On Thursday November 3rd the Guardian family descended upon Buck Tavern to toast 45 years of "Printing the News and Raising Hell." The cadre included current and former staffers, as well as SF politicos and friends of the Guardian from over the years. While Chris Daly and his staff kept busy slinging stiff drinks and setting out yummy snacks, the Guardian family was aglow in celebrating four and half decades of representing San Francisco values. Hip Hip Hooray!
The disgruntled bouncer at Ruby Skye begrudgingly admitted my entry to the Das Racist show on Friday night, only after I managed to flag down the event’s promoter to confirm my legitimacy. It was a telling kick off to an evening riddled with problems on behalf of the club, but I wanted to approach with an open mind. Read more »
Despite the awesome spectacle (high kicks, guitar humping) and the resumes (Sleater-Kinney, Helium, the Minders) Wild Flag's music stands on its own. The indie rock foursome (don't call it a supergroup) from Portland, Oreg. and Washington D.C. ripped the Great American Music Hall to shreds on Saturday night, likely Friday night too, but I wasn't there. Read more »
We all know the story: Some dude records an album in a basement, garners considerable Internet attention, tries to perform live, and totally blows it. Fortunately for the audience at the Rickshaw Stop on Thursday night, Unknown Mortal Orchestra is a bold exception to this emerging parable in modern music. Read more »
The self-proclaimed “nerds” behind me in the will-call line at Slim’s Sunday night were lamenting the theft of their culture. “I hate it when hipsters try to act like us,” one said, with threatening hostility. “Because you’re not one of us, you don’t know what it’s like, and it’s not fucking cool.” Oh crap, I thought, looking straight ahead. Are they talking about me? Do they think I’m a poser, coming to this show because it’s hip? That I wear chunky orthopedics and thick rimmed glasses for the purpose of ironic style? I got my ticket and went inside as fast as I could, away from the geek toughs. Read more »
Whether more or less true in other places, the crowds at shows in the Bay Area can be disappointingly savvy regarding encores. They know that if the band says goodnight and leaves the stage, the show is only possibly over. Or if recorded music comes over the speakers, the show is likely over. And (of course everyone knows) that when the house lights come on, the show is definitely over. It’s a convention that the bands and audience both understand, but robs everyone of some fun. Which was why it was wonderfully surprising that the majority of the people at the Independent Thursday night stuck around clapping, shouting, and making noise 'till it hurt in an attempt to get Soulwax to come back out on stage. Read more »
It’s a little nerve-wracking going out in costume for a show when it’s not quite yet Halloween. What if no one else dresses up and it’s a scene out of Legally Blonde? Luckily the bands at Brick and Mortar (Zulus, Uzi Rash, Apache, Nobunny, Ty Segall) were slated to perform costumed covers, so I figured it would be safe. (Plus, I spent enough money making the damn thing to ensure I’d be living with my dad for an additional month--so I was gonna milk it.) Still, when I got inside the venue, I scouted to find some other outfits among black clothes and leather. A guy was wearing a 1994 USA Olympic Dream Team windbreaker (“Carl Mullen” he told me, pointing to one of the figures with a basketball). Another guy was dressed as Business Man Who Has Too Much To Drink, Tries To Mosh Too Early, And Is Never Seen Again, but this was easily topped by the best costume of the night: Totally Trashed Crazy Girl. Read more »
Yeah, so sometimes I cry a little when I listen to live music. You got a problem with that?
This may have happened last Friday night (10/21) when I went with Sam Love to Zahara!, a performance that featured singing and dance with roots in passionate flamenco from Kina Mendez, live Moroccan musicians (a group by the name of El Hamideen), and even some belly dancing.
Once while talking music with friends on a long road trip I was posed with the task of describing Portishead’s sound. Struggling to articulate the sum of their collective parts, I did a hasty mental cut-and-paste and said, “They’re sorta like…if Pink Floyd was a hip-hop band…and Billie Holiday was their singer.” It’s a clunky description, not so much for the references, but because Portishead’s greatest attribute is their ability to bend genres so seamlessly that it all morphs into their own sort of singular sonic universe. Even the prevailingly appropriate moniker of trip-hop (of the Bristol variety) really seems more of a launching point than a description. Read more »
So struck were we by the spectacle that is the first weekend of the Grand National Rodeo (read our print coverage of the event here), your Guardian news team lost a couple hundred dollars worth of camera equipment, by a conservative (uneducated in the ways of photography) estimate (your writer's). Luckily, we still brought back photo documentation. They never should have let us stand by the bronc pit.Read more »