Califone, Laura Gibson, S
(Crocodile) See Stranger Suggests.
Scribes, Brothers from Another
(Nectar) See My Philosophy.
Noisia, 16bit, Triage, Pressha
(Showbox at the Market) See Data Breaker.
The Twelves, Sean Majors, Flat Black, BGeezy
(Neumos) See Data Breaker.
Arctic Monkeys, the Vaccines
(Showbox Sodo) The Vaccines make pleasant and palatable rock that you can take home to your parents (except for that song about post-breakup sex). Sonically, we've got a whole lot of similarities with the Strokes, only singer Justin Young doesn't sound or act like a total dickhead. You might not want to take the youngsters from Arctic Monkeys home to your parents, but their serviceable punk-ish rock isn't too risky to play in the car with your mom. GRANT BRISSEY
THREAT: Same-Sex Dictator, Death in the Family, Don Peyote
(Mercury) Seattle bass-and-drums duo Same-Sex Dictator take a more interesting route than most bands with predilections toward harder and uglier sounds. Through a bevy of effects pedals (last time I counted, there were eight), dynamic bobbing-and-weaving song structures, and a dual-scream attack, SSD prove they know it takes more than a blast beat and some guttural shrieking to make interesting heavy music. GRANT BRISSEY
Seattle Tattoo Expo After-Party: the Fucking Eagles, Steel Tigers of Death, All Bets on Death
(Neumos) The annual Seattle Tattoo Expo is taking over Seattle Center all weekend long (see Stranger Suggests, page 19), and Neumos is the place for all the headbang-filled after-parties. For the next three days, the venue hosts a group of killer shows—starting with tonight's lineup, which is 100 percent homegrown. The Fucking Eagles, Steel Tigers of Death, and All Bets on Death are three local acts that will do to your eardrums what that tattoo needle does to your flesh: Their riffs are so heavy, they're sure to leave a mark. But when it's over, you'll be begging to go back for more. MEGAN SELING
SAM Remix: Northern Departure, Craft Spells, Daydream Vacation, SunTzu Sound
(Olympic Sculpture Park) See Data Breaker.
Zephyrs, Protect Me, Footwork
(Cairo) See Underage.
Mötley Crüe, Poison, New York Dolls
(Tacoma Dome) In the early 1970s, the New York Dolls sported high-heeled boots and glam-trash fashion while creating some of the richest and most exciting rock and roll ever made. (Those needing a refresher course should head immediately to YouTube to view the band's performance of "Personality Crisis" on The Midnight Special.) In the mid- to late- 1980s, Mötley Crüe and Poison pinched the Dolls' glam trappings (with added lip gloss) and made music that does nothing but suck. In 2006, the New York Dolls released an astoundingly good comeback album, One Day It Will Please Us to Remember Even This, followed by two more not-embarrassing records. Mötley Crüe and Poison continue to suck. Take a pan-generational tour of the brainy peaks and suck-filled valleys of glossy cock rock and hair metal tonight at the Tacoma Dome. DAVID SCHMADER
Adele, Wanda Jackson
(Paramount) The worldwide triumph of Adele's 21—the British singer-songwriter's sophomore-slump-obliterating, Grammy-best-new-artist-curse-busting second record—can only be celebrated. A gorgeous young woman smart enough to know that her songwriting skills aren't on par with her supernatural voice, Adele sidesteps the vocal vulgarity that's stained so many big-voiced young women, opting for life-size emotions and music that puts her voice in its place. And she seems voraciously impressionable: Her Wikipedia bio credits the change in sound on 21 to "her bus driver playing contemporary Nashville music when she was touring the American South." Turning tonight's show into a history lesson in ballsy women: show opener/party starter/rockabilly queen Wanda Jackson. DAVID SCHMADER
Kled, Badwater Fire Company, Hidden Number
