Thar she blows: Or, the Whale. All photos by Brandon Joseph Baker.

Photographer Brandon Joseph Baker checked out Noise Pop's sold-out Dodos/Or, the Whale/Bodies of Water/Willow Willow show at Cafe du Nord on Feb. 28. The sets were eclectic with Willow Willow quietly starting the evening out. The crowd grew as Bodies of Water took stage and played a fierce yet short set due to time constraints - much to the audience's dismay. Next, Or, the Whale prepared the listeners for the Dodos' set with their strong ballad-driven Americana tunes.

By Dina Maccabee

I first jumped on the Selda Bagcan bandwagon back in 2006, and I was pretty amused by that earnest bit of 1970s nostalgia, awash in reverby lead guitar lines, vibrato-laden organ, and loping “Age of Aquarius” shuffles. Her compilation of tracks from the '70s, released by Finders Keepers two years ago, went into rotation at fashion boutiques and cafes nationwide: I was introduced to Bagcan in two different stores in Chicago on the same day. Her music was really sweeping the hipster nation.

But for me, Bagcan's sounds were enchanting in their similarity to the dated but uplifting Israeli music I grew up listening to: crackly tapes of tapes of records by Poogy, Tzvicka Pick, Arik Einstein, and Boaz Shar’abi. “Other people like this stuff?” I thought. Well, German label Normal had correctly gambled in 2005 that they might, when they added a Turkish entry to its Love Peace and Poetry series, a line of compilations spotlighting artists in the psychedelic tradition from all over the world.

Love Peace and Poetry: Turkish Psychedelic Music starts with a track titled “Bundan Sonra” by Bagcan, the Turkish folk star who first hooked me. Like any nostalgia-driven trend, the mass penchant for Bagcan’s trippy washes of sound and dramatic vocal style, which had been thoroughly steamrolled out of the global pop lexicon by synthetic kick drums and vocoder way back in the '80s, seemed contrarian and even ironic. Still, “Bundan Sonra” dispels any hint of clever disaffection. According to one online translation, the last verse mourns, “Death is what the Lord wisheth / Your words are wounds on my soul / Even if you were the bridge to heaven / I will not pass you anymore.” Serious stuff for us non-Turkologues to innocently take in while shopping for leg warmers.

Groovie Ghoulies back in the day.

By Alex Felsinger

Some old dogs don't need to learn new tricks

The burn-out - or sell-out? - rate for punk-rock musicians can be high, but the Bay Area has some long-standing forces who make a point to keep their fires glowing.

Kepi Ghoulie, the long-time frontman of the Sacramento pop-punk trio Groovie Ghoulies, has played essentially the same music for the past 22 years, since recording his first 7-inch EP in 1986. He still looks the same, wearing tight black pants, Converse All-Stars, and striped T-shirts. He makes music and sells his art for a living. At 43, he still epitomizes the do-it-yourself ethics of punk rock.

Okay! All photos by Brandon Joseph Baker.

Photographer Brandon Joseph Baker checked out the Feb. 29 Okay performance at Bimbo's 365 Club and the same night's Blacks opening set at Great American Music Hall, and the March 1 Port O'Brien and Delta Spirit co-headlining show at Cafe du Nord.

By Alex Felsinger

Punk venue 924 Gilman Street is notorious for two things, both equally insidious in thwarting the average person from attending shows there: a horrible sound system and an overwhelming elitist vibe from the staff. Pinhead Gunpowder, who recently performed at Gilman for the first time in 15 years on Feb. 10 (read the review here), proved that while a new sound system can work wonders, the off-putting vibe of the staff is harder to change.

On the surface, the show was a raging success. Fans flooded in for what was clearly the biggest show for Gilman in years, and from what I saw, almost everyone left with a smile. Every band that performed, not just the headlining super group, put on a fantastic show. But from talking with various people involved in the club, I knew not everyone was tapping their toes.

Weeks before the show, the band - which not only includes Billie Joe Armstrong, but also Green Day's tour manager, Bill Schneider, and their touring second guitarist, Jason White - offered to donate money to the club. Instead, Gilman told the group that a new sound system would be the best way to help, and it would also make the sound better for their show. The band immediately obliged by installing beautiful new JVC speakers, and later provided a new mixing board as well. According to the club, the band instigated the donation on their own and was not encouraged to make one.

