Unfortunately I couldn’t attend High Sierra. But I did kick it back at home in Chico, drank rum, and listened to Ween’s entire Sunday night set, which streamed live on fatmusicradio.com. Here’s the list……

Pork Roll Egg and Cheese
Bananas and Blow
Strap On That Jammy Pac
With My Own Bare Hands
Transdermal Celebration
Mr. Richard Smoker
Waving My Dick In The Wind
Freedom of ’76 [Gener skipped the "Sasha" verse, which they played by itself afterward.]
Learnin’ to Love
Gabrielle
Voodoo Lady
Your Party
Monique the Freak
Tear for Eddie
Let’s Dance
Pandy Fackler
The Mollusk
Back to Basom
Help Me Scrape the Mucus Off My Brain [by request]
Spinal Meningitis (Got Me Down)
Buckingham Green
ENCORE
Someday
Roses Are Free

Queens Of The Stone Age rolled into Oakland’s Fox Theater last night, touring off the reissue of their classic 1998 debut/self-titled LP. The show—highly anticipated by Queens fans in the Bay Area—had been sold out since the day after tickets went on sale, and, as you might expect, the crowd was into it, to say the least. Here’s the set list from the near two-hour performance:

Regular John
Avon
If Only
Walkin’ On The Sidewalks
You Would Know
How To Handle A Rope
The Bronze
Mexicola
Hispanic Impressions
I Was A Teenage Hand Model
You Can’t Quit Me Baby
(first encore)
Monsters In The Parasol
Burn The Witch
I Wanna Make It Witchu
Little Sister
(second encore)
Better Living Through Chemistry
Go With The Flow
Song For The Dead

True to their word, Queens indeed played the full self-titled album, and included “The Bronze,” which would have been a crying shame to leave out. The only disappointment was the omission of  “These Aren’t The Droids You’re Looking For,” a b-side and personal favorite of the era.

All things considered, this was as strong a Queens show as you’re going to get, as they barely dabbled in their lesser material of recent years, “I Wanna Make It Witchu” being the only cheeseball stinker on the list. While Joey Castillo is built for speed behind the kit, and at times blasted through some of Alfredo Hernandez‘s pocket grooves, he pretty much owned it back there, and stayed true to the dynamics of Queens Of The Stone Age. Even Josh Homme turned back the clock a little bit, rolling his rock star antics back to perhaps 2005. That is to say he didn’t make a complete ass of himself, which has become customary in recent years. His stage banter was not worth one single goddamn, but hey—it coulda been a whole lot worse.

This was the type of show that every old QOTSA fan has been waiting for. They’ll never release anything close to Queens Of The Stone Age ever again—if they release anything at all—but last night that simply didn’t matter. Long live Queens.

Of notable San Franciscan dive bar fame, Thee Parkside played host Friday night to a shoulder-to-shoulder southern metal show that probably should have booked someplace else.  Not because of inadequate staffing or sub-par sound, but rather the fact that it was over-sold. If you’d included those turned away (which were many, as half the line stretching down Wisconsin was told to go home shortly after 9 PM), this bill could have easily filled the Great American or any other mid-sized club in the city.

I’d come to see Zoroaster. But despite having been caught in their wake since the release of Voice of Saturn in March of 2009, not to mention digging on Matador the past year, I’d yet to see the trio live. I was informed prior to the set, however, that they were touring without bass player/founding member Brent Anderson, temporarily replacing him with Whores drummer Travis Owen, and that it was “a little different” when compared with the norm. “Different,” though, did not equate to a negative—Zoroaster was solid, ripping through Matador and choice Saturn cuts with the zeal you would expect from the rising metal sloth. “D.N.R.” emphasized Zoroaster’s stone-psych aspect, while “Ancient Ones” spoke to fans of High On Fire, enabling bottled aggravation from the black-clad horde. Owen passed the test on four-string with flying colors, though his bass-pumping rock antics, while not contrived, certainly stood in contrast to Anderson’s much-lauded ethereality. And they missed Anderson on backing vocals—“Spirit Molecule,” for one, just didn’t have the same cathartic resolve without his Gregorian-like mysticism to close things out.

