"We're a famous rock band, it's our room, and we'll do whatever the fuck we please!" That's the sound of an Irish drummer, whose band is hugely famous in the U.K. but not too much in the U.S., having a fit when I suggested a simple shhhhhhhh might be in order when staying in a family-style tourist motor court Travelodge. It was nearing 4:00 a.m. when he pounded into the room occupied by the band's lovely and ultra-hilarious guitarist, who earlier in the night had walked into the Cha Cha just moments before last call (pie-eyed and lost, she plunked her ass into the seat next to us and the party began). Back at the Travelodge, she took out a Brian Wilson songbook and played nearly every tune as we all sang along, until the grouchy drummer busted in and boomed the lyrics at the top of his lungs. So I suggested he should pipe down a bit, saying, "Excuse me, but you might want to shhhh a little because there are a lot of families in this motel." That's when the bit about being a famous rock band came out, followed by a tirade about how dare I tell him to shut up. Shut up? Telling someone to shut up just isn't in my nature, because at the Wilson homestead, them's groundin' words. You'll likely hear me say Be Quiet or Shhhhhh, but Shut Up, I was taught, is rude and hurtful and I never use it in conversation. Maybe he was still smarting over his band being all but ignored as the sold-out audience waited for the headliners to appear at the Paramount that night, prompting the singer to remark on never having seen a more bored-looking audience. (I met the singer when the band toured the U.S. in 1995 and have been a fan ever since, although said singer's transformation from geeky teen to 2002's sleeveless, rock star pose-happy Adonis was so upsetting that I closed my eyes for most of the set in order to preserve my adoration.) Perhaps all were just a wee bit crabby over the fact that while they slept on poly-cotton sheets and rubber pillows at the Travelodge, the headliners languished at the lavishly appointed W.

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The members of Sparta hung out Thursday at the Cha Cha, gearing up for a packed-to-the-gills all-ages show the following night at Graceland. I was happy to see many of Seattle's rock elite praising opener Loudermilk's fantastic drummer, as he surely is worthy of the attention.

And speaking of fantastic drummers, Dead Low Tide has officially called it quits. We hardly knew ye. The official statement is, "We all decided we wanted to go in different directions." Bassist Mike Kunka has been suffering from whooping cough for months, and after much soul-searching by all the members, the decision was Quitsville. To your health, Mike, and I look forward to the new bands rising from the ashes.

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The worst-kept secret in town had to be that Chop Suey was not closed for renovations last weekend, but was hired out to Pearl Jam as the setting for their new video. I swear to God, when it comes to secrets, Chop Suey's are revealed lickety-split. Hmmmm. Now I wonder why that is?

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Though I arrived just after he finished, I was told by those who saw it that Shins singer James Mercer's solo set at the Showbox on Friday, September 6, was worthy of the headlining spot rather than Doug Martsch. Here's a reality check as to how much people love all things Mercer: As he and I attempted to catch up, at least three women interrupted to ask for his autograph.

kathleen@thestranger.com

BY KATHLEEN WILSON