Dreamy Dreamer: Michael Pitt breaks out of Pagoda mode to perform solo.

Ah, SF, gotta love your live music. There's more music than we can shake a stick at in the next few weeks, SXSW or no SXSW. Hark, are a few more ways to get into trouble:

Kira Lynn Cain

Track The Ideal Hunter (Evangeline), singer-songwriter Cain's forthcoming album, live as “Class of 2007”’s noirish class act opens for her paramour Jeffrey Luck Lucas and American Music Club player Danny Pearson. Wed/5, 8 p.m. doors, $5. Red Devil Lounge, 1695 Polk, SF. (415) 921-1695.

By Todd Lavoie

Sweet sufferin' divine, I'm smitten! Liam Finn's just-released debut, I'll Be Lightning (Yep Roc), is quite the fully formed, sure-footed opening howdydoo - nothing but pure shiver-me-timbers falsetto flutters and endearing pop-thrills melodies, frequently offered with disarming vulnerability. It's an honest-to-goodness gem - the musical equivalent of a late-night get-together with an old friend. It's warm and comfy and familiar, yet still pulsing with the potential to surprise. Most impressive of all, Finn practically orchestrated the whole thing himself: guitars, drums, keyboards, you name it. And apparently our man knows how to work the same go-at-it-alone magic onstage - see for yourselves Friday, March 7, when the veritable one-man-band headlines the Bottom of the Hill.

Diehard Kiwi-pop fans will be quick to point out that I'll Be Lightning isn't Finn's first charge out of the gates: prior to going solo, the 24-year-old son of Crowded House crooner Neil Finn was the lead vocalist of Betchadupa, a New Zealand band specializing in oddball pop. Good luck finding any of their stuff over here in the States, though, and if you do, expect a hefty import-price sticker slapped on the front of that baby. And if we're going to indulge in any further hair-splitting, I might as well mention that Finn's solo spin has been available in Australia and New Zealand since August of last year. For most of us, though, it's a fair bet to say the guy's only just now sliding within the reach of our radar. Hell, last night I even caught one of his videos on MTV while flipping channels - and I didn't even think they still played music on MTV anymore!

First off, I'll address the inevitable question sure to be a-popping in the minds of many: yes, Liam does indeed share a few vocal similarities with his dad, the honeyed tenor gliding atop such timeless swooners as Crowded House's "Don't Dream It's Over," "Better Be Home Soon," and "Private Universe," as well as Split Enz classics such as "I Got You." Finn the Younger is hardly a dead-ringer for Finn the Elder: Liam appears more willing to show off his rougher edges than Neil ever was, but it doesn't exactly require much straining to pick up on the likeness, either.

Why?'s "Dumb Hummer."

Yoni Wolf of Why? is a card - and full of great tales of adventures here and away. Here's more from his interview; for the first part, see this week's Sonic Reducer. Why? also performs tonight at Great American Music Hall.

SFBG: How did you get into jogging? And where do you jog?

Yoni Wolf: I jog in the hills behind Piedmont Avenue usually.

SFBG: What about Mountain View Cemetery?

YW: Everyone seems to know about that shit. I'm not telling anyone exactly where I'm jogging because I look like a fucking idiot. Actually my ex-girlfriend told me an incredible story. This is the girl that a lot of these songs are about and shit.

Why?'s "Rubber Traits."

The Raveonettes
Independent, March 5

By Chris DeMento

Minimalism is a science too often associated with badly played and poorly written rock 'n' roll. That inane, barely listenable mush can become noise art in the burning hearts of burrito-munching garage enthusiasts. You know, of course, that burrito means "Hey, you in the little donkey costume."