And then up walks Weedeater, a band I’d shamefully heard lots about but knew almost nothing of, a classic case of “Oh yeah I was gonna but…” Procrastination, though, proved beneficial, as it allowed for that rare opportunity to have my doors blown completely off.

Weedeater, inked to Southern Lord, showed up and dropped a dump truck load of stony doom atop the Parkside, stacks hissing with enough down-tuned fuzz to bleed your eardrums before putting you to sleep, and it was fantastic. I mean it was that good a first impression, and I was sold from the opening riff of “Hammerhandle.” They hit the audience with new material off Jason…The Dragon, including the devastating title track (“Abandon ship, and burn that fucking flag!“), but weren’t above taking a couple steps back , a la “Dummy,” off their 2003 release God Luck and Good Speed. But part of the true beauty I found in Weedeater, as they lumbered like a coked-out dinosaur, was a certain down-to-earth emanation wafting off stage. Perhaps it was offbeat southern hospitality, or the fact that “Dixie” Dave Collins looked like a cross-eyed hillbilly sick on whiskey while Dave Shepard could have been pumping gas and Keith Kirkum appeared plucked outta the Haight. Or I don’t know what. Maybe it was just that Weedeater was tight as a snare drum, each member owning their respective deed like a feudal boyar.

Whichever the case, I wound up understanding in full why the Parkside was over-sold, and I didn’t blame them for doing so. I’d want Weedeater to play at my fuckin’ bar, too.

March 15–Albuquerque, NM–Launchpad
March 18–Austin, TX–SXSW
March 19–San Antonio, TX–Korova
March 20–New Orleans, LA–Siberia
March 22–Tampa, FL–Orpheum
March 23–Orlando, FL–Backbooth
March 24–Atlanta, GA–The Earl
March 25–Spartanburg, SC–Ground Zero
March 26–Savannah, GA–The Jinx

More rain. Miserable, cold rain, to be precise. Perhaps that’s one reason why Friday night’s show at The Fillmore was sold out. Or perhaps Beach House is just far more popular than I previously realized…

It’s not that a two-band bill at The Fillmore is anything uncommon, but for some reason I had it in my mind that the show’s draw would be on the average side. I was admittedly perplexed when, after viewing the “sold out” placard over the ticket window, I found the historic venue half full five minutes to showtime. Did the brass intentionally undersell? Where the hell was everybody? But as Papercuts came on just past 9 PM, I quickly realized that most of the audience was entirely unfamiliar with the opening group, despite their being San Francisco natives.

Led by vocalist/guitarist Jason Quever, Papercuts’ heavyhearted shoegaze has been in the dream-pop game for the better part of a decade. With three previous LPs released by Gnomonsong and Antennae Farm, Papercuts is now inked to Sub Pop and hot on the heels of the February 1st release Fading Parade. In the live setting, Quever’s penchant for penning uplifting, sometimes transcendent vocal melody, is buoyed by the crack musicianship of his four-piece backing band, most especially drummer Graham Hill, whose tasteful exactitude provides the backbone for a style of songwriting that is both subtle and capacious. To crowd the space with fills would be egregious, while laying out entirely would be a bore; Hill understands this, and ultimately sits as the tie that binds amid a breeze of auto harp, keys and pacific guitars. Their set Friday night, though brief (less than 30 minutes), was on point and hopefully resonant to newcomers, concluding with the first cut of Fading Parade, “Do You Really Wanna Know.”

Beach House walked out beneath the chandeliers shortly after 10 PM to shrieks of elation, while behind the band stood three large wooden orbs which served as reflectors of sorts for the array of lighting effects that would accompany the hour and a half set. Having never seen Beach House live, I had left open in my mind the possibility of the performance being a snooze fest, as to the placid and ethereal nature of their recordings. But to my pleasure this was not at all the case—Beach House was large. Victoria Legrand, sporting a lime green blazer below her brunette mane, had enough low-end emitting from her synth rig to match any bass stack and, moreover, drummer Daniel Franz’s presence was felt through and through. Songs like “Silver Soul” and “Norway,” both off the 2010 Sub Pop release Teen Dream, exploded with a moody force that would have made Mazzy Star proud. The crowd matched Beach House’s enthusiasm in a manner atypical of shoegazers; people were actually dancing, and by dancing we’re talking, big, heavy body movements, only possible when fixated by a powerful downtempo.

