Why? Why? For those of us coming back slowly into consciousness after the big weekend, here's a little WTF crazy-catchy tune from Sweden's hottest latest "dance music" import (and, one hopes, most savvy performance artist), Gunther --- "Tutti Frutti Summer Love." I apologize beforehand for this, but it may be just the slap in the face you need to wake you up. At least in a "Is this a joke?!?" way.

Gunther will be in SF at Sound Factory on Saturday, Sept. 22 -- I just scored an interview with him, which will come out in the next Super Ego. What the heck should I ask him? And why are the Scandinavians fierce ruling right now (hello, Junior Senior)? Questions.

Down ye olde Okkervil River (from left: Scott Brackett, Brian
Cassidy, Will Sheff, Patrick Pestorius, Jonathan Meiburg, Travis Nelsen). Photo by Todd Wolfson.

O Will Sheff – should his parentals have named him Wit Sheff? I had fun chatting with the brain-teasin' 31-year-old Okkervil River songwriter - catch the first part of the talk in this week’s Sonic Reducer. Here’s more from that interview, and for the proper soundtrack, behold the band at a free performance today, Thursday, Sept. 6, at Amoeba Music in SF.

Bay Guardian: So how did this new album, The Stage Names, materialize?

Will Sheff: Basically when I wrote Black Sheep Boy, I wrote it in the country during the winter, and I wanted to go somewhere else to write this album. When we go on tour it’s hard for me to write songs - I don’t get to touch a guitar unless it’s on stage. I wanted to go somewhere else totally different and I had a cheap deal in Brooklyn and it seemed as different as possible from the place where I wrote Black Sheep Boy. I had a fourth floor apartment, tiny, a room big enough for bed and chair with an open window. And I’d sit by the open window and write songs. I find if you have to walk four floors to get up there, it’s just as isolated as being out in the country. Outside the window there was all this life and hustle and bustle. Then I went back to Austin and recorded the album.

BG: Did anything specific inspire the songs?

WS: I watched this documentary about Clara Bow, the “It Girl,” one of the first movie stars to be famous because of her perceived sexuality. There was something about her that people in ‘20s thought was sexy. She came from a really bad background - her mom was a prostitute and locked her in closet and turned tricks. Then she won some sort of beauty contest and got cast in It. She had a coarse personality and got this reputation as being unpolished. The thing that everyone loved about her became the thing that got turned against her. And these totally untrue urban legends were spread about her.

When the talkies came along, her accent was so strong that studios wouldn’t give her work. Really her life in movies ended. And you think a lot about that, someone who’s an ordinary person who gets swept into this dream world. You wake up a little worse for wear.

BG: Can you relate to her experience, being in a popular band?

WS: I experienced it in my own tiny way - what it’s like to have people think something about you that don’t know you, whether it’s something great or something bad - especially with this record doing better than any of our previous records.

There’s some backlash that has very little to do with us and has to do with other people’s perceptions of hype. It’s amazing how personal people can get about you - not just bloggers - whether it’s positive or negative. People who don’t know you at all! I think that’s very interesting. It works in a negative way where people cast aspersions on your character and haven’t met you, and people cozy up because of the songs, and think you’re their friend. It’s a false intimacy but that’s what a lot of artists are looking for. I know a lot of artists who have a hard time dealing with basic interactions in real life.

BG: Really? Is that true for you?

WS: Maybe a little bit. I think most singers in bands are very awkward people, I’ve discovered. I don’t know if they were born that way or if it’s a function of what you do. Maybe I’m a little bit awkward. But my observations about this have nothing to do with me or my life.

Intrepid intern Lotto Chancellor (we shit you not, that's his name) checked out the Chantelle Tibbs show at El Rio last Tuesday ....

EL RIO, Tuesday, September 4 — Sandwiched between Wee the Band, whose showertime blues covers were tolerable, and Dubious Ranger, whose drummer couldn’t quite seem to find the pocket, was Chantelle Tibbs, another SF transplant from, where else, the East Coast. But don’t worry. She’s from Jersey, not Mass.

Oh, Chantelle!

