, the duo doesn't drown it all in irony, either! Sure, the lyrics contain a few knowing winks, but amongst the snarky irreverence - look to their bouncy bout of whimsy entitled "Fucking Boyfriend" for proof - are moments of homage so sincere that I can't help but imagine the pair lounging around in their Ray & Charles Eames furniture, feet up, drink in hand.

By K. Tighe

Jamie Lidell rocks the synthetics. All photos by K. Tighe.

Sunlight danced off of Jamie Lidell's Mylar-embellished headpiece as the Cambridge-born genre-bender yucked it up like only a Brit can. When not encased within his make-shift mechanical perch, Lidell contorted around the stage in a gold-embossed smoking jacket, giving the impression that this fringe-hugging impresario was something of an electro-soul shaman. An old hand at manipulating peripheral noise elements, Lidell pulls from an arsenal that includes a Theremin. He loops and layers. There was even a brief cameo by a handheld gong, though the fire power to reckon with is an achingly soulful, and relentlessly funk-filled croon.

Lidell was proof positive that the solo performers at this year's Pitchfork Music Festival lineup intended to shake things up. Still, no one was more vulnerable on stage than Stephen Malkmus. The former Pavement frontperson didn't have any equipment to hide behind. His was a simple equation: a man, a guitar, the masses. It was a throwback to what festivals used to mean, back in the hippie days when an acoustic guitar could hit harder than a backline full of Marshall stacks. Malkmus delivered a stunning, if sparse, performance that included several Pavement songs. At the end of his set, he was even joined on drums by former Pavement drummer Bob Nastanovich.

Dressed for indie success: Kevin Barnes of Of Montreal.

It's not a stretch to assume that Of Montreal's Kevin Barnes whiled away many childhood hours playing dress up and performing in front of a mirror. The anti-glam Abba-fetishists served up gimmick after sparkling gimmick, and the crowd ate it all up. A guitarist molting hot-pink wings, an acrobatic ninja flipping around the stage, and the trademark stilts that have brought many an Of Montreal up to the – ahem - next level filled out a disco-perverted performance. Barnes's frequent costume changes culminated in a risqué ensemble of black-leather corsetry that elicited an expected chorus of whistles and shrieks from a starry-eyed audience. The whimsical Georgia group finished with a flourish: an encore of the Kinks "All Day and All of the Night" that sent the crowd into the requisite hysterics.

"Think pink!" think Of Montreal.

Across the park, the New Pornographers closed out the Connector Stage with their token take on power-pop. Ingratiating themselves to longtime fans by throwing in plenty of tracks from their upcoming album, Challenger (due in August on Matador), the Pornographers did not disappoint.

When the sun started to go down, the vendors were busy packing up, the crew was beginning to strike equipment, and the toilet paper that had been conspicuously absent from the port-a-johns revealed to have been strewn about the now-empty lawns in front of the Connector and Balance stages, I began to wonder how the hell the Pitchfork peeps think they can wrap this thing up. Seventeen thousand people who have just had the shit rocked out of them are clustered around the Aluminum Stage - the gigantic AV screens are all running the same anticipatory feed, and the act to close this fest better damn well live up to the hype.

The Pitchfork crowd was utterly smitten with De La Soul.

Enter De La Soul. Wait, sorry, enter De La Fucking Soul! This comes as a booking no-brainer in hindsight. How do you impress hoards of elitist music-enthusiasts when you've spent three days hiking up the precedent? By booking a band that doesn't care if it impresses anyone. By booking De La Fucking Soul to get on stage, have a good time, and remind everyone about what sparked that passion for music in the first place. The set largely consisted of well-worn tracks from 1989's 3 Feet High and Rising, and the minute that DJ Maseo started bouncing around stage, all arms were in the air bouncing along with him. With Posdnuos and Trugoy egging everyone on from behind their self-inverted mics, no one stood a chance.

