Hurley doesn’t arrive for another couple weeks (Sept. 14th), but Epitaph Records, Weezer’s new indie-label home, gave critics a sneak preview today.

Coming from someone who didn’t like even the “Green” album, Hurley feels like a natural successor to their second album, 1997’s Pinkerton. Despite an exacting production job by Rivers Cuomo and Shawn Everett, the guitars feel dirtier and you can actually hear the bass-guitar strings on “Memories,” “Ruling Me,” and “Where’s My Sex.” “Sex,” in more ways than just the title, recalls Pinkerton opener “Tired Of Sex” and tinny guitar squeals and surging keyboard harmonies. For the first time in awhile, Cuomo sounds like he wants to have fun with his audience, instead of poking fun at it.

Before we go canonizing anyone, however, the figurative sides A and B are Jekyll and Hyde. The songwriting falters (see the limp “Run Away,” co-written by Ryan Adams), and the band’s dependency on formula proves stifling. “Hang On” feels like a mailed-in submission for radio-rock’s early Springsteen sweepstakes, with the weakest lyrics of their career. “Smart Girls” could be a Fall Out Boy b-side before “Brave New World” comes correct and “Time Flies” marries Neutral Milk Hotel to The Dodos.

– Steve Forstneger

Late hip-hop artist Camu Tao had his hand in enough collaborative projects over the years (Nighthawks with Cage, Central Services with El-P, etc.) that most heads never viewed him as a soloist. But on King Of Hearts (Fat Possum/Def Jux), an album recorded before he lost his battle with lung cancer two years ago, Camu reinvents himself with his official debut – so much so that it’s hard to now describe him as a “rapper.”

Sure, the bouncy “Major Team” and select tracks still see Camu flip a slick, rapid-fire flow some may recognize, but consider that the album begins with him singing on the heavily ’80s-influenced quirky pop cut “Be A Big Girl.” From there, the producer/vocalist brings his best hand-clapping new wave jam with “Bird Flu” and then gets frantic with the future shock of “Get At You.” King Of Hearts can sometimes be off the wall, but not head-scratchingly so.

At his strongest (see “The Perfect Plan”), he couples his love for low-tech but perfectly catchy production while sharing moments from relationships and everyday life. Even though Camu was still testing the waters with his vocals, you appreciate the unrestrained quality of the music throughout. It’s impossible not to think of what Camu Tao could have created if he was still here, but his debut should be celebrated for the accomplishment that it is: one of the more exciting solo debuts from an indie hip-hop act in awhile.

– Max Herman

It’s either the mark of insanity or artistry that once people get a sense of what you’re about and move on that you keep on going with it anyway.

Not that it encapsulates everything, but Stereo Total do multi-lingual electro/synth-pop on a shoestring budget and as if they’ve just eaten a box of Cocoa Puffs. Françoise Cactus and Brezel Göring put the indie world on notice with 2001’s Musique Automatique and haven’t stopped. No boundaries exist on what they can sing about or in what language, and this year’s Baby Ouh! (Kill Rock Stars) goes from Warhol to sex and French to English to Spanish. And it’s par for the course. No two albums are the same, yet the all are in their hyperkinetic, gonna-play-like-this-’til-you-get-up-and-dance brattiness. (Monday@Empty Bottle with Brilliant Pebbles and Boutros. Click here to download “Baby Ouh!”)

– Steve Forstneger

The Internet invites laziness but also makes life harder for procrasinators. Answers to problems (how to get that funk off the stove top, your dentist’s phone number) are a search engine away. And then there’s music.

So many times at the Entertainer we’re asked if we know a certain artist and we say, “Know the name, not the music.” It’s not an excuse anymore. And so we got to know Tub Ring.

Well, no one really gets to know Tub Ring. The Chicago-based band have been knocking around for awhile now and for some reason we thought they were metal. Sort of. “Eclectic” doesn’t begin to describe it. Then we plunged: visited Myspace, sampled, tasted, were delighted. It’s like Faith No More’s been in our backyard all along. So The End Records sent us their new Secret Handshakes, and we like them even more. We still only know the name but can’t really describe the sound. There’s some galactic Queen things going on. Maybe some Modest Mouse. We also learned how to clean the tub, so that’s a bonus too. (Saturday@Subterranean with Dr. Killbot, Dr. Manhattan, and Mose Giganticus. Also 9/2 at Otto’s in DeKalb.)

– Steve Forstneger

High ticket prices raise expectation levels regarding set lengths, not just at the arena level. But nothing really beats the 45-minute set.

Maybe this opinion has been conditioned by the experience of seeing so many young (thus energetic) bands blasting through the only songs they know. But we’re 45-to-an-hour people. Chicago’s Finest Hour, back after a brief rest, likes the 60-minute thing with a twist: four bands carve it up. They get three songs to deal with: two of their own and another by one of the bands sharing the bill. It gets a little nuts. It happens the last Friday every month at Hideout.

Tonight’s participants: Flame Shark, T-Bird Magera, The Cells, and Curtis Evans. Good luck, gentlemen.

– Steve Forstneger

Catastrophe would have struck had J. Mascis not banished Lou Barlow from Dinosaur Jr. Infuriated, Barlow focused his Sentridoh side-gig and began to foment what would become Sebadoh and ostensibly Folk Implosion.

Not to mention the Dinosaur Jr. reunion that’s gotten so much ink. Whatever. The reason we’re here is Barlow, who directed song after song in the guise of a scorned lover (see “The Freed Pig,” “Ocean”) and became one of the most brilliant lo-fi singer/songwriters of his generation. It’s strange, then, to have Barlow revisiting this manisfestation when not only is he back in Dinosaur, but a successful, borderline adult-contemporary indie rocker. Titling this project Sentridoh III (Merge) clearly nods to the seminal Sebadoh III, but boasts early Folk Implosion production sensibility plus a reworking of a track released under his first official solo album, Lou Barlow’s Emoh, back in ‘05.

It’s not Barlow’s strongest work — and to some of us, he’s still repaying that disastrous Sebadoh-plus-taperecorder reunion — though the same can’t be said for Wye Oak’s latest EP, My Neighbor/My Creator. The Maryland-based duo always seemed destined for Yo La Tengo-ish anonymity/respect, but have found a confidence on this four-song set that could just elbow them ahead in line. (@Schubas with Young Man.)

