ANTICON (SOLE & PASSAGE, RESTIFORM BODIES), KEVIN BLECHDOM
(Graceland) If you have a boner for "experimental hiphop," or even consider yourself a fan of the unconventional, please direct yourself to Oakland's Anticon Collective. The flow of their abstract emcees often feeds off swimmy, subconscious lyrics and ephemeral sampling--sometimes it feels more like an art project than a hiphop show. (Or, as another writer astutely put it, they're "like what doing whip-its sounds like.") This is not to discount the talent inherent in the crew; they're just unlike anyone else, rhyming with as much mischief and humor as artfulness. Tonight, MC Sole will perform from his upcoming solo EP, Salt on Everything, along with Restiform Bodies, a quartet of smarty-pantses who describe their music as "avant-psych R&B." Kevin Blechdom is one-half of the Bay Area's Blectum from Blechdom, an electronic art duo whose inventive noise-shearing is snotty in the best, most fourth-grade way possible, eclipsing most of their Tigerbeat6 labelmates in great ideas and execution. When she's by herself, Kevin still turns her samplers into fingerpaints and smears twitchy neon sound all over your face. JULIANNE SHEPHERD

AKIMBO
(Re-bar) The three-piece assault unit that is Akimbo will drop slabs of sludgepunk-cum-metal in the style you know, love, and possibly refer to as modern American hardcore. That means Born Against, Dystopia, and sometimes Isis. And maybe there's the faintest whiff of emo in there, but don't let that scare you: It just means that they temper their murder ("I Wish the Dead Could Come Back to Life So I Could Kill You Again") with songs about the way they feel ("When I Am King I Will Spit on the Corpse of Ray Manzarek"). These guys aren't afraid to interact with the audience, either, so if everyone does like they're supposed to and has a couple drinks, one can expect total chaos to go along with the music and gore-paint, which is the whole point. MIKE McGUIRK

RAJERY
(Tractor) Madagascar's primary traditional instrument, the "valiha" (a 21-string bamboo-tube zither), produces an intoxicatingly crisp kora-like sound. Rajery is one of the valiha's most-admired Malagasy masters, and he comes to town with his fantastic group in tow. We're very lucky to have this humble giant among us, especially considering how difficult it was for him to leave Madagascar: A blockade-riddled presidential power-struggle has threatened to ruin the country. Upon arrival, though, expect Rajery to play music permeated with melodic blues as his trancelike dance rhythms blend a myriad of multi-kulti grooves native to the region--where Indonesian, Malayan, Arabic, African, and even European cultures have fused together to create wonderfully unique strains of music. JAMES KIRCHMER

BLÖÖDHAG, AKIMBO, TEEN CTHULHU, WALKEN
(The Flophaus) There's corrosive hardcore, and then there's hardcore that'll clean the flesh from your skin like a pack of piranhas. Teen Cthulhu is the latter variety, and their bite is brutally bloody because their noise works twice as fast as most punk bands, grinding through guitar squalls so rapidly that the pain doesn't come until the set is over and the ringing in your ears threatens to make your neighbors deaf. Cthulhu's music isn't infectious in the typical pop sense of the word--it's infectious in a gangrene, lose-your-limbs extreme way, and I'd chop off my left leg to be able to play punk this poisonous. Okay, so that's an exaggeration. But they're really fucking good. JENNIFER MAERZ

THE DWARVES, THE REAL McKENZIES
(Graceland, early show) The Dwarves are back? Wait, they're still alive? Back when the Dwarves were a garage outfit with a Zappa fixation called the Suburban Nightmare, and I was a teenager running with jerks who were suburban nightmares, the horrorshow punning of an album title like A Hard Day's Nightmare was hee-larious. Of course, so was paint huffing. Suburban Nightmare begat the Dwarves, whose post-hardcore incantations of "Free Cocaine" and "Let's Get Pregnant" (from Toolin' for a Warm Teabag) helped form the perfect album for teenage boys to have sex to--all nine minutes of it.... Again, it was hee-larious, with youthful bravado and just enough paint-based head injury and receptive aphasia to make anything loud and dumb sound fun. It's been well over a decade since that moment, and Blag Jesus or Blag Dahlia or Julius Seizure or whatever his nom de rawk is these days is hauling the hell-on-wheels Dwarves back on the road. Those wheels are probably pretty damn squeaky by now and the shtick has probably calcified into something truly embarrassing, but if you have a paper bag and some paint, it might be a dumb, fun time. NATE LIPPENS

