THURSDAY 11/1

The Pipettes, Nicole Atkins & the Sea, Monster Bobby

(Crocodile) See Album Reviews, page 61.

Red Bull Big Tune Championships: Just Blaze, De La Soul

(Neumo's) See preview, page 47.

Sunday Night Blackout, Holy Ghost Revival, Emeralds, the Valkyries

(Chop Suey) Long-standing hard-rock purists Sunday Night Blackout apparently hopped the dry wagon long enough to produce a self-titled debut featuring 10 uncompromising tracks of straight-up, no-apologies rock 'n' roll. Sunday Night Blackout is for the guitar-rock proletariat, the type who scoffs at terms like "postpunk" and "indie rock." Ax wielders John Wokas and Omar Schambacher trade off a grip of guitar solos, thankfully avoiding any occurrences of Stevie Ray Vaughan–esque note-noodling flagrance. Revered as a volatile live act, SNB execute Blackout like a set of downright apt musicians. Take "Son of Stone," where speed-addled drums break way to frenetic dual-guitar work, galloping bass, and staunch percussion, all of which subsequently take shotgun to terse vocals from frontman "Neil of Steel," who takes a whiskey and Coke on Sunday night. Fans of the rock: You have your marching orders. GRANT BRISSEY

Saturday Looks Good to Me, Half Acre Day, The Lonely Forest, Katharine Hepburn's Voice

(Nectar) Saturday Looks Good to Me began as the home-recording project of Ann Arbor, Michigan, singer/songwriter Fred Thomas. An opportunity to tour with Saves the Day spurred Thomas to assemble a live band, and since then the loosely defined collaboration have released two full-lengths on Polyvinyl as well as a string of wildly varying 7-inches and CD-Rs. The band's new album for K Records, Fill Up the Room, finds them refining a sweet, homey pop sound that's simultaneously lo-fi and baroque. The album's woozy ballads and sunny anthems form an overlapping song cycle about all the good stuff: love, loss, wonder, death. Thomas's songs are clever, cute, and carefully constructed to tug twee heartstrings. ERIC GRANDY

The Hives

(Showbox Sodo) The Hives are the kind of garage-rock band you only get from countries that routinely compete in and famously win the Eurovision Song Contest. Their matching black-and-white outfits are just a little bit sharper, their synchronized guitar windmills and jump kicks are just a little more choreographed, and their stage patter (even in nonnative English) is just that much more witty and charming. That said, I couldn't tell you one song the band have recorded since I saw them opening for the (International) Noise Conspiracy on their first American tour. Their rock basics are catchy enough but not too substantial, but their live shows are a well-rehearsed spectacle. ERIC GRANDY

FRIDAY 11/2

Siberian, Kay Kay and His Weathered Underground, Ships

(Crocodile) Siberian released their debut full-length, With Me, last week so tonight's show is a slightly delayed CD-release party, but luckily the album sparkles with guitars that twitter like stars and Finn Parnell's romantic croon. It's the epitome of indie rock, and live the band remain as crisp and clean as they are on record. Don't be late to this one because Ships are a new band featuring Jacob Hoffman of the Lashes and Shane Berry and Garrett Lunceford of the recently divorced Divorce. Ships may have some of Seattle's best power-pop songwriters behind them, but already the one song available suggests they're going down a moodier, more experimental road. MEGAN SELING

Sunn O))), Jesu, Eluvium

(Neumo's) Jesu's Conqueror is a relentlessly deafening album, but the force behind the crushing waves of guitar is as informed by delicacy and sensitivity as it is angst. The distortion and effects swirl, swallowing listeners in their warm embrace, an envelopment enhanced by the repetitive song structure. Songs drone and plod along, pulling the listener more into themselves and the world of sounds being presented. Live, the band punish sound systems, with the setting giving the songs an added urgency despite the fact that the natural reaction is still more to gently sway and stare at the floor than to bounce around. It's still rocking out, but you're doing it with your mind more than your body. DONTE PARKS

SATURDAY 11/3

Clipd Beaks, Partman Parthorse, Casy and Brian

(Comet) See Fucking in the Streets, page 57.

Battles, Pleasureboaters

(Neumo's) See Stranger Suggests, page 29, and preview, page 48.