This woman straight up has pipes, pipes with enough resonance to fill the El Rio’s carpeted space and draw genuine applause not just from her admirers but also from wayward shuffleboard players, semi-conscious tipplers, et al. After her hour-long set she sold off what demos she had, and took compliments with grace, which is an easy thing to do when you know that people are actually telling you the truth about your performance.

Circles sweethearts in Ben Lomond. All photos by Hannah Barr-DiChiara.

By Max Goldberg

With the Bay Bridge closed and Golden Gate Park rolling in 40-year-old patchouli, some local pleasure seekers headed south for the Santa Cruz Mountains where SF impresario Arvel Hernandez threw the first annual Ben Lomond Indian Summer Music Festival from Aug. 31 to Sept. 2 at Henfling’s Firehouse Tavern. This summer of love was a hot one indeed, with highland temps cresting 100. Collective skin stickiness and caravans for creekdipping sessions were the order of the day. Evenings were for replenishment, singer-songwriters, sandwiches, a slice of lemon, and, eventually, a peaceful bedding down in the cricket-charmed night.

Hernandez did a wonderful job overseeing schedules and camping, making this festival of friends seem extra…friendly. The mixing of the beaded and bejeweled with some seriously leathered biker dudes and wooly barflies was sometimes weird but totally peaceable, my knee-jerk visions of Altamont redux proving unfounded. If anything, the locals just wanted to dance, something I could relate to after a pretty steady run of whispers and drones: just because you fly the freak flag doesn’t mean you’re excused from party anthems, soul stirrings, and a beat, ya heard?

Ship bros.

But enough of that, let my praise spill over. Martin Salata (formerly of the White White Quilt) began Saturday, stretching out some diamond blues with Circles, a new project with recordings and shows forthcoming. A botched sound job left some holes in the arrangements, but the centrifugal groove-design was apparent and had me thinking vintage Dr. John and Hawkwind. Humbled by the heat, Guardian “Class of 2007” playboys Ship played their song-quilts more plaintively than usual; the heady light of the afternoon sun crowned these angels.

Joseph Childress gets political.

Barn Owl’s skyscraping drone was the perfect match for the sudden cool of Saturday evening. Spirits awoken, we dug in for the nighttime jamboree. Wymond and His Spirit Children’s nice spin of hippie-glam gave way to a pin-drop performance by SF-by-way-of-Colorado troubadour Joseph Childress. I’ve seen Childress several times, but never this commanding and assured: keeping a tight leash on the vocal tics and guitar thrashings, allowing room for the natural ebullience of his verses and melodies to send Henfling’s soaring.

By Todd Lavoie

Oh, to talk to the animals! As much as I consider myself a friend to all creatures great and small, I’ve got nothing on Devendra Banhart. Spiders, crabs, mockingbirds, turtles, dragonflies, seahorses - honestly, is there a single animal roaming this planet that the man hasn’t warbled, cooed, or trilled with the brightest of eyes about? What’s that you say? The dung beetle? You may be right, but we won’t know for sure till Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon (XL) is released on Sept. 25, will we? Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.

We’ll get our answers to the dung beetle-homage rumors when Banhart’s latest instant-classic emerges, but I can assure you that I don’t recall any mention of those creepy little poop-munchers on Friday night, Sept. 7, when the Dr. Doolittle of the indie world played to a nearly packed house at the Palace of Fine Arts Theatre. Yeah, yep, and yay, the remainder of the animal kingdom seemed to be greeted at one point or another during the thoroughly charming, refreshingly unpretentious set - focusing mainly on material from what promises to be his most wide-reaching album so far in his career – and I suppose it’s possible that he might’ve given those dirty crawlies a shout-out somewhere in there. Perhaps, ironically, I missed it beneath the din of cracking my own shit-eating grin.

If my middle-school indulgences into scat-talk are troubling you: hey, I’m only getting into the spirit of the evening! Banhart introduced his band as Spiritual Boner, so it seems only fitting that I’d start from the bottom and work my way up. (Alternatively, he offered Monsterpuss as another handle for the rock-solid fivepiece that joined him on the journey from gentle creek-side folk strummings to Os Mutantes-inspired Tropicalia delirium to full-on certified rocking-out moments. If the evening was any indication, Smokey likes to kick out the jams every now and then. Good for him.) Judging from the cackles in the crowd, I wasn’t alone in my appreciation of sixth grade wordplay. (“Heh heh. He said boner…”)

By Molly Freedenberg

(Obligatory disclaimer: Yes, I love bubblegum pop. If you have a problem with that, bite me.)

