Stage Buzz
Just like a man
The Band, Cars, and Police didn’t have to deal with modern technology, but contemporary musicians know full well the first time a curious person wants to learn more, they’ll Google them.
The ol’ switcheroo
The process of selecting opening acts will confuse and frustrate fans until their dying (fandom) days. The mind still spins when wondering why Bobcat Goldthwait warmed up for Nirvana on their final American tour.
Season of The Witch
Emerging from the U.K. in 2008, Ebsen & The Witch come Stateside with Violet Cries, their first U.S. release on Matador. Blending ethereal sonic landscapes with pulsating rhythmic metallic seasonings,
Party hearty, Marty
Those of you who survive the local drinking orgy that is Casimir Pulaski Day have another quirk in the schedule to deal with tomorrow.
Merging of species
Pre-SXSW, two of Merge Records’ non-Grammy winning, power-poppish heroes arrive to state their case for next year’s awards season.
The Bruce is loose
Bruce Lamont is many things to many people: lover, debtor, chooser of fine silks . . . wait, that’s supposed to read sax-wielding Yakuza frontman, uncanny Robert Plant soundalike, and now a solo artist.
Planet Of The Crates
Amid the influx of influential hip-hop producers coming out of the East Coast in the early ‘90s, Queens, NY reps The Beatnuts had little trouble garnering appreciators of their booming street-level sounds.
Dropkick if you’re down
St. Patrick’s Day festivities are strung out this year like College Bowl season, so much that younger generations must have no clue when the big day really is.
Now with less monster . . .
Deathcore upstart Whitechapel has quickly established itself as one of a handful of relevant names in a genre that initially seemed destined for the dustbin.
Keep on Truckin’
Drive-By Truckers hit town for two shows this weekend, and hope you don’t mind if they come out wearing their Go-Go Boots.
All Februaries must end
This is it, folks: one week left of February 2011 and you’ll never have it again. That’s probably devastating news for those of you who cry on your birthdays — a pathetic tendency picked up when you turned 7. Shameful, really.
Dem post-Grammy blues, Mama
The trouble with the Grammys is they’re on a Sunday, so your week doesn’t even start before it’s wiped out with the seismic, cultural revolution that is this annual broadcast.
The Church today, tomorrow, yesterday
For all of its attributed disposability, ’80s indie bands from all corners of the British Empire were surprisingly durable. Are, if we’re to be correct. The Church might be celebrating an anniversary with some old material, but they don’t need to.
As my uncle Olafur used to say . . .
Upper-crust classical music audiences certainly didn’t enjoy punk rock’s entrance into pop culture, but they got to watch from a distance as beer-guzzling jocks and classic rockers did the dirty work. Well now they have a punk in their house with Olafur Arnalds.
On The Shoulders Of Giants
To become a monolith, one must think monolithic. Very rarely will a band ascend from meek sonic origins and sit atop the mountain (see: Spoon). Young The Giant are of a mind to reach the apex.
Recent Comments