Perfecto: Deerhoof's "Perfect Me."

Are we having a ball yet? Now is your chance... an artists ball and more shows than we can shake a stick at. Best to catch them before they fade away.

Free ways: Mos Def freestyling.

ARTISTS BALL SEVEN
SF socialites just might swoon to the tunes of Mos Def, Hercules and Love Affair, and Rogue Wave at this annual benefit fete for YBCA's New Works Fund. Fri/3, 9 p.m., $125-$150. Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, 701 Mission, SF. (415) 978-2787.

As the last hiss, groan, and shred of so many guitars in maximum overdrive faded into the comforting murmur of C&W at the Concourse - and the buzzing began in earnest in my earholes - I had to admit, those My Bloody Valentines are still fricking bloody amazing.

I remember 'em way back when, among all those hazy watercolor memories of the '90s, at the Kennel Club, now the Independent. And back then, around the release of Loveless, I remember thinking, they're good but they're no Sonic Youth. No mistake, I still love me some SY. But after the last multitextured blasts of "You Made Me Realise" surged first one, then twice with delicious rock 'n' roll drama, inspiring a small sea of fists to shoot up at the front of the stage, I had to admit this band has been bloody well missed.

There were a lot of confused looks last night, Sept. 30, at the shed-like venue - right there on the faces of casual listeners and maybe a few older fans who viewed Loveless as the most daring entry in their CD library. Live, the band has lost none of their fury - or volume. The 20-minute-long noise finale - which kept me riveted with its groans, shrieks, and force-of-nature undulations and seismic shifts - doubtless disturbed. Still, the courage and audacity of MBV came through - even to someone who has attended her share of noise shows. Their organic suture of, er, noise aesthetics to pop song structure heaved up a strangely benevolent, animal-like sort of sound - nonhuman, rather than inhuman. Against that wall of distortion, it was nice to see the little bodies lying on the floor, cradling themselves, holding fingers to ears, and studying the stage from across the football-field-sized room, basking in radiating sound and taking in the aural waves coming off Expo Center Beach.

By Chloe Schildhause

The charmingly romantic, springy UK folk band Noah and the Whale have just begun their US tour, and their San Francisco debut will happen at Amoeba Music and Popscene today, Oct. 2.

Their first album, Peaceful, the World Lays Me Down (Mercury), was just released in August, but the band has already been a big part of the summer UK festival circuit with gigs at V Festival, Summer Sundae and Glastonbury. Over the phone from the road, frontperson Charlie Fink told me: “Festivals have been cool. I sometimes find it intimidating - the big crowd and stuff. But it’s been fun.”

Fink writes Noah and the Whale’s lyrics. His personal favorite is the title track, he explained. “It says the most of what I’m trying to say on that album.” But what that is exactly is a mystery. “People are trying to get me to assess the lyrics," said Fink. "But I find it quite difficult because what you say in a song is what you can’t express any other way.”

JERRY DOUGLAS
Glide
(Koch)

By Todd Lavoie

Universally regarded as the finest dobro player in contemporary music, Jerry Douglas has long been the go-to source for the most evocative of resonator-guitar textures.

Starting off as a session musician back in the '70s and '80s - and having worked along the way with everyone from bluegrass pioneers David Grisman and Ricky Skaggs to country artists as varied as Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, and Trisha Yearwood - Douglas eventually launched a solo career which established him as one of the forerunners of the burgeoning "newgrass" movement. Proponents of the newgrass sound wanted to expand the boundaries of bluegrass by drawing from other traditional acoustic-based styles - particularly jazz - and the drive to rescue the dobro from pigeonholing was certainly understandable, given the perceived limitations many folks had up until that point.