(Blue Moon) Local trio Kled celebrate the release of Double Doe Eyes tonight. On this 21-track disc, they muck around in that sloppy area where punk, metal, and trashy hard rock converge, give one another wedgies, and then Sharpie cock and balls on one another's torsos. Ordinarily, this sort of heavy-handed goonery ain't my bag, but there's something about Kled guitarist Pat Phlymm's propensity for fucked-up clangor and strafing riffs that lifts the band out of the typical punk-metal-hard-rock morass. (His constipated Les Claypool–esque grunt, not so much.) And odds are these guys are also Frank Zappa fans, as they're accomplished players with a fondness for wacky subject matter, dubious stage attire, and kee-razily frantic dynamics. But all annoyances are forgiven for titling their best song "Damo Suzuki." DAVE SEGAL
Seapony, Gold Leaves, Math and Physics Club
(Mural Amphitheatre) Seattle band Seapony released one of the city's best straight-up indie rock records of the summer back in May. Go with Me is loaded with hooks that strip the songs of a learning curve, so you can jump right into them. Pop components aside, the cohesive haze of guitars and vocals that permeates the album creates a momentous sense of immersion—one that parallels the sort of dreary-eyed amazement of pulling an all-nighter, where everything's sort of a blur by the morning, but you're pretty happy you stuck it out and caught the sunrise. DAN OBERBRUNER
Seattle Tattoo Expo After-Party: the Sword, Brothers of the Sonic Cloth, Curse of the North
(Neumos) If you're a fan of Austin-based metal band the Sword, who headline tonight's show, be sure to arrive early to catch openers Curse of the North. The Seattle band feature ex-members of Black Houses and 3 Inches of Blood, and they deliver a crushing dose of metal that summons the energy of early Metallica and the strength of Nordic warriors. And for $5, you can pick up their new six-song EP, Revelations, which sounds extra brutal thanks to the talents of producer Matt Bayles. MEGAN SELING
Sonny Bonoho, Neema, Latin Rose
(Nectar) See My Philosophy.
Vans Warped Tour: Against Me!, Sum 41, Gym Class Heroes, Less Than Jake, Gatsby's American Dream, Lucero, and many more
(Gorge) Recently, Rolling Stone held a readers' poll to crown history's best punk band. A pointless award to begin with, but the results were even more ridiculous. Included in the top 10 were the Clash, the Ramones, the Sex Pistols, and Dead Kennedys. That's fine. But who was the winner? Black Flag? The Misfits? Wire? No. No, friends, the winner was motherfucking Green Day. And that is exactly why the Warped Tour will never die: There are many people in this world who think that commercial pop punk written for 15-year-old boys is one of the best things to ever happen in the history of music. MEGAN SELING
Seattle Tattoo Expo After-Party: High on Fire, Lesbian, Deadkill
(Neumos) If you're still experiencing extreme amounts of pain from the sick bod mod you just placed on your skin for all eternity, look no further than a potent dose of Oakland's homegrown remedy High on Fire—a heady mix of stoner-approved sludge riffs, howling vocals, and pounding drums brought forth by legendary doombringer Matt Pike and company. If psychedelic experimentation is more your thing, make sure to show up early for local mind-benders Lesbian. Their newest release, Stratospheria Cubensis, finds the Les-dudes digging even deeper into the pocket of fucked-up awesomeness, churning your mind into a daze of righteousness. Forget Hempfest: We got all the dosage you need right here, maaaaaaan. KEVIN DIERS
Ganglians, Cuckoo Chaos
(Vera) In the songs of Sacramento quartet Ganglians, you can hear a persistent tension between chipper '60s-pop naiveté and weirder, more unsettling undercurrents typically associated with psychedelia. They have satisfyingly balanced these impulses over three albums since 2009, including the new Still Living, which they recorded with Robby Moncrieff. The reverb-haloed vocals add an endearing distancing effect to the 12 catchy, shaggy-headed tracks on Still Living. There's a blurrily distinct line leading from the Beach Boys to Animal Collective to Ganglians—well-scrubbed nature boys in love with buoyant melody and hazily crystalline tonalities—that bodes well for the latter's increasing popularity. DAVE SEGAL See also Underage.