And though the latter portion of Beach House’s set dropped off in sheer clout, their Fillmore debut was absorbing; more than enough to convert a one-time skeptic.

MP3: Papercuts — “Do What You Will”

While rain came down in sideways sheets throughout San Francisco Wednesday night, a capacity crowd packed Bottom of the Hill for a display of reverb-drenched indie-pop fit to match the elements in soak factor, care of Dum Dum Girls, MINKS and Dirty Beaches.

Down from Vancouver, BC, Dirty Beaches, aka solo artist Alex Zhang Hungtai, opened the affair with his brand “minimalist rockabilly.” While the self-ascribed nomenclature may be hard to imagine, Dirty Beaches is definitively minimal, as Hungtai enlists only the powers of guitar, vocals, simplistic loops and effects to create a dissonant and distorted sheen of pompadour flair. In fact, Dirty Beaches’ level of dissonance is unbridled enough for possible relegation to Lester Bangs’ “Reasonable Guide to Horrible Noise”; which is to say that most of Hungtai’s lyrics are incomprehensible in the live setting, his rhythmic loops are murky dirges, and his guitarmanship implies he either a) can barely play, b) doesn’t give a damn, or c) a little bit of both. But this same roughshod quality is part of Dirty Beaches’ charm, as the music follows devil-may-care ambitions of free jazz while actually sounding something akin to “Ghost Rider” by Suicide. Look for Dirty Beaches’ full-length debut, Badlands, on Zoo Music come March 29th.

Next in line came MINKS, representing Captured Tracks out of Brooklyn. Their first trek to California, MINKS, six members in total, were able to shed the oft-common stereotype of snobbish Brooklyn hipsters via front man Shaun Kilfoyle’s ingenuous banter. MINKS sauntered through a semi-brief set of dreamy indie-pop not falling far from the Cure tree, chorus-laden tones and all. “Ophelia,” released as a 7-inch A-side, best showcased MINKS’ ability to drill bleak, yet whimsical melody, a quality matching the group’s sedate stage presence. (Vocalist Amalie Bruun stood, in black dress, stoically as a Norwegian totem, gazing hypnotically above the crowd with features sharp enough to cut glass.) Aside from a mid-set blowout of Dum Dum Girls’ back-lined bass cab, MINKS went off with few hitches, endearing yours truly enough to pick up the aforementioned 45.

Dum Dum Girls could have been little short of enthused by showtime, as the sold out crowd hadn’t wavered in the slightest. Members Dee Dee, Jules, Bambi and Sandy, each clad in black chic, found themselves in the seemingly new position of headlining a well-to-do tour, beckoning a lengthier set list. The Girls breezed through I Will Be, with particular elan coming on “Bhang Bhang, I’m A Burnout.” The only track of note left in the breeze was “Blank Girl,” which calls for vocal assistance from Brandon Welchez of Crocodiles. He Gets Me High, Dum Dum Girls’ forthcoming Sub Pop EP, was also well-represented, with the down-tempo melancholy splendor of “Take Care Of My Baby” dripping emotional longing like a tear-soaked hankie:

“I will telephone a love song/I’ll collect all of your stories/I haven’t seen you in so long
Do you wonder what I’m up to?/Do I ever cross your mind?”