– Steve Forstneger

Click here to download Lou Barlow’s “Losercore” and click here for Wye Oak’s “I Hope You Die.”

Dan Mangan and Ray LaMontagne are here this week, and neither’s particularily ready to let you into his singer/songwritin’ heart.

Mangan’s Nice, Nice, Very Nice (Arts & Crafts) could have done better to endear itself to other than boldly referencing Kurt Vonnegut right away — thank God the Vancouverite has a sense of humor. The album, his second, puts away the collectible “My Influences” scrapbook and pushes forth with a scrappy pad of Americana songwriting. “The Indie Queens Are Waiting,” despite its irreverent title, boasts a living-room female background singer, while the music-hall “Some People” makes an art of rhythmic pacing. Some lines, “I don’t want to be just another wasted puzzle piece,” strain credibility, but the grainy, Glen Hansard quality his voice acquires when heated is more than enough to carry the weaker sequences. (Tuesday@Schubas with The Wooden Birds and Hospital Ships.)

I always thought LaMontagne was secretly bothered by the Jeff Buckley-ness his debut album portrayed, and has since been working to reverse the stereotype. The two-year-old Gossip In The Grain worked in so many shadows it was difficult to get a sense of him at all anymore, in correcting that, this summer’s God Willin’ And The Creek Don’t Rise (RCA) begins to rebuild his image. Eerily soulful but ready to rollick, his fourth album brings a polished, front-porch jam without gliding past on smooth production values. LaMontagne and producer Ethan Johns return the focus to the voice that got us to this point. (Wednesday@Pritzker Pavilion with David Gray.)

– Steve Forstneger

Katy Perry’s bound to strike it rich with Teenage Dream (Capitol), since she can sell at least one of the tracks to NBC.

The success of Perry’s “I Kissed A Girl” was easy to write off as a degrading pander to fratboys who like watching girls kiss on spring break. Whatever Perry’s reasons behind it — and everything points to her being in on the joke — she, Kesha, and, to a lesser extent, Uffie, have taken Lily Allen’s Myspace nous and drowned Britney Spears’ and Jessica Simpson’s as they pretend to cling to the remnants of their womanly virtues. Theirs is a post-feminist argument — an irony invoked by exotic dancers and prostitutes — that sexuality can be used to challenge male-dominated society, and if they torch the Christian overtones of Southern debs, sobeit. Even if their argument is legit, however, and “California Gurls” is Perry’s latest stab at satire, the wrong audience is listening. And she appears to know it, and doesn’t know what to do about it.

Her is-she-or-isn’t-she-smart-enough game is the only thing that makes Teenage Dream mildly worth hearing. Musically, it’s an Auto-Tuned, last-three-years-of-Top-40 recyclery with a major-label benefactor. Her producers are shockingly unimaginative given the resources at their disposal. Perry’s strength — moral ambiguity — gets completely undercut by a self-seriousness that dominates the second half of the album and simultaneously exposes her chief weakness: an anonymous singing voice. Her largely teen audience is likely to overlook any lyrical sophistication — which, honestly, is sophisticated only in the context of TMZland — and latch onto perky pop nuggets (“California Gurls,” the title track) and schmoopy ballads (“The One That Got Away,” “Not Like The Movies”). As long as it sells, who cares?

It’s just that Perry clearly aspires to Madonna (even though her publicity photos recall a pedophiliac’s reproduction of a famous Jennifer Aniston shoot). Perry and Madge both try to equate pleasurable sex with losing virginity (“Hummingbird Heartbeat” vs. “Like A Virgin”), but Madonna was never so consumed with titillating teenage boys as Perry is with the limp (and ultimately NBC-friendly) “Peacock.” Madonna was after men, and more their brains and wallets than cocks.

– Steve Forstneger

We’ve been a little backlogged on posts (sorry!) but we don’t want you to miss these from the weekend. All photos by Andy Argyrakis.

Drugs, blood, and rock ‘n’ roll: It’s you’re weekly Friday preview!

Former Deadboy & The Elephantman frontman Dax Riggs nearly achieves the above trifecta on this summer’s Say Goodnight To The World (Fat Possum), though the cannibal clowns on the album cover never quite break skin. Oh, well. Riggs has clearly researched the mechanics of controlled substances and pop music for his second solo effort, which helps counterbalance his career-spanning ruminations on death. The title track opens the occasion with a languid groove and static blues-metal riff, reimagining Ted Nugent’s “Stranglehold” as a Jesus & Mary Chain dirge. From there, he digs through a post-Woodstock, Haight-Asbury malaise on “I Hear Satan” and sprinkles some Donovan-esque, English countryside folk on “You Were Born To Be My Gallows.” The whole album, save the punkish “No One Will Be A Stranger,” is as if Kris Kristofferson’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down” has been distended into “Tuesday Afternoon And This Shit Still Hasn’t Worn Off.” (@Empty Bottle with Brighton, MA and Mark Trecka.)

It’s almost shameful to have taken this long to come to such a realization, but The Sadies‘ closest stylistic companions aren’t Calexico or Giant Sand. No, on Darker Circles (Yep Roc), brothers Dallas and Travis Good call to mind another coupla bruddas: The Meat Puppets. Granted, The Sadies are missing those crisp, left-field harmonies and use more than their fair share of reverb, but the guitar-led Southwestern boogie they share is distinct. That said, great swaths of Darker Circles could be sung by The Sadies usual employer, Neko Case, but when on their own they’re much closer to early rock ‘n’ roll than the carpetbagging alt-country crew. (@Schubas with Jon Langford & Sally Timms; a previously scheduled encore on Saturday the 21st has been canceled.)

– Steve Forstneger

Almost six years after its debut Future Perfect (DMZ), Autolux return with more mind-meltingly gorgeous noise pop on Transit Transit (TBD). In a live setting, the angular, metallic drone tone of Greg Edwards’ guitars shimmer with brittle rawness, and Carla Azar’s swinging beats thump with a sweaty, off-kilter glee. After playing a rough-and-tumble set at The Empty Bottle back in September, the crew returns, and sounds tighter and more comfortable with the new material. “The Science Of Imaginary Solutions” and “Supertoys” have become crowd-pleasing favorites, and after such a long hiatus, even the old songs will sound new again.