I am in serious denial. I can’t believe that the wobbling, nervous (or stoned?), first-time-in-a-talent-show performer at last night’s VMAs was Britney – my Britney. I remember the days when even those who hated her music had to admit that she was a fantastic (and quite attractive) performer. And even through all the media mess she’s become tangled with in the last few years, and her fantastically horrible reality TV show, what’s kept me going – and rooting for her -- is remembering just how mesmerizing she can be on stage. And so I’ve been eagerly anticipating her performance at the VMAs, hoping she’d blow the skeptics away with her trademark snap and sparkle. But no.

AP Photo/Mark J. Terrill
Who are you and what have you done with my Britney?

She looked out of practice and out of shape (and I don’t mean her slightly plumper body, which would be sexy if she didn’t look like she’d borrowed it for the night and therefore didn’t know how to wear it,) as though she couldn’t keep up with her choreography and definitely couldn’t handle those heels – and that both of those things were distracting her from pretending to sing. It was so painful to watch, not only because of the vicarious embarrassment factor, but because I really like Britney and wanted her to do well. I only wish she’d taken into account whatever her limitations are (Quaalude addiction? Too much time defending her mothering skills and not enough in the dance studio?

"Photo by Kurt&Bart.
I miss this Britney.

The amount of alcohol required to forget she ever married KFed?) and shaped a performance that highlighted her existing strengths, rather than trying – and failing – to embody her former self. Still, I’m not inspired to take shots about how she’s a wash-up at 25 (shame on you, Sarah Silverman). Instead, I’d like to give her a hug, introduce her to my former therapist in Westlake Village, and watch my “Toxic” DVD until my girl makes a real comeback.

Did you see her perform over the weekend? She killed it!

No, I'm not talking about B_____y S____s killing her career (as if) with a fascinatingly amateurish lip-sync of a song that didn't sound that bad. That performance may have had current popular girl or pop tart du jour Rihanna looking for an umbrella to hide her giggles under (time is cruel), but the wreck factor was predictable amid today's mania for celebrity ambulance-chasing.

I'm talking about Keyshia Cole, whose show at Mezzanine on Friday served up the kind of thrill you get when seeing someone really talented starting to peak in a way that makes you -- and probably her -- wonder just how great she can make this thing. After Hurricane Chris and the "One More Chance" remix (and Michael Jackson, Prince, Bell Biv Devoe -- and Luther) heated up the club, Keyshia set it on fire with two half-hour sets during which she brazenly covered songs that Mary J. Blige covered early in her career, and -- working a blond pageboy -- brought an earlier Bay Area soul singer, the legendary Etta James, to mind. Decked out in white, with a pair of tough backup singers and a young band (her guitarist looked straight outta high school, with enthusiasm to match), Keyshia was like a sports-fit young Etta.

Spectrum's Sonic Boom pulls out a new album and the group's first US trip in more than four years.

No kiddin', kids - this Gulch getdown on Saturday, Sept. 15, from noon to 7 p.m., puts all the white-wine-grub-boooorrrrring-music street fairs to shame and sets a new standard for free, outdoor, gutter-level entertainment programming in SF. Over near the Hemlock Tavern, at Post and Bush, the club and KUSF will host an open-air show with headliner Space Man 3 alum Sonic Boom's Spectrum (5:30 p.m.), noise-rock locals Triclops! (4 p.m.), all-lady experimental-noise extravaganza TITS (2:45 p.m.), and Latino cacophony-makers Los Llamarada (1:45 p.m.), and Lou Lou and the Guitarfish (12:30 p.m.).

Saturday swelters with David Harness.