After honoring their headliner duties and playing a hefty span of the Dum Dum catalog , the gang left stage to return with a one-song encore. But there’s a heck of a lot more where that came from, so long as you live in one of the following cities, be it here or abroad:

February 17 – Skybar (LA), West Hollywood CA
February 18 – Casbah, San Diego CA
February 21 – Hi-Dive, Denver CO
February 23 – Billiken Club, St Louis MO
February 24 – Empty Bottle, Chicago IL
February 25 – Magic Stick, Detroit MI
February 26 – El Mocambo Club, Toronto ON, Canada
February 27 – Il Motore, Montreal QC
March 1 – Club Metronome, Burlington VT
March 2 – Brighton Music Hall, Boston MA
March 3 – Glasslands, Brooklyn NY DJ set
March 4 – Bowery Ballroom, The, New York City NY
March 5 – Johnny Brenda’s, Philadelphia PA
March 6 – Black Cat, Washington DC
March 8 – Local 506, Chapel Hill NC
March 9 – Milestone Club, Charlotte NC 18 & Up!
March 10 – The Earl, Atlanta GA
March 11 – Jack Rabbits, Jacksonville FL
March 12 – The Social, Orlando FL
March 13 – Orpheum (FL), Tampa FL w/ Tennis & La Sera
March 31 Deaf Institute, Manchester United Kingdom
April 1 – Whelans, Dublin Ireland
April 2 – Black Box (UK), Belfast United Kingdom
April 3 – Stereo, Glasgow United Kingdom
April 4 – Brudenell Social, Leeds United Kingdom
April 5 – Dingwalls, London United Kingdom
April 6 – Komedia, Brighton United Kingdom
April 7 – Vooruit, Gent Belgium
April 8 – Vera, Groningen Netherlands
April 9 – Motel Mozaique, Rotterdam Netherlands
April 11 – FESTSAAL, Berlin Germany
April 12 – 59:1 , Munich Germany
April 13 – Crossing Border Festival (Antwerp), Antwerp Belgium
April 14 – Flex, Vienna Austria
April 15 – ISC Club, Bern Switzerland
April 16 – Rocking Chair, Vevey Switzerland
April 17 – Mascotte, Zurich Switzerland
April 19 – Menza pri koritu (SL), Lubijana Slovenia
April 20 – La Salumeria Della Musica, Milan Italy
April 21 – Lanificio Factory, Rome Italy
April 22 – Covo Club, Bologna Italy
April 23 – Cabaret Aleatoire, Marseilles France
April 24 – La Machine , Paris France

A common tendency derived from living in a isolated college town well past its one-time heyday as a offbeat hub for mid-level touring bands, is to assume that any hip show requiring a moderate to large capacity and/or ticket price will be one of two things: canceled three days before or embarrassingly under attended.

As much could be said for Gogol Bordello’s slot at Chico, CA’s Senator Theatre last Friday night. Bound for the Bay Area where Gogol would perform to a no-doubt packed house at Oakland’s illustrious Fox Theater, anticipation for attendance once the Senator gig cleared waivers seemed average at best, meager in likelihood. But lo and behold the place was jumping, and it was with something of an egg face that I realized just how successful and popular Bordello had become, not the least of which is owed to the inevitable name and fame that comes from working with Rick Rubin (April’s Transcontinental Hustle).

The crowd itself was young—plenty o’ pre-bar—and enthusiastic to a point near salvation. The openers, Forro In The Dark (Brazilian transplants also from NYC) appeared genuinely surprised and invigorated by the response. The expatriated gang of four made apt use of their roots, driving through a handful of simple arrangements extended and spiced appropriately with the same worldbeat flavors (zabumba, hand drums and triangle) that have seen Forro fall in good with David Byrne back in the East Village. Though the group abandoned elements of rock and country fusion heard on Light A Candle, the decision was most likely a wise one, as such efforts might well have been misguided given the warm reception of their South American flair.

After a prolonged intermission, the hordes had worked themselves to a fever pitch zeal, and when the Gogol entourage finally burst on stage, the dance floor exploded by way of what appeared to be some sort of bizarre Gypsy punk West Side Story. Swashbuckling frontman Eugene Hutz led the charge with violinist Sergey Ryabtsev closely in tow; but then again, all eight members of the group were leaping about like a rabid pack of ring-tailed lemurs, so it was with some difficulty that any one individual might trump the antics of the next.

