THURSDAY 2/22

FOSCIL, ORIGINAL SPACE NEIGHBORS
(Baltic Room) See Data Breaker.

RICARDO LEMVO AND MAKINA LOCA
(Century Ballroom) The term "Afro-Cuban" naturally implies two distinct cultures, two distinct hemispheres, but they come together in the form of one Ricardo Lemvo. Born in the African Congo, Lemvo moved to L.A. as a teenager and turned on to the Latin influence trickling across the border. But it was the impeccable rhythms of Cuban salsa that really caught Lemvo's ear, and soon he launched Makina Loca, a band that truly lives up to its name. With shameless dance moves and full-throated vocals, Lemvo kills it in his native Lingala as well as Spanish, French, and Portuguese. Over the course of a decade, Lemvo and Makina Loca have refined their nouveau-boogaloo sound to become major West Coast favorites, and their performances are inevitably sweat-drenched, hip-unhinging affairs. JONATHAN ZWICKEL

BOB SEGER
(KeyArena) This is my straight face. And this is my sincere appreciation for Bob Seger. Many a hater have never been exposed to the raring blast of his early outfit the Bob Seger System and their late-'60s, Detroit-bred garage rock. The albums are long out of print and hard to find (unless you're willing to shell out $125 on Amazon), almost as if the Seeg would prefer the big-belt-buckle set that's his present constituency to forget he was ever a finger-giving radical. But radical he was, though these days he's coasting on a legacy of middle-of-the-open-road anthems and innocuous blue-collar soul he established back during the oil crisis. It'll probably be the Chevy-shilling Seger that'll show up tonight, but we can always hope for a flashback. After all, rock 'n' roll never forgets. JONATHAN ZWICKEL

FRIDAY 2/23

COMMON MARKET GRAYSKUL
(Vera) See preview, page 37, and Stranger Suggests, page 27.

SOUND TRIBE SECTOR NINE
(Showbox) See Data Breaker.

THE HOT TODDIES, SHORTHAND FOR EPIC, CANTONA, AUTOLITE STRIKE
(Comet) I love looking at cute things—kittens playing with fuzzy balls of yarn, a baby panda reaching for a shoot of bamboo that's just inches out of its grasp, Jake Gyllenhaal. But when music is cute, oftentimes it makes me gag. That's why I'm torn about the über-adorable Hot Toddies. The girl group's lyrics focus on simple things like motor scooters and bugs, and their music is influenced by acts both modern and classic (the Beach Boys, the Beatles, Weezer, and Dance Hall Crashers), like a postmillennial Ronettes. It's saccharine, it's cute, and that's about all it is. But they do get a little dirty sometimes, too: specifically in their song about Seattle—"I miss my boy when I'm in Seattle/I'd like to ride him like a horse without a saddle/I'd like to spank him with a big wooden paddle/I get so horny when I'm in Seattle." MEGAN SELING

THE FALL OF TROY, PORTUGAL. THE MAN, KANE HODDER, TERA MELOS
(El Corazón) The secret's been out a while: You don't really have to learn how to play your instrument so long as you cover up your lack of talent with a gimmick. Case in point, this current screamo/prog rock/whatever-core trend of half-assers who rely on air kicks, spins, flips (and makeup and costumes and lights) to enhance lacking live shows. Naïve pubescent fans don't care—or don't notice—that the music isn't in tune, in time, or interesting. But Tera Melos, a mostly instrumental act from Roseville, California, don't take any shortcuts—they flaunt jaw-dropping acrobatics and musical talent. For proof, search Tera Melos on YouTube and watch how fucking nuts these dudes go onstage. Then play the video again with your eyes closed. Even without the extreme body thrashing, their experimental, free-jazz-meets-hardcore noise is well played and blisteringly dynamic. MEGAN SELING

SATURDAY 2/24

THESE ARMS ARE SNAKES, AKIMBO, ELPHABA, TALBOT TAGORA, PANTHER
(Vera) See preview, page 37, and Stranger Suggests, page 27.

GABRIEL TEODROS
(Chop Suey ) See My Philosophy, page 55.

BRIGHTBLACK MORNING LIGHT, MARIEE SIOUX & WOMEN AND CHILDREN
(Triple Door) Brightblack Morning Light's performance last year at Neumo's was the gentlest rock show I've seen in 27 years of gig-going. Intimate as pillow talk and almost as sensual, the duo's music was slow-motion psychedelic soul that hit like an atomic balm. Their self-titled album on Matador was my favorite full-length of 2006; its back-to-the-womb Rhodes organ purrs, soothingly whispered male/female vocals, and wicked Caucasoid funk (think Dr. John's "Gris-Gris Gumbo Ya Ya" meets the Band's "Up on Cripple Creek") acted like a panacea to me in an increasingly insane world. Add some subtly lysergic hippie-blues moves and earnest nature-lovin' lyrics, and you're ready to be set adrift on memory bliss—sans the insipid Spandau Ballet vocal sample. DAVE SEGAL

FLASPAR, WESTERN STATES, VIKING MOSES
(Atlas Clothing) The longtime work of Las Vegas expat and current Portlander Jesse Jackson, fantastical pop band Flaspar have recently remade themselves with the addition of co-frontperson Rebecca Carlisle-Healey, another former Sin City resident. While Jackson lends the songs an underpinning cyborg drawl, Carlisle-Healey has a honeyed voice that veers from Grace Slick—like drama to occasional flights of animal-sound freak-out. Their music, too, swings between fantasy-literature-drenched prettiness reminiscent of the most tender corners of Yes and more paranoiac-propulsive art-punk jams. Overall they tackle the potentially crippling legacies of both prog rock and dance punk with refreshingly innocent and pure-hearted directives. Though their music occasionally feels like it is still traveling the path of greater refinement, more often than not Flaspar's songs yield little jewels of pop bliss. SAM MICKENS

