Those of you who were bummed you didn't make it to the Unholy Alliance Tour on Friday, July 14, should take comfort in the fact that you didn't miss much. You know something's amiss at a metal show when you can speak at an audible level during the headliner's set. When Slayer launched into the title track from Reign in Blood, I asked my companion whether I was going deaf or if the sound levels were unacceptably low. He agreed that it was oddly quiet and it was decided that we'd be better off listening to the record on a bar jukebox than in the unfortunate cinder-block barrack that is the Qwest Field Event Center.
Despite the gorgeous weather we experienced this weekend, the worrisome stance of the mayor's office is casting a decidedly dark cloud over the local music community (if you're out of the loop, check out Erica Barnett's recent and archived posts on Slog). I've heard so many people talking about moving to Portland lately that it's almost becoming a punch line to a black-humored joke about the "death of Seattle." Whether the harshly conservative recommendations from the Nightlife Task Force will gain final approval and turn Seattle into an ideal setting for Footloose II remains to be seen, but there's no doubt that the local musicians, club owners, and promoters have good reason to feel unappreciated and anxious at the moment.
That being said, one of the welcome side effects of such an atmosphere is the celebratory attitude people exhibit when they enjoy an underground live-music experience. In other words, never underestimate the joys of a house party. On Saturday night, I had the pleasure of attending an annual blowout at a group house in Ballard. The impressively well-organized shindig was hosted by a local record-store employee and his roommates, who tended a well-stocked open bar while their guests lost their collective shit watching sweat-soaked sets from the Cops and Lillydale. Perhaps because of the fey floral implications of their name, I'd been laboring under the mistaken belief that Lillydale were of the twee persuasion, but I was surprised to hear that their brand of sharp, buoyant pop has some pleasing rough edges and an intelligent center. You can catch them this Saturday, July 22, with the Coconut Coolouts, the Trashies, and the Bad Things at the Phinney Neighborhood Center (6532 Phinney Avenue North). The event starts at noon and is a benefit for 826 Seattle, the Dave Eggers–endorsed nonprofit writing center aimed at youth and teens—a cause well worth the $6 cover. Update: As we are going to press, I've received word that some loser set fire to the porch at the aforementioned house party early Sunday morning. Thanks for the violent buzz-kill, dude; I look forward to reporting your inevitable arrest.
Those in search of less family-friendly entertainment Saturday evening should consider dinner and deviance at the Triple Door, where fetish/burlesque star Dita Von Teese will be performing two shows at 7:00 and 10:00 p.m. It's no secret that The Stranger doesn't readily appreciate burlesque, but I think Dita Von Teese is always a treat (and it's not just because I'm a big fan of her husband, Marilyn Manson). Girlfriend knows her choreography and musical history, so it feels much more like a true step back in time, as opposed to the unintentionally unerotic camp that all too often passes for burlesque.
"Soulful songbird" is an unfortunate cliché that's best avoided (much like "soulful troubadour"), but it is an apt description of British press darling Corinne Bailey Rae. The enchanting Leeds, England, native with a gospel-choir background and a delicate-yet-absorbing voice (with just the right amount of Billie Holiday–esque lilt) will grace the Crocodile stage Monday, July 24.
From the history-worth-revisiting files: I've recently fallen hard for the Hollywood Brats, precursors to the Boys who formed the same year (1971) as the New York Dolls, but didn't receive nearly the level of fame and historical currency as the Dolls. Even as someone who digs the Dolls, I'm markedly more impressed by the Brats, who described themselves as "a gaggle of Quentin Crisps" and offered a similar take on gender-fucking glam-punk, but with a harder rock edge and stronger songwriting skills. There's essentially only one record out there (like too many good bands of that era, they imploded after one release), so if you're curious, go pick up their eponymous debut, rereleased by Cherry Red Records. 
