Thursday 5/29

Coco Coca, Mute Era, Geist & Samuel Joseph

(Blue Moon) Coco Coca sounds, on paper or webpage, like the kind of thing that would be right up my alley: a one-man guitar and vocals band aided by drum machines, sequenced synths, and loops. On record, Midwestern transplant Coco Coca's fragile, breaking voice and dark, sometimes aggressive new wave revivalism recall fellow Midwesterners the Faint's sexed-up electro-goth (and its echo, Bright Eyes' unfairly maligned Digital Ash in a Digital Urn), although the production values may land a little closer to Beep Beep. Live, at least at a recent show at the Comet, Coco Coca's equipment-heavy mix got a little out of hand, overdriven guitars drowning out his layers of preprogrammed sounds. He's an energetic and charismatic enough performer, but he might want to think about fleshing out his songs with some hired goons. ERIC GRANDY

The Whore Moans, CPC Gangbangs, Coconut Coolouts

(Comet) Have you ever seen that Canadian mockumentary Fubar? Aw, jeeez! I dunno if I love it 'cause deye all talk like dose guys in junior high from da U-P Michigan dat I used da smoke dope with in da duck park... or 'cause it's a funny-as-shit movie about two metalheads, Dean and Terry, and their misadventures with cheap beer and testicular cancer. Either way, you're wondering WTF this has to do with this Comet show. Not much, except Dean is played by Paul Spence the actor, who is also Paul Spence the guitarist for CPC Gangbangs. I recently saw the Gangbangs at SXSW. Even though I was having a cheap-beer-fueled misadventure of my own, I remember thinking, hoo-wee, CPC are one fun-as-shit punk-and-roll band. KELLY O

Betsy Olson, Ghost Lobby, Hungry Pines

(Neumo's) Hungry Pines are one of Seattle's most promising bands and best-kept secrets. It's not your fault: The local band plays often enough, but they're usually stuck in an opening slot, taking the stage while you're just wrapping up your preshow dinner down the street. Now you can experience the band despite a conflicting show schedule—they just released their debut, Golden You, comprising nine stellar songs that drift between pretty, lovey-dovey jams ("Bullring," "Corduroy") and layered, spacey experiments that are disguised as approachable thanks to Irene Barber's alluring vocals ("Blood Eagle"). They're in the early opening slot again tonight—be there on time, okay? MEGAN SELING

Friday 5/30

Giant Panda, GodSpeed, DJ Duncan

(Nectar) See My Philosophy, page 39.

The Valley, the Heavy Hearts, Loving Thunder, Lozen

(Comet) On last month's release, A Killer of Snakes, the Heavy Hearts display the same aggressive enthusiasm heard on Pretty Girls Make Graves' debut LP, Good Health. When the band shout, "I got the will to fight on," in the chorus of fist-pumper "Attrition," you want to rush the stage and scream along. "The Long Road" is equally anthemic but with a melodic sing-along rather than shout-along chorus. Songs like "TV" and "Revolution" inspire less singing and more shaking. Openers Lozen are a whole different beast. The unassuming duo of pretty ladies from Tacoma might not look threatening, but wait for their slow, heavy storm of guitar and drums to kick in; it'll knock you flat if you aren't paying attention. MEGAN SELING

Peter Murphy

(El Corazón) There's something exotic and deep about Peter Murphy's work, both as a solo artist and with Bauhaus. Whether he's creating razor-sharp postpunk, ornate folk, or pop as beautiful and dark as the midnight sky, his voice speaks in the language of mystery—of the strange and unfathomable, the beautiful and terrible, of spirit and passion and eternal questions. And while he might be an icon to many, he possesses a warmth and humility that makes his music as human and approachable as it is otherworldly and artistic. Tonight's show is as close as you'll get to a Bauhaus gig since the band officially called it quits before the recent release of Go Away White; while that split is unfortunate, Murphy is a spellbinding performer and master craftsman who will be pulling from both Bauhaus and solo material tonight. BARBARA MITCHELL

Emeralds, Cancer Rising, Caves, the Physics

(King Cobra) Rock and rap come together as one in this death-defying quadruple-stacked bill: The Hendrix-tallica rock of Emeralds, the breeze-hauling hiphop of Cancer Rising, the four-piece pop churn of Portland's Caves, and the off-the-cuff-core of Seattle's Physics. Cancer Rising's Gatsby spoke about the convergence of forces: "King Cobra is my favorite new spot on the Hill. We're looking forward to breaking that bitch in on some hiphop shit! Expect high-caliber West Coast party time and sweaty prowling. I love the combination bill. If the chemistry is right, we can make a lot of new fans and party with people we haven't met before. Besides, rock crowds in this town are WAY more open and fun than most hiphop crowds here." TRENT MOORMAN

