Concerts

How do the Dropkick Murphys prepare for Saint Patty’s Day? Try two weeks of warm-up shows.

A guitarist wearing nothing but an oversized diaper. A white girl sporting a cat costume, then later, roller skating around stage with a fake fire extinguisher. A fit specimen of a man wearing a white fur coat. And an old dude in a peacock-esque headdress who can still bring the P-Funk.

These were just some of the things on display during the George Clinton & Parliament Funkadelic (http://www.georgeclinton.com/) show at Marquee Theatre Wednesday night. At times, it didn’t all make sense. But when/if it starts making sense, it’s probably a sign that Clinton has died and gone back to the planet he is from.

Better than:Being too cool to dance.

The Blue Man Group’s “How to Be a Megastar Tour 2.1” is like a mini pop-psychology lesson, embedded within an interactive, multi-media extravaganza. The premise behind the performance: a fledgling band of Blue Men order an instructional videotape titled The Rock Concert Instruction Manual that tells them how to be rock stars and give audiences a stellar concert experience.

Shows to see before I die:

Björk
Led Zeppelin
Radiohead
Stevie Wonder (check)

When I was a fourth grader at Tempe’s Curry Elementary, a couple of kids cornered me on the playground. Their agenda? They wanted to let me know how they truly felt about me.

I love a good rock show, but one of my complaints about modern rock “concerts” is that there aren’t enough spontaneous jams. If a “surprise guest” comes out at a rock concert, it’s usually only a surprise to the audience, and the singer’s not gonna just hand the microphone to whomever jumps onstage while the band maintains some extemporaneous groove behind it all. Everything is so planned out, so meticulously calculated, that the rush of a “surprise” is almost impossible for rock.

Not so for hip-hop. What I witnessed at the KRS-One show tonight brought music back to its source – the people. The former front man of Boogie Down Productions performed for almost two hours, and capped off his set with a freestyle jam that included Phoenix’s own Grime and Cut Throat Logic, as well as a surprise (for everybody) appearance by Luckyiam of the Living Legends. Quite frankly, it was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen at a local hip-hop show. Or any hip-hop show, period.

I don’t know what it is, but I have a sick obsession with Japanese noise/punk music. Like, a for-real manic obsession bordering on a permanent stay in a padded cell at the loony bin.

I think the fixation started when I discovered John Zorn’s Naked City in the ’90s. Mind you, the sick-o group was made up by a bunch of maniacal white dudes (Zorn, Joey Baron, Bill Frisell, Wayne Horvitz, Fred Firth), but it’s Yamatsuka Eye’s Tasmanian Devil timbre on select LPs that speak to my inner weird-o. Plus, I love that Eye’s inaudible, wordless vocals are backed by an anything-goes, straitjacket-esque ensemble.

A lot of people out there despise the Aquabats with a passion. Jaded music critics, surly rock fans, and even the security thugs at Aquabats shows love to drink the hater-ade on the Orange County ska-pop group. They usually crack on their simplistic and silly lyrics, obnoxious stage antics, and ostentatious superhero costumes. One particularly nasty diss came from the pierced mouth of some bitter record clerk at Zia, who labeled them “KISS for 12-year-olds.”

I have a confession to make: Robots used to scare the shit outta me. I mean, really scare the shit outta me.

I don’t know what it was about automatons and androids, but during my pre-pubescent years, these mechanical menaces used to give me Texas Chainsaw Massacre-sized levels of terror, particularly the junky, lo-fi kind of machines that looked like they were cobbled together by some mad scientist. (Cartoon robots like The Transformers and Voltron were a-okay, though). Remember all those freaky mechanoids that filled that weird-ass, early ’80s video for “Rock It” by Herbie Hancock that aired in heavy rotation during MTV’s embryonic years? That shit used to give me nightmares, as did the vid for Lou Reed’s “No Money Down” (where a robotic doppelganger of the rock icon tears its face to shreds).

Herbie Hancock brought the electronic funk and (surprise, surprise) lyrical jazz to Orpheum on Friday night with a lesser-known quartet lineup that wasn’t any less worthy of sharing the stage with the funk master.

This past Friday night, the streets and sidewalks of Old Town Scottsdale were absolutely overflowing (as they usually are on the weekends) with nightcrawlers in the midst of kicking off their weekly routine of drinking, debauchery, and debasement. But while the usual crowd of Fembots, douchebags, and $30k millionaires were bound for more ostentatious joints like Next and Dirty Pretty Rockbar, the cooler cats were chillaxing at the Venue of Scottsdale, where renowned Valley recording engineer and producer Larry Elyea was feting the 15th anniversary of his studio, Mind’s Eye Digital.

This past Monday, a pair of stone cold BFFs named King Khan and BBQ rolled through town on their way to god-knows-where, and man alive did the whole sordid affair ever stink of greatness. These two shifty characters are veterans of ’90s garage-rockers the Spaceshits, where they were known by various pseudonyms (Blacksnake, Needles, Creepy, etc.) that have given way to this, their latest incarnation, the King Khan and BBQ Show.