The instrument has been frequently, almost predictably, used in film and television scores to introduce a Southern setting - often rural and run-down in nature - thanks to its ability to fashion moods from its lazy slides between notes. Sure, its "we'll-get-there-when-we-do" slides and slow finger-pickings easily summon up images of sweltering afternoons under a merciless sun. But the dobro can do so much more - and Douglas has made it his mission to prove exactly that.

ballboy
I Worked on the Ships
(Pony Proof)

By Todd Lavoie

I've never kept this a secret, but here goes: I'm a lyrics guy. Little surprise, I suppose, given my stats. I work in a bookstore. I'm a voracious reader. I've been known to throw words upon the page from time to time. I geek out over silly things like etymology and colloquialisms. Not only do I own several dictionaries, but I also have a shelf full of books of slang, quotations, and various other word-nerd delights.

Not to sound all Hallmark card about the whole thing, but words - well, they mean a lot to me. I am, after all, one of those saps who immediately yanks open the liner notes upon getting a new CD, scanning to see if the artist included the lyrics in the pages. As much as I love to lose myself in dense guitar washes or crunching synth riffs or blaring trumpet fanfares, ultimately I'd be lying if I didn't say that the thrust of whatever is leaving the vocalist's lips didn't matter the most to me. As a lover of books who admittedly doesn't read too much verse, I'm a sucker for lyrics probably because they're the closest thing to poetry in my life. Hell, some might even argue that certain songwriters out there - Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, maybe even Joni Mitchell at times - are bona fide poets as well.

Now, I wouldn't necessarily say that ballboy's Gordon McIntyre is a poet, but he does have a knack for penning engaging, lexicon-loving lyrics. Ever since arriving in a shower of wordplay in 2001 with their EP-collecting, snarkily-titled full-length Club Anthems (SL/Manifesto), the vocalist has pulled listeners close to their speakers with absorbing tales of love, sex, and the burning desire for something bigger and better.

Photos and text by Ariel Soto

Love was in the air this Saturday as thousands of scanty and colorfully clad party people made their way down Market Street, accompanied by beats so loud it even made the side line spectators shake a few moves. As the floats went by, ranging from outer space tanks to pink elephants, the passengers threw water, confetti and even pink panties at eager voyeurs below. I swear there must not a single pair of fishnets to buy anywhere in the city since every person in the parade seemed to be wearing one or two pairs. [Ed Note -- Word!] San Franciscans can't seem to pass up an any opportunity to dress up and wear a pair of fairy wings. Remember, all we really need is love!

By Brandon Bussolini

When the Guardian checked in with Operation: Restore Maximum Freedom two years ago, the quasi-annual, daylong music festival, organized by UC Davis student-run radio station KDVS, was in its fourth incarnation and ready to present one of the most ambitious lineups of its short existence.

Seventeen bands, ranging from Kid 606 to Michael Hurley, were slated to play, but just as 606 and hip-hop crew Third Sight were setting up - the bands with the biggest guarantees - Yolo County’s finest shut the proceedings down. “Some nearby residents complained about the noise level to the police,” writes Elisa Hough, co-organizer of this year’s O:RMF and a KDVS DJ, in an e-mail. “Everyone - even people who weren't involved in the organizing - looked and felt so defeated.”

Plainfield Station, a Woodland country bar that has hosted O:RMF since its inception, is an unlikely place for this to happen: plunked down amid flat, tawny farmland, the nearest house is probably at least a mile away. But regardless of the small irony that crops up between its name and that incident, O:RMF is a provocative title in more ways than one. According to Rick Ele, a longtime KDVS DJ and veteran booking agent in Sacramento’s underground music scene, the name comes from a brainstorming session with former KDVS Events Manager Brendan Boyle and former DJ Joe Finkel.

Skeleton crew: New Thrill Parade. All photos by Jen Snyder.

By Jen Snyder

I like to rediscover relics from my past. Whether it’s an old sweater left to die in a storage unit, or 20 bucks that made it through the wash, the reunions are always pleasant - mostly because you know you’re encountering something that you’ll like.

Similarly I remember seeing New Thrill Parade at a house show years ago during college. I recall a gothic, schizophrenic dog-pile best paired with sweaty air. When I moved I lost track of them. But guess what? They moved, too. It’s always fun to see what happens to bands that only hold reference in your mind as photo stills: the cast had changed slightly, but the scenery was better than I remembered. At Bottom of the Hill on Sept. 30, the outfit, which is now located in San Francisco, had some pretty excellent opening acts, too.

