Love that wiggly Rick Astley video that the faux new-Radiohead-album site redirected to last week! You've been "Rick Roll"-ed, indeed.

In any case, Radiohead's HQ/publicists announced today that the label-less group's new album, In Rainbows, is forthcoming digitally on Oct. 10 (a special double-vinyl/CD "Discbox" of extra songs, special art and photos, etc. is expected to ship on or before Dec. 3 for a mere 40 pounds; the regular, vanilla, humdrum CD is expected next year). And the band swears they had nothing to do with the Astley vid prank.

It all sounds like an experiment in self-releasing - check it out but prepare for lots of slow traffic. And you know if Radiohead and Prince can manage it...

By Todd Lavoie

Looks like Patrick Watson's ridin' the champagne wave. The California-born Montrealer was just awarded Canada's esteemed Polaris Music Prize for Best Canadian Album of 2007, beating out stiff competition from nominees Feist, the Arcade Fire, and the Besnard Lakes, among others. (What, no Rush? Avril Lavigne? The indignity of it all!) Sure, the prestige has gotta feel good, and the extra publicity must be nice, but how's this for a cherry on top: the Polaris is a $20,000 cash prize. Not a bad way to offset some of those pesky touring costs. Watson and his identically named quartet are spending the next couple of months charming audiences across Europe and Canada. (Sadly, no American dates at this point, but fingers crossed. Perhaps all this added exposure will inspire a stateside itinerary as well.)

Enter the familiar refrain: "But who is this Patrick Watson guy?" A fair question, considering thus far he's flown pretty deep under the radar of the music press. Mention the name, and chances are you'll either get a shrug and a stare or the foot-stompalicious chorus from "The Magic Position." (That's Patrick Wolf, pumpkin.) His sophomore album, Close to Paradise (Secret City), has been given heaps of praise - when it's been reviewed, that is. Up till now, it's been a hidden little gem, buried away under the sheer crushing power of so much great music coming out this year.

No wonder, then, that it was such a major upset - especially if you were a betting fool with all your chips firmly placed upon The Neon Bible (Merge) - when the relatively obscure singer-songwriter swooped in from the shadows to collect his 20,000 Loonies. Hell, even the almighty tastemakers at pitchfork.com - ever so proud of their ability to remain several points ahead of the curve - found themselves staring down a mighty slab of humble pie upon finding out that the winner of a big-deal music prize was a guy to whom they'd devoted absolutely no coverage whatsoever. I could take advantage of the situation and snark on Pitchfork, but certainly I've heard a thing or two about stones and glass houses. Besides, how about focusing on the upside: there's just so much wonderful stuff out there that it's impossible to catch it all.

Earthless - who dat? The San Diego-dwelling Tee Pee artists play lengthy instrumentals, part free form, part planned - it's improv rock 'n' roll for those hankering for more of the acid-rockin' goodness that Blue Cheer, Hawkwind, Cream, Zep, Acid Mothers Temple, and so many other heads have explored, emerging with wild red-veined eyes. Expect much loudness when ex-Rocket from the Crypt/Hot Snakes/Clikatat Ilkatowi/Black Heart Procession drummer and record store operator Mario Rubalcaba (also a former member of Tony Alva's skateboarding posse) gets together with bassist Mike Eginton and guitarist Isaiah Mitchell.

Oh, and get there early for the Cuts-related Apache and Parchman Farm vocalist Eric Shea's new combo, Hot Lunch, on Saturday, Oct. 6, 9:30 p.m., at Hemlock Tavern.

We've been compiling a little archive of local movers and shakers' favorite super-gay videos, either in context, influence, or just plain awesome swishiness. (Check out Part 1 here.) It's an webxperiment! Many of the participants appeared in our Gayest. Music. Ever. cover story from last week.

This week, local queer rock impressario Bill Picture of monthly punkrock live-act throwdown Trans Am (happening this Saturday at Club Eight and featuring The Passionistas) chimes in with a few limp-wristed doozies. Check it!