Futher up the street at Bush and California, Hemlock's Polk Street neighbor and Grammy-nominated producer Chris Lum's Moulton Media hosts electronic and techno acts at an outdoor dance-party called "The Block Party Mixtape" - expect visual art and live painting presented by Space Gallery as well as DJs Mauricio V & Jessie Martinez, David Harness, 92.7's Trevor Simpson, Amenti Music's Olivier Desmet vs. Yerba Buena Discos, Landshark, Tweekin' Records' and Green Gorilla Lounge's Anthony Mansfield, the 40 Thieves, DJ Andre Lucero, Dirtybird Records' Claude Van Stroke & Worthy.

You can thank the Lower Polk St. Merchants Association. A beer garden will be open all day along with booths, and Hemlock opens at 1 p.m. with KUSF DJs spinning throughout. And don't forget, it's freeeeeee...

It's all happening this busy, busy week in the Bay - and here are a few extremely disparate artists you might wanna look out for in the next couple.

Qui frontperson and ex-Jesus Lizard/Scratch Acid yowler David Yow blows a few more kisses - and a few more ear drums - live Wednesday, Sept. 12, at Cafe du Nord. Expect a loud lil' preview of Qui's new LP, Love’s Miracle (Ipecac). 9 p.m., $10-$12.

Big Daddy Kane, the old-schoolly that made turned so many SXSW-er's heads, is on the comeback trail, opening for the Roots at the Fillmore, Thursday, Sept. 13. So do as the BDK asks and “put a quarter in your ass
because you played yourself.” 8 p.m., $40.

Soft-rock singer-songwriter Colbie Caillat looks like the femme counterpart to Jack Johnson - though I can't swear by her board skills. Those who are feeling “Bubbly” about the scion of a Fleetwood Mac producer can see the MySpace star Saturday, Sept. 15, at the Fillmore. 8 p.m., $20.

By Ben Richardson

It seems that in the time since the White Stripes regaled their fans with a mind-bogglingly well-received one-note concert some weeks ago, the distaff half of the the perpetually color-coordinated duo has developed a case of "acute anxiety," at least according to her publicist, and will be canceling numerous dates on their upcoming tour. Improbably reported in the FoxNews entertainment section, the story is sure to put the Stripes' fanbase into an "icky" mood. But while Jack White's hand has seldom strayed far from the rock-critic drool faucet since the release of the band's first single, anyone with at least one functioning ear should have been able to grasp the fact that his faux-sister counterpart plays drums "like Steven Hawking with an arm cramp," to use a simile coined by the waggish Fark.com submitter who brought this story to my attention.

So tell me, White Stripes acolytes (and you're out there...by god, you're everywhere out there): did Meg finally realize that she can't play to save her life? That her role as a full half of one of the most lauded bands in the country lies somewhere between "gimmick" and "puppet"? That even with a purported musical genius guiding her every note, she struggles to keep time, and can barely manage anything other than most basic and boring quarter note walloping?

While it is certainly not nice to make fun of people with medical conditions, the absolute ineptitude of Meg White - and the deafening critical silence that accompanies it - renders this story fully mockable. As a drummer myself, it galls me to the core to see such a rank amateur feted around the rock clubs of the world, especially when said amateur can't even manage the kind of improvement that you'd think international exposure and a dedication to a career in music might eventually bring. Call me an asshole, but I like to think that the band's next three months of canceled shows are the direct result of Meg experiencing a kind of "suckitude epiphany," in which the sheer incompetence of her fumbling attempts at percussion suddenly came crashing down on her. Maybe it was the fact that the new material was even more of a struggle than the old material. Maybe someone finally introduced her to a metronome. Maybe Jack finally snapped and said something extra-mean. Either way, Meg, grab yourself some Xanax and fucking practice already.

By Molly Freedenberg

I used to wonder if there was some unspoken law about Burning Man that the only music appropriate for Black Rock City was electronica – as though somehow the magic would be lost if someone played Kiss instead of Kruder & Dorfmeister, or maybe you’d just get jumped by moon-boot wearing playa rats if you blasted the Descendents from your art car instead of DJ Ooah. And after six years of visiting the playa, I’ve noticed that there is some kind of symbiosis between the stark desert landscape and the driving, thumping, not-quite-earthbound beats of techno music.