Hailing from Texas, and playing epic, instrumental post-rock, comparisons to Explosions In The Sky are unavoidable (and not entirely inaccurate), but opener This Will Destroy You has always had an ambient edge and more ornate sense of bliss than many of it similarly styled peers, including EITS. TWDY pushes those tendencies even further on its latest, Tunnel Blanket (Magic Bullet); compositions stretch out languorously, as reverb-soaked drones and simple note phrases pace slowly back and forth, and sense of quiet renewal and deliberation underscore these tracks. Fans expecting more of the quiet/loud/quiet/TOTAL DESTRUCTION! formula will likely be disappointed in this new direction, but there is no shortage of bands still recycling that decade-old formula, and it’s refreshing to see alternative approaches to extracting emotion from instrumental interplay and dynamic constructions. Plus, in a live setting, there will still be plenty of concussion-inducing blasts, as abused pedal boxes are stomped through the floor and thrashing guitars are hammered into oblivion. (@Bottom Lounge with Allá.)

– Patrick Conlan

When was the last time you had a free Saturday night? No $100 music festivals, no weddings, no family golf outings . . . is this the big one? ‘Cuz we have stuff for you to do!

After a highly successful multi-decade career and some 100 million albums sold, German rockers Scorpions are trying to head into retirement in style – with a three-year, five-continent tour and one final album (until the next one?). Sting In The Tail can best be compared to . . . all the other Scorpions albums. This leaves anyone looking for evolution by the band or some current relevance disappointed, and it leaves all the die-hard fans thrilled. Klaus Meine’s instantly recognizable vocals haven’t aged a bit, and the band proves it can still rock your face off (“Raised On Rock,” “Slave Me,” “No Limit”) and still drop a power ballad (“The Good Die Young,” “Lorelei”). The closer is called “The Best Is Yet To Come” – a teaser or an omen? (@Rosemont Theatre in Rosemont.)

– Carter Moss

Next up is the record-release party for Sundowner, the acoustic side-project from The Lawrence Arms’ Neil Hennessy. His dayjob has been one of the steadiest Chicago punk bands of the past decade, holding the fort on Fat Mike’s (NOFX) Fat Wreck Chords, so it’s surprising that Hennessy would go with the more locally related Mike Park’s Asian Man imprint. No matter, the surprise about We Chase The Waves is how needless the acoustic arrangements are. While that sounds slightly odd, given most rock musicians write on acoustic guitar, Hennessy would stand to either amp up or develop these straightforward tunes. By now, the acoustic-punk record has gone from trend to tired. (@Subterranean with The Sidekicks, American War, and This Is This.)

At first it seemed risky, even downright stupid for George Thorogood to release Live In Boston 1982 (Rounder) and then tour to support it. Why would a 60-year-old man remind everyone how potent he was at his 30-year-old peak and then hobble onstage to approximate it. Even 10 years ago, commanding the same stage he’ll captain on Saturday night, he was stalking when he used to run and talking about drinking scotch, bourbon, and beer as much as he used to actually drink them. But then it struck us as genius: Everyone in attendance knows what year it is. But this weekend, it’s back to ‘82 and the “new” record will extend that feeling for the ride home. (@House Of Blues with Eddie Shaw.)

– Steve Forstneger

Beauty shouldn’t be a motivating factor when choosing what music to listen to. Sure, advertisers and savvy marketing gurus utilize the allure factor when trying to sell the latest pop tart to the masses, but most music lovers would like to think their ears can discern greatness beyond outward appearance.

Fortunately, there’s no reason to feel guilty about indulging in both the physical and aural beauty of The Watson Twins, as one trait fails to usurp the other. Hailing from Louisville, the raven-haired identical sisters bring a sophisticated, yet down home feel to their second full-length release, Talking To You, Talking To Me (Vanguard). As Chandra and Leigh trade off vocals, instigate seamless harmonies, and tease with the smallest lilt or curled vowel, the album’s 12 tracks cement the twins’ place as formidable songwriters and not merely Jenny Lewis’ novelty backup singers.

In addition to their similarly soothing voices, Talking To You, Talking To Me possesses a secret weapon in the form of the cracker-jack band backing the girls on nearly every song. Everest’s Jason Soda and Russell Pollard (also Chandra’s hubby) produced the record and lent their indelible talents to the proceedings culminating in the album’s standout track, “Midnight.” Combining both the sisters’ black-velvet purring with the rambunctious, groove-laden jam session DNA of Everest seems like a tepid idea on paper, but succeeds in practice. The sultry “Devil In You” could serve as Don Draper’s theme song while “Modern Man” goes decidedly vintage.

– Janine Schaults

Champaign-based Elsinore’s new album, Yes Yes Yes (Parasol), is already in stores (cover art and all!), but we’re offering you a chance for two tix to their Lincoln Hall release party on the 20th.

In many ways, this will be like the first time you’ve ever seen Elsinore, because Yes Yes Yes completely revamps their sound. Despite its enthusiastic title, the record bypasses the provincial folk pop of prior efforts and takes a turn for the serious. Singer Ryan Groff, still the songs’ focal point, doesn’t so much dial down his energy as transfer it. Of course, mentions of Radiohead in press materials tend to overplay that angle — it’s an undeniable stylistic shift, not an unfriendly one — but from opener “Landlocked” down the line you get the sense Elsinore won’t be satisfied just making records and going on the occasional tour.

What do you have to do to get in? By 6 p.m. on Thursday the 19th, be the first to correctly tell us which vehicle manufacturer produced a conveyance called Elsinore in the ’80s. Send answers to ed [at] illinoisentertainer.com.

– Steve Forstneger

Click here to download the title track to Elsinore’s new album.

It’s like picking a favorite child! One is for a good cause, the other’s just because.

