› kimberly@sfbg.com

SONIC REDUCER Roll over and let MF Doom give you the news: even during the soporific, sunlit waning days of summer, you needn't wander far before tumbling headlong into a deep ditch of gloom. Read more »

› kimberly@sfbg.com

SONIC REDUCER Drifting into a coma at last week's lethargic Oakland A's–<\d>Los Angeles Angels game, I suddenly woke with a snort, dropped my bag of peanuts, and realized what was missing. No, not some bargain-price rookie flamethrower, though that wouldn't hurt. It was too quiet. I needed some screeching Queen songs to drown out the deranged A's fans screaming behind me.

But it wasn't just me — the A's and their fans were suffering from a dearth of head-bobbing, fist-punching at-bat music, in addition to a real game. Read more »

› kimberly@sfbg.com

SONIC REDUCER "This sucks."

Nope, we weren't talking about Kelly Clarkson's pandering public apology to Clive Davis — there's an American idol to kowtow to. Or the minisnippet of the new Britney Spears single, "Get Back," all over YouTube, its title alluding oddly to a song by Paul "Latte Rock" McCartney's old beat combo. Read more »

› kimberly@sfbg.com

SONIC REDUCER Been around da block as Jenny and I have? Then you're all way too familiar with that cad Hoochie Coochie Man, that bogus Boogie (Chillen) Man, and — natch, Nick — that Loverman. But hey, who's this new game, Grinderman? This grind has little to do with a full-bodied Arabica, the daily whatever, or the choppers that go "Clink!" in the night. It's all about that which is toppermost of the poppermost on young men's minds, always skirting young men's fancies. Namely, sex, sex, and more sex. Read more »

› kimberly@sfbg.com

SONIC REDUCER "It was a period where you thought anything could happen," Thurston Moore once told me, talkin' 'bout the early '90s alternative rock scene spawned by Sonic Youth's widely regarded masterpiece, Daydream Nation (DGC, 1988).

One might say the MTV-coined catchphrase "Alternative Nation" went as far as to take its cues from SY's double disc, which was self-aware enough to dub a track "The Sprawl" and heady enough to venture into the big-statement two-LP turf also being hoed by once–SST kindred Minute Read more »

› kimberly@sfbg.com

SONIC REDUCER Can the Big Apple rightfully claim the cheese without "New York State of Mind" or even "New York City Cops"? How can we motor through Mobile without an anthemic blast of "Sweet Home Alabama"? Even boosters would have a tough time mustering a jones for El Lay if not for "I Love LA." Hometown pride is a construct, built on ballpark anthems, puny hot dogs, and bizarre caps with too many buttons. But even as we cringed at the Live Earth lineup, the idea of Antarctica musical antics intrigued. Read more »

› kimberly@sfbg.com

SONIC REDUCER Knowing felines the way I don't, I'd venture that most pussies squander a life or three every time they step out the door and off life's balcony railing in search of their next fleshy plaything. Read more »

› kimberly@sfbg.com

SONIC REDUCER Anyone who's thumbed through the oodles of zany organ, squealing chipmunk, and queasy-listening albums from the '50s onwards knows this to be true: every generation has its version of Muzak, whether its members like it not — thanks to clueless parental units. And the class of 2025 will undoubtedly have vibe 'n' synth instrumental renditions of "About a Girl," "D'yer Mak'er," and "Cherub Rock" dancing in their heads — no thanks to the Rockabye Baby! Read more »

› kimberly@sfbg.com

SONIC REDUCER "Fuck Lars Ulrich — he can play drums on my balls with his teeth!" Them's fighting words from the beefy bruiser in a tinsel page-boy wig, perhaps provoked only by four wannabe skids' burning need to cover Metallica's "For Whom the Bell Tolls" at last week's first but — fortunately for your inner and outer sketched-out Priest hooligan with a nonironic mullet, prematurely weather-beaten mien, and herbally truncated short-term memory — not last "Hesher" night at the Parkside, where it's now semioffi Read more »

› kimberly@sfbg.com

SONIC REDUCER Once upon a strange, overly prepared, possibly paranoid post-9/11-related time not so long ago, I'd bring my lunch to shows at Shoreline Amphitheatre, then–Concord Pavilion, and all those other mammoth Sleep Train–sponsored yet intrinsically antisnooze behemoths. I'd pack a heaving Dagwood of cold cuts and assorted cheeses and energy bars into a backpack for random spates of balls-out rockin' in burbs and office parks. What was I thinking? Read more »