The new, new Strip Mall Seizures.

Kicking off the night was Strip Mall Seizures, another combo I hadn’t seen in years. I had been excited to see the klezmer-inspired punk band I had known and loved, yet as the first song ended and the second began, I began to feel like I was seeing a completely different group. I asked another listener in the crowd about my musical amnesia, and he said, “Yeah, they lost some melody but gained some power.” Then I realized that I don’t have a pair of Creepers anymore, and Strip Mall Seizures doesn’t play klezmer punk either. And you know what? I think we’re both better off.

By Michelle Broder Van Dyke

Imagine Zeus and Ares, up on Mount Olympus sipping cocktails when suddenly they start arguing about Ares’ old-news fling with Aphrodite. What ensues is more then expected, with lightning bolts flying into trees, morphing them into vertical charcoal, and spears being sent high into the sky as vultures descend upon the slain. The members of Genghis Tron brought a little of that mythical drama when they took the stage at Bottom of the Hill on Oct. 6. The band churns out cacophonous metal that waxes and wanes between caliginous grindcore and mellow yet still moody electronica.

Openers Religious Girls from the East Bay stepped in for Yip-Yip, which couldn’t perform due to a member's illness. The group mirrors the point in which Zeus and Ares are still just sipping cocktails: it’s a good moment because you’re drinking, but it’s not unusual enough to order anything less original then a gin and tonic. They played with passion, pounding beats ferociously on multiple drums, with war chants and shrieks that sounded somewhere along the lines of Animal Collective’s “Native Belle” and “The Purple Bottle.” Not to say that I don’t love Animal Collective, but Religious Girls' sound didn’t come off as entirely original.

Clipd Beaks, the onetime Oakland combo, was the lull while you’re trying to get the attention of the bartender to order another drink - hopefully the one that’ll push you from tipsy to drunk. Their sound was simple and synthy. Nic Barbein vocals were filtered with noise as he sang undecipherable lyrics into two mics, once even sticking one into his mouth. Overall, it was like being ignored by the bartender for more than 15 minutes because that more aggressive patron distracts him or her and takes all the attention.

By Billy Jam

Shit happens. We all know that. But it's what we do with that shit in life that is the important part. In the case of East Oaklander Duke, ne D'Andre Johnson, of new Oakland rap group with a blues twist, the High Decibels, the MC/poet has managed to take the negatives dealt him in life and spin them into something a lot more positive.

In fact if weren't for one of his earliest humiliations as an artist - being booed offstage at a talent showcase at his Oakland high school - that he wouldn't be doing what he is doing right now. "I went to Skyline High School, and at that school, they have a really good performing arts program, and they do this thing called "Showtime at the Line," like at the Apollo with the Sandman and all," he recently recalled of the night that he and his brother entered the contest. They were confident that their rap performance would win over the audience.

Not so. "The theater holds like five thousand people and it was packed. So we started out our song, and the music started skipping. And I was first. I just started busting a cappella. The music came back on and I was off beat. And we got booed off the stage," said Duke of the incident that happened about eight years ago when he was 14. "And for the next year I would be walking down the hallway and one person would start booing, and before I would get to the end of the hallway, the whole hallway was booing."

That Dude

Taken for granted? Pendulum's "Granite."

Whoa, again, San Fran coughs up the fun stuff to do this week - and as usual, it's far more than we can handle in one mere newspaper. Here's what didn't make it into print, but may be worth leaving the house for.

SKYGREEN LEOPARDS AND EYES
SF’s feline psychedelicists stir, alongside Eyes’ proggy dreamers. With the Mantles. Thurs/9, 9 p.m., $8. Bottom of the Hill, 1233 17th St., SF. (415) 621-4455.

GLITCH MOB
The LA glitch-hoppers unleash the Equal Opportunity Enjoyer on an unsuspecting public. With Megasoid, Rustie, Eprom, and Anasia. Fri/10, 9 p.m. doors, $20 advance. Mezzanine, 444 Jessie, SF. (415) 625-8880.