It has been a bountiful 12 months for Beatles fans (and the Beatles’ estates) with the reissues and video games and Paul playing the new Mets stadium. And while you could celebrate whatever this weekend’s Fab anniversary is (the 45th anniversary of the Help! LP release) with a quiet, self-assured fistpump while listening to Terri Hemmert’s “Breakfast With The Beatles,” why not come out with your brothers and sisters in force? At the 34th Annual Beatle Fest (also celebrating the 50th year since the band chose their moniker), the guest of honor will be Gary Wright, friend to Ringo and George and he of “Dream Weaver,” debuting a performance of a song he wrote with Harrison in ‘71. The full schedule is available at www.thefest.com. (Friday through Sunday@Hyatt Regency O’Hare.)

And what are we doing promoting anything involving Kenny G? The saxophonist, no relationship to Warren G, has two songs resting in Billboard’s Top-10 Smooth Jazz songs, and is seemingly the antithesis of all the challenging music we throw in your lap. But it’s for children. Ones you don’t have to choose between. G shows up at the Caring For Kids concert that benefits SHC Chicago. A special dinner with him before the show can be had for some serious cash (tables top out at $50K). (Saturday@Rosemont Theater with Jeffrey Osborne and Stephanie Mills.)

– Steve Forstneger

A lot of ‘Palooza coverage has focused on a general overview, with brief glimpses of the sets. We sent Jaime de’Medici out with a focus.

Visit our photo page for extensive galleries!

It was only fitting that the physical event footprint for this year’s Lollapalooza would be extended, as the festival’s prime performances brazenly reflected a more-is-more mentality. Like attendees trekking across the larger landscape, headliners Lady Gaga and Green Day also strove to deliver larger-than-life productions. Whether this was in anyone’s best interest depends on your tolerance level for needless filler and self-indulgence.

For Saturday-night heavyweights Green Day, a heavy case of bloated showboating did its best to minimize the actual musical impact of the band’s set. Over two-and-a-half hours, the Berkeley-raised trio resorted to a seemingly never-ending string of pandering circus tricks, including, but not limited to, fireworks, pyrotechnics, bringing children onstage, and relentless covers (The Isley Brothers’ “Shout”) and puzzling teases (“Sweet Child O’ Mine,” “Highway To Hell,” and — honestly? — “Stairway To Heaven”). It didn’t help that the outfit waited until mid-set to arrive at earlier, more revered material, including fan-favorites from 1994’s Dookie. To Green Day’s credit performances like “Basket Case” and “She” — played without gimmicks or endless chatter — served as reminders of the pop-punk powerhouse’s initial and undeniable immediacy. It’s just too bad they chose to let a fan perform (admittedly decent) karaoke throughout the entirety of “Longview,” as that song, as much as any other in the set, deserved Billy Joe Armstrong’s straightahead brat-punk vocals. Between primarily new-school Green Day fare, Armstrong’s idle chatter quickly moved from endearing (He’s calling out Chicago!) to borderline insultingly pandering, (He’s calling out Chicago — in every. single. song.), save for stories of the band’s early days at The Fireside Bowl. While it’s unrealistic (and frankly unfair) to expect Green Day to stay frozen in time, forever apathetic, snot-nosed, ceaselessly sneering punks, it doesn’t seem too much to ask that the band not transform into caricatures of their Rockband selves. As it is, the band in its current form delivers the kind of show Armstrong and co. wouldn’t be caught dead at in their prime.

One night earlier, one of Friday’s two headliners was in her prime, and wasn’t about to let anyone forget it. Laboring just past the two-hour mark, Lady Gaga delivered a show not at all unlike the one she performed back in January. Unabashed glam theatrics abound throughout the pop diva’s set, from harried costume changes to writhing, impossibly chiseled dancers and a long-haired, shirtless guitarist named Jesus shredding on a shining silver axe. (Not even making this up.) All of which, of course, is fairly par for the course in a live Lady Gaga headline set. What made Friday night different, however, is it marked the singer’s return to the Lollapalooza stage after performing on the BMI stage in 2007, a performance front-and-center Friday’s spectacle. Throughout the evening, Gaga again and again revisited that set, intent on reminding the assembled masses that she had, in fact, officially made it, even after an unnamed source called her past BMI set a “trainwreck.” While there’s no doubt a headlining spot at Lollapalooza must be sweet revenge against past doubters, one couldn’t help but think if Gaga brought it up once, then let it go, it would’ve served her set far better. Thankfully, selections like “Beautiful, Dirty, Rich,” which saw Gaga and crew slithering through a flashing, light-up jungle gym helped keep the evening’s mood upbeat, while the cabaret stomp of “Teeth,” led by a snarling, fake-blood-doused Gaga showcased the singer’s more ferocious side. And while piano-ballad missteps like the Tori Amos-esque “Speechless” and new cut “You And Me” slowed the evening’s momentum a bit, the majority of Gaga’s set remains, to the surprise of no one, a theatrical sight to behold.

By comparison, Sunday night headliner Arcade Fire opted for an equally expected approach, delivering a gimmick-free performance. The group moved primarily between its full-length debut and just-released, third offering The Suburbs, with selections from middle child Neon Bible sprinkled in. Live, the new “Ready To Start” hummed with ominous energy leading to a tension-releasing breakdown, while “No Cars Go” demonstrated the celebratory essence of much of the group’s set. Yet while Arcade Fire’s energy consistently proved spirited, the group suffered slightly from a quiet mix, especially during hushed material like the acoustic-intro’d “Rococo” and the gradually increasing “Intervention.” So low was the outfit’s volume at the start of the set that between songs, Soundgarden’s cross-field grunge jam was heard loud and clear (spoiler: it played “Outshined”). Thankfully, as the group’s set progressed, so too did its energy and intensity, making up for the lack in amplification. Nowhere was this more apparent than in earlier material like the undeniable “Rebellion (Lies),” itself leading the crowd in a mix of crooning and building clapping, and the hyper-kinetic “Funeral #3 (Power Out),” the apex of the band’s set, strobing red-and-white lights highlighting the act as it performed with an undeniably dire and electrifying energy. In a weekend of bill-topping acts steeped in theatrics, it was nothing less than reaffirming to witness vibrant rock exuberance without the all the needless special features.

