Music

Up & Coming

TALVIN SINGH
(Seattle Art Museum) Awkward acoustics aside, SAM and Singh should make for a lovely, cosmopolitan pair. Though this star of the Asian underground broke on the scene with his popular U.K. club night Anokha and his exotic, innovative mix of traditional Indian bhangra music and contemporary drum 'n' bass, there's something so cultured about all those cascading sitars, tabla, and warbling female vocals melded with skittering, sliding bass beats. I imagine Singh's performance will seem very much at home surrounded by pricey paintings and well-dressed Art Forum-type urbanites. So save the sweaty club-kid togs and Gatorade for another night; for Talvin, throw on your best Little Black Dress, grab a white wine spritzer, and learn to nod appreciatively at abstract impressionism--at least for one evening. LEAH GREENBLATT

RANCID, A.F.I., THE DISTILLERS
(DV8) Kids, it's a punk rock reverie come true! Rancid, AFI, same bill. In this corner, Rancid! Having recently released a new self-titled album, Rancid have taken it back to those longed-for And Out Come the Wolves days. They remain like a magnet, luring in any and all metal-spiked bracelets in the city. And in the other corner, AFI! AFI, who have just released their new record, The Art of Drowning, never fail to whip the crowd into a turbulent fury with their industrial-strength punk rock anthems. So crazy, in fact, that it can bring new meaning to their lyric, "Through our bleeding, we are one!" Open it up with Hellcat Records' own the Distillers and boy, you better bring a first-aid kit. MEGAN SELING

RAHZEL, THE PHARCYDE, UGLY DUCKLINGS
(Showbox) Remember that guy from the Police Academy movies who could produce robot beeps, siren wails, and even a pretty tight approximation of Jimi Hendrix's guitar--all with his lips and larynx? The script wasn't exactly golden (and certainly didn't improve over the next 12 sequels), but his oral dexterity, gimmicky as it may have been in that context, was still astounding. And so it is with Rahzel, the self-proclaimed Godfather of Noyze: Solid (if uninspiring) collaborations with serious hiphoppers the Roots offered a glimpse of his boggling beatbox skills, but it wasn't until 1999's solo release, Make the Music 2000, that his art finally managed to stand on its own and transcend mere novelty. Collaborations with guest vocalists like Q-Tip, Slick Rick, and MeShell Ndegèocello are surprisingly strong, but it's still voice-box-only show-stoppers like the "Wu Tang Live Medley" and "If Your Mother Only Knew" that remind listeners what a singular talent Rahzel is. LEAH GREENBLATT

JUKE (CD RELEASE), A.M. DISASTERS, POP INTERSTATE
(Sunset Tavern) See live preview this issue.

GOOD CLEAN FUN, CHAMPION, STAY GOLD
(Paradox) Tell me what you want to be! GOOD! Tell me what you want to stay! CLEAN! Tell me what you want to have! FUN! Good Clean Fun. This ain't no sissy rock, it's straight-edge hardcore at its best, baby. This is as hard as it gets and as fun as it gets. GCF take that uptight stereotype stamped onto most straight-edgers and flush it straight down the crapper. No attitudes here--these boys are in it for a good time. ("Straight-edge fun" is not an oxymoron, smartass.) Think you might be skipping this show? Well that just ain't posi, yo! You and the crew better be there. MEGAN SELING

HARVEY DANGER, HAFACAT, REVOLUTIONARY HYDRA
(Crocodile) What does a person in Seattle say as recommendation for Harvey Danger? Have you heard this band? Ha ha. Their newish CD is actually really good, both musically and lyrically. Sean Nelson (Stranger contributor, Danger lyricist) is writing up to the standards this paper has always held him to (at last), and if you've coolly dismissed them as a local-gone-national one-hit wonder, fuck off and get down to this show. As for Hafacat, if you like your punk poppy and sexy as a motherfucker, check out Rachel, one of the hottest (and most able) frontwomen in our fair city. Expect mean power chords, fast, mathematically impressive progressions, and more hooks than a San Francisco cop named T. J. shopping at a bait store. JEFF DeROCHE

RADIO NATIONALS, FISHNET JON & THE QUEERBAITS, THE TRIPODS, THIRD, CAPACITY 3
(University Library) Radio Nationals' EP of earlier this year, Exit 110, calls to mind several twang-punk comparisons, most of which this band outdoes in terms of sheer fire and force: Richmond Fontaine, Giant Sand, Uncle Tupelo, X. Now that the Meat Puppets are touring again, I'm making an early bet that Radio Nationals open for them here, and that they might give even those OGs a run for their money. Yeah, they're that good. GRANT COGSWELL