But that doesn’t mean I’ve ever been fully converted. I can tolerate most electronic music. I even genuinely like some of it. But after a day or two being assaulted by ooncha ooncha from what seems like every goddamned corner of the earth, I inevitably find myself craving good old rock’n’roll – hell, I’d even settle for some whiny folk music – the way I used to crave real Mexican food when I lived in Portland (land of white cheese, black beans, and whole wheat tortillas. Good? Sure. But Mexican food? Hardly.)

Another thing I’ve been doing since my first Burning Man? Joking with friends about burning the man early. Or, even better, flying an airplane equipped with fire retardant over the man just as it’s about to burn, putting out the flames: biggest communal buzz kill EVER.

Man, that guy's DJ decks look a lot like drums.

Well, it seems this year two of my deepest playa desires were satisfied: Someone (Paul Addis?) burned the man on Tuesday – which, though I feel sorry for the people who had to do five days work in one night to build the man again by Saturday, I find hilarious and appropriate. And people played music with actual – wait for it, wait for it – instruments. Yup, you heard me. Drums. Guitars. A bass or two. Not simulated by computer programs, but stroked and slammed and banged and picked by human hands.

Jason had a bigger knife, and Michael Myers got the trendy Rob Zombie treatment. But ol' razor-hand had the best musical moments by far. The highlights:

Dokken, "Dream Warriors" - Is Patricia Arquette scared of Mr. Krueger -- or Don Dokken's fashion?

The Fat Boys, "Are You Ready for Freddy?" - Clad in striped sweaters, the Fat Boys are enticed to spend the night in "Uncle Frederick's house." Plus: Freddy raps!

There's no YouTube video of DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince's "A Nightmare on My Street." So here's a truly bizarre karaoke version. Some context for this performance might help ... though it's kind of more amazing without.

Howl on, Howlin Rain.

Mixtapes/CDs - the DIY-DJ, hardcopy joy of giving that has been overlooked in the digital scramble to trade music online. Wha' happened?

Well, Oakland howler, guitarist, and all-around noise-maker Ethan Miller of Comets on Fire and Howlin Rain found a way. He clued me to Spot DJ where folks can make comps of their very own. Listen to Miller's workaday/beer-drinking mix right here. He describes it as "an eclectic Saturday night kind of vibe. Watch out for moments of guitar shredding and some illegal fusion - though it's mostly beer o'clock jams." Rawk.

In other Ethan-esque news, he tells me he's wrapping up the new Howlin Rain album, titled Magnificent Fiend, due in Jan. 22, while Comets takes some down time. The new 'un will be out on CD and vinyl, and a vinyl version of the first LP is in production as well. Otherwise Miller will be on the road with HR shortly, playing with the ever-popular Queens of the Stone Age on the southeast leg of their September national tour. The Miller guarantee: "These shows will be ragers!!!"

Here's where they'll be:

Sept. 15, La Zona Rosa, Austin, TX, with Queens of the Stone Age

Sweet on unreleased-in-the-US Candie Payne.

By Todd Lavoie

Look, I know America is supposed to be the land of infinite choice and all - y’know, 287 types of toothpaste to choose from in the supermarket aisle, right next to the avalanche of deodorants eagerly waiting to cripple you with consumer-paralysis - but sometimes we really seem to let a lot of the good stuff slip clean out of our nets, don’t we? Take chocolate. Sure, we’ve got all sorts of lovely nibbles on offer in this country, but why, oh, why must it take a small miracle to track down a Crunchie Bar in Cheneyland? It shouldn’t be so hard for this young buck to snuff out a sticky-sweet choco-honeycomb yummable when he’s got the hankerin’ somewhere over yonder in the Heartland, should it? Say what you will about British cuisine, but they make some f-f-fine candybars - too bad you can’t find the damn things in Peoria. What did Mick and Keith say? “You can’t always get what you want.” Oh, yeah. So shut up and eat your Hershey Bar.

Now, if that’s not enough to wet my eyes, how about this sad state of affairs: here we are, with hundreds of record labels between our coasts, and yet some of the finest albums of the year come from artists who don’t even have American record deals! Or, in some cases, if they do have an American label, they still have to wait an eternity for its release. Case in point: my beloved Super Furry Animals, who I will get to later.