Bill peeks slyly from behind his partner, DJ Dirty Knees

For me, "gay" is more than just a more-palatable alternative to "poo-stabber." I also use it to describe things that I think are totally hot, really silly shit, and stuff that's totally lame. Check out my favorite "totally gay" videos, and you'll see what I mean:

David Bowie featuring Klaus Nomi, "The Man Who Sold The World"
Then-fence-sitting David Bowie performing "The Man Who Sold the World" with tranny-from-another-planet Klaus Nomi and future-drag-cabaret-superstar Joey Arias singing background. This "gay" falls under the "totally hot" heading. I was seven years old and fascinated by these gender-fluid freaks...

Toilet Boys, "You Got It"
Tranny-fronted headbangers Toilet Boys' "You Got It." Again, "totally hot." The first time I saw the guitarist Sean, who happens to be straight, I thought, "God, I wish I was a guitar so Sean would rub his sweaty business against me every night."

After the jump: Debbie Harry meets the Muppets, and Madonna gets exxxed

and they heart me too, cause they're playing this weekend's Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival!

Our coverage of the festival here.

Heartless Bastards here:

"Since you took my breath again, would you share your oxygen?"

And live:

By Ben Richardson

In 1994, as most of the musical world mourned the death of Kurt Cobain, a humble band from Gothenburg, Sweden, released an album called Lunar Strain, which would go on to help situate the sleepy Scandinavian university town at the center of a swirling metal maelstrom. The band was In Flames, and their incendiary interpretation of the nascent death metal genre would go on to spawn a legion of imitators on both sides of the Atlantic.

The fulcrum of the In Flames sound was a keen ear for neoclassical melody, which they fused seamlessly with the groovy thrash 'n' roll that defined the Swedish Death scene at the time. This penchant for soaring arpeggios and Iron Maiden-style close-harmony leads made their music accessible, adaptable, and widely popular. Subsequent LP's The Jester Race and Whoracle won critical and fan acclaim.

Six years and five albums later, the fire had begun to dwindle. The band had undergone numerous lineup changes, and a seismic sonic shift had been set in motion. By the release of 2000's Clayman, In Flames was experimenting with slower tempos and crunchier, dumbed-down riffs, while retaining enough soaring leads and double-bass gallop to keep their fanbase placated. 2002's Reroute to Remain was a different story, a galling stumble into gussied-up nü-metal pablum that introduced triggered trip-hop drumbeats and vocalist Anders Friden's ghastly embrace of both clean singing and dreadlocks

Come sea about me: Sea Wolf in performance elsewhere. Photo by Alex Brown Church

By Chris Lotto

Sea Wolf is Alex Brown Church, the band's frontperson and only standing member. The rest of his pack are drawn on a rotating basis from a conglomerate of LA musicians known as the Ship Collective. It's unclear whether this tour will produce a more permanent membership. On Wednesday, Oct. 3, at the Independent, he was backed by drums, bass, cello, a drowned-out lead guitar, and an extremely sexy keyboardist doing this lazybop back-and-forth shoulder maneuver the whole night. I think I may have seen a ring on her finger. No matter. That's not the sort of band review we're after here.

Invoking the spirit of Jack London's 1904 work, Sea Wolf plays to life's awareness of death. The songs intimate a fondness for bluegrass, moving in time with Church's favorite apprehension: the decay of the natural world. The first five numbers could have easily featured Church alone with zero accompaniment. Like I said, Sea Wolf is Alex Brown Church. It's not that the show was any less enjoyable because of all the other noise - only that a brooding cello line layered over a skip-slowly backbeat didn't add much in the way of color, depth, or interest to Church's own brooding melodies and skip-slowly acoustic.

Nor is this meant to discount Church's - and the band's - effectiveness in conveying a sense of well-traveled melancholia. He's got a storyteller's voice that leaves a near sad impression, yet it remains a voice that aims to please - Church has a gift for creating contented hymns of worry. Plenty of heads were bobbing inside the Independent, and Church's reminiscences definitely had a couple thirtysomething couples giving each other the old "yeah, he's got it" nod of approval. The lyrics are plenty evocative, happy to be doing a eulogist's work, but much of the instrumentation is redundant, wasted on Church's singer-songwriting.

Sea Wolf did get the place going with one you may have heard on the radio, "You're a Wolf," a tame little rock-out that, along with a second one just like it - punchy, highly civilized - made a little room for meaningful collaboration. And though it was a short set composed of short songs that all ended abruptly, it seemed that everybody in attendance, myself included, appreciated Church's thoughtfulness, even more his easy, plangent grace.