And as the performance began to gather sway with the audience engaging in non-confrontational moshing and a mass pogo, it dawned on me that Gogol Bordello as a live entity was more than just music, it was in fact an atmosphere, forcefully pushed at full steam by the brash confidence of Hutz, who, sinewy physique and all, carries himself with the strength of 10 men behind his trusted acoustic guitar. Because as a newcomer to their live show, I couldn’t help but chuckle a bit at the Vegas-like style of their stage presence, but, the whole thing appeared so genuinely genuine, I also couldn’t help but fall under their spell, marveling at the vice grip with which they held the crowd. Before long an hour and a half had gone by, with nearly the entirety of Transcontinental Hustle in the books, when Bordello dropped their instruments and waited backstage for what turned out to be a well-earned encore by the audience, who stomped, hollered and whistled like a bunch of Rick Derringer fans circa “Rock and Roll Hoochie Koo.”

-Jacob Sprecher

Right-Outta-Bed Bronze Star: Leopold & His Fiction

It kinda sucks playing first, and a small festival like CACS is no exception to the sentiment. But San Francisco’s Leopold & His Fiction, a three-piece of power blues with indie-fried tidings, didn’t let Saturday’s 3 PM opening knock ‘em down. Front man Daniel James, alongside the rhythm section of Jon Sortland and Micayla Grace, laid into the half hour set, hammering through material from their forthcoming record as well as older favorites. With both Grace and Sortland recently back from a trip to Argentina, whatever the trio lacked in rehearsal time was duly made up for with professional swagger.

Best Non-Western Performance Attire: the unknown Dandelion

Does the Pope shit in the woods? You bet. Does virtually every single performer at Clean Air Clean Stars rock Western wear? Goddamn right. And that’s not a rip—it actually looks really good, not to mention fits the Pioneertown atmosphere. But for the few and the proud, cowboy boots and dark denim just won’t do. And the 2010 CACS Non-Western Performance Attire Award most definitely goes to the second guitarist of Lance Dinauer & The Dandelions. While said guitarist goes unnamed on the band’s site, let me be the first to say that his practical short shorts did not go unnoticed, because say hey! It’s fucking hot out there!

Best Band You Never Heard Of With A Member That’s Already Famous: Pete International Airport

As a band, Pete International Airport are relative newcomers to the scene up in Portland. But, when your founding member happens to be the lead guitarist of The Dandy Warhols (Peter Holmstrom), the word “newcomer” holds little weight. Five members strong, Pete International Airport is a dark and moody brand of experimental shoegaze that hearkens to the Dandy’s more electronic moments and at times edges towards industrial (“Beatle Boots And Battle Scars”). Holmstrom is obviously a slickster on the guit, and the combination of Colin Henga’s anchoring of the bass with Paul Pulvirenti and Jason Anchondo’s hold on drum duty (the former playing standard kit, the latter triggers and snare/floor tom) speaks volumes to how tight the music itself is.

On vocals, Jsun Adams summons a haunting, breathy moan, which stood in contrast Saturday night to his leather hat and jacket, which seemed to say, “I’ve been drinking wine and chain-smoking menthols all day,” which I hope was true. In short, Pete International Airport is quite good, so keep a crusty eye open.

Best Band. Period : 1776

How can you really tell when a band just might blow your doors? When you’re laying in your tent a sweaty mess, trying like hell to finish off an evening nap after a bad night’s sleep, when suddenly the unmistakable sound of a Telecaster and Fender reverb causes you to rise up off the desert floor and trudge back to the main stage. This is what 1776 did to me.

Also from Portland, and signed to Beat The World, 1776 is a four-piece of rock ‘n’ roll glory. Now, you’re going to listen to the pair of tracks they have posted online and think I’m losing it. You’ll say, “Hey man, this is good, but it’s just pop.” Not true. 1776 is a band to see live, no doubt about it. Their influences surge from Brit pop to surf to ’90s alt and back to Brit pop, and the twin attack of Nigel Legerwood and Bernard Cook’s Jaguar/Telecaster combo coupled with Mitch Ruppe’s ferocious, spot-on drumming is a sound to behold. The licks are hot, the vocals lilt and snarl, and Zach Whiton plays the bass left-handed with an upside-down righty. Need I say more?