DEADBOLT, THE LORDS OF ALTAMONT, 3 DEUCES
(Sit & Spin) The Lords of Altamont perpetuate a campy, badass-motherfuckers attitude, but luckily they've got plenty to show for that shtick. Last time they toured, singer Jake Cavaliere set his organ on fire, dipping the instrument almost to the ground as he pounded away on the keys. Drummer Max Eidson threw his kit around the stage, bringing pieces out into the audience to play while the remaining guitarists/bassist trio jabbed their tools around like they were generating multiple flesh wounds. The Lords get all suited up with matching "we play for the black leather punk team, dudes" jackets as they grind messy, swampy, Cramps-meet-the-Forty Fives-meet-the-new-Rolling Stooges-style rock. The Lords' songs about getting girls, getting loaded, and getting mean (in that order) are the three basic food groups of garage rock, but I love 'em anyway. JENNIFER MAERZ

TOTFINDER, ME INFECTO
(Comet) Chop Suey may have the stylie decor, bangin' sound system, and liquor license that the kids have come to expect from their big rock shows, but for good, sweaty, beer-soaked rock mayhem in an intimate dive setting, the Comet Tavern is your Capitol Hill venue of choice. Tonight the Comet presents a couple of local rock duos that choose bombast over finesse. Totfinder is comprised of Russ from Sleep Capsule doing the guitaring and singing, and Don from Some Velvet Sidewalk on drums. Don provides a flurry of propulsive rhythm and hysterical rock moves that back and balance the piercing wall of guitar shriek that screams out of Russ' painfully loud amplifiers. Songs end unexpectedly, the changes don't make any sense, and they cover early Crüe. Perfect. Also up is Me Infecto, a bass and drum duo that sounds like Tom Waits vomiting blood after a tequila and crank binge. That's a recommendation, if you couldn't tell. DAN PAULUS

KILL ME TOMORROW, NUMBERS, THE COACHWHIPS
(Paradox) Like the Gories before them, the Coachwhips peel the fleshy layers off of rock 'n' roll and expose noise in its leanest wild-animal state. This San Francisco trio traces its genesis back to when drummer John Harlow pulled pieces of a kit from the weed patch in his yard last year and decided to learn how to play, and keyboardist Mary Ann McNamara keeps cryptic notes to track a musical language she makes up as she goes along. At the 'Whips' frontline is Pink & Brown's John Dwyer, a skilled guitar player who revels in making his recordings sound like he's stroking an instrument that's been rusting on the porch for the past quarter-century. Slam them all together and you've got a band that shakes its way through rattled garage soul as Dwyer makes mic-distorted commands like, "Look into my eyes when I come," and, "We can't go back to my place." Dirty rock 'n' roll sounds best when it's this naked. JENNIFER MAERZ See preview this issue.

REMEDY featuring TIMO MAAS, DJ STARECASE
(Showbox) DJ Timo Maas comes from Düsseldorf, Germany, which is noted for its powerful banks and industrial sector--the city produces steel, chemicals, glass, and textiles. The industrial side of this mid-sized city is captured in DJ Maas' aggressive electro remixes and original songs. Though a little too heavy and kinetic for my tastes, there is one fascinating track on his new CD, Loud. It's called "Help Me" and it features the arousing vocals of Kelis ("I hate you so much right now!"). The song is funky, high-tech, and contains a spooky sample of Bernard Herrmann's The Day the Earth Stood Still. "Help Me" exists in a vaporous place--somewhere between Donna Summer's pornographic "I Feel Love" and Portishead's crepuscular "Humming"--and no amount of listening can break its firm spell. CHARLES MUDEDE

FRED EAGLESMITH, SUICIDE JACK
(Tractor) A pal called to share the thrilling news that the incomparable rural balladeer Fred Eaglesmith was finally back in town. "Are you going to do your crazy sex dance at the show?" he asked. Of course I was appalled and vociferously protested my innocence, but the truth is, Eaglesmith's music moves me deeply. With the help of the Flying Squirrels (a bass player and a spastic percussionist who pounds away at a variety of junk), he creates a distinctive, spare sound reminiscent of a murder weapon clanging down an empty well. The bankrupt farmers, homicidal field hands, and big-haired buckle-bunnies of his blackly humorous songs wander disconsolately through a landscape littered with rusted-out tractors and mangy dogs. Whether it's a hot meal or true love these poor souls seek, you can be sure that it will elude their exhausted grasp. It's testament to Eaglesmith's genius that he turns their bad luck into our booty-shaking hootenanny. TAMARA PARIS

ROBBIE KRIEGER
(Ballard Firehouse) Robbie Krieger was always the coolest member of the Doors and his oft-mentioned flamenco stylings are the stuff of classic rock legend (see the solo in "Roadhouse Blues" and main riff from "Love Me Two Times" for starters): a snaking, precise guitar style capable of doubling back on itself and going damn near inside out. While Mr. Krieger's solo work is not quite the sort of thing you want to mix with Jack Daniel's and barbiturates, the genre-sketching instrumental work does provide plenty of open-mouthed guitar tones and downright sonic beauty to keep acolytes and curious cats alike in their seats. There will be blues, rock, blues-rock, reggae-tinged soft rock (read: smooth jazz) and possibly rock-tinged-reggae-blues. As a friendly warning, Krieger's latest record features a techno-influenced remix of "Peace Frog," so you might want to bring a barf bag. MIKE McGUIRK