– Jaime de’Medici

We know. You don’t want to go out. We can’t make you. You just saw 147 bands forcryingoutloud, and excuse you if you’ll just lie there and sort out what happened. Screw that. More rock!

We’ve long wondered what happened to Bill Ricchini and maybe Jeremy Messersmith has a clue. The eccentric, Beatles-obsessed songwriter has a similar taste for stately, piano-based pomp on The Reluctant Graveyard, which closes a trilogy of albums. On the others, The Silver City and The Alcatraz Kid, he seemed to garner Elliott Smith and Sufjan Stevens comparisons at every turn, neither of which give any hint as to his power-pop core, which occasionally comes to full That Thing You Do Technicolor. (Thursday@Schubas with Judson Claiborne and Conrad Plymouth.)

The English Beat are called so in America because unheralded L.A.-based power-poppers called The Beat already existed here. It makes you wonder how often it happens both here and overseas. Off the top of my head, I can think of The Charlatans U.K., Band Of Bees, and The Mission U.K., with little knowledge of American bands meeting similar obstacles. Of course The English Beat’s bigger problems were clashes of personality, because when they were together they challenged The Specials as the top ska revivalists in punk-era Britain. People over here know them best for “Mirror In The Bathroom” and the instrumental version of a song that played over the closing chase sequence in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. When they broke up, it wasn’t as if they shattered into a thousand pieces. Two major chunks of members wound up founding General Public and Fine Young Cannibals. (Friday@Double Door with Bad Manners and Chris Murray.)

Seemingly opening-band cannon fodder on this bill of local heavyweights, Suns can actually boast major-label pedigree. Frontman Mikey Russell led Wax On Radio from 2005 ’til 2008, when it broke up to get out from under its contract with Downtown Records (Gnarls Barkley, Santigold, Scissor Sisters). Though WOR had been promising new material in the interim, what we’ve gotten now is Suns and two free EPs (The Howls And The Many, Close Calls In The U.S. Space Program) available from the band’s Myspace. Moody, densely arranged . . . sounds like the same band? Hardly. There’s some spunk and verve packed in the former set that was probably stirred by the label chaos. (Friday@Durty Nellie’s with The Tossers and Scott Lucas & The Married Men.)

The surge in supergroups and collaborations, specifically in indie rock, has rekindled images of the collaborative heyday of the mid-’70s, when Eric Clapton wasn’t so much for-hire as lost in the Byzantine hallways of a recording studio and haplessly dropping in on the wrong session. Admiral Radley don’t quite fit that description, though the relative ubiquity of Grandaddy and Earlimart members of late (out in California, no less) has a few cainine units waiting for their luggage just to be sure. The 10-years-in-the-making debut, I Heart California, won’t surprise fans of either band, and that’s too be expected. Both record at the midtempo halfline, and the changing from song to song is almost like setting a CD player on A/B shuffle. (Friday@Lincoln Hall with Hooray For Earth.)

– Steve Forstneger

After 15 years, six studio albums, and a fistful of compilations, soundtracks, and EPs, Mogwai has finally released an official live album. Sure, there have been plenty of live versions of songs available before, but nothing previously released comes close to conveying the spacious bliss, skyrocketing build-ups, and shock-and-awe crescendos the way Special Moves (Matador) does.

Available as a triple LP or CD with accompanying download, the album comprises performances culled from Mogwai’s three-night residency at Brooklyn’s Music Hall of Williamsburg in April 2009. As a cohesive set showcasing Mogwai’s dynamic sonic fury, it far exceeds Government Commission and the other various live tracks that have littered past EPs and the Young Team reissue. If your speakers and neighbors can handle it, crank up “Mogwai Fear Satan” or “You Don’t Know Jesus” and succumb to the blood-chilling catharsis, as the avalanche of frenzied guitars rip apart the tranquility. The pacing of “Friend Of The Night” and the elongated phrasing in “2 Rights Make 1 Wrong” both produce blistering, brilliant highlights, even at their vastly different intensity levels. The production and sound quality are superb, capturing precise instrumental detail and the raw, cavernous hurricane of sound that rattles your bones and ruffles your hair. With a track list that hits virtually every one of its career highlights, Special Moves stands as the definitive document of Mogwai, live.
 
Released in conjunction with Special Moves, Burning is a documentary-style film by Vincent Moon and Nathanael Le Scouarnac of La Blogotheque’s Take-Away Shows, that compiles concert footage from the same set of shows. Filmed in stark, grainy black-and-white stock, the film aims to present a tightly wrought perspective of the actions and momentum generated to perform the music, and the rhythmic interaction of the band. The tracking and framing reference cinema verite’s observational perspective, but the vertiginous angles and severe closeups are closer to surrealistic montage, and demand intense visual acuity. Claustrophobically tight, blurry shots recall the photography of Uta Barth, and such juxtaposition reveals some beautiful moments and some frames capture startling images. The blown-out glint from a crash cymbal bleeds into the sparkle on a Strat; a shimmering highlight and a blurred hand zig-zag across wobbly, vibrating strings. Hands hammer violently and swaying bodies undulate with poetic grace, even as they grind out ear-shearing feedback and thrashing rhythms. Cliché shots of amps and effects pedals are limited; instead, we see acute angles of drum racks, and the gentle curve of guitar tuning pegs. A long shot casually reveals additional band members, as the sound deepens with each additional instrument; a knowing look and casual nod ignites the explosive whirlwind in “Mogwai Fear Satan.” Although the film’s track list also showcases Mogwai’s best, it doesn’t simply reprise Special Moves (or conversely, Special Moves isn’t simply the soundtrack for the film), so the album and film are unique documents capturing Mogwai’s rapturous live performance.

– Patrick Conlan

Now in its fifth year as a Destination Festival, Lollapalooza sets out to test if bigger is better. This year, the festival grounds have been enlarged, pushing some stages west of Columbus to both accommodate more festival goers and ease the crowding that has plagued past events. Did it work? Kind of.

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Columbus Drive essentially became the world’s largest sidewalk. Lined with porta-johns, the newly opened-up spaces made getting from one end of Grant Park to the other a veritable breeze. But crushing crowds and limited space still plagued anyone who dared to venture into the north end’s two stages, especially as the day pressed on and the bigger acts emerged.