Great Northern: Mixylodian.

By Laura Mojonnier

Montreal is the kind of city you only appreciate once you leave for an extended period of time, as I did when I relocated to the Bay Area for a few months this past summer. Living here spoils you - it makes you think that all cities have vibrant art and music communities and cheap rent, that all cities serve poutine (fries, gravy, and cheese curds) at every 24-hour corner food joint for your drunken feasting.

Sure, there are drawbacks: the five-month winters, the unchallenged hegemony of skinny jeans, the fact that the gravely pit in front of my stairwell probably won't return to its former state as a sidewalk until early 2009. But, at its core, this city has a fiercely independent nature that makes festivals like Pop Montreal possible.

What began in 2002 as a series of shows all booked in the same weekend has exploded into a five-day extravaganza that takes over every venue in the city every year in early October. The core of the festival remains the music, but now there's Film Pop, Art Pop, Puces Pop (a craft fair/exhibition), Pop Symposium (panels, discussions, lectures), and Kids Pop. And though a small corporate presence has arisen - rumor has it that all staffers received a fresh pair of Converse this year - Pop is still run mostly by hip 20-somethings and a hoard of volunteers jockeying for five-day wristbands. As a result, the festival has a refreshingly laid-back, organic vibe, even if the published set times are occasionally unreliable.

By Daniel N. Alvarez

Weezer’s long-time bassist Scott Shriner is fired up. After spending almost a year holed in Los Angeles working on this year's critically acclaimed, Weezer (Geffen), also known as "The Red Album," he is psyched to be back on the road. Flanked by U2-loving Angels and Airwaves, Weezer are currently bringing their narcotic hooks and questionable facial hair to a town near you. Shriner was good enough to talk about The Red Album, his love of metal, and being inundated with YouTube celebrities, among other things.

SFBG: This album is a big step forward for Weezer. Without losing your signature sound, you guys were able to try some new things that were really successful. What are some aspects of the new Weezer that may surprise the fans?

Scott Shriner: I mean, it’s the first time, since I’ve been in the band, that we all contributed writing on the record. Also, we all took turns singing lead vocals, and a couple of the songs have the lead vocal spots kinda switched up. For example, Brian (Bell, guitarist) sings the chorus of “Everybody Get Dangerous” and Rivers (Cuomo, primary vocalist-guitarist) sings the verses. Or in “Greatest Man,” I sing a couple of verses, Rivers is sings a couple, and then we all sing on a couple parts. There’s just a lot more participation from the band.

And ... we're back! In honor of a fresh new crop of limpwristed video-drones (and the inclusion of my Gayest. Music. Ever. essay -- toot! toot! **own horn** -- in the just-released Best Music Writing 2008 book) I'm compelled to resurrect back our much lauded Gayest. Videos. Ever. feature. Possibly for the last time! And yet October releases are simply brimming with digigay overload. Here's a few that are getting my loafers lighter ....

Frankmusik, "Three Little Words" (will this vid finally make the Bar on Castro electro? The backups are 80s trannies who do robot plus giant rainbow keyboard equals I would have bought the 12" in 1985 on import)

Ssion, "Credit in the Straight World" (soooo FGGT/cruising/warjola, young marble giant!)

Ripe for the picking? Silver Apples' Simeon back in the day.

By Laura Mojonnier

A snapshot of the Pop Montreal festival, Oct. 2.

Irma Thomas at Ukranian Federation, 8:30 p.m.

The night started off with a bike ride up north into Montreal's Mile End area to catch Irma Thomas and a full backing band play the Ukrainian Federation.

I'd only been to this venue once before, to see Patti Smith play a secret show at last year's festival, and the place certainly seems made for that kind of gig. The venue feels like a cross between a middle school auditorium and a Protestant church, rows of 40-year-old theater seating on the first floor and a pewed balcony for the choir. In conclusion, Ukranian Federation is not great for rocking out, but it's just perfect when watching Thomas belt torch songs for middle-aged Quebecers.