Thankfully, the Raveonettes' brand of minimalism is by no means a consumptive joke, but the enchilada proper, drowning in truth: three great good chords; a sweetly sexed, girl-on-boy approach to harmonizing whose average results in unfailingly lusty melodies; a trusty, persistently quaternary time signature; and, to my surprise, nary a kickdrum. Sune Wagner, Sharin Foo, and a would-be Taiko drummer - standing in a sleeveless T behind a tom and a snare - created a steady stream of sleepy homage to the early days of rock on Wednesday night. Lingering perhaps a bit too long on their old stuff, they eventually got around to new cuts like “You Want the Candy” and even a Stereolab cover, “French Disko,” to boot. New, old, or other, the music they play comes deadeningly [sic], unmistakably alive in its solemnity.

Their 4's, 8's, and 16's are layered to taste and well loved by the San Franciscans who packed the house, one of whom couldn’t restrain his zealous “Welcome to San Francisco!” between the first and second numbers of what was to be a compact, though nonetheless decorous set. A quiet “thank you” was returned by the 6-foot, superduper-Cholula-hot Foo, who proceeded to slay the same three chords over and over to the indolently unanimous enjoyment of the audience. They even played a song in 6 (or was it 3?) towards the end of the set: good news for fans who’d like to see them expand their horizons just a bit.

Too too much going on this Saturday March 8, kids, and these are just the above-ground parties! I don’t know how I’m gonna make ‘em all, but we just finished work on the next issue of Scene, our nightlife mag which drops next wednesday in the guardian (look for it!) and I'm ready to party my pumps off. Good thing I always carry an extra pair of bedazzled flats in my Safeway paper bag purse …

Leslie and the Lys, spaz-hop queens straight outta Iowa (via Boston) who recorded the immortal line “Wearing gold spandex pants/ I made a hip-hop album” will be rocking their goddam GEM SWEATERS at an early set (9pm) at the lezbo-rock heavenly Cockblock at Rickshaw Stop for only 10 stinkin’ bucks, which lets you stay the whole evening to hear the adorable DJ Nuxx and friends throw down.

Then it’s off to Kafana Balkan at 12 Galaxies (more info here), the city’s premier Romany dance party, with awesome, way-deeper-than-Balkan-Beatbox DJ Zejlko and friends. If it’s anything like the last one (with crazy pics we featured in the last Scene nightlife magazine) then we may not be able to tear ourselves away ….

Brass Menazerie at Kafana Balkan

to hit up one of the best-sounding parties at Mezzanine in, like, a week – Zizek featuring DJ/Rupture and Tormenta Tropical.

By Erik Morse

What was Orson Welles’ scene stealing line in The Third Man? Oh yes, it goes like this: "In Italy, for 30 years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland, they had brotherly love, they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock." Never mind that the contraption in question was actually invented in the Black Forest of Baden-Württemberg or that Welles egregiously absented the Zurich-based dada movement from his glib verdict. But this bitch slap at the Swiss’ expense has now become an ecumenical platitude: nothing cool has ever come from the land of Helvetica.

Well, burn down the chalet and throw out the flugelhorn! Composer-pianist Nik Bärtsch and acoustic quintet Ronin have departed from the craggly bluffs of Switzerland and landed on the snobbish jazz shores of America. Despite establishing themselves in the '90s, Bärtsch and Ronin only came to prominent attention in 2006 with Stoa, their first release for experimental jazz label ECM.

No doubt playing on the architectural definition of its title, Stoa was a magnificently open affair with tinkling melodies underpinned by floating, Can-style grooves and large swathes of quiet space. In order to christen Ronin’s new direction, Bärtsch dubbed his sound “zen-funk” with tongue most likely placed firmly in cheek. Reviews at the time compared Stoa’s compositional structures to those of Steve Reich and James Brown, and one critic noted it was “digital-age music performed with analog sensibility.” And, in fact, you can hear within the precise bass ostinatos and repetitive keyboard figures the postmodern electro-jazz of Jaga Jazzist or Squarepusher. No small feat for a cadre of musicians reigning from Alpine country.

By Todd Lavoie

The name might not set your world on fire, but damn these guys are on to something good: Brooklyn's Nation Beat will bring their one-in-a-billion blend of Brazilian Maracatu, Appalachian roots music, and New Orleans-style funk to the Elbo Room this Saturday, March 8. What - scared at the prospect of such brazen genre-colliding, are you? Ah, don't be, sweet cheeks. By the time the night's over, you'll have long forgotten about silly little things like musical genre-pigeonholing. Honestly, why over-think when you can just follow your feet instead?