RATT, COW HAMMER
(Ballard Firehouse) Remember the first time you got your girlfriend pregnant? You were 16, and Ratt was on the stereo, weren't they? Damn right they were! In the early '80s, was there anything better than snorting coke off of a Ratt concert mirror, then banging your head to "Round and Round"? No? Well, this Friday night you can relive your glamorous youth by dragging your ass off your couch and heading down to the Ballard Firehouse to see one of the greatest metal acts to ever lose all their money and end up trying desperately to revive their long-lost careers by touring the club circuit. MARK DUSTON

ENEMYMINE, BLUEBIRD, THE SLAVES
(Sit & Spin) For those of you who are familiar with Enemymine's last album, you may listen with fondness to the heavier, gnarlier, shall we say crunchier numbers. Or you may like the quiet, shall we say contemplative songs. On their new album, The Ice in Me, the lineup has changed to now include Mike, Danny, and the new bass player, Ryan. Apparently Ryan was the right man for the job, because the new album is totally rad. It's heavier and more core. It appears as though Enemymine have found their stride. Live, they are tight, loud, and white. I mean they dress in white. It's cool. They are great. Go see them. JUAN-CARLOS RODRIGUEZ

BRATMOBILE, THE WHITE STRIPES, THE CATHETERS, AISLER'S SET
(Sit & Spin) See live preview this issue.

FRED EAGLESMITH & THE FLYING SQUIRRELS, EVANGELINE
(Tractor Tavern) Country-rock troubadour Fred Eaglesmith, an artist whose brilliance is for some reason barely suggested on record (he scored something of a college radio hit a few years back with "Time to Get a Gun"), this spring put on one of the best shows I saw all year. First off, he has a very strange band, including a sixtysomething electric mandolin player with a punk rock voice right out of the summer of '77; his percussionist, in a bass drum harness, stands like the leader of a marching band, wearing a steel helmet festooned with bells and cymbals, which he strikes with his free hand, like a Spanish conquistador mimicking David Byrne. An immersion in Eaglesmith's humorous epics of trailer trash survival alters even our ideas about the stereotypes of sexual identity: His women, cruel or kind, are simple, while he reveals masculinity as an assemblage of (traditionally feminine) masks to shield desire and retain respect. His own Janus-faced delivery is both jokey and dark, deadly serious at once. Songs about rednecks were never this sublime. GRANT COGSWELL

THE FALL-OUTS, THE A-FRAMES, THE STUCK-UPS
(Breakroom) The Fall-Outs and the A-Frames are part of the problem that Seattle showgoers are facing tonight. The Fall-Outs are a trio with a polished garage-mod drummer and bassist, and a signature jagged guitar style that's fabulous on the ear. They play the kinds of songs--like oldies "Ambition" and "Sleep," courtesy of subtly wisecracking singer Dave Holmes--that you can put on a tape, leave in the tape deck, and play every day for five weeks. Equally pleasurable, the A-Frames are three sonically destructive, hypnotic rockers. They're still pretty new to the scene compared to the Fall-Outs (who made Seattle), but judging from the audiences at their last two shows, they're rising rock stars. And even if their ascension can be credited exclusively to their song "Batman," they still deserve it. Two bands this good make a very exciting lineup, but tonight that's a bad thing, because so are all the other bands playing around town. (The White Stripes from Detroit, Chixdiggit from Calgary, Canada, and the Fastbacks from here are all featured at other venues.) If you find yourself confused and frustrated tonight, choose the obvious solution: Stick with the locals. We don't need no stinking foreigners to entertain us. Fuck 'em. But if you can, go see the early (all-ages) White Stripes show at the Sit & Spin, and then hustle over to the Breakroom for the Fall-Outs and the A-Frames. (Missing Chixdiggit is no big deal since they play in Seattle more often than the lazy Fall-Outs do. One more thing--hopefully this will teach the Fastbacks to play with their own kind.) ALLIE HOLLY-GOTTLIEB