By Jen Snyder

Man, San Francisco, you are a very musically incestuous city.

On Friday, Oct. 10, I traveled to Chinatown’s Li Po Lounge for a show. I really appreciate any reason that sends me to Chinatown, be it a mission as a tour guide for house guests or a dire need for new China Flats, but this was a particularly promising trip. Li Po Lounge is a totally legitimate dive bar, plus it has one of those excellent creepy basement show rooms that you usually only can find in Oakland. The sound isn’t super-great, but the lighting (there basically is no “lighting”) and the mood is perfect. To top it off, Will Ivy of Bridez was performing his solo material.

I knew it was going to be good: I’d already listened to a few of Will Ivy’s lo-fi tracks on MySpace and totally dug them, particularly the song "Scrap Plastic," but my hunch was based slightly more on the fact that most good bands have members with excellent side projects. I've always been a fan of songwriters and the diary-style lyrics and the mood that's created when you’re writing things alone in your room.

Rah-rah: Ratatat.

By Laura Mojonnier

A snapshot of the Pop Montreal festival, Oct. 3, 4, and 5.

Day 3

Ratatat and Panther at Club Soda, 10:30 p.m.

I began Friday night, Oct. 3, with the second most-hyped show of the festival: Ratatat. (First place goes to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, who played Metropolis on Thursday night - not even my press pass could get me in.) It was sold out weeks before Pop began, but somehow Club Soda managed to not feel like the inside of a wet diaper in mid-July. So props to whoever was in charge of air circulation.

I saw opening act Panther over the summer with maybe 30 people in the room at an Oakland gallery smaller than my apartment, so naturally I assumed that seeing them six rows deep in a huge downtown venue was bound to disappoint. But the Portland, Ore., art-rock duo, composed of multi-instrumentalist Charlie Salas-Humara and drummer Joe Kelly, actually managed to pull it off, oozing enough delirious energy to fill the 800-person room.

Jesus: Patti Smith in The Black Generation in 1979.

So much to do, so many to see. Here are the notables that didn't make print.

HUBBA HUBBA REVUE
Every third Friday, the frocks come off and the old- 'n' new-school burlesque is ahn. Loved Lady Satan's recent toy-gun-humping Sarah Parlin striptease - she's here at this Oktoberfest edition, along with Trixxie Carr, Sparkly Devil, Alotta Boutte, and Calamity Lulu. Lee Press-On and the Nails provide the live tunes. Check the show out every Monday eve at Uptown Nightclub, too. Fri/17, 9 p.m., $10-$15. DNA Lounge, 375 Eleventh St., SF. (415) 626-1409.

By Kat Renz

It’s rare to visit a MySpace site or see an opening band and say, “Holy crap, they’re gonna be huge.” Had I been on the scene in the '60s or old enough to drive to Seattle in 1989, the exciting shiver of finding a band in their infancy reeking with inevitable promise would feel perhaps more familiar. Today, not so much.

So I was totally unprepared for the Stone Foxes. Though I know it’s a fatal blunder for music writers to prophesize, I’ll do it anyway: the Stone Foxes are gonna be huge. They’re the least pretentious band I’ve heard in, like, forever, which means everything in a modern music scene tainted by image-obsessed emo-tiveness and outsider status posturing.

First I loved their name and second appreciated their MySpace page’s photographic homage to blues-rock influences of yore (the Who, Sabbath, the Faces, Neil Young, et. al). But such attractive details were immediately trumped by their music: pure rock 'n' roll, so heavily and blatantly rooted in the blues, augmented with a hearty helping of country’s paradoxical blend of naiveté and grit.

OK, I took a lot of shit for my recent velvet-gloved smackdown of French electro duo Justice and their cavalier ways, despite my total support of the local banger scene -- but, really, with their new movie A Cross the Universe about to hit Blu-Rays near you-rays, I must say I completely stand by my assertion that hardcore electro is the new hair metal.