First, an explanation to the band's name. In northeastern Brazil - the birthplace of the percussion-heavy Afro-Brazilian dance/performance style known as Maracatu - practitioners of the genre identify their ensembles with the word nação ("nation"), a reference to the African countries from where they (or their ancestors) originally came. Most groups in Recife - the epicenter of Maracatu - begin their names with the words "Maracatu Nação," usually followed by some form of geographical reference.

Now, Nation Beat plays a variant of a traditional Maracatu known as "Maracatu de Baque Virado" - literally, "Maracatu of the Flipping Beat" (baque is "beat" in Portuguese). So, the band whittled down the name from these origins and translated it back to English rather than keeping it in Portuguese. What the moniker lacks in flow, it at least compensates for in cultural reverence.

NYC socialite Andrew Butler and warble-meister Antony Hegarty of Antony and the Johnsons have teamed up with slinky songstresses Nomi and Kim Ann Foxmann to create Hercules and Love Affair -- and have produced killer club tune "Blind" that's been rocking after-dark boxes from the Transfer to Pink lately.

Hercules and Love Affair

(Anyone who caught DJ Frankie Knuckles throwing down his own lush remix of the jam at the final Fag Fridays won't soon forget it -- or Frankie's entire tearjerking surprise set, either.) When we walked into A Different Light Bookstore in the Castro this weekend to snag a copy of super-faggotty Butt Magazine (featuring local fashion superstar duo Nice Collective showing their junk and the former drummer of local glamsters Mon Cousin Belge pounding the skins naked) and heard this loveliness pumping thru the speakers we knew it had arrived ....

Self-titled album "Hercules and Love Affair" dropped March 10 on EMI/DFA and we can't get enough of it ...

By Kandia Crazy Horse

Roughly two decades after Run-DMC and Aerosmith’s fruitful pairing showed rock could still be danceable in the emerging hip-hop era, negroes remain nonetheless officially skurred of guitars. Endless samples later, it’s not unusual for hot tracks to be powered by a skillful blend of beats and rock volume. Yet when a young black artist emerges from the community (or outside of it) desirous of doing a different thing, he or she is often still accused of wanting to play “whiteboy music.”

And so, we loop straight back to 1969 and the central sonic and social dilemma of rock history’s greatest black rock superstar: Jimi Hendrix. Before the eve of New Year’s 1970, electric magus Hendrix had attempted to free himself from the harsh realities of Jim Crow America by eschewing the strictures of the Chitlin’ Circuit – where he supported stars like Little Richard and the Brothers Isley - for music scenes and venues in Greenwich Village and then (swinging) London. Oftener than not, the response his career elicited in regular blackfolks was resentment that he left the Black Bottom to move to London and return as “white” and his proto-metal sound was baffling (as were his two white sidemen – the British rhythm section’s simulated Afros or no).

Meanwhile, the Panthers were already putting the touch on him, urging shy, spacey, “music has no race” Hendrix to come out strong on the side of blackskin chauvinism and actively support the revolution. This ish would plague Hendrix for the rest of his short life – and, in many ways, the ever-burgeoning afterlife of his career. Yet with the sequential formation of both the ill-fated big band Gypsy Suns and Moons (who accompanied him at Woodstock) and the power trio Band of Gypsys, he attempted to resolve the racial conundrum sonically as fitting for the manchile who’d slept with his guitar since youth.

I've made no secret of my audiolust for Brooklyn grime-pop chanteuse (and former punk band Stiffed frontwoman) Santogold, but the new vid for her "LES Artistes," directed by Nima Nourizadeh, is blowing me away:

Santogold's heavily related to the stripper-loving Spank Rock scene, sharing some producers, remixers, track appearances, and party bills, although on a much higher intel tip (everyone kind of over "bitches and ho's" DJ Assault circa 2002 ripoffs say "He-eyyy!") -- and look for many, many tired comparisons to MIA to follow in the wake of the release of her self-titled album Santogold (Downtown), which drops on April 22, and her performance at Coachella this year -- because, you know, freaky women artists of color sure are similar. Still, her already-legendary bass-heavy ragga crawler club jam "Creator" has swept people onto the same global-hop dancehall dancefloors as Ms. MIA, and the more like that (and the above) the merrier, say I ...