Is singer/songwriter a genre of music? Is it merely a description? Is it shorthand for “folkie with guitar” or “soloist who’s still looking for a drummer”? Does calling someone a singer/songwriter really tell you anything at all?

This question came up last night, when some friends and I went to Amnesia to see New York-based artist Ana Egge (who sings, yes, and writes songs, yes) and special guest AJ Roach. At the door, we overheard someone ask the bouncer what was going on inside. “Singer songwriters,” he said.

Photo by B. Gootkind
"Singer songwriter" -- aka badass musician -- Ana Egge.

By Anna Mantzaris

Teddy Thompson (that’s Thompson as in spawn of Richard and Linda) may be an English boy by birth, but the 31-year-old's rock-folk-country sound will make you think he’s spent years fine-tuning his sound deep in the land of the American south.

Taking on the greats - Merle Haggard, Dolly Parton, George Jones - Thompson’s latest CD, Up Front and Down Low(Verve Forecast), is a thoughtful collection of interpretations of C&W classics and not-so-well-known gems, with dad Richard and pal Rufus Wainwright lending their talents. A New Yorker by residence, Thompson takes his show on the road opening for Suzanne Vega; he appears Monday, Nov. 12, at the Fillmore.

Bay Guardian: How did Up Front and Down Low come about? Why an album of covers?

Teddy Thompson: I came home after touring after the last record for a year. I didn’t have a lot to do. I started just recording some songs for fun, but I liked the way it came out and I thought maybe it would make a good side-project album.

I fruitlessly spent Saturday night looking for the party. Trans Am was fab as always, but after the Passionistas played, no one was dancing. Playboy was cute and had the goofy bearish boys of gay clubstravaganza Horse Meat Disco spinning around on the dance floor (they'll be laying down queeny tracks at an underground loft party this weekend), but all my shots were wearing off. I hit up d'n'b legends LTJ Bukem and MC Conrad at Temple and Detroit/Windsor techno god DJ Dan Bell at Kontrol – I even popped in on a shirtless circuity nightmare, Adonis at Space 550. Oy!

But it was one of those nights – either the music was great but the crowd was awful or immobile, or the other way around (Adonis qualified as awful on both counts). I never landed when the time was right. This was discouraging!

Fortunately, I didn’t let my disappointment keep me at home on Sunday night. Sure I wanted to chill with some Indian takeout and new Simpsons episodes, but somewhere, however faintly, a dancefloor was calling. It was Super Soul Sundayz’s second anniversary at the EndUp, and resident DJ/promoter David Harness had flown in legendary DJ Spinna from Brooklyn to tear shit up.

He took me up, he turned me out, he ... Spinna

Spinna came on after an awesome deep electrofied soul set from David, plugged in his laptop and let rip. He’s mostly a hip-hop DJ (he’s known for his work with J Dilla), but his house style is pretty unique – he likes to play two or three records at a time to get a specific groove going (one record will be totally deep and tracky in a Chicago acid way, another will be a back-in-the-day soul selection) and then he’ll use the laptop to overlay another track, maybe with some vocals or an instrumental solo, fading it in and out as he changes the records underneath. It’s a thumpy tapestry! His de-reconstruction of “I Feel Love” was out of the park, and I’ve heard folks pulling that record apart for 20 years now (I still think Derrick May does it best but, hey, he invented Techno, so … ). Anyway, I was drenched with soul and sweat 'til 4am.

DJ David Harness warms my heart, and feet

Super Soul Sundayz is every Sunday night at the EndUp. Next week’s guest is Latin sensation Mr. V. Check out some of Spinna’s music here.

After the jump -- video samples of this crazy, aurally mixed-up weekend.

By Todd Lavoie

A couple of weeks back on Noise, I was carping and crowing away about all those amazing import-only discs that demand a small fortune out of us till a domestic release finally sees the light of day - assuming that moment ever comes, that is. In some cases, it looks likely that American labels will continue passing up wonderful talents such as Candie Payne and Husky Rescue out of curious misperceptions about “the American market” - whatever that means - and we’ll be left with no choice but $20-and-then-some price tags. Yeah, I know - quite the tale of woe and all, this record-shopping dilemma of mine, but sometimes a dork’s just gotta shake his skinny little fists in protest at this great big spinning orb of injustice and say, “Enough is enough!” Feel me?