But enough of that. Let’s get to real reason the masses head to the park in the first place: Bands! Over a hundred of them plus a DJ tent, food vendors and the promise of sun-kissed skin on lithe, partially dressed bodies. Here’s a rundown of the rock.

Friday

-These United States are entertaining a sparse crowd at the BMI stage. It’s 11:15 in the morning, which equals pre-dawn in rock and roll time. Still the quartet roll with it, doling out their Midwestern brand of meat-and-potatoes rock with just a hint of twang. Oh, and they’re already drinking beer. Nice!

-Brooklyn duo Javelin look as if they might get swallowed by the cavernous space of the Petrillo Music Shell (this weekend posing as the Playstation Stage). The disco beats and sythn-y atmospherics seem to have the crowds attention. The smell of pot wafts through the air. Wake and Bake in Butler field. Lollapalooza is official on.

-Look, The Wavves are actually playing songs! Unlike their performance at last year’s Pitchfork Music Festival, the trio (or, more specifically, front man Nathan Williams) dispersed with the patience-testing caterwaul of noise they unleashed on an unsuspecting crowd in favor of surprisingly tuneful guitar blasts.

-Once an of-the-moment buzz band, The Walkman have settled nicely into a sound that is recognizable, but still divergent enough that it allows for accents like a horn section. And damn if their shoulda-been-a-classic “The Rat” doesn’t sound epic crawling across Chicago’s front lawn.

-Gothic in nature, the song’s of The Big Pink are perfectly suited for a dank club on the wrong side of town. But in broad daylight, the music exuded a sizable heft that had no trouble filling the open spaces

-As art-punks go, few have the street-cred that Devo do. Although best know for their flower pot headdress and hit single “Whip It,” the new material that gets played nestles in nicely with the rest of the crowd pleasing set.

-It’s been said that every smile is birthed from another smile. If this is true, drummer Kim, of duo Matt and Kim, is mother to thousands of parted lips. Her exuberance behind the kit helps propel their sixty minute performance into giddy rapture.

-Looking like a running back from Venus, Lady Gaga saunters down a staircase adorned with blood filled syringes that empties onto a trash strew street scene. Her purple biker jacket with NFL worthy shoulder pads eventually give way to a leopard skin leotard and fishnet stockings. She is flanked by a phalanx of dancers and more strobe lights than the final scene of Close Encounters. Some in the crowd have been waiting since 4 a.m. for this moment. As spectacles go, the Lady does not disappoint.

Saturday

-At this point, who hasn’t been in Broken Social Scene. The Canadian collective has more offshoots than Happy Days had spin-offs. The roses strewn stage masks the force fullness of the performance. Two singers haven’t stared each other down like this since Lindsey started dragging Stevie’s heart around.

-Florida punk rockers have long since stopped worrying about credibility. Good thing too, because punk rock guilt is second only to the Catholic variety. The quintet blazed through their set, turning the south field into a giant mosh-pit sing along.

-The drone and intense quite that dominates the songs of The XX are in stark contrast to, um, daylight. With their ghost white skin and black garb, one wouldn’t have been surprised if the duo burst into flames upon seeing the sun. If anything, the massive crowd at their disposal proved they’re not the only ones who wear black on the outside, ’cus black is how they feel on the inside.

-Orange County’s Social Distortion are now chasing their third DECADE as band. Unheard of longevity for anyone, never mind a band with punk roots. But lead singer Mike Ness growls with the best of them, blurring the line between the punks and the rebels. It’s this marriage of musical styles that make the band sound timeless.

-It would seem that Green Day would owe Social Distortion a debt of gratitude. Once a dangerous game, the Berkley trio make punk rock seem safe and neutered. Hell, they even have their own Broadway musical. But it don’t mean shit when they hit the boards. Now full fledged rock stars, the band brought lights, flash pots and stage diving audience members to a show that revved to eleven from the green light and stayed in the red all evening.

Sunday

-The early rain seems to have kept some revelers in until the sun decides to make an appearance. It has not, however, deterred a large throng from gathering for Switchfoot. On record, the band comes off as paint-by-numbers rock. But in front of an adoring audience their genuine joy is winning me over. Even their cover of the Beastie Boy’s “Sabotage” kinda rocks. And when the lead singer does an entire song holding the hand’s of fan’s, it’s obvious the affection is mutual.

-Scrappy Brit’s The Cribs never needed a secret weapon. They seemed to be doing just fine on their own. But they got one anyway in the form of former Smiths’ guitarist Johnny Marr. His fretwork meshes seamlessly with the band’s antagonistic melodies and football-riot chanters. Somewhere Modest Mouse sheds a tear on a dashboard.

-Never has the saying “big in Japan” ever been more accurate. X Japan deal in the kind of over-the-top Hair Metal that has long since gone out of fashion on this side of the pond. Apparently they never got the memo. Plexi-glass baby grand, see-through drum kit replete with gong and androgyny that still has me wondering if that bass player was a dude.

-Having the distinction of being the band to play the most Lollapalooza’s, Soundgarden returned like conquering heroes. During the grunge heyday, they weren’t as revered as Nirvana or as popular as Pearl Jam. But they quietly sold millions of records before acrimonious relationships within the band splintered their future. Whether they survive this reunion remains to be seen. Onstage, interaction between band members seemed nonexistent. But the roar they created on Sunday to close out the weekend more than hinted that the creative chemistry is still there. Guess will have to wait for the 2020 re-reunion to see if it holds true.

- Curt Baran

Union Square goes full tilt on the purveyors of John Peel’s favoritest song, and Terrence Flamm reviews it.

Springing from Northern Ireland in the late 1970s, The Undertones were punk rockers who were more interested in romantic relationships than political upheaval. Their 1979 self-titled debut, a non-stop collection of Ramones-influenced songs conjured from an adolescent point of view, brought them worldwide attention. Subsequent albums didn’t fare as well, but as Union Square’s recently released, digital-only compilation of The Undertones, Hypnotised, Positive Touch, The Sin Of Pride, and The Best Of The Undertones proves, the band recorded compelling music throughout its career.