And this quote from a recent NYT article on her is priceless: “You get these images of women in sexy clothes, walking around in, like, panties,” she said. “Even Beyoncé — that’s what it is to be a woman and make music. But now there are all these other women doing cool, interesting things, wearing styles they came up with, and it’s not about being naked.”

Santogold, "Creator" (live at Fader 51 party)

Living Legends
March 7, Fillmore

By Chris DeMento

Not much to say about Friday night's hip-hop variety show at the Fillmore except that the Legends flat-out rocked it on some Altered Beast shit - that is, once again rising from the underground to save your 18-year-old daughter and all her tank-topped friends.

Grouch met with a warm reception, second only, of course, to Murs, who couldn't get enough of the energy the crowd was giving him. Dude was bouncing around like a male cheerleader on an upskirt high at homecoming, but who could blame him? A Fillmore stuffed with youngsters was clearly about it, throwing up their double L's and rhyming right along to Living Legends songs that have become new underground classics.

It was a grip of MCs sharing the stage together and having at posse cuts and shouting out Hieroglyphics Crew the way they're wont to do. They themselves admitted that the audience's youth made them feel a bit old.

By Michael Harkin

The South American sound of cumbia has its very own hour-of-power in San Francisco: Tormenta Tropical, whose fourth incarnation rolled up to the Mezzanine last Saturday after prior appearances at Rickshaw Stop and the Dark Room at Club Six. Tormenta is a new monthly party thrown by Bersa Discos, an Oakland record label showcasing the experimental cumbia/electro/dancehall underground of Argentina.

Bersa especially digs into what's up around Buenos Aires, where the label's two founders, Disco Shawn and Oro 11 (say that 11 as "once"/OHN-say), moved separately from the Bay Area and met up amid the woolly, melodica-filled excitement to be had at club nights like Zizek.

It was, in fact, several regulars from Zizek that started off the night as Zizek Urban Beats Club, including sets by El Remolón, Frikstailers, and other fixtures from the Buenos Aires night that so inspired Bersa's founders as well as such hip jocks as DJ/Rupture and Diplo of Hollertronix and Mad Decent. The crew are touring to SXSW this week, also making appearances in New York and Chicago later this month.

Won't you listen to Cassettes Won't Listen.

"Punk rock - we don't have that category in this country." Oh, the quotables already emanating from Austin, Texas - albeit from a boomer-rock-oriented radio commentator interviewing aging Aussie punk vets.

SXSW, here we go again. The plane was packed on the way from Denver to Austin. Baggage claim was filled with checked guitars and black-garbed hollow-eyed scenesters. Todd P already had a Juicebox show going at 2 a.m. at his party central, Ms. Bea's. And rumors are already swirling - has Dolly Parton cancelled? Is it possible to squirm into the already-closed-guestlist Playboy afterhours party Thursday night? Where is Perez Hilton having his ssseeecccret soiree (with Robyn no doubt working her rework of Snoop Dogg's "Sex Eruption")? Rachel Ray is having a party - huh?! You can spend more time planning your sked than actually seeing music, but the one-man band sounds of Cassettes Won't Listen drew me into the Austin Convention Center's dark, semi-depressing, school-caf-like Daystage.

Most disturbing news: so many longtimers aren't making it this year due to industry cutbacks. Most disturbing stuff in the fest bag o' fliers: an Armed Forces Entertainment card with a little green toy soldier attached ("Plug in your weapon, turn up the power and fire away. Your limo is a Humvee and your ride is a Blackhawk"). War is so cute - and glamorous! And a card announcing a casting call for Blue Man (I guess the blue face paint fits any ole one - except maybe women?).