But fair is fair, they say, and so I should try to balance out that bitch fest with a bit of the ole happy. How about a small victory? And for Detroit, no less! I’ve heard they could use a few victories, so let’s trumpet this one up. See, up till very recently, one of the 313’s finest, cosmic-soul pioneer Amp Fiddler, was without an American record deal for a spell, thus making his latest release a challenge to track down in all but the most obsessively thorough of record stores.

In fact, Afro Strut has been available in Britain on the Genuine label for practically a year, while in his home country it was nearly absent from the racks! Talk about a cryin’ shame. Mercifully, this sad state of affairs has changed, now that Play It Again Sam US/Wall of Sound has issued a domestic version of Mister Fiddler’s sophomore release. Better still: they went and improved upon the original! Rather than simply re-issuing it as is, Amp - or, Joseph at the supper table - took the British edition of Afro Strut and did some, er, fiddling with it. (Yeah, a pun. Shoot me.)

People always ask me why I love horror movies so much. That, I can't answer ... though probably for some dark, disturbing psychological reason we needn't speculate upon here. More concrete is when I started getting into horror movies. There was the first time I saw Poltergeist (at a slumber party in fifth grade; a year later, at the sixth-grade slumber party for my own birthday, I gleefully played host to a roomful of terrified classmates as we huddled in my basement, watching Psycho). Recently, I unearthed a junior-high creative-writing exercise entitled "How to Watch a Scary Movie Alone in the Dark." I must have been around 13 when I wrote that. But I think the horror-movie thing goes even further back. In fact, I blame Walt Disney, from whose Haunted Mansion-spawning mind sprung this impression-maker:

Whose light is on up there??

Are you bored with the series yet? Well don’t be, because we plan to drive this sucker right into the shiny, dripping dance floor. (Click here for part 1 and here for part 2)

For those just catching up, we’re asking the City’s most prominent fairies for their favorite “gay” videos, which is a bit of a takeoff on the “Gayest. Music. Ever.” cover story we ran a few weeks ago. This week, we’ve asked writer, DJ, and all around bon vivant Matt Sussman, aka Missy Hot Pants, for some of his faves. Let’s get gay on the giga!

“Oooh, blog-opportunity!” quoth Sussman, when we told him we’d pay him ten dollars to sit still long enough to contribute. “What can I get for ten dolla? Not "anything you want," just these gay-ass clips.
xo,
Missy

Samwell, "What What In the Butt"

The Village People, "Sex Over the Phone"
Ed Note: Warning! For some reason, I shit you not, Prince and the NPG are removing all clips of this at a furious pace. Therefore, after the jump, we present a really gay French parody video, in case this one gets “Princed” …

After the jump: Mae West raps! Eartha Kitt prowls! “Hairdresser”!

Sitting pretty: Sally Timms and the rest of the Mekons sing out another San Francisco Saturday night. All photos by Ashleigh Reddy.

By Ben Sinclair

This year is the Mekons’ 30th anniversary, and it's been a particularly fruitful year. It's odd to imagine this Leeds group had once been an edgy punk outfit and then a trad-rock and country combo, slipping into new wave songs now and then. This weekend, they were a folk band.

And a very smart folk band, at that. After the Oct. 6 show at the merch booth, drummer Steve Goulding wouldn’t let me get away with passing off my last $12 for a $15 disc. Perhaps this is an attitude that has helped keep the band alive for so long. I promptly retrieved another $3 from the folks I came with and returned for a limited-edition copy of Dance on the Volcano, the new album by Tom Greenhalgh’s other band King Tommy’s Velvet Runway. A good decision. We all missed Greenhalgh’s voice that night, as he couldn’t make it for this leg of the tour, but the band rocked the hell out of “Hard to be Human Again” anyway.