Led by the distinctively voiced Feargal Sharkey, The Undertones pondered the mysteries of the opposite sex on “Boys Will Be Boys” and “Girls Don’t Like It,” but also tapped into Ray Davies-style satire on “My Perfect Cousin” and “Male Model.” Later material found the band successfully moving into new wave territory, as on the soulful “Save Me” and the enticing “Beautiful Friend.” Still, The Undertones were at their best on the early, adrenaline-pumping classics like “Teenage Kicks,” “(She’s A) Runaround,” and “Get Over You.” It’s hard to tell if this digital collection will spark renewed interest in the band, but as Sharkey wisely observed on “More Songs About Chocolate & Girls,” “It’s never too late to enjoy dumb entertainment.”

– Terrence Flamm

Think of it as the difference between being at work and being at home. When in the confines of your abode, do whatever you want. But out here, you play by our rules. And this schedule is how to maximize your time this weekend.

Friday

11:00 B.O.B.
12:00 Wavves
1:00 Los Amigos Invisibles
2:00 DECISION: Mavis Staples vs. Raphael Saadiq
Boy, not much love for soul fans this year. Someone’ll need to answer for why Palooza’s truest performers play the same slot; we’ll go with Staples, because the family’s from here and we’re not stupid.

3:00 DECISION: The Big Pink vs. Drive-By Truckers
Not a difficult choice, really. The Truckers play five local shows roughly every two years, while Big Pink, given music’s cyclical nature, might never come back from London with their J&MC stomp. Download “Velvet.”

4:00 The New Pornographers
5:00 The Dirty Projectors
6:00 DECISION: Jamie Lidell vs. Hot Chip
Both Brits, danceable, and coming off underwhelming recent albums. Our money’s on Lidell, whose stylistic range trumps HC’s lo-fi indie rave-ups.

7:00 Jimmy Cliff
8:00 DECISION: Lady Gaga vs. The Strokes
This isn’t a contest, really. The Strokes are here for rockists who won’t “lower” themselves to the Gaga phenomenon. Do yourself a favor, and come see a show.

Saturday

11:00 Mynameisjohnmichael
12:00 The Morning Benders
1:00 Wild Beasts
2:00 Stars
3:00 DECISION: Against Me vs. The XX
From a purely logistical standpoint, even if you’re at The XX stage, you’ll only be able to hear Against Me (or Dawes or Dan Black or Gogol Bordello). Save yourself the frustration.

4:00 DECISION: Gogol Bordello vs. Grizzly Bear
This GB matchup plays more on primal instinct than musical preference. Gogol sound the same song-to-song, gig-to-gig, but they’re wildly more interesting to watch than Grizz’s “more interesting to hear” approach.

5:00 Metric
6:00 DECISION: Social Distortion vs. Spoon
The paradox of Spoon’s popularity is they aren’t built for big shows and, ironically, we don’t expect Transference to be very transferable to the outdoors. When it doubt, go with fist-pumping man-rock, even when past its prime.

7:00 Cut Copy
8:00 DECISION: Phoenix vs. Green Day
To be repeated Sunday, this is all about generational divide and how one thinks a Saturday night should be spent. We’ll take lite dancing over teen rock operas.

Sunday

11:00 Miniature Tigers
12:00 Nneka
1:00 Company Of Thieves
2:00 DECISION: Ike Reilly vs. Blitzen Trapper
Anyone who missed Fleet Foxes will find BT’s fourth album to come at the exact right time. Locals, however, might be best served with Reilly, who’s become inseparable from his Libertyville neighbor, Tom Morello.

3:00 Freelance Whales
4:00 X Japan
5:00 Erykah Badu
6:00 DECISION: Flosstradamus vs. MGMT
A year ago we’d reverse this, but MGMT’s transition into headier territory might not soothe your withering patience on a sunbaked Sunday afternoon. Locals Flossy D, however, are bound to hit that mashup you never expected to come.

7:00 The National
8:00 DECISION: Soundgarden vs. The Arcade Fire
Easily the most cruel trick of the tournament, this split will be made on age lines like Phoenix and Green Day, but here we have to go with Soundgarden. It may be a hard ticket, but you can assume Arcade Fire will return. Even with Chris Cornell so far up his own ass, we’ll bank on a redemptive “The Day I Tried To Live” to close the fest in style. And pray he leaves the leather pants at home.

Throw us the whip, we’ll give you the “Idol.” Former winner Taylor Hicks (yes, that was four years ago) is done with the arena tours and now gets back to the busy work of connecting with fans.

In order to score two passes for Hicks’ show on August 9th at Reggie’s in the South Loop, e-mail ed [at] illinoisentertainer.com with your answer to the following question: Whose voice does the staff at IE think Hicks’ most closely resembles?

Good luck. Entries due by 3 p.m. CST, Thursday, August 5th. Winner will be notified Friday the 6th.

Folks don’t love the number 31 enough. Especially as a date. It’s the only day of the month where you know the next day is a new month. And if it’s a Saturday, like this month? That means next month has a Friday the 13th! Woo-hoo!

Some people we know are going around making campaign promises to chop two 31s off coming months and even out February’s feeble display. Anyway, if you’re not out enjoying a second night of Bon Jovi (coincidence that his appearance on “30 Rock” was re-run this week?), here’s a couple things to do before August and its 31 come to town.

The Chicago Police Memorial Foundation hosts its “Remember, Honor, Respect” fundraiser to provide assistance to the families of officers killed or debilitated in the line of duty. Music comes from DJs Farley Jackmaster Funk, Mark Grant, FLX of Three Degrees, and officer/house-music aficionado Mike Dearborn with full donation proceeds going to the charity. Three CPD badges have been killed in the past two months. (@Smart Bar.)

If your Friday night turns into a rough Saturday morning, you can always go the head-nodding, gentle-swaying approach provided by Cotton Jones. The duo’s second album since shortening their name, Tall Hours In The Glow Stream (Suicide Squeeze), isn’t due for another month yet, but won’t knock fans out of their numb malaise. Michael Nau and Whitney McGraw used to toil as Page France, but have since found their place in living-room harmonies and a greater tendency toward Inside-Out-era Yo La Tengo. “Dream On Columbia Street” runs into Ira Kaplan at nearly every corner. (@Schubas with The Parson Red Heads and Tin Tin Can.)