Most Unfortunate: Dead Meadow

I love Dead Meadow. And if you’re down with stoner psychedelia, why wouldn’t you? Dead Meadow owns it, and has for a decade. But Saturday night wasn’t their night, and I’m not even sure if it was in the band’s complete control. Bottom line? The sound wasn’t happenin’. This is a group that needs pure volume at their backs; the deafening wave of fuzz and a 26-inch kick drum. But when I’m standing right up front, 10 feet from Steve Kille’s Orange bass stack, and don’t have to shout at the top of my lungs to speak with the buddy next to me, something’s wrong. And that was it. They played well. And with passion. They just weren’t loud enough. The bass was mid-rangy, the snare was thin and Jason Simon’s guitar lacked crunch. Not even the spirited reemergence of original drummer Mark Laughin could save Dead Meadow’s headlining slot from fading into the desert abyss. Unfortunate indeed.

Last but not least, the 2010 CACS Dead-Drunk Party Badge goes to: this guy

I saw this dude whoopin’ it up and having a grand ol’ time by the fire last night around 12:45, and he seemed at that point to still have it together. But then I woke up this morning and found him here, still by the fire, passed out, flat on his back in the fucking dirt, covered in soot and baking in the desert sun. My buddy said he thought his name was Brian, but couldn’t be sure. And as I pulled a lowbrow paparazzi move with my camera, “Brian” happened to roll over to his side, momentarily shielding his face from the ultraviolet. But don’t think I’m coming down on him. No, no. I encourage this type of behavior, and that’s why Brian gets the 2010 Dead-Drunk Party Badge. ‘Cause he did it all, and doing it all’s all anybody can ask for.

-Jacob Sprecher

With the passing of a Thursday night pre-party at Hollywood’s Silverlake Lounge, the 2010 Clean Air Clean Stars Festival officially kicked off proper on Friday the 17th.

Taking place at Pappy & Harriet’s in Pioneertown, CA (Yucca Valley), the 4th Annual CACS opened in the early evening with a DJ set from Jay Space before launching into the full band medium with sets from Silent Pictures, Nightmare Air and Sky Parade. Come 10 PM, as booze began to flow with profundity (enabling the throng of black-clad L.A. hipsters to begin feeling loose in their boots), Federale owned the main stage out back of Pappy’s. Hailing from Portland, Federale is an 11-piece assault of spaghetti Western psychedelia, much in the vein of Spindrift, though perhaps even further committed to the brain pan of Ennio Morricone. Their rock ‘n’ roll (and at times operatic ) brand of cowboys and Indians reverberated off the rocky hills surrounding Pioneertown, and essentially provided the necessary welcoming dose of alternate reality by which the scene at CACS can often relate.

Dead Meadow’s Jason Simon then took stage within the bar and, with tasteful accompaniment, dove into material from his self-titled debut.  Having only been released this past Tuesday on Tee Pee, the Dead Meadow fan base which surrounded the stage could not have been altogether familiar with Simon’s solo effort, though the response was one of marked approval. Simon eased in and out of varied measures of acoustic drone, while also showing a flair for sedate folk-pop with the likes of “What You Put Into Your Head.”

Following Simon was another act from P-Town, this time Hawkeye. Featuring former Spindrift drummer Jason Anchondo on drums, Hawkeye is classic psych power-pop, rolling between mid- and up-tempo. Parts both Brian Jonestown Massacre and Spacemen 3, Hawkeye had most certainly hit stride by their second song, “Mother Burning Bleeds,” and continued doing so for the remainder. The set was closed with “Out Of Time,” which boasted a guest tambourine appearance by Zia of The Dandy Warhols.

Friday’s affairs were completed by Go Fever, also from Portland, who represent as a power trio, diving in and out of psych, while owing a good deal to good old fashioned stoner rock. Tony Hilsmeier and Lance Dinauer man guitar/vocals and bass, respectively, and provided the meat of Go Fever’s attack.