Little Brother, Dyme Def, Grynch, the Physics, DJ Topspin

(Chop Suey) Kinda like another A Tribe Called Quest–inspired crew (named Slum Village), Little Brother's sole producer 9th Wonder left the fold last year after disappointing sales of their major label debut, The Minstrel Show. Plenty speculated that MCs Phonte and Big Pooh would never bounce back. Instead, their brand-new LP, Getback, is overwhelmingly LB's strongest work since their much-adored breakout, The Listening. LB 2.0 is leaner, meaner, and rocks an iller production palette than ever from some of the underground's finest. Between me and you, Pooh and Phontigallo's unsinkable underdog resolve resulted in a far more human album than the corporations known as 50 Cent or Kanye managed. Don't Tase me, bro! LARRY MIZELL JR.

SUNDAY 11/4

The Hold Steady, Art Brut

(HUB Ballroom, UW campus) See preview, page 55, and Stranger Suggests, page 29.

Casy and Brian, PWRFL Power, Team Gina, TacocaT, No-Fi Soul Rebellion

(Fusion Cafe) See Fucking in the Streets, page 57.

Rakim, Ghostface, Brother Ali, Rhythm Roots Allstars

(Showbox) See Stranger Suggests, page 29.

DJ Zeph & Azeem, DJ Quest & Apostle, DJ Collage

(Nectar) The turntablism movement of the mid-'90s brought a slew of Bay Area beat technicians up from the underground: Names like DJ Shadow, Mix Master Mike, and Qbert weren't exactly household, but they left a mark on hiphop and beyond. San Francisco's DJ Zeph represents the next generation. Changing trends ensured he never got the same shine as his predecessors, but he's more than worthy, showing the same voracious appetite for styles as Shadow and a similar affinity for party-rocking hiphop as Mike. His longtime cohort, Azeem is another underrated San Fran phenom, a vicious wordsmith whose immense intellect never gets in the way of his sinuous flow. Released this summer, Rise Up is a bangadocious survey of the pair's b-boy chops, one of those rare records that can raise consciousness while raising the roof. JONATHAN ZWICKEL

MONDAY 11/5

Get it?

TUESDAY 11/6

Jens Lekman, Throw Me the Statue, Viktor Sjöberg

(Nectar) Jens Lekman can fly. Not like Superman or R. Kelly—more like a new character on Heroes discovering his abilities. When the Swedish dreamboat launches into a song like "You Are the Light" (from his debut, When I Said I Wanted to Be Your Dog), or the new "And I Remember Every Kiss," and his vibrant, kitchen-sink orchestrations kick in, joy audibly surges in his humble voice—like he jumped out a 10th-story window, only to be lifted over the city by an updraft. Even when hopelessly earthbound, squirming his way through posing as the boyfriend of a lesbian chum for her family ("A Postcard to Nina"), there's a spring in his step. A huge chasm divides melancholy from bittersweet, but Lekman sails over it time and again, always touching down lightly on the latter before ascending once more. KURT B. REIGHLEY

WEDNESDAY 11/7

Dengue Fever, Yogoman Burning Band

(Nectar) Dengue Fever, a raggedy bunch of L.A. hipsters fronted by a sultry Cambodian pop diva, have just finished a documentary chronicling their only tour of vocalist Ch'hom Nimol's homeland. Guitarist Zac Holtzman recalls poorer, less-Westernized locals watching the band "with huge eyes, almost if we landed on a different planet." That's probably because the whirling psychedelia of a Farfisa organ, droning horns, and driving surf guitar combined with Ch'hom's lush vocals is a far cry from the sentimental pop videos that dominate the televisions of the impoverished country. Blame the genocidal Khmer Rouge regime for killing off Cambodia's budding rock scene. Thank Dengue Fever for bringing it back. JASON McBRIDE

Feist

(Paramount) According to the Washington Post's recently published "Moby Equation" (a formula for determining the degree to which licensing a song makes its creator a sellout), Feist's video for "1, 2, 3, 4," appearing in an iPod ad, isn't really that serious a transgression. The client is fairly cool, the song is hardly "sacred," and Feist's indie reputation is as nebulous as anyone's in these postmodern, late-capitalist times. She's not exactly Bob Dylan rolling around in an Escalade. Besides, that song and especially that video—with its impeccably executed, color-coded modern dance routine—are the shit. Feist's sound—largely acoustic pop that highlights her ranging, breathy vocals—could come dangerously close to Starbucks counter–adult contemporary, but her songwriting displays a depth and daring that sets her safely apart. ERIC GRANDY