PINK RAZORS, LIFE AT THESE SPEEDS, BOW & ARROW
(Camp Nowhere) When set against their noisier Level Plane labelmates, Portland's Life at These Speeds stand out as sissies due to their aversion to utter sonic destruction. Of course, Level Plane has an appreciation for strong (albeit angst-ridden) melodies, but Life at These Speeds take a much gentler approach when trying to slay an audience—they attack the heart instead of the ears. "Blocking Out the Stars," from their most recent release, To Your Health, features striking harmonies throughout the entire song, but in other tunes, they make good use of raspier vocals, going guttural but staying melodic. Since they play a lot of their shows in houses, garages, and DIY spaces, they can come off as a dirty basement band, but make no assumptions with Life at These Speeds. While their cathartic melodies aren't exactly sparkling, they're still beautiful in their subtle decay. MEGAN SELING

SUNDAY 2/25

SEATTLE CHAMBER PLAYERS
(Town Hall) See The Score.

MOUNT EERIE, HOLY GHOST REVIVAL, TINY VIPERS, GHOST TO FALCO, YACHT
(Vera Project) YACHT is the production alias of one Jona Bechtolt, a multitalented audio/visual clubber originally from small-town Oregon. When not pulling pop taffy for the Blow or remixing the likes of Bobby Birdman and Architecture in Helsinki, Bechtolt is programming buzzing glitch hop, digital dance jams, and pastoral instrumentals. His live shows promise "effeminate, wildly sexual 'dancing,'" but then again his website also claims that Bechtolt once swelled to over 400 pounds, so who knows. Portland's Ghost to Falco incorporates some lo-fi electronics into his unpredictable mix of post-folk and loopy experimentalism, Seattle's own Tiny Vipers hews more closely to the bare-bones acousticism of headliners Mount Eerie, and Holy Ghost Revival are delightfully out of place with their swaggering, psychedelic glam. ERIC GRANDY See also preview, page 41.

MONDAY 2/26

Take a break, buddy.

TUESDAY 2/27

RUTHIE FOSTER
(Tractor) Texas isn't as famous for its bayous as Louisiana, but it has plenty—and it's also got Ruthie Foster. The Lone Star State export sounds like she's racked up plenty of pensive hours in kudzu-strewn backwaters. Although she forged her reputation as a folk singer—and her delivery evokes, at times, Odetta and Joan Armatrading—on her fifth full-length she dives into the deep end of classic soul. She puts her smoldering imprimatur on selections appropriated from Son House (a stomping, a cappella "People Grinnin' in Your Face"), Sister Rosetta Tharpe, and Lucinda Williams; her originals measure up, too, particularly "Heal Yourself," a pointed critique reminiscent of classic Staple Singers. It takes nerve to call your album The Phenomenal Ruthie Foster, but Foster sings with an unwavering conviction that holds firmly to that bold claim without squeezing the life out of it. KURT B. REIGHLEY

ANNUALS, PILOT SPEED, EMILIA
(Neumo's) Annuals' Be He Me is a totally engrossing work of sun-soaked, pharmaceutically softened pop weirdness. Like a Dirty South Arcade Fire, the young Raleigh, North Carolina, sextet manage to strike an uncommon balance between drippy sweetness and spacey exploration. It's such a summer record that it's kind of a shame they're playing here in February—you'll want to walk out of the show in a T-shirt and lie down in the grass. Their live show looks like it could at least keep the indoors plenty humid and warm—singer/songwriter Adam Baker screams and wails from behind his massive keyboard, dual drummers lend the percussion some extra stomp, band members playfully switch instruments, and Anna Spence keeps the undersexed bloggers drooling. ERIC GRANDY

SLEEP OF OLDOMINION, RICKY PHAROE, JOSEPH AVERAGE
(Chop Suey) How can someone who raps so freakin' fast have the audacity to call himself—of all things—Sleep? The Oldominion standout's jaw-deforming raps bring to mind the image of someone mainlining Full Throttle all day; hardly the most siesta-inducing hiphop you can find. From his group efforts with Ol'D to critically acclaimed solo work to his scary-fun Chicharones project with Josh Martinez, Sleep's acrobatic chopping is blessed with a clarity many rappers wish they had at even half the speed. Able to negotiate subject matter both comedic and deadly serious, the man's million-dollar mouthpiece is a Northwest classic—and he can kill the shit live. Nas knew what he was talking about when he said, "Don't sleep, 'cause Sleep is the cousin of Death." LARRY MIZELL JR.

WEDNESDAY 2/28

MALAJUBE, SNOWDEN, FLEET FOXES
(Neumo's) Snowden's Anti-Anti is an unexpected turn from Jade Tree Records. The band crib Interpol's black-clad flatlining (and name-check Joy Division on "Black Eyes") but imbue it with almost enough boyish exuberance and emotional pulse to read like a distorted shadow of their label's particular, well-loved brand of emo and post-punk. The band's quiet, self-critical politics—espoused breathily on songs like "Kill the Power," "Like Bullets," and the title track—fit in nicely with the label's understated punk ethics even if their sound is something of a departure. Headliners Malajube are harder to contextualize, although they cheekily self-identify as a "progressive grindcore jam band," and it's not an entirely unfitting description. Their songs contain shards of glam and psychedelic, but also odd changes and sudden drum blasts. ERIC GRANDY