Paraphrasing that indespensible Chroniblog Of Our Times, Hipster Runoff: "will public chick b00b ratio to meaningful tour driving road scenes = 1?"

BONUS: EDGY! Total mindfuck mid-90s-like gay-grabbing ploy for cred/attention! C'est francais!

BONUS BONUS: Everyone's doing it! (And yet I lurf it.)

By Brandon Bussolini

If the name James Lavelle rings familiar, think back: this is the guy behind UK label Mo’ Wax, which in its heyday endtroduced DJ Shadow, DJ Krush, and Tommy Guerrero. He’s also the mastermind behind UNKLE, the collaboration-prone production team that paired him with Shadow for their five-years-in-the-making debut, Psyence Fiction (Mo’ Wax, 1998).

More talked about than actually heard — the first album included contributions from Thom Yorke, Talk Talk’s Mark Hollis, and Mike D, among others — UNKLE went on to replace Shadow with Richard File for 2003’s less compelling Never Never Land (Mo’ Wax) and 2007’s virtually ignored War Stories (TBC).

But focusing on Lavelle’s lofty ambitions as a music maker doesn’t give credit to his considerable contributions to hip-hop and house music in the UK; with his boutique label and club nights — That’s How It Is, with Gilles Peterson, lasted a decade — Lavelle helped midwife trip-hop by establishing hip-hop as a living tradition, one whose boundaries weren’t strictly musical.

By Daniel N. Alvarez

Part of a continuing series: Britpop Faves.

Something must be in the water in England’s second city. For a population of less than half a million, Manchester has spawned a hair-raising number of musical visionaries that are often as charismatic as they are brilliant. While the Gallagher brothers, the Moz, Ian Curtis, Richard Ashcroft, and Ian Brown may have stolen the headlines, three likely lads from Wilmslow, a Manchester suburb just 10 miles to the south, quietly built a sublime, glistening catalog.

Doves made a splash with their stunning debut, Lost Souls (Astralwerks, 2000), which was nominated for the Mercury Music Prize. While it didn’t take the award, it was a statement of intent, highlighted by “The Man Who Told Everything," still among their best.

Approaching: "Here It Comes."

By Sonny Smith

I kept seeing this guy at all the shows, always with the big Grizzly Adams-type beard, with a flannel shirt and cowboy boots. A tall man, long hair, large features. I met him outside the public library once. It was raining, and he stood there spouting some convoluted scheme to make art across the country. I couldn’t puzzle together what the hell he was talking about.

Every time I see him at a show he’s setting up little microphones all over the mic stand and the stage, and then video taping it, too. He’s got a big Samsonite suitcase full of digital tape. He’s probably got about one hundred thousand billion hours of live local music - not to mention video. The Oh Sees, Jolie Holland, Michael Musicka, Entrance, etc.

“I like the idea that music actually makes a difference” he said to me. “More than just a soundtrack to people’s lives. I wanted to shoot stuff and put it in the context of my life, the story of my own life, so the songs tell my story. Isn’t that what a mix tape is all about?”

Lots of stuff in store for the SF group Lemonade - this just in from their PR peoples:

"Lemonade marries big beats with heavy psychedelic noises, while touching on elements of North African rai, dub, breakbeat, and samba and much more in their self-titled debut. The SF trio (soon to be NYC trio) is composed of childhood friends Callan Clendenin (vocals), Alex Pasternak (percussion) and Ben Steidel (bass), and they did not have grand expectations for the project outside of exploring their shared vision of a place that they have never been: a fantasy landscape that is at once gritty and pristine, tropical and foreboding. Their trippy, pulsing self-titled debut is out now, Oct 21, on True Panther.

"Hot on the heels of this much anticipated release, Lemonade is announcing the REMIXTAPE album this November as companion to their debut. The REMIXTAPE features contributions from Delorean, Lazer Sword, Ghosts On Tape, C.L.A.W.S, among others."

By Ben Richardson

Brooklyn MC Ill Bill, a.k.a., William Braunstein, recently passed through San Francisco, touring to support his new LP The Hour of Reprisal (Uncle Howie).