I could go on about the priorities of record companies, et cetera, but honestly, who cares? Economics bores me. Macro, micro - can I stifle this yawn? Me, I’ll take art, thanks. Too bad the music labels don’t always seem to feel the same way.

So, what I’ve done here is cobble up a humble list of noteworthy 2007 CDs that have yet to see the light of day here in the U. S. of A. It’s a low-down dirty shame that these little gems are import-only when the cut-out bins of every blue-polo-shirted, name-tag-requiring “music retailer” across the country are groaning with the latest round of Fall-Out Boy/Good Charlotte knockoffs that exited Hindenburg-style upon release. (Goading behavior, you say? Never!) And while I recognize that the Guardian may not move and shake in the same earth-shattering directions as the mighty-mighty Pitchfork.com in molding public taste - yet - here’s my bidding for making things right. Record execs, if you’re out there: take note. Folks need to hear this stuff. Record geeks, write these suckers down. They’re worth the extra cash.

1. Candie Payne, I Wish I Could Have Loved You More (Deltasonic) Do you swoon for Dusty Springfield and her bewitching white-girl soul confessions? Do Portishead’s spy-movie tearjerkers still give you the post-cocktail blues? Liverpool’s Candie Payne slinks and sashays somewhere in between the two, shimmying her simple - but elegant - see, pop can still be elegant! - blue party dress under a canopy of flute trills, soundtrack-worthy-string and brass arrangements, and some deliciously moody-ass organ. While she may not carry the same emotional devastation as Portishead’s Beth Gibbons - but who can, honestly? - Payne can be quite disarming with her sweetness, cooing away gently while sending an unequivocal kiss-off on the slow-shuffle of “Why Should I Settle For You?’ Another highlight, the Sandie Shaw/Petula Clark-informed “One More Chance,” is perhaps one of the most sweetly sincere baby-come-back songs I’ve ever heard. Or how about this video for the title track, in which you get every possible camera angle of Payne’s head? Oh, and she’s so tough on the eyes, too, poor thing:

Under the radar of nearly everyone, during this busy, dizzying week, is Cinematic Orchestra, stopping before their performance at Royal Albert Hall in November. Like the sound of the rich, silky orchestrations on Ma Fleur (Domino)? Listen softer to the tones of guest vocalists Fontella Bass and Patrick Watson.

The UK ensemble makes a rare US appearance at Bimbo's 365 Club on Saturday, Sept. 15.

By Todd Lavoie

Who could resist such an invitation? Why yes, I’m loosening my hips already, thank you very much. Chalk it up to the exclamation points, or perhaps it’s the sentiment - the foreign-exchange-student-at-the-school-dance come-hither underneath the mirrorball, charmingly clunky phrasing and all - but that debut single from Welsh ambassadors-of-exuberance Los Campesinos! has barnacled itself down deep into my shortlist of Best Song Titles of 2007. It’s just so damn…endearing.

Better still, these Gruff Rhys-endorsed young spazzers didn’t spend their entire cuteness budget on the title alone. Proving once and for all that a sprinkle or two or three of twee can turn a good song into a splendid one, the Cardiff band made quite the rainbow-flavored first introduction with its hand-clapping, xylophone-stippled tribute to social awkwardness. Sure, “You! Me! Dancing!” may begin with a decidedly dancefloor-befuddling 75 seconds of slow-building Velvets-y strum-and-surge, but patience pays off, my friends. Ride that crescendo out - and off you go into Gareth Campesinos!’s whirlwind of come-ons and sweet self-deprecations, whooshing around among the ring of guitars, playground-shout backing vocals, and, yes, a riff that will inspire legions of air-xylophonists far and wide.

By Molly Freedenberg

Imagine a concert held in your college quad, add a gorgeous view of the Bay, and you’ve got a pretty good idea of what the Treasure Island Music Festival was like this weekend. Organizers were smart enough not to be overly ambitious, either with the space or the lineup, so that the fledgling fest fit just right inside its britches: two stages appropriately far apart so you never felt crowded nor lonely, enough vendors and bathrooms so no line was ever very long, and just enough musical acts to fill two whole days without overlapping each other (which, by the way, is the Number One Best Thing about TIMF. And after five years of Coachella I’m-missing-something anxiety, I should know).