Otherwise the classic lineup was present, and the banter between members felt warm and, at times, invigorating. I sat - and stomped and clapped - through the entire set with a happy-go-lucky grin on my face. “Give Me Wine or Money” was the night’s opener, further permeating the “fair trade” section of my mind. “Yeessss…,” I heard myself thinking, “Stop downloading this band from now on.” Later, casting like a smoky, pagan warlock, founder Jon Langford recommended the whole audience not hesitate to spend a bit in the back - after all, Greenhalgh now needs all the money he can get. He and his wife are having their third child.

By Ben Richardson

Thirteen years have passed since Oakland metal stalwarts Machine Head promised to “let freedom ring with a shotgun blast” on their album Burn My Eyes, and it now appears that frontperson Robb Flynn and company should consider cramming new casings into the figurative chamber. The band’s ongoing Black Tyranny tour - which stops at the Warfield on Friday, Oct. 12 - has been marred by a pair of bizarre last-minute venue changes, both prompted by the inscrutable and unexpected objections of international media conglomerate the Walt Disney Company.

Disney owns the land under the Anaheim and Orlando branches of the House of Blues chain, venues that were slated to host Machine Head and support acts Arch Enemy, Throwdown, and Sanctity during stops on September’s national tour. Two days before the long-since-booked concert in Anaheim, the show was abruptly moved to a different venue by concert promoter and House of Blues parent company LiveNation, which cited pressure from the landowning behemoth as the reason for the switch.

Machine Head claimed on their Web site that Disney objected to the “violent imagery, undesirable fans, and inflammatory lyrics” associated with the band. According to an interview conducted with the Los Angeles Times, Flynn also suspects that the group’s “anti-war and anti-administration lyrics” had an effect on Disney’s decision.

Machine Head's Robb Flynn blogs in response to his Oakland band's canceled dates at House of Blues venues:

In the six years since the attacks of Sept. 11, the United States has become a better place in a number of ways. As a country, we have implemented a few common sense security procedures and protective measures that have made the nation little more secure; as a people, we are a little more conscious of our surroundings and what we can do to increase our safety; and, as a society, we are (to some degree) a little more aware of our effect on the rest of the world, both positive and negative. On the night of Sept. 11, when I asked the crowd in Tucson, Arizona, to please give 15 seconds of silence to pay respect to those whose lives were lost on that tragic day, for that one brief moment, we all felt like one. These are good things.

However, in those same six years, the United States has also managed to deteriorate into a place much worse than it was on Sept. 10, 2001. Since that infamous day, many ugly truths have surfaced, many of the liberties we once took for granted – freedoms we once thought invincible – have been quietly erased by men that have taken it upon themselves to ignore the Constitution and write their own rules. These are the same men that fed the world lies in order to justify a war that it wouldn’t agree to, men who value power and control over human life and exercise it with an unprecedented audacity and disdain for the law. And these are very bad things.

But worse than any of that, in my opinion, is the fact that, for the most part, we are allowing it. We, the people, are sitting idly by while all of this is happening, watching it slowly unravel in front of our very eyes. The scale of it all so large, the stage so vast that it’s impossible not to feel helpless and detached in the shadow of everything that’s happening — that is, until the same kinda s–t happens to you, on a much smaller scale. You tend to turn a blind eye, until you see the same tyrannical attitudes and repressive tactics trickle down into your daily life, absorbed by corporate America and dictated to you as “the way it needs to be."

The Internet’s all abuzz (OK, the part of the Internet flooded by celebrity-obsessed housewives and former jazz dancers) about Britney Spears’ just-released music video for her single “Gimme More.” So what are you missing by watching mayoral debates or clipping your cuticles instead of cruising YouTube for mentally challenged bubblegum pop stars?

This:

Or I can just summarize it for you: Britney dances around a pole. Britney dances around a pole. Some other girls dance with Britney around a pole. Britney dances around a pole. Girls smile. The end. (Did I mention Britney dances around a pole?)

Though the video isn’t as dismal as her performance of the song at the VMAs – she actually looks awake in the video – it’s still pretty uninspired and uninspiring, especially for an artist who’s as much about performance as she is about actual music. Take away the seizure-worthy camera angle changes and it’s just, well, boring.

What’s less so? The Sex Pistols. So to add a bit of punk to your pop diet, read about Johnny Rotten calling Green Day “old gorgonzola cheese in old boots” and Britney’s VMA performance “like a school play by 11-year-olds” during an interview about the Sex Pistols reunion tour.

