I've often wondered if musicians make up a disproportionately large percentage of pet owners. Maybe it's just because rock stars of all statures have more opportunities to show off their "kids," either in song, album art, or during onstage banter, but it seems like there's a strong connection between animals and artists. Last month's Rolling Stone interview with Yeah Yeah Yeahs frontwoman Karen O described her obsessively sifting through towers of photos of her cat Coco Beware (the band also managed to trick the press into thinking the YYY's next record was a concept album based around O's feline friend). The Cops guitarist/Sunset soundman John Randolph recently had to deal with long-distance heartbreak when his cat, Jodie Foster, succumbed to cancer while his band was on the road. Jesse Sykes and bandmate/boyfriend Phil Wandscher have told me many times about how difficult it is to say goodbye to their dog, Ruby, when they leave on one of their band's frequent and extensive tours, while semiretired Satanist Marilyn Manson simply refused to leave his cat, Lily, behind, taking her on most of his journeys throughout his career.
Former Seattle/Tacoma resident and acclaimed songwriter Neko Case has always been vocal about her love of all animals (see 2004's live album, The Tigers Have Spoken, recent interviews she's done with PETA, or the claim on her website that she was "raised by dogs and cats"), but reserved an understandable soft spot for her own beloved canine companion, Lloyd. According to Case's friend and sometimes-bandmate Rachel Flotard, the retired racing greyhound had been ill for some time when he passed away last week, shortly before Case and Flotard were set to depart for a European tour. My deepest condolences to Case; having to hit the road almost immediately after such a loss must be incredibly difficult.
A much more life-affirming mood could be found at the Showbox this past Friday, when TV on the Radio delivered one of the most impassioned, cathartic, and technically dazzling live sets I've seen since Broken Social Scene graced that same stage last year. Frontman Tunde Adebimpe's angelic, acrobatic vocal presence created the sort of reverent atmosphere that makes you unable to do much other than occasionally mumble "damn" to your companion. The only downside to the show was realizing that this might be the last time I'd see them play in a venue of that size; these Brooklynites will undoubtedly need more room for their fans the next time they come through town.
On a much smaller, PA-free stage of the Le Voyeur club in Olympia, Auburn-based band Four Counts Dirty played a brief-but-ballsy set of their metal-infused, punk-flecked hard rock with the sort of youthful exuberance that only teenagers can deliver. What they lack in originality (periodically straying a little too close to Appetite for Destruction for their own good), they make up in spirit and skill. Rhythm guitarist/vocalist Chris Williams is a natural player with an effortless edginess in his Ramones-y riffing, lead guitarist John Swanke is so technically developed I found myself wondering whether he only leaves his bedroom to head to band practice, and bassist Kelsea Puloka and drummer Jake Chalmers create a freakishly tight and tasteful rhythm section. They have a decent gig at Studio Seven on May 12, but they really deserve a shot at opening for a band whose audience would undoubtedly appreciate their sound, like Mudhoney or the Makers.
My trip to Olympia ended with the requisite stop at Rainy Day Records, where in addition to the latest issue of Bitch (which, incidentally, appears to be getting exponentially better with every issue) and the unexpected discovery of an ESG pin, I encountered a CD reissue of San Francisco's Still Doomed by cult punk pioneers Crime. Thanks to the savvy folks at Swami Records and a playlist preference by my iPod, this rugged gem from the late '70s is now permanently lodged in my skull, particularly antagonist anthems "Baby You're So Repulsive" and "Hot Wire My Heart," a beautiful barrage of guitars famously covered by Sonic Youth on 1987's Sister. Whether San Francisco's self-proclaimed "First and Only Rock Band" deserves that designation may be debatable, but there's no arguing that they deserve a more prominent place in rock history books. 