Highlights of Saturday’s hip-hop and electronica heavy lineup:
*Zion I’s high-energy freestyling, which continued through a brief blackout, and their DJ manipulating a Playstation controller like a turntable.
*The moments when Honeycut sounded like an American version of Kinky.
*Everything about Kid Beyond’s U2-meets-Nine Inch Nails beatboxing.
*The gold lame pants only M.I.A. could pull off.

It's really too bad if you missed it, because this one was so successful, next year's is bound to be a zoo.

Note: Stay tuned tomorrow for more photos and commentary.

By Lotto Chancellor

What all can you do with a blues skeleton? For starters, get it high as hell and drown it in whiskey, beer, and more whiskey, then drop it in a vat of chitterling grease and give it a megaphone. That's my conclusion after seeing New Orleans' own Morning 40 Federation at the Boom Boom Room last Friday.

Scully, Andrepont, Cohen and (just barely) Calandra

From the git-go, Morning 40 Federation made the most of that Boom Boomin' system. Lead singer Josh Cohen came out of the gate slinging rhymes about 40-drinking, asking mid-flow, "Have you ever seen a white boy this drunk on the street?" Sure enough, this opening funk-hop number had all the white girls shaking their asses. Cohen smeared his manifold vocal interpretations like he was your pappy, offering up, at one point, one of the dirtiest cokesnorts I've ever heard. Whenever Cohen was otherwise occupied -- blowing straightforward, thick, and heavy Baritone lines, or boozing -- it was guitarist Ryan Scully who delighted to grab the vocal by the proverbial balls. The two wound up basically sharing the task of carrying the songs, whether in unison or by alternately crooning, screaming, and growling about flake, hookers, ex-bandmembers, and your mother. Scully found just the right amount of self-congratulation in an affected falsetto. Somehow, the rhythm section of Steve Calandra and Mike Andrepont kept things together; guitarist Bailey Smith awoke now and again from his stage-drunk state to wail on something. From all sides it was a skank-out, stank-out, relentless kind of rock and roll, full of winks and nods at blues music's perfectly messy history.

So if you like ebb-and-flow mood arrangements, and perhaps some degree of emotional sensitivity in your music, don't expect as much from this bunch of easy drunkards. But if you want some of that good olski from down the Bayou, the kind that thrums of Dumpsterjuice inspiration (Dumpsterjuice is, as Cohen explained, the stuff that oozes out of the trash compressors during post-Mardi Gras street-cleaning efforts), dig these guys.

By Ben Sinclair

At Bottom of the Hill last Wednesday, Sept. 12, a certain Brooklyn band, sounding a bit like an alchemy of Deerhoof and Prince, provoked what I would break down into three reactions: standing around and enjoying great music (the majority of the audience), sort of dancing (a minority), and lastly, small, isolated, and poor attempts at moshing.

Not that I don’t love the stuff when everyone wants to do it, but the latter tries at this show had to kindly be swatted down. The real success of this band was that they didn’t just provoke - they affected their fans diversely. On these grounds, how could I blame a lonely and intoxicated mosher? I resigned myself to jumping around and dancing inside my own head.

For a band that has been steered towards as many varying focuses as the Dirty Projectors, their name is strikingly apropos. Back when the David Longstreth-led group was showing off their looser, folkier side, the term “rough image” described their projection all too well. As Longstreth threw in classical compositional strategies for strings and voice, the only thing that became any clearer was that the dirt on this projector was not limited to its lens: the whole machine now felt and smelled like a digitized version of some shadowy attic antique, as if the influences of its primary function were sealed in the thin sedimentary layers of dust on its exterior.

By Molly Freedenberg

Still a little fuzzy on what the Treasure Island Music Festival was like? Think blue skies, a slight breeze, and the scenes yours truly captured below.

Not even the brief power blackout could ruin Zion I's upbeat, playful mood. When the sound and video stopped working, the freestylin' MCs just worked harder to keep the crowd going.

Pulling it together: Doug Martsch of Built to Spill at Treasure Island fest. All pics by Kimberly Chun.