The album showcases Ill Bill’s formidable microphone talents, and the ex-Non Phixion MC spits hellfire over 18 martial sounding tracks, taking full advantage of production by such luminaries as DJ Premier, Cypress Hill’s DJ Muggs, and DJ Lethal of House of Pain and more recently Limp Bizkit. In addition to appearances by hip-hop household names like Wu Tang princeling Raekwon, Immortal Technique, and B-Real, the recording includes contributions from artists better known in metal and hardcore circles: Howard Jones of Killswitch Engage, H.R. and Daryl Jenifer of the Bad Brains, and Max Calavera of Sepultura.

Reached by phone from a stop on his continuing tour, Bill discussed the disc, being a new father, and the state of music and the world.

New projects: Ill Bill's "Glenwood Projects."

By Alex Jacobs

Skating up the Embarcadero on Saturday night after a long day of work, I noticed that something along the concrete stretch of the boardwalk was out of place. People, loud music, and colorful lights in front of Cupid’s Arrow at night?
A crowd of 50 or so dancers had assembled near the source of the action. There, among the flashing lights and blaring music, was the man behind it all: Amandeep Jawa, a software engineer and environmental activist armed with a MacBook, a two-speaker sound system, and a rather large tricycle christened “Trikeasuarus.”

PRIMAL SCREAM
Beautiful Future
(B-Unique)

By Todd Lavoie

There's a standard snappy comeback which seems to inevitably follow the announcement of a new Primal Scream release. If you spend much time in the music-nerd universe, you've probably heard it somewhere. Hell, maybe you've even uttered the words yourself. It goes something like this:

"So, which Primal Scream will we be hearing from this time?"

I suppose it's all in good snark, given that the Glasgow, Scotland, institution has thrown itself into frequent sonic overhauls and switcheroos over the years. Starting off in the mid-'80s as Byrds-y jangle-pop devotees, they'd adopted a harder, MC5/Stooges bluster by the end of the decade. In 1991 they had morphed into flower-hugging, Ecstasy-dispensing groove-lovers with the thoroughly zeitgeist-defining indie/dance crossover Screamadelica (Sire), an album which slipped acid house, dub, and even the odd diva anthem into the British guitar-pop charts and helped convince an entire generation that rock-culture and dance-culture need not be mutually exclusive.

THE MASS
Holocene 6
(self-released)

By Will York

There have been times when Oakland quartet the Mass have worn their Mike Patton and John Zorn influences a bit too visibly. Those inspirations are still present here, among others, but this four-song EP shows that the band has developed them into its own sound, one that deftly balances experimental quirks with quality metal riffage and sturdy songwriting.

The opener here, "Trbovlje," starts off as a Sabbath-meets-Melvins workout before veering into a 3/4 instrumental breakdown with layered saxophones on top. The highlight, though, is the 11-minute finale, "Ilirska Bistrica," a slow, lurching number that sounds a bit like the Melvins covering Meshuggah. At just over 20 minutes, this disc is concise and to-the-point. Well done.

By Brandon Bussolini

There’s an ebb and flow to Phil Elverum’s career that runs counter to the prevailing logic of indie-rock success. After the critical acclaim of The Glow Pt. 2 (K, 2001) threatened to pin him and his Microphones moniker to the wall, Elverum took up the name Mount Eerie and took refuge in Anacortes, Wash., his hometown. If that album was the culmination of a half-decade’s worth of tape recording experiments and carefully honing his songwriting - Elverum started as folk art musique concrète and ended up heir apparent to the Brian Wilson/Jeff Mangum throne - Mount Eerie is a post-Glow ramble in the woods, far from comfort or rest, teetering on collapse.

Mount Eerie’s two most recent releases are less ramshackle than earlier material, but the project remains tricky to pin down: this year's Black Wooden Ceiling Opening 10-inch and quickly cranked-out Lost Wisdom LP (both P.W. Elverum and Sun, Ltd.) - a collabo with former Eric’s Trip-per Julie Doiron - oscillate between punky thrust ‘n’ crunch on the former and introverted duets on the latter. Elverum’s probably never played the kind of guitar leads he does on Ceiling Opening before, probably never raked his pick over the strings like that or asked the drummer for a blast beat. Lost Wisdom’s homey feel is more familiar, and Doiron’s wimpy voice is a natural complement to Elverum’s earnest worry.