The boys starting chiding each other - quipping about their ages between songs, throwing out sarcastic jabs at A Tribe Called Quest – and it was clear that there was no agenda afoot, save rocking the fuck out of everyone in earshot. The sound-related shortcomings that had been plaguing every stage all weekend must have sparked some kind of karmic fury, because De La Soul was working at volumes that hadn't been present all weekend.

Lo, De La.

When DJ Maseo stopped scratching and announced that, because of his age, he could no longer hold his bladder and had to take a bathroom break, the crowd didn't seem to get the joke. Then Maseo announced that he had a replacement in mind and brought out Prince Paul - iconic hip-hop legend and producer of 3 Feet High and Rising – and the audience went positively ape. Paul's appearance prompted dozen of normally cooler-than-thou VIP laminate holders to jump the fence into the All Access area and shake it with the stagehands.

During all the commotion, Trugoy came to the side of the stage to ask the hundreds of press, agents, publicists, and artists, "What are you guys supposed to be?" With the over-eager shout of "VIP" he got in response, he laughed into his mic, and repeated it to thousands in front of the stage, which was, of course, answered by a chorus of boos and hisses. "We're just gonna call you guys special fans over here. Now, we know you're the movers and shakers of the industry - but these…," he said, gesturing to the masses, "…these are the hip-hop people." For a brief moment, that old rock ‘n’ roll adage - you know, we've got the amps; you've got the numbers - took over, as the general admission audience screamed their heads off.

By Molly Freedenberg

Blame it on my newish obsession with Chromeo, but this punk and rock diehard is suddenly getting all excited about electropop. I suppose it was really only a matter of time, considering I grew up doing kick-ball-changes to Marky Mark (and his Funky Bunch), and have been indoctrinated into the world of house and breaks by six years of Burning Man - and what is electropop if not the marriage of those two danceable genres? Either way, after weeks of devotion to Black Tuesdays (Cutiepie DJ Lance spinning Minor Threat and Joy Divison at Delirium), suddenly the following events are what have my motor running (or my turntable spinning?) this week:

Ratatat and Devlin&Darko
Leave it to the culturally savvy folks at Flavorpill to get some badass acts for their anniversary party. Tonight's shindig at Mighty features Brooklyn duo Ratatat, who have been opening for Daft Punk in Europe, and Devlin&Darko, who have somehow managed to make Paul Simon's 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover a dance anthem.

By Robert Bergin

Ghost Boobs, kids love 'em! Gravy Train!!!! strikes a munchy pose. Courtesy of nyc.metblogs.com.

Perhaps you’ve noticed a lot more bated breath among your neighbors. More expectant glances at calendars and watches, perhaps. Well, there's a logical explanation for all that anticipation. The Guardian's "Best of the Bay" issue drops next week.

But you can’t wait! You’ve gotta have those value judgments! In your hands! In your computer’s hands! In your brain! Now!

Enter the RIPs (Rejected Intern Pitches). I’d say something like, “Consider this an appetizer to next Wednesday’s main course,” but I think you and I both know this is just a silly blog post filled with random stuff. So on with the awards!

Best Band of All Fucking Time: Fall Out Boy, no duh. Or should I say…Fall Out BAY. Oooohhhh.

Best Shamelessly Hip Music Video that You Are Watching While Living in the Bay:

Best Initiation into Gravy Train!!!! culture:

I think I’m a little too much of a corn-fed heteronormative frat boy to truly appreciate this band. Not that I actively dislike them or anything: hypersex just isn’t really my thing. Still, even though I went to their Bottom of the Hill show a couple weeks ago mostly to check out the opener, Experimental Dental School, I thought it’d be interesting to bring along a companion that didn’t know anything about the headliner.

So I sent an e-mail to my fraternity’s listserve saying I had an extra ticket, and I get a response from a friend we’ll call Biff. Biff, in addition to having a heart of gold, fulfills a few of the requisite external qualities of your prototypical frat boy: sandals, muscles, a strong affinity for Sublime, et cetera. I told him it’d be fun and internally prepared myself for a night of awkward vibes and incredulously raised eyebrows.