Foals, Maps & Atlases, Panda and Angel

(Neumo's) It's hard not to hear Foals' Sub Pop debut, Antidotes, as a sharply realized echo of Bloc Party's refined dance rock. The album is all limber bass, quick-picked muted guitar leads, steady if pat disco drumming, and emotionally tortured, lyrically obscure sung/shouted vocals. But a few important elements distance Oxford quintet Foals from that band: a knack for rapid, circular melodies and choruses; a kind of prog-rock momentum; and some brassy synths and washed-out horns that lend some songs a not overbearing touch of ska. Producer David Sitek (TVOTR, Scarlett Johansson) ably provides atmospherics to fill the band's gaps then steps out of the way when the band charge back to the fore. Foals are at their best when they're restless and gyroscopically spinning, as on "Cassius," "Balloons," or "Hummer." ERIC GRANDY

Pink Floyd's The Wall as Performed by Students from Paul Green's School of Rock

(Vera Project) Twenty-two young people covering Pink Floyd's The Wall in its entirety is perfect. That album was probably spinning in the background the first time you smoked weed or spent all night talking to your homeroom crush (for me it was Wish You Were Here, but whatever). The Seattle branch of Paul Green's School of Rock opened in January, and this is the initial live offering of the inaugural class. These kids have been working incredibly hard to put on a very real rock show. The staff of the School of Rock put it plainly: "If people come away thinking only 'That was cute!' then we haven't done our job." Also, a 13-year-old girl singing, "I need a dirty woman" is just too potentially awesome to miss. MATT GARMAN

Saturday 5/31

Los Campesinos!, Parenthetical Girls

(Neumo's) See Album Reviews, page 37.

The Wilders

(Tractor) See Stranger Suggests, page 19.

Casiotone for the Painfully Alone, Foot Foot, Your Heart Breaks

(Vera Project) See Underage, page 41.

Like Claws!, Kalakala, Shed

(Fusion Cafe) Before touring down the West Coast for two weeks, local trio Like Claws! want to play one more show to their hometown crowd, hence tonight's tour kick-off party at the always-all-ages Fusion Cafe. Like Claws! should do well in the Golden State—their acoustic pop gems have some punk sensibilities, reminiscent of some of the strong but simple songwriting that's come from the Bay Area. I could hear a young Dr. Frank playing their bittersweet far-from-home song "Mercury Sables Picnic Tables." The song "Loose Teeth Don't Need My Help" comes from the other coast with a subtle, early Against Me! flavor (from when the Gainesville act were still basically a Tom Gabel solo project). And fans needn't worry about withdrawal symptoms—Like Claws! will be back soon, playing Redmond's Old Fire House on June 27. MEGAN SELING

SUNDAY 6/1

Joan of Arc, 31Knots

(Vera Project) See Album Reviews, page 37, and Stranger Suggests, page 19.

Ladyhawk, Neva Dinova

(Chop Suey) Ladyhawk's latest album, Shots, was recorded in an abandoned farmhouse behind a shopping mall in Kenowa, British Columbia, the band members' old hometown. If the abandoned farmhouse suggests hollow and haunted rootsy Americana, then the shopping mall brings to mind pleasant enough mediocrity and another kind of emptiness. But if some of Shots' songs are forgettable, they're still more farmhouse than mall, run-down and worn, maybe not worth inhabiting long-term, but hardly soulless (one imagines a vast, cold prairie stretching out behind the farmhouse). The album is sad and spare but occasionally lit up with amplified rage. And while the songs are well-trod blues-based rock, there are some sublime moments, like the Lou Reed–invoking "you just keep me hanging on" hidden in the burned-out ballad "(I'll Be Your) Ashtray." ERIC GRANDY

The Queers, Lemuria, Bomb the Music Industry, Andrew Jackson Jihad, Kepi Ghoulie

(El Corazón) For too many years, the Queers have refused to grow up. They still play songs that are as emotionally stunted as the ones on their 1993 Lookout! debut, Songs for the Mentally Retarded. Back then they sang about complicated girls and hating life: "Me and you will walk around so pointlessly/Smashing things, jacked up on way too much caffeine/I'm really going nowhere/I hate this shitty life/Fuck the world I'm hanging out with you tonight." A decade and a half later, with disregard for their aging fan base, it's all the same shit addressed with just as one-dimensional lyrics: "All my friends are telling me she's out of my league/My mom suggests I give it up, the girl's just a tease." But I guess because there will always be restless, misunderstood teenagers (and eternally adolescent thirtysomethings afraid to face adulthood), there will always be the Queers. MEGAN SELING

Telepathic Liberation Army, Vivian Girls, Little Claw, Meepers

(Funhouse) When I first heard Vivian Girls, it was 3:00 a.m. and I was at a (nonsexy) sleepover at my friend's house. He said, "You gotta hear this band, they are totally like the Vaselines when they are really rocking out, but it's all chicks." We played it on his teeny-tiny stereo very, very quietly, but I instantly became attached. However, I disagree with his Vaselines comparison, kinda—the Vivian Girls aren't like the Vaselines when they are totally rocking out, like on "Dum Dum." They are more like the mellower Vaselines on "Monsterpussy." It's a small distinction, I know, but it really makes all the difference in what drug you would take before you went to the show. ARI SPOOL

MONDAY 6/2

Dilated Peoples, the Alchemist, Aceyalone, 88-Keys

(Neumo's) See My Philosophy, page 39.