– Steve Forstneger

Biblical storms, record heat, itchy shirt tags, and the nagging suspicion we forgot something — we’ve made it through July, Chicago. Together we can do anything. Together we can prevent forest fires. Here’s what’s left on Friday.

Jack White just might be the hardest working musician in the business. When he’s not recording radio-ready alt-rock with The White Stripes, or releasing even more critically acclaimed (and fan-acclaimed) tracks with his friends in The Raconteurs, he’s collaborating with a whole different set of musicians for his other side-project, The Dead Weather. Already on their second full-length album (Sea Of Cowards) in two years, The Dead Weather allows White yet another unique outlet for his overstock of creative juices. This time, he gets to take a break from frontman duties and churning out hooks on his electric, and instead drives the songs from behind the drums. Of course, White can’t resist the opportunity to add his signature wail to some of the songs, but this time he gets to sing alongside someone who can match his vocal intensity and distinctiveness — Alison Mosshart of The Kills. The duo’s sound, meshed with Dean Fertita’s (Queens Of The Stone Age) guitar and Jack Lawrence’s (The Raconteurs, The Greenhornes) bass, generates a blues-fused alt-rock sound that is truly greater than the sum of its parts. (@Congress Theatre with Harlem.)

– Carter Moss

Unlike in Europe, where huge metal fests garner enormous crowds seemingly on a weekly basis, Stateside metal festivals are still very much an underground phenomena, despite the mainstreaming of conventional metal, and the growing popularity of extreme metal genres.

With Ozzfest severely scaling back its dates (it will make an appearance August 17th in Tinley Park), and the spiraling degradation of the Warped Tour, which demands that you endure loads of marginal acts to see a few exceptional ones (and caters more to a punk/indie-rock audience anyways), fans of aggressive, confrontational music have limited options. Welcome the Rockstar Mayhem Festival to fill the void.
 
As it has the previous two years, Mayhem features an incredible lineup, representing a gamut of metal genres that are sure to find plenty of crossover appeal. The quality of any festival lies not only in the big-name headliners, but the smaller draws on the side stages, and Mayhem absolutely slays on both fronts. With Korn, Rob Zombie, Lamb Of God, and Five Finger Death Punch, you have a wide-ranging and versatile set of top-shelf metal acts sharing the main stage; but the more intriguing bands will be playing earlier in the day on the second stages. Hatebreed, Chimaira, and Norma Jean comprise a triumvirate of metal/hardcore legends, and represent the twisted evolution of the genre. Having laid some of the initial foundation for contemporary metalcore with its scathing dynamic, vicious noise terrorists Hatebreed has already achieved legendary status. Interspersing stops on Mayhem with a headlining tour promoting its latest DVD/CD set, Coming Alive (Ferret), Chimaira is perhaps the most creative metalcore act going, splicing an experimental edge with its flailing bludgeoning and a thundering melodic angle that inject vitality into a genre that is subject to stifling confines. Its crushing live show has been honed to surgical precision and the band blasts rippling waves of intensity from the stage. Norma Jean has twisted through several musical contortions over its career, but Meridional (Razor & Tie) is a dark, menacing return to its metal-inspired hardcore roots. With Atreyu, In This Moment, 3 Inches Of Blood, Shadows Fall, and Winds Of Plague rounding out the bill, you have a non-stop onslaught that should send everyone home happy, ears ringing with tinnitus and necks stinging from whiplash. (@First Midwest Bank Amphitheatre.)

– Patrick Conlan

But if you wanna get really messed up . . . well, no. On the other side of the spectrum, Tift Merritt stands firmly in the middle while others hang on the fringes. It’s not an indictment — despite toiling in country-wrapped singer/songwriter pop, Merritt’s successfully woven lush Memphis soul, searing self-effacements, and cozy familiarity for the better part of a decade. On her fourth album, See You On The Moon (Fantasy), she’s still “trying to get the engine to turn,” as she sings over one Byrds-y jangle. Despite the title track, one sisiphysian task she doesn’t bother herself with is reinventing the wheel; readymade tropes sometimes fit like an old sweater. (@Lincoln Hall with Dawn Landes.)

– Steve Forstneger

It’s gonna be a hot one today, boyo! Tomorrow will be a whole 7° cooler!

And we’re gonna start with tomorrow, because we’ve already covered some Friday. And wouldn’t you like to be outside enjoying an experience close to living on the sun? The Silver Room boutique in Wicker Park hosts the Sound System Block Party, featuring three stages (DJ, in-store, outdoor bands) starring Innosphere, Rita J, 8 Inch Betsy, and Streets On Fire. There’s also live mural painting and a photo booth — if, by 11 p.m., you haven’t been reduced to a sweaty rag, there’s an afterparty at Double Door with Peven Everett. A full schedule is available at Silver Room. (Saturday@The intersection of Milwaukee and Evergreen.)

Inigo? Inigo, where are you? All Indigo Girls concerts should start this way, kind of like how Metallica takes the stage to “Ecstasy Of Gold” from The Good, The Bad & The Ugly. (A singer/songwriter concert in a plant conservatory needs a little levity.) Out in celebration of their latest double-live-gonzo outing, Staring Down The Brilliant Dream (Vanguard), an Indigo Girls concert has become a family affair with elongated stories and witticisms hurled from the stage at random. Amy Ray and Emily Saliers have little left to prove to anyone and invite you to relax with them. (Saturday@Morton Arboretum in Lisle.)

Speaking of the family approach, Omaha’s Landing On The Moon pack a married couple and a pair of brothers into their quintet. You can’t swing a dead cat in Nebraska without hitting a Saddle Creek relative, and on We Make History Now Megan Morgan (Ladyfinger NE) takes star vocal turns and helps this collegiate indie-rock band sound younger than it looks. The band’s broad experience helps turn the 10 tracks into mini suites, some gliding healthily past the 5-minute mark. Prone to meandering, they find strength in the gripping, soulful “Where Have We Gone?” and crisp “You Know Me.” (Sunday@Phyllis’ Musical Inn)

– Steve Forstneger