JIVE TURKEY w/TY WILLMAN, RON WEINSTEIN, MIKE STONE, CRAIG FLORY, ROB LYONS
(Sunset Tavern) Sometimes, a band and a venue come together just so, and music flies around the room like a hive of determined bees out for pollen. The hippie-friendly yet focused soul-jazz of Jive Turkey and the neighborhood-joint decor of the Sunset were made for each other that way. It helps that the members of the JT quintet are all accomplished local musicians, including ex-Green Apple Quick Step vocalist Ty Willman and Crack Sabbath organist Ron Weinstein, whose well-traveled Hammond is as recognizable a Seattle institution as the motherfuckin' Space Needle. Combine the Sunset's little crowd-level stage with Weinstein's pedal-pounding authority, add tight arrangements and an occasional guest appearance by a local legend or two (ex-Souvenirs pedal-steel man Don Pawlak sat in for the second set while I was there), and you've got an unpretentious little haven for that last pre-Monday brewski. MATTHEW COOKE

We have met the enemy and he is us.

AMELIA WHITE, LAURA VEIRS
(Tractor) Boston singer/songwriter Amelia White is on the move. She recently left the East Coast and settled in Nashville before heading out on a West Coast tour. That trajectory fits the music on her new album, Blue Souvenir, perfectly, though, as it mixes Boston coffeehouse folksiness with pure country overtones and just enough restless wanderlust to propel the album forward. White has a pretty, gossamer voice that captures a pop sensibility against an ambient country soundscape, like Willie Nelson's Teatro and Emmylou Harris' Wrecking Ball. She creates a hybrid that makes the folksiness feel cinematic, but without the high-art pretensions. On Blue Souvenirs, White lays out the roadside trinkets and trash, threading them with melancholy dreams of further adventure. Seattleite Laura Veirs shares the bill, playing her moody, sepia-toned Americana. Veirs' album The Triumphs & Travails of Orphan Mae bristles with stories of desperate men and women, sung with restrained emotion that conveys more than any histrionics could. NATE LIPPENS

MYSTIK JOURNEYMEN, COOL NUTZ, SLEEP
(I-Spy) With Onry Ozzborn's record still dominating the CMJ hiphop charts, it's clear that his crew, the Seattle/Portland collective Oldominion, is headed for much bigger places than just the Emerald City. Of course, they do have some of the best producers and emcees in the Pacific Northwest--including Portland emcee, Sleep. Spitting lyrics in a rubbery tenor, Sleep's flow is nimble and quick, sometimes rhyming in that lightning-bolt, faster-than-the-beat cadence that's so popular. But, whereas most other emcees sound like they dropped a big bowl of mush, Sleep enunciates clearly, and it ends up sounding like he said the words faster than is actually possible--just like Quantum Leap! The show goes on with longtime Portland rapper Cool Nutz, whose label, Jus Family Records, just turned 10, and Mystik Journeymen--part of underground West Coast collective Living Legends. JULIANNE SHEPHERD

BUFFALO DAUGHTER
(I-Spy) Japanese sonic collagists Buffalo Daughter know how to recontextualize old sound samples and turn them into something totally new and strange. The trio's recently released album, I, is a cut-and-paste autobiography that would have made postmodern author Kathy Acker bob her head in approval. Guitarist SuGar Yoshinoga and bassist Yumiko Ohno share processed vocals that are compiled over turntablist Moog Yamamato's beats, blips, and samples. The album picks up where New Rock left off, taking a playful, odd go-round with generous swaths of bossa nova, metal, Krautrock, and chorales. The band quick-cuts Kraftwerk, the Slits, and the Raincoats and pastes them over a hopped-up pop background for a sound that is both avant-garde and approachable. The great Steve Reich-influenced xylophone vamps and Ping-Pong effects demonstrate the core of Buffalo Daughter's nonsense sensibility. And when the trio adds the metallic crunch to "Earth Punk Rockers" you can't help but smile as the random dots between Frank Chickens and Zeppelin suddenly connect in unexpected ways. NATE LIPPENS

MASON JENNINGS
(Tractor) The music industry is a silly thing, and too frequently, talent and success have very little correlation. That's what makes stories like Mason Jennings' even more heartwarming. Jennings is a gifted singer/songwriter from Minneapolis and while he might not register on Billboard's Heatseekers chart, be the buzzword on the lips of major-label A&R folks, or be the toast of Hipsterville, he's done just fine, thankyouverymuch. In fact, Jennings has just released his third album himself--why bother dealing with anyone else when the first two albums have already sold more than 30,000 copies? Although he's a relative whippersnapper (still a couple of years shy of the big 3-0), there's something remarkably old-soul to the music he creates, and it's guaranteed that his extensive touring schedule has made him a genuinely affecting performer as well. BARBARA MITCHELL