Yep, it's that time of year again - time to break out the old headphones and plug into some experimento sounds at [:]PLUG3[:], San Francisco's third annual Global Headphone Festival. Expect the transmission of 48 live local performances, in conjunction with the tenth annual International Headphone Festival, Le Placard X, a self-organized, nonstop streaming, migrating "interaural" experiment.

Organizers advise you to BYOH or bring your own headphones to the event running Sat., Oct. 13, to Sun., Oct. 14, 1 p.m.-1 a.m. both days., at the Lab, 2948 16th St., SF. $5 sliding scale. (415) 864-8855.

Performers include:
100S OF DISMEMBERED HANDBAGS
666GANGSTAZ
ANTHONY MARIN
BEATLE
BEYTAH
BLUE VITRIOL
BLOODY SNOWMAN
CATSYNTH
CONRAD LEWBEL
CYPOD
DELETIST
DOUBLE VISION
DUD
FILTHMILK
FORMS OF THINGS UNKNOWN
GATHER THE BONES (trance viola drone)
HALCYON HIGH
HEADBOGGLE
HEARTWORM
HORAFLORA
JUSTINO
LANCE GRABMILLER
LES TROIS FEUILLES / 3 LEAFS
LNA
LX RUDIS
MAGNANIMOUS
MATT DAVIGNON
MNEMOTH (black noise)
MOISTURE
MY HELICAL ELK
NOMMO OGO
NO NO SPOT
OZMADAWN (sci-fi noise drone)
PAGAN/PRESLEY (electronic improvisation)
PATRICE SCANLON
PISTOLS WILL AIR
PU22L3
RASTER ROOBIT (strings & pedals)
RESPECTABLE CITIZEN
SAKANA
SLITHER SYNDICATE
SOUNDTRACK FOR A MOVIE ABOUT A DREAM ABOUT NOTHING
TROY BYKER (ambient/experimental)
TELEPATHIK FRIEND
TULLAN VELTE
WELDSCHMERTZ (dual cello drones by members of FILTHMILK + DELETIST)
WESTERN ADDITION
ZENTROPIA

By Todd Lavoie

"A lot of cats knew how to funk - that part was easy. But very few knew how to put that special vibe on their music. That's what I knew best."

Oh, I think I smell a Pulitzer! Rick James gives it to us straight - and beamed down from that great big coke-and-bondage romp in the sky, apparently, considering that ole Kinks himself passed away three years ago - in his recently released tell-all The Confessions of Rick James: Memoirs of a Super Freak (Colossus), and I'll be damned if it's not the juiciest pile of pages I've seen in a while.

But let's be frank, people: a literary triumph it ain't. So, when I say that he's "giving it to us straight," what I really mean is: "scribbling down the memories as soon as they wobble out of the freebase fog, without a moment's thought to word choice or sentence structure." Trust me, there's not a thesaurus or an editor in sight. We're talking direct brain-to-page transmission here, which sometimes makes for wincingly fascinating results. But hey, I guess we can't always put a "special vibe" on everything we do?

By Erik Morse

With the 30th anniversary of punk rock’s safety-pin Gotterdammerung now in full swing, the eponymous social reject-turned-successful-milquetoast might be goaded to drop a small fortune on all the era’s memorabilia and accoutrements in a moment of DIY nostalgia. Merchandise is teeming on record store shelves and label Web sites like the fungus and crabs that once multiplied in the putrid Chelsea Hotel. There’s the umpteenth Rough Trade reissue of the Fall, the “fully re-expanded” four disc set of London Calling with the unreleased "kazoo sessions," those Johnny Rotten commemorative plates, some "organic" matter lifted from the rotting corpse of Johnny Thunders that’s currently reaching three figures on eBay.