What to wear - and who to scare?

Starting early, I'd sample "Tingel Tangel Club: Sex Magic and the Occult" - Penny Arcade, Kitten on the Keys, and others take a sexy occult spin on Samhain. Come with? Wed/29, 9 p.m., $16-$22. Café Du Nord, 2170 Market, SF. (415) 861-5016.

Then I'd land, splat, at Thrillpeddlers' blood-spattered Grand Guignol, Shocktoberfest!! 2008: Elemental Horror. Cannibalism, unspeakable magnetism, decapitated heads, and the spookiest finale yet - where do I sign up? Fri/31, 8 p.m. (though Nov. 22), $15-$69. Hypnodrome, 575 10th St., SF. (800) 838-3006.

By Garrett Caples

I was talking to Beeda Weeda at a listening party for his latest disc Da Thizzness (SMC), when someone sat down at our table. “I want you to meet this man,” Beeda said, introducing me to Charles Johnson, executive director of the Town Business Network.

Founded two years ago as a nonprofit social-activist group to combat Oakland’s spiraling murder rate, TBN has lent its organizational might to a variety of causes, most recently voter registration within the ghetto hip-hop community. To this end, the group has just released its CD, Wake Yo Game Up, a pro-voting compilation including tracks by the likes of NEW Oakland (Mistah FAB, Beeda, and J-Stalin), San Quinn, and even Too $hort himself.

Largely given out at panel discussions and registration events in the hood, and also downloadable at www.wakeyogameup.org, the release aims to speak to the community in its own terms about the importance of casting a vote in these critical times. While voter registration is over for the upcoming election, TBN is still pushing the disc to help get out the vote, working to ensure that people who register actually get to the polls on Nov. 4.

AXTON KINCAID
Silver Dollars
(Free Dirt/ Trade Root Music Group)
By Todd Lavoie

Bay Area three-part-harmony whizzes Axton Kincaid might no longer remain as geographically close to each other - three-fifths of the band recently relocated to Portland, Ore. - but their musical kinship appears as mighty as ever with their latest release, Silver Dollars.

Dishing out 11 barnburners, honky-tonk stompers, and beer-sobbers over the course of 35 minutes, these folks are the real deal: genuine, heartfelt, and pleasantly irony-free. While some of the younger, urban exponents of rootsy sounds tend to approach country, folk, and bluegrass idioms with a bit of emotional distance, Axton Kincaid feel closer to the source - not to mention more reverential to the material which inspired them in the first place.

Many months ago, I’d described the band as an updated Carter Family. The assessment still rings true, but I’d also stick them in the same class as the Be Good Tanyas, Freakwater, or the Walkabouts, all of whom display an obvious love for classic twang while still bringing a little contemporary attitude along the way.

By Michelle Broder Van Dyke

Watching Lykke Li bounce her nimble, lithe body, holding her hand to her head, as she warms up before screaming into a megaphone in the “Breaking It Up (Alternate Take)” video reminds me of a simple fact: sex sells. Better yet, cute Swedish girls who exude sexuality sell.

A standard formula we all know, but these days it has got a twist: GAWS majors and hipster boys wearing their sister’s pants reflect a shift in the standard norms of sex stars from the typical Paris Hilton and Christina Aguilera wannabes, and the spectrum has been widened to less conventional icons like Maggie Gyllenhaal and Swedish pop sensation Lykke Li.

Lykke Li dances with a lot of hopping and arm flinging, which makes her resemble a sexier, less crazed, but still spastic Ian Curtis. She stares into the camera as if she’s looking at you, drops her eyes, and even though she’s breaking up with you, you’re already addicted by the time the catchy hook comes.

Easy to do: the official "Breaking It Up."