Okay, okay. What’s New Times doing reviewing a choral group? It’s gotta be some stale, pretentious stuff, accessible only to blue-haired old geezers, high-brow music connoisseurs, and aristocrats, yes? You’ve even heard that there are tea and crumpets during intermission like at an English cricket match at the Sussex County Cricket Club, right?

It’s one thing to see a “live musician” perform with a computer DJ, surrounded by blinding special effects. It’s quite another to hear the naked soul of a songwriter, accompanied only by her own piano (and three light bulbs for special effect). The latter proves far more compelling — at least when the singer pounding the keys and beat-boxing the lyrics is Regina Spektor.

Photos and review by Steve Jansen Better than: Indulging in the usual Monday night fare, which is laying in my own filth at home and listening to Coast to Coast on 550 AM KFYI. Bay area-based musician Ash Reiter brought her unique singer/songwriter routine to Carly’s Bistro for the first…

Over the past 30 days or so, most of Western world has been busying itself in celebration of the annual phantasmagorical feast of fear known as Halloween. As for me, however, I’ve been having a lot of trouble getting into the Halloween spirit.

Better than: That one time, at band camp.

Five things that truly blow my mind (in descending order):

5. Plexiglass.

4. Why the plural of “fax” isn’t “fux.”

3. Nostrils.

2. The idea that our whole universe could be the product of a “cosmic defect.”

1. March Fourth Marching Band, “Portland, Oregon’s premier surrealist big-band groove machine.”

Live and Collective Soul: Placentas on the floor and a groove core as deep as the Grand Canyon.

Do I ever feel ambivalent about this show. I guess I’ll start off by saying that both headlining bands (Sic Alps and the Magik Markers) are hip/hyped lo-fi garage noise acts that appeal exclusively to narrow/open-minded electric guitar addicts such as myself and that I was favorably inclined toward them in the first place. Hand me their records and I’ll amuse myself for hours like a happy rottweiler with a fresh side of moose. Windy sighs would be heard from my cloistered cell and you’d marvel at the idiot strength of my patience for semi-inept noise/psych bashings. But put me in a room with them and let me see how pathetically simple their getup is and you might just crush my cynical, cynical spirit.

Have you ever wished more bands would take a cue from the Navy Seals and—as you’re quietly admiring the architecture of the venue rafters—creep up behind you, grab your hair in a fist, and open your carotid artery from ear to ear? I know I have, ha ha! Although Black Moth Super Rainbow didn’t quite do that to me, they did pleasantly surprise me in a manner akin to being licked on the back of my neck by a frisky unicorn. They stir up an extremely creamy blend of vocoder-heavy psychedelic synth pop, and ANALOG synth pop no less, meaning there’re nice fat waves of color rolling off your tongue and eyelids as the hard and heavy rhythm section crams it in your nostrils and/or armpits. Drums and bass were locked in, the Nord/Kawasaki synth axis roamed around like a freewheelin’ Atari astronaut, and the vocodings moved in and out of the proceedings with eyes agog.

by Matt Neff Photos by Luke Holwerda Seismic Fortitude Tent/City Yellow Swans Mouthus The Trunk Space October 6, 2007 Better Than: The Best This show not only demonstrated everything that’s wrong with today’s music “underground,” it also hurt my ears and made me question my will to live. Although I’d…

Well, it finally happened. I got to see six Norwegians in sailor caps and chaps playing songs about erections and destruction.

I am talking, of course, about metal/punk/inverted glam/whatever band Turbonegro, a group that has an unbelievably loyal fan base. The devout are called Turbojugends, and they number in the tens of thousands worldwide. They dress like the band members, donning denim jackets with patches sewn on them and white sailor caps or army helmets. Sounds sorta like the Village People, I know, but let me tell ya: even the most flaming gay of the Village People would probably tighten their sphincters and run screaming from Turbonegro — or run laughing, because unlike the Village People, Turbonegro is funny on purpose. Also unlike the Village People, Turbonegro flat-out rawks.

He who closeth all the doors of his senses, imprisoneth his mind in his heart, fixeth his vital powers in his head, standing firm in meditation, repeating the monosyllable OM, and thus continues when he is quitting the body, goeth to the supreme goal.
–Bhagavad Gita, chapter 8, verse 13 (from the 1890 translation by William Quan Judge)

Although as a reporter I’m obligated to mention that Om is the two-man rhythm section from San Franciscan stoner/droner doom metal band Sleep (Al Cisneros – bass/vox, Chris Hakius – drums), the logistics are not important: these two warm bodies work no better than any others as conduits for the omnipresent brain-erasing throb of the ETERNAL COSMIC HUM. These two set up a riff and examine it, probe its defenses, struggle, claw, bite, and enter it, and finally pound on it good and hard before they toss it limp to the floor. If you stand too close the dense undulating waves of hypnotic monotony may very well pass straight through the backs of your vibrating eyeballs.