By Steven Touchton

This past Sunday was the first time anyone had ever rented out West Oakland's DeFremery Pool in order to throw a late afternoon pool party featuring spazzy bands. Since it was a private rental, you could only attend by purchasing advance tickets from the Club Sandwich Bay Area Web site. It nearly sold out. The weather was perfect for the occasion.

My band KIT shared the bill with Los Angeles's Captain Ahab and Foot Village, as well as local band Cell Block. Cell Block, which includes people from Ex Pets and Coughs, got things going with their brand of aggro-distorto noisy hardcore. People were already pumped just to be at an event like this, and Cell Block's set just ramped up the excitement level that much more.

Foot Village are a vocals-and-percussion-only quartet who stole the show, in my opinion, with a sweat-drenched set of primal energy. Captain Ahab (winner of the Snakes on a Plane-song competition) closed it out, rave style. He brought along a fancy sound system and a dancer guy whose job is to “sexually harass” dudes in the crowd while singing along sans microphone. The dance-party covers included a Vocoder-soaked version of Avril Lavigne's "Sk8ter Boy.”

Earlimart wear their fall colors.

Most of those who attended left this party excited and energized, making plans for one of the post-show hangouts that ensued. But I had to load out my gear and take off right away, skipping the after-parties, in order to catch Built to Spill at the Treasure Island Music Festival.

Work dat skirt: a stiltwalker at TIMF. All pics by Kimberly Chun.

Sighted backstage on Saturday, Sept. 15, at the Treasure Island music fest: Spike Jonze, supposedly dating MIA for a hott minute - though as I write they may be on the offs once again!

Whether or not you dug the lineup (or the wind chill or the femme-mullet count), you had to appreciate the views from the isle. Here are a few more pics from Sunday, Sept. 16:

Murph, murph, murph, murph, murph. Yeah, me and the infamously curmudgeonly James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem are tight li’ dat. No, actually I joke – we’ve only been in touch twice, including the time I corresponded with him on the Rapture in 2003, but I do confess, that the man is a bundle o’ fun - if you like your artist-producer-label-honcho types witty, down-to-earth, relatively unpretentious and workman, and nimble with the gray matter. For the first snatch of this interview, see Sonic Reducer; for the rest, keep on keepin’ on.

Bay Guardian: So what’s this about a Fabriclive mix CD with your drummer Pat?

James Murphy: Yeah, we’ve been DJing together in the last year and in New York together a bunch, but it’s really fun on tour when we have a night off or at an afterparty or something. I don’t do anything before my show - just sit back stage and wonder if I’m going to remember the lyrics.

BG: No group hugs or prayers?

JM: No, we don’t any of that stuff. I think the more befuddled and unprepared we are the better the show, often. It’s just such a weird situation that if you overthink it beforehand you’re just like, ah, “I’ll just check out…”

Early High on Fire, mach I. Courtesy of MTV.com.

By Ben Richardson

There were a few chuckles from the audience when someone enjoined High on Fire to "play the heavy one," and a few more when frontperson Matt Pike replied, "I will."

Levity aside, the good-natured heckling suggested something more profound. During the band's free set Tuesday evening at Amoeba, High on Fire became the Heavy One, writ large and inked in blood, and ran through a set of songs from their new CD that pummeled with abandon.

Pike's fingers danced like dervishes across the extra-wide fret-board of his custom-made nine-string, and his face twisted into a devilish grin every time he pulled of something particularly awesome. The kings of conflagration inebriation played the new songs to perfection, doing full and fiery justice to Death Is This Communion riffmonsters like "Turk" and "Rumors of War." The trio was rounded out by drummer Des Kensel and bassist Jeff Matz, the thunder to Pike's lightning fingers, and a gruesome rhythm twosome in their own right. If the set had any weakness, it was that the frontperson's voice sounded a little thin, but the ex-Sleep guitarist's raspy, wounded bellow is appealing in its rawness, and he was hampered by an admittedly dinky PA.

After yesterday's record release, High on Fire sets off on a national tour, returning to San Francisco for two culminating dates at the Independent, Oct. 28 and 29.