-Jacob Sprecher

While perhaps not monumental as some in the recent rash of indie-rock royalty reunion tours (Pavement, The Pixies), the return of Cap’n Jazz is certainly interesting for a couple of reasons. First of all, “reunion tour” needs to be taken with a grain of salt considering the vast majority of the emo-punk godfathers’ devoted following never got to see them perform live in their brief early-‘90s run. The Chicago-based group only released one album officially (recorded while still in their teens), and broke up soon after. Their influence would later spread, however, contributing to the framework of pop-punk and emo throughout the 1990s and up to present day. Now, 15 years after disbanding, fans who grew up wearing down their Cap’n Jazz mixtapes are getting a one-time shot to see a show they’d probably already accepted would never happen.

Having not been introduced to Cap’n Jazz until more recent times, one thought kept running through my mind before heading to Bimbo’s: How is this highly energetic, endearingly loose, heart-on-sleeve music written and performed by teenagers possibly going to translate by a bunch now in their mid-30s, nearly 20 years later? But from the opening strum of Davey von Bohlen’s guitar on “Basil’s Kite,” all the way through a cover of a-ha’s “Take On Me” during the encore, there was never a need to worry.

Much of what made the performance as great as it was came from the band’s approach—this wasn’t a meticulously planned, by-the-books type of reunion gig in any of the ways that can often make such matters sketchy. Cap’n Jazz played loud, they played loose, and they played like they were having as much fun as everyone in the crowd. Songs were stretched out with endings often decided on the fly—sometimes successfully, sometimes not—but always with big smiles from each member of the band.

The audience was also everything you could hope for: fist-pumping, crowd-surfing, shoes flying across the room; and during audience favorites like “Little League,” “Puddle Splashers” and “In The Clear,” the shout-along from the heavily bearded and flannel-clad crowd nearly drowned out lead singer Tim Kinsella’s screams.

At one point, Kinsella began telling an anecdote about his new girlfriend, who is “an ex-skinhead.” A woman who had been dancing on stage earlier in the set then proceeded to climb back up, grab hold of the microphone and launch into a rant about how she “had some things to say about skinheads,” only to be loudly booed off stage by the rest of the crowd. It was a surreal and hilarious moment that just added to the off-the-cuff spontaneity of the evening.

So to any other bands thinking of getting back together for one last run, take note of Cap’n Jazz, because this is the way to do it: No frills, no pretention, no bullshit, and no emotional distance from the songs…nice work, gentlemen.

-Landon Moblad



Wednesday night’s performance at San Francisco’s Bottom Of The Hill solidified what I had already come to believe over the past few months: The Shimmies are a band currently at the absolute top of their game.

Hot on the heels of releasing their excellent sophomore album, To All Beloved Enemies, the Chico, CA indie-rock four-piece have really begun to stretch their legs creatively, and the impact of the live shows has benefited greatly as a result.

As brothers Jimmy, Sean and Stephen Galloway strapped on guitars and drummer Jack Gingerich took his place behind the kit, the room’s attendance was sparse at best. Luckily, by the halfway point of the first song, the patio stragglers flooded in and crowded onto the floor.

“The Mountains Are Steep, The Mountains Are Cold” put on display everything that makes The Shimmies so effective at what they do. It begins with Sean singing a pretty melody in a falsetto akin to that of Jeff Buckley or Thom Yorke in their quieter moments, and is backed by both the beautiful harmonizing of his brothers and reverb-soaked guitars and drums. “Mountains” then floats along for a few minutes before abruptly switching gears and turning into a frenetic, “Paranoid Android”-style freak-out, full of screeching guitar and some fine stick work from Gingerich.

Like many other bands of their ilk, The Shimmies rely heavily on the quiet-to-loud dynamic from verses to choruses. But unlike others, they do both very well. You’re not just simply waiting for the loud, anthemic choruses to hit, but instead enjoying the path they lead you down to get there. Excellent understanding of space and tactful use of (often poorly used) things like reverb and feedback helped The Shimmies repeatedly achieve these mini-buildups of emotional intensity turned wild catharsis.

The 45-minute set concluded with a jammy and inspired cover of Donovan’s “Hurdy Gurdy Man,” complete with three or four minutes of outro soloing that found Sean playing on his back out amongst the crowd; a fun moment and ending to a solid, front-to-back set.

-Landon Moblad