In retrospect, though the truth may be as hard to swallow as a knuckle sandwich at the Manchester Trade Hall, punk was, in its 1977 genesis, a completely corporate invention – from its entrepreneurs to its major label financing to its rather swift absorption into the more consumer-friendly genre, new-wave. Yes, the corrective prologue from Simon Reynolds' Rip It Up and Start Again will not be soon forgotten by punk scribes or post-rock revisionists. Such a realization makes it all the more shameful that, as 2007 rapidly comes to a close, there has been little mention of another insurgent masterpiece that appeared on the shelves of Rough Trade Records, Chiswick, and Forced Exposure at nearly the same time as Never Mind the Bollocks but without all the slack-jawed fanfare. Unfortunately, the band in question did not hail from Brixton or the Bowery, and the LP did not sound like scorched-earth punk rock in the least. In fact, the album was over four years old before it ever found a label, and the band had since dispersed to the four corners of Memphis to do solo recordings. Of course, the group was Big Star – and the recording, simply called Third or Sister Lovers or Beale St. Green or all three in any order.

By Sean McCourt

As singer, songwriter, and frontperson for Nirvana, Kurt Cobain helped lead a musical revolution in the early 1990s whose effects on popular music and culture are still felt today. Yet after his death in 1994 at the age of 27, he continues to remain a figure somewhat shrouded in mystery. The new film Kurt Cobain: About a Son aims to show a more personal side of the gifted musician, told in his own words.

Director A.J. Schnack has taken interview tapes of Cobain done with music journalist Michael Azerrad for his 1993 book, Come As You Are: The Story of Nirvana - considered by many to be the definitive biography of the band - and filmed scenes of the places that played an important role in Cobain’s life, including his hometown of Aberdeen, Wash., along with Seattle and Olympia, to accompany the introspective and revealing words of the late musical icon.

Michael Azerrad.

The project came to fruition when Schnack was working on a documentary about They Might Be Giants, Gigantic: A Tale of Two Johns, and he included an appearance from Azerrad, who in addition to the Come As You Are has written hundreds of articles about music, along with the excellent tome Our Band Could Be Your Life, a look at some of the most influential underground music artists of the 1980s and early 1990s.

By Duncan Scott Davidson

If they could bottle the Woggles, the world wouldn’t need anti-depressants.

The wriggly Woggles

I arrived at 12 Galaxies not exactly depressed, but just having one of those decidedly non rock and roll, rapidly-approaching-middle-age moments: fuck, it’s late. I’m tired. Maybe I should’ve stayed home, went to bed early. The place was more than half empty, which burned me a bit, as it’s the fucking Woggles here, people. From Hot-lanta, G-A? You may have heard of them? The Guardian’s own Cheryl Eddy wrote a pick about them last week, I guess that wasn’t enough. The next time they’re in town, I’m making damned sure the mayor is sober enough to declare it “San Francisco Woggles Day” or some such shit. I mean, I overcame my “adult moment” to get my ass to the club…what’s your excuse?

Opening act Top Ten, featuring the always entertaining Tina Lucchesi (Bobbyteens, Trashwomen, Deadly Weapons, et al) on vocals, was onstage, so that was a plus. The guitar player, or should I say bad-azz axewoman, Erin McDermott, had on this most awesome denim vest that looked heisted from Neil Young’s closet circa ’73, but like tailored to be sexy and not Canadian. I just checked their Myspace, and her favorite band is Cheap Trick, so, you know, that cements my marriage proposal right there. I missed openers Les Hormones, who I heard were fab, which is good, since they’re fighting an uphill battle with the French appellation. French Appalachian? Now, that’s another story. That shit would be hot.

But really, it was all about the reigning kings of the garage, the Woggles, and once again, they didn’t disappoint. Thankfully, the club was more crowded by the time they came on. The Woggles are the type of band that are so cool, they make you think shit like “I can totally rock a three-tiered, blood red, silk ruffle shirt with matching ruffle cuffs. Chicks will totally dig me in that.” And the next thing you know, you’re wondering what the fuck this thing is doing in your closet.

One of my favorite parties of the year, Bibi, is having an encore this Saturday -- a sultry, kitschy, haremesque masquerade! Bibi is a raucous party for gay Southwest Asian and North Africans (SWANAs) -- not just those of Arabian persuasion, of course -- and their friends (my Jewish bf had a blast -- unity on the dance floor!). The last one was out of control -- the promoters only expected a few people, and yet hundreds crammed their beautiful, hipshaking female, male, and other asses into Club Eight for a pre-Pride Arab hoedown. Alalalalalalala-y!