THE FASTBACKS, CHIXDIGGIT, THE DROO CHURCH
(Crocodile) To call the Fastbacks a pop-punk institution is a no-brainer--over the course of 20 years, dozens of releases, and nearly as many drummers, they have carved out a small devoted following and created an exciting and enduring body of work. The veteran quartet released The Day That Didn't Exist last year on SpinART Records. It was a career highlight, demonstrating the sly, offhanded genius of songwriter/guitarist Kurt Bloch. Aided and abetted by the delicious and raucous vocal harmonies of bassist Kim Warnick and guitarist Lulu Gargiulo, and the stick-wielding talents of Mike Musburger, The Day That Didn't Exist found the band effortlessly creating three-minute, sugary punk gems. Live, they are a powerhouse of raw, clamoring fun with lead singer Warnick conveying an unjaded cool that most rock stars could only dream of. NATE LIPPENS

THE PROM, SELDOM, UNBUNNY, CAMDEN
(Paradox) The Prom are a great pop band. The last time I wrote about them I said I felt "ambiguously." However, each time I hear their music, I like it much more than the first. I've only heard them twice. The band consists of the following: piano; strong, clear, sensitive vocals, performed by the pianist; and an otherwise standard pop lineup. The music is melodic, honest, and catchy, in an American singer-songwriter/piano balladeer sort of way--no, not like Elton John or Liberace. JEFF DeROCHE

RICHARD BUCKNER, TIM EASTON
(Tractor Tavern) Richard Buckner's 1999 release, Bloomed, is a recording of beautiful songs shot through with tragedy, rendered in both morbid honesty and ecstatic wonder. The Hill, his fourth album, is not only Buckner's strongest, but it is one of the many underrated albums of the year. Buckner's unflinching honesty is captured here by an acquired maturity, in a haunting collection of alcoholic and God-smacked losers. All the characters are culled from Spoon River Anthology, Edgar Lee Masters' famous collection of epitaphs from the fictional Illinois town, circa the early 20th century. Buckner's bi-polar presentation breathes an aching sense of life into these proletariat wastrels, who Masters created with reverence and bitter condemnation. KREG HASEGAWA

"It's just another manic Monday (ohhhh), I wish it were Sunday (ohhhh), 'cause that's my fun day (ohhhhhhhhh), my 'I don't have to run da-aaay'.... It's just another manic Monday."

THE DANDY WARHOLS, BLACK REBEL MOTORCYCLE CLUB
(Showbox) You can't help loving Portland's Dandy Warhols. From their deliberately evocative, druggy name to their self-consciously Anglophile sound, everything about them is so contrived. They try so hard. Who cares if their new album, the solidly psychedelic Thirteen Tales from Urban Bohemia, sounds like a hotchpotch of the last 10 years of British music--with some Rolling Stones ("Bohemian Like You") and Lou Reed ("Horse Pills") thrown in for good measure. At least it shows the Warhols have been listening. Who cares if Option magazine once called the Dandies "the milkshake you don't need"? Let's gorge! Who cares if half the time this American quartet sound like Richard Ashcroft lisping over Spiritualized songs, and the other half like Jason Pierce shamming his way through Verve covers? The Warhols treat rock like it's a fashion parade, like it's a series of bright lights and colors to be shown off as loudly and flamboyantly as possible. EVERETT TRUE

SPEARHEAD
(Bohemian Backstage) After leaving the overtly political Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy, Michael Franti reassessed his musical focus and created Spearhead, a more booty-friendly collective, with the lyrical focus shifting from political frustration to one of social conscience and personal relations. With their recordings, Spearhead have had mixed success, as some of the songs can't quite shake the cold sheen of the studio. Franti's strength, however, has always been his stories, and whether he's singing about his sainted grandmother or a promising young black life cut short by a fucked-up society, his evocative tales can be simultaneously heartwarming and chilling. Live, he is one of the most invigorating performers around, bounding about the stage, engaging the audience, and genuinely having fun. Spearhead shows float somewhere between rock concert, political rally, and old-time revival, and you can't help leaving with a bounce in your step and a renewed sense of purpose. And since this concert is taking place just after the ominous WTO anniversary, you can expect Franti to be in rousing, righteous form. Party for your right to fight! DAN PAULUS

LINK WRAY, THE DIRTY BIRDS, THE TREMENS
(Graceland) He taught Phil Spector how to surf, you know. He taught Duane Eddy how to duel with guitars--which certainly saved plenty on doctor's bills, if not Stratocasters. He's the man who invented Man or Astroman, the Clash, and probably the paper clip. He's the Rumble Man, Mr. Guitar, Mr. Whang-Dang Flanger Man, the savage Rayman himself... and believe me, he can still turn his hand to a fine snarlin' piece of vintage savagery, even in 2000. (Someone, please tell me I'm not thinking of Dick Dale.) EVERETT TRUE

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