What's up tonight? Free Yr Radio is throwing a bash with Simian Mobile Disco, Yeasayer (all the buzz here, natch), and Times New Viking (Ohio-ans do it so good) at La Zona Rosa, a black rock showcase with Lightspeed Champion courtesy of Vice, a Kills show at the Fader Fort, an Emusic showcase, White Williams at the Gorilla vs Bear party. Also drool-worthy is the Terrorbird/Forcefield PR party with Yacht, Raveonettes, Why?, These New Puritans, the Blow, Radar Bros., Bowerbirds, and the return of the Mae Shi. Kimya Dawson will likely be at the Keep Austin Good event at San Hotel's parking lot, and Dan Deacon and Deer Tick are making some very late-night noise - shhhh! - at one o' UT Austin's quads at, oh, 2 a.m. And most of those events aren't even official.

Hal Willner and Lou Reed get down and sorta brief at SXSW. All photos by Kimberly Chun.

Lean, not so mean, and ready with both sage music-biz advice and disarming wisecracks - that was SXSW keynote speaker Lou Reed, chatting comfortably with collaborator-producer Hal Willner two hours ago today, March 13, at the Austin Convention Center.

The pair discussed Reed's new concert doc capturing his 1973 LP, Berlin, at the behest of Julian Schnabel who considers the record one of his favorites. Reed talked about recreating the album in Europe, "but it won't be here. But not in LA. Music business town. Not in the states."

They showed a clip from the film of his band playing "Men of Good Fortune" with particular intensity. Cribbing from his own 2007 film, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Schnabel drifts watery, transparent, shadowy imagery, seemingly pulled from the photo collage backdrop behind the band. The group includes guitarist Steve Hunter, Willner pointed out. Reed added that Hunter was in the Rock 'n' Roll Animal band, which was actually Alice Cooper's combo. "It's emotional music - that's what's so great about rock 'n' roll," said Reed. Berlin was marked by the time: 1973, a time much like our own. "Don't you agree? Terrible."

UK's Does It Offend You, Yeah? had the crowd thrusting their fists in the air.

Hid out at the Fader Fortress for a patch on the first full-tilt SXSW convention day, yesterday, March 12. Making up for a lackluster and unimaginative Chikita Violenta, England's Does It Offend You, Yeah? had a crowd of hipsters quaffing free booze bouncing and throwing their hands up to crunching beats and spectacularly trashy synth sounds - can a live band replicate the heavy dance-pop of Justice et al? The T-shirted everyguy combo sure did - with plenty of stage antics to boot.


Mean it: Does It Offend You, Yeah?

Yacht closed out the night with their party-starting (or, eh, -ending) dance tracks and move. Someone give this boy a ghostwriting pop songwriting job - or better make him the next Justin Timberlake. It was tough to follow Does It Offend You, but JB managed with a little help from his dance partner.

Yacht closed the party with a crash.

Stomp! Scotland's Sons and Daughters walk all over us at SXSW's Domino showcase. All photos by Kimberly Chun.

Showcases at SXSW: it's a strategic sport - which ones can you get into, which ones will be futile endeavors (the Carbon/Silcon show, for instance, last night, on March 13 at the renamed "Clash"/Friends club), which ones will be too far off the Sixth Street beaten path? I hovered round a few joints the first night, Wednesday, March 12, first catching Paper Rad at the Knitting Factory showcase.

A packed crew of hip kids in bright clothing showed up early for the 8 p.m. set, which started out with a series of videos: Rihanna melted into/mashed up with the Cranberries and Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry Be Happy" cavorted with happy face snowmen and rainbows, undulating kids in home-made hip-hop dance clips broke down into pixelated Halloween revelers in skull face paint. Eye candy for the DIY-infatuated art-punker and to top it off Paper Radster Jacob Ciocci got behind the mixing board with a drumming/laptop-rocking pal to make some righteous noise after 20 minutes of visuals.

Way west at Antone's, I settled into the Domino showcase, missing the buzzed-about New Puritans but catching hot lavendar boy Lightspeed Champion, who unearthed a slew of acoustic guitar-propelled tunes, accompanied only by friends on occasional fiddle and backup vocals.

Totally high on High on Fire. All photos by Kimberly Chun.