Of course, we weren’t even there five minutes before I came back from the bathroom to find Biff slovenly making out with some girl in a velvet dress in the middle of an already sexed-up crowd. (I’m not sure what was better or worse, the instance itself or his shrugging explanation, “She didn’t even give me her name. She just said ‘I’m from LA.’”). Sleazy? Yeah, but what’s the point in turning your nose up at smutty thrillseekers? Fiery loins…just another thing Gravy Train!!!! and my fraternity have in common.

(Ed.: And if you're curious about that sexy GT, check out the cute animated video for "Burger Baby."

Set off the Portland twee indie explosion with Dirty Mittens, Bustling Townships, and Eskimo and Sons. The Portlanders head into town whispery song stylings, the fairy-tale folk, and the shambolic sing-alongs respectively.

Have signage, will tour: Dirty Mittens challenge you to a staring contest.

The crafty Northwesterners settle down at the Red Vic series on Wednesday, July 25, 7 p.m. at the Red Victorian Peace Cafe, 1665 Haight, SF. And dang, it's free, y'all.

By Sean Manning

In a move that’s sure to send the diaper industry to its knees - and the general public into an era of unabashed pants-pooping - an announcement will be made at the Musicians for Peace stage at this year’s Monterey Summer of Love Festival to protest Proctor and Gamble’s use of the Beatles “All You Need Is Love” in a TV ad. Get it? Like, “Luvs.” Why? ‘Cause that’s, like, our anthem, man. Get yer stinking hands off my anthem.

What’s most surprising is that the folks at Luvs even went for a Beatles song in the first place. Those rights must’ve been expensive, right? Besides, hippie children don’t even wear diapers. They squat and bury. You know, to be closer to the earth and stuff. Why not drop a fraction of the cash and get Wayne Coyne to write a little ditty specifically for these ads? It’d probably be a real toe-tapper, and he’d name it something catchy, too, like “Overflowing Bladder Vs. the Bear Hug Stretch Diaper of Olympus Mons (Interstellar Leaky Bottom) Pt. 1.”

Oh, well. You live - you learn. You get Luvs.

Amber Asylum honchette Kris Force gives an olde-styley performance with pal Sigrid Sheie tonight, July 25, at the Homestead. Me thinks it won't be heaviosity incarnate - instead, Force e-mails, "We've been working on a collection of standards and torch songs that we would love to share with you." She adds that Chewy of Hammers of Misfortune will be joining the duo on brushes.

It's all happening tonight, about 9:30 p.m. And it's, dang, free... though attention to the tip jar is appreciated.

What the hell is happening to young Hollywood? Nicole’s maybe heading to jail (with a Good Charlotte bun in the oven); Paris was in the clink and out of the clink and back in the clink again; Britney’s on the threshold of a full-scale meltdown (and you thought the head-shaving thing was the worst it could get); and now LiLo – the only member of this skanky club that actually has discernable talent – is back in trouble with the law, recent rehab stint be damned.

What can we learn from Lohan’s troubles? In her hour of need, let’s turn to some of her finer song lyrics. Newly poignant meanings abound. Cries for help lurk between every rhyme. Who cares if she didn’t actually write ‘em all – she sang ‘em, man. Conjecture away!

By Molly Freedenberg

...except they have better publicists. And lawyers. And whole record companies fighting to keep their embarrassing foibles out of the public eye. In the case of Beyonce, or Ms. B-Day (am I the only one amused that she named her album – phonetically, at least -- after a device that cleans your ass?), who fell head-first down some stairs at her Orlando concert on Tuesday, it’s probably all of the above. It seems B’s team is asking people not to post YouTube videos of the singer’s somersault (which, by the way, she impressively ignored as she got up and continued to sing), and Sony has begun to make copyright claims on each of the videos. I’m not going to argue about what a stupid waste of resources this is, or about how this video has gotten B. more attention, and in more circles, than anything she’s done recently has gotten her. No, I’m just going to say that I wish I had a whole team of people protecting me from my public foibles. Like, say, my drunken antics at the bar last Friday.

You can see Beyonce fall down (or not) in our neighborhood on August 31.

(By the way, tho