DJs BaBa Q., Bahman, and Emancipacion take you to funky motherland with a fusion of Middle-Eastern North African & International Beats, and, yes, there'll be wild bellydancing sendups by drag queens SooozhyQ & Freyja. Nazli Hanem & Femme Fuego host, and Rostam and J. Maximillian put it all together. Plus it's a masquerade -- so wear something extra fab. I'm telling you it'll be hot -- and not just cuz I'm a naughty Lebanese homo. Here's a little taste of the tunes:

Bibi
Sat, Oct. 20, 9pm - 2am, $15
Club Eight
1151 Folsom, SF.
www.myspace.com/bibisf

By Todd Lavoie

I suppose it all stems from my childhood fascination with Yoda, but older-than-the-hills voices seem to sucker me in without fail. It's especially intriguing when those sounds come from folks whose faces look far too young to creak out such ancient wisdom, such heaving doses of world-weariness.

Sure, I've tended to hang on every word during listens of late-period releases from elder statesmen like Johnny Cash and Leonard Cohen, but I love the head-scratching incongruity of silver-haired croaks and warbles drifting forth from the pipes of youngish guys and gals. Singers like Will Oldham, Vic Chesnutt, David Eugene Edwards (16 Horsepower/Woven Hand) - how do they do it? Here I am, knee-deep and beyond into my 30s, and yet I still seem to carry as much bass in my register as a 16-year-old girl. Sagely advice, from these lips? Don't count on it, love. This little voice of mine carries about as much gravitas as it did in high school. Needless to say, I stay clear of any serious oratory action.

And yet there goes Oldham, a.k.a., Bonnie Prince Bill, carrying the weight of the world atop that stiff upper lip, sounding old enough to regale us with tales of what it was like in the days before dirt. Oh, did I mention he was born in 1970?! Wow, what a fossil. Chesnutt and Edwards - same deal. Both are only around 40 years of age, but their voices have always inhabited the earth, if their records are any indication.

Looking for another name to add to the list? Then a trek down to Amnesia this coming Monday, Oct. 22, is in order, friends: local singer-songwriter A.J. Roach will be throwing a record-release party to celebrate the arrival of his latest collection of mountain music missives, Revelation (Waterbug). Trust me, the disc's a stunner - I've nearly memorized the damn thing already, I've played it so much! If you too find yourself giddily a-fluster at the thought of bourbon-soaked backwoods folk with the jagged edges left firmly in place, then Monday's hootenanny ain't one to be missed. Oh, and did I mention that admission is free?

Passing out lane: Birthday Suits at Cake Shop. All photos by Michael Harkin.

By Michael Harkin

It's been in the high 60s and low 70s out here in New York City, and while that is set to change pretty soon - the rain was set to start Thursday, the day I write this - the indie-rock sun shan't set till early Sunday morning! A lot of shows went off Wednesday, Oct. 17 (Tuesday was a bit more low-key) - here are a few that I checked out and enjoyed:

Celebration - good times.

CELEBRATION AT PIANO'S (BROOKLYNVEGAN SHOWCASE)

I was lucky enough to catch a set by Celebration, a Baltimore band whose organ-heavy psychedelic shoegaze-beat was a real treat to take in. Vocalist Katrina Ford explained that, because they were playing in New York, the group was larger than usual, boasting an additional fellow on the congas and a stellar saxophonist who added an element of voodoo jazz freakout to the occasion. Their material had a real infectious, danceable pulse and channeled the space-rock catharsis of Spiritualized on more than one occasion. I'd advise checking them out when they play at the Independent in San Francisco on Nov. 11.

Cool Kids go bump in the night.

FOOL'S GOLD SHOWCASE AT HIRO BALLROOM

A-Trak, Montreal DJ and head of the new Fool's Gold label, spun a closing with DJ Mehdi of the Paris's Ed Banger Records, bringing about clever collisions between electro, old-school booty rap and French filter disco. Kavinsky, also associated with Ed Banger, was slated to "perform," but primarily appeared to be standing around looking cool alongside the aforementioned DJs as they played a few of his 12-inch singles. He couldn't do it himself?!

The Cool Kids were the flat-out business, man: old-school, oft-808-based breaks and rhymes about gold, pagers, cell phones, and being off the wall like the logo on Vans - you know, the skater kicks? Visuals scrolled behind them