"Purple is the color of sexual frustration," quips one English SXSW conventioneer to two ladies asking about their wardrobe choice in the elevator. Not so over at Stubb's and Vice's metal showcase yesterday, March 13. I missed Napalm Death, damn it all, but made it to see High on Fire totally kick arse! Lordy, who knew Matt Pike and company had it in 'em? All assembled would have to confess: they totally blew away metal-punk grandpappies Motorhead. (OK, I only stayed for a portion of Motorhead's set but chances looked slim that they were going to kick up more dust.)

"This song goes out to all my friends who came here from Oakland!" Pike exclaimed before launching into a brute, pummeling rendition of "Speedwolf." Holy mother of fuck...

You can't envy Lemmy and his weathered road warriors, following that. But you can admire the devil horns getting thrown up front.

High on Fire @ Stubb's

High on Fire @ Stubb's

High on Fire @ Stubb's

High on Fire @ Stubb's

Signage modification - Austin, Texas-style. All photos by Kimberly Chun.

What a weird lil' South By this is? Can it get any stranger than the evening of March 13, which started out at Stubb's for a sold-out anti-war concert, "Body of War," linked to the feature documentary on 25-year-old Tomas Young, who was paralyzed from a bullet to his spine, taken after serving in Iraq for less than a week. System of a Down's Serj Tankian accompanied himself on piano, Billy Bragg presented a powerful "Farmer Boy," and Kimya Dawson, Ben Harper, and RX Bandits filled out the bill. (Sightings of the Dawson's infant being cartered by her partner, abounded throughout the fest).

Gimme more Ex Cocaine.

Then it was off to the Siltbreeze showcase at Soho Lounge for a hand drum-driven Ex Cocaine from Missoula, Montana, and the stirring guitar-electronics invocations of Blues Control from Brooklyn. Good to see such a sizable crowd out for what many might see as a micro-niche night.

Outta-hand Blues Control.

Made few pitstops at Friends for the soon-to-be capacity Carbon/Silicon showcase (witness the scores of disappointed Clash fans milling around before their 11:30 p.m. set outside, cordoned off by police tape just so they don't get raucous). London's Noah and the Whale plied their rootsy folky harmonies with sweetness and high spirits.

Swallow this: Noah and the Whale.

More ambitious but definitely more streamlined lineup-wise, was Florence and the Machine, also from London town, over at BBC/Steve Lamacq's event at the Rio. Like a sweet, over-the-top cross between Kate Bush and a high school musical theater star, Flo mimed drowning, quasi-tap-danced, and threw her gold-sequined jacket to an audience member when she grew encumbered. All accompanied only by ukulele. And with plenty of drama for all.

The Fantasticks, anyone? Florence and the Machine.

Time to queue for the Playboy/C3 (presenters of Lollapalooza, et al) ninth annual late-night party. The line wound round the block of the "301" warehouse and the media line (through the back entrance - I felt like I ought to be helping with the dishes!) was just as crazed. Once inside, after watching oodles of would-be media types getting turned away at the list, I spied Perez Hilton all in white, with white shorn locks, got my beverage (check the ample barbecue midnight snack), and studied the Heavy as they cozied up to playmates in sad drooping bunny ears and cotton tails.

Things got Heavy.

Scenesters go with the soul at Missouri Lounge. Photo by Joshua Rotter.

By Joshua Rotter

If it's a soul night - be it Memphis, Philly, or Northern - I'm the first on the floor, spinning, flipping, and back-dropping. Still, I’ve never fully understood why white people, myself included, so identify with the genre - and seeing The Commitments several times has done little to clarify this for me.

So like a modern-day Penelope Spheeris, I took an anthropological adventure - to what felt like 20,000 leagues under and across the Bay via BART - to Berkeley’s Missouri Lounge for Soul Knockout to gain a better understanding of this phenomenon.

About to hit its first anniversary, Soul Knockout is hosted by DJ Hot Grits, Sweats the Bed, and seasoned veteran E Da Boss (Slept On Records) at a renovated dive bar that has become a pit stop for hip white kids, while still remaining down-home.