Iron Maiden

(White River Amphitheatre) Iron Maiden, their crew of 60, their gear, and their stage setup are traveling together in a converted Boeing 757 they call "Ed Force One." Singer Bruce Dickinson, a licensed pilot, is flying the plane. He sings the show, slays the beast, then flies the plane. The tour is unprecedented in that Maiden are playing cities around the world on a schedule never pulled off before. Dickinson says it's cost effective and better for the environment as well. No separate flights and trucks for the crew, gear, and stage setup (which for Maiden is massive). Eddie, their zombie mascot, is painted very large on the plane's tail. There are chains in his mouth and bolts of electricity surround him—it's a new take on the friendly skies. TRENT MOORMAN

TUESDAY 6/3

Metalocalypse: Dethklok, Chimaira

(Showbox Sodo) Everything about Dethklok is perfectly metal—the impenetrable fortress they live in, their underwater recording studio, sweep-picking ring tones, foot-pedal TV remotes. Fans are accidentally killed or mutilated at their live shows by molten lava, berserk killing machines, or giant mythical beasts. The band are their world's 12th largest economy—international recessions are based on their record releases; civilization literally depends on Dethklok being metal. The bandmates are brilliantly typecast: two Scandinavian guitarists; a slow, hulking singer; an ugly, bad-tempered bass player; and a drunken, Midwestern drummer. The songs gallop with double bass and harmonized guitar solos, with themes like mermaid murder ("Murmaider") and being electrocuted in blood ("Bloodrocuted"). Now, through creator/guitarist Brendon Small, Dethklok are a real band playing real shows, and though they may not actually be the greatest metal band in the world, it's fun to play along. JEFF KIRBY

Firewater, the Bad Things, Conrad Ford

(Chop Suey) Aging indie rocker ditches everything and goes on a three-year trek to India, Pakistan, Turkey, and Israel, recording as he goes—if that sounds like a disastrous midlife crisis (and a cringe-worthy album waiting to materialize), then you're obviously not familiar with Tod A., the driving force behind Firewater. The Golden Hour takes Firewater's gypsy-punk carnival and adds Middle Eastern flourishes to a broader worldview, skewering politics and personal demons along the way. Its author doesn't seem to have had a spiritual awakening so much as a creative one; this record is so lively and rambunctious it makes you want to run away and join Firewater's multicultural circus on the spot. With a touring band that includes members of Skeleton Key, Balkan Beat Box, and the Lounge Lizards, it'll be hard to resist that urge. BARBARA MITCHELL

WEDNESDAY 6/4

Radio Slave, Quiet Village, Nordic Soul

(Nectar) See Bug in the Bassbin, page 41, and Stranger Suggests, page 19.

Supermassive, Furniture Girls, Blue Light Curtain

(Chop Suey) Blue Light Curtain takes Velvet Underground's drone and makes it their own, it's application in the finest fashion. The drone is there in its impending and tension-building presence, but it's met with a shoegazed drift and a Korg drum machine. In "Let's Run" a distorted kick and snare drum pound with starts and stops of guitars then recede for vocals. Paul Groth sings, "The time has come for me to run as far away as I can." It's hollow and distilled. His-and-her harmonies couple and evenly glide, minor chords rhythmically strum. The song grows until the end, where all is gone but the distorted kick and snare you started with. The song returns, having traveled a great distance. TRENT MOORMAN

Jaguar Love, Nazca Lines, Das Llamas

(Neumo's) It may take a while for Jaguar Love to escape the shadow of their previous projects, Blood Brothers and Pretty Girls Make Graves. No new band wants to be weighed solely against their past endeavors, but no band exists in a vacuum either. In the case of Jaguar Love, they've certainly kept their former bands' knack for quirky high-energy songwriting—the Blood Brothers' campy nihilism and Burroughs-inspired lyricism are still present, as is Pretty Girls' aggressive angularities. Jaguar Love, however, seem geared more toward both bands' pop leanings than their edgy and dangerous attributes. While they might not whip you into the same frenzy of their earlier projects, their sharpened melodies are infectious on an entirely new level. BRIAN COOK