The Pharmacy, Heavy Hawaii, Plateaus
(Comet) Recent years have seen a spike in '60s-vintage summer-pop-inspired acts in the West Coast underground. Given the age of musicians like Twin Steps, Norse Horse, and San Diego's Heavy Hawaii, nostalgia is not a factor in their cumulative sound: These bands have no "lived experience" of the Kennedy era, only a die-hard's appreciation for its bathetic sonic palette. Heavy Hawaii deviate from the formula by slathering their tracks in tinny rancor—juxtaposing Wilson-brothers harmonies with dolphin squeals, warped piano arpeggios à la Animal Collective, hissing hi-hats, and a pervasive sense of innocence. Their harmonies have a lullaby-esque quality, and the laughable fidelity of their recordings only serves to make them more beguiling. JASON BAXTER
Sade, John Legend
(KeyArena) See preview.
(Woodland Park Zoo) Sure, the Go-Go's are old enough to be grandmothers—that doesn't stop throngs from seeing X every time they pass through Seattle, and the two were close contemporaries in the early LA punk scene. (Besides, Belinda Carlisle's son, LGBT advocate James Duke Mason, is a dreamboat. You'd be lucky to have such a badass mother-in-law.) Plus, the Go-Go's touched a helluva lot more lives, thanks to Beauty and the Beat, the first chart-topping LP actually written and performed by an all-female band. They're touring in support of its 30th anniversary, and along with the classic hits, it's impressive how well album cuts like "This Town" and top-down summertime classic "Skidmarks on My Heart" have withstood time. Let's hope the ladies' live show has aged just as well. KURT B. REIGHLEY
The Shivas, Play/Start., the Hugs, Groggy Bikini
(Funhouse) Portland talks about neighboring Vancouver, Washington, like it's their imbalanced, redheaded bastard stepchild. Yes, people in Vancouver purposely pour acid on their faces, and Confederate flags fly atop beefed-up trucks, but the Shivas come from a different seed of Vancouver, one that is good and well, with much to appreciate. Through a network of all-ages spaces and DIY house shows around Portland and Vancouver, the four-piece band has built an intimate and exclusive following, developing a sound that complements the vast expanses of pop, psych, and drone music. Ebullient yet heady, their music is a rush of Pale Saints' 4AD atmosphere that meshes with the darker parts of the Velvet Underground's hedonistic late-'60s New York. Stuff from Vancouver shouldn't be this cool. TRAVIS RITTER
(Jazz Alley) I'm not one to get too gushy over most British blues—it can be a bit stock—but I do get wound up over John Mayall! I know lots of folks deride any and all strict blues aspects of ROCK; I understand, the 12-bar boogie can get a little bar-band-ish, but Mayall was a ground (ahem) "breaker," and he's still got it. C'mon, the man is well into his 70s and STILL cookin'! Rightly, he's a huge piece in the puzzle of OUR rock 'n' roll history. In fact, HUNDREDS... okay, not hundreds, but a handful of those fellers who became rock gods passed through his group. And all the while, he held true to his singular, narrow vision: Play them blues and play 'em RIGHT! MIKE NIPPER
Climax Golden Twins, Dave Abramson, Franklin's Mint, Christine Shields, Uncle Jim
(Josephine) Who is the least predictable band in Seattle? A lot of people would say Climax Golden Twins. The core duo of Jeffery Taylor and Robert Millis have been baffling expectations and subverting conventions for about 17 years. Their back catalog contains everything from beautifully somnolent drones to fractured field recordings to scalding noise rock to surreal sound collages to rickety folk songs that would put a smile on the face of Alan Lomax. They also possess an intimidating knowledge of music history that informs their art without being boringly pedantic. Climax Golden Twins are a national treasure. Franklin's Mint contain members of psych-improv sprawlers Sunburned Hand of the Man, but rock in a more conventional manner than do SHOTM. Master of ceremonies Uncle Jim possesses a wit that pours salt in your psychic wounds and throws sulfur at your cherished beliefs. DAVE SEGAL